#will lenney x fem!reader

[octaneink]

Pancakes

Will Lenney x Reader

Summary: A look into one morning of the Lenney family Warnings: None! Notes: I watched a PewDiePie video and Björn gave me baby fever that inspired this...

The morning light filtered through the thin curtains, pooling in molten gold across the dishevelled duvet. It caught on the faint sheen of dust suspended in the air, turning each mote into a tiny, glittering star. Your foot, pale and cool, had escaped the warmth of the covers, resting just where the sunlight spilled onto the bed. Will’s legs were still entwined with yours, his skin radiating the kind of heat that only came from deep sleep.

His arm, heavy and unyielding, draped across your waist, fingers resting lightly against the curve of your hip. Even in sleep, his touch was deliberate, as though some part of him remained vigilant, unwilling to let you slip away. It was a gesture that had become as familiar as the rhythm of your own breathing, a quiet reassurance that had lingered since those early days when everything between you felt fragile and new.

You turned your head slightly, studying him. The sunlight caught the rough texture of his stubble, turning it into a patchwork of gold and shadow. His chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of sleep, the faintest flicker of movement beneath his eyelids hinting at some dream playing out in the quiet of his mind. For a moment, the world felt suspended, held in the delicate balance of this stillness.

Then, the door exploded open with a crash that made the walls shudder.

“Mummy! Daddy! Look at me!”

Oliver stood silhouetted in the doorway, pyjama pants sagging over mismatched dinosaur socks, arms triumphantly raised above his head. The plastic stegosaurus clenched in his fist still dripped bathwater from last night’s “ocean expedition.” His grin was wide enough to split his face in two, eyes sparkling with the kind of uncontainable energy that only a five-year-old could muster at this hour.

Before either of you could react, he launched himself onto the bed with the force of a cannonball. The mattress groaned in protest, and Will’s arm tightened reflexively around your waist as the impact jolted him awake.

“Christ, Ol—” Will’s voice was thick with sleep, half groan, half laugh. “Since when d’you turn into a bloody wrecking ball?”

Oliver was already scrambling, his giggles bubbling up like a spring as he tried to clamber over Will’s chest. Will caught him mid-motion, his large hands engulfing Oliver’s tiny frame, and pulled him into a headlock. Oliver shrieked with laughter, his curls bouncing wildly as he squirmed, his dinosaur still clutched tightly in one fist. Will’s laughter rumbled deep in his chest, a sound that seemed to vibrate through the bed and into your bones. His eyes crinkled at the corners, the lines there deepening in a way that made your heart twist.

You pushed yourself up on your elbows, watching them. Will’s hands, calloused and scarred from years of work, moved with a surprising gentleness as he tickled Oliver’s sides. There was a precision to his touch, a carefulness that belied his size and strength. Oliver’s laughter filled the room, high-pitched and unrestrained, bouncing off the walls and mingling with Will’s deeper, richer tones. The framed photo on the nightstand wobbled precariously, its glass still smudged with the faint outline of peanut butter fingerprints from yesterday’s snack-time chaos. It was a picture of Will holding Oliver for the first time, his face a mixture of awe and terror, as though he’d been handed something both precious and fragile.

You didn’t say anything, just let the moment settle over you like a blanket. The sunlight, the laughter, the way Oliver’s tiny hands flailed as he tried to escape Will’s grasp—it all felt like something you wanted to hold onto, to tuck away in a corner of your mind where it could never fade. Will’s laughter softened, his grip on Oliver loosening as the boy finally wriggled free, collapsing in a heap of giggles between the two of you. His curls were a wild halo against the pillow, his cheeks flushed pink with exertion.

The word burst out of Oliver like a firework, his voice still thick with sleep but already brimming with the kind of enthusiasm only a child could muster at the crack of dawn. “Pancakes!” He gasped between giggles, his breath warm and faintly sour, the way it was always in the mornings. “The chocolate ones, with the—the sprinkles!” His hands flailed as if trying to physically shape the idea, his dinosaur forgotten on the bed.

Will groaned, running a hand over his face, the stubble rasping against his palm. “Sprinkles, eh?” he muttered, his voice gravelly with sleep. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the sheets pooling around his waist and revealing the faded tattoo curling along his ribs—Mum’s lasagna recipe in looping, slightly smudged script, a relic of his eighteenth birthday and a pub crawl that had ended with more regrets than he cared to admit. “Thought you were a ‘big boy who only eats broccoli’ now?”

Oliver’s face scrunched up, his nose wrinkling in a way that was so eerily reminiscent of Will’s thinking face it almost made you laugh. “Broccoli’s… sneaky,” he declared after a moment, his tone solemn, as though he were imparting some great wisdom. “Hides in pancakes.”

Will stood, stretching until his joints popped, and Oliver immediately latched onto his hand, tugging him toward the door. “C’mon, Daddy, before Mummy eats all the chocolate!” he insisted, his voice rising in pitch with every word. Will shot you a look over his shoulder, half-exasperated, half-amused, as he let Oliver drag him out of the room.

You followed, your bare feet padding softly against the wooden floor. The hallway was bathed in the pale gold of morning light, the walls lined with more of Oliver’s artwork—stick-figure families, unrecognisable animals, and the occasional abstract splatter of colour that he insisted was a “dinosaur storm.” The kitchen door swung open with a creak, revealing a space that was equal parts chaos and charm. The lingering scent of burnt toast mingled with the sharp tang of lemon-scented detergent from last night’s hasty clean-up.

Will nudged the fridge door open with his elbow, the hinges creaking softly in protest. Inside, the shelves were a chaotic mosaic of half-empty condiment bottles, Tupperware containers with mismatched lids, and a single wilting head of broccoli that Oliver had sworn he’d eat “tomorrow.” On the door, a collection of Oliver’s crayon masterpieces was taped haphazardly—lopsided rainbows, vaguely recognisable sea creatures, and characters from his favourite books, their colours bleeding into one another where he’d pressed too hard with the crayons. The fridge itself was a patchwork of magnets, receipts, and a shopping list that had somehow turned into a doodle of a dragon wearing a top hat.

Will reached for the egg carton with two fingers, his movements careless but practiced. The bottle of maple syrup behind it wobbled precariously, threatening to topple, and he caught it with a muttered curse before it could hit the floor. “Right,” he said, setting the eggs on the counter and turning to Oliver, who was already bouncing on his toes. “Your mum thinks she’s clever volunteering me, yeah?” He shot you a mock glare over his shoulder, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “But you—” He pointed a finger at Oliver, who was perched on his designated “helping stool,” a splintered IKEA step salvaged from the garage and repurposed with more optimism than sense. “—You’re my secret weapon. Grab the chocolate chips before she notices.”

Oliver’s eyes lit up, his grin stretching wide enough to show the gap where his front tooth had been stubbornly loose for weeks. He scrambled down from the stool with the kind of uncoordinated enthusiasm only a five-year-old could muster, his mismatched socks slipping slightly on the linoleum as he hit the ground. He shot toward the cupboards like a comet, his curls bouncing with every step. The door squeaked as he yanked it open, and for a moment, all you could hear was the rustle of bags and the occasional clatter of something being pushed aside.

He emerged triumphant, clutching the bag of chocolate chips in both hands like it was the crown jewels. “Got it!” he announced, his voice ringing with pride. He clambered back onto the stool, the wood creaking under his weight, and set the bag on the counter with exaggerated care. Will leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching with a smirk that hovered somewhere between amusement and mild concern.

Oliver’s small fingers fumbled with the top of the bag, his tongue poking out in concentration. For a moment, it seemed like he might actually manage to open it without incident. Then, with a sharp tug, the bag tore open far more than intended, sending a cascade of chocolate chips spilling across the counter and onto the floor. They bounced and skittered in every direction, a few rolling under the fridge and one landing inexplicably in the sink.

“Oops,” Oliver said, his voice small but tinged with the faintest hint of mischief. He looked up at you and Will, his grin sheepish but still firmly in place.

“Bloody hell—” Will started, but you cut him off with a sharp look.

“Language,” you singsonged, stepping forward to hip-bump him out of the way. You crouched down, sweeping the scattered chocolate chips into your palm with a practiced efficiency. Oliver watched, his chocolate-smeared grin faltering slightly as you straightened up and raised an eyebrow at him. “Well?” you asked, your tone light but firm. “What do we say when we make a mess?”

Oliver rocked sideways, his small hands gripping the edge of the counter for balance. His face scrunched up in thought, his nose wrinkling in that way that always made your heart soften. “Uh….” He drew the word out, dragging it into a long, uncertain hum. “...Thank you?”

Will’s snort of laughter turned into a cough as he tried to stifle it, his shoulders shaking with the effort. You shot him a look, but the corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself. Without breaking eye contact, you plucked a chocolate chip from the pile in your hand and lobbed it at his head. He ducked, but not fast enough—it bounced off his temple, and he grinned, unrepentant. Oliver giggled, the sound high and bright, and you couldn’t help but join in.

“Alright, sous-chefs,” you said, brushing your hands off on your pyjama pants. “Let’s get this batter made before someone loses an eye.” You handed Oliver the whisk, his small fingers gripping it like a sword, and guided him to the mixing bowl. Will leaned against the counter, watching with an amused smirk as you measured out the flour, your movements quick and practiced. Oliver stood on his stool, his tongue poking out in concentration as he stirred, his curls bouncing with every exaggerated motion.

“Faster, Ol,” Will teased, his voice low and warm. “You’re not mixing cement.”

Oliver scowled, his little face scrunching up in mock seriousness. “I’m doing it properly,” he insisted, though his whisking slowed to a more manageable pace. You added the milk in a slow stream, guiding his hand to keep the batter smooth. Will reached over to toss in a handful of chocolate chips, his fingers brushing yours briefly, and you caught the faintest hint of a smile before he turned away to preheat the frying pan.

When the batter was ready, you stepped back, letting Will take over. He tied an apron around his waist with exaggerated flair, the fabric straining slightly across his broad shoulders. “Stand back, amateurs,” he declared, flipping the spatula in his hand like a seasoned chef. “This is where the magic happens.”

Oliver perched on his stool, his eyes wide as Will poured the first ladle of batter into the pan. The butter sizzled, filling the kitchen with the rich, golden smell of pancakes. Oliver launched into a dramatic retelling of his dream, complete with arm-flapping reenactments that nearly knocked over the milk jug. “And then the T-Rex ate the swing set,” he exclaimed, his voice rising with every word, “but I said NO, that’s Mummy’s coffee place!”

Will’s spatula flicked upward, sending a pancake soaring. Oliver shrieked as it somersaulted through the air—

—and stuck to the ceiling. 

A dollop of batter plopped onto the stove.

“Well.” Will scratched the back of his neck, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. “Five-second rule?”

“Daddy.” Oliver’s scandalised whisper dissolved into hiccuping giggles as Will hoisted him up, both of them craning to poke at the dangling pancake with a wooden spoon. You pressed your lips together, your shoulders trembling, until Will’s faux-innocent “What? It’s elevated cuisine” broke the dam. Your laughter tangled with theirs, loud and unguarded, the kind that left your ribs aching.

What do we think? I didn't really know how to end this... I had this planned to be posted after the angst, just as a little sorry. Took longer than expected!

[lvrslvt3]

SNOWY ESCAPE | w.lenney

main masterlist | yt masterlist | will masterlist

౨ৎ will lenney x fem!reader

౨ৎ summary : reader is stuck sharing a room with her crush; willne.

౨ৎ warnings : none

౨ৎ notes : i need more will content, might do a part 2? Idk i need requests

"you know me, i never turn down a free holiday." you shrugged with a smile, the few people out of the group who were listening to you rolling there eyes. you had been recruited last minute on a skiing holiday that freezy had to pull out of because he was unwell. so even though you had no interest in it you were now here.

"cheapskate." arthur piped up and you shot him a feigned look of annoyance,"i thought you'd be happier seeing as you're sharing a room with your little boyfriend."

you gasped, slapping his arm repeatedly as he tried to push you off. you told him to apologise, and shut up, to which he finally did after recovering from his laughter. since you had took freezy's place you were now sharing a room with your long term crush — willne.

you had met him from your mutual friend, arthur tv, after he introduced you to the rest of the youtube group. you had instantly clicked. everyone else knew you had a crush but you hadn't made any moves on him, way too nervous.

"will you two stop being kids?" will called out as you finally left arthur, turning to face him quickly with as much composure as you could. "come on, let's put our stuff away before we get out."

you nodded and rushed after him, blushing as he took your suitcase with him aswell. you glanced back at your friends, giving them a nervous smile as chip and arthur gave you a thumbs up - hoping to up your confidence.

"our room is quite small," he stated as you walked up the stairs and down the hallway. the group had rented a massive cabin, it was filled with character and was the perfect getaway. "but we have a hot tub, so we win."

"wow, you're so lucky to be hot tubbing with freezy every night." you joked, to which he looked back with a cheeky smile, "i'll have you know, he would be the lucky one."

you laughed, already rosy cheeked as you finally got to the room at the very end of the hall. there was a large king sized bed in the centre of the room - which makes sense why the two men would be fine sharing it as it could fit about double of them.

"wow." you muttered as you studied the wooden accents, the paintings hung up and finally the doors which led to a small patio. there was string lights hung up on the canopy ceiling, the small balcony surrounded with a slightly dated, wooden railing with a large hot tub in the centre.

"you're gonna have to drag me out this room, fuck skiing." will decided after you two had raided the room, finding some chocolates, a bottle of champagne and some sweets that had been left for you to enjoy.

"I say we just lock ourselves in." you jokingly suggested after closing the door to the small en-suite. "go on then." will replied from his spot on the bed, relaxing into the thick quilt. you flushed red, wishing it was serious, and let out a chuckle.

after going out in the snow and having a few drinks at the bar the group has finally called it quits and headed to there rooms. you immediately stood at the window to look out at the hot tub, hands on your hips.

"what you thinking about?" will asked while coming to stand beside you. you glanced up at him, giving him a small smile while taking in his appearance. his hair was dishilived from wearing a beanie all day, and his cheekbones was tinted red with the cold from outside.

"i was thinking about warming up the hot tub and having some champagne," you answered while glancing back at the mountains as you gathered all the guts you had, "care to join?"

will threw his head back, lips pouting out slightly before looking down at you with a cheesy grin. "oh, may aswell." he rubbed his hands, and you cheered as you moved to your suitcase to find a swimsuit.

by the time you had settled on one and changed, will had heated up the hot tub and changed into some black swimming trunks. you came out only a few minutes later, snacks in your hands since he had already gotten the champagne and glasses.

"you brought a speaker?" you raised a brow at the faint, quiet music playing in the background. you were impressed by his playlist, only making him more attractive. you smiled at the sheepish expression, climbing into the hot tub after sitting ur snacks on the ledge.

will handed you a glass and popped open the champagne, pouring each of you a glass and settling the bottle out the way. "cheers to getting the best room." he announced whilst offering out his glass.

"cheers." you clinked yours against his, falling into a easy going conversation while you settled into the warm bubbles surrounding you, glancing from will to the beautiful snowy mountains you were facing. eventually, after sneaking downstairs to get another bottle of alcohol, you two had settled into a comfortable silence.

"will." you hummed, your head tilting over to him. he was already looking at you, letting out a small hum to let you know he was listening. "promise me you'll never shave your mullet."

the randomness of the sentence made him let out a warm, deep chuckle. his eyes closed and you stared at his smile lines, the sight of him so happy making you lighten up.

"right, okay. i'll keep it just for you, darlin'" he moved his arm from the back of the hot tub to your shoulder, patting it before only moving it back halfway so you could still feel the heat of his touch.

you leaned your head back and closed your eyes. you thought of the debrief you'd be having with your friends tomorow, and you almost wanted to kick your feet that you were in such a man's presence.

"we better get inside before we shrivel up into raisins." will commented as he finished the last few chocolates, beginning to climb out. he offered you a hand, which you took so you could climb out safely. "on you go, i'll clean up."

"you sure? i really don't mind."

"don't be silly." will waved you off, so you wrapped a towel around you and entered back into the room. somehow, in the heat of the hot tub, you hadn't realised how chilly it had gotten.

the rooms only source of heat was a fireplace that was slowly flickering away. you put some more wood into it, before going for a shower as quickly as you could and then changing into something comfortable.

by the time you had came out will had tidied and was now patiently waiting while scrolling through his phone. "all done." you commented while drying your hair with the towel.

"don't you have more layers?" he questioned while glancing up and down your frame, only wearing fluffy shorts and a vest top. you shook your head, "i can only sleep in shorts, and i only have enough hoodies for during the day. that's what happens when you learn about a holiday the day before i guess."

you moved to the round mirror, continuing to try and dry your hair before bed. suddenly, will appeared by your side and placed down a hoodie on the set of drawers infront of you. "i have plently spare, don't be afraid to ask."

before you could respond he slipped into the bathroom, leaving you to freak out in silence as you slipped it on and pinched yourself — life seeming way to good to be true.

"you're hair better be dry before you come into this bed." you commented as you pretended your full attention was on your book and not will who was putting away his things. he had changed into loose sweatshorts and a jumper.

"i'm not a freak," he responded while climbing into bed beside you, "i am completely dry, promise." he stayed awake for an extra half hour before finally turning off his phone, his lamp and bidding you a goodnight.

you finished most of your book before copying him, beginning to feel the chill as you stared into the room that was now in complete darkness. you could hear movements from somewhere in the house, and even though you knew it would be one of your friends it still unsettled you.

because of this you tossed and turned constantly, feeling safe with will there but also knowing the cabin you were in was fairly remote and the signal was terrible - meaning you couldn’t easily call for help.

“are you okay?” a dark, rough voice caused you to jump, spinning around to face a sleepy will. he was propped up on his elbow while the other hand rubbed at his eyes.

“shit, sorry.” you mumbled, “just a little on edge. guess it’s not smart reading a horror book when you’re in the prime place for a murderer to get you.”

“guess not.” will replied, laying back down before extending an arm out. “cmon,” he gestured with his hand, beckoning you over. you didn’t protest and instead immediately settled yourself in his arm, the warmth of his body calming your nerves. “i’ll protect ya from the killers, darlin’.”

“what you gonna do, tell them a joke?” that earned you a scoff, but one that he did with a smile on his face. “goodnight.” he tightened his grip for a second before loosening up, letting you lay comfortable as he closed his eyes.

“goodnight.” you muttered through a grin, blissfully closing your eyes. for the rest of the night you dreamed of will - not murderers.

“stop putting your cold feet on me.”

“stop snoring and i will.” you muttered back, staying close but trying to get comfortable. you liked to curl up while he spread out - which was difficult since you were in one of his arms facing his body. “and my feet are only cold cause you keep pulling the covers your way, sheet hogger.”

will groaned, his voice more attractive because of how tired he was. you were tempted to keep him up just so you could hear it. “turn over.”

“what?” you moved from his chest to look at him directly, raising your brows at the slightly suspicious request. his hair was dishelved from sleep, but the sight only made you like him more.

he twirled his finger around, and you rolled your eyes but followed his order. “okay, diva.” you muttered as you immediately began to miss your proximity.

however, will quickly came from behind you. he made sure you both were in the middle of the covers before spooning you. an arm slid under the pillow underneath your head and the other draped over your waist. this position felt a lot more intimate, your whole body melting into his.

“is this okay?” he asked in a hesitant tone. shivers ran down your spine as you felt his breath in your ear. “of course, this is perfect.” you spoke without thinking.

he let out a light chuckle before tightening his grip on you, an unspoken change happening between the two of you as the pair of you fell asleep - as content as you could be.

[w2soneshots]

PLEASE do some fluffy relationship fic with willne, im begging xx

For us -Willne

words: 0.8k+

warnings: a tiny bit of angst, unplanned pregnancy, talk of exhaustion, but mostly comfort/fluff!

summary: when Will comes home, once again, extremely tired after a long day filming you talk to him about it and give him some unexpected news.

notes: hello love! Since I wasn’t sure what to write I asked for some ideas (thanks you if you sent one in!🤍) and I combined a few for this. Enjoy!!🧸✨

You sat on the sofa of your and Will's apartment, pregnancy test tucked under your thigh as you waited for him to return home. You were extremely nervous yet so excited and you knew he'd be happy so you weren't really worried about that, though the news had come as a complete shock.

When you heard the keys being turned in the door your heart skipped a beat. Your boyfriend walked through the door though the state of him made you frown. His shoulders were turned inward with heavy bags under his eyes, exhaustion was evident.

"Babe?" You asked as you stood, not before slipping the test under a pillow. "Hmm?" He hummed back. He practically collapsed into your arms when you reached him.

Your eyes widened and you froze for a second before snapping into action and leading him to the couch. "Sit," you told him firmly.

He slumped down, barely able to keep his eyes open. "William Lenney..." "Oh brilliant, full name?" He sighed. "You're a mess. I told you not to overwork yourself." You weren't lecturing him, just a concerned girlfriend... and, unbeknownst to him, mother of his child.

"I'm fine-" "no," you cut him off, "don't, because you're not. You haven't had a break in weeks. I get that you want to get ahead on videos but if that means you come home to me every night looking like this- it isn't healthy babe."

He sighed deeply, opening his eyes and sitting up to look at you properly. "I know," he finally admitted. You nodded softly.

"I need you to be on top form. You know why?" You said quietly. His head cocked to the side slightly. "You're gonna be a dad Will," you told him with a soft smile.

"I- you- what?" He stumbled on his words, dumbfounded and suddenly now more sprightly. You reached under the pillow and held the test out for him to see. "I'm pregnant," you confirmed, eyes welling. "Oh... my-" suddenly he flung his arms around you, incasing you in a strong, bone crushing hug.

You giggled as he held you. After taking a moment to process, that he as going to be a whole father, he pulled back to look at you. "Fucking hell," he breathed out, "we're going to be parents... us?"

You nodded slowly, glancing at your lap and then back up to his face. "I know. I'm a little scared, but honestly... I think you'll be an amazing dad and so I'm glad that this happened."

He leaned in and kissed you. The kiss was soft and full of love. "I'm so happy y/n. You're the only person I'd ever want to do this with. I'm going to ease off on the videos- and before you say anything this is what I know I need to do, not just for you and our baby, but for me. I love you so much sweetheart," he whispered against your lips.

You smiled, kissed him and then subconsciously moved your hand down to rest on your, still flat, stomach. His eyes caught the gesture and placed his hand on top of yours. "I can't wait," he said under his breath.

Four months later...

"Will! You need to leave like- now!" You shouted up the stairs of your new home. "Coming! Coming!" He echoed before his footsteps could be heard as he rushed down the hallway.

When he reached you he pressed a quick kiss to your temple then leaned down and did the same on your baby bump, now six months along and growing perfectly. "I love you. Call me if you need anything, bye darlin'!" He called as he quickly rushed out the door, on his way to his first long shoot in a while.

You smiled as you watched him leave. Since the night he found out about your impending arrival he calmed down on the amount of videos he was making and just genuinely started to enjoy life again.

When you found out you were having a girl he was ecstatic. He'd always pegged himself as being a girl dad and so it just felt completely... right.

You made yourself some lunch, sat on the sofa and turned on your favourite program. After eating you lay down on your side, the movement causing your little girl to repeatedly kick you. "Okay... hmf- sorry," you whispered softly to your stomach, a smile playing on your lips.

Hours later, when Will was home, showered and tucked next to you in bed, you both relaxed. "So... how was it?" You asked him as you got comfortable with your head resting on his chest.

His hand made its way down to your stomach, something he's done a lot recently, since she started kicking. "It was nice, felt like I could actually enjoy it, you know?" He replied quietly.

You sighed tiredly. "Good," you yawned out, "I'm glad you've changed your perspective on it babe. Obviously it is your job but it doesn't have to feel like a chore." He nodded. "Exactly... good night darling."

There was silence for a moment before the baby kicked his hand. You both chuckled, then he spoke, "good night to you too love."

[clarkeysbedchem]

whatever happens, i’m letting it | part two

previous part | next part

will lenney x fem reader

summary: will falls for chris’ new assistant

masterlist | main masterlist | wattpad

Months had passed since the first time you had bumped into Will in the office building, and it also happened to be the only time you had bumped into the Geordie man, it plagued your mind everyday.

It wasn’t hard to notice how every time you’d be in the office, he would turn the other way and how every time you were working on a shoot he was featured in, he would actively ignore you.

You let him be though, assuming that perhaps he just didn’t want to make friends and you couldn’t blame him after all you were just an assistant.

But the awkwardness just got harder and harder to deal with especially when others started to pick up on it too.

Chris was the first to notice it.

“Will was weirdly quiet today.” He stated as he helped you pack up the equipment from the shoot, “Did you notice?”

You shook your head with a hum, “No, seemed normal to me.”

“Right,” Chris eyed you suspiciously, “you two don’t talk much on shoots and stuff?”

“is that a question or an observation?” you retorted.

“Both.”

“I don’t know Chris,” you shrugged, “I just don’t think Will likes me all that much.”

Chris shook his head doubtfully standing up straight with his arms crossed over his chest, “I can’t imagine that being true.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, “I don’t really know what you want me to say, I spoke to him once and he has avoided me since.”

A look of realisation dawned over Chris as he took in your words, “Huh…”

“What?”

“Nothing,” He shook his head pulling out his phone, “you okay to finish packing up? Laura will help, I just gotta do something.”

“Yeah course.”

The next people to notice was Arthur.

You were out celebrating Chris’ birthday, you were stood with Arthur, George, Will and Bach and Liv.

The group of you watched in amusement as the birthday boy shamlessly flirted with a brunette at the bar.

You and George were stood closer to each other than the rest of the group, that was mainly your doing due to the blur the alcohol had caused in your vision. George held you up gently with his hand on your upper arm, his thumb tracing circles softly.

Will stood beside Arthur watching you and George with a bitter look as you giggle leaning into his side making Will scoff and Arthur turned in confession, “What?”

Will hummed looking at his friend, “huh?”

“Did I say something?”

Will shook his head with a forced laughed before his eyes subconsciously flickered back to you and George, who were practically all over each other at this point.

Though Arthur didn’t have good social cues, he always picked up on body language and Will was furious at the lack of distance between you and George.

“Ah.” He muttered with a smirk before backing off to go join Bach and Liv, who were at the bar.

@ooostarwarsfandom501st @rkaya @fatneek444

[lenneygirl4ever]

PREVIEW

a sneak peak at part one of THE ALCHEMY

pairing: will lenney x fem!reader

warnings & tags: friends to lovers. slowish burn. idiots with tension. also idiots in denial. lots of nerdy football talk + a side of willne.

summary: The two times you were recruited to play in the Sidemen charity match, and the one time you score.

a/n: hello!!! here’s a brief view of a two/three (?) part series i have in the works. it’s not perfect, but i’m much too excited to wait to publish the whole thing. please enjoy <3

…⚽️

The buzz that interrupted your sleep wasn’t what concerned you, it’s the fact that after you had hung up the first and second time, there was a third call. Begrudgingly, you toss your sheets aside and sit up eyeing the phone on the bedside table. To no surprise, it was Simon.

You were no stranger when it came to working with the Sidemen. Starting off as a crew member who was good with a camera, slowly you were incorporated into videos, and eventually had the confidence to create your own platform. After leaving the Sidemen to focus on building your solo career, most of your audience didn't know where you gained your footing, becoming a bigger public figure outside of their work.

Getting a phone call from Simon wasn't uncommon, needless to say. You were always ready to film, to bring in new ideas for them, to be on set. After all, you had been friends with the lads for years.

"Hello?" you croak, trying to smooth down the hair that was knotted in the back of your head.

"Y/n! How are you, mate?" Simon's voice was overly chipper and sweet, too sweet. You eye your phone for a moment before pressing it back up to your ear. It was too early in the morning for either of you to be awake.

"Christ, Simon, I know you aren't just calling me at seven in the morning to ask how I am," you replied. Simon sighs briefly before letting out an airy chuckle.

"Alright, I need to ask you for a favor." That's what you were expecting. His voice hesitant and low, it made you wonder what this could really be about.

"Okay, go on then," you yawn. You weren't sure why Simon was being so ominous; you had done the lad loads of favors in the past. Bringing in extra camera crew, reaching out to other influencers, helping plan out events-

"Would you sub in for Andres for the charity match next week? I know it's last minute, but he had other conflicts, and you're one of my best mates. You-" Simon rambles before you swiftly interject.

"Simon, what are you waffling on about? You can't be serious," you say seriously. The grogginess from waking up immediately disappears, and you begin to regret picking up the phone.

"I know it's mad, but we've tossed around a ball quite a bit before-"

"I haven't seriously played footy since I was in high school! I can't imagine the shit I'd get if I were to even step foot into that stadium."

"I know-"

"And I'm the only girl! That's like a misogynist's nightmare, a woman who can think and compete!" Getting on your feet, you pace around your room like a madman. Your free hand finds its way into your hair, coarsing through it multiple times, stressfully.

"Would you let me finish? Then you can decide if it's bollocks or not," Simon asked finally. You heave out a breath of air and then hum in response. The least you could do is give him time to try to convince you.

"Look, it's the first time a lot of them have played football, and some of them play like it's the first time. It's really about having a good time, " he explains, which admittedly puts some of your worries at ease- and gets a small laugh out of you.

"Also.." he says hesitantly, hitching his breath as he trails off. You roll your eyes and groan. Of course, there's more to it; there always is. You sit back onto the edge of the bed, foot impatiently tapping on the wood floor.

"I may have called Will, and he may have told me to ask you; he promised me that with enough begging.. you'd say yes," he says, almost like a question. There's a small hint of teasing when he says it, and you can practically see the prat smiling through the screen.

Your end of the call goes silent. A flush starting at the tips of your ears and growing at the bulbs of your cheeks.

..

In 2018, the day before the charity match, you met Will in person for the first time. You knew of him through brief passing and mentions of him from Cal and the other Sidemen. Yet you never spoke to him until you were messing around with your camera during practice, getting ready to film the match the next day.

"This is who I was telling you about, Will," Cal smiles, grabbing your attention from the camera. You peer over your shoulder to see a younger lad with dark hair standing beside him. You politely set the camera down on the bench and extend your hand out to him.

"Hi, I'm y/n, I've heard good things about you!" you smile, and he leans down, weakly taking your hand and shaking it.

"Hello," he responds, his once loud chatter with Cal made you assume he'd be much more talkative. But now he is quiet and fidgety, and it makes you wonder if you've already made a bad first impression.

"Y/n is our best camerawomen. I ought to get you familiar with her; maybe you can get some good screen time." Cal smirked. Will shoves him lightly with a chuckle.

"I'm not all bad, I reckon," he insists, and you put your hands up defensively.

"Hey, we'll just have to see on the field, won't we?" you express, grabbing the large equipment and getting ready to move it inside. You stand up, getting a better look at his face. He's tall, his hair short and freshly cut, his jawline is carved out sharply, making it hard to go unnoticed.

"Cheeky," Will commented, crossing his arms over each other. And unknowingly, a grin had worked its way onto your face, your tongue pressing against the inside of your cheek. You shrug,

"I gotta get going, it was nice meeting you Will,"

..

Since then, you and Will have kept in contact frequently. He interacted with you on social media, had you come to feature in his videos, and texted you almost every day. Seeing one another once every few months had become every weekend when you moved closer to London. And you can bet that this didn't go unnoticed by anyone. Sharing clothes, traveling together, posting each other, seeing each other more than your own family— you can only assume why everyone has their presumptions.

Yet, you were great at denying, avoiding, and more importantly ignoring these blistering questions on if they or won’t they.

"So.. you called Will first, before calling me?" you ask slowly, processing it yourself. The pads of your fingers rub against your temple, then smoothing your palm across your cheek hoping it would brush away the pink that dusted your face.

"Yeah," Simon says quickly. "Is it more convincing now? "

"Fuck off,"

"I know it is," he insists. You mutter profanities under your breath before letting it go silent.

Because it is much more convincing knowing that Will had that kind of faith and trust in you. It's more convincing knowing the person closest to you would be right by your side. You weigh out the options in your head. If you do play, you'll get to say you played in front of 30,000 people, raised money for charity, and more importantly, were able to help out some of your closest friends.

"Simon, I don't know.." You mutter hesitantly, biting the nail on your thumb. Sure, you had played footy competitively in high school and tossed a ball around here and there with the lads, but other than that, you hadn't really played in a few years now.

"C'mon, you don't have to be any good, it's for charity y/n! You have to! There will be loads of fans happy that you're playing!" Simon coaxed. You shake your head instantly, knowing that half the boys lived and breathed football.

“You can’t say I don’t have to be any good when you’re probably one of the best players out there.” Countering his argument, you can tell you're at the breaking point. He's cracked you down efficiently, being nice, complimenting you, bringing Will into it- It's working so well you almost hate him for it.

“I’ve exhausted my options, y/n, please, this one time, and I’ll never ask again.” Simon protests. You huff, exasperated, and without letting another beat pass,

"Alright,"

"Alright?" he repeats, the surprise evident in his tone. You gnaw at your bottom lip, and squeezed your eyes shut before speaking again.

"Yeah, okay, put me in." You decide finally. You can hear movement on the other end and a few other voices shout in delight. Of course, he couldn't be alone when he made the phone call.

"Oh my god, this will be legendary, thank you, thank you, thank you," Simon begins excitedly, which brings a smile to your face. Simon, even though he always was teetering on the edge of your limit, was charming and kind and that's what makes it hard to deny him.

"You're playing center, by the way. See you in a week mate!" and the phone call clicks. There, you're left to stare at your phone screen, watching as you get added to a group chat and texts start to roll in.

One week, seven days, to magically get good at football again. Right, well, it’s much too late to turn back now.

"Cheers," muttering to yourself. You fall back onto the bed, checking your messages to see a new one from Will.

"wanna show this novice the ropes?"

Word obviously spreads fast, is the first thing you think. And then you snort, with a quick eye roll, the pads of your fingers drumming against the screen.

"fuck off" you begin to type but instead you text back,

“pitch at 6 sharp"

And almost immediately Will texts back,

“wouldn’t miss it :)”

[octaneink]

Wait, you didn't know?

Will Lenney x Fem!Reader

Summary : The Reader really likes Will. Like, really likes him. She spends all their time together, she just need to ask him out, becuase they weren't dating yet...right? Warnings: Suggestive undertones towards the end Notes: I hope people enjoy this!

It all started on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. You were running late and the world seemed determined to make your day worse. Your umbrella had decided to betray you, flipping inside out the moment you stepped out the bus, and by the time you reached the coffee shop, you were soaked. Your hair was plastered to your face, your clothes were clinging uncomfortably to your skin, and you were pretty sure your mascara was halfway down your cheeks. You were a mess, and all you wanted was a large coffee and a quiet corner to hide in.

You’d were supposed to meet your friend Mel here, but as you shook the worst of the rain off your jacket and pulled out your phone to check the time, a text notification lit up the screen.

Mel: SO sorry, something came up. Rain check? Literally? (It's pissing out there.)

You sighed, disappointment settling in your chest. Mel's cancelled last-minute three times this month already. Still, you’d braved the storm for this hangout, so you might as well treat yourself. You shuffled toward the counter, your wet shoes squeaking against the floor, when—

Thud.

You collided with someone. Hard. The impact sent you stumbling backward, and you would’ve fallen if not for the strong hands that shot out to steady you.

“Whoa, careful there,” a voice said, and you looked up to see the most unfairly attractive guy you’d ever met. He had messy brown hair, a lopsided grin, and eyes that seemed to sparkle. Unfair. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you mumbled, feeling your face heat up. “Sorry about that. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“No worries,” he said, still grinning. “I’m Will, by the way.”

You introduced yourself, and he gestured to the counter. “Let me buy you a coffee to make up for almost knocking you over.”

“You didn’t knock me over,” you protested, but he was already walking toward the counter, and you found yourself following him.

You’d planned to grab your drink and leave, but Will slid into the seat across from you at the tiny corner table you’d claimed, his coffee in hand. “So, what brings you out in this monsoon?” he asked, nodding at the rain streaking the windows.

“I was supposed to meet a friend, but she bailed,” you admitted, stirring your coffee absently. “You?”

“Nothing much, really, just fancied a coffee,” he said with a laugh. “And hey, her loss. More time for me to annoy you.”

That was how it started—with a cancelled plan, some coffee, and an awkward introduction to a guy who seemed to have a permanent smile on his face. You sat together that day, talking for hours about everything and nothing. By the time you left, the rain had stopped, and you had his number, a promise to meet up again, and a strange, giddy feeling that maybe Mel’s cancellation hadn’t been such a bad thing after all.

The text comes through on a Thursday afternoon, just as you’re debating whether you should make plans for the weekend or just spend the evening buried under a blanket. Your phone buzzes, and you glance at the screen to see Will’s name.

“So, I know I already bought you a coffee to make up for almost knocking you over, but I’m thinking I owe you a proper apology. How do you feel about arcade games and terrible prizes this weekend? My treat.”

You stare at the message, your thumb hovering over the screen. The arcade? That feels like a date. But before you can overthink it, you type back: “Only if you’re prepared to lose at air hockey.”

His reply is almost instant, a winking emoji and an address.

When you arrive at the arcade, he’s already there, leaning against the wall near the entrance with his hands tucked into the pockets of his dark jeans. He’s wearing a cream jumper that looks soft and well-loved, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and a hat sits snugly on his head. The clothes gives him a cosy, approachable vibe, and you can’t help but notice how it brings out the warmth in his eyes. He spots you immediately, pushing off the wall with that lopsided grin of his.

“Hey, you made it,” he says, his voice warm and teasing.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you reply, and you’re surprised by how much you mean it.

The arcade is loud and chaotic; everywhere you looked, there were flashing lights, beeping machines, and the occasional triumphant shout. Will leads you straight to the air hockey table, rolling up the sleeves of his jumper even further, revealing toned forearms that catch your attention. Your eyes follow the motion, lingering for a moment before you quickly look away, hoping he didn’t notice.

“Ready to get destroyed?” he asks, his grin wide and teasing as he grabs a paddle and slides it across the smooth surface of the table.

“In your dreams,” you shoot back, picking up your own paddle and positioning yourself at the opposite end.

The first round is intense. Will’s competitive side comes out in full force, his reflexes sharp as he slams the puck back toward you with surprising precision. You manage to block a few shots, but he scores the winning goal with a flick of his wrist, his face lighting up with triumph.

“Beginner’s luck,” you say, though you can’t help but smile at how pleased he looks.

“Sure, keep telling yourself that,” he replies, already resetting the puck for the next round.

The second round is your chance to shine. You focus, your movements quick and deliberate, and soon you’re the one scoring points. Will’s competitive grin falters as you block his shots one after another, and when you score the winning goal, he throws his hands up in mock defeat.

“Okay, okay, I see how it is,” he says, leaning on the table, his jumper riding up slightly at the waist. “I’ll admit it. You’re better than I thought.”

“Thought I’d be an easy win, huh?” you tease, feeling a rush of satisfaction.

“Maybe,” he admits with a shrug. “But I like a challenge.”

By the third round, the competitive edge has softened into pure fun. You’re both laughing too hard to play properly, the puck flying off the table more than once. At one point, Will reaches across to retrieve it, his arm brushing against yours, and you feel a jolt of electricity at the contact.

“You’re cheating,” you accuse, though you’re grinning too much to sound serious.

“How am I cheating?” he asks, feigning offence.

“You’re distracting me,” you say, gesturing to his exaggerated paddle movements and ridiculous facial expressions.

“Oh, so now I’m distracting?” He says, his tone playful but his eyes holding yours for a beat too long.

You feel your cheeks warm and quickly look down at the table, resetting the puck to hide your smile. “Just play the game, Will.”

He laughs, that warm, easy sound that makes your chest tighten, and the game resumes. By the end of the third round, neither of you is keeping score anymore. You’re too busy laughing, the sound blending with the chaos of the arcade around you.

When you finally step away from the table, your cheeks hurt from smiling, and your sides ache from laughing. The machine spits out a handful of tickets, and Will grabs one before you can, holding it up like a prize.

“What are you doing?” you ask, laughing.

“Keeping this,” he says, folding the ticket neatly and tucking it into the pocket of his jeans.

“Why that one?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

He shrugs, his grin softening into something almost shy. “To remember the day I met my air hockey nemesis.”

As you move on to the racing games, he casually rests a hand on the back of your chair, leaning in to point out the controls. “You’ve got to drift on this curve,” he says, his voice low and close to your ear. You try to focus on the game, but your heart skips a beat when his hand brushes yours as he reaches for the joystick.

At one point, he drags you to a photo booth. “Come on, we need evidence of this historic day,” he says, pulling the curtain shut behind you. The booth is cramped, and you’re both laughing before the first photo even snaps. In the first frame, his arm is slung around your shoulders, and you’re both mid-laugh. In the second, he makes a ridiculous cross-eyed face while you pretend to punch him. The third is your cheek pressed to his, his grin wide and unguarded, your eyes crinkled with laughter. The fourth is just him, staring at the camera like he’s about to say something, soft and sincere.

When the strip prints out, he grabs it before you can, holding it up with a triumphant grin. “I’m keeping this. For blackmail purposes,” he jokes, tucking it into the pocket of his jeans.

“Blackmail? For what?” you ask, laughing.

“For when I need to remind you that I’m way cooler than you,” he says, his tone teasing.

“You wish,” you shoot back, but you don’t push for the photos. There’s something about the way he looks at them before pocketing them—like they’re more than just a silly keepsake.

The first time you noticed it—really noticed it—was when you found yourself sitting cross-legged on Will’s bedroom floor, surrounded by a mountain of his laundry. He’d begged you to help him for five minutes, which somehow turned into you folding his shirts while he haphazardly tossed socks into a drawer. The room smelt like his cologne and the vanilla candle you bought him as a joke—the one he insists he hates but burns every time you come over.

It wasn’t the laundry or the mess that made you pause. It wasn’t even the way he grinned at you, sheepish and unapologetic, as he lobbed a balled-up pair of sweatpants in your direction. No, it was the way it all felt so normal, so right. Like this was just another Tuesday, another moment in the rhythm of your lives together. And then it hit you—this wasn’t just friendship. Friends didn’t spend their afternoons folding each other’s clothes, didn’t memorise the scent of each other’s cologne, didn’t keep candles burning just because the other person liked the smell.

You froze, a shirt halfway folded in your hands, as the realisation washed over you. This wasn’t just friendship. This was something more. And the scary part? You weren’t sure when it had started—or if it had ever been just friendship at all.

Your chest tightened, the weight of it pressing down on you, but before you could spiral too far, you forced yourself to focus on the shirt in your hands. It was inside-out and backward, and you held it up like evidence, raising an eyebrow at him. “You know,” you said, your voice teasing but soft, “this is why you can never find anything.”

“Hey, oraginsing is your superpower, not mine,” he replies, lobbing a balled-up pair of sweatpants at your head. You duck, laughing, and it hits the wall behind you with a soft thud.

As you reach for another shirt, his wallet slides off the bed and lands at your feet, spilling receipts, loose change, and a crumpled arcade ticket. You start to shove everything back inside when something catches your eye—a faded strip of photos tucked behind his gym membership card. Your breath hitches.

It’s from the arcade. Months ago.

You trace the edge of the photos, the corners worn from being handled. Your throat tightens. You hadn’t even realised he’d kept them—let alone carried them around.

“Hey, have you seen my—” Will freezes in the doorway, his eyes darting from your face to the photos in your hand. His ears turn pink. “Oh. Uh. Those.”

“You kept them,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly fascinated with the carpet. “Yeah, well. It was a good day.”

You want to ask more—why did you keep them? What do they mean to you?—but the fear of ruining whatever this is stops you. So you just smile, tucking the photos back into his wallet. “It was a good day.”

He hesitates, then sinks down onto the floor beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. The air feels charged, like the moment before a thunderstorm. “You know,” he says, his voice soft, “I was thinking… we should do that again. Go to the arcade. Or, I don’t know, something else. Whatever you want.”

Your heart skips a beat. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He glances at you, his cheeks still flushed. “I mean, if you’re not sick of me yet.”

You laugh, but it comes out shaky. “Not even close.”

He grins, and for a moment, it feels like he’s about to say something more. But then he stands, grabbing the laundry basket. “C’mon, let’s finish this before I lose the will to live.”

You don’t push. You don’t ask. Because as much as you want to know what this is—what you are—you’re terrified of the answer. Terrified that if you name it, it might disappear.

The next week, the two of you were wandering aimlessly at the shopping centre when Will grabbed your hand and pulled you toward a photo booth. “C’mon,” he says, grinning. “Let’s make some new memories.”

You don’t argue.

The booth is cramped, your knees knocking together as the screen counts down—3… 2… 1…

The booth is cramped, the curtain barely closing behind you as you squeeze in beside Will. His shoulder presses against yours, warm and familiar, and the screen begins its countdown. On instinct, you both stick out your tongues, your laughter bubbling over as the flash goes off. The sound of his laugh fills the tiny space, and you can’t help but grin, even as you pretend to groan at his antics.

The second flash catches him mid-grimace, his face twisted into a ridiculous cross-eyed expression that makes you burst into laughter all over again. You playfully raise your fist, pretending to punch him, but your smile gives you away. He’s always been like this—silly, unguarded, effortlessly pulling you into his orbit.

By the third flash, the mood shifts. Your foreheads press together, your eyes closed, the world outside the booth fading away. It feels intimate, like you’re sharing a secret no one else could understand. His breath mingles with yours, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you, suspended in time.

The final flash captures something you didn’t expect. His lips brush your temple, feather-light, and your smile softens, surprise flickering across your face. But it’s his gaze that stops you—his eyes locked on you, steady and unwavering, like you’re the only thing in the world worth looking at. The moment feels too big, too real, and you’re suddenly aware of how close he is, how quiet the booth has become.

When the strip prints out, neither of you says a word. He tears it carefully, handing you the half with his solo shot. “Now we match,” he says, his voice quiet, almost shy. You don’t mention the way his fingers trembled when he handed it to you. You don’t have to.

It’s Friday night, and you’re sprawled out on Will’s sofa, the glow of the TV casting flickering shadows across the room. The movie is some action flick he picked—something with explosions and car chases—but neither of you are really paying attention. The bowl of popcorn sits half-forgotten between you, and his arm is slung over the back of the sofa, his fingers absentmindedly playing with your hair.

The sensation sends a shiver down your spine, a warm ripple that starts at the nape of your neck and spreads through your entire body. You try to play it cool, keeping your eyes glued to the screen, but the truth is, you couldn’t tell anyone what’s happening in the movie. The explosions and car chases blur into a meaningless haze of noise and colour, your attention entirely consumed by the way Will’s thumb brushes against your skin.

It’s not the first time he’s done something like this—little touches that feel intentional, like he’s testing the waters. His hand on your lower back as he guides you through a crowd. His knee bumping yours under the table at dinner. The way he always seems to find an excuse to be close, to linger, to make you feel like you’re the only person in the room.

His fingers trail lightly through your hair, the pads of his fingertips grazing the sensitive spot behind your ear. You bite your lip to keep from smiling, but it’s a losing battle. Your heart is racing, your thoughts spiralling out of control.

Does he know what he’s doing?

The question echoes in your mind, louder and louder, with every pass of his thumb. You steal a glance at him, but he’s staring at the screen, his expression unreadable. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe he’s just being friendly.

But then his fingers tighten ever so slightly, tugging gently on a strand of your hair, and your breath catches.

He has to know. He has to.

Your mind races, flipping through every interaction, every moment, like you’re trying to piece together a puzzle. The way he always saves the last bite of dessert for you. The time he showed up at your door with cold medicine when you were sick. The way he says your name, soft and deliberate, like it’s something precious.

What does it mean? What does it mean?

You’re spiralling, your thoughts a chaotic whirlwind of hope and doubt. What if he feels the same way? What if he’s just waiting for you to say something? But what if you’re wrong? What if you ruin everything?

The movie fades into the background, the sound of gunfire and screeching tires drowned out by the pounding of your heart. You’re hyper-aware of every detail—the warmth of his body beside yours, the overwhelming scent of his cologne, the way his fingers have stilled in your hair, like he’s waiting for you to react.

Say something. Do something.

But you don’t. You can’t.

Instead, you lean back against the sofa, your shoulder pressing into his chest. He doesn’t pull away, and neither do you. The silence between you is heavy, charged with something unspoken, something you are not ready to name.

And so you sit there, your thoughts spiralling, your heart racing, and his hand still tangled in your hair.

“You know,” he says suddenly, his voice low and thoughtful, “this kinda feels like a date.”

You freeze, your heart skipping a beat. The words hang in the air, heavy and loaded, and you’re suddenly hyper-aware of how close he is, how his fingers have stilled in your hair. “Does it?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” he says, shifting slightly so he can look at you. His eyes are soft, his usual playful grin replaced with something more serious. “I mean, we’re sitting here, sharing popcorn, you’re stealing my hoodie…” He gestures to the oversized hoodie you’re wearing—his hoodie, of course, because you’re always stealing his clothes. “Sounds like a date to me.”

You glance down at the hoodie, your fingers fiddling with the drawstrings. It smells like him—like his cologne and something uniquely Will—and you feel a warmth spread through your chest. “Maybe it is,” you say, trying to sound casual, like your heart isn’t pounding in your ears.

He smirks, that familiar lopsided grin returning. “Maybe it is.”

The movie continues to play in the background, the sound of gunfire and screeching tires filling the silence between you. But you’re not paying attention any more. You’re too focused on the way his hand has moved from the back of the sofa to your shoulder, his thumb tracing small circles on your arm.

“Do you…” you start, then hesitate, your courage faltering. “Do you want it to be? A date, I mean.”

He doesn’t answer right away, and for a moment, you regret asking. But then he leans in, his face inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin. “What do you think?”

You don’t have a chance to respond before he pulls back, his smirk widening as he grabs a handful of popcorn. “Relax,” he says, tossing a kernel into his mouth. “I’m just messing with you.”

But the way his hand lingers on your arm, the way his eyes keep darting to yours—it doesn’t feel like he’s messing with you. It feels like he’s waiting for you to say something, to make the first move.

You don’t.

Instead, you lean back against the sofa, your shoulder pressing into his chest. He doesn’t pull away, and neither do you. The movie fades into background noise, and for the rest of the night, you stay like that—close, comfortable, and just a bit unsure.

The party is in full swing, the air thick with the hum of conversation, laughter, and the bass of the music thumping through the walls. You’re surrounded by people, but it feels like it’s just you and Will. He’s been by your side all night, his presence a steady anchor in the chaos. His hand rests on the small of your back as he guides you through the crowd, his touch light but deliberate, sending a shiver up your spine every time his fingers brush against you.

At one point, the heat, and noise become too much, and you tug on his sleeve. “Can we get some air?” you ask, raising your voice to be heard over the music.

He nods, his hand sliding to your waist as he leads you through the throng of people. The cool night air hits you like a relief as you step outside, the muffled sounds of the party fading behind you. You lean against the railing of the balcony, staring up at the stars, and for a moment, everything feels still.

Will stands beside you, close enough that his arm brushes against yours. You can feel the warmth of his body, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the crisp night air. You don’t say anything, and neither does he. The silence between you is comfortable, familiar, but there’s a tension there too—something unspoken, something electric.

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, and your breath catches. He’s already looking at you, his gaze soft but intense, like he’s seeing something no one else can. His eyes drop to your lips, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you. The noise of the party—the laughter, the music, the clinking of glasses—fades into a distant hum, muffled and unimportant. Even the stars above seem to blur into a haze of light, their brilliance dimmed by the way he’s looking at you.

All you can focus on is him.

His face, so close you can see the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his lips part slightly as if he’s about to say something. His eyes, dark and steady, holding yours like they’re trying to tell you something words can’t quite capture. The way his chest rises and falls with each breath, slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to steady himself.

Your heart pounds in your chest, your pulse racing so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. You lean in ever so slightly, drawn to him like a magnet, like there’s an invisible thread pulling you closer. His hand moves to the railing beside yours, his fingers brushing against your own, and the touch sends a jolt of electricity through you.

Is this really happening?

Your mind races, a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions crashing into each other. You’ve imagined this moment a thousand times—what it would feel like to close the distance, to finally know what it’s like to kiss him. But now that it’s here, now that he’s so close you can feel the warmth of his breath on your skin, you’re paralysed.

What if I mess this up? What if I read this all wrong?

His fingers twitch against yours, and you swear he’s leaning in too, his head tilting ever so slightly. Your lips part, your mind screaming at you to just do it, to stop overthinking and let yourself have this. But the doubt creeps in, relentless and suffocating.

What if he doesn’t feel the same way? What if this ruins everything?

But then his hand shifts, his fingers curling around yours, and the touch is so deliberate, so sure, that it knocks the air out of your lungs. His eyes flicker back up to yours, and for a split second, you see it—the same longing, the same hesitation, the same fear.

What if he’s just as scared as I am?

The thought hits you like a lightning bolt, and suddenly, you’re not just spiralling—you’re free-falling. Your mind is a chaotic mess of what-ifs and maybes, and you’re teetering on the edge of something you can’t quite name.

What if this is it? What if this is the moment everything changes?

You’re so close now, so close that you can see the faint freckles on his nose, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. Your breath mingles with his, and for a moment, it feels like the world has stopped spinning.

Just kiss him. Just—

“Will!”

The voice cuts through the moment like a knife, sharp and jarring, shattering the fragile bubble you’d been wrapped in. You both freeze, your breath hitching in unison, and you pull back, his hand still resting over yours on the railing. For a split second, neither of you moves, the weight of what almost happened hanging heavy in the air between you.

Then he clears his throat, the sound rough and awkward, and steps away, his hand slipping from yours. He runs a hand through his hair, the motion quick and nervous, and you notice the faint flush creeping up his neck, staining his cheeks a soft pink.

The spot where his hand had been feels scalding, like his touch had left a brand on your skin. You flex your fingers, trying to shake the sensation, but it lingers, a phantom warmth that makes your heart race all over again.

“We should probably head back in,” he says, his voice softer than usual, almost apologetic. He doesn’t look at you, his gaze fixed on the ground, and you wonder if he’s as thrown by the moment as you are.

You nod, your throat too tight to speak, your cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and something else you can’t quite name. You’re not sure if you’re relieved or disappointed—relieved that the tension is broken, or disappointed that the moment slipped away before you could figure out what it meant.

Before you can overthink it, his hand finds yours again, his fingers lacing through your own like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The touch is grounding, steadying, and you squeeze his hand without thinking, grateful for the anchor.

As you walk back inside, the noise of the party hits you like a wall—laughter, music, the clinking of glasses—but it feels distant, like you’re underwater. His hand stays in yours, his thumb brushing against your knuckles in a rhythm that feels deliberate, like he’s trying to tell you something without words.

You don’t pull away.

The warmth of his hand is a stark contrast to the cool night air still clinging to your skin, and you can’t help but wonder if he feels it too—the weight of what almost happened, the promise of what could still be.

You’ve been trying to work up the courage to ask him out for weeks, but every time you get close, you chicken out. The words stick in your throat, your fear of ruining what you already have outweighing your desire for something more. But tonight, you’re determined. You’re at his place again, the two of you sitting on the floor with a pile of board games between you. Monopoly is spread out in front of you, though neither of you has been paying much attention to the game.

The room is warm, lit by the soft glow of the fairy lights strung across his walls. His hoodie—your hoodie now, really—hangs on your frame, and the familiarity of it gives you a small boost of courage.

“Will,” you say, your voice trembling slightly.

He looks up from the Monopoly board, his brow furrowed as he counts his fake money. “Yeah?”

“I… I need to tell you something.”

His expression softens, and he sets the money down, giving you his full attention. “What’s up?”

You take a deep breath, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. “I like you. Like, really like you. And I know we’ve been doing this whole… thing… where we act like we’re together, but we’re not, and I just… I want to be. With you. Officially.”

There’s a long pause, and for a moment, you’re terrified you’ve ruined everything. Your mind races, replaying the words over and over, wondering if you said too much or not enough. Did you sound desperate? Did you make it weird? The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating, and you’re about to backtrack, to laugh it off and pretend it was a joke, when he smiles—that stupid, beautiful smile that makes your heart melt.

“Wait,” he says, his voice laced with amusement, “you thought we weren’t dating?”

You blink, your brain short-circuiting. “What?”

He laughs, the sound warm and familiar, and shakes his head like you’ve just told the funniest joke he’s ever heard. “I thought we were already together,” he says, leaning back on his hands, his grin widening. “I mean, we do everything couples do. We hang out all the time, we text constantly, you steal my hoodies…” He gestures to the hoodie you’re wearing, the one you “borrowed” weeks ago and never gave back. “I just figured we were, you know, a thing.”

You stare at him, your mind racing. “So… we’re dating?”

“Yeah,” he says, his tone light but his eyes serious. “Unless you don’t want to be.”

“No, I do!” you say quickly, your voice louder than you intended. He laughs again, the sound warm and familiar, and before you can overthink it, he pulls you into a hug.

His arms wrap around you, strong and steady, and you bury your face in his shoulder, breathing in the scent of his cologne. “Good,” he says, his voice muffled against your hair. “Because I’m kinda crazy about you.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, your cheeks burning. “You are?”

“Yeah,” he says, his grin softening into something more sincere. “Have been for a while now.”

And just like that, the unspoken becomes spoken, the no-labels become labels, and you realise that maybe, just maybe, you’ve been his all along.

You’re curled up on Will’s sofa later that night, the board games long forgotten. His arm is slung over your shoulders, your head resting against his chest as some random movie plays in the background. You’re not really paying attention—your mind is still reeling from the conversation earlier, from the way he’d laughed and pulled you into a hug, from the way he’d said, “I’m kinda crazy about you.”

But there’s one thing that’s been nagging at you, one question you can’t seem to shake.

“Will?” you say, your voice soft.

“Yeah?” he replies, his fingers absentmindedly playing with the ends of your hair.

You hesitate, your heart pounding as you gather your courage. “If we’ve been dating this whole time… why haven’t we kissed yet?”

He stills, his fingers pausing in your hair, and for a moment, you’re terrified you’ve ruined the moment. But then he shifts, pulling back just enough to look at you. His expression is soft, almost hesitant, and he runs a hand through his hair, a nervous habit you’ve come to recognise.

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he admits, his voice quiet. “I mean, we never really talked about it, and I didn’t want to assume… I guess I was waiting for you to be ready.”

You blink, surprised by his answer. “You were waiting for me?”

He nods, his cheeks flushing slightly. “Yeah. I didn’t want to push you into anything. I figured you’d let me know when you were ready.”

The honesty in his voice takes your breath away, and for a moment, you’re speechless. You think about all the times you’ve wondered if he felt the same way, all the times you’ve hesitated, too scared to make the first move. And now, hearing him say this, it’s like a weight has been lifted off your chest.

“I’m ready,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, but the words feel like they echo through the room.

Will looks at you, his eyes searching yours, and for a moment, neither of you moves. The air between you feels charged, electric, like the world has narrowed to just the two of you. His hand cups your cheek, his touch warm and gentle, and you can feel the faint tremor in his fingers.

“Good,” he says, his voice soft, almost reverent. “Because I’ve been waiting for this for a really long time.”

And then he leans in, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away if you want to. But you don’t. You can’t.

His lips brush against yours, tentative at first, like he’s testing the waters. It’s soft, sweet, and achingly gentle, and it sends a shiver down your spine. You lean into him, your hand finding its way to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.

The kiss deepens, his hand sliding from your cheek to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. His other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. His lips move against yours with a kind of certainty, like he’s been thinking about this moment just as much as you have.

And then, just as you’re melting into him, his fingers scratch lightly at the base of your scalp, the motion so subtle but so deliberate that it makes you gasp against his lips. It’s a move you’ve seen him do a hundred times—when he’s nervous, when he’s thinking, when he’s trying to play it cool—but this time, it’s different. This time, it’s for you.

The sensation sends a wave of warmth through you, your body responding instinctively as you press closer to him. His lips curve into a smile against yours, and you can feel the faint rumble of his laugh in his chest.

“You like that?” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, his fingers still moving in slow, deliberate circles.

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you just nod, your cheeks burning as you bury your face in his shoulder. He laughs again, the sound warm and familiar, and you can feel the vibration of it against your skin.

The world outside fades away, the movie forgotten, the room silent except for the sound of your breathing and the soft rustle of fabric as you shift closer to him. His touch is warm, his kiss tender but insistent, like he’s trying to tell you something words could never capture.

When you finally pull back, your forehead rests against his, your breaths mingling in the space between you. His eyes are still closed, his lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, and you can feel the faint tremor in his hands as they rest on your waist.

“Wow,” he murmurs, his voice rough, and you can’t help but laugh, the sound soft and breathless.

“Yeah,” you agree, your voice just as unsteady. “Wow.”

He opens his eyes then, and the look he gives you makes your heart skip a beat. There’s something in his gaze—something soft and tender and utterly sincere—that takes your breath away.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Me too,” you say, your cheeks burning but your smile unstoppable.

He grins, that stupid, beautiful grin that makes your heart melt, and pulls you into another hug. His arms are warm and steady around you, and you bury your face in his shoulder, breathing in the scent of his cologne.

“Good,” he says, his voice muffled against your hair. “Because I’m not planning on stopping anytime soon.”

And just like that, the world feels brighter, warmer, like everything has finally fallen into place.

Ugh I hope people like this, Im giggling about the hair thing...😏

[octaneink]

Sky + Seafoam

Will Lenney x Reader

Summary: Painting + yap session Warnings: None Notes: I saw a video of someone painting their bf's back it was too cute so I thought 'Why not write it for Will' so here we are lol. Enjoy!

The living room was bathed in the soft glow of the TV, the volume turned low so it was little more than background noise. You were curled up on the sofa, your legs tucked under you and your head resting comfortably on Will’s shoulder. His free arm was draped loosely around you, his fingers occasionally brushing against your sleeve as he scrolled through his phone with the other hand. The faint sound of his occasional hums or quiet commentary on whatever he was looking at filled the space between you, warm and familiar.

Your own phone was in your hands, though you hadn’t been paying much attention to it until now. A video autoplayed on your feed, catching your eye. It was an artist, their hands moving with practiced ease as they painted a stunning landscape across someone’s back. The colours blended seamlessly—soft blues melting into whites for the sky, rich greens and browns forming trees, and a shimmering river that seemed to ripple with every breath the canvas took.

You sat up abruptly, your head lifting off Will’s shoulder so fast he flinched.

“What?” he asked, his voice tinged with amusement as he glanced at you. His eyebrow arched, and the corner of his mouth twitched like he already knew something was coming.

You didn’t answer right away, your eyes still glued to the screen. The artist was adding tiny details now—a sailboat and the reflection of the trees in the water. It was mesmerising.

“You’ve got that look,” Will said, setting his phone down on the armrest and turning to face you fully.

“What look?” you asked, finally tearing your eyes away from the video.

“The one where you’re about to ask me to do something ridiculous,” he said, his tone teasing but his eyes soft. He reached over, his fingers brushing against your side in a way that made you squirm immediately. You tried to twist away, but he was already poking at your ribs, his touch light but deliberate.

“Will!” You squealed, laughter bubbling up as you instinctively curled into yourself, trying to escape his fingers. “Stop!”

He didn’t stop. Instead, he grinned, his eyes lighting up with mischief as he shifted closer, his free hand joining in to tickle your other side. “Spit it out,” he said, his voice playful as you wriggled under his touch.

“Okay, okay!” You gasped between laughs, batting at his hands. “I’ll tell you! Just stop!”

Will relented, pulling back with a satisfied smirk, but he kept his hands hovering near your sides, ready to strike again if you took too long. You caught your breath, your cheeks flushed from laughing, and held up your phone so he could see the video.

“What if I painted something on your back?” You said, your voice still breathless. “Like, a whole scene? Look how cool this is!”

Will leaned forward, squinting at the screen for a moment before leaning back with a dramatic groan. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” you pressed, scooting closer to him again. “It’s water-based paint! It’ll wash right off. And it’ll be fun!”

He shook his head, his smirk returning as he reached for your sides again. “Fun for you, maybe. I’ll just be lying there, bored out of my mind.”

You squeaked, scrambling backward to avoid his hands, but he was faster. His fingers found your ticklish spots again, and you burst into laughter, collapsing against the couch cushions as he loomed over you, grinning like he’d just won the lottery.

“Will!” you managed between giggles, trying to push him away. “Stop! I’ll—I’ll make it worth your while!”

He paused, his hands still hovering threateningly. “Oh? How so?”

“I’ll cook your favourite dinner,” you said, still catching your breath. “And you can pick the movie for a whole week. Deal?”

Will tilted his head, pretending to consider it, but the way his lips twitched gave him away. “Tempting,” he said, his fingers brushing your side one last time, making you yelp. “But no. I’m not your personal art project.”

You pouted, leaning your head against his shoulder again. “You’re no fun.”

He chuckled, his arm wrapping around you as he picked up his phone. “And yet you still love me.”

You smiled, your mind already racing with ideas. Will might have said no for now, but you weren’t giving up that easily.

Over the next few days, you didn’t let up. You were determined, and Will was going to crack eventually—you were sure of it.

It started small.

You (10:43 AM): [Image of someone’s back, on it is a painting of a pirate ship.]

You (10:43 AM): Imagine this, but on you.

Will (10:44 AM): 😐

You laughed at his response, but you weren’t deterred.

The next morning, you left your sketchbook open on the kitchen table, a half-finished landscape scene staring up at him as he poured his coffee. He paused, squinting at the page, then glanced at you over his shoulder. “You’re not giving up, are you?”

You shrugged innocently, sipping your tea. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything else, though you caught him glancing at the sketchbook a few more times before he left for work.

That night, during your usual movie night, you saw your opportunity. Will was sprawled on the couch, one arm draped lazily over the back cushions and the other resting on the seat between you. His attention was half on the movie—some action flicks he’d picked—and half on his phone, which he was scrolling through absently.

You glanced at him, then at the fine-tipped marker sitting innocently on the coffee table. A slow grin spread across your face as you reached for it, uncapping it with a soft click.

Will didn’t notice at first. His eyes were still on his phone, his thumb swiping lazily through some app. You shifted closer, your knee brushing against his thigh, and gently took his hand in yours. He didn’t pull away, too distracted to question what you were doing.

You started with the trunk of the tree, drawing a thin, wavy line up the back of his hand. The marker glided smoothly over his skin, and you added a few branches, then some tiny leaves. You were so focused on your work that you didn’t notice Will had stopped scrolling and was now watching you with a raised eyebrow.

“What are you—?” he started, pulling his hand away to inspect the little tree now permanently inked on his skin. His expression was a mix of amusement and disbelief. “Really?”

You grinned, holding up the marker “It’s practice. For the masterpiece I’m going to paint on your back.”

He groaned, dropping his head back against the couch cushions. “You’re relentless.”

You scooted closer, your knee bumping his as you leaned into his space. “Please?” you said, batting your eyelashes dramatically. “I’ll make it worth your while. I’ll cook your favourite dinner, and you can pick the movie for a whole week. No complaints from me, even if you choose something ridiculous.”

Will tilted his head, pretending to consider it, but the way his lips twitched gave him away. “Tempting,” he said, his voice teasing. “But what if I want more than just pasta and movie rights?”

You narrowed your eyes, poking his side lightly. “Don’t push your luck, Lenney.”

He chuckled, catching your hand before you could pull it away. “Fine,” he said, his tone mock-resigned. “But if I regret this, you’re buying me that new game I’ve been eyeing. No arguments.”

You squealed, throwing your arms around him in a hug that nearly knocked him over. “You’re the best!”

He laughed, wrapping an arm around you to steady himself. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t make me regret it.”

You pulled back, grinning at him. “You won’t. I promise.”

Will raised an eyebrow, clearly sceptical, but the way his lips twitched into a smile gave him away. “We’ll see.”

Will lay shirtless on the bed, a soft towel spread beneath him to protect the sheets. The afternoon light filtered through the curtains, casting a warm, golden glow over his skin. You couldn’t help but pause for a moment, taking him in. His back was smooth and relaxed, the muscles faintly defined under the faint scattering of freckles that dotted his shoulders like stars across a night sky. You’d always loved those freckles—how they seemed to tell a story, each one a tiny mark of something uniquely him.

He rested his cheek on the pillow you’d fluffed for him, his arms folded loosely beneath his head. The position stretched his shoulders slightly, making the freckles shift and settle like constellations rearranging themselves. You reached out, brushing your fingers lightly over one near the curve of his spine, and he shivered at the touch.

“Tickles,” he mumbled, his voice muffled by the pillow.

You smiled, pulling your hand back. “Sorry,” you said, though you weren’t really. How could you be when he looked like this? The light caught the faint golden undertones in his skin, making him glow like he’d been kissed by the sun itself.

“You’re staring,” he said, though he didn’t turn to look at you. His voice was soft, teasing.

“I’m not,” you lied, dipping your brush into the palette of paints balanced on your knee.

“Liar,” he shot back, a smirk in his tone.

You rolled your eyes, even though he couldn’t see you, and began to paint. The first stroke of blue across his shoulder made him tense slightly, but he relaxed almost immediately, his breath evening out again.

“Cold?” you asked, pausing.

“A little,” he admitted, his voice drowsy. “But it’s not bad. Keep going.”

You nodded, adding more blue, then blending in white to create soft, wispy clouds. As you worked, your eyes kept drifting back to those freckles, the way they seemed to guide your brush like a map. You couldn’t help but admire him—not just his back, but the way he trusted you so completely, lying there without a hint of self-consciousness.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” you said softly, more to yourself than to him.

Will huffed a quiet laugh, his shoulders shaking slightly. “Flattery won’t make me say yes to this more often.”

“It’s not flattery if it’s true,” you said, grinning as you added a tiny bird to the sky you were painting.

He didn’t respond, but you could tell by the way his breathing slowed that he was smiling.

You worked in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sound the soft swish of the brush against his skin. The sky was coming together beautifully, the blues and whites blending seamlessly. As you dipped your brush into a soft green to start on the grass, your mind wandered to the park you’d visited earlier in the week.

“So, I was people-watching at the park the other day,” you began, your voice light and conversational.

Will hummed, a quiet sound of acknowledgement that encouraged you to keep going.

“And this guy was walking his dog—this tiny, fluffy thing that looked like a cotton ball with legs. Anyway, the dog suddenly stops in the middle of the path and just refuses to move. Like, full-on stubborn mode. The guy’s tugging on the leash, but the dog just sits there, staring at him like, ‘What are you gonna do about it?’”

Will chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Sounds like my kind of dog.”

“Right?” you said, grinning as you added a few more blades of grass. “But then—get this—the guy just picks the dog up, tucks it under his arm like a football, and keeps walking. The dog looked so offended, like, ‘How dare you?’ It was hilarious.”

Will’s shoulders shook with silent laughter, and you had to pause for a moment to keep from smudging the paint. “Careful,” you said, tapping his shoulder lightly. “I’m trying to create a masterpiece here.”

“Sorry,” he said, though he didn’t sound sorry at all. “Keep going. What else happened?”

You switched to a darker green, starting on the trees that would frame the river. “Well, after the dog drama, I saw this couple having a picnic. They looked so cute together—like, straight out of a rom-com. But then the guy accidentally spilt his drink all over the blanket, and the girl just started laughing. And then he started laughing too, and they just sat there, covered in lemonade, cracking up. It was kind of adorable.”

Will hummed, his voice soft. “Sounds like us.”

You smiled, your chest warming at the thought. “Yeah, it kind of does. Remember when you tripped over your own feet at the grocery store and knocked over that display of cereal boxes?”

“Hey,” he said, his tone mock-offended. “That was one time. And in my defence, the floor was slippery.”

“Sure it was,” you said, laughing as you added a few more details to the trees. “But you have to admit, it was pretty funny. Especially when you tried to blame it on the cart.”

“It was the cart’s fault,” he insisted, though you could hear the smile in his voice.

You shook your head, dipping your brush into a rich brown to add texture to the tree trunks. “Anyway, after the picnic couple, I saw this little kid chasing pigeons. He was so determined, like he was on a mission. But every time he got close, the pigeons would just fly away, and he’d throw his hands up like, ‘Why is this so hard?’”

Will laughed again, the sound muffled by the pillow. “Kids are weird.”

“They really are,” you agreed, smiling as you added a few birds to the sky. “But it was kind of sweet, you know? Like, he didn’t care that he wasn’t catching them. He was just having fun.”

The room fell quiet for a moment, the only sound the soft swish of your brush against his skin. You switched to a lighter blue, adding ripples to the river. “It made me think,” you said, your voice softer now, “about how we don’t do stuff like that any more. Just… silly, pointless things that make us happy.”

Will shifted slightly, his voice drowsy but thoughtful. “What kind of silly things?”

“I don’t know,” you said, tilting your head as you considered it. “Like… flying a kite. Or building a pillow fort. Or—” You paused, grinning. “Or letting your girlfriend paint a landscape on your back.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Yeah, okay. That’s pretty silly.”

“But fun, right?” you said, adding a few final touches to the river.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Fun.”

You smiled, setting your brush aside for a moment to admire your work. The scene was complete—a serene landscape that seemed to come alive on his skin. The river wound its way down his spine, the water shimmering with hints of silver and white. Trees stretched across his shoulders, their branches reaching toward the sky, and birds dotted the clouds like tiny brushstrokes of life. It was beautiful, but not nearly as beautiful as the man beneath it.

You didn’t notice when Will’s responses grew quieter, then stopped altogether. His breathing deepened, the steady rise and fall of his chest lulling you into a peaceful rhythm. The room was quiet now, save for the soft sound of his breathing and the occasional rustle of the sheets as he shifted slightly in his sleep.

“And then I saw—” you began, your voice soft as you reached for a smaller brush to add a few final details. “Wait, do you want to make some chicken souvlaki and tzatziki for dinner? Will?”

No response.

You paused, glancing down at him. His cheek was still pressed into the pillow, his face relaxed and peaceful. His eyes were closed, his long lashes brushing against his skin, and his lips were slightly parted as he breathed deeply. The faintest hint of a smile lingered on his face, as though even in sleep, he was content.

He’s asleep.

Your heart swelled with affection, a warmth spreading through your chest as you watched him. How long had he been out? You’d been rambling for who knows how long, and he’d drifted off to the sound of your voice. The thought made your cheeks warm—not with embarrassment, but with something softer, something that made your chest ache in the best way.

Careful not to smudge the paint, you leaned down, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. His skin was warm under your touch, and he stirred slightly, a soft sigh escaping his lips. For a moment, you thought he might wake up, but he only shifted again, settling deeper into the pillow.

You sat back, your gaze lingering on him. The afternoon light had shifted, casting a golden glow over the room and making his skin glow like it was part of the painting itself. The freckles on his shoulders seemed to shimmer, and you couldn’t help but trace one lightly with your finger, careful not to wake him.

“You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, though there was no bite to your words. “Falling asleep on me like that.”

But you couldn’t bring yourself to be annoyed. Not when he looked so peaceful, so completely at ease. Not when the sound of his breathing was the most comforting thing in the world.

You reached for your phone, snapping a quick photo of the painting on his back. It was too beautiful not to capture, but even the photo couldn’t compare to the real thing—the way the colours seemed to breathe with him, the way the scene felt alive because he was alive beneath it.

Setting your phone aside, you began to clean up your supplies, carefully capping the paints and rinsing the brushes. The room was quiet, the only sound the soft clink of the paint tubes and the occasional rustle of the sheets as Will shifted in his sleep.

Once everything was packed away, you stood, stretching your arms above your head. You glanced at Will one last time, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “Sleep well,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

You turned to leave, tiptoeing toward the door, but before you could take more than a few steps, a hand shot out and caught your wrist.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Will’s voice was low and drowsy, his grip gentle but firm, his fingers warm against your skin.

You turned back to see him looking at you through half-lidded eyes, a lazy smile playing on his lips. His hair was mussed from the pillow, and the faintest hint of stubble shadowed his jaw. “I was just—”

He didn’t let you finish. With a quick tug, he pulled you down onto the bed, his arms wrapping around you before you could protest. Before you could even react, he flipped you onto your back, his body pressing you gently into the mattress.

“Will!” you squealed, laughing as his weight settled over you. The warmth of him seeped into your skin, his chest pressing against yours, his legs tangling with yours. “The paint—it’s still wet!”

“Don’t care,” he mumbled, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His breath was warm against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the coolness of the room. His lips brushed against your collarbone, feather-light, and you felt your breath hitch.

You squirmed, trying to wriggle free, but he only tightened his hold, his arms like a cage around you. His muscles flexed as he shifted, pinning you more securely beneath him. “You’re impossible,” you said, though your laughter betrayed your words.

“Yours, though,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep, the words muffled against your skin.

Your heart melted at his words, and you stopped fighting, letting yourself relax beneath him. His weight was comforting, grounding, like a living, breathing blanket that anchored you to the moment. You couldn’t help but wrap your arms around him, your fingers threading through his hair. It was soft, slightly messy from sleep, and you twirled a strand around your finger absently.

His breath tickled your neck, steady and warm, and you felt the rise and fall of his chest against yours. The scent of him—clean and faintly sweet—filled your senses, and you closed your eyes for a moment, savouring it.

“You’re going to ruin the painting,” you said, though you didn’t really care. Not when he was this close, not when his warmth surrounded you like a cocoon, safe and familiar.

“Worth it,” he said, his voice barely audible as he nuzzled closer. His nose brushed against your jaw, and you felt the curve of his smile against your skin. His lips lingered there for a moment, not quite a kiss but something just as intimate.

You smiled too, your chest swelling with something you couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t just affection—it was deeper than that, a quiet, steady ache that made your heart feel too big for your chest. His weight, his warmth, the way he held you like you were the only thing that mattered—it was overwhelming in the best way.

You ran your fingers through his hair again, your touch gentle, and he sighed, the sound soft and content. His arms tightened around you, pulling you even closer, if that was possible.

“Stay,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper.

You didn’t need to be asked twice.

How do people like this layout? I removed the dividers from the scene so its just one whole block. Is that alright? Im not sure honestly. But I hope people like it!

[octaneink]

Who gets to love me after you?

Will Lenney x Reader

Summary: Will finds himself fixated on a question he can’t shake Warnings: Possible heavy topics of mortality and ageing. Notes: This is hella indulgent, I hope people like😘

The evening light spilt through the blinds, painting the living room in streaks of gold and shadow. The air was warm, carrying the faint scent of the lavender candle you’d lit earlier, its flame flickering softly on the coffee table. You were curled up on the couch, your socked feet propped on Will’s lap, the fabric of his joggers soft against your skin. Your phone was in your hands, the glow of the screen illuminating your face as you scrolled through your feed.

Will’s hand rested on your ankle, his thumb tracing small, absent-minded circles over the fabric of your sock. His touch was warm, familiar, and grounding, but there was something different about it tonight. His movements were slower, more deliberate, as if his mind were somewhere far away. The gold band on his ring finger caught the light, glinting softly as his hand moved. You glanced down at it, a small smile tugging at your lips. It still felt surreal, seeing that ring on his hand—knowing it matched the one on yours.

You glanced up at him, catching the way he was staring at you. Not in the way he usually did, with that cheeky grin and raised eyebrow that always made your stomach flip, but with something quieter, heavier. His brows were furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line, and his eyes—those bright, mischievous eyes that usually sparkled with laughter—were clouded with something you couldn’t quite place.

“You’re doing that thing again,” you said, tilting your head. Your voice was light and teasing, but there was a note of concern underneath.

Will blinked, as if pulled out of a trance, and offered a small smile. It was the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, the kind that made your chest tighten. “What? No, I’m not.”

“You are,” you insisted, pausing the video and setting your phone aside. The room felt quieter without the sound of laughter from the screen, the silence stretching between you like a thread. “You’ve got that look. Like you’ve just remembered you left the oven on when we've left for the shops.”

He chuckled softly, but it was hollow, the sound fading quickly into the stillness of the room. “Nah, I’m just…thinking.”

“About what?”

He hesitated, his gaze dropping to your feet in his lap. His fingers stilled, the circles he’d been tracing coming to a halt. For a moment, the room felt too quiet, the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen suddenly loud, the ticking of the clock on the wall echoing in your ears.

“Will?” you prompted, sitting up straighter. Your voice was softer now, the teasing edge replaced by something more tender.

He looked at you then, his expression unreadable. The golden light from the window caught the sharp angles of his face, casting shadows under his eyes. “When you’re old and gone… who gets to love me after you?”

The question hung in the air, sharp and unexpected, like a crack in the quiet of the evening. You blinked at him, your brain scrambling to process the words. “Wait, what?”

Will’s face didn’t change. He was serious. Deadly serious.

“You’re the one who’s always on about your dodgy hip and bad diet,” you said, trying to laugh it off, but your voice wavered slightly. “If anyone’s going first, it’s you.”

He didn’t laugh. Instead, his hand tightened slightly around your ankle, his grip firm but not painful. “I’m serious.”

“Why are you even thinking about this?” you asked, your voice rising slightly. The room felt colder now, the warmth of the evening sun replaced by a creeping chill. “We’ve been married six weeks, you pillock. What made you get all morbid on me?”

Will’s jaw tightened, and he looked away, his gaze fixed on the fading light outside the window. The golden hues were deepening into shades of orange and pink, the day slipping away. “I just… I need to know.”

“Know what?”

He turned back to you, his eyes searching yours. There was a vulnerability in his gaze that made your chest ache, a rawness you weren’t used to seeing. “If you… who’s going to put up with me after?”

The words hung in the air, heavy and unrelenting. You stared at him, your heart pounding in your chest. For a moment, you couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, the weight of his question pressing down on you.

“Will,” you said finally, your voice breaking. “Stop it. You’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I?” he asked, his voice quiet but firm. “You’re the one who keeps me grounded. Who puts up with my shit? Who… who loves me, even when I don’t deserve it? If you’re not here—”

“Don’t,” you interrupted, your voice sharp but trembling at the edges. You reached out, cupping his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you. His skin was warm under your palms, his stubble rough against your fingertips, a familiar texture that grounded you even as your heart raced. His jaw was tense, the muscles flexing under your touch, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned into your hands, his eyes closing for a moment, as if he were drawing strength from you.

When he opened them again, there were tears glistening in the corners, though he quickly blinked them away. The golden light from the window caught the sheen in his eyes, making them look almost amber, and for a moment, you could see the fear he was trying so hard to hide. It was raw and unguarded, a side of him he rarely showed to anyone—even you.

“Why not?” he asked, his voice low and rough, like the words were being dragged out of him. “It’s the truth.”

“It’s not,” you said, your voice breaking. You shifted closer to him, your knees brushing against his thigh, the warmth of his body seeping into yours. “You don’t get to decide when I go, Will. You don’t get to sit here and act like you’re already planning for a life without me.”

He flinched, his hands moving to grip your wrists, his fingers trembling slightly. “I’m not planning for it,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m just… scared.”

The admission hung in the air between you, heavy and unrelenting. You stared at him, your chest tightening at the vulnerability in his voice. This wasn’t the Will who made sarcastic jokes to deflect or the Will who laughed off his fears with a cheeky grin. This was the Will who had stood at the altar six weeks ago, his voice cracking as he promised to love you for the rest of his life. This was the Will who had whispered, “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” in the dark of your bedroom, his arms wrapped so tightly around you it was as if he thought you might disappear.

“You think I’m not scared too?” you asked, your voice softer now. You slid your hands from his face to his shoulders, your fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie. “You think I don’t lie awake sometimes, wondering what I’d do if I lost you?”

He shook his head, his eyes searching yours. “It’s not the same.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re…” He trailed off, his throat working as he struggled to find the words. “You’re stronger than me. You’d figure it out. You’d… move on.”

The words hit you like a punch to the chest, and you sucked in a sharp breath. “Will,” you said, your voice trembling. “Do you really think that little of yourself?”

He looked away, his jaw tightening, but you didn’t let him retreat. You cupped his face again, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Listen to me,” you said, your voice firm despite the tears welling in your eyes. “You’re not some… some burden I’m putting up with. You’re not someone I’m just tolerating until something better comes along. You’re it for me, Will. You’re my person. And if something happens to me—”

“Don’t,” he interrupted, his voice cracking. His hands moved to your waist, pulling you closer until you were practically in his lap. “Don’t say it.”

“If something happens to me,” you continued, ignoring the way his grip tightened, “it’s not because I wanted to leave you. And it’s not because you weren’t enough. It’s just… life. And yeah, it’s scary. It’s terrifying. But we can’t spend every day worrying about it, or we’ll miss out on what we have right now.”

He stared at you, his eyes wide and glassy, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the faint ticking of the clock on the wall and the steady rhythm of your breathing. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. His breath was warm against your skin, his hands trembling where they gripped your waist.

“I don’t know how to do this without you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“You won’t have to,” you said, your voice just as soft. “Not for a long time.”

He let out a shaky breath, his eyes closing again, and you pressed a kiss to his forehead, your lips lingering against his skin. “You’re stuck with me, remember?” you murmured, trying to lighten the mood. “For better or worse.”

He huffed a laugh, the sound wet and uneven, and when he opened his eyes, there was a flicker of his usual self in them. “Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “For better or worse.”

The house felt too big now.

You stood in the hallway, your fingers brushing lightly over the frames of the photos lining the wall. Each a snapshot of a life well-lived, a moment frozen in time. There was Will, holding your firstborn in the hospital, his face a mix of awe and terror, his hands trembling as he cradled the tiny bundle like it might break. You, laughing as your youngest blew out the candles on their fifth birthday cake, frosting smeared across their cheeks and a look of pure joy on their face. And there, in the centre, was your wedding photo—the two of you grinning like idiots, so young and so in love, your hands clasped tightly together as if you already knew you’d never let go.

The sound of Will’s footsteps pulled you out of your thoughts. You turned to see him standing in the doorway, his hair streaked with more grey, a mug of tea steaming in his hand. The lines around his eyes deepened as he smiled at you, soft and familiar.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low and warm, the way it always was when he was trying to comfort you without making a big deal of it.

You nodded, though your throat felt tight, like the words might get stuck if you tried to speak. Instead, you gestured to the photos. “Just… looking at these. It’s weird, isn’t it? The house feels so quiet now.”

Will stepped closer, the floorboards creaking softly under his weight. He set the mug down on the side table, the faint clink of ceramic against wood breaking the silence. His free hand came to rest on your shoulder, his touch grounding and familiar.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice tinged with nostalgia. “But it’s not a bad quiet. Just… different.”

You turned to look at him, your eyes tracing the lines on his face—lines that hadn’t been there when you’d first met. The faint crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, the deeper grooves around his mouth from years of laughter. He was still so handsome to you, even now, even with the grey in his hair and the way he sometimes groaned when he stood up too quickly.

“Do you miss it?” You asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “The chaos? The noise?”

He chuckled, the sound low and rumbling in his chest. “Sometimes,” he admitted, his thumb brushing absently over your shoulder. “But I don’t miss the sleepless nights or the endless laundry.”

You laughed, the sound echoing in the empty hallway, and for a moment, it felt like the house was alive again, filled with the noise and energy of the life you’d built together.

Will reached for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. His palm was warm, his grip firm but gentle, the way it was always when he was trying to anchor you.

“We did alright, didn’t we?” He asked, his voice soft, almost tentative, like he needed to hear you say it out loud.

You looked at him, your heart swelling with love. “Yeah,” you said, your voice just as soft. “We did.”

He pulled you into a hug, his arms wrapping tightly around you, his chin resting on the top of your head. You closed your eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of him—the faint hint of his cologne, the warmth of his skin, the lingering trace of tea on his breath.

“Still got you, though,” he murmured into your hair, his voice rough with emotion. “That’s all I need.”

You leaned into him, your hands gripping the back of his shirt like you could hold onto this moment forever. “Always,” you whispered, your voice muffled against his chest.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The house was quiet, but it wasn’t empty—not really. Not as long as you had each other.

The hospital room was sterile and quiet, the hum of machines filling the silence. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a cold, clinical glow over everything. Will sat in the chair beside your bed, his hand gripping yours like a lifeline, his fingers trembling slightly despite his firm hold.

“You’re going to be fine,” he said, his voice firm, though his eyes betrayed his fear. They darted to the heart monitor, its steady beep a small comfort, before returning to your face. “The doctor said it’s nothing serious. Just a scare.”

You nodded, though your chest still felt tight—not from the health scare, but from the look on Will’s face. He’d aged ten years in the past hour, his shoulders hunched, his eyes shadowed with worry. His free hand raked through his hair, leaving it dishevelled, and the lines on his forehead seemed deeper, more pronounced.

“Will,” you said softly, squeezing his hand. Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through the silence like a knife. “Look at me.”

He did, his gaze meeting yours. There were tears in his eyes, though he blinked them away quickly, his jaw tightening as he tried to hold himself together. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, a small, repetitive motion that felt like an anchor.

“I’m okay,” you said, your voice steady despite the lump in your throat. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He let out a shaky breath, his free hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair from your face. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, his fingers lingering against your cheek for a moment longer than necessary. “I know,” he said, though his voice wavered. “But for a minute there… I thought…”

“I know,” you said, cutting him off. Your hand tightened around his, your fingers lacing through his. “But I’m here. And I’m not leaving you.”

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. His breath was warm against your skin, his eyes closing as if he were trying to memorise the feel of you. “You’re my forever,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Don’t you dare forget that.”

You closed your eyes, tears slipping down your cheeks. His words echoed in your mind, a quiet promise that felt as solid and unshakeable as the man sitting beside you. “I won’t,” you whispered back, your voice trembling.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the steady beep of the heart monitor and the quiet rhythm of your breathing, syncing together in the stillness of the room. The faint scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, mingling with the warmth of Will’s cologne, a familiar comfort in the midst of the sterile environment.

Then, slowly, Will pulled back, his hands framing your face. His palms were rough against your skin, calloused from years of work, but his touch was impossibly gentle. His eyes searched yours, dark and intense, filled with a love so deep it made your chest ache.

“I love you,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. “More than anything.”

You smiled, your heart swelling with love. Your hand reached up to cover his, your fingers curling around his wrist. “I love you too,” you said, your voice steady now, filled with the certainty of years spent together.

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering against your skin. When he pulled back, his eyes were glistening, but he was smiling—a small, fragile thing that made your heart clench.

“You’re stuck with me, you know,” you said, your voice teasing but soft.

He chuckled, the sound wet and uneven, but genuine. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, catching the silver in your hair as you spun around the room, laughing. The song playing in the background was one from your wedding—a cheesy ballad that Will had teased you about for years but secretly loved. The melody was soft and familiar, filling the room with a warmth that had nothing to do with the sunlight.

Will sat at the table, his hair streaked with more grey than black, a cup cradled in his hands. The steam curled upward, disappearing into the golden light that bathed the room. He watched you with a soft smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made your heart skip a beat, even after all these years.

“You’re ridiculous,” he said, though there was no bite in his tone. His voice was warm, tinged with amusement, and his eyes followed your every move like he was trying to memorise the moment.

You grinned, spinning one last time before collapsing into the chair across from him. The wood creaked softly under your weight, and you reached for the mug of tea you’d left on the table, the ceramic warm against your palms. “You love it,” you said, your voice teasing but soft.

“I do,” he admitted, his voice low and warm, like the sunlight streaming through the window. His fingers traced the rim of his cup, his gaze never leaving yours.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The sunlight bathed the room in gold, the scent of coffee and toast filling the air.

Then, unexpectedly, a question the hadn't thought of in a while crept back into Will’s mind.

Who gets to love me after you?

It wasn’t the first time he’d asked himself that. He remembered the first time he’d brought it up, years ago, when you were still newlyweds. You’d been curled up on the couch, your feet in his lap, and he’d blurted it out like it had been burning a hole in his chest.

“When you’re old and gone… Who gets to love me after you?”

You’d laughed at him then, teasing him for being morbid, but he hadn’t been able to shake the thought. It had haunted him, the idea of a life without you, the fear of being left behind.

Now, as he watched you across the table, your hair streaked with silver and your eyes still bright with laughter, the answer came to him easily, without hesitation.

No one.

Because your love had been enough. It had filled every corner of his heart, every crack in his soul. It was in the way you laughed at his stupid jokes, even when they weren’t funny. It was in the way you held his hand when he was nervous, your fingers lacing through his like they were made to fit there. It was in the way you looked at him now, your eyes soft and full of love, even after all these years.

He didn’t need anyone else. He never had.

Will reached across the table, his hand covering yours. His skin was warm, his touch familiar and grounding. “You’re my forever, you know that?” He said, his voice rough with emotion.

You smiled, your fingers curling around his. “I know,” you said softly. “And you’re mine.”

I wanted to make something light hearted and soft; I think I kind of hit that? Not sure… I know some parts left me sad. This was inspired by one line of a song I listened to on the way back from work, After You by Daily J. I think that the song asks the question from a breakup's perspective, and I thought, 'Hm, what would that be like if it were someone imagining their partner being gone after a marriage?' And boom, the fic got made ☺️☺️

[octaneink]

Cough I'm Sick

Will Lenney x Reader

Summary: Will is sick. Or is he really? Warnings: None Notes: This is based on what was requested from this ask really hope I did it justice 🤞

The soft patter of rain against your window filled the quiet room, a steady rhythm that matched the lazy scrolling of your thumb across your phone screen. You were halfway through a video when a notification popped up, breaking the monotony.

It was from Will.

Will (10:43 AM): Hey… I think I’m sick.

Your thumb hovered over the screen, the words sinking in. Will wasn’t the type to complain. He was the kind of person who’d power through a migraine with a grin and a joke. For him to admit he wasn’t feeling well? That was unusual.

You quickly typed back.

You (10:43 AM): What’s wrong? Do you need anything?

The three dots appeared almost instantly, and you could almost picture him slumped on his couch, phone in hand, trying to muster the energy to type.

Will (10:44 AM): I don’t know… my throat hurts, and I feel kind of weak. Maybe it’s just a cold, but I feel awful.

Your chest tightened. Without thinking, you were on your feet, your phone tossed onto the bed as you grabbed your jacket from the back of the chair. The keys jingled as you snatched them off the bedside table, and you were halfway to the door before you remembered to reply.

You (10:44 AM): I’m coming over. Don’t move.

You didn’t wait for a response. The rain outside was heavier now, the kind that soaked through your shoes if you weren’t careful, but you barely noticed. Your mind was already racing—what did he need? Soup? Medicine? A blanket? You mentally catalogued the contents of your pantry as you hurried to your car, the rain dripping from your hair.

Meanwhile, on the other side of town, Will set his phone down on the couch cushion beside him, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. The living room was dim, the grey light from the overcast sky filtering through the blinds. He’d set the stage perfectly—a blanket haphazardly draped over his legs, a box of tissues strategically placed on the coffee table, and a half-empty glass of water that he’d been sipping to make his throat sound scratchy.

He leaned back against the cushions, letting out a practiced cough for good measure. It wasn’t his finest performance—he’d definitely overdone it with the dramatic sigh earlier—but it was enough to get your attention. And that was the whole point, wasn’t it?

The guilt gnawed at him a little as he thought about how quickly you’d responded. You hadn’t even hesitated. But he pushed the feeling aside, focusing instead on the way your voice had softened over the phone last week when you’d talked about taking care of your best friend after she’d come down with the flu. You’d sounded so caring. And he’d been so busy lately, barely able to squeeze in a quick call between work and editing and everything else. He’d cancelled plans with you three times that month alone, each time promising, “Next week, I’ll make it up to you.” But next week never came, and the distance between you had started to feel like a chasm he didn’t know how to cross.

This was his chance to fix that.

He glanced at the clock, calculating how long it would take you to get here. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen if the rain slowed you down. He adjusted the blanket, mussed his hair a little more, and let out another cough—this one a little quieter, a little more convincing.

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway made his heart skip. He quickly schooled his expression into one of pitiful exhaustion, leaning his head back against the couch and closing his eyes.

The rain had eased to a gentle drizzle by the time you reached Will’s flat, though your shoes were still damp from the earlier downpour. You fumbled with your keys for a moment before letting yourself in, the familiar creak of the door a comforting sound. The warmth of the flat wrapped around you like a hug, a stark contrast to the chilly air outside.

You toed off your shoes by the door, leaving them neatly on the mat, and hung your jacket on the hook beside his. The faint scent of his cologne lingered in the air, mingling with the comforting smell of fresh laundry.

“Will?” you called softly, your voice carrying down the hall.

There was no immediate response, just the faint sound of the TV murmuring in the background. You padded through the flat in your socks, the hardwood floor cool beneath your feet, until you reached the living room.

And there he was.

Will was sprawled across the sofa, wrapped in a blanket like a burrito that had seen better days. His hair was a tousled mess, sticking up in odd directions as though he’d been running his hands through it all morning. His face was pale, save for the faint pink flush on his cheeks, and his eyes were half-closed, as if even keeping them open was a struggle.

“Hey,” he croaked, his voice rough and scratchy. It sounded like he’d been gargling gravel, though you didn’t know he’d been practising that exact tone for the better part of an hour.

“Oh, Will,” you said, your voice softening as you hurried to his side. You knelt beside the sofa, reaching out to press the back of your hand to his forehead. His skin was cool, no sign of a fever, but the way he leaned into your touch made your chest tighten.

“You don’t feel warm,” you murmured, more to yourself than to him.

Will let out a dramatic cough, the kind that sounded like it had been dredged up from the depths of his lungs. “I feel terrible,” he rasped, his voice cracking on the last word for added effect.

You frowned, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. His hair was softer than you’d expected, and for a moment, you let your fingers linger, tracing the line of his brow. “Don’t worry,” you said gently. “I’m here now. I’ll take care of you.”

Will’s breath hitched, just slightly, and he had to fight the urge to smile. He hadn’t expected you to be this sweet. The way you were looking at him—your brow furrowed in concern, your eyes soft and warm—made his chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with his fake illness.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, his voice quieter now, less performative. He shifted slightly, pulling the blanket tighter around himself, though he wasn’t sure if it was to sell the act or to hide the guilt creeping up on him.

You stayed there for a moment, your hand resting lightly on his shoulder, before standing up. “Right,” you said, your tone shifting to something more practical. “Tea first, then we’ll see about getting some proper food into you.”

Will watched as you moved towards the kitchen, your socks barely making a sound on the floor. He sank back into the sofa, the guilt gnawing at him more insistently now. You were going to so much trouble for him, and here he was, lying through his teeth.

But then you glanced back at him from the kitchen doorway, a small smile playing on your lips. “Don’t fall asleep on me, yeah? I’m not carrying you to bed.”

Will chuckled, the sound turning into another cough halfway through. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, though the way his eyes followed you as you disappeared into the kitchen suggested otherwise.

The next few hours passed in a blur of activity, with you slipping into full nurse mode. Will watched from his cocoon of blankets as you moved around his kitchen, the soft clink of utensils and the gentle hum of the kettle filling the room. The rain had picked up again outside, tapping against the windows in a steady rhythm, but inside, the flat felt warm and cosy—thanks in no small part to your efforts.

You started with tea, because of course you did. Will could hear the faint rustle of the teabag as you dunked it into the mug, the hot water turning a pale golden hue almost instantly. The sharp, citrussy tang of fresh lemon filled the air as you squeezed a wedge into the mug, the juice swirling into the steaming liquid. Next came the honey—a generous spoonful drizzled in, its golden richness catching the light as you stirred it slowly, the spoon clinking softly against the ceramic.

“Here,” you said, setting the mug down on the coffee table in front of him. “Drink this. It’ll help your throat.”

Will reached for the mug, his fingers brushing against yours for the briefest moment. “Cheers,” he said, his voice still rough, though this time it wasn’t entirely for show. He took a careful sip, the warmth spreading through him immediately. The honey coated his throat, smooth and sweet, while the lemon added a refreshing sharpness that cut through the heaviness of his guilt.

You didn’t stop there. Next came the pillows. You fluffed them with a precision that bordered on comical, plumping them up before arranging them behind his back just so. Will couldn’t help but smile as you fussed over him, though he quickly masked it with a cough when you glanced his way.

“Comfortable?” you asked, stepping back to survey your handiwork.

“Very,” he said, leaning back against the pillows. “You’re a natural at this, you know.”

You shrugged, but there was a hint of pride in your smile as you turned back to the kitchen. “Just wait until you try the soup.”

Will’s stomach twisted at that. Soup? You were making soup from scratch? He hadn’t expected you to go this far. He watched as you pulled out a pot and began chopping vegetables, the rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board oddly calming. The guilt was starting to gnaw at him in earnest now.

By the time you handed him the bowl, the rich aroma of chicken and vegetables filling the air, Will felt like the worst person alive. The soup looked incredible—golden broth, tender chunks of chicken, and just the right amount of carrot and celery. You’d even added a sprinkle of parsley on top, because of course you had.

“Here,” you said, handing him the bowl and a spoon. “Eat this. It’ll make you feel better.”

Will took the bowl, his fingers brushing against yours again. The warmth of the ceramic seeped into his palms, but it felt heavy, like he was holding something he didn’t deserve. He couldn’t bring himself to meet your eyes. “Thanks… you’re amazing, you know that?”

You smiled, sitting down on the edge of the sofa beside him. “Of course I know that. Now eat up.”

He nodded, stirring the soup absently with the spoon. The first spoonful was warm and comforting, the kind of food that felt like a hug in a bowl. But the warmth turned bitter on his tongue, the savoury flavours clashing with the sour taste of his own dishonesty.

As he ate, you reached over and brushed a strand of hair from his face, your fingers lingering for just a moment. Will’s breath caught, his heart racing in a way that had nothing to do with his fake illness.

“You’re sweating,” you said, your brow furrowing. “Are you sure you’re not running a fever?”

Will shook his head quickly, though he could feel the heat creeping up the back of his neck. “No, no fever. Just… warm under all these blankets.”

You studied him for a moment, your gaze so intense that he had to look away. “Alright,” you said finally, leaning back. “But if you start feeling worse, you’d better tell me.”

“I will,” he promised, though the words tasted bitter on his tongue.

You stayed there for a while, sitting beside him as he pretended to eat, your presence a quiet comfort. Will couldn’t decide if this was the best or worst plan he’d ever come up with. On one hand, he had your undivided attention, your gentle touches, and your soft smiles. On the other, the guilt was really starting to eat him alive.

When you finally stood up to take the empty bowl back to the kitchen, Will let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. He sank back into the pillows, staring up at the ceiling.

This was going to be harder than he thought.

The TV flickered softly in the dimly lit room, casting a warm glow over the two of you. You’d put on one of Will’s favourite films—a comedy he’d quoted endlessly the first time you’d watched it together. He’d protested weakly when you suggested it, claiming he was “too poorly” to focus, but you’d insisted.

“It’ll take your mind off things,” you’d said, handing him the remote.

Now, halfway through the film, Will was perched on the edge of the sofa, his blanket slipping off one shoulder. His eyes were fixed on the screen, his earlier lethargy seemingly forgotten. You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, noting the way his shoulders shook with silent laughter as the main character stumbled into yet another absurd situation.

It was the scene where the hapless hero accidentally set his trousers on fire while trying to impress a love interest. Will had always found it hysterical, and tonight was no exception. He let out a loud, unrestrained laugh, the sound filling the room before he caught himself and clamped a hand over his mouth.

You turned to him slowly, one eyebrow arched. “You seem… energetic for someone who’s supposed to be sick.”

Will froze, his laughter dying in his throat. For a split second, panic flashed across his face before he quickly broke into a coughing fit, doubling over for good measure. “Oh, no,” he rasped between coughs, his voice deliberately rough. “I’m definitely sick. Just… laughing through the pain, you know?”

You didn’t respond immediately. Will could feel the weight of your scrutiny, the way your eyes seemed to see right through him. He shifted uncomfortably under the blanket, suddenly very aware of how warm the room felt.

“Right,” you said finally, your tone neutral but laced with something he couldn’t quite place. “Laughing through the pain. Got it.”

You turned back to the TV, but Will noticed the way your lips twitched, as if you were fighting a smile. He wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a very, very bad one.

The film continued, but the mood had shifted. Will tried to keep up the act, letting out the occasional cough or sigh, but it felt forced now. He couldn’t shake the feeling that you were onto him. Every time he glanced your way, you seemed to be studying him, your expression unreadable.

At one point, you reached for the remote and paused the film, turning to him with a thoughtful look. “Do you need anything? More tea? Another blanket?”

Will shook his head quickly, perhaps too quickly. “No, I’m fine. Really.”

You nodded, but the way your eyes narrowed slightly told him you weren’t entirely convinced. “Alright,” you said, standing up. “I’m just going to grab a glass of water. Don’t move.”

As soon as you were out of the room, Will let out a long, shaky breath. He slumped back against the sofa, running a hand through his hair.

This was really hard.

When you returned, glass in hand, you paused in the doorway, watching him for a moment. Will was staring at the paused screen, his brow furrowed as if deep in thought. You couldn’t help but notice the way his cheeks flushed when he realised you were there.

“Everything okay?” you asked, your voice soft but probing.

Will nodded, forcing a weak smile. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

You hummed in response, setting the glass down on the coffee table. “Well, let me know if you need anything else.”

Will nodded again, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that you were seeing right through him. As you settled back onto the sofa, he pulled the blanket tighter around himself.

The evening light had faded to a soft, golden glow, casting long shadows across the living room. Will sat on the sofa, the blanket still draped over his legs, though it felt heavier now—not from warmth, but from the weight of his guilt. You were in the kitchen, humming softly as you prepared yet another cup of tea for him. The sound of the kettle whistling and the clink of the spoon against the mug were familiar and comforting, but they only made the knot in his stomach tighten.

When you returned, tea in hand, you settled beside him on the sofa, your knee brushing against his. “Here,” you said, passing him the mug. “Careful, it’s hot.”

Will took it, his fingers trembling slightly as they wrapped around the warm ceramic. He stared into the steaming liquid, the faint scent of chamomile and honey filling his nose. His throat felt dry, but not from the fake illness he’d been pretending to have all day.

“Will?” you said, your voice soft but laced with concern. “You’ve gone quiet. Are you feeling worse?”

He shook his head quickly, his grip tightening on the mug. “No, I’m… I’m not sick.”

The words tumbled out before he could stop them, his voice barely above a whisper. You blinked, setting your own mug down on the coffee table with a soft clink.

“What?” you asked, your brow furrowing.

Will sighed, running a hand through his hair. It was messier than usual, sticking up in odd directions from all the times he’d nervously tugged at it throughout the day. “I faked it,” he admitted, his voice cracking slightly. “I’m not sick. I just… I wanted to spend time with you. I’ve been so busy lately, and I missed you. And when I saw how you took care of your friend last week, I thought… maybe if I was sick, you’d do the same for me.”

For a moment, you just stared at him, your expression unreadable. Will’s heart pounded in his chest, the silence stretching between you like a taut wire. Then, to his utter surprise, you started laughing.

It wasn’t a polite chuckle or a stifled giggle—it was a full, unrestrained laugh that made your shoulders shake and your eyes crinkle at the corners. Will stared at you, his cheeks flushing red as he tried to process what was happening.

“You’re unbelievable,” you said, shaking your head. “You really thought faking sick was the best way to get my attention?”

Will opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. Instead, he let out a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “In my defence, it worked.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile on your lips softened the gesture. “You’re lucky I love you, you big dork.”

Will’s chest swelled with relief, the tension in his shoulders easing for the first time all day. “So… you’re not mad?”

“Oh, I’m mad,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest. But the way your lips twitched, fighting back a smile, betrayed your words. “But I’m also impressed. That was a pretty elaborate scheme.”

Will reached for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice earnest. “I just… I really missed you.”

Your expression softened, the playful sternness melting away. “I missed you too,” you admitted, squeezing his hand. “But next time, just tell me, okay? You don’t have to fake being sick to get cuddles.”

Will laughed, the sound warm and genuine as he pulled you closer. “Noted. But just so you know, I’m totally using this as an excuse to get more of your soup.”

You playfully shoved him, though there was no real force behind it. “You’re impossible.”

“But you love me,” he said, grinning as he leaned in to press a kiss to your temple.

“Yeah,” you admitted, leaning into his side with a contented sigh. “I do.”

The two of you sat there for a moment, the silence comfortable now, the tension from his confession completely dissolved. Will’s thumb traced small circles on the back of your hand, his earlier guilt replaced by a quiet contentment. You tilted your head, studying him with a soft smile.

“Come on, then,” you said, your voice gentle as you shifted on the sofa.

Will raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Come on, what?”

You rolled your eyes, though there was no real annoyance behind it. “Don’t play dumb. You went through all this trouble for cuddles, didn’t you? So come here.”

Will didn’t need to be told twice. He set his mug of tea on the coffee table and moved closer, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he were savouring the moment. You leaned back against the arm of the sofa, opening your arms to him. Will settled between your legs, his head resting on your chest, his arms wrapping around your waist.

The warmth of his body against yours was instantly comforting, and you couldn’t help but smile as you felt him relax into you. His breath was steady, his heartbeat a soft rhythm against your side. You reached up, your fingers gently carding through his hair, the strands soft and slightly messy from the day.

Will let out a contented sigh, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “This is nice,” he murmured, his voice muffled against your shirt. “And… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lied. I just didn’t know how else to tell you I missed you.”

Your fingers stilled in his hair for a moment, then resumed their gentle rhythm. “I missed you too,” you said softly. “But next time, just say it, okay? No more fake coughs or dramatic sighs.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating against you. “No promises. But I’ll try.”

You shook your head, though you were smiling. “You’re impossible.”

“But you love me,” he said, tilting his head just enough to look up at you, his grin cheeky.

“Yeah,” you admitted, your voice soft. You pressed a kiss to the top of his head, lingering for a moment. “I really do.”

You reached for the remote, unpausing the movie. The familiar soundtrack filled the room, but neither of you was really paying attention. Will’s arms tightened around your waist, his head nestling more firmly against your chest. Your hand continued its gentle rhythm through his hair, occasionally drifting down to trace the line of his jaw or the curve of his shoulder.

Will let out another sigh, this one deeper, more relaxed. “You’re really good at this,” he said, his voice drowsy.

“At what?” you asked, your fingers stilling for a moment.

“This,” he said, gesturing vaguely to the two of you. “Taking care of me. Making me feel… I don’t know. Safe.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “You don’t have to fake being sick for that, either,” you said softly. “I’ll always take care of you.”

Will didn’t respond, but the way he squeezed you a little tighter told you he’d heard. The movie played on in the background, the dialogue and music blending into a soothing hum. Will’s breathing grew slower, more even, and you realised he was drifting off.

You smiled to yourself, your hand still moving gently through his hair. Maybe his plan had been ridiculous, but as you sat there, wrapped up in each other, you couldn’t bring yourself to mind.

Hehehe 😁 What do people think? I hope no one minds the back and forth of the perspectives/didn't find it too confusing.

[octaneink]

Food Market Dates

Will Lenney x Fem!Reader

Summary : A totally cute, innocent date at the market where they try out new foods Warnings: Implied sexual themes towards the end and a discussion about pineapple being on pizza Notes: I am sorry gang idk what happened to me when I was writing this. It was like I was possessed, mostly for that part at the end.

The train rattled along the tracks, the dreary UK weather outside the window a mix of grey skies and the occasional drizzle. Will sat next to you, his long legs stretched out into the aisle, his hand resting comfortably in yours. His thumb traced lazy circles over your knuckles, a small, absentminded gesture that made your stomach flutter. He was scrolling through his phone with his free hand, the faint sound of whatever video he was watching barely audible over the hum of the train.

You, on the other hand, were engrossed in a book—paperback you’d picked up at the station earlier. It was one of those novels you loved, the kind that end up with a dog-eared cover and pages that smelt faintly of coffee. You were halfway through a particularly juicy scene when Will suddenly squeezed your hand, pulling your attention away from the page.

"You know what I’m most excited about today?" he asked, his voice breaking the quiet hum of the train.

You looked up, marking your page with a finger. "What? Finally admitting that I have impeccable taste in food?"

He snorted, shaking his head. "Impeccable taste? That’s a stretch. Remember the time you tried to convince me that pineapple belongs on pizza?"

"Because it does!"

"Because you’re wrong," he shot back, grinning.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. "Fine. So what are you most excited about, then?"

He leaned back in his seat, his hand still warm in yours. "The food, obviously. But also… just this. You, me, no plans, no stress. Just a normal, chill day. No arguments about pizza toppings, no you stealing the last bite of dessert—"

"Hey, that was one time!"

"—and no me having to remind you that pineapple is a crime against pizza," he finished, his grin widening.

You nudged him with your shoulder, laughing softly. "Well, for the record, I’m excited too. Even if you do have terrible opinions about food."

"Oi, my opinions are flawless," he said, though the twinkle in his eyes suggested he knew exactly how flawed they were.

You shook your head, leaning into him slightly. The train swayed gently, and you let your eyes drift back to the window, watching the grey landscape blur past. Will’s hand tightened around yours, a silent reassurance that pulled your attention back to him.

"So," he said, his tone light and teasing, "what’s the first thing we’re getting at the market? And don’t say something weird like… I don’t know, candied eels."

You laughed, the sound soft and warm in the quiet carriage. "I was thinking skewers. Or maybe that tea place we saw last time. You know, the one with the really colourful drinks?"

"Ah, the one you made me try even though I said I didn’t like boba?"

"You loved it!"

"I tolerated it," he corrected, though the smile on his face betrayed him.

"Sure you did," you said, rolling your eyes. "And I’m sure you’ll tolerate it again today."

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, and you felt his thumb brush over your knuckles again. "Fine. But only because you’re cute when you’re smug."

You shook your head, laughing softly, and let your gaze drift back to the window, the train rattled on, the rhythm of the tracks steady and comforting.

The market was a riot of colours and sounds—stalls draped in vibrant fabrics, the sharp hiss of oil hitting a hot griddle, and vendors’ voices rising above the hum of the crowd. The air was thick with the mingling scents of spices, sweet sauces, and the occasional waft of fresh herbs. Will walked beside you, his hand brushing yours every so often, his touch light but deliberate, as if he couldn’t quite resist the pull to be closer. The two of you wandered through the bustling aisles, the smell of freshly steamed dough and savoury fillings drawing you toward a stall selling bao buns.

You stopped in front of the stall, the golden, fluffy buns piled high on the griddle, their tops glistening under the soft glow of the stall’s lights. You pointed at the pork-filled ones, turning to Will with a grin. "Can we get these?"

He nodded, already pulling out his wallet. "Anything for you," he said, handing over the cash to the vendor with a quick smile. His voice was soft, almost tender, and it sent a little shiver down your spine. Turning to you, he added, “But don’t let it go to your head.”

You rolled your eyes, but the way his lips quirked into a smile made it hard to stay annoyed. There was something about the way he looked at you—like you were the only person in the entire market—that made your heart skip a beat.

The vendor handed you a paper tray with two fluffy bao, the steam rising in delicate curls. Will leaned in, his shoulder brushing yours as he studied the buns. "Alright, let’s see if these are as good as they look," you said, picking one up and blowing on it gently before taking the first bite.

The rich, savoury filling hit your tongue, the flavours of tender pork, sweet hoisin, and a hint of ginger mingling perfectly. Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment, a small, contented hum escaping you. When you opened your eyes, Will was watching you, his gaze soft and intent, as if he were memorising the way your face lit up.

"That good, huh?" He asked, his voice low and warm, like the first sip of tea on a cold morning.

You nodded, carefully breaking off a piece of the bao, making sure to get a bit of the tender pork, the sweet hoisin, and a hint of ginger in one perfect bite. Holding it out to him, you grinned. "Your turn."

He leaned in, his lips brushing against your fingers as he took a bite. His eyes widened as he chewed, a look of genuine surprise crossing his face. "Alright, that’s incredible. Another one."

You laughed, breaking off another piece and holding it out to him. He took it from your fingers, his lips grazing your skin again, and this time, you felt the warmth of his breath against your hand. The simple act felt strangely intimate, and you couldn’t help the way your pulse quickened.

The two of you went back and forth, sharing the bao bun between you—breaking off pieces, you feeding Will, and laughing as you tried to avoid getting sauce on your hands. The warmth of the buns contrasted with the crisp autumn air, but it was nothing compared to the warmth spreading through your chest every time Will’s fingers brushed yours or his eyes met yours with that soft, knowing look.

By the time the bao was almost gone, you held up the last bite, raising an eyebrow at Will. "Final piece. Who gets it?"

He grinned, his eyes locking onto yours as he leaned in. His lips grazed your fingers again, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary as he took the bite. "Cheers, love," he said, his voice low and teasing, the endearment slipping out so naturally it made your breath catch.

Your fingers froze midair, the warmth of his lips lingering on your skin. You quickly looked away, pretending to fuss with the napkin, but the heat in your cheeks betrayed you. Will caught your reaction—the way your eyes flickered, the slight smile you tried to hide, the way your fingers lingered in the air for a second too long. He didn’t say anything, but the corner of his mouth twitched into a knowing smirk.

Before you could recover, he leaned in again, this time pressing a quick, soft peck to your lips. You blinked, startled, but before you could say anything, he pulled back slightly, his tongue darting out to lick his own lower lip. "Sorry," he said, his voice teasing, "you had a bit of sauce there."

You stared at him, your face burning. "There was no sauce," you protested, licking your lips.

He shrugged, his smirk widening as he followed your lips. "Could’ve sworn there was. Ah well, there's none now. You're welcome, by the way."

You shook your head, laughing softly to cover your fluster. Will glanced around the stall, taking in the steam rising from the griddle and the vibrant colours of the surrounding market. "Alright," he said, slipping his hands into his pockets. "What’s next?"

You and Will wandered through the aisles, the vibrant colours of the stalls and the chatter of vendors creating a lively backdrop. You had just left the bao stand, the taste of the fluffy buns still lingering on your tongue. Will walked beside you, his arm brushing against yours as you navigated the busy aisles. His hand occasionally grazed yours, his fingers brushing against your skin in a way that felt deliberate, like he was testing the waters, seeing how close he could get without fully taking your hand. Each touch sent a little spark through you, and you couldn’t help but smile to yourself.

"So," he said, glancing down at you with a grin, "what’s next? You’re the food expert here."

You laughed, shaking your head. "I’m not an expert. I just like eating."

"Same thing," he replied, his tone teasing. "You’ve got that… vibe. Like you know what’s good."

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t hide your smile. "Alright, Mr. Compliments. Let’s see…"

You scanned the stalls as you walked, the two of you weaving through the crowd. The market was a maze of options—sizzling skewers, steaming dumplings, colourful desserts, and more. Will kept pace beside you, his hands in his pockets, but sometimes, he’d bump your shoulder or let his fingers brush against yours, sending little jolts of warmth through you. It was like he couldn’t help himself, and honestly, neither could you.

"Remember that time we tried to make bao buns at home?" he asked suddenly, a smirk tugging at his lips.

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. "Don’t remind me. That was a disaster."

"Disaster?" he repeated, laughing. "Mate, we set off the smoke alarm. Twice."

"Yeah, because someone thought it was a good idea to crank the oven up to max," you shot back, grinning.

"Hey, I was following your instructions!"

"You were not!"

The two of you laughed, the memory of flour-covered counters and charred buns still fresh in your minds. Will nudged you with his elbow, his grin widening. "We should try it again sometime. Third time’s the charm, yeah?"

"Only if you promise not to touch the oven," you said, raising an eyebrow.

"Deal," he replied, holding up his hands in mock surrender. His fingers brushed against yours as he lowered them, and you felt the warmth of his touch linger even after he pulled away. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, the noise of the market seemed to fade into the background. There was something in his gaze—something soft and unguarded—that made your heart skip a beat.

As you continued walking, the smell of grilled meat caught your attention. You glanced toward a stall selling skewers—yakitori, grilled prawns, and lamb kebabs. The skewers were glistening with a sticky glaze, the aroma irresistible.

"Skewers?" you asked, nodding toward the stall.

Will followed your gaze, his eyes lighting up. "Skewers it is."

You approached the stall, the vendor busy flipping skewers on a hot grill. Will leaned in, his shoulder brushing yours as he studied the options. "Can we try one of each?" you asked, turning to Will.

He raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Greedy today, aren’t we?" He teased, but he was already pulling out his wallet and handing over the cash. His fingers brushed against yours as he handed you the tray, and you felt a little shiver run down your spine.

The vendor handed you a paper tray with the skewers, the smell of charred meat and sweet marinade making your mouth water. Will watched as you picked up the lamb skewer, taking the first bite.

The rich, slightly gamey flavour of the lamb skewer hit your tongue, and you wrinkled your nose, clearly not a fan. You glanced at Will, who was already watching you with that amused glint in his eyes, like he’d been waiting for your reaction.

He chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he laughed. "Not your thing, huh?"

You shook your head, handing the skewer to him. "Here, you can have it."

He took it without hesitation, biting into it as he kept his gaze on your face. "What’s wrong with it?" he asked, mouth full, his voice muffled but still teasing.

You shrugged, already reaching for the yakitori. "Just not my thing. Too… gamey."

Will chuckled, still chewing. "You’re just using me as a human bin, aren’t you?"

You grinned, taking a bite of the yakitori. The tender chicken, glazed with a sweet soy sauce, was perfect—juicy, flavourful, and exactly what you’d been craving. "Pretty much," you said, your mouth half-full. "But hey, you don’t seem to mind."

He finished the lamb skewer in a few quick bites, licking a bit of sauce from his thumb in a way that was unfairly distracting. "I don’t," he said, his tone light but his eyes lingering on you a beat too long. "But don’t think I won’t remember this next time you’re eyeing my fries."

You laughed, shaking your head. "Noted."

He reached for the grilled prawn next, holding it out to you. "Your turn."

You took a bite, the smoky flavour of the prawn hitting your tongue. It wasn’t bad—grilled to perfection with a hint of chilli and garlic—but it wasn’t your favourite either. You gently pushed the skewer back toward him. "Here, you can have this one too," you said, laughing.

He raised an eyebrow, his expression playful. "Are you sure? These look banging."

You laughed, shaking your head. "I’m sure," you said, though a small part of you wondered if he’d noticed how your pulse quickened when his fingers brushed yours. You took another bite of the yakitori, the savoury flavour grounding you. "I’m sticking with this."

He shrugged, taking a bite of the prawn. His eyes lit up as he chewed. "Alright, you’re missing out. This is delicious."

You laughed, shaking your head. "I’ll take your word for it."

Will reached for the yakitori, taking a small bite. His eyes widened as he chewed, a look of genuine surprise crossing his face. "Okay, you’re right," he said, his voice warm and a little teasing. "This is superb."

You grinned, holding out the skewer to him. "I know, right? Want more?"

He shook his head, pushing it back toward you with a soft smile. "Nah, that one’s yours. I’ve got the prawns."

You smiled, taking another bite of the yakitori as Will glanced around the skewer stall, taking in the sizzling grill and the vibrant display of meats. His eyes lingered on the vendor flipping skewers with practiced ease, the flames from the grill casting a warm glow on his face. For a moment, you just watched him—the way his lips curved into a small smile, the way his shoulders relaxed as he leaned casually against the stall. He looked… happy. Content. And it made your chest feel impossibly warm.

"Right," he said, turning back to you with a grin. "What’s next? Drinks?"

You nodded, finishing the last bite of yakitori and tossing the skewer into a nearby bin. "Drinks sound perfect. But only if you’re paying."

He laughed, the sound low and warm, and you felt his hand brush against yours again as he stepped closer. "You’re relentless, you know that?"

"Yep," you said, grinning up at him. "And you love it."

He didn’t deny it, just shook his head with that same soft smile as he reached for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. "C’mon, then," he said, tugging you gently toward the next stall. "Let’s find something sweet to wash all this down."

As you wandered further into the market, you spotted a stand selling bubble tea. Visual samples of colourful drinks were lined up in tall plastic cups, the boba pearls glistening like little jewels at the bottom. You pulled Will over, studying the menu, your fingers still loosely intertwined with his. His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, a small, absentminded gesture that made your stomach flutter.

After a moment, you pointed at the Thai iced tea and the classic milk tea with boba.

Will raised an eyebrow, his smirk playful. "Two drinks? Greedy, aren’t we?"

You smirked back, already reaching for your wallet, but he beat you to it, pulling out his own with a wink. "My treat," he said, handing over the cash before you could protest.

The vendor handed you the drinks, and you immediately took a sip of the Thai iced tea. It was sweet and creamy, the perfect balance of flavours. The rich, spiced tea blended perfectly with the condensed milk, and you couldn’t help but hum in approval, your eyes meeting his, Will was watching you his expression soft and amused.

"That good, huh?" he asked, his voice low and warm.

You nodded, holding out the drink to him. "Your turn."

He took a sip, his eyes widening as the flavours hit his tongue. "Wow," he said, his tone genuinely surprised. "That’s… incredible. Not too sweet."

You laughed, taking the drink back. "Told you."

Next, he reached for the milk tea, taking a cautious sip. The chewy boba pearls rolled into his mouth as he chewed, and his eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Okay, this is amazing too. How do you always know what’s good?"

You grinned, taking a sip of the milk tea yourself. The chewy boba was a pleasant surprise, and you couldn’t help but smile. "It’s a gift," you said, your tone teasing.

Will noticed your reaction, holding out his hand for the milk tea. "Let me try that again."

You handed it to him, and he took another sip, his eyes lighting up as he savoured it. "Yeah, no, this is definitely a winner. You’ve got impeccable taste."

You laughed, shaking your head. "I know."

Then he reached for the Thai iced tea again, taking a longer sip this time. His face lit up even more, a look of pure delight crossing his features. "Okay, wait, this one might be even better. How is that possible?"

You laughed, shaking your head. "Of course you like the one I wanted. Typical."

Will grinned, holding the Thai iced tea out of your reach. "Finders keepers."

"Oi!" you protested, trying to grab it back.

He held it high above his head, laughing as you jumped to reach it. "You’re such a child," you said, though you couldn’t stop smiling.

Will finally relented, handing the drink back to you with a smirk. "Alright, alright. You can have it. But only because you’re cute when you pout."

You rolled your eyes, taking the Thai iced tea and taking another sip. Will glanced around the drink stall, taking in the colourful display of drinks, but his hand never left yours. His fingers laced through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world, and you couldn’t help but notice how warm and solid his grip felt.

"Right," he said, turning back to you with a grin. "What’s next? Dessert?"

You nodded, "Dessert sounds perfect."

He laughed, the sound rich and warm, and you felt it vibrate through your chest. "You’re relentless, you know that?"

"Yep," you said, grinning up at him. "And you love it."

He didn’t deny it, just shook his head with that same soft smile as he tugged you gently toward the next stall. The market lights flickered on as the sun began to set, casting a warm, golden glow over everything. The air was cooler now, but you barely noticed, too focused on the warmth of his hand in yours and the way his shoulder brushed against yours as you walked.

The dessert stall was a colourful explosion of sweets—mochi, taiyaki, and towering soft serve cones in flavours like matcha, black sesame, and hojicha. You pointed at the matcha soft serve, the vibrant green ice cream swirling into a perfect peak, its colour so vivid it almost glowed under the soft lights of the stall. The earthy aroma of matcha wafted toward you, mingling with the sweet scent of condensed milk. "Can we get one of those?" you asked, turning to Will with a hopeful smile.

Will glanced at the cone, then back at you, his expression softening as he took in the way your eyes lit up. He didn’t say anything at first, just reached for his wallet, his fingers brushing against yours as he pulled it out. You couldn’t help but notice the way his lips curved into a small, private smile.

"If it makes you smile like that, of course," he said, his voice low and warm, like the first sip of tea on a cold morning. He handed over the cash to the vendor, his movements unhurried, as if he were savouring the moment as much as you were.

You and Will moved away from the stall, weaving through the bustling crowd until you found a quieter spot near the edge of the market. It wasn’t much—just a small alcove between two stalls, sheltered from the main flow of foot traffic—but it felt like your own little haven.

Will leaned casually against the wall, his shoulder brushing yours as you stood side by side. The hum of the market was still there, but it felt distant now, like background noise to the quiet moment you were sharing. You held the cone between you, the coolness of the ice cream a sharp contrast to the warmth of his body so close to yours.

"Alright, let’s see if this lives up to the hype," you said, leaning in and gently wrapping your lips around the creamy peak, sucking lightly to pull a bite of the cold, velvety ice cream into your mouth. Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment, the soft serve like a whisper of spring—earthy, sweet, and impossibly smooth. The bitterness of the matcha balanced perfectly with the creamy sweetness, and you couldn’t help but let out a small, contented hum.

When you opened your eyes, you caught Will staring at you, his gaze lingering on your lips for a second too long. There was something in his expression—something soft and unguarded—that made your stomach flip.

"Your turn," you said, holding the cone out to him, pretending not to notice the faint flush creeping up your neck.

He blinked, snapping out of whatever thought had momentarily distracted him, and took the cone from you. But instead of taking a bite, he held it carefully in one hand, his eyes never leaving yours. The soft serve was starting to melt slightly, a tiny drip sliding down the side of the cone, but Will didn’t seem to care.

Before you could say anything, he stepped closer, his free hand sliding around your waist to pull you in. "I think I’d rather taste it this way," he murmured, his voice low and teasing.

And then he kissed you.

His lips were warm and insistent, capturing yours in a kiss that started soft but quickly deepened. You could feel the cool sweetness of the matcha still lingering on your lips, and Will seemed determined to savour every bit of it. His hand slid to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling gently in your hair as he tilted your head just slightly, deepening the kiss.

At first, his tongue brushed against yours tentatively, a slow, teasing exploration that sent shivers down your spine. But then, as if he couldn’t hold back any longer, the kiss grew more insistent, more passionate. His tongue swept against yours, warm and searching, as if he were trying to memorise the taste of you mixed with the earthy sweetness of the matcha. You melted into him, your hands finding their way to his chest, the fabric of his jumper soft under your fingertips. You could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm, quickening just like yours.

The world around you seemed to fade away—the low chatter of the market, the sizzle of food on grills, the faint hum of music from a nearby stall. All that mattered was the way his lips moved against yours, the way his breath mingled with yours, the way his body pressed close, solid and reassuring.

When he finally pulled back, it was only slightly, his forehead resting against yours as you both caught your breath. His blue eyes were dark, his pupils wide and blown with want, his gaze heavy with something that made your stomach flip. It wasn’t just unspoken—it was hunger, pure and undeniable. The way he looked at you, like you were the only thing that mattered at that moment, sent a shiver down your spine.

"Yeah," he murmured, his voice rough and a little unsteady, as if he were struggling to keep himself in check. "Definitely starting to see the appeal."

His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, where a faint trace of matcha still lingered, and you could feel the slight tremor in his hand. It was as if he were holding himself back, but just barely. The air between you felt charged, electric, and you could see the conflict in his eyes—the way he wanted to kiss you again, to pull you closer, to lose himself in you completely.

"Will," you started, your voice soft, but he shook his head, a small, almost rueful smile tugging at his lips.

"Don’t," he said, his voice low. "If you say my name like that, I’m not going to be able to stop."

Your breath hitched, your heart pounding in your chest as you stared up at him. There was no mistaking the desire in his eyes, the way his gaze dropped to your lips again, like he was already imagining kissing you a second time. He wanted you—wanted you in a way that was almost overwhelming, and it was written all over his face.

But instead of giving in, he stepped back slightly, his hand sliding from your waist. He glanced down at the cone, as if grounding himself, and let out a soft laugh. "Guess I got a little distracted," he said, his tone lighter now, though his eyes still burnt with that same intensity.

"Just a little," you said, teasing, though your voice was a little breathless. You couldn’t help but notice the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers flexed around the cone, like he was fighting the urge to reach for you again. Before he could say anything, you reached out and gently took the cone from his hand, your fingers brushing against his in the process. The contact sent a little spark through you, and you saw his eyes darken as he watched you.

"Careful," you said, your tone light but your gaze holding his. "You’re going to drop it if you keep getting distracted."

He let out a soft laugh, though it sounded a little strained, and ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, well, you’re not exactly helping," he said. His eyes dropped to your lips again, and you could see the way he was struggling to keep himself in check.

You took a small bite of the ice cream, the cool sweetness a sharp contrast to the heat building between you. Will watched you, his gaze intense, and you couldn’t help but tease him a little. "Want a taste?" you asked, holding the cone out to him, your tone innocent but your eyes playful.

He shook his head, a small, almost rueful smile tugging at his lips. "I already had my taste," he said, his voice dropping lower. "And it’s going to be a problem if I have another."

Your face flushed, but you couldn’t help the smile that spread across your lips. Will stepped closer, his hand brushing against yours as he reached for the cone. "But since you’re offering…" he said, his tone teasing as he took a small peice, his eyes never leaving yours. There was something in the way he looked at you, something raw and unguarded, that made your pulse quicken and your cheeks burn.

He handed the cone back to you with a smirk, his arm still wrapped around your waist, pulling you just a little closer. "Next time, though," he said, his tone playful but his eyes soft with something deeper, "I’m picking the flavour."

"Deal," you said, leaning into him, the warmth of his body a comforting contrast to the cool evening air. You took another bite of the ice cream, the earthy sweetness of the matcha mingling with the lingering taste of him on your lips. The market buzzed around you, but it felt distant, like the two of you were in your own little world.

Will’s thumb brushed lightly over your hip, his touch sending a shiver through you even through the layers of your clothes. "You know," he said, his voice low and warm, "I think this might be the best date we’ve ever had."

You smiled up at him, your heart swelling at the sincerity in his voice. "Yeah," you agreed softly. "It’s pretty perfect."

He chuckled, the sound rich and full, and you felt it vibrate through your chest. "Glad you think so," he said, his tone light but his gaze holding yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. "Because I’m not done yet."

"Oh?" you asked, raising an eyebrow, though your voice was a little breathless.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, "Nope. Not even close."

Your face flushed, but you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you. "You’re horrible." you said, though the way your heart raced betrayed how much his words affected you.

Will grinned, pulling you closer as you continued walking through the market. The lights twinkled above, casting a warm glow over the stalls, and the scent of spices and sweets filled the air. His hand never left yours, his fingers laced through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

As you strolled, the sounds of the market fading into the background, you couldn’t help but think that moments like this—simple, sweet, and shared with him—were your favourite kind. Will’s hand in yours, his laughter in your ears, and the promise of more ahead made everything feel just a little bit magical.

😮‍💨 damn. I got carried away with this one… Was that kiss realistic? I've never kissed anyone that wasn't a peck, so I just guessed at what it would be like. Was that okay? Do people have any pointers for writing reasonable make out sessions? 🤭But anyways… I hope people enjoy!

[octaneink]

Twenty-nine? More like twenty fine

Will Lenney x Reader

Summary: The Reader and Will spend his birthday together Warnings: None Notes: This is also indulgent, I hope people like it!

The morning sunlight streamed through the kitchen window as you tied your apron around your waist, a sense of excitement bubbling in your chest. Today was Will’s 29th birthday, and you had a plan. Baking was your passion, and you were determined to make him the most incredible cake he’d ever seen.

You pulled out your recipe book, its pages stained with buttercream and dotted with notes from past baking adventures. The cake itself would be simple—a rich chocolate sponge with layers of salted caramel buttercream. But the real showstopper would be the decoration. You’d decided on a sleek, modern design: smooth white frosting with gold accents and a bold “Twenty Nine” piped in black elegant script on top.

The kitchen quickly filled with the warm, comforting scent of chocolate as the cakes baked in the oven, the aroma wrapping around you like a cosy blanket. You hummed along to your playlist, the rhythm of the music syncing with the steady whir of the mixer as you worked. Once the cakes were out of the oven and cooling on the wire rack, you turned your attention to the buttercream. You whisked together softened butter, powdered sugar, and a pinch of sea salt, the mixture transforming into a cloud of velvety smoothness.

By mid-afternoon, the cakes had cooled completely, their domed tops levelled to be ready for assembly. You spread a generous layer of buttercream between each tier, the palette knife gliding as you smoothed it into an even filling. Next came the crumb coat—a thin layer of frosting that hugged the cake, locking in any stray crumbs and allowing for a neat canvas for the final layer. With a satisfied smile, you carefully placed the cake in the fridge to set, the chill firming up the buttercream just enough for the next step.

While it rested, you tidied up your workspace and prepared the edible gold paint, mixing the shimmering dust with a few drops of vodka until it gleamed like liquid sunlight.

When the crumb coat was firm to the touch, you began the final layer of frosting. This was your favourite part. You dipped your offset spatula into the bowl of buttercream, its silky texture gliding effortlessly as you spread it in long, sweeping strokes around the sides of the cake. The motion was rhythmic, almost meditative, your hands moving slowly to create a smooth finish. Once the sides were to your liking, you turned your attention to the top, gently coaxing the frosting into an even layer that resembled a pristine blanket of freshly fallen snow.

Next came the gold accents. You dipped a fine brush into the edible gold paint, then brought the brush to the cake so you could add delicate details to the cake. A few swipes here, a few dots there—it was subtle but striking, just like you thought. Finally, you piped the words “Twenty Nine” on top in a looping, cursive font, stepping back to admire your handiwork. You snapped a quick photo to commemorate your masterpiece before covering it with a cake dome to keep it fresh.

As the afternoon melted into evening, you turned your attention to the rest of the decorations, determined to make the space as special as the cake. Fairy lights were carefully strung around the living room, their soft, golden glow casting a warm, inviting ambiance. A cluster of balloons in muted tones bobbed gently near the doorway, and a banner that read “Happy Birthday!” in bold, elegant lettering added a festive yet understated touch. On the coffee table, you arranged a spread of his favourite snacks—crisps, chocolates, and a few savoury bites—alongside a chilled bottle of champagne, its condensation glistening in the low light. Just in case he was in the mood to celebrate, you wanted to be ready. And of course, at the centre of it, his birthday cake.

When Will finally texted to say he was on his way home, you lit the candles on the cake, their soft flicker casting a warm glow over the room. With a bundle of balloons in one hand and his carefully wrapped gift in the other, you positioned yourself by the door, your heart racing with anticipation. The sound of keys jingling in the lock made your smile widen, and as the door creaked open, you called out, “Hey, birthday boy!” The balloons bobbed cheerfully above you, their vibrant colours adding to the festive atmosphere, while the gift in your hand felt like a small token of everything you wanted to say.

Will stepped inside, looking slightly dishevelled but still as effortlessly handsome as ever. His eyes widened as he took in the scene—the twinkling fairy lights, the balloons bobbing gently in the corner, and the banner that proudly declared, “Happy Birthday!” But it was the cake sitting proudly on the coffee table that truly caught his attention. Its smooth, flawless frosting and delicate gold accents gleamed under the soft glow of the lights, looking almost too perfect to eat.

“What’s all this?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief as he turned to you, his gaze flickering between the balloons in your hand and the gift tucked under your arm.

“It’s your birthday,” you said, stepping closer to pull him into a warm hug. As you wrapped your arms around him, the balloons brushed against his shoulder, and instinctively, his hands found your waist, his touch firm but gentle. His fingers curled slightly, as if anchoring himself to you, and you could feel the warmth of his palms even through the fabric of your shirt.

“I couldn’t let it go by without making a fuss,” you added, your voice muffled slightly against his chest.

Will’s eyes softened as he glanced back at the cake, then at the spread of snacks and champagne on the coffee table. His hands stayed on your waist, his thumbs brushing lightly against your sides in a way that made your breath catch. “You did all this… for me?” he asked, his voice quiet but filled with gratitude.

You nodded, smiling up at him. “Of course. You deserve it.”

For a moment, he just stood there, his hands still resting lightly on your waist, his fingers curling ever so slightly as if to pull you closer. His gaze searched yours, a flicker of something unspoken in his eyes—wonder, maybe, or gratitude, or something deeper, something that made your chest tighten. His lips parted as if he wanted to say something, but no words came. Instead, he let out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh, the sound low and warm, like the hum of a song you’d known forever.

Then, without a word, he leaned in, his movements slow and deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away if you wanted to. But you didn’t. His lips brushed against yours, feather-light at first, a whisper of a touch that sent a shiver racing down your spine. The kiss deepened just enough to feel real, his mouth moving against yours with a tenderness that made your heart ache. It wasn’t rushed or demanding—it was quiet, lingering, like he was trying to say everything he couldn’t put into words.

When he finally pulled back, it was only far enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. His eyes stayed closed for a moment, his lashes casting faint shadows on his cheeks, and you could feel the way his hands tightened ever so slightly on your waist, as if he was afraid you might slip away.

“You’re amazing, you know that?” He murmured, his voice rough around the edges, like the words had been sitting in his chest for a while, waiting for the right moment to come out. His thumb brushed against your cheek, the touch so gentle it made your breath catch. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

You could feel the weight of his words, the way they settled in the space between you, heavy and real. And for a moment, you couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but look at him, at the way his eyes held yours like you were the only thing that mattered.

“You don’t have to do anything,” you said finally, your voice soft but steady. “You just have to be you.”

His lips curved into a small, almost shy smile, one that made your heart skip a beat. “Then I guess I’m the luckiest guy in the world,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. And when he kissed you again, it was like a promise—one you could feel in every beat of your heart.

“I just wanted to make today special for you,” you said softly, your voice barely more than a breath. The words felt fragile, like they might break if spoken too loudly, but they carried all the weight of what you couldn’t quite say—how much he meant to you, how much you wanted this day to be perfect for him.

Will’s lips curved into a small, almost shy smile, one you didn’t see often. It was the kind of smile that made your chest ache, the kind that felt like it was just for you. “It already is,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, rough with emotion. “Because you’re here.”

The words hung in the air between you, simple but heavy with meaning. His hands were still on your waist, his touch warm and steady, grounding you in the moment. His eyes searched yours, and for a second, it felt like the rest of the world had faded away—the cake, the decorations, even the faint hum of the city outside. It was just the two of you, standing there in the soft glow of the fairy lights, his forehead still resting against yours.

You could feel the way his breath hitched, just slightly, as if he was holding back something more. His thumb brushed against your cheek again, the gesture so tender it made your heart swell. “You always know how to make everything better,” he murmured, his voice low and soft, like a secret just for you. “I don’t know how you do it.”

You smiled, your fingers tightening slightly around the gift you still held. “It’s easy,” you said, your voice just as quiet. “When it’s you.”

His smile deepened, and for a moment, he just looked at you, his eyes shining with something you couldn’t quite name. Then, without a word, he leaned in again, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was slow and sweet, filled with all the things neither of you had said. When he pulled back, his forehead stayed pressed to yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“Come on,” you said finally, your voice soft but teasing, breaking the quiet that had settled between you. “Let’s celebrate.”

He nodded, but he didn’t let go of your hand, not even as you led him further into the room. His touch was warm, grounding, a silent reminder that, no matter what, you were in this together. And as you glanced at him, his eyes still soft with that quiet, unspoken affection, you couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something even more beautiful.

This was a bit rushed—sorry about that! I hope people don’t mind. I started this yesterday after work and finished it off today. It was before I saw that Will was in Italy, so… oops! But hey, the sentiment still stands.

Happy birthday to Will! I can’t believe he’s almost thirty and still looks fine as hell 😏😏 time really does favor some people, huh?

[octaneink]

Come take your chance with me

Will Lenney x Fem!Reader

Summary : The reader likes Will, she decides to show that she loves him in the most romantic way she can think of. Write a song dedicated to him. Now she just has to post it privately on YouTube so James can have a look at it... Right? Warnings : none (unless you count some cheesy ass writing) Notes : I have once again decided to write something based off a song that just got me in the mood! Its a bop, 10/10 would recommend. Also, I know nothing about music theory, I looked up most of this stuff on Google, I apologise if I got it wrong.

You sit cross-legged on your bed, your guitar resting against your knees, the hum of your desk lamp casting long, flickering shadows on the notebook sprawled open in front of you. The room is quiet except for the occasional creak of your chair and the faint hum of the city outside your window. Your mind, however, is anything but quiet.

Will’s smile flickers in your thoughts—that easy, crooked grin that’s been haunting you for months. You can still see it so clearly: the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs, the way he’d leaned in close to hear you over the noise of the bar that first night, his breath warm against your ear. Focus, you chide yourself, shaking your head as if it will dislodge the memory.

The melody has been looping in your head for days, an insistent rhythm that feels like it’s woven itself into your very being. The instrumental beat, the steady thrum of the would be drums—it’s like an earworm no one else can hear, a secret soundtrack only you know. It’s there when you wake up, humming in the back of your mind as you brush your teeth. It’s there when you’re scrolling through your phone, tapping out the rhythm on your thigh. It’s there when you’re lying in bed at night, the notes swirling in the dark like fireflies you can’t catch.

But the words? The words are a mess.

“I’m lost in your eyes"

You pause, tapping your pen against the paper. I'm lost in your eyes? Too cliché. Too… obvious. But the next line comes unbidden, as if your heart has been waiting for permission to speak:

“But you’re the cool to my calm each day…”

You wince. Cool to my calm? That sounds like something you’d find on a motivational poster in a dentist’s office. You nearly scratch it out, but the rhythm of the words keeps your hand still. It isn’t perfect, but it’s honest. And isn’t that what matters?

Your mind drifts back to Will. You’d met on a night out, of course. James, your best friend since college, had dragged you to some trendy sports bar downtown. “You need to get out more,” he’d insisted. “You’re turning into a hermit.”

You’d rolled your eyes but let him drag you along anyway. And there he was: Will Lenney, standing at the bar with a drink in hand, his laugh cutting through the noise like a beacon. James had introduced you, and Will had flashed you that grin—the one that makes your stomach do somersaults.

Will said your name, “Nice to meet you. James talks about you all the time.”

“All good things, I hope,” you’d replied, your voice steadier than you felt.

“Mostly,” Will had teased, his eyes sparkling.

That had been six months ago. Six months of late-night conversations, of stolen glances, of moments that felt like they could mean something if either of you dared to say it out loud.

You sit cross-legged on your bed, your guitar resting against your knees. The chorus has been nagging at you all day, a snippet of melody that refuses to leave you alone. You strum a chord, humming under your breath.

“Honey dance with me

Come take your chance with me"

It’s catchy, you have to admit. But is it too much? Too obvious? You groan, flopping back onto your pillows. Writing a song about someone who has no idea how you feel is harder than you’d thought.

Your phone buzzes on the night stand.

Will (9:42 PM): You free this weekend? James and I are filming a collab. Thought you might want to hang after.

Your heart leaps, but you force yourself to play it cool.

You (9:43 PM): Depends. Will there be snacks?

Will (9:43 PM): Obviously. I’m not a monster.

You smile, your fingers itching to pick up the guitar again. Maybe you’ll figure out the bridge tomorrow.

Past you was clearly an optimist.

The bridge is giving you trouble. You’ve rewritten it three times already, but nothing feels right. Each attempt feels like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands—close, but never quite there.

“Now we’ve been losing our way

A little bit more every day…”

It’s close, but something is missing. You sigh, setting the guitar aside and reaching for your coffee. The song is almost done, but the closer you get to finishing it, the more terrified you become. What if Will hears it and realises it’s about him? What if he hates you for thinking about him in that way? What if he doesn’t?

Your phone buzzes again.

James (11:15 AM): How’s the song coming?

You (11:16 AM): It’s… coming. I think. Maybe.

James (11:16 AM): You’re overthinking it. Just finish it already.

Easier said than done.

By the end of the week, the song is done. You sit back, your fingers sore and your heart pounding. You glance at the clock and groan. You have work in the morning, but there’s no way you’re sleeping now.

Instead, you grab your phone and open your messages.

You (12:07 AM): Hey, James. You awake?

The response comes almost immediately.

James (12:08 AM): Barely. What’s up?

You (12:08 AM): I wrote something. Can you look at it? Tell me if it’s too… much.

James (12:09 AM): Send it over.

You snap a picture of the lyrics and hit send, your stomach twisting as you wait for his reply.

James (12:12 AM): This is… wow.

You (12:12 AM): Wow good or wow bad?

James (12:13 AM): Wow good. It’s raw. It’s… you. Will’s going to lose his mind when he hears it.

Your breath catches. When he hears it? You hadn’t even thought that far ahead.

You (12:14 AM): I don’t know if I can let him hear it. What if he hates it? And its still not finished…

James (12:15 AM): He won’t. Trust me.

You don’t respond, your mind racing coming up with random, horrible, horrific scenarios of what or how he’d react when he heard it.  

But then you think of his smile, of the way he’d looked at you that night at the bar, and something in your chest tightens. Maybe it’s worth the risk.

The red recording light glares at you, unblinking, as if it’s judging every note, every word, every breath. You’ve been at this for hours—days, really—trying to get it right. The song is finished, but capturing it perfectly feels impossible. You’ve already done seven takes, and now you’re on your tenth. Or is it the eighteenth? You’ve lost count.

Your voice wavers on the line “murky waters, baby,” and you stop mid-verse, groaning in frustration. You hit pause on the recording software and slump back in your chair, running a hand through your hair. It’s late—way too late—but you can’t stop now. Not when you’re so close.

You glance around your home studio, a space you’ve spent years curating. The room is small but cosy, soundproofed with foam panels you and James installed last summer. Your guitar rests on a stand next to your keyboard, and your mic—a decent condenser you saved up for—sits in front of you, its pop filter catching the soft glow of the desk lamp. Your laptop screen displays the waveform of your latest attempt. It’s not terrible, but it’s not perfect.

You take a deep breath, close your eyes, and recall how to get to where you are now.

The first day is a disaster. You’re too nervous, too stiff, too aware of every little mistake. Your voice cracks on the high notes, and you keep stumbling over the words. “Honey dance with me (oh sugar)” sounds more like a question than an invitation, and you cringe every time you play it back.

You give up after the fifth take, deciding to focus on the guitar track instead. You plug in your acoustic, adjusting the mic placement until the tone is just right. You record it clean, layering in a soft strumming pattern that matches the rhythm of the song. It’s not perfect, but it’s a start.

By the third day, you’ve managed to record a decent vocal take. It’s not flawless, but it’s raw and honest, and you decide that’s better than perfect. You open your DAW—Digital Audio Workstation—and begin syncing the vocals with the guitar. You add subtle reverb to give it that dreamy, intimate feel, tweaking the EQ until your voice sits just right in the mix.

You play it back, your heart pounding as you listen to the chorus. 

It’s close. So close. But something’s missing.

By the end of the week, you’re exhausted. Your fingers are sore from playing the guitar, your throat is raw from singing, and your eyes are burning from staring at your laptop screen for hours on end. But the song is finally done.

You play it back one last time, your heart in your throat. It’s not perfect, but it’s yours. It’s you.

You open YouTube, preparing to upload the video. You set it to Private, your thumb hovering over the upload button. You’re not ready for anyone to hear it—not yet. But then your phone buzzes.

Will (1:14 AM): You up?

Your heart skips a beat. You glance at the screen, your thumb slipping as you fumble to reply.

Public.

You don’t realise your mistake until it’s too late.

You wake up to the sound of your phone buzzing incessantly on your nightstand. Groaning, you reach for it, squinting against the harsh light of the screen. The notifications are overwhelming—hundreds, maybe thousands, of them. YouTube comments, Twitter mentions, Instagram DMs. Your heart skips a beat as you open YouTube and see the number: 1.2M views.

Overnight.

Your stomach drops. You sit up, your hands trembling as you scroll through the comments.

“This is so beautiful. Who’s it for? 👀”

“The way she sings ‘your lips on mine’… I’m obsessed.”

“Who’s Will?? Someone find him!”

You freeze. The description. You’d written it in a sleep-deprived haze last night, not thinking anyone would actually see it.

“For Will.”

That’s all it said. No last name, no context. Just two words that now have the entire internet speculating.

You open TikTok, against your better judgement. The first video that pops up is a stitch of your chorus, overlaid with a clip of a random guy named Will from some obscure show. The caption reads: “Found him! This is the Will she’s singing about. #HoneyDanceWithMe”

The comments are worse.

“No way, that’s not him. She’s way too talented for that guy.”

“It’s obviously about Will Smith. She’s just being subtle.”

“Will SMITH?? Girl that man is married. She’s obviously talking about Will Stuart.”

“This song is a BOP. Also, Will better step up because this is breath taking.”

You close the app, your face burning. This is worse than you thought. 

You cradle your face and scream into your hands. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was supposed to be private. A secret. Something you could share when you were ready—if you were ever ready.

Your phone buzzes again, and you flinch. It’s James.

James (8:57 AM): You didn’t mean to do that...right?

You (8:58 AM): NO WHY WOULD YOU THINK THAT?? 

You (8:58 AM): ALSO 

You (8:58 AM): NOT HELPING!!

James (8:59 AM): Relax. It’s raw. It’s… you. Will’s been asking for your address, by the way.

Your stomach drops. Will’s been asking for your address.

You type out a response, delete it, then type it again.

You (9:00 AM): What did you tell him?

The three dots appear, then disappear, then appear again.

James (9:01 AM): Relax, I didn’t give it to him. Yet.

You groan again, louder this time. This is a nightmare. A beautiful, terrifying nightmare.

By noon, you’re a wreck. You’ve avoided social media, but the texts keep coming. Friends, acquaintances, even your mum has seen the song.

Mum (12:30 PM): Pumpkin, is this about that boy you told me about? The one with the nice smile?

You groan, flopping back onto your bed. This is a disaster. You type back a quick yes and for the moment, ignored her messages.

Your phone buzzes again.

Will (12:45 PM): Hey. You okay?

You stare at the message, your heart pounding. What do you even say? Hey, sorry I accidentally wrote a song about you and posted it online. My bad.

Before you can reply, another text comes through.

Will (12:46 PM): The song’s amazing, by the way.

Your breath catches. He’s heard it. Of course, he’s heard it. It’s everywhere.

You (12:47 PM): Thanks. I didn’t mean for it to go public.

Will (12:48 PM): I know. James told me. You okay?

You’re not sure how to answer that.

The knock comes at 1:00 PM sharp. You’ve been pacing for what feels like hours, your stomach in knots, your mind racing with a thousand what-ifs. You glance at yourself in the hallway mirror—hair a mess, still in your pajamas, and a worn old hoodie, eyes wide with panic. Great. Perfect timing.

You take a deep breath, smoothing your hair as best you can, and open the door.

There he is. Will. Standing on your doorstep, his hands shoved in his pockets, that familiar grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. His hair is slightly messy, like he’s been running his hands through it, and his eyes are soft, almost hesitant.

“Hey,” he says, his voice low and warm.

“Hey,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. You step back to let him in, your heart hammering so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

He steps inside, closing the door behind him, and for a moment, the two of you just stand there in the quiet of your hallway. The air feels charged, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks.

“So… the song,” he says finally, breaking the silence.

You wince, crossing your arms over your chest like a shield. “Yeah. The song.”

He takes a step closer, his eyes searching yours. “It’s amazing. Really.”

You swallow hard, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. “Thanks.”

He hesitates, then reaches out, his fingers brushing against yours. The touch is light, almost tentative, but it sends a shiver down your spine. “You could’ve just told me, you know,” he says, his voice soft.

You look up at him, your breath catching. “Told you what?”

He smiles, that same crooked grin that’s been haunting you for weeks. “That you feel the same way I do.”

Your heart skips a beat. “Will, I—”

But before you can finish, he steps closer, his hand cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin. He murmurs your name, his voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to say anything. The song said it all.”

And then he kisses you.

It’s soft at first, tentative, like he’s giving you the chance to pull away. But you don’t. Instead, you lean into him, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips.

The kiss deepens, sweet and slow, like honey dripping from a spoon. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. You can feel the warmth of his body, the way his breath hitches when you slide your fingers into his hair.

It’s messy and imperfect, just like the song, but it’s real. It’s you.

When you finally pull away, you’re both breathless, your foreheads resting against each other.

“So,” he says, his voice rough, a grin tugging at his lips. “Does this mean I get to dance with you?”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep inside you. “Shut up.”

He kisses you again, quick and playful this time. “Never.”

[octaneink]

How do you expect me to be fine?

Will Lenney x Reader

Summary: All you wanted was a fun night out with friends, but things took an unexpected turn when someone started flirting with you. Or maybe… it will turn out better than you expected? Warnings: Alcohol consumption, emotional tension/arguments, angst (I hope) Notes: This is the fic from this ask! I hope I did it justice ☺️☺️☺️

The bass from the club’s speakers thrummed through your chest, a steady, pulsing rhythm that seemed to sync with your heartbeat. The neon lights overhead cast a kaleidoscope of colours across the room, bathing everything in a surreal, electric glow. You were surrounded by your usual group—Harry, Cal, Josh, and, of course, Will. The night had started off great, with everyone laughing, joking, and feeding off each other’s energy. Will, in particular, had been in high spirits, his laughter ringing out louder than the music at times, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he teased you about your questionable taste in cocktails.

“A Cosmo? Really?” he’d said earlier, raising an eyebrow as you sipped your drink. “I didn’t realize we were in a 2003 rom-com.”

You’d rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly. “At least I’m not drinking whatever that is,” you shot back, nodding to the suspiciously bright green concoction in his hand.

Will had grinned, holding up his glass in a mock toast. “Touché.”

The first few hours blurred into a haze of neon and laughter, the kind of night where the air itself felt charged. Will’s presence was a constant anchor—close enough that the heat of his arm seeped through your sleeve every time he leaned in to murmur a joke, his breath grazing your ear as the music swallowed his words. You’d tilt your head, straining to catch them, only for his laughter to ripple through you, low and warm, like the hum of the baseline under your ribs.

His hands were never still. They’d flicker out to punctuate a story—a playful nudge to your shoulder, a tap against your wrist to reclaim your attention when Harry launched into another rambling tangent. Once, when he reached past you for his drink, his fingers brushed yours, lingering just long enough for your pulse to hitch before he pulled away, smirking at something Cal said like nothing had happened.

You told yourself it was accidental. Will was always like this—casual, careless with proximity, his charm as easy as the way he’d sling an arm over Josh’s shoulder or ruffle Harry’s hair. But then you’d catch him watching you, his gaze sharp and unguarded in the half-second before he looked away, the corner of his mouth quirking like he’d been caught mid-thought. You’d swallow the flutter in your throat, chalk it up to the strobe lights, the tequila, the way the room seemed to tilt whenever he grinned at you.

Just Will being Will, you’d think, even as your skin prickled where he’d touched you, the ghost of his fingertips lingering long after he’d turned back to the crowd.

The music swelled, a relentless beat that made the ice in your glass tremble as you slipped away from the group. You leaned against the bar, the cool marble biting into your palms as you waved to catch the bartender’s attention. “A Tequila sunrise please!” you shouted over the bass, earning a nod from the harried server.

That’s when you felt it—there was a noticeable shift, the presence of someone sliding into the space beside you. You turned, met by a guy who looked like he’d stepped out of a cologne ad: tousled hair, sharp jawline, a smile that said he knew exactly how handsome he was.

“Hey,” he said, leaning in close enough for you to catch the woodsy scent of his aftershave. His voice was smooth, deliberate, like he’d rehearsed it. “Couldn’t help but notice you from across the room. I’m Nate.”

You forced a polite smile, angling your body slightly away. “Hi.”

Nate either didn’t notice your stiffness or chose to ignore it. “What’s a girl like you doing here alone?”

“I’m not alone,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward your friends. Harry was mid-laugh, his head thrown back, while Will—

Will was staring at his drink, his shoulders tense. You blinked, and he looked normal, smiling happily to the group.

Nate followed your gaze, unimpressed. “Ah. Those your mates?” He leaned closer, his elbow brushing yours on the bar. “Let me guess—you’re the only interesting one in the group.”

You snorted, crossing your arms. “You’re barking up the wrong tree. Trust me.”

The bartender slid your drink toward you, and you reached for your card, but Nate was faster. He pulled out a sleek black wallet, holding up a hand to stop you. “Let me get this one.”

“No, it’s fine,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “I’ve got it.”

Nate smirked, undeterred. “Come on, it’s just a drink. One dance, and we’ll call it even.”

“Thanks, but I’m here with friends,” you said firmly, sliding your card across the bar before Nate could argue. “Have a good night, yeah?”

For a heartbeat, his confidence wavered, replaced by a flicker of irritation. Then he shrugged, slick as ever. “Your loss.” he said, nodding toward your group. Before you could correct him, he melted into the crowd, leaving behind a trace of his cologne and the faintest smirk.

You exhaled, the tightness in your chest unravelling as you turned back to the bar. The tequila burned your throat when you took a sip, but the sharpness grounded you. Just a minor hiccup, you told yourself, squaring your shoulders.

You made your way back to the group, drink in hand, and immediately noticed the shift in Will’s demeanour. He was quieter than before, his shoulders tense, his gaze fixed on some point in the distance. You frowned, stepping closer to him.

“Hey,” you said, your voice soft but carrying enough to reach him over the music. “You okay?”

Will looked at you then, his eyes dark and unreadable. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, just studied your face as if he were trying to memorize it. Then he nodded, his lips curving into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice low. “I’m fine.”

You hesitated, searching his face for any sign of what was really going on. But Will had always been good at putting up walls when he wanted to, and tonight was no exception. His expression gave nothing away, and after a moment, you nodded, accepting his answer even though it didn’t sit right with you.

“Okay,” you said, forcing a smile of your own. “Just... let me know if you need anything, yeah?”

Will nodded again, his gaze flickering away from yours as he reached for his drink. “Yeah, of course.”

The conversation ended there, but the weight of it lingered, pressing against your chest. Will stayed quiet, his presence a steady but distant force at your side. He nursed his drink, his fingers tapping an absent rhythm against the glass, his gaze fixed on some invisible point across the room. Every now and then, you caught him glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, but when you turned to meet his stare, he’d look away, his jaw tightening as if he were holding something back.

You tried to focus on the laughter and banter around you—Harry was now passionately arguing with Josh about something, his hands waving wildly as Cal egged him on—but your mind kept drifting back to Will. The tension in his shoulders, the way he’d avoided your eyes, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air between you. It felt like a storm brewing, quiet and electric, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was about to break.

You wanted to ask him again, to push past the walls he’d put up, but the music was too loud, the moment too fragile. So instead, you stayed where you were, close enough to feel the heat of his arm brushing yours, yet miles apart.

The tension between you and Will was a live wire, crackling with unspoken words and stifled emotions. It wasn’t just the way he’d been acting tonight—it was the way he’d been acting for weeks. The quiet glances, the lingering touches, the way he’d pull you close one moment and push you away the next. It was exhausting trying to decipher what he wanted, what he felt, when he refused to let you in.

And tonight? Tonight was the tipping point.

You’d tried to brush it off at first, chalking it up to Will being Will. He was always a little unpredictable, a little hard to read. But the way he’d shut down today—the way he’d avoided your eyes, his jaw clenched like he was holding back a storm—it hurt. It hurt because you cared about him, because you’d always cared about him, and it felt like he didn’t trust you enough to tell you what was wrong.

You weren’t stupid. You’d noticed the way his mood shifted whenever someone flirted with you, the way his laughter would falter and his smile would tighten. You’d seen the way he’d stare at his drink, his shoulders tense, like he was fighting some internal battle you weren’t allowed to be a part of. And you’d tried—god, you’d tried—to give him space, to be patient, to wait for him to open up.

But enough was enough.

You weren’t going to spend the rest of the night tiptoeing around his moods, trying to guess what was going on in his head. You weren’t going to let his brooding ruin your night, not when you’d been looking forward to this for weeks.

You turned to Harry, who was mid-rant about something absurd, and tapped his arm to get his attention. “I’m gonna hit the dance floor,” you said, raising your voice over the music.

Harry grinned, already swaying to the beat. “About time! You’ve been standing here like a statue all night.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t wait up.”

Cal raised his glass in a mock toast. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

“So, nothing, then?” you shot back, earning a laugh from the group.

You glanced at Will, who was still staring into his drink like it held the answers to the universe. For a moment, you considered saying something—anything—to break through the wall he’d built around himself. But the way his lips pursed when he caught you looking told you it was pointless.

“I’ll be on the dance floor if anyone needs me,” you said, your tone light but pointed. Will didn’t look up, but you saw his fingers tighten around his glass.

With that, you turned and slipped into the crowd, letting the music and the sea of bodies swallow you whole. The beat was infectious, the bass reverberating through your chest as you moved to the rhythm. You closed your eyes, tilting your head back as the neon lights flashed overhead, and for the first time that night, you felt free.

The crowd pressed in around you, a blur of colours and motion, but you didn’t care. You let yourself get lost in the music, your worries melting away with every step. Out here, it didn’t matter that Will was being impossible or that the night hadn’t gone the way you’d hoped. All that mattered was the here and now.

You didn’t notice Will watching you from the edge of the dance floor, his drink forgotten in his hand. His jaw was clenched, not in anger but in quiet restraint, as if holding back something he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—let himself say. His eyes, though, betrayed him. They were dark, intense, and unwavering, tracing every shift of your body, every flicker of your smile. There was a hunger in them, a longing that he couldn’t hide, no matter how hard he tried.

The way you laughed—bright and unrestrained—made his chest tighten. The way you moved, lost in the music, seemed to pull at something deep inside him, like a thread unravelling with every step you took. He wanted to look away, to break the spell, but he couldn’t. His gaze lingered on the curve of your neck, the way your hair caught the neon light, the way your hands moved through the air as if you were painting the rhythm itself.

For a moment, his mask slipped. His lips parted slightly, his breath catching as you turned, your eyes briefly scanning the crowd. He froze, hoping you wouldn’t see him, hoping you would. But you didn’t. And as you turned back, laughing at something someone said, his eyes softened, a quiet ache settling into the lines of his face. He looked down at his drink, untouched and warm now, and exhaled sharply, as if trying to steady himself.

When he looked up again, his expression was guarded once more, but his eyes—his eyes still held that same quiet yearning, like a man standing at the edge of a fire, desperate to feel its warmth but afraid to get too close.

The music pulsed around you, the beat thrumming through your veins as you danced, losing yourself in the rhythm and the neon-lit haze of the club. But as the night wore on, the energy began to wane. Your feet ached, your head buzzed faintly from the drinks, and the weight of the evening—of Will’s silence, of the unspoken tension—started to creep back in.

You glanced at your phone, the screen lighting up with the time. It was late. Too late to keep pretending everything was fine.

You made your way back to the group, weaving through the thinning crowd. Harry was slumped against the bar, grinning lazily as Cal drunkenly recounted some story, his hands flying everywhere. Josh was scrolling through his phone, looking half-asleep, while Will…

Will was still there, leaning against the bar, his drink untouched in front of him. His eyes flicked up as you approached, but he didn’t say anything, his expression unreadable.

“I’m heading home,” you announced, cutting through the chatter.

Harry looked up, blinking blearily. “Already? The night’s still young!”

“For you, maybe,” you said with a tired laugh. “I’m beat.”

Cal raised his glass in a mock salute. “Get home safe, yeah?”

You nodded, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Will do. See you lot later.”

You didn’t wait for a response, turning on your heel and making your way toward the exit. The cool night air hit you like a wave as you stepped outside, a welcome relief after the stifling heat of the club. You took a deep breath, the faint hum of the city filling your ears as you started down the pavement.

You hadn’t gone far when you heard footsteps behind you, steady and familiar. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“You don’t have to walk me home, Will,” you said, your voice carrying over the quiet street.

“I’m not,” he replied, his tone casual, though there was an edge to it that made your stomach twist. “We live in the same direction, remember?”

You glanced over your shoulder, catching his eye. He was a few steps behind you, his hands shoved into his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the chill. He looked… tired. More than tired.

“Right,” you said, turning back around. “Same direction.”

The silence stretched between you, heavy and loaded, as you walked. The streetlights cast long shadows on the pavement, the occasional car passing by breaking the stillness. You could feel Will’s presence like a weight at your back, his footsteps keeping pace with yours.

You wanted to say something—to ask him what was wrong, to demand an explanation for the way he’d been acting all night. But the words stuck in your throat, tangled up with the frustration and hurt you’d been carrying for weeks.

It wasn’t until you reached the corner of your street that Will finally spoke.

“You looked like you were having fun,” he said, his voice low, almost hesitant.

You stopped, turning to face him. His expression was guarded, his eyes shadowed in the dim light.

“I was,” you said, crossing your arms. “Until you decided to act like a moody teenager all night.”

Will’s jaw tightened, his eyes flashing. “I wasn’t—”

“You were,” you interrupted, your voice sharp. “You’ve been like this for weeks, Will. One minute you’re laughing and joking, and the next you’re shutting me out like I’ve done something wrong. And I’m tired of it. I’m tired of trying to figure out what’s going on in your head when you won’t talk to me.”

Will stared at you, his expression hardening. “You want to know what my problem is? Fine. I’ll tell you what’s my problem.”

He took a step closer, his voice rising. “My is you! You’re always so nice to everyone, and it’s like you don’t even realise how many people are constantly flirting with you!”

Your eyes widened in shock. “What are you talking about? I’m just being polite!”

“Polite?” Will scoffed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “That guy at the bar tonight, the jogger last week, the bloke at the pub who bought you a drink—it’s always someone! And you just laugh and smile and let them think they’ve got a chance!”

“I turn them down!” You shot back, your voice rising to match his. “Every single time! I’m not interested in them, and I’m not leading anyone on! Why do you even care?”

“Because I like you, okay?” Will blurted out, his voice cracking. “I’ve liked you for ages, and it’s driving me mad. So yeah, maybe I’ve been a bit of a dick tonight. But what do you expect me to do? Just stand there and pretend I’m fine when I’m not? How do you expect me to be fine when I have to watch guys flirt with you all night? When do I have to watch you laugh and smile and pretend like it doesn’t kill me every single time?”

His words hung in the air between you, raw and unfiltered. For a moment, you couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe.

“Will…” you started, your voice barely above a whisper.

But he wasn’t done. “I can’t stand it. I can’t stand seeing you with other people, knowing I don’t have the right to say anything. Knowing I’m just your friend.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Will’s chest heaved, his eyes searching yours for something—anything—to tell him how you felt.

And then, finally, you found your voice.

“You’re an idiot,” you said, your voice trembling. “You’re such an idiot, Will.”

He blinked, taken aback. “What?”

“You think I don’t notice you?” You said, stepping closer. “You think I don’t see the way you look at me, the way you touch me, the way you make me feel like I’m the only person in the room? You think I’d turn down every guy who tries to talk to me if I didn’t feel the same way?”

Will stared at you, his expression shifting from confusion to disbelief to something softer, something hopeful.

“You…” he started, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” you said, your cheeks burning. “I like you too, you idiot.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. And then Will stepped forward, closing the distance between you. His hand cupped your cheek, his touch gentle but firm, and then he kissed you.

It wasn’t perfect—your noses bumped awkwardly at first, and his lips were cold from the night air, sending a shiver down your spine. But then his hand slid to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss. The cold faded, replaced by the warmth of his mouth against yours, the faint taste of whisky and mint lingering on his lips.

His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. Your hands found their way to his chest, gripping the fabric of his jacket as if you were afraid he might disappear if you let go. The world around you—the hum of the city, the faint glow of the streetlights, the chill of the night—all of it faded into the background, leaving only the two of you.

It was messy and imperfect, but it was real. It was Will. His laugh, his sarcasm, his quiet moments of vulnerability—all of it was here, in the way he kissed you like he’d been waiting for this forever. And maybe he had. Maybe you both had.

When he finally pulled away, it was only far enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath uneven and warm against your skin. His hand stayed at the back of your head, his fingers gently stroking your hair as if he couldn’t bear to let go. His eyes were closed, his lashes brushing against his cheeks, and for a moment, he just stood there, breathing you in.

“About time,” he murmured, his voice rough but laced with a softness that made your heart ache.

You laughed, the sound shaky but genuine, and shoved him lightly. “Shut up.”

Will grinned, that familiar, lopsided smile that always made your stomach flip. “Make me.”

And just like that, the tension between you dissolved, replaced by something lighter, something brighter. The weight of the night, the weeks of unspoken words and stifled emotions—it all melted away, leaving only the two of you, standing there under the glow of the streetlights, smiling like idiots.

I hope this was what you were looking for! And I hope that I have made the argument (hopefully angst) between the two of them realistic and that you like the ending as well!

[octaneink]

Only the memories

Will Lenney x Fem!Reader

Next part: Confessions Summary : The reader looses something important, will she find it again? Warnings : mentioned death of a relative Notes : I don't know if I cooked? Writing this was hard because I kept crying and getting distracted. I feel like this could be better, but I don't know how to improve it?

Standing at the edge of the airport help desk, you look around in utter exhaustion. You have just been on an eighteen-hour non-stop flight with your carry-on and luggage. The densely populated terminal is a blur of non-stop new faces and continual movement, but all you can think about is finding your belongings and getting some much-needed rest.

You turn your head to look, catching movement in the corner of your eye as someone in a uniform walks up to you, “Good evening. I'm Sarah from Heathrow's baggage services.” She offers a sympathetic smile, but her eyes convey a hint of concern.

“I'm really sorry, but we have a situation with your luggage,” Sarah continues, her voice gentle. “Your bag did make it back to Heathrow, but,” she pauses, looking away briefly then back to you, “it appears to have gone missing from our facility. We've checked all possible locations, but we haven't been able to locate it.”

You feel a knot form in your stomach. “So it's just,” you gesture helplessly, “gone?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady. You can feel the burn start behind your itchy, red-from-lack-of-sleep eyes. You blink back the tears.

Sarah nods, “I really do apologise for this inconvenience. We are conducting a thorough search and will do everything we can to find it. In the meantime, we'll assist you with any immediate needs and offer compensation for the lost items. Please come with me to our office so we can start the process and provide further support.”

She gestures behind you, into an unassuming door, leading you away from the chaos of the terminal, her assurances doing little to curb the panic you feel.

You read through the short paperwork, filling in your name, contact details, home address, and describing the bag and its contents. After visiting your home country, you had packed everything you wanted to remember into that one suitcase, including a small, metal biscuit tin filled with pictures of your grandparents and parents who had passed away during the pandemic. It was the last physical thing you had to your family, and now it was gone.

Lost in London Heathrow.

The longer you stay at the airport, the more you feel like its honest-to-god hell on Earth. Once that is all done, you manage to find your way back to your flat. Empty-handed and with a deep pit in your chest. Putting the key into the lock, you turn it, kick off your shoes, lock the door behind you, then head to your bedroom, where you face-plant on your bed.

You take a deep breath. Allow the dam to break. Then, sobbing uncontrollably, you turn to your side and hug yourself.

You allow yourself to do the most painful thing at that point—remember.

Four years have flown by since you lost your luggage at London Heathrow. Now, you find yourself on the set of WillNE's YouTube channel, three years in. The job brings you lots of laughter, chaos, and friendships with people you’d never thought you’d have. It has created a comforting pattern that you’ve grown to love.

Today, Will hired a set in London for two days. The set—from a certain point onwards—has white floors, walls, and ceilings. You are the first one on set, accepting the pallets that hold the luggage, and going inside to set up the temporary tables and cameras needed for the shoot.

First order of operation, you set out a line of slippers on the white floors for everyone, slip on a pair, and put your headset on. Head bopping and mouthing to the songs blaring in your headphones, you start to set up the tables, chairs and lay out the microphones for the shot. Leaving the cameras for Ieuan when he got there.

You then slip your shoes back on and start the task of setting up the one hundred luggage, it was a slow process, moving the luggage into the set, slowly creating a pile. Roughly quarter the way through, you stare at your sock clad feet and wonder if there was an easier way of doing this and hear the sound of the door opening. Ieuan, Will, Mikey, and James had arrived talking amongst themselves as they enter. 

You looked up after placing down the luggage you had in hand, and managed to catch the sight of the door close. “Mornin’ lads!” you greeted with an enthusiastic smile. 

“Morning!” the three greeted back, though Will had more enthusiasm, causing the two guys beside him to share a smile over Will’s head.

“I see you’ve started,” Will said, walking over to you on the carpet, then stopped as you waved your hand back and forth in a ‘no, no’ motion. 

“Shoes off on the white mister.” you said, pointing to your own shoe-less feet. 

His eyebrows scrunched together in confusion and James asked, “Have you been putting your shoes on and off when you stack the luggage in a pile?” you raised a brow at his sassy tone.

“Yes,” you nod your head, “how else would I make sure that the floor stayed white?” 

Will laughed, setting off the other two. His laugh was a slow, easy sound that crinkled the corners of his eyes, the kind that makes your own lips twitch upwards automatically in response. And your stomach do a backflip, landing with a giddy thud against your ribs. “You could have kept your shoes on, and we could have mopped up any scruff marks after you muppet.” Your smile dropped slightly.

“Fuck, you’re right.”

They laughed louder at that. 

Will, still grinning, jumped to the white floor then back with a dramatic sigh. “Oh, the humanity!” He gestured to the floor that now has slight stuff marks from the bottom of his shoes. “My precious, white floor. It's ruined! The set’s been violated!” Will dramatically stated, then crouched down and pretended to inspect the damage. He looked up at you, his eyes soft. “You're in so much trouble.”

You rolled your eyes and smiled softly at him. James smirked and wiggled his eyebrows, the smile dropped quickly on your face, and you flipped him off. “Real mature, James.” you muttered, turning back to Will, trying to hide the blush creeping up your neck. “Don't worry, Will,” you said with a reassuring pat on his shoulder. “I'll make sure this floor is spotless by the end of the day.”

Will looked up at you, a mischievous glint in his eye. “You better. Or I'll have to deduct it from your pay.”

James butted in, hip checking you “You’re getting paid? Favouritism.” James crossed his arms, raised a brow and smirked at Will “When will we get the same treatment?”

Will let out a fake laughing, clutching his stomach. “Pay? What pay? You think I can afford to pay you guys?”

Ieuan, who left to get more luggage, looked confused. “Wait, you're not paying us?”

Will shook his head. “Absolutely not. You're here for fun, right?”

Ieuan and James exchanged a look, then burst into laughter. “Right,” Ieuan said, shaking his head. “fun.”

You cut in “Alright, we’ll discuss the lack of pay during the union later. Lets get this pile sorted then we can start the video.”

Around an hour later, everything was set up, and they were ready to film. So you make yourself scarce and sit at the table off to the side, editing a video, with your headphones on. You don’t notice Will looking at you with soft eyes throughout the shoot. His gaze was soft, endearing, tracing the lines of your face, almost as if he wanted to memorise every curve. You're too focused on your screen to realise he's not looking at you as just an employee but as something more.

The day flew by. Between sorting the opened luggage, you managed to edit one video and make a decent start on another, by seven in the evening, your stomach was growling. Then, Will broke through your concentration by clapping, the sound echoed through the set. “Great job today, everyone! I’m happy to leave things be as they are and come back to do this all over again tomorrow. Make sure to get some rest, we’ll be back here bright and early!” He said cheerfully, though his eyes, despite the smile, looked tired.

You stretched, popping your back and cracking a wide yawn. “Alright, I'm out,” you announced, packing up your things. You looked up as you swung your bag over your shoulder, catching Will's eye. He offered a smile, his gaze lingering on your face a beat longer than necessary. “See you lads tomorrow! Bye.”

“See you.” Ieuan replied.

“See you later, boss lady!” James said with a grin, giving you a playful salute. You give him a sarcastic wave, heading to the door.

Will, his voice softer, added, “Get home safe.”

You couldn't help but smile at him, a warmth spreading through you. “Thanks, Will. See you tomorrow.”

The next morning, you arrived at the set with a sense of dread. You didn’t get much sleep that night, stupidly deciding to finish the video you started to edit. You ended up sleeping around two in the morning, then awake once again at six to get ready. The white floor, now marred with a few stubborn scuff marks, seemed to mock you. You moved through the motions of cleaning it up, your energy levels significantly lower than the previous day. By the time the boys arrived, you were already starting to regret not bringing a coffee.

The day dragged on in a haze. You looked up the props and location for the next video idea, calculating the costs and setting up the KPIs on Excel, with each item added to the Excel, your eyelids felt heavier with each passing minute. You even caught yourself yawning, covering your mouth with a hand. By the time they reached the third-to-last suitcase, you were ready to sleep for a week. You rubbed your eyes, the screen of your laptop blurring before you.

“Almost done’” you muttered to yourself, smiling as you noticed to see Will watching you. He looked tired too. He raised a brow, a silent, “You okay there?”

You smiled, giving him a thumbs up and mimicked wanting to sleep. He laughed under his breath and smiled.

James approached the table, lugging a small, unassuming white suitcase. “Oh, this one's small so it's gonna be fake.” he declared, Mikey and Will nodded and watched James zip it open. Inside, nestled amongst the soft lining, lay a single fluffy blanket. “That's it?” Will asked, confused.

James furrowed his eyebrows and asked, “Wot?” Mikey, defeated from the long days of shooting, tugged at the blanket. It provided more resistance than he expected, after one last hard tug, it released. Photos erupted from the suitcase, scattering across the floor like confetti.

Will and James stared in disbelief. “What the…” Will exclaimed.

“Holy cow, it's a photo album!” Mikey yelled, pointing the go-pro to the floors of scattered pictures, the blanket still in his other hand.

James knelt down, sifting through the photos. He pulled out an A4 size envelope buried under the pile, opening it and peeking inside. He pulled the pile out and said, “Oh, it's letters.” James put it on the table, spreading it out, “It's not in English. But it looks like it's addressed to someone called,” James said your name, so you look up with a raised brow.

Mikey and Will flipped through the photos on the floor, eyes widening at each one. Childhood pictures, family gatherings, birthday celebrations. They recognised you in some photos, your younger self beaming with joy.

Will holds up a picture of you beaming, holding the blanket in the luggage with a peace sign to the camera, “Hey, isn't that you?”

They all looked up at you, but you didn’t react. Everything went still. 

You walked up to the floor with the scattered pictures, your hand trembled as you reached out to touch the photos, the reality sinking in. You knelt down, your heart pounding. It was your childhood pictures, the one you thought had been lost forever. The letters — they were from your grandparents, letters you never received. This was your luggage. Somehow, it had found its way here, to the last place you ever expected to see it again.

“What are the odds?” you whispered, your voice trembling. Your eyes filled with tears, you pick one up of the five of you, and stood up, needing a moment to compose yourself. “Excuse me for a minute.” And head out the door. 

You stumbled out of the building in the back, tears streaming down your face. You clutched the photo to your chest. You remembered this photo, taken on your fifth birthday. You remember the joy on your parents face, their laughter. You remember your grandparents, their warm hugs, their gentle voices.

You slid down against the wall, burying your face in your hands. You startle when you feel a warm hand on your shoulder, you look up. It’s Will.

He looks concerned. "Hey, are you okay?" he asks softly.

You manage a weak smile, shaking your head. “I just…” you trail off, unable to find the words.

Will doesn't press you. He sits down beside you, wrapping his arm around your shoulder, his thumb rubbed circles around the top of your shoulder, remaining silent, simply offering his presence. You take a deep breath, the sobs subsiding slightly.

“It's just…” you begin, your voice thick with emotion, “I thought I'd lost these forever. I already forgot what they sound like, I was worried I’d forget what they look like.”

Will nods understandingly. “I can imagine.”

You look at him through blurry eyes, eternally grateful for this coincidence. It would have never been given back to you if Will had never decided to do this video. You tell him about losing the luggage, about the grief and the memories, about the letters you never received, the love you never got to fully show.

When you finally finish, a comfortable silence settles between you. Will doesn't say anything, but his hand remains on your shoulder, a silent gesture of comfort. You look at him, a small smile gracing your lips. “Thank you.” you say, your voice soft.

Will smiles back, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Anytime.”

You wipe your eyes, “Go back in,” you pat his knee, “I’ll stay out a bit more.” 

Will hesitated, his eyes searching yours. "Are you sure?"

You shook your head, a small smile playing on your lips. "Yea, I think I need a few more minutes here."

He nodded, his gaze lingering on your face. "Okay. But don't be too long, you’ll get cold." He got up off the floor, and as he did, he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. 

You blinked, surprised by his gesture. He just smiled, eyes soft, before turning and heading back inside. You watched him go, his figure disappearing back into the building. You touched your forehead, a blush creeping up your neck.

You took a deep breath, the fresh air doing wonders to clear your head. You looked at the photo in your hand, staring at it blankly.

You spent the next few minutes simply sitting there, the photo clutched in your hand. You thought about your grandparents, about the love they had shown you, the love that still lingered in these faded photographs and the faded ink of the letters. You thought about Will, his kindness, his unexpected gentleness, and the soft kiss that still lingered on your forehead.

What do we think? Do you see bits where I can improve? Also, this is the first time that I've really written dialouge, I'm not sure if it was realistic to the persons? 🤔

Also, I did end up loosing pictures of my grandparents... so this hit hard, I wish it went something like this.

[octaneink]

Crescendo

Will Lenney x Fem!Reader

Next part: Accelerando Summary : Will has a new neighbour Warnings : none Notes : I have a part 2!

In the bustling heart of London, nestled between the towering beige buildings and the cobblestone streets, was a peculiar flat. It was peculiar, not in the way you might think. It was a typical London flat, rectangular, aged, with big rectangular windows. It was peculiar because of its inhabitants, a young woman whose days were filled with a rhythm that seemed to resonate through the very walls. Every morning, the thumping bass heavy of reggaetón echoed down the narrow alleyways as she revved up her engine and pulled away from the curb. Her car was a vibrant splash of colour in a sea of monochrome vehicles, the music spilling out like a siren's call to the city's early risers.

And its other inhabitant, Will. He had rarely been home the past few weeks, having to spend time in his office to work with video ideas with the lads, and the last few days he had been outside the country filming for a video. But he was used to the hectic schedule. Will was no stranger to late nights and early mornings, his own schedule dictated by the whims of content creation.

So it was a surprise, on the first night back, — it was not really night. He had landed in the UK at 4 am and had only gone through baggage collection an hour later, managing to get an Uber drop him off outside the flat around 6 am — that he saw a bright yellow Miata roared to life and peeled away, the surrounding air vibrated as it drove past him.

After that first morning, Will noticed the pattern start. Each time the music started, he felt the walls of his flat vibrate slightly, a gentle reminder that the world outside his window was waking up. Or at least his elusive neighbour was.

The pattern was this, at around 6 am, he would hear the muffled heavy base, some mornings he'd pick up words when he was closer to the windows in his front room. Though he didn't understand it one bit. At the time, he made the mental note to ask James if he would know what the words meant. Then in the evening around 5:30 pm he’d hear the beat grow in volume the closer the car got, then silence as they cut the keys, a loud car door slamming, and lastly, the beep to indicate their car locked.

The curiosity grew stronger, Will found himself one day setting his alarm earlier to catch a glimpse of the driver. He'd make a cup of tea, the kind that could be brewed quickly and enjoyed just as fast, so he didn't miss the moment.

He didn't catch them, unfortunately. 

Then one day, the pattern changed. 

He woke as he normally did, made his morning tea, sat on the sofa mindlessly scrolling through TikTok. Something was different today. Looking at the time on his phone, 6:30 am, then outside through the blinds. The little yellow Miata sat parked in its usual spot, instead of the empty parking space that should be at this time of day. 

Will’s brows furrowed, but he had no time to wonder the reason at the moment, so he got ready and left his flat. With his hand on the door knob, he locked the door of his flat. Footsteps came from his left and slowed as it got closer to him, “Mornin’.” a female voice called out. 

Turning, he saw a stranger. She was shorter than him, wearing an oversized hoodie, baggy jeans, and a pair of white Club C 85. Blinking in surprised, he took a deep breath in shock, and smelt coconut. “Good morning.” Will greeted back.

“I’m your new neighbour. I live in the next flat,” she held her hand out and introduced herself. Will smiled and said, “I’m Will.” she smiled back, replying “I’ve been excited to meet people, but I’ve not seen other neighbours in the flat yet, only heard them.” 

She continued to walk towards the exit, Will followed after her, nodding. “Yea, tell me about it. There's some bloke nearby that's been playing loud music out their car every morning and evening.”

They had got to the door by that point, and she opened the door for him, motioning for him to move through first, he nodded his head in thanks and said “Oh really? I can't say I’ve heard it.” 

He shrugged “They must’ve decided they’d have a lie in today.” he looked at the time on his phone and told her “Listen, it was nice to meet you,” he said her name “but I’ve got to head to work. I’ll see you around, love.” 

Will heard her reply as he walked off. Just as he put on his headphones, he heard the noise he’d been hearing every day for the past month that signalled the Miata being unlocked. He whipped around, mouth agog, his eyes widening when he saw the girl he’d just met climb into the car. 

Then the realisation hit him. She was the mysterious neighbour whose music had been invading his mornings and evenings, and he had no idea she'd been living right next to him.

He gulped, and watched her drive off.

What do we think of this part 1?

[octaneink]

Could you do some dating willne headcannons or some willne smut but like in an established relationship? I’m obsessed with your fics, I swear I’ve read them so much I could recite them from memory 😭😭

Ahhh thank you so much for the kind words! I'm really happy that you like what I've written. I've never done headcannons or write smut lol so bear with me. I don't really know how to write smut ngl so I hope you like the spice (I think thats spicy? I don't know) at the end, I've never really written anything lke that before so I hope its...realistic?

Warning for some steamy stuff at the end!

Dating Will Lenney Headcanons

Playful Banter

In your relationship with Will, playful banter is the base of your dynamic, and he uses it to keep things light, fun, and endlessly entertaining. Whether you’re curled up on the couch, out for a walk, or in the middle of a mundane task, Will’s teasing is a constant—a reminder of how much he adores you.

He’s the kind of person who can’t resist poking fun at your quirks, but it’s always done with so much affection that it never feels mean-spirited. For example, if you’re watching one of your favourite romantic series for the hundredth time, he’ll lean over with a smirk and say, “Oh, this again? Let me guess—they’ll hate each other, then fall in love, and you’ll cry even though you know exactly how it ends.” But then he’ll stay right there beside you, secretly enjoying how much you love it—and secretly enjoying the series himself. He’d never admit it out loud, but he’s grown fond of the predictable charm of your go-to media.

Will’s teasing isn’t just one-sided, though. I think he’d love it if you gave as good as you get. If you catch him singing off-key in the shower, you’ll absolutely call him out on it. “Wow, I didn’t know cats could sing opera,” or something, and he’ll laugh so hard he almost slips. Or if he’s trying to fix something around the house, and it goes wrong, you’ll be there with a camera and a sarcastic comment like, “Handyman of the year, everyone.” He’ll pretend to be offended, but the twinkle in his eyes gives him away.

The best part is how his teasing always comes with an undercurrent of love. He’ll joke about your “weirdly specific and unnecessarily complex” coffee order, but he’ll still remember it perfectly and surprise you with it on a rough day. And if anyone else dares to tease you, he’s quick to jump to your defence, proving that his playful jabs are reserved for him alone.

Your banter becomes a language of its own—a way to say “I love you” without actually saying it. It’s in the way he grins when you roll your eyes at his jokes, the way he nudges you gently when you’re being stubborn. The way he always knows exactly how to make you laugh, even on your worst days. With Will, every day feels like a game, and you’re both winning.

Supportive Partner

In your relationship with Will, his unwavering support is one of the things you cherish most. He’s not just your partner—he’s your biggest cheerleader, your hype man, and your safe haven all rolled into one. No matter what you’re going through, whether it’s chasing a dream, tackling a new challenge, or just having a rough day, Will is always there to lift you up and remind you of your worth.

When you decide to try something new—whether it’s skating, learning an instrument, or even something as simple as baking a complicated recipe—Will will be the first to encourage you. He’ll sit with you while you practice, offering gentle advice when you ask for it and cheering you on even when you feel like giving up. “You’re a natural,” he’ll say, even if your first attempt at playing the guitar sounds more like a cat in distress. “Seriously, I’ve never heard anyone make that chord sound so… unique.” His teasing is always light-hearted, but it’s paired with genuine admiration for your willingness to try. And when you finally nail it? He’s beaming with pride, as if you’ve just won a Grammy. “Told you! I knew you could do it. Now play it again—I need this on video for when you’re famous.”

On tough days, Will’s support is a quiet, steady force. He has an uncanny ability to sense when you’re feeling down, even if you try to hide it. Without a word, he’ll wrap you in a hug, press a kiss to your forehead, and say, “Talk to me.” And when you do, he listens—actually listens. He doesn’t try to fix everything (unless you ask him to), but he’ll remind you of your strength and resilience. “You’ve got this,” he’ll say, his voice firm but gentle. “And even if you don’t feel like you do, I’ve got you. Always.”

Will’s encouragement isn’t just reserved for big moments, either. He celebrates the small victories with just as much enthusiasm. Did you survive a particularly gruelling day at work? He’ll show up with your favourite takeout and a movie, ready to pamper you. “You’re a rock star, and rock stars deserve the VIP treatment.”

But what makes Will’s support so special is how deeply personal it is. He pays attention to the little things—your favourite comfort foods, the way you light up when you talk about your passions. He knows when you need a pep talk, when you need a distraction, and when you just need someone to sit with you in silence. And he’s always there, without fail.

His belief in you is unshakeable. Even when you doubt yourself, he’s there to remind you of all the reasons you shouldn’t. “You’re brilliant, you’re kind, and you’re capable of anything you set your mind to,” he’ll say, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And if anyone says otherwise, they’ll have to deal with me.”

With Will by your side, you feel invincible. His support isn’t just words—it’s in the way he shows up for you, day after day, in big ways and small. He’s your partner, your teammate, and your biggest fan. And no matter what life throws your way, you know you’ll always have him in your corner, cheering you on every step of the way.

Car Rides

Car rides with Will are an experience in themselves. He’s always the one behind the wheel, and you’re perfectly content being his passenger princess. With you who's in control of the music, and you take full advantage of it. Whether you’re in the mood for girly pop, rock and roll, Afrobeats, jungle, reggae, or even a random playlist of your favourite guilty pleasures, Will never complains. He embraces it, turning every drive into a mini concert filled with laughter and the occasional side-eye from strangers at traffic lights.

You love how he lets you take charge of the aux, trusting your musical instincts even when your choices are… questionable. One day, you might blast upbeat pop anthems, singing at the top of your lungs as he chuckles beside you. “Okay, but why do I lowkey know all the words to this?” he’ll say, pretending to be embarrassed before joining in on the chorus. Another day, you might switch it up with some smooth reggae or high-energy Afrobeats, and he’ll bob his head along, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm. “You’ve got good taste, I’ll give you that,” he’ll tease, even if he’s secretly adding some of your songs to his own playlist.

The best moments are when you both get so into the music that you forget the world around you. You’ll be belting out a duet to some cheesy love song, completely off-key but having the time of your lives, when you catch people in the next car staring at you. Will, never one to back down from a bit of fun, will roll down the window and shout, “What? Never seen a Grammy-winning performance before?” before bursting into laughter and speeding off when the light turns green.

Long drives are your favourite. Whether it’s a road trip to somewhere new or just a leisurely cruise around town, the car becomes your little bubble of happiness. You’ll pack snacks, throw a blanket in the backseat just in case, and let the music set the mood. Will’s driving is smooth and confident, and you love how he occasionally reaches over to hold your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as he focuses on the road. “You good over there, princess?” he’ll ask, glancing at you with a smile. And you’ll nod, feeling completely at ease because, with him, even the simplest moments feel special.

Sometimes, the drives are quiet, the music playing softly in the background as you both enjoy the comfortable silence. Other times, they’re filled with lively conversations, random debates, or Will’s hilarious commentary on whatever’s happening outside. “Did that guy just try to parallel park in one go? Bold move,” he’ll say, shaking his head in mock disbelief. Or, “That billboard says ‘World’s Best Coffee.’ Challenge accepted.” And just like that, you’re pulling into a random café to test their claim, laughing the entire time.

But no matter where you’re going or what you’re listening to, the car rides always feel like yours. It’s your space to be silly, to be serious, to be yourselves. And Will wouldn’t have it any other way.

Protective Side

Beneath Will’s laid-back, easygoing exterior I see lies a fiercely protective streak, especially when it comes to you. While he’s usually the type to brush things off with a joke or a sarcastic remark, the moment someone disrespects you or crosses a line, his playful demeanour is gone.

Will’s protectiveness isn’t the loud, over-the-top kind. It’s subtle but firm. He’s the type to notice things others might miss—a snide comment, a dismissive tone, or even a lingering look that makes you uncomfortable. And while he might not always call it out immediately (he prefers to gauge how you feel about it first), he’s always ready to step in at the moment you need him.

Like if someone makes a backhanded comment about you in a social setting, Will’s response is sharp but calculated. He’ll tilt his head, feigning confusion, and say something like, “Oh, I’m sorry—did you mean to say that out loud? Because it sounded like utter bullshit.” His tone is light, almost playful, but there’s an edge to it that makes it clear he’s not joking. And if the person tries to laugh it off or double down, he’ll hit them with a perfectly timed quip that leaves them speechless.

But it’s not just about witty comebacks. If someone genuinely hurts you—whether it’s a friend, a coworker, or even a stranger—he’s quick to reassure you that their behaviour says more about them than it does about you. “Anyone who can’t see how amazing you are doesn’t deserve a second of your time,” he’ll say, his voice soft but firm.

What makes Will’s protectiveness so endearing is how he balances it with respect for your independence. He never tries to fight your battles for you unless you ask him to. Instead, he understands that you can stand up for yourself and is often there offering quiet support and encouragement. “You don’t need me to defend you,” he’ll say with a grin. “You’re perfectly capable of putting people in their place. But just in case, I’ll be right here, ready to back you up.” (definitely would hold your earrings and purse if you were to scrap with someone)

And when it comes to physical safety, Will’s protective instincts kick into overdrive. If you’re walking home late at night, he’ll insist on accompanying you, even if it’s out of his way. If you’re feeling uneasy in a crowded place, he’ll subtly position himself between you and whatever—or whoever—is making you uncomfortable. And if anyone dares to threaten you, his calm, sarcastic facade drops entirely. He becomes a force to be reckoned with, his voice low and steady as he says, “You have one more chance to apologise and walk away before this gets ugly.”

With him by your side, you feel safe, cherished, and fiercely defended. And while you might not always need his protection, it’s comforting to know that, no matter what, Will will always have your back.

Surprise Dates

Between his busy schedule and the demands of everyday life, you make it a point to plan dates that are thoughtful, fun, and meaningful. You’ve made it a tradition to try something new at least once a month, while the other dates revolve around activities you both love. Whether it’s a spontaneous road trip, a nostalgic arcade night, or a fancy dinner at a place he’s been wanting to try, you always find ways to make him feel special—and he absolutely adores it.

You know how much Will appreciates surprises, so you’ve become a master at planning ahead. You keep a mental (or physical) list of things he mentions in passing—like a new restaurant he wants to check out, a movie he’s excited to see, or a place he’s always wanted to visit. Then, when the time is right, you spring the surprise on him. His face lights up every time, and the way he grins when he realises what you’ve planned is worth every bit of effort.

Another month, you might plan a random road trip to a nearby town neither of you has explored. You’ll pack a picnic, create a playlist of his favourite songs, and let him take the wheel. The excitement in his eyes when he realises where you’re headed is priceless. “You’re seriously the best,” he’ll say, squeezing your hand as he starts the car. Along the way, he’ll take detours to roadside attractions, insisting on stopping for silly photo ops and spontaneous adventures. “Look at this place!” he’ll exclaim, pulling over at a giant dinosaur statue or a retro diner. “We have to take a picture. This is peak road trip material.” And of course, you’ll oblige, laughing as he strikes ridiculous poses and insists on making the memories as over-the-top as possible (though he takes cute couple pictures as well).

And then there are the fancy dates—the ones where you pull out all the stops. You’ll book a table at that upscale restaurant he’s been talking about for weeks, or you’ll surprise him with tickets to a show or event he’s been dying to see. On those nights, you love seeing him dressed up, his usual casual vibe swapped for something more polished. “Look at you, all fancy,” you’ll tease, and he’ll shoot back with a smirk, “What can I say? I clean up nice. But not as nice as you.”

What makes these dates so special is how much thought you put into them. You know how busy Will’s schedule can be, so you always plan ahead to make sure the timing works. You’ll coordinate with his friends or coworkers if needed, and you’re not above bribing them with coffee or baked goods to keep the surprise under wraps. And when the day finally arrives, you love seeing the look on his face. “You planned all this for me?” he’ll ask, his voice soft with disbelief. “Of course I did,” you’ll reply, smiling. “You deserve it.”

But it’s not just about the big surprises. You also make time for the little things—like cosy movie nights at home, complete with his favourite snacks and a blanket fort, or lazy Sunday mornings where you cook breakfast together and spend hours talking and laughing. Those moments are just as important, and they remind you both why you fell in love in the first place.

With every date, whether big or small, you show Will how much he means to you. And in return, he makes sure you know how much he appreciates it. “You’re incredible, you know that?” he’ll say, pulling you close after a particularly memorable outing. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I’m not letting you go.” And as you smile up at him, you know that these moments—these carefully planned, perfectly executed surprises—are what make your relationship so special.

Social Media PDA

I think Will is the kind of guy who wears his heart on his sleeve, and that extends to his social media presence. While he respects your desire to keep a low profile due to your job, he’s not shy about showing the world how much he adores you. His Instagram is a mix of his work, his hobbies, and, of course, glimpses of your relationship. He’s the type to post pictures of the two of you without a second thought, whether it’s a candid shot of you laughing at something he said or a cosy selfie from a date night. Or a goofy photo of you both making faces at the camera.

His captions are always playful and affectionate. “Caught this one mid-laugh. Guess I’m funnier than I thought” or “Date night with my favourite person. Don’t worry, I’ll bring her back in one piece.”. The comments are always flooded with fans gushing over how cute you two are together, and Will loves reading them, often showing you the funniest or sweetest ones with a proud grin. “Look, they’re saying we’re goals. Can’t argue with that.”

But it’s not just the photos. You occasionally pop up in the background of his videos, whether it’s a behind-the-scenes clip from one of his projects or a casual vlog. Sometimes it’s just your hand in the frame as you pass him a coffee, or your voice chiming in with a sarcastic comment that makes him burst out laughing. Fans have come to love these little moments, dubbing them “crumbs” and saying that they’re being “fed” whenever you make an appearance. “We see you back there!” they’ll comment, or “The way he looks at her when she talks… I can’t. 😭”

Will finds the whole thing hilarious and endearing. He loves how much his fans adore you, even though you’re not in the spotlight yourself. “They’re obsessed with you,” he’ll say, scrolling through the comments. “Can’t blame them, though. I’m obsessed with you too.” And while you prefer to stay out of the public eye, you can’t help but smile at the way he proudly includes you in his world, even if it’s just in small, subtle ways.

There are times when he’ll sneak in a little more PDA than usual, just to mess with you. Like the time he posted a video of the two of you cooking together, and he casually dropped a kiss on your forehead mid-sentence. The internet went wild, and you playfully scolded him for it later. “You’re such a show-off,” you said, and he just shrugged, grinning. “What can I say? I like showing the world how lucky I am.”

Despite his public displays of affection, Will is careful to respect your boundaries. He never shares anything too personal or invasive, and he always checks with you before posting something that features you prominently. “You good with this?” he’ll ask, showing you a photo or video before hitting post. And if you ever say no, he doesn’t hesitate to scrap it, no questions asked. “Your comfort comes first,” he’ll say, and it’s one of the many reasons you love him.

For Will, it’s simple: he’s proud of you, proud of your relationship, and he wants the world to know it. And even though you prefer to stay behind the scenes, you can’t help but feel a little flutter of happiness every time you see one of his posts and realise, all over again, just how much he loves you.

Spicy Headcanons

Rough or soft?

Will is the kind of partner who knows exactly what you need, even before you do. Whether it’s a night of tender affection or one where he pushes you to the edge, he always makes sure you feel safe, cherished, and utterly consumed by him.

Soft Moments

When the mood calls for softness, Will is all about making you feel adored. He’ll take his time, his touches gentle and deliberate, as if he’s memorising every inch of you. His kisses are slow and sweet, starting at your lips and trailing down your neck, your collarbone, and everywhere else he knows you love to be touched.

“You’re so beautiful,” he’ll murmur against your skin, his voice a low, soothing rumble that makes your heart swell. “I could spend forever like this, just you and me.” His hands will roam your body with reverence, tracing patterns that leave you shivering. He’ll whisper praise in your ear, telling you how perfect you are, how much he loves the way you respond to him, and how lucky he feels to have you in his arms.

These are the moments where he’s all about you—your pleasure, your comfort, your happiness. He’ll hold you close afterward, his fingers brushing through your hair as he presses soft kisses to your forehead. “You’re my everything,” he’ll say, and you’ll believe him, because in those moments, nothing else exists but the two of you.

Rough Moments

But then there are the nights when Will’s more dominant side takes over. It’s not about anger or frustration—it’s about trust, about pushing boundaries, and exploring the raw connection between you. On these nights, he’s in complete control, and he knows exactly how to make you unravel.

He’ll start slow, his touch firm but teasing, building you up until you’re trembling with need. But just when you’re about to tip over the edge, he’ll pull back, his grip tightening in your hair as he forces you to meet his gaze. “Not yet,” he’ll say, his commanding voice sending a thrill down your spine. “You don’t get to cum until I say so.”

He’ll edge you relentlessly, his hands and mouth working you to the brink over and over again until you’re a writhing, desperate mess. Tears might prick at the corners of your eyes, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you beg him for release. But he won’t give in—not until he’s sure you’ve reached your limit. “You can take it,” he’ll say, his tone equal parts challenge and reassurance. “I know you can.” Of course, you can; you haven’t said the safe word yet.

Foreplay

Will is the kind of man who takes his time, savouring every moment of intimacy with you. He’s not just interested in the end goal—he’s obsessed with the journey, with the way he can make you unravel under his touch. For Will, foreplay is an art form, and you are his masterpiece. He loves watching you moan, squirm, and barely hold onto yourself, knowing he’s the one driving you to the edge.

It starts with his hands, always so deliberate and sure. He’ll trace patterns along your skin, his fingertips leaving trails of fire in their wake. He loves the way you shiver under his touch, the way your breath hitches when he finds that one spot that makes you gasp. “You’re so sensitive,” he’ll murmur, the tone of his voice sends shivers down your spine. “I love how you react to me.”

His mouth. Damn his mouth. He’ll press kisses along your neck, your collarbone, your stomach—everywhere but where you want him most, just to tease you. “Will,” you’ll whine, your hands tangling in his hair, and he’ll chuckle against your skin, the vibration making you squirm. “Patience, love,” he’ll say, his lips curving into a smirk. “I’m not done with you yet.”

When he finally does give you what you want, it’s with a slow, deliberate intensity that leaves you breathless. He’ll watch you as he works, his eyes dark with desire, drinking in every moan, every whimper, every desperate plea for more. “You’re so beautiful like this,” he’ll say, his voice rough with need. “I could watch you fall apart all day.”

But Will isn’t just about physical touch—he’s a master of words, too. He’ll whisper filthily sweet nothings in your ear, his voice a mix of praise and promise. “You take me so well,” he’ll say, his breath hot against your skin. “I love how you sound, how you feel, how you’re all mine.” His words are like a drug, intoxicating and addictive, and they only make you want him more.

By the time he’s done with you, you’re a trembling, incoherent mess, barely able to form a sentence. But Will isn’t satisfied until he’s sure you’re completely undone. “Not yet,” he’ll say, his hands and mouth working in tandem to push you even further. “I want to hear you beg.”

I hope people don't mind that I only wrote two spicy scenes. Sorry, I kinda ran out of ideas lol. Anyways… how did people like the headcannons? These are headcannons right?