octaneink - Tumblr blog

octaneink · 13 days ago

Text

This is cute as FUCK

YOUR RELATIONSHIP

pairing: will lenney (willne) x fem!reader

summary: an overview of what your relationship with will would look like

request: hey love! obsessed with your writing!! could you do a dating willne headcannons like you did for arthur hill and tv xx

warnings/contents: swearing, sexual innuendos

author’s note: you are so nice 😚 you know i can, and here it is !!!! i do not watch will as much as the other so it may not be as realistic as the others so i apologize 🤍

- you first meet each other at a party im 2022

- you had been a friend of bambino becky’s for YEARS and she invited you to go with her

- usually you declined but this time you said why not 🤷‍♀️ and went

- #girlintuition you know?

- that was the night you ended up meeting will

- kind of cliche actually, the party was held in a bar rented out by one of the sidemen

- you had gone up to get a drink and while there, will literally bumped into you

- had a little chat while you each were waiting for your drinks, you thought he was cute and completely forgot to get his number

- you went back to becky and told her about the guy you met and she didn’t tell you she knew who he was, but did have a mischievous grin on her face

- you didn’t talk again that night but kept staring at each other from across the bar

- becky being the genius she is texted will your number the next day, telling him to text you

- he did, you responded, and ended up planning a date

- it really just went from there until you started dating

- your relationship is FILLED with banter

- people love the way you act together

- “so i was going on the thing-”

- “not with your fatass”

- “i KNOW you aren’t talking about me will”

- “. . . sorry”

- you are definitely the man in the relationship when it matters 🙄

- you have him wrapped around your finger

- even though he jokes, he doesn’t ever treat you bad ❤️

- dancing in the kitchen and sleepovers ALL the time ‼️

- and i don’t mean because your dating, i mean your inner teenage girls come out

- “she did not!”

- “i know right? what a bitch 🙄”

- if you aren’t living together he’ll walk you home or to your car

- says it’s because he wants to keep you safe (which he does) but its also because he doesn’t want to leave you

- constantly arguing (jokingly . . .) with james about who’s boyfriend he actually is

- “mate, i’ve know him longer!”

- “yeah, and i’m the one that shags him!”

- “that you know of”

- “james marriott, i swear to god ━━”

- practically a third wheel in your own relationship 😔😔

- it’s okay, you’ll steal something from james (otto)

- CONSTANTLY stealing will’s clothes

- he can’t find something? you are either wearing it or it’s in your laundry bin

- “babe? have you seen my black adidas hoodie?”

- “no . . .”

- “is that it on you right now?”

- “maybe?”

- matching outfits !!!!!

- and you know they eat every time 😌

- featuring in quadrant merch shoots by yourself and together

- matching quadrant fits to support your boy and his company

- if you are going to a formal event you match his tie to your dress if you can

- getting compliments from all the girls because you all lift each other up

- hanging out with the other girls and chattin’ shit about your men

- you are friends will a lot of the uk girlfriends

- sometimes act as a wingwoman for some of the boys

- being the confident bitch you are 💅

- them asking for clothing and relationship advice if they aren’t confident in something

- you are a sister or mother figure to them when they can’t ask their own

- “y/n does this look good?”

- “yes chris, she will love it”

- “y/n do you know how long to cook pasta for?”

- “arthur you are 25 years old why do you not know how to cook pasta?”

- “i’m a singer, not a chef”

- “i’m hanging up”

- loving everything about will (including his friends but don’t tell them that, they get too cocky 🙄)

- being in love with his mullet specifically

- but i mean, who isn’t honestly?

- you just have the urge to go feral and jump him 🤤

- ESPECIALLY when it’s after he’s just woken up in the morning

- someone better hold you back ‼️

- you have your favourited videos on tiktok public and it’s just him . . . all of its him

- you’ve also been caught in the comments and likes

- you never miss an edit of your man, you always lurking 👀

- he’s always thinking of you too

- although there isn’t as many edits of you as there is of him, he still makes sure to like and save them

- sometimes sends them to you

- in the videos he does with james where they review products, he’ll bring something home to you that he think you’ll like

- definitely brought home the condoms from that own video 😉

- and they were used

- you spend a lot of time of bed in your relationship

- not inherently sexual, you are both big cuddlers (as much as will hates to admit it)

- when you are away for awhile from each other when the other gets back you’ll have a day dedicated to just chilling in bed and catching up

- sunlight streaming in, television playing low in the background, both of you cuddled up

- will likes to be big spoon most of the time and you like little spoon but if he’s stressed out you’ll be big spoon

- helps him ground himself and you like taking care of him ❤️

- you take care of him when he’s sick 🤧

- you know how men act like their dying when they have a tiny cold? that’s will

- doesn’t even have a fever, just a runny nose and a cough and he swears he sees the gates of hell

- you are so used to it at this point you ignore it/block it out

- not in a rude way but you block it out, just nod and agree

- “y/n i think i’m dying. like seriously”

- “you aren’t will, it’s just a cold”

- “i think i have tuberculosis or whatever that shit’s called”

- “okay will” 🙄

- he’s a big baby and a giant teddy bear

- wants you with him when you can

- obviously every relationship there needs space and you have that but when you get home? he’s got you in a bear hug

- “missed you”

- “i went to the grocery store” 🤨

- you are with him for all his big accomplishments

- running with him when he’s practicing for his video running 1 meter every day, but every day it doubles ❤️

- also being out there with him every day he’s running to make sure he’s okay and give moral support

- you give him a kiss and a cuddle at the end of every day

- honestly being part of his moral support for that video and all the time

- you knew he was upset when james moved away

- as much as you hated to admit it, they were soulmates in another universe and platonic ones in this one

- you get a cat so will doesn’t fill as alone and closer to james

- . . . you also just REALLY wanted a pet

- probably has some weird name like kevin but it’s a girl (shoutout to whoever understands that reference, ily 🤟🏻)

- will is one of those people (and dads) that pretends he hates the cat but treats him like gold

- gets a little too fat from all the treats he gives her

- eventually bringing kevin to meet otto and they become besties 👯‍♀️

- you take care of otto sometimes when james is on tour

- speaking of which, you go with will to james’ shows

- know all the words, loudest voice in the room 💅

- you look iconic, jumping around and singing with a beer in your hand that you don’t spill ONCE

- you also go with will to f1 races sometimes

- the first time you went was a dream come true because you’d been a fan of f1 since you were a little girl but never actually got the chance to see a race 🏎️

- will made it the best experience ever for you, going all out for the passes and hotel room

- if you weren’t in love with him before (which you were), you DEFINITELY loved him then

- he remembered all the little details in the stories you told him

- he does that a lot of the time

- “got the crisps you like”

- “how did you know i liked them?”

- “you mentioned them a couple weeks ago”

- “in passing? you noticed?”

- “‘course i did” can’t believe you didn’t think he would

- you just didn’t remember until that moment

- just so nonchalant about doing things to show he appreciates you

- you also are like that, but will’s better at noticing things

- you’ll refill his body wash without him mentioning it or getting things he told you he would like to try

- just the definition of love you two are ❤️

- never settle for less than a relationship like will and y/n ‼️

#x reader #willne reblog #will lenney reblog #CUTE SHIT AHHH

310 notes · View notes

octaneink · 13 days ago

Note

Sobbing, love that fic sm 😭 😭

- 🔫 anon

Aaaaaa I'm go glad I was worried you wouldn't like it 🩷🩷

#🔫 anon #answering my inbox #appreciate you 🔫 anon

0 notes

octaneink · 13 days ago

Text

WILLLLLLLL WHAT THE FUCK

#willne #Will Lenney #what a man 🤭

102 notes · View notes

octaneink · 14 days ago

Text

‼️Heads up ‼️

I will be away from the 17th to the 24th of April! Gonna go on a lil holiday with mi gals 😚

So I don't think I'll be able to post something then, at least not a request.

Maybe something short thats not a request, but no promises...

(I may use the que feature actually 🤔)

#blog update #speaking my thoughts

1 note · View note

octaneink · 14 days ago

Text

The Aftermath

Will Lenney x Reader

Summary: The reader takes care of Will after the 2025 Charity Match Warnings: None Notes: Based on this request! Part two of Custom Fit. Sorry this was so short 😞this week's been pretty busy.

The stadium lights dimmed to a honey-gold haze, but the chaos was far from over.

Will stood pinned against a concrete pillar by a swarm of cameras and microphones, other YouTubers interviewing him for content, his post-match grin strained at the edges. Sweat dripped from his hairline, carving clean lines through the grime on his face. Someone had tossed him a towel, but it hung limply over his shoulders, forgotten. His voice had gone hoarse but retained its trademark charm.

“Nah, mate, the header wasn’t planned—just saw the ball and thought, Christ, that’s going on YouTube,” he said, grinning crookedly as the people laughed. His eyes flicked to you leaning against the cold concrete wall outside, just for a heartbeat, before darting back to the cameras. The fifth time he’d done that in ten minutes.

You clutched the Allstars kit tighter, its fabric coarse and damp against your fingertips. The acrid bite of sweat clung to the jersey—sharp and sour, layered with the grassy musk of turf ground into every fibre. It should’ve repelled you, but instead, you pressed the fabric to your chest like a relic, thumb tracing the embroidered patch until the threads snagged your skin.

Talia materialised beside you, holding two foam cups of warm stadium drinks in one hand and a grease-stained paper bag of Sides in the other. “He’s like a golden retriever with separation anxiety,” she said, nodding toward Will, then glared at her drink. “And before you ask—yes, this is piss-warm chamomile. Blame this one,” she added, patting her barely-there bump. “Keeps checking you’re still here,” she continued, rolling her eyes at Will’s fifth glance in your direction. “Someone’s gotta be the caffeine-deprived babysitter.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, flushing as you snatched the decaf from her. The chamomile’s floral tang clashed violently with the lingering musk of Will’s jersey still pressed to your side. “Don’t ‘shut up’ me. You’re basically holding his emotional support jersey.” She plucked at the fabric on your arm, wrinkling her nose. “Though, god, it reeks. Love really is blind.”

Freya snorted, materialising behind Talia with Faith and a dozing Olive in tow. The toddler stirred, her Sidemen scarf slipping askew as she sleepily gummed a fist. “And nose-dead, apparently,” Freya said, plucking a fry from Talia’s bag with a joking grin and gesturing at the jersey with it, neon cheese glooping onto her thumb. “You sure you don’t want to burn that?” She pulled a face like she’d licked a battery, playfully rolling her eyes. “You two are worse than my Nana’s telenovelas—and that’s saying something, considering her main character literally died of a paper cut last season.”

With a dramatic sigh, she pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, putting on a pretty good aristocratic accent: “Behold! The tragic Victorian widow clings to her scoundrel’s sweat-rag! A tale as old as tiiiiime—”

Talia jabbed Freya’s ribs with her decaf cup, nearly sloshing chamomile over the rim. “Keep the melodrama PG,” she said, though her twitching lips betrayed her. “Olive’s going to start quoting your nonsense at daycare.”

Freya glanced at the toddler, now drooling peacefully on Faith’s jacket, and dropped her tragic widow pose with a snort. “Relax—see? She’s out cold. Besides,” she added, elbowing you with a wink, “we all know you’d dive into a dumpster fire for his crusty socks. No judgement here.”

Will chose that moment to escape the locker room, his smirk sharpening as he caught the tail end of Freya’s jab. “Jealous, Freya?” he called, limping toward you with exaggerated swagger. “I’m sure Josh would get you one too, if you ask nicely.”

“Took you long enough,” you said, stepping forward to shoulder his duffel bag. Grass stains still streaked his neck, the custom #LENNEY 2 jersey clinging to him beneath his unzipped hoodie like a second skin.

Faith shifted Olive’s sleeping weight, nodding toward the exit. “Go. Before this little one wakes up and demands another pretzel the size of her head.”

“Seconded,” Talia said, crumpling her empty nacho bag with a yawn. “Your ‘tragic Victorian widow’ act is killing the vibe. Take your possibly concussed Romeo home.”

Will saluted lazily. “Yes, Mum.” You shot them a mock glare but couldn’t suppress your grin. “Bye, ladies,” you said, throwing a wave over your shoulder as Will slung an arm around your neck, his weight leaning into you like a human limpet.

“Text us when you’re home, preferably not dead in a ditch!” Freya called.

“Or do!” Talia added. “Drama’s good for the group chat.”

“Wouldn’t want to deprive you,” Will muttered, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He raised two fingers in a tired salute as you guided him toward the garage, the girls’ laughter fading behind you.

The walk to the car was quiet, murmured voices echoing through the large open space of the concrete garage. Will’s shoulder bumped yours every third step—less a nudge than a loss of balance—his duffel strap slipping down his arm until you hooked it with two fingers. He didn’t object.

At the Audi, he sagged against the bumper, head thunking back against the rear windscreen. “Let’s go,” he drawled, patting his pockets with sluggish determination. You intercepted the keys mid-air, their fob still warm from his grip.

“C’mon,” he groaned, reaching halfheartedly. “I’m not that knackered—”

You rolled your eyes. ”You just headed a ball. You’re probably still seeing double,” you said, pointing to the faint bruise already blooming on his temple. “And don’t even try to lie.”

He opened his mouth, then shut it with a click, shoulders sagging. “...Could’ve let me pretend I’m still invincible for five more minutes,” he muttered, but there was no real bite to it.

You popped the passenger door open with a smirk. “Boot or seat? Your choice.”

“Seat,” he grumbled, folding himself into the leather with all the grace of a collapsing deck chair. His knee cracked audibly against the glove box as he buckled up. “Christ—fucking—”

“Language”.

“You’re lucky you’re fit,” he added, tilting his head back against the rest. The garage lights cut across his face, sharpening the shadows under his eyes.

“Keep talking”, you said, adjusting the rearview mirror, “and I’ll make you ride in the boot for real.”

The Audi purred onto the rain-slicked road, tyres hissing against wet asphalt as neon signs bled into liquid gold across the windscreen. Will stabbed at the climate control panel with the heel of his hand, cranking the heat until the vents roared like a dragon.

"Christ, that's vile," he groaned as warmth hit his sweat-damp shirt, muscles seizing. The sharp cedarwood of his cologne turned cloying in the sudden humidity.

"Told you to ice your knee." You didn't look up from the road, thumb tapping the rhythm of some pop atrocity oozing from the radio. "But no. Had to be the martyr in head-to-toe Under Armour."

"Frozen peas give me existential dread." He peeled his back from the leather seat with a wet sound, grimacing. "They’re the vegetable equivalent of passive aggression."

"You’re the one who tried to throw the ball like you’re eighteen again. Newsflash, Granddad – your ligaments have a retirement fund now."

He scoffed, rolling his neck until it cracked. "One tactical stumble—"

"—Tactical?" You snort, teasing him more. "You folded like a Poundland lawn chair."

"Fuck’s sake, it was a stumble. It was—" You interrupted him by swerving around a pothole, grinning when the jolt made him suck air through his teeth. "Admit it. You just wanted the stretcher crew to carry you. Again."

"Jealous the med students didn’t swarm your touchline?" His mouth hooked sideways, all mischief and challenge. "I’ve seen the way you eye them. What’s your type – the one with the trauma shears or the guy who looks like a thumb in a fleece?"

"At least they hydrate properly." You flicked the half-empty water bottle in his lap, droplets arcing onto his joggers. "This isn’t a prop, Will. Actual humans need fluid to survive."

"Darling, if you wanted me undressed, you could’ve just—"

"Don’t." You cut him off, heat crawling up your neck as his laugh rolled through the car, low and knowing. The steering wheel creaked under your grip. "I’ll crash us. I mean it."

"Liar." He settled back, victorious, stretching his legs with a groan. "You’d miss the view too much."

You rolled your eyes, but he caught your chin with two fingers, tilting your face toward him. The traffic light bled red across his smirk. “C’mere,” he said, voice gravel-rough. His kiss was all heat and hubris, teeth nipping your lower lip as the light turned green. Horns blared behind you. He pulled back, eyes glinting. “Told you. Best view in London.”

His bravado lasted exactly three seconds.

The adrenaline finally bled out of him in a rush—shoulders slumping, smirk softening into something frayed at the edges. He tried to mask it, drumming restless fingers on his thigh, but the rhythm stuttered as his eyelids dipped. “Keep dreaming,” you said, quieter now. His retort dissolved into a yawn, jaw cracking audibly.

Rain smeared the world beyond the glass, but the car held its own galaxy—the ping of his phone charging, the syncopated drip of his damp hair hitting his collar, the way his knee brushed the gear shift one last time before going still. Always pushing. Always there. Until he wasn’t.

By the second traffic light, his temple met the window with a soft thunk. The city painted him in fleeting strokes—neon blue highlighting the curve of his slack mouth, sodium gold gilding the stubble along his jaw. A bruise bloomed above his eyebrow like storm clouds, yet he looked younger in the quiet, fingers slack around the water bottle. Even his breathing changed, the sharp edges of his banter smoothed into slow, syrupy exhales.

You turned the radio down.

He didn’t stir.

The kitchen fluorescents buzzed like angry wasps. Will collapsed onto a barstool, chin propped in his palm, as you shoved leftover carbonara into the microwave. He watched the plate spin through the greasy glass, eyes glazed. The microwave beeped sharply, and he flinched. “Eat,” you ordered, sliding the steaming plate toward him. “Properly. Or I’ll start spoon-feeding you.”

He smirked, dragging a noodle through the sauce with deliberate slowness. “Promises, promises.” Sauce smudged his thumb, and he licked it off absently, gaze drifting to the fridge plastered with magnets from your trips abroad. “Should’ve ordered Nando’s,” he mumbled around a half-chewed bite.

You flicked a bread roll at his chest.

“Oi.” He caught it mid-air, his grin lopsided. “Trying to maim me further?”

“Trying to keep you alive.” You leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Your body’s running on fumes and ego.”

“Ego’s renewable energy, love.” He tore the roll apart, crumbs cascading onto the plate like shrapnel. A fleck of parsley clung stubbornly to the corner of his lip—a bright green against his pallor. You let it linger, watching his gaze drift past you, fixed on some invisible point in the middle distance. His eyelids dipped like weighted curtains, snapping open every thirty seconds with robotic precision.

You hooked your foot around his ankle beneath the counter, jolting him. “Will.”

He blinked, slow and syrupy, as if surfacing from underwater. “Hm?”

“You’re zoning.”

“Am not.” The denial cracked halfway. He shovelled a forkful of carbonara into his mouth, chewing with the enthusiasm of a man gnawing cardboard. The shadows under his eyes weren’t circles anymore—they were craters.

His damp hair coiled in rebellious curls at his nape, the sterile scent of the stadium’s complimentary soap clashing with the sour tang of his abandoned jersey slung over the chair. Your gaze snagged again on that damn parsley, flagrant as a flare. Without thinking, you reached out, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth.

He froze mid-bite, fork suspended. A crumb fell. You swiped the green fleck away, your nail catching faintly on his chapped lip. His throat worked—a dry, audible click.

“Bed.” You lobbed the ibuprofen bottle at him. It thunked against his palm, his reflexes still sharp even as the rest of him unravelled.

“Bossy tonight, aren’t we?” He rattled the pills like dice, squinting at the label.

“Someone’s gotta be.”

He lurched into the bedroom, shedding his hoodie mid-stumble. The fabric pooled on the floor like a deflated shadow as he collapsed face-first onto the bed, limbs splayed in haphazard surrender. The duvet swallowed his groan, his voice muffled but insistent: “Massage or death. Your choice.”

You followed, floorboards groaning underfoot. Will lay motionless, face buried in the sheets, one arm dangling over the edge. His back rose and fell in shallow waves—the only proof he hadn’t fully dissolved into the mattress. The bed frame creaked as you climbed up, knees sinking into the downy surface on either side of his hips. Heat radiated through his thin t-shirt, seeping into your joggers as you settled over him.

His breath hitched, fingers curling into the duvet. The bed tilted under your weight, rolling his body subtly toward yours. Your palms hovered above his shoulders, the muscles beneath twitching even before contact—a battlefield of tension, coiled like steel springs primed to snap.

“Drama queen”, you muttered, thumbs carving into the rigid terrain of his upper back.

He hissed, spine arching sharply, shoulder blades jutting like fractured wings. “Christ—”

Your thumbs found the knot first—a hard, defiant bulge beneath his left shoulder blade, shaped like a clenched fist. You circled it slowly, testing. Will’s breath stuttered, his spine tensing like a bowstring. “Breathe,” you muttered, pressing down with the heel of your palm.

He didn’t. Not until the pressure forced a ragged exhale from his lungs. “Fuck—”

“You played at Wembley,” you repeated, quieter now, knuckles grinding into the epicentre of the tension. The muscle quivered under your touch, a live wire sparking. “Acted like you were bulletproof. What’d you expect?”

“Sympathy?” He turned his face sideways, cheek smeared against the duvet, words fraying. “A fuckin’ parade?” His laugh was a hollow rasp, muffled by fabric.

“You’ll get a tombstone.” You leaned your weight into the knot, relentless, until it finally surrendered with a sickening pop. His groan vibrated through your knees, low and visceral, as his body sagged into the mattress.

“Knew you’d fuss,” he slurred, voice thick with exhaustion. One hand fisted the sheet, knuckles blanching.

“Shut up.” You traced the curve of his jaw, calluses catching on stubble, before retreating to safer territory—the slope of his neck, the wings of his shoulders. “You love it.”

His breath hitched. Not from pain.

The room softened around you—the storm outside reduced to a whisper, the lamp’s glare dimming as if chastened. You worked in silence now, kneading the remaining knots with methodical precision. His body unravelled by degrees: the iron grip on the sheets loosening, the hitch in his breath smoothing to something shallow and steady.

His breath hitched—a stuttered inhale you recognised instantly. You felt it everywhere: in the twine of his pulse under your wrist, the minute tilt of his head toward your touch. You pressed harder, thumb skating along the ridge of his shoulder. “Well?”

Will turned his face into the pillow, but you caught the grin in his voice. “Well, what?”

“You love it.” You repeated yourself.

He snorted, the sound dampened by cotton. “Of course I do.” Casual as a shrug, but his ear had gone pink at the tip—the tell he’d never managed to hide. “Your hands are witchcraft. Should charge for this.”

“You’d owe me six figures by now.”

“Mmm. Just add it to my tab.” He shifted, wincing as you hit a fresh knot. “Christ—easy, assassin.”

You lightened the pressure, fingers brushing the hair at his nape. He leaned into it like a cat, sighing. “Should’ve subbed out after the header,” you said, quieter now.

“And miss your custom jersey reveal?” His hand fumbled backward, swatting blindly at your thigh. “Worth the possible concussion.”

You caught his wrist, thumb skimming the pulse point. “Idiot.”

“Your idiot.” He twisted just enough to peer up at you with one sleep-silted eye. The bruise looked worse in the lamplight, but his smirk was pure mischief. “C’mon. Tell me you’re not impressed.”

You flicked his earlobe. “By your talent for concussions?”

“By my commitment.” He caught your hand before you could retreat, pressing a lazy kiss to your palm. His lips were chapped, his stubble rough against your skin. A familiar calculus. “Admit it. You’re dazzled.”

“Dazzled,” you deadpanned, freeing your hand to resume the massage. “That’s one word for it.”

He hummed, cheek squashed against the sheets. “Knew it.”

You felt the exact moment. Will tipped over the edge into sleep. His breathing deepened, the rigid line of his shoulders going slack under your palms. His fingers, which had been idly tracing circles on your knee, stilled mid-motion, hand sliding off the bed to dangle limply toward the floor.

For a moment, you didn’t move. Watched the rise and fall of his back, the way his parted lips smudged the duvet with each exhale. The lamp cast his profile in gold—eyelashes fanned dark against cheeks still flushed from the post-match shower, hair curling damp at his temples. Even bruised and battered, he looked younger like this, the day’s tension dissolved into something soft and unguarded.

Careful not to jostle him, you slipped off the bed. The floorboards creaked a protest, but Will didn’t stir. His arm remained outstretched where you’d been, fingers twitching faintly as if chasing your warmth.

You moved through the flat on autopilot: deadbolting the front door, twisting the handle of the back window twice to secure it, and clicking off lights one by one until only the bedroom lamp remained.

When you returned, Will had curled onto his side, knees drawn up like a comma. The duvet pooled at his waist, exposing the twin dimples at the base of his spine, the constellation of freckles he’d gotten from the last boys trip. The lamp’s glow cutting abruptly after you flick it off, plunging the room into darkness.

You slid in beside him, knees slotting behind his like puzzle pieces worn smooth by repetition. His body curled toward you even before the mattress settled—a reflex etched into his bones, as automatic as breathing. His hand found your hip, calloused palm sliding under your shirt to press warm against bare skin, anchoring you in place. Even half-conscious, he knew the map of you: the dip of your waist, the curve of your shoulder, and the way you’d always tuck your cold toes between his calves.

He nuzzled the back of your neck, stubble scraping skin. “Love you,” slurred into your hair, barely audible.

You smiled against the dark. “Love you too, idiot.” You laced your fingers through his where they rested on your stomach, his grip slackening as sleep pulled him under.

His breathing deepened, slow and syrupy, chest rising against your back in a rhythm older than Wembley, older than YouTube, older than the both of you. The rain had hushed to a murmur, the room holding its breath around you. You closed your eyes, letting the heat of him seep into your marrow.

Somewhere between his thumb stroking your hipbone and the distant trill of a nightingale, sleep crept in. The last thing you registered was his content sigh, warm and damp against your nape, as his hand slid up to cradle your ribs—craving more of you even in dreams.

I hope you like this 🔫 anon! Like I said in the notes, sorry it's short… But I hope that you like what I made nonetheless 😊. Thanks again for requesting it!

#willne #will lenney #willne x reader #willne x fem!reader #will lenney x reader #willne oneshot #🔫 anon's request

140 notes · View notes

octaneink · 20 days ago

Text

Absolutely gutted that I'm missing the Cosa Nuestra tour... so to cope, I think I'll make a fic of either the reader (most likely be a female reader) and Will going to the concert, or have a fic based on one of the songs on the albums...

But I'm not sure yet.

I love that Rauw put a dress code for the concert (60s evening wear with colours and suits) and the mental image of Will in a suit is stuck in my head...

My favourite songs on the album are Baja Pa' Acá and Revolú, but they are a bit spicy and I know I that shits HARD (big up smut writers y'all are a gift) so I may just do the first part 🤔

#blog update #willne fic #will lenney fic #help me choose gang #poll

1 note · View note

octaneink · 20 days ago

Note

You take your time my dear! As for length, however long is better for you. If you feel like you can make it long, go for it! Out of ideas and need it short! No problemon!! Loving the fics as always, you deserve all the love 🫶

- 🔫 anon

🫡You got it boss! Thank you 🫶 (honestly I feel like a broken record saying that but thank you everyone 🫶🫶)

#blog update #answering my inbox

2 notes · View notes

octaneink · 20 days ago

Note

This was so effin cute!!! Love, love, love it!!

your Will fics are giving me LIFE 💓 obsessed with the latest one, and might need a part 2 🫢 I just love the idea of them getting together, and whenever they’re having problems (individually or as a couple) they sit in the bath again and figure it out as a team 🥹

Spring Into Summer | WillNE

Pushing It Down And Praying - established reader. You can find all other parts here. Can be read as a standalone fic (but would make more sense with the series) 🤍

—

January 1st

The apartment was covered in streamers, glitter and bottle top lids. Will and Y/N had been brave enough to offer up their place for the group’s New Years celebrations.

So far this year, they had witnessed Arthur Hill and George kiss during the ball drop, they’d caught Chip mid tactical vomit in their outdoor plants and Chris had somehow ended up covered in Becky’s bright red lippy.

It was about 3am when the crew had finally emptied out, the couple pottering around their living room with garbage bags and cleaning up before finally deciding to call it a night. They had gotten to work removing copious amounts of glitter from their faces, taking turns sliding the makeup wipes across the his and hers sinks in the bathroom.

Y/N turned to Will, who was struggling to keep his eyes open. “Sweetheart, just sit on the edge of the bath and I’ll help.”

She stood between his legs, gingerly wiping his face. Will’s hands lay happily on either side of her waist, looking up at her. “Happy new year, darling.”

He was met with a soft smile and a gentle kiss. “Happy new year.”

——

March 11th

Will had asked for one thing for his birthday - a hot bath with his hot girlfriend.

It was about 7pm when they each put their phones on do not disturb and found themselves taking refuge in the bathroom. Somehow, the ensuite had become the cornerstone of their relationship - a no yelling, judgement free space. Anger was welcome on the condition that it was productive and kind in its delivery.

Will had learned that Y/N was a practical woman. They had been friends for years and had known each other throughout each of their respective relationships, but he hadn’t expected her to be the type of partner she was. Having seen her drunkenly yell at her friends shitty boyfriends and put her foot down when Alex’s tongue was a little too sharp, Will had expected her to be slightly impatient and a little quick to anger. He couldn’t be more wrong. Y/N was soft, patient, and practical. She was emotionally intelligent and communicated better than most of the adults he knew (himself included).

On the occasion she would come home from work frustrated, she would tell him “I’m just going to get in the bath. Give me an hour to work through some shit.” And so began their tradition. Angry? Go have some time out in the bath. Need to say something without being interrupted? Let’s go sit on the floor of the bathroom. The drunken chat in George’s bathroom that had started their relationship flowed through it - both of them practicing kindness and tact, forever forthcoming with each other.

Will would text. It’s a bad day. Would love a quiet evening.

Alright. I’ll order a Chinese and get the bath bombs out for you. She knew exactly what he needed.

His birthday was no different.

Candles scattered the bathroom and a Noah Kahan vinyl was playing softly. As requested, Y/N had found a nice chilled red for them to share. She sat behind Will, his back flush against her chest and his hands resting softly on her thighs. She ran her fingers through his hair as he spoke about his day, scratching his scalp from time to time.

“You know, I think this has been my favourite birthday ever.” He mumbled, eyes closed.

She hummed. “Is that so?”.

“Yeah. I got to spend the day with the boys, playing football and having a nice pub meal. Had friends calling me all day to tell me they love me.” She squeezed his shoulder as he spoke. “And as if that wasn’t enough, I’ve come home to find the most beautiful girl in the world making my favourite dinner and running us a bath.”

Y/N smirked. “She sounds like she’s pretty great.”

“You can’t have her. She’s pretty fuckin’ hot.” He laughed, leaning backwards. Y/N wrapped her arms around his shoulders, kissing his temple.

“You’re pretty good looking for an old man.” A cheeky grin was plastered across her face.

He laughed heartily, his chest vibrating. “Oh, fuck off! You won’t be getting any of my pension.”

——

June 23rd

The tension was palpable. The minute Y/N had walked into the apartment, Will could tell a breakdown was imminent.

“You’ve had a shit day, haven’t you?” he asked from across the living room.

“I love you but I don’t wanna talk about it. I’m like fucking vibrating with anger and I’m not about to take that out on you.” She stated, calmly putting away her work bag and hanging up her coat. “Hi boys.”

Freezy, Lux, Josh and Harry were visiting Will for a few quiet afternoon drinks (secretly also wanting to catch up with Y/N). Y/N would normally love to sit and indulge in a glass of wine with them all, probing them all for the gossip they usually wouldn’t share with the wider group.

Y/N had been through the door for all of 2 minutes before Freya walked in, bottle of rosé in one hand and a bag of treats in the other.

“I have brought bathers, alcohol and snacks. Let’s go rot in the bath.” Freya kissed Y/N’s cheek and they made their way to the ensuite bathroom.

Josh grinned watching the two women interact. “I’m glad Frey and Y/N are such good mates.”

Will nodded. “Me too. They had me in stitches when they got on the piss last weekend.”

“I heard you got kicked out of your bed!” Freezy laughed.

“Yeah, they wanted to have a girls night so I set up shop in the spare room.” Will explained, a soft laugh escaping his lips.

“You should’ve come over to my place, Frey wasn’t there to spoon me so there was plenty of room.” Josh winked at Will, the room erupting in giggles.

A loud ‘oh, fuck off! What a cunt!’ could be heard from a few rooms over, sounding distinctly like Freya. Laughter then ensued.

About an hour later, the two girls emerged in matching pyjamas, each holding a half finished bottle of wine.

Josh quirked an eyebrow. “Where’d you get your pjs from, Frey?”.

She looked back at him, puzzled. “Y/N bought a pair to keep in my room.”

Will laughed. “Sorry, your room?”.

“I just keep some cozy clothes and toiletries in the spare room for Freya,” Y/N explained. “There’s a drawer there for Talia too.”

“You normally end up having sleepovers in our room anyways.” Will explained.

“Oh, would you prefer I give Freya one of your drawers?”. Y/N grinned cheekily.

——

October 5th

The sun was going down as Y/N arrived home. “Honey, I’m home!” She called out.

“We’re in the bathroom!” Will yelled back.

Y/N walked through the apartment and into the bathroom, finding Will laying in a tub full of ice. He was yapping to Ieuan and Mikey, who were deep in conversation about the latest, most controversial football player signing. Mikey sat on the edge of the bath while Ieuan was sitting on the floor, up against the vanity.

“Y/N! We haven’t seen you in forever!” Ieuan rose to his feet, pulling her into a quick hug.

“I know, right! I’ve been saying to Will that I’d love to have all of you guys round for dinner once this shoot is over.” She smiled at him, squeezing his arm gently.

Mikey piped up. “I’ll come if Will’s not invited.”

Will narrowed his eyes. “You’re literally sat on the edge of me bath, staring straight at us.”

Y/N smirked. “You two do look a bit intimate over there.”

Ieuan, Mikey and Y/N opted to leave Will to rot in ice cold misery and have a cup of tea instead. The three of them were spread across the couches, each clutching a blanket and exchanging stories from their week.

“The sidemen have asked me to do a huge shoot with them, but it overlaps with the football video Will’s doing for Chris. They’re going to Australia and doing a shit load of content while they’re there.” Ieuan relayed, clutching his mug between his hands. “I don’t wanna turn the opportunity down but I promised Will that I’d help out.”

“You should go to Australia. He’ll get over it.” Y/N spoke matter-of-factly, sipping her tea.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on Will’s side? You’re his girlfriend.” Mikey quizzed.

“I am. He would be disappointed if he found out you turned down a huge opportunity like that to film for him and Chris.” She spoke clearly. “I know he’s your employer, but Will thinks the world of you guys and he’s not about to stand in the way of your professional development.”

As if his ears were burning, Will entered the room. “What are you all talking about?”.

Y/N raised an eyebrow at Ieuan.

“I’ve had a cool opportunity pop up at the same time as the Chris shoot, and Y/N was just telling me that I should ditch the Chris job and do this other thing instead.” Ieuan nervously spoke.

Will sat down on the couch next to Y/N, manoeuvring her blanket to cover his legs. “What’s the opportunity?”.

“It’s 2 weeks in Australia with the sidemen. James put me up for the job.”

“Yeah, fuck Chris. Go to Australia.” The lanky Geordie stole a sip of his girlfriend’s tea. He looked to her, nodding approvingly. “This shit is good.”

“Wait, are you sure? I don’t wanna leave you in the lurch.” Ieuan’s eyes were pleading.

Will looked at the man, his gaze softening. “Go to Australia. Y/N was right. There will always be another Chris video, but this thing in Australia could be a once in a lifetime opportunity.”

Ieuan nodded softly, turning to look at Y/N. Thank you, he mouthed.

Mikey looked to Will, a smirk tugging at his lips. “We should put you in an ice bath more often, it softens you up.”

“Can we please stop filming videos where I have to run all of the time? My bones feel fucking brittle and frail after laying in all of that ice.” Will exclaimed, his voice raising an octave. “Must be elder abuse or something.”

——

December 30th

Will and Y/N had been having a slight disagreement in the kitchen, their voices raised and jaws clenched.

Y/N wordlessly put her phone on do not disturb, placed it on the counter and picked up her glass of wine, making her way to the bathroom. Will got the hint and followed.

The two sat in the bath, their knees tucked in but touching slightly as Will shuffled to fit his tall frame comfortably.

“Okay, let’s reset,” She began. “What’s bothering you?”.

“I just feel a little riled up after the trip away. I realise that you and Alex are from the same hometown, you know the same people and that your old friends don’t give a second thought to mentioning him - but I want it to be clear that I am committed to you. I’m not the consolation prize for him.” He spoke clearly, rather monotone to avoid swaying one way emotionally.

“I don’t think you’re a consolation prize at all. I truly do think it is just small town mentality for them to continue talking about him.” She sighed, having a mouthful of wine.

“I heard you defending me. I just wanna know you actually think those things.” He was timid, not wanting to meet her eyes.

Will’s the one. He doesn’t even compare to Alex. He’s what I’ve always wanted.

“Will, I love you. I will go wherever you go. You’re my person.” She stated, holding her free hand out for his.

He gently intertwined their fingers. “How do you feel about doing the whole domestic, married life thing?”.

“I’d marry you tomorrow. I’m in it for the long haul.” She smiled softly. “Spring into summer, I’m here.”

“Okay, so if I ask?”. He looked her straight in the eyes.

“It’ll be a yes.”

I hope he asks. I wanna be with him forever.

There was a comfortable silence between the two of them, before he spoke. “Do you feel like you have a bit of deja vu?”.

“I do, actually.” They each sipped their wine, enjoying the stillness. Her face lit up, remembering that same conversation they’d had in George’s bathtub so long ago. “Hey, sweetheart?”.

“Yeah, darling?”.

“Don’t forget to call.” She smiled.

His eyes softened. “Don’t forget to answer.”

——

A/N: Hi lovely anon, I hope this is what you were after? It was hard to write something that was totally based on them having disagreements or going through hardship, so I thought the changing seasons might be a better option (very open to feedback here!!).

My apologies friends - this is yet another scheduled post. I have seen a couple of requests come through and am slowly chipping away at them during my downtime. Please keep them coming (I especially love the ones based around songs/musicians as it is kinda the whole style of this blog).

Love you all, have a fabulous week ahead ❤️❤️

Roc xx

#willne fic reblog #will lenney fic reblog #roc haze reblog #Good cute shit I love the whole premise

216 notes · View notes

octaneink · 20 days ago

Note

I have yet another William lenney suggestion!! What if the reader had a bad day, like a super bad day, and is overall super stressed. Will tries to talk to them and the reader accidentally snaps at him. They apologise later, feeling bad and guilty for snapping. 👀

- 🔫 anon

🔫anon! You're back 😁😁

I like this yes... 😏 It's been added to the queue! I'll be a while till I post it, though. I hope you don't mind.

(and I hope you don't mind that I dial up the guilt the Reader feels)

How long would you like it?

Do people mind the fic lengths? I just realised I haven't really asked what people like to read. I hope the long fics are okay...

#🔫 anon's request #blog update #answering my inbox #answering 🔫 anon

10 notes · View notes

octaneink · 20 days ago

Note

Will in that photo omd

😏😏 you get me

#blog update #answering my inbox #😤😤😤 HES TOO HOT #Why is he allowed to be this hot??😫😫

0 notes

octaneink · 20 days ago

Text

Thank you so, so much! 💖

Oml I’ve been out all day and just got a chance to check my notifications—wow, I’m completely overwhelmed by your kindness!

I really didn’t expect the latest fic to so well received. Your comments, likes, reblogs, and sweet inbox messages have me feeling so loved right now… I might actually cry, you’re all too kind. 🥺🩷🩷

From the bottom of my heart, thank you for taking the time to share your support. I’m so grateful to have mutuals and readers like you.

#blog update #Appreciation to everyone #seriously I love you all #trying not to cry while Im reading the positivity #short love letter to everyone 🩷

5 notes · View notes

octaneink · 21 days ago

Text

October Rain

Will Lenney x Fem!Reader

Summary: Will forgets his two-year anniversary with the Reader Warnings: Sad then cheesy as FUCK Notes: Based on this ask! I got carried away on this one...Kinda has more angst than fluff I think, but I hope the end was fluffy enough. Reader is described to be wearing makeup and have hair that has their orignal roots peeking through (beiefly)

You spend an hour picking out the dress.

It’s ridiculous, really—the closet yawns like a wound afterward, half your wardrobe strewn across the bed. Too formal, you’d hissed at the emerald gown. Too casual, you’d spat at the sundress, though summer died weeks ago. The silk slip you settle on is the colour of champagne, the one Will once said made you look like “a sunrise with legs”. You spin in front of the mirror, fabric swirling, and pretend the heat in your cheeks is from the hairdryer.

The bathroom sink becomes a warzone. Eyeliner wings sharp enough to draw blood. Blush blended to that “just-fucked” glow he’d teased you about last anniversary. You spritz the vanilla perfume he buys you every Christmas—‘So I can find you in a crowd,’ he’d said. Your phone buzzes on the counter.

A text from Will:

Will (7:43 PM): Emergency reshoot. Might be 20 mins late. Don’t eat my breadsticks, thief

You roll your eyes, smiling. Typical Will. You text back:

You (7:43 PM): If you’re late, I’m ordering TWO desserts. And I’ll tell the waiter you stood me up

You leave a note on the fridge in your loopy script—“Gone to claim my free pity cake. Catch up, slowpoke.” — And double-checked the contents of your clutch. Inside rests a small box with a silver ring, its band etched with tiny stars circling a moonstone—a mirror of the one you wear on your right hand. Under the stone was an engraving of the date of your first kiss hidden in tiny numerals.

Rain whispers against the windows as you step outside, but you don’t mind. You imagine his face when he opens the box, the way he’ll fumble trying to slide it onto his finger mid-sentence, his laugh warm and sheepish as he says, ‘Should’ve known you’d out-romance me.’

The cab driver eyes you in the rearview. “Big date?”

“The biggest,” you say, thumb rubbing the moonstone. Two years. Two years of his chaotic schedules and your terrible puns, of long sleepless nights and his hands steadying yours when you cried during sad movies.

The hostess leads you to the corner table, its surface gleaming under a halo of candlelight. Rain ticks softly against the windows, a muted rhythm beneath the murmur of violins and clinking crystal. You smooth your dress as you sit, the silk whispering against your thighs, and immediately reach to straighten the centrepiece—a single tulip, its petals curled at the edges like parchment. Wilted, you note, but it feels fitting. Romantic, in a vintage way.

You tug the tablecloth taut erasing imaginary wrinkles. The waiter materialises, his voice a velvet hum. “A drink to start while you wait?”

“A glass of Maker’s Mark and a Cabernet, please,” you say, fingertips drumming the menu. The waiter’s gaze flicks to the empty chair, then back to you. He nods, vanishing into the amber-lit haze of the restaurant.

When he returns, the whisky glows like molten gold in its glass, the Cabernet a deep ruby beside it. You take a sip of wine, the tannins bitter-sweet, and blurt, “Could we also start with the breadsticks? And—do you have any recommendations for the main course? We’re… celebrating.”

The waiter’s smile softens. “Anniversary?”

You nod, thumb brushing the moonstone on your ring. “Two years.”

“Congratulations,” he says, and you swear his tone dips. “The duck confit is exceptional. Crisp skin, pomegranate glaze. A favourite for… special occasions.”

“Perfect,” you say, voice bright as the candle flame. “And the breadsticks, please.”

They arrive warm, dusted with rosemary and sea salt. You pluck one, the crust crackling under your touch, and set it on Will’s bread plate. His ritual: stealing bites before the meal, grinning with a mouthful of carbs. The butter dish sits unopened—he’d argue it’s “sacrilege” to ruin good bread.

The waiter lingers. “Shall I wait to bring the duck?”

“Please wait a bit more.” You clear your throat. “He’ll be here any minute.”

He nods and walks off.

The couple beside you leans into a kiss, their shadows merging on the wall. You look away, smiling. That’ll be us in ten minutes, you think, adjusting the tulip one more time.

8:03 PM.

The ice cubes crackle in his untouched drink. You text him:

You (8:03 PM): Breadsticks are going quick. Hurry!

Outside, the rain thickens.

The restaurant’s candlelight pools like liquid gold on the tablecloth, but it can’t warm the chill creeping up your spine. Rain blurs the world beyond the glass into a smudge of greys and blues, and you fixate on it to avoid staring at the empty chair. Will’s whisky glints amber under the flickering flame, ice long melted, the glass sweating like your palms.

8:17 PM.

Your phone screen dims again. You tap it awake, thumb hovering over the latest text—sent seven minutes ago, still unanswered. The waiter glides over, his voice a gentle ripple in the silence. “Can I bring you anything else while you wait?”

You force a smile, brittle as the sugar crust on the crème brûlée at the next table. “Just the duck confit, please. And another Cabernet.” The please cracks, but he nods, retreating with a discretion that feels like mercy.

The duck arrives, its pomegranate glaze glistening. You slice into it with surgical precision, the knife barely whispering against the plate. Last year, Will stole a bite off your fork, grinning as juice dripped down his chin. Now, you chew slowly, each swallow a battle. The couple beside you clinks champagne flutes, their laughter a bright, foreign language. You glance at Will’s whisky, then slide it toward yourself, the glass leaving a damp ring on the linen. The first sip burns; the second tastes like regret.

9:03 PM.

The candle drowns in wax, its flame shrinking to a pitiful flame. A tulip petal drifts onto Will’s unused bread plate. You pluck it gently, its edges browning like a forgotten letter, and tuck it into your clutch beside the velvet box. The moonstone ring on your finger feels heavier now.

The waiter hesitates, his polished shoes shifting slightly against the hardwood floor. His fingers, long and graceful from years of balancing trays, hover near the table’s edge as if unsure whether to reach out or retreat. His gaze lingers on the empty glass of whisky.

“Dessert, perhaps?” He offers again, voice low, careful. “The chocolate torte is—”

You press your lips together, forcing a small, polite smile. “No, thank you,” you murmur, softer than you intended. Your fingers, stiff from clutching the sweating wine glass, fumble for your wallet. “Could I just have the receipt, please?”

He hesitates, then nods, pulling the leather folio from his apron. You pretend not to notice the way his brow furrows—the unspoken Are you sure? in the slight tilt of his head.

You open the bill, scanning the numbers without really seeing them. The candlelight flickers, casting wavering shadows over the ink. Duck confit. Cabernet Sauvignon. Breadsticks (2 orders). A bitter laugh threatens to rise in your throat—two orders, because you’d been so sure Will would devour them the second he arrived.

He watches, silent, as you count out the bills. Your hands don’t shake—not visibly, at least—but the edges of the notes crumple slightly under your grip. When you slide them across the table, he takes them with a practised nod, but then hesitates, thumbing through the stack.

“This is too much,” he says gently, extracting a few bills to return.

You shake your head, eyes fixed somewhere past his shoulder, where the candlelight catches the rain-streaked window. “Keep it. For the… the trouble.” The last word splinters, but you don’t let it crack further.

His mouth opens—maybe to protest, maybe to offer some other kindness—but you’re already standing, smoothing the ruined silk of your dress like it still matters.

At the door, the hostess—her delicate silver name tag glinting, Sophie—catches your arm with a touch so light it’s almost imperceptible. The warmth of her fingers is startling against your chilled skin.

“The rain’s gotten worse,” she says, her voice threaded with something that isn’t pity, but close. “Let me call you a cab.”

You turn your face just enough to meet her eyes, another practiced smile in place. “I’m alright, thank you.” Your voice is steady and pleasant, the same tone you’d use to decline an extra napkin. “Have a good night.”

You don’t wait for her reply. The door swings open, and the storm greets you like an old enemy—immediate, unrelenting. The silk dress, already ruined, clings to your skin as the rain seeps deeper, turning the fabric into a second, heavier skin. The cold is sharp, but you don’t shudder. You walk. One step, then another.

Behind you, the restaurant glows—golden, warm, a world still spinning without you in it. The violins hum on, the clink of glasses muffled by the downpour. Somewhere inside, the waiter is clearing the table, folding the unused napkin, and wiping away the water ring left by what should have been Will’s drink.

You walk faster.

The rain tastes like salt.

The tube station swallows you whole, its fluorescent lights flickering like a dying heartbeat. Rain cascades down the steps, turning the floor into a mirrored maze. Your heels—strappy, delicate, stupid—stab into the tile with every step, blisters gnawing at your skin. The silk dress clings to your legs, its champagne hue now muddied to dishwater grey. You don’t flinch. Let the pain root you. Let it be real.

A digital board flickers: CIRCLE LINE DELAYED – 22 MINUTES. Commuters sigh, their breath fogging the air. You sink onto a cold metal bench, mascara bleeding down your cheeks in charcoal streaks. The moonstone ring on your finger feels like a lie. You twist it off, the silver band catching the light one last time before you bury it in your clutch beside the velvet box.

An old man lowers himself beside you, his trench coat smelling of mothballs and Earl Grey. His face is a map of wrinkles, eyes milky at the edges but kind. His hands, speckled with age spots, grip a weathered umbrella. “Nasty night,” he rasps, nodding at the storm outside.

You nod back, silent.

He thrusts a weathered umbrella toward you, its handle carved with faded floral patterns. “Take it, lass. You’ll catch your death.”

“I’m alright, thank you,” you say, voice fraying at the edges. Polite. Always polite.

He hesitates, squinting at your trembling hands. “Sure?”

“Yes.” The word cracks. You turn away, staring at the tracks until his shuffling footsteps fade.

The train arrives fifty minutes late, its doors wheezing open. You board, heels slipping on the grimy floor. A toddler points at your drowned-rat elegance, giggling. Rain drips from your hem, forming a puddle at your feet.

At your stop, you limp up the stairs. The storm hasn’t relented—it thrives, needling your skin, soaking through the clutch pressed to your chest. Let the rain scald. Let it strip you raw. Your heels click defiantly, blisters splitting open, blood mingling with rainwater. You don’t slow. The pain is an anchor. The pain is true.

Let it drown out the memory of Will’s empty chair.

The automatic doors shudder open with a sound like a dying breath, spilling you into the lobby’s arctic chill. Air conditioning razors down your rain-raw skin, and your dress—once liquid silk, now a translucent shroud—clings to every curve, the fabric plastered to your thighs like wet tissue paper. Water sluices from your hem, squelching against polished marble as you walk.

Dave, the night guard, freezes mid-yawn. His eyes dart from your bare shoulders to the puddle spreading at your feet, his Adam’s apple bobbing as if swallowing a scream. “Ev-evening, miss,” he stammers, fingers spasming over his keyboard like he’s forgotten how to type.

You smile. Polished. Automatic. The kind you’d give a stranger. “Evening, Dave.” Your voice doesn’t waver. “Enjoy your shift.”

Mascara bleeds down your cheeks in Rorschach trails, each swipe of your hand hours ago having smeared it into abstract art. Your hair, once sleek, hangs in Medusa tendrils, rainwater still glazing the strands. Your right hand drifts to your ring finger, bare now, the moonstone’s absence a phantom itch.

The elevator dings. You step in, shoulders grazing cold steel. Your reflection splinters across the mirrored walls—a dozen shattered versions of yourself, each more unrecognisable than the last. One version trembles. Another sneers. A third presses a fist to her mouth, stifling something raw.

You fixate on the numbers lighting up: 4… 5… 6… Each floor hums, the sound vibrating in your molars. The doors open to your hallway, its geometric carpet clashing violently with your waterlogged heels. You fumble the key, metal scraping the lock until it gives, your trembling hands betraying you.

When the door finally gives, the flat smells of vanilla and Thai food. Light spills from the kitchen, where Will’s voice rings out, bright and buoyant over the clatter of dishes.

“Welcome home! You’ll never believe the day I—”

You step inside, rainwater pattering onto the entryway tiles.

“—had to reshoot the entire bridge sequence because the damn drone malfunctioned. Nearly brained James when he suggested cutting the tracking shot, but then—”

You don’t move. Don’t speak. You place your clutch on the coffee table, a dark stain spreading beneath it. The sound of his voice - usually so comforting - feels like radio static now, all meaningless noise.

"Anyway, I've got this banger idea for the next main channel vid—"

A cabinet slams. Silverware jingles. He’s pouring wine, you realize—the clink of two glasses meeting.

“Hungry? I grabbed that Thai place you like on the way back. The Penang curry’s still…”

He trails off as he rounds the corner, two glasses of Malbec in hand, hair messy and shirtsleeves rolled up. His grin fades when he sees you—a drowned spectre in ruined silk, mascara bleeding down your cheeks.

“Jesus, why’re you soaked?” He sets the glasses down too hard, crimson sloshing onto the counter. “Didn’t you check the weather? I texted you about the storm before I left this morning—”

Your voice cuts through his, quiet and lethally calm. “What’s today’s date, Will?”

“What?”

“The. Date.”

His eyes dart reflexively to the fridge—to the takeout calendar stuck beneath a Star Wars magnet, October 12th circled in your lavender gel pen. A Post-it note hangs half-peeled beneath it: “Dress fancy. 7:00. Il Girasole. Don’t be late!!! ”

The blood drains from his face. “Fuck. The shoot ran late, and then the producer ambushed me with notes, and I—”

“Two years.” Your whisper fractures. “You forgot two years.”

A beat. Rain lashes the window above the sink.

He reaches for you, wine-stained fingers trembling. “Let me fix this. I’ll call the restaurant—we can go now, I’ll—”

You sidestep his touch, the motion sending water droplets arcing onto the plush rug. The bathroom door slams shut behind you.

The bathroom tiles bite into your soles as you peel the dress from your skin. The silk clings, resisting until it finally slaps wetly against the floor. You ball it up, shove it into the rubbish bin beside the toilet. The champagne fabric wilts over the near empty bin.

The shower handle creaks as you crank it. Water hammers your hand before the heater catches up, icy needles sharpening to a scalding sheet. You step in, skin flushing red. Steam clots your lungs.

For a beat you stand there, staring blankly at the showerhead.

Then your breath hitches—sharp, shallow gulps that shudder through your ribs. You clamp a hand over your mouth, teeth sinking into the meat of your palm to stifle the sob climbing your throat. It works, but only briefly. A high, keening noise escapes through your nose, and you press your face into the crook of your elbow, smothering the sound against wet skin.

Tears come in silent, relentless waves. Your shoulders jerk forward with each suppressed gasp, muscles coiled so tight your back aches. Water streams down your face, mingling with snot and salt, but you keep your eyes screwed shut. When another sob threatens, you bite down harder on your hand, the pressure dull and grounding, but not enough to break skin.

Your free hand braces against the shower wall, fingers splayed white-knuckled on the tile. The urge to scream pulses in your throat, but you choke it back, swallowing until it burns. Your body rebels anyway: chest heaving, knees trembling, a strangled whimper slipping free. You slump against the wall, forehead pressed to cold ceramic, and let the water hammer the nape of your neck.

It’s messy. Uncontrolled. Snot drips onto your collarbone; tears pool in the divot of your pressed lips. You swipe at your face with a trembling fist, smearing rather than wiping, and suck in a ragged breath that catches like a hook in your windpipe. For a moment, you’re silent—then a fractured cry escapes, sharp as glass. You muffle it with both hands this time, breath hot and trapped against your palms, until the worst of the wave passes.

By the time the water runs cold, you’re hollowed out. Your breaths still hitch, but softer now—wet, exhausted sighs. You swipe your nose with the back of your wrist, eyes swollen to slits, and lean heavily on the wall to stand. Every muscle feels wrung-out, tender.

You reach for the soap with trembling hands. The bar slips twice before you manage to grip it, lathering mechanically between your palms. You scrub your arms again—not violently now, but with the dull precision of someone completing a chore. Bubbles slide over goose-bumped skin, your movements slow and leaden, like your bones are filled with wet sand.

Shampoo this time—squeezed directly onto your crown without measuring. You work it in with limp fingers, nails grazing your scalp without intent. Suds slither down your temples, stinging the corners of your bloodshot eyes. You don’t flinch. Just tilt your head back, let the spray rinse it away, your throat working silently as you swallow the last vestiges of tears.

A conditioner bottle clicks open. You apply too much, the excess dripping down your calves in pearlescent streaks. The scent—coconut, his favourite—makes your jaw clench. You rinse until the water runs clear, until your fingers prune and your skin feels scraped raw by nothing but time.

Beyond the door, Will’s breath hitches. He presses a palm to the wood, then balls up his hand, knuckles whitening, but doesn’t knock. “Fuck,” he mouths silently, raking a hand through his hair.

He counts each shuddering breath you take, his own syncing unevenly with yours. When the shower shuts off with a metallic squeal, he staggers back, suddenly aware he’s been holding his breath.

Silence.

Will hesitates, arm half-raised as if to knock. Then the rasp of a towel against skin sends him retreating down the hall, socked feet silent on hardwood. By the time you crack the door, he’s slumped on the living room sofa, staring blankly at his abandoned wine glass.

You dress in the sweatpants and shirt he left on the hook—his sweatpants, the ones he’d draped there this morning while whistling off-key, already late, already forgetting—and don’t look at the bin where your dress lies balled in the dark.

You crack open the door and step out, spotting Will with his back to the door, staring at something on the coffee table. You swallow and shuffle to the spare bedroom, closing the door softly and curling under the warm duvet, curling up and stare at the wall.

Rain ticks its fingernails against the windowpane. The hoodie you claimed for yourself from Will at the start of your relationship drowns you in its fabric, the cuffs frayed from his restless worrying and your attempted messy repairs at stitching them back together. The elbows are thin from wear. It smells like him still—

The door creaks.

A sliver of hallway light fractures the darkness, then vanishes as Will slips inside. He’s haloed in the dim glow of your alarm clock, shadows pooling beneath bloodshot eyes. His socked feet whisper across the floorboards until he kneels beside the bed, a supplicant at an altar.

“You once said…” His voice splinters, raw as the blisters on your heels. He tries again, softer. “‘We should’t go to bed if we’re angry at each other’ Even if it’s 2 AM. And you’re rightfully angry at me.”

You curl tighter, hoodie fabric muffling your reply. “You remembered that?”

A beat. His exhale unravels, frayed and uneven, as if the truth weighs more than his lungs can hold. “I remember everything.” The mattress groans as he leans closer, his knuckle catching a damp strand of hair from your cheek—the touch featherlight, like he’s handling glass. “How you take your coffee. Your weird fear of pigeons.” His thumb skims your jaw, lingering where your pulse thrums. "The way your smile lingered after our first kiss, like you were still tasting it when I walked you to your door." A ragged inhale. "I remember us. Every moment. Just...not the date on the calendar.”

Your breath hitches, betrayal and hope warring in your ribs. But then his palm cups your cheek, calluses catching on tear-salted skin, and you feel it—the tremor in his touch, the way his gaze maps your face like he’s memorising it anew. This is the man who once spent an hour untangling your necklace with a paperclip, who still flushes peony-pink when you mimic the way he murmurs your name between snores—lips parted, brow smooth, utterly, infuriatingly beautiful.

The fist around your lungs unclenches finger by finger—air flooding in, sweet and sharp as the first gasp after drowning.

He removes his hand from your face and unlocks his phone, the screen’s blue glare sharpening the hollows of his face, and hands it to you. A reservation confirmation glows: Il Girasole. Tomorrow, 7:00 PM. Table for two. “They’re holding the same corner booth. The duck’s still on the menu. And—” His throat bobs. “—I’ll eat every fucking breadstick this time. Even if they’re cold.”

A teary laugh escapes you, brittle but real. “Your memory’s awful.”

“But yours isn’t. I may be pants at dates, but I remember the proper things.” He swipes open his notes' app, revealing a list titled THINGS TO NEVER FORGET (OR ELSE) in all caps. And in bullet points:

Hates cilantro

Hates roses (cliché)

Hums when she cooks (buy a home speaker)

Secretly loves my terrible puns (look up more)

Saves fortune cookie slips (Saves it in a cute box, give her yours too)

Order at the dodgy kebab shop near the station: lamb, extra garlic sauce, no onions (but she’ll steal sone of mine anyway, so get a large)

Loves the centre of sandwiches (make sure to offer it to her before you finish it all)

Keeps the foil from chocolate bars (folds them into tiny stars when she’s stressed, found 17 in her coat pocket last winter)

Her ring size (6.25)

You sit up, moonlight catching the tear tracks on your face. “You made a list?” Your thumb keeps swiping, the entries endless—tiny, obsessive details you hadn’t even realised he’d noticed.

Your breath hitches. “How long…?”

“Since our first date.” He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “You told me you hated cilantro. I wrote it down so I’d never put it in your food. Then… it sort of grew.”

His phone screen flickers—a photo of you, mid-laugh at a pub, tucked between reminders: Buy more of her weird sour cherry tea and She bites her lip when concentrating (don’t distract her, no matter how cute it is).

"I updated it at the studio during the reshoot." His smile flickers, vulnerable at the edges. "James caught me and said I'm 'whipped.'" He huffs a laugh, thumb brushing your knuckles. "Told him he's just jealous because his girlfriend's never looked at him the way you look at me when I'm half-asleep and making coffee in my pants."

The tension unravels like a frayed knot, leaving only the quiet pulse of rain against glass. You reach for him, and he surges forward—foreheads colliding, noses brushing, his hands cradling your face like you’re something fragile. His thumbs sweep beneath your eyes, smudging tears into the salt-stained hollows of your cheeks.

“I’ll set alarms,” he rasps, lips skating your temple. His breath hitches, warm and uneven. “A thousand of them. Buy a calendar that takes up the whole fucking kitchen wall. Tattoo the date—”

“Don’t.” You press two fingers to his mouth, trembling.

He kisses them anyway, teeth grazing your knuckles. “—on my ribs,” he finishes, voice rough. “I’ll hire a skywriter. Carve it into every birthday cake we ever eat. Make our future kids recite it before—”

“Will.”

“—school. Every. Morning.” He’s grinning now, wild and desperate, eyes glittering in the dark. “I’ll be the embarrassing dad with anniversary-themed socks. The one who—”

You kiss him quiet. He tastes of mint toothpaste, of apologies swallowed too late. When you pull back, his smile has softened—not a promise, but a plea.

“Just,” you breathed in, “be here,” ending in a whisper.

His forehead drops to yours. “Always.”

You hook two fingers into the waist of his joggers—a gesture from your early days, when you’d drag him into dive bar bathrooms for reckless, laughing kisses. He follows without resistance, knees bumping the mattress as you fall back onto sheets still smelling of rain and your abandoned perfume.

He folds around you like a prayer, all trembling hands and murmured sorrys into your hair. His stubble scrapes your temple as he nuzzles closer, one arm banded tight around your ribs, the other cradling the nape of your neck—possessive, penitent.

“Still stealing my hoodies,” he rasps, thumb brushing the frayed cuff around your wrist.

“Still leaving them where I can find them,” you counter, voice muffled against his collarbone.

His laugh rumbles through you, warm and wounded. You map the familiar landscape of his face-the faint constellation of freckles on his cheekbone, the delicate lines that etch the corners of his eyes and his eyes—god, his eyes—blue flecked with moss-green, his iris fractured by a sliver of grey hold yours like a vow.

The rain softens to a hushed patter as Will shifts, his chest becoming a pillow beneath your cheek. You trace the hem of his shirt where it rides up, fingertips skating over the warm plane of his stomach. He shivers, not from cold, but from the featherlight drag of your nails.

“Still ticklish?” you murmur, pressing a smile into his collarbone.

He huffs a laugh, catching your wandering hand. “Still a menace.” But he laces his fingers through yours, bringing your knuckles to his lips. His breath ghosts over them—a silent apology, a promise—before he kisses each ridge of bone.

You lift your head, finding his gaze. Moonlight spills through the blinds, striping his face in silver. His eyes are raw, red-rimmed, but soft as he tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “Your roots are growing in,” he whispers, thumb brushing the faint line at your temple. “Like autumn creeping into summer.”

Your breath hitches. He notices. He always notices.

“I was going to dye it tomorrow,” you admit, voice still thick from tears.

“Don’t.” His palm cradles your jaw, calluses catching on salt-dried skin. “I want to watch the seasons change.”

You swallow, throat tight. He leans in, so close his lashes brush your cheek, and for a heartbeat, you think he’ll kiss you. Instead, he noses along your hairline, inhaling deeply.

“Vanilla,” he murmurs, lips grazing your earlobe. “And that shampoo you pretend to hate.”

You snort, swatting his shoulder. “It dries my scalp.”

“Liar. You keep buying it.” His smile curves against your neck. “Just like you ‘hate’ my puns, but laughed at the one about the scared pasta.”

“It was shell-shocked.” You groan, even as laughter bubbles up, bright and healing. “That’s not even a pun, it’s a crime—”

His lips meet yours not as an ending, but a beginning—slow, syrup-sweet, a confession pressed into flesh. The first brush is tentative, a question mark curved against your mouth. His thumb finds the frantic pulse at your wrist, a callused pad circling gently, as if polishing a relic. I’m here, it whispers. I’m not leaving.

You sigh into him, and the kiss deepens—no longer an apology, but a promise. His free hand cradles the nape of your neck, fingers threading through damp hair still chilled from the storm. His touch is summer-warm, grounding you as he tilts your head, lips parting yours with a reverence that makes your ribs ache. There’s a hitch in his breath when your teeth graze his bottom lip, a stuttered oh swallowed by your mouth as he pulls you closer. When you whimper, he gentles, tongue sweeping soft as a paintbrush over the seam of your lips. Let me in, it pleads. Let me fix this.

You open, and he moans low in his throat—a sound that vibrates through your sternum. His hands skate down your spine, bunching the stolen hoodie at your waist, kneading the tender hollows above your hips. You arch into him, fingers fisting in his shirt as he nips your jaw, then soothes the sting with a flick of his tongue.

His lips linger against yours, breath mingling in the scant centimetres between you. When he finally pulls back, it’s just far enough to let his thumb brush the fringe of your lashes. His own eyes are glassy, the joke hovering on his tongue not yet ready to land—not until he’s sure you’re both still here, still real.

You feel it—the tremor in his hands where they cradle your face, the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath your palm. He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing against your knuckles, before managing a shaky grin.

“Still got it,” he whispers, voice frayed at the edges. His attempt at levity cracks mid-syllable, revealing the raw fear beneath—the terror that this might’ve broken you.

You huff a damp laugh into the hollow of his throat. “Got what?”

He nuzzles your temple, stubble catching on tender skin. “The magic touch.” A pause. His nose traces your temple, breath warm and uneven. “Made you laugh, didn’t I?”

It’s not the joke that undoes you, but the desperation in it—the way his arms tighten around your ribs like he’s clinging to driftwood. You press closer, lips brushing the frantic thrum at his jugular.

“Terrible puns aren’t a ‘magic touch,’” you mutter, teeth grazing his collarbone in reprimand.

He shivers, fingers skating up your spine. “Admit it.” His palm splays between your shoulder blades, pressing you flush against him until there’s no space for doubt, for anger, for anything but his next whispered plea: “You married a comedic genius.”

“We’re not married.”

“Yet.”

The word hangs, delicate as the cobwebs glinting in the window’s moonlit corners. Your heartbeat thrums against his, syncing as his hands slide beneath the stolen hoodie, palms searing trails up your spine.

“Will—”

“Not asking,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “Just… storing the idea. Somewhere between your sandwich centres and chocolate foil stars.”

You fist your hands in his shirt, anchoring yourself as he shifts, rolling until you’re cocooned beneath him. His weight is a comfort, familiar as your own breath.

“Talk to me,” he whispers. “The quiet version. The one you only show at 3 AM.”

So you do—lips brushing his throat as you confess the ache of waiting, the terror of feeling forgotten. He listens, fingers combing through your hair, until your whispers dissolve into yawns.

“Sleep,” he murmurs, tugging the duvet over your tangled legs. “I’ll be here when you wake, I promise. Even if morning you is a sight.”

You snort, but curl closer, nose buried in the hollow of his throat. His heartbeat drums a lullaby against your lips—steady, alive, yours.

I hope this was okay! It took longer than expected, so sorry about that! And I hope you don't mind that I made it a female reader. Also, I'm thinking of possibly making a part two where they go on the date that Will booked...thoughts?

#willne #willne x fem!reader #will lenney #will lenney x fem!reader #willne oneshot #willne angst + fluff

326 notes · View notes