#will lenney x fem!reader

[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...😏

[clarkeysbedchem]

btw i think abt pushing it down and praying by @roc-haze at least once a day

[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.

[wcters]

YOUR RELATIONSHIP

pairing: will lenney (willne) x fem!reader

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

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

warnings/contents: swearing, sexual innuendos

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

- you first meet each other at a party im 2022

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

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

- #girlintuition you know?

- that was the night you ended up meeting will

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- it really just went from there until you started dating

- your relationship is FILLED with banter

- people love the way you act together

- “so i was going on the thing-”

- “not with your fatass”

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

- “. . . sorry”

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

- you have him wrapped around your finger

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

- dancing in the kitchen and sleepovers ALL the time ‼️

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

- “she did not!”

- “i know right? what a bitch 🙄”

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

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

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

- “mate, i’ve know him longer!”

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

- “that you know of”

- “james marriott, i swear to god ━━”

- practically a third wheel in your own relationship 😔😔

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

- CONSTANTLY stealing will’s clothes

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

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

- “no . . .”

- “is that it on you right now?”

- “maybe?”

- matching outfits !!!!!

- and you know they eat every time 😌

- featuring in quadrant merch shoots by yourself and together

- matching quadrant fits to support your boy and his company

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

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

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

- you are friends will a lot of the uk girlfriends

- sometimes act as a wingwoman for some of the boys

- being the confident bitch you are 💅

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

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

- “y/n does this look good?”

- “yes chris, she will love it”

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

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

- “i’m a singer, not a chef”

- “i’m hanging up”

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

- being in love with his mullet specifically

- but i mean, who isn’t honestly?

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

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

- someone better hold you back ‼️

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

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

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

- he’s always thinking of you too

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

- sometimes sends them to you

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

- definitely brought home the condoms from that own video 😉

- and they were used

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- “you aren’t will, it’s just a cold”

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

- “okay will” 🙄

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

- wants you with him when you can

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

- “missed you”

- “i went to the grocery store” 🤨

- you are with him for all his big accomplishments

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

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

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

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

- you knew he was upset when james moved away

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

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

- . . . you also just REALLY wanted a pet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- you also go with will to f1 races sometimes

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

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

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

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

- he does that a lot of the time

- “got the crisps you like”

- “how did you know i liked them?”

- “you mentioned them a couple weeks ago”

- “in passing? you noticed?”

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

- you just didn’t remember until that moment

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

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

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

- just the definition of love you two are ❤️

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

[w2soneshots]

willne x reader smut whilst theyre on vacation together

⛱️🛫⛵️🗺️👙🩳

i needdddd..😣

Incredible -Willne

words: 0.8k+

warnings: smut, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), overstimulation, aftercare.

summary: you and your boyfriend enjoy some sexy time while on holiday.

notes: hi babe! You ask and I deliver🫶🏼. When I wrote my first Will fic I didn’t really know much about him but I’m hoping that I grasped his personality better in this?😭. Anyways, enjoy!!❤️‍🔥

Two days ago me and my long time boyfriend Will arrived in Italy for a week long holiday. We'd been thinking about it for a little while and when we finally got some time off work we immediately booked it. The hotel we're staying in is absolutely beautiful and last night we went out for dinner and ate the most amazing food. So far the trip has been a dream.

Tonight we have a reservation at a cute little restaurant that's just a five minute walk from where we're staying. I put on a nice dress along with some comfortable heels.

"You look fuckin' incredible." Will complemented as he stood behind me, his arms snaking around my waist and his head resting on my shoulder as I did one final check of my outfit in the floor length mirror. I smiled, turning around in his grasp. "Don't look too bad yourself." I winked. A cheeky smirk spread across his face.

Just seconds after we walked into the restaurant a waiter came up to us. "Hello there! Do you have a reservation?" He asked kindly. "Uh yes. Under Lenney." Will replied. "Ah yes! Right this way." He led us to an outdoor table. It was the kind of place that had really good vibes. Warm lighting illuminated the space and the view was stunning. "Thank you." I smiled politely as we took our seats, Will pulling mine out for me like a proper gentleman.

We ordered our drinks and chatted away. I noticed a cute older couple that was just a few tables away, they looked so happy and in love which is what I hope me and Will will be like when we're there age.

"You alright love?" Will asked, snapping me out of my thoughts. "What? Oh- yeah. Just thinking about what it'd be like to grow old with you." He laughed lightly. "Well I know for a fact you're still going to be hot as fuck so we have absolutely nothing to worry about." He said. I shook my head, chuckling. "You're a dick."

After eating our food we headed back to the hotel, not before taking a little detour to admire the pretty view once again. As soon as we walked into the room I kicked my heels off. Will did the same.

I felt strong hands on my hips just before I made it to the bed. I turned around with a smirk. He raised his eyebrows at me. My fingers traveled from his shoulder all the way down to the hand on my hip, I slowly moved it onto my ass. Keeping eye contact the entire time.

Quickly his other hand grabbed the back of my thigh and he swiftly lifted me off the ground. I shrieked and then giggled as he pressed me up against the wooden wardrobe door. He kissed me from my jaw to my chest and finally coming back up to connect our lips. The kiss was deep and passionate. Both of my arms wrapped around his neck as I pulled him impossibly closer.

After a few minutes Will moved us to the bed, gently laying me down as my hands fell to his muscular shoulders. He slowly made his way down my body; bringing my dress with him until I was in my panties and nothing else. "I'll never get bored of you." He whispered as he removed his clothes, now standing. My cheeks blushed.

Once he was completely naked he crawled on top of me; holding himself up using his forearms. My fingers racked through his hair, massaging his scalp. Slowly one of his hands disappeared between us and he removed my underwear before he reached my clit. I gasped as his fingertips made contact with the bundle of nerves.

"My pretty girl." He husked, admiring my face as my eyes rolled to the back of my head in pure pleasure and as makeup ran down my sweaty, tear stained face. I began rolling my hips and he took the hint. "Ready love?" He asked. I nodded swiftly. "Mhm." I mumbled, licking my lips.

It was only a few seconds of nothing before I finally felt him slowly glide his hard cock into me, allowing me to adjust to his size. "Fuck- you're so tight baby." His forehead pressed onto mine as he began to move. My legs wrapped around his hips allowing his dick to perfectly hit my g-spot making me let out a loud moan.

"Will I'm gonna- I-" my head fell back onto the soft mattress as my orgasm washed over me. Will dug his head into my neck as he rutted his hips into mine, producing quiet groans from his mouth. I quickly felt overstimulated and began to squirm slightly. My walls squeezed around his cock and that pushed him over the edge. Without warning he came deep inside of me (thankfully I'm on the pill).

After catching our breath Will picked me up and took me to the bathroom. He helped me to take a shower and get into some comfy pyjamas. As we settled in the clean, white hotel sheets Will gently stroked my hair, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead before I fell into a peaceful asleep.

[lenneygirl4ever]

the alchemy || Will Lenney

“where’s the trophy? he just comes running over to me”

part one of THE ALCHEMY. part two here

pairing: will lenney x fem!reader

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

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

a/n: hello!!! this is based on the 2022 sidemen charity match, but for convenience purposes, it's set in 2023. for the plot, of course.

also, i’m tired of looking at this so this is being posted without review! i promise part two will have more will, i’m just setting us up for success in part one. you’ll absolutely love it.

please enjoy <3

wc: idek at this point

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, adn 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 :)”

⚽️...

You arrive to the pitch first, bringing an old ball covered in dirt from when you had last dribbled with Chris. Will arrives shortly after, a wide smile and an excited pep to his jog.

“Six sharp!” he says, checking his watch to show you it's exactly 6pm. Will is very timely; he’s considerate of people's time and even makes an extra effort to arrive early. He never wants to be the wanker who shows up late and wastes others time and efforts.

"That ball is just filthy, innit?" he comments, his true Geordie accent making a clear appearance. You roll your eyes quickly.

“I don't see yours anywhere,” you respond, finishing up tying the laces of your shoes. You rock on your feet a few times, creasing the shoe and getting it to warp around your feet snugly.

"Fair enough." Immediately, Will picks the ball up and twirls it between his fingers. "What should we do first?"

You both practice dribbling, passing, and shooting. Eventually, moving on to striking and stealing, which gets aggressive, causing you to have bruises all along your legs. Will thinks that after a while, it's a good idea to mess around so you both don't end up hating each other. The time passes by swiftly, the sun setting behind you both before you realize it.

The sky is highlighted with hues of orange, yellow, and a deep red in the horizon. You turn to look at Will; his shoulder grazes your side, and as if on cue, he looks at you, too.

He silently smiles, and for a second it’s all it is, but then his hand comes up and brushes the cool of your cheekbone. He brushes the stray hair that fell, tucking it behind your ear. Smoothing down any hairs that stuck out on the back of your head with his palm.

Will always find an excuse to touch you, to be physically closer. He’s an affectionate person, you’ve always riddled it as. Oh, there’s a stray hair on your face, oh a piece of fuzz on your sweater, don’t worry if you’re nervous— his hand crawls its way onto the small of your back. And every time he did something like this, your feelings soared and free-fall in the air. You don’t know how much longer you can swallow down the shyness you feel when it happens.

Instead, you give him a small shove.

“Stop it,”

“I was just helpin’ ya,” his voice squeaks.

“Just like how you helped get Simon to convince me to play in the match next week?” You shove the ball into his chest, backing up, motioning him to play. He lets out an airy chuckle, rolling the ball onto the field and dribbling it between his feet.

“Heard about that didn’t you?”

He kicks it toward you.

“Mhmm. “

And you kick it, hard, right back.

“I didn’t help him; all I did was suggest that he ask you because you’re reliable.” Will tried to dribble around you, but it rolled just far away enough for you to steal it.

Will runs towards the goal post, attempting to block you or maybe even tackle you, you aren’t sure. From the times you’ve watched Will play, his limbs tend to fly around and it’s like he’s just experienced walking for the first time.

“And not because you know I wouldn’t say no to the prat?”

“Look, to make it up to you I’ll score you a goal at the game,” Will offers, making you raise your eyebrows. He says semiseriously, but you have a feeling it’s more joking than anything. He was always good with banter anyway.

“Yeah right,” You walk back, running up to the ball and kicking it with the side of your foot— flying into the right corner of the net.

Wills eyes widen as he watches you jog over to grab the ball again.

“And you’re the one who needs practice?” he pipes, forgetting about the conversation. You smile shyly and shake your head, grabbing the ball and handing it to Will.

"You think too highly of me, Will." His hands cup yours, causing you to look up at him. The eye contact is soft, yet his eyes squint, and you notice the small clench of his jaw.

"I don't think so. I reckon others think the world of you as well, " Will retorted seriously.

There it is again. What is so small and meaningless to him is the grandest gesture you could ever receive. Whatever way you feel is growing, and you're letting it kill you. You can hear it in the silence, see it with the lights off, and feel it when he steps into a room. It has never been clearer to you than now.

Will notes the silence on your end, reeling back his hands and letting the ball drop to the ground. He scratches the back of his neck before sweeping the ball between his feet and turning around.

"We should focus, shouldn't we? Keep practicing," he mutters absentmindedly. The words are caught in your throat, itching on the tip of your tongue. It takes every atom of your being not to blurt out your every thought. You try to ground yourself by moving your fingers, shaking off the tingling feeling Will left. Your mouth opens to say something, anything, but it snaps shut at the sight of the geordie man looking back at you.

So, instead, you ignore the interaction completely.

"Yeah, let's do that, practice."

And that’s what you did. Every day for a week, you both played until your fingers were numb and noses pink from the chill. The sun would be long gone, the stars visible in the dark, the dim lights that lit the field flickering during the times when they were ready to turn off.

And every night, when Will offered to take you home, you said yes. Will would walk on the side of the sidewalk closest to the road, his shoulder would bump into yours, and you would listen quietly to anything he had to say. He would go on and on and on the entire way home, and you still would ask if he wanted to come inside your flat for a few.

A few minutes would be you showing him your next video, and then you would cook together, and he would sit on your couch and scroll through his phone. The time moved quicker than it did on the field, causing you both to stay up late into the night.

“Where are you going?” You question from the couch, eyeing the way he begins to walk over to the door. He stands up straighter than before, looking at his phone, and then back up at you.

“Home, it’s late,” he reminded.

“Exactly. Stay, don’t act like you haven’t before,” you insist, already going to grab a few blankets and pillows for Will on the couch.

Some nights weren’t always like this. Sometimes, you’d watch something on the telly, and he’d scroll through his phone. Your body would press against his casually, like you two have done for months. Except you're more weary and hesitant, feeling like your every move was a gesture of something more.

For a week it felt like you two were playing house. It was odd, and you knew it. Everyone knew it. When James would call Will there would be quiet snickering, loud teasing. Faith and Sabina would ask for updates after seeing both of your story posts. When Simon called Will to see if he was coming to training day, he asked to speak to you knowing you’d be around.

Yet this didn’t stop the overnights at your flat, it didn’t stop Will from doing his work from your room, it didn’t prevent you from doing loads of laundry together, and it definitely didn’t stop you both from taking the train together to the hotel the day before the match.

⚽️…

The ground below you rumbles from the audience in the stadium. As the time passes you know it’s getting closer and closer to the start of the match. Your leg bounces up and down as you stretch in your own locker room, your hands shake putting on the red uniform, there’s a dryness in your throat that not even all the water in the world could wash away.

“You alright?” Wills asks quietly as his hand slips onto your shoulder. He’d been asking if you were okay ever since you lot left the hotel. And everytime you responded,

“Yeah, yeah,” except your eyebrows were knitted together, your hands picked at the beds of your nails, and you could barely interact with anyone without feeling like passing out.

“Don’t psyche yourself out, darlin. I make a fool of myself every year, all you have to do is show up and you’ve done your part!” he says delicately. You inhale through your nose at the nickname, jaw clenching to focus on breathing. All you do is nod, giving him a small smile.

You aren’t sure what will kill you first, the charity match, or the yearning in your heart. And hopefully, it’ll be the charity match.

Once everyone begins to stand, it’s three o’clock, and just like that the world begins to move incredibly fast. The lads begin two straight lines, moving through the tunnel swiftly. They all seem so confident and excited and you don’t think you even remember how to run. With Will standing infront of you, he’s the only thing that is blocking you and your vision from the roaring crowd outside.

Forgetting his gopro is on, you tap on Wills shoulder

“I’m literally shitting myself right now Will,” he laughs and he takes your hand in to his for a moment with a small squeeze,

“We’ll be all right, swear,” and by the time he turns around, you’re out in the field and the roar of the audience is jarring. You’re convinced your head whips an entire 360 to get a good look at how big the crowd was.

Once you’re down the field, you’re shaking hands with the opposing team. You nod politely and greet your friends, making polite, quick, small talks with JJ, Vik, Josh, Harry, and then Simon. You brief him with a handshake and shove at him lightly,

“God if this goes to shit, i’m blaming it all on you, ya know that?” you joke and he laughs loudly.

“I’ll keep that in mind, y/n”

You greet Chris, Tobi, and Jimmy finally before jogging your way to center to get ready for the kick off. You look back and squint your eyes to see Will as right wing, he can see you and he shows you a thumbs up. And for a moment, it washes away your nerves, until the whistle blows and the game has begun.

..

The first half of the match goes by incredibly fast. Chunkz and Niko make the first goals of the match, allowing for the teams spirits to remain high. You’re able to say that you helped assist Niko with his goal, tackling the ball under four large men. The next goal was made by Vik, and as a good sport, and friend, you made your way over to congratulate him properly.

You stay close to Hp and Chunkz during this time, the only two you feel like trust you enough with the ball. The banter is great but the encouragement they give you is better.

As the sweat beads on your forehead, your chest rises and falls quickly. Everytime you manage to catch your breath, you’re off running again. Your eyes squint looking towards Danny, seeing him get ready for the throw-in. You look around at your team and you eyes are quickly looking for Will, to see he’s already looking at you.

There’s a small smile followed by a little wave. You feel your chest tighten again, this overwhelming feeling is all so sudden and new. The sweaty palms, the overthinking, the flush on your neck. Hopefully it’s all from nerves, and not just from the Geordie man.

The moment ended as quick as the moment came, because Danny Aaron’s then throws the ball into the field. Luckily for you, you were on the edge of the box. The ball comes rolling toward you fast, you’re able to dribble it between your feet, swiftly moving past Callux. You decide to create space between the two of you, but with the other team circling in on you, the only thing to do was shoot.

So, you shoot.

The ball is headed straight towards the net and looks like it could make it past the post, but to your disappointment, the ball bounces off the post and goes right back onto the field.

“Shit,” you mutter out, a hand wracking through your hair ready to run after the ball again. But, Theo is quick to take the ball from under one of the lads on the opposing team, making a quick recovery by striking and making the goal.

A breath you didn’t know you’d been holding finally came out. While you smile and clap for Theo, your energy is low and you are so tired.

“Y/n!” a familiar voice yells from behind you, and you’re quick to turn around. Wills hair is pushed back and sweaty, yet he doesn’t think twice before engulfing you into a bone crushing hug.

“Not making a fool of myself am I?” you ask, pulling away to look at him. Will chuckles and shakes his head immediately,

“That’s a joke, right? You’re ridiculous,” he says sincerely and breathlessly. You thank him briefly before substitutions start to happen, allowing there to be some down time.

Which give you the time to remember what he said to you the first time you had practiced together.

“You still promised me a goal,” You mention, before looking into the gopro on his chest, “Will owes me a goal today, and I better get it,”

“I didn’t promise anything,” he counters quickly. Your head tilts at this, with wide eyes, and he nervously laughs and rubs his neck. Even though he knows you’re joking, he still feels the need to fulfill it.

“You know what, I’ll.. do my best to. I can promise you that, y/n.” And without warning, the lot of you are off again.

…

4 - 3

After the first half of the match, it’s looking promising for your team. Theo scored another goal, and spirits were still high. You were able to switch out and take a needed breather. But after the second half of the match started, that’s when your team started to take a tumble.

You were off the pitch until Pinero got injured, and needed a substitute. So with half a bottle of gatorade and an electrolyte packet in your system, you hopped to your feet and ran back on the field. Once you hear that Simon is getting switched out with Chris, you sigh.

“Fuckin’ hell,” you mutter under your breath, knowing that Chris is a force to be reckoned with. Speed also gets switched off the field, and you’re not sure without him you guys could win. You look around hoping to find a familiar face, but for some reason you can’t find him. Where is the left wing player?

Your thoughts are interrupted by the blow of the whistle, allowing the match to continue. You see the ball fly in the air, and you’re on your feet, going wide incase someone needs to pass. But the ball goes farther and faster than you could run, that’s when you see Will.

Will runs from left back and goes towards the net like he’s a striker. He runs right past Ethan and Harry, getting a close range of the ball. Once Chunkz taps it down, Will slides toward the ball, knocking it into the net.

In the 80’ minute, Will scores what could be the final goal of the match.

“Oh my god,” you say aloud, mouth agape.

In the moment you got tunnel vision. All you could see is Will getting on his feet and spin on his heels looking for something, someone. Everyone starts to run towards Will, to congratulate him, to dogpile on him. But when his eyes land on you, he bolts toward you with all his might.

As he’s running, he’s yelling something, pointing at you. He says it multiple times, too quick for you to make out.

“What!?” You yell breathlessly, leaning forward like you were going to be able to magically tell what he said. But without warning Will comes crashing into you, the impact causing you to stumble backwards, almost losing your footing.

Guess you’ll have to find out what he said later.

When you pull away, you grab onto his shoulders firmly, bouncing with delight.

“Did you see that? I haven’t scored a goal like that ever, i’ve always been in the back—“

“I know! I know!” you cut in between his excitement.

“I’m so glad you were here to see that—“ He’s quickly cut off by the rest of the team congratulating him. Patting him on the shoulder, squeezing him into a brief hug, Chris even comes over and says he’s done well.

You begin to back off to get back into the center field, watching as the smile on Wills face takes over him completely. He radiates warmth, sunshine, and complexities. The ache with quiet yearning, watching him celebrate. There was nothing in the world like it, and if it meant having Will this way rather than not at all- you’ll live with this ache forever.

8 - 7

The match finishes briefly after Will scores. Manny scoring at the 86’ minute tying up the two teams. And Simon, of course, gets the last goal of the match putting his team first. Your team is able to score another point, Theo ends up stepping up to kick the ball and Pie face blocks it from the net. Meaning, the Sidemen have won. Regardless, everyone is in a good mood no matter the turnout. All the players rush towards the field, congratulating each other, briefing the match that just ended.

You thank Hp and Chunkz for a good game, and shake Theos hand for being another good defensive player with you.

Simon makes his way over to you and he puts his hands on the tops of your shoulders, shaking you gently.

“See! It wasn’t so bad was it?” he teased. You roll your eyes and lick the dryness off your lips, admittedly, it wasn’t so bad. After you got over the burning in your chest, the ache in your sides, and the soreness in your thighs.

“Uh no, no, wasn’t too bad. I stayed with Hp and Chunkz a lot of the time, we were all playing really well,” you say before asking how Simon think he did.

“I got a hat trick and three assist, what more could I have asked for?”

“That’s fair,” is all you can respond with. All you can think of is the times you could’ve tried to score, the times you weren’t able to make a good pass, or interfere a pass. Simon reads your mind as he sees the conflict on your face, quick to bring you back to reality.

“I mean you were really great. A few assists, you and Theo on defense was a nightmare, there is no complaints on my end. I hope you consider coming back and playing again, Y/n, seriously.” Simon squeezes your shoulder one last time before he sees Harry, the two rushing towards one another excitedly.

You turn around to see Elz and Munga coming up to you with their mics, a cameraman following. They pull you away from the group of lads whilst everyone gets ready to clap around the stadium. Taking a step back upon seeing the camera, a lopsided smile creeps up on your face.

"Y/n, what an incredible match. You were all over the pitch this game! Can you give us some words about your first time playing in a Sidemen charity match and how it felt?" The mic comes in your face, and you let out an airy chuckle.

"Yeah..um, I haven't played footy since high school, really. When Simon asked for me to play, I was.. reluctant at first, you know, but now I'm really glad I said yes." You rattled on.

"We saw some great strikes on the pitch. How do you feel about barely missing the goal during the first half?" Munya asks.

Licking your lips, you let a beat go by for a moment so you can think. The question poses room for scrutiny from the audience; you can feel your stomach churn, anxiety creeping up on the hairs on the back of the neck. You knew if you seemed too confident, people would not like that, but if you seemed too humble, people would condemn you too.

"Uhm... That's a great question," you begin to say, craning your neck to look for comfort. Your eyes try to find someone in the swarm of people, desperate to get away from the hosts.

"It was my first time! I definitely could've made it if I had been a bit closer or wasn’t getting closed in on,” you finish honestly. There, you see Will is staying back to wait for you. His eyes are wide, and his head is slightly tilted; it's a tender look that was being reserved for you.

"We are thrilled to have you here, and we hope you come back next year,” Elz says and you thank them both quickly before jogging over to Will.

He doesn’t say anything, instead all he does is wrap his arm around your shoulder and guides you to where everyone else is doing their claps around the stadium. You’re curious to see if this moment will make the video, or any of the other ones between the two of you, after all it is up to Mikey.

You find yourself smiling at the crowd, the people, the cameras. In that moment, you truly felt like you belonged and deserved to be there. Saying hello to fans, signing papers, and receiving handmade items. Although, you knew that once this was over, you'd be under mass criticism. You'd go on Twitter and see everyone criticizing how you played, but getting the validation from your mates was all the resignation you needed to tune those other voices out.

“Why the sour face?” Will leans down to whisper to you, amongst the ruckus the lot is making as they leave the pitch.

“Nothing gets past you,” commenting, crossing your arms over on another. He rolls his eyes and groans at this.

“I know you,”

For a second you debate sucking it up, going to the pubs to celebrate with everyone after. Or, going back to the hotel room for the night, and getting ready to leave as soon as possible to see your cats back at home.

“All I want to do is go home, really,” you sigh. Wills face doesn’t change, all he does is hum in response before looking at his phone to see the time.

“Yeah? Why don’t we go back to the hotel and get going,” he suggests simply. You quirk an eyebrow, knowing that prior he was more than willing to go to the pubs with everyone.

“Is.. that what you want?” asking hesitantly. Giving him time to think, and change his mind. But without another beat passing he nods his head.

“Not what about what I want, let’s get home,”

He flashes you a soft, genuine smile that makes the corner of his eyes crinkle. Will smooths your hair done with his palm like always, before silently walking to the locker room to change.

You’re left to stand there, cheeks flushing. Home. Insinuating that home is with you. All of this feels so natural, the soft touches, the quiet intimacy, the longing stares. You wonder how long it’s going to take for you to crack, to risk it all and reveal the raw truth. But, for another day, you can hold on to the pieces of Will that you already have.

TAGLIST:

@mosviqu @ivvees-blog @ooostarwarsfandom501st

( if you would like to be on future tag lists please ask!)

[quillofana]

You and Will meeting for the first time

pairing: will lenney (willne) x fem!reader

summary:  How you and Will meet

warnings/contents: none?

You first meet in 2021 on a sidemen Sunday shoot

You’re mutual friend harry introduced you guys and instantly hit it off together becoming mates fairly quickly

It was an expensive vs cheap travel video and you, will, harry, and simon were all on the cheap team. 

Stuck in a tiny car in the back seat squished between will and harry. Simon in the front and cameraman con in the front as well. 

Will giving you aux after a hour of begging

Will secretly queuing Taylor Swift and blaming it on you

Horrible singing. I mean absolutely horrendous. Worse than James Marriott (JOKING)

You and will picking on harry by blasting his diss track

Harry and will harassing Simon to go get food

Stopping at nandos and stealing everyone else's fries

Harry notices you getting flustered by will slightly flirting with you and side eyeing you.

Showing each other tik toks and making stupid comments to the camera

Harry teasing you saying you and will should date because the fans would love it (he's not wrong)

road trip games like are we thinking of the same thing

You and will scheming to prank Harry and Simon.

Complaining about how long the car ride is and having no idea where you're even going

Finally getting there and crashing onto the bed and Will yelling about “outside clothes” on the bed.

Luckily two bedrooms but both had one bed in each. You got stuck sharing with will because Harry forced you to. (You secretly don't mind but you didn't want to admit that)

Will constantly asking if you're ok with sharing the bed. 

Harry and Simon barging in with the camera  asking if you guys have kissed 

You getting embarrassed and hiding your face in the pillows

“OMG YOU GUYS DID?” - Harry

“NO YOU WANKER!” - Will

Going out to the bars and Harry pulling you aside asking to spill if you fancy will or not. 

“Harry, I just met him stop it.” 

“No you gotta tell me! You've been blushing and laughing at everything he says”

“What he's funny.”

“He's not that funny.”

“Ok mean, bye.” 

Going back to the boys and they have gotten you a drink.

You open a card up and it says that you've got to get 3 guys phone numbers by the end of the night.

Simon being your wing man and getting you 2 guys to give them your number

“Can the third one be Will?” You ask pretty drunk by now

“I mean I’d give it to you anyway, you're quite cute.” Will says back while taking your phone and putting his number in.

“Alright, love birds, we will count it. Let's start heading out.” Simon says while going to try to get Harry to get out the door.

You get an uber and head back to the hotel. 

You don't realize how tired you are until you get into the car and fall asleep.

“Shh don't wake her” 

“Alright alright sorry”

“Goodnight lads.” 

Will putting you down on the bed and giving you one of his t-shirts. 

“Y/N, wake up.” 

“Nooo”

“You've gotta change and take off your makeup to go to bed”

“Ugh fine” reluctantly getting up and changing in the bathroom

Flopping onto the bed next to will like a starfish

“Today was fun” 

“Yeah it was, thanks for making it bearable”

“Of course, me make the good duo I hear”

“Oh yeah?”

“Simon was going on about how the viewers are gonna love our dynamic and how Josh wants us to be in another video already.

“Well that's quite fun, we should probably say goodnight to the vlog right?” 

“Yeah probably.”

Will pulls out the camera and starts saying that we called it a night and will see them in the morning.

Slowly falling asleep while talking to each other because of how tired you are. 

Ending up cuddling in the middle of the night because of how cold it is.

You guys sleeping in and not hearing the boys try to wake you up

Them barging in filming and laughing at how you guys are still asleep at 11am. 

The screenshots of you guys cuddling going viral and starting the couple rumors

Texting each other secretly throughout the rest of the trip

Being sad that the trip is ending and can't continue to see each other every single day. 

Will offering to go get dinner after the trip and to continue to hangout

And you obviously saying yes! 

Hugging and saying bye when you guys get back to london.

Sadly looking out the car on the way home like you're in a music video wishing that the trip would never end, and looking forward to that dinner.

[sundrop-writes]

Fanfiction Poll Again :)

(because I am feeling insane and directionless)

I do ask that you please read about the ideas below before choosing an option, but it's totally cool if you just pick an option based on which one sounds the coolest. Also usually I do seven day polls, but recently whenever I do that, by the time the polls are finished, the ideas are no longer appealing to me because my brain has moved on (oop). So this time we're just doing one day! I think it's stupid and unfair that communities has 3 day polls and we can't do that on main blogs. Like dude.

And I know some of you are like 'what about the second half of the George fic?' - well usually when I have to edit a long fic, I have to lock myself in Editing Jail for two or three days and it's no fun. So my plain this time around is to put myself in Editing Timeout for like an hour a day and edit 5 or 10 pages a day until it's done while working on something else so that I don't get insanely bored. So it will be done. (And I have to do this with a Jason fic and a few TMR fics too.)

Anyway, POLL:

Something with Will Lenney x Reader x James Marriott (this is a fanfiction threesome that needs to happen and as far as I’ve seen, it hasn’t happened? Like I haven’t seen anybody write this before? But I could be wrong) - my general idea would be that the reader is someone who knew Will first (and maybe dated him?? Maybe an ex?) but now she’s helping James with his music and they’re spending a lot of time together and flirting a lot and Will absolutely hates it and one day when he goes to yell at them about it, he walks in on them making out, and the petty jealous argument that breaks out actually turns into a threesome (trust me on this one)

Your First Kiss With George Weasley - would be the start of the 'your first kiss' series with the Harry Potter characters. George gets drunk at Bill and Fleur's wedding because he thinks that his ugly disfigurement after the Battle of The Seven Potters makes him unlovable and he'll never get married like his brother, and you assure him that's definitely not the case.

A Ron Weasley fic inspired by the Phil Collins song Against All Odds (which is one of my favourite songs of all times and I have a weird emotional fixation on Phil Collins and I have since seeing Tarzan when I was a child). Ron and Reader are childhood friends and very clearly are in love in with each other but haven’t admitted it yet, and when Ron abandons them during Horcrux hunting, Reader is very hurt that Ron would abandon her specifically because when they were kids he promised her that he would “always be there for her”. And when he comes back, she confesses her love to him in a bout of anger and he begs for her forgiveness, which at first, she is unwilling to give. Would be very angsty

An Andre Harris x Reader fic - oddly enough, inspired by The Little Mermaid. Andre really needs a competent and good love interest. I’ve been rewatching Victorious lately and I’ve been watching a lot of meta about the show and I realized how neglected Andre is and my brain came up with this. The reader is new to Hollywood Arts and walks down and hears Andre singing and falls in love with the sound of his singing voice, but before she can approach the room he was in and find out who was singing, Andre is distracted away by shenanigans and she finds the room empty. So she develops a crush on the anonymous Singing Guy, and when Andre meets her and gets to know her better, he develops a crush on her - and he’s devastated to find out that she has a crush on some random guy (obviously that neither of them know is him). So the friend group suggests that Andre win her over by writing her a song and it works out in the end when she hears him singing. It would be structured like an episode as an homage to the show

Bloodfeather - which is an idea I had for a longer Daryl Dixon x reader fic. It would showcase Daryl and the reader’s relationship throughout the series in oneshots (and I don’t wanna reveal any of the major plot points lmao)

Harry Being Insane In The Woods - Harry James Potter x Reader. This is based on the idea that after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry has intense PTSD and has a difficult time adjusting to 'normal' life, so he flees society and goes to live in a cabin in the woods where no one can find him. When he random cuts off contact with Ron and Hermione, Hermione comes to you (Harry's ex girlfriend) worried, and sends you to find Harry, and it ends with sappy, angsty, kink reunion sex between you and Harry. (This is deeply inspired by Daniel Radcliffe's character in Horns because I am so obsessed with that movie and so close to writing fanfiction for it.)

Something with Will Lenney x Reader x James Marriott (this is a fanfiction threesome that needs to happen and as far as I’ve seen, it hasn’t happened? Like I haven’t seen anybody write this before? But I could be wrong) - my general idea would be that the reader is someone who knew Will first (and maybe dated him?? Maybe an ex?) but now she’s helping James with his music and they’re spending a lot of time together and flirting a lot and Will absolutely hates it and one day when he goes to yell at them about it, he walks in on them making out, and the petty jealous argument that breaks out actually turns into a threesome (trust me on this one)

Your First Kiss With George Weasley - would be the start of the 'your first kiss' series with the Harry Potter characters. George gets drunk at Bill and Fleur's wedding because he thinks that his ugly disfigurement after the Battle of The Seven Potters makes him unlovable and he'll never get married like his brother, and you assure him that's definitely not the case.

A Ron Weasley fic inspired by the Phil Collins song Against All Odds (which is one of my favourite songs of all times and I have a weird emotional fixation on Phil Collins and I have since seeing Tarzan when I was a child). Ron and Reader are childhood friends and very clearly are in love in with each other but haven’t admitted it yet, and when Ron abandons them during Horcrux hunting, Reader is very hurt that Ron would abandon her specifically because when they were kids he promised her that he would “always be there for her”. And when he comes back, she confesses her love to him in a bout of anger and he begs for her forgiveness, which at first, she is unwilling to give. Would be very angsty

An Andre Harris x Reader fic - oddly enough, inspired by The Little Mermaid. Andre really needs a competent and good love interest. I’ve been rewatching Victorious lately and I’ve been watching a lot of meta about the show and I realized how neglected Andre is and my brain came up with this. The reader is new to Hollywood Arts and walks down and hears Andre singing and falls in love with the sound of his singing voice, but before she can approach the room he was in and find out who was singing, Andre is distracted away by shenanigans and she finds the room empty. So she develops a crush on the anonymous Singing Guy, and when Andre meets her and gets to know her better, he develops a crush on her - and he’s devastated to find out that she has a crush on some random guy (obviously that neither of them know is him). So the friend group suggests that Andre win her over by writing her a song and it works out in the end when she hears him singing. It would be structured like an episode as an homage to the show

Bloodfeather - which is an idea I had for a longer Daryl Dixon x reader fic. It would showcase Daryl and the reader’s relationship throughout the series in oneshots (and I don’t wanna reveal any of the major plot points lmao)

Harry Being Insane In The Woods - Harry James Potter x Reader. This is based on the idea that after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry has intense PTSD and has a difficult time adjusting to 'normal' life, so he flees society and goes to live in a cabin in the woods where no one can find him. When he random cuts off contact with Ron and Hermione, Hermione comes to you (Harry's ex girlfriend) worried, and sends you to find Harry, and it ends with sappy, angsty, kink reunion sex between you and Harry. (This is deeply inspired by Daniel Radcliffe's character in Horns because I am so obsessed with that movie and so close to writing fanfiction for it.)

[octaneink]

Custom Fit

Will Lenney x Reader

Summary: The Reader supports Will at the 2025 Sidemen Charity Match Warnings: None Notes: Sorry it took so long! This request was so hard, writing football stressed me tf out 😅 Watching the highlights were cool too, but I had no idea what was happening most of the time. I'm a rugby gyal

The roar of the crowd at Wembley Stadium buzzed in your ears like a live wire, a relentless hum that seemed to vibrate through your bones. The sea of red-and-white scarves and kits blurred into a kaleidoscope of motion, a living, breathing entity pulsating with anticipation. You stood slightly apart from the others, your fingers absently tugging at the hem of your custom #LENNEY 2 jersey. Beneath it, the long-sleeved shirt you’d layered clung to your skin, its fabric thin and breathable but still trapping a faint warmth against your arms. The jersey itself was softer than you’d expected, the material sliding easily over the shirt’s sleeves, but the combination did little to settle the restless flutter in your chest.

The VIP box was a sensory overload—popcorn kernels scattered on the floor, their buttery scent mingling with the sharp tang of expensive perfume wafting from the women nearby. The mix was as chaotic as your nerves, a strange cocktail of comfort and unease. Below, the YouTube Allstars were a whirl of pre-match energy, their movements sharp and purposeful. Some stretched, their muscles rippling under their kits, while others laughed, tossing balls in casual arcs that belied the tension building in the stadium. But your eyes tracked only one person.

Will stood near the sideline, his back to the stands as he jogged on the spot, his own red-and-white kit clinging to his frame. Even from here, you could see the way his shoulders shook with a laugh at something Harry said, his easy confidence radiating like sunlight. You’d memorised that posture—the way he rolled his neck before big moments, the habit of tugging his sleeves over his knuckles. But today, every detail felt magnified. Would he spot you before the match? Would he even look up?

“Stop fidgeting,” Talia hissed, swatting your hand away from the jersey’s hem. Her smirk was all mischief, her gold hoops catching the stadium lights as she leaned in. “If you crease it, he’ll think you nicked it off a mannequin.”

“Or that you’ve been stress-cuddling it in secret all week,” Freya added, arching a perfectly groomed brow. She’d swapped her usual designer dresses for Sidemen merch today, though hers was artfully cropped and paired with heeled boots. “Which, let’s be honest, you probably did.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress a grin. “I did not. I’m not the one who still sleeps in Josh’s sixth-form hoodie.”

Freya gasped, clutching her chest in mock offence, as Faith snorted, adjusting Olive on her hip. The toddler reached chubby fists towards the colourful crowd, babbling excitedly. “Don’t drag me into this,” Faith said, bouncing Olive gently. “But for the record, Ethan still has the first note I ever wrote him tucked in his phone case. Lads are sentimental creatures. Prepare for waterworks.”

You smiled at Faith, your oldest mate. The two of you had been inseparable since her family moved next door when you were kids. You’d spent countless afternoons in her back garden, dreaming about the future and giggling over crushes. When she started dating Ethan, you’d been sceptical at first—what if he didn’t like you? What if things got weird? But Ethan had welcomed you into their world with open arms, and it wasn’t long before you were hanging about with the Sidemen crew.

That’s how you met Will.

You remembered the first time Faith dragged you to one of their group outings. You’d been nervous, feeling like an outsider among the tight-knit group, but Will had noticed you sitting quietly in the corner. He’d plonked down next to you with a grin, handing you a drink and launching into a story about the time he and Simon got lost in Amsterdam. By the end of the night, your cheeks hurt from laughing, and you’d forgotten all about being nervous.

Talia leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a stage whisper that somehow carried over the growing buzz of the crowd. “Or other reactions,” she said, her eyebrows waggling like she was sharing the juiciest of secrets. Her grin was sharp, knowing, and it made your stomach flip.

Heat rushed to your cheeks, spreading like wildfire. “It’s just a kit,” you lied, your voice pitching higher than you intended. The words sounded weak even to your own ears, and the way Talia’s smirk widened told you she wasn’t buying it.

“Just a kit?” Freya echoed, incredulous. “You had it custom-stitched in two days when the online shop sold out. Travelled to Manchester to beg the kit manager in person. That’s not ‘just’ anything, love. That’s a declaration of war.”

Your mouth opened to protest, but no words came out. Instead, you shot a nervous glance towards the pitch, where Will was still turned away, his focus on Chris as they mock-tackled each other. The sight of him—carefree, grinning, utterly in his element—made your stomach swoop in a way that was equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.

Talia followed your gaze, her teasing expression softening just a fraction. “He’s going to love it,” she said, her voice sincere for once. “And when he scores today, he’ll point straight at this box. You’ll see.”

“He’d better,” Faith chimed in, her tone dry as she dug through her bag for Olive’s snack. The toddler was perched on her hip, gnawing on the ear of her stuffed bear, completely oblivious to the conversation. “Or I’m revoking his uncle privileges.”

A sudden cheer erupted from the crowd as the Allstars began dispersing to their positions. Your eyes snapped back to the pitch, where Will was now walking backwards towards the centre circle, his head tilted as he squinted up at the stands. Your breath hitched, your heart pounding in your chest. Could he see you? You froze, torn between waving like a prat and ducking behind Freya to hide.

But then Ethan called his name, tossing him a water bottle, and Will turned away, laughing as he fumbled the catch. The moment passed, and you exhaled sharply, unaware you’d been holding your breath.

“Heart attack avoided,” Talia teased, fanning you with a match programme she’d nicked from somewhere. Her grin was back, full force, and you rolled your eyes, though your cheeks were still burning.

“Give it time,” Freya said, her tone light but her eyes glinting with mischief. “The match hasn’t even started.”

You groaned, leaning back against the railing as the players took their positions. The tension in the air was palpable, the crowd’s energy building to a fever pitch. But even as the referee blew the whistle and the game began, your mind kept drifting back to the kit, to the way Will had laughed as he caught the water bottle, to the promise of what might come next.

The match hung on a knife-edge. 88th minute. 8-8. The Allstars surged forward, their attacks sharp and desperate, every pass and tackle charged with the kind of urgency that made your chest tighten. Your nails dug into the railing of the VIP box as you watched Will track back, his movements slower now, his legs heavy but still pushing. The Sidemen FC’s defence was in shambles—xQc stranded halfway up the pitch after a botched clearance, the goal gaping wide and vulnerable.

Your breath caught in your throat as George pounced.

The ball rocketed off his foot, a thunderous strike from the edge of the box, screaming towards the open net. The crowd rose as one, a collective gasp tearing through Wembley, the sound raw and primal. Your heart stopped. The world narrowed to that ball, arcing through the air.

Then Will moved.

He lunged, a full-stretch dive from inside the goal line, his body parallel to the grass as he hurled himself headfirst towards the ball. Time slowed—or maybe it was just your mind, struggling to process what you were seeing. The blur of the stadium lights, the deafening roar of the crowd, the sharp crack of his forehead connecting with the shot. The ball ricocheted skyward, spinning harmlessly out of play.

For a heartbeat, there was silence. Absolute, deafening silence.

Then chaos.

“UNBELIEVABLE! WILL LENNEY WITH A GOAL-LINE HEADER—ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” the commentator bellowed.

You were on your feet before your brain could even process it. Your arms shot out wide, fingers splayed, as if you could somehow reach down and touch the chaos unfolding on the pitch. A scream tore from your throat, raw and unfiltered, joining the tidal wave of noise crashing around you. “YES! YES! YES!” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t care. The world had narrowed to one thing: Will.

Spinning on your heel, you nearly lost your balance, but you didn’t care. Your hands flew out, pointing wildly towards the pitch, your eyes wide and frantic as they locked onto the girls. “DID YOU SEE THAT?! DID YOU SEE HIM?!” Your voice was hoarse, barely audible over the roar of the crowd, but your expression said it all.

Freya was bent double, her laughter ringing out like a bell. She clutched her sides, tears streaming down her cheeks as she gasped for air. “We saw it, love! The whole stadium saw it!” Her words were punctuated by another peal of laughter, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

Talia’s hands were on you in an instant, gripping your shoulders with a force that made you stumble. She shook you like a ragdoll, her dark curls bouncing wildly as she screamed in your face, “HE’S MENTAL! ABSOLUTELY MENTAL!” Her eyes were wide, her grin manic, and for a moment, you thought she might actually shake you apart.

Faith stood a little apart, holding Olive in her arms. She just shook her head, her lips curving into a wry smile. “That man’s going to give you a heart attack one day,” she said, her voice dry but her eyes sparkling with amusement.

And then the jumbotron flickered.

There you were, frozen in time—arms outstretched, your #LENNEY 2 kit blazing across your shoulders, your face alight with a joy so pure it was almost blinding. The crowd’s roar shifted, morphing into a collective “AWWWW” as the screen split. On one side, Will lay sprawled on the pitch, his chest heaving, his face streaked with sweat and grass stains. On the other, you stood, your eyes glistening with pride, your smile so wide it hurt.

Will squinted up at the screen, his brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. For a heartbeat, he just stared, his lips parting in surprise. Then, with a sudden burst of laughter, he slapped the grass, his shoulders shaking as he rolled onto his back. “OH MY DAYS!” he mouthed, his grin widening as he blew you an exaggerated kiss. The Allstars swarmed him, yanking him upright, their laughter mingling with the commentators’ cackles.

“Someone’s got a fan,” one of them teased, his voice dripping with amusement.

“Fan? That’s his girlfriend,” the other corrected, his tone smug. “Rumour has it she’s the reason he’s playing like a man possessed!”

“Possessed? Nah, mate—that’s love.”

Freya’s whistle cut through the noise, sharp and piercing, right in your ear. “If he dies tonight, at least he’ll die famous,” she said, her tone light but her eyes dancing with mischief.

“He’s already famous,” you shot back, your cheeks flaming as you tried to ignore the heat creeping up your neck.

“Not for football,” Talia snorted, her lips quirking into a smirk.

The pitch was alive with motion, players shifting into position like pieces on a chessboard, their movements sharp and deliberate. Will jogged backward, his boots digging into the turf with each step, his eyes darting up to the jumbotron every few seconds. The massive screen still flashed the split image—him, sprawled on the grass moments ago, and you, frozen in mid-celebration, your joy radiating even through the pixels. His grin, once wide and cocky, softened at the edges, the bravado melting into something quieter, more personal.

He tapped two fingers to his lips, a quick, almost unconscious gesture, before pressing them to his chest—right over the name on his kit. LENNEY. His eyes flicked to the VIP box, locking onto yours for a heartbeat. Yours, he mouthed, the word silent but unmistakable. Then he turned away, his focus snapping back to the game, but the ghost of that private smile lingered.

“Gross,” Talia said, her voice cutting through the moment like a knife. She swatted your arm, the sharp smack making you yelp and jerk away. “Save the eye sex for after we win,” she added, her tone dripping with mock disdain, though the corner of her mouth twitched like she was fighting a smile.

Freya, never one to miss an opportunity, let out an exaggerated gasp and fake-swooned into Faith’s shoulder. Her hand flew to her forehead, her fingers splayed dramatically as she tilted her head back. “He’s peacocking,” she declared, her voice lilting with theatrical flair. “Look at him. Absolute showman. Can’t help himself.”

Faith adjusted Olive on her hip, “He’s concussed,” Faith said flatly, though the grin tugging at her lips betrayed her. “That’s the only explanation for… whatever that was.” She gestured vaguely towards the pitch, where Will was now crouched slightly, his eyes scanning the field as the Allstars began to huddle.

But before he joined them, Will glanced up at the VIP box one last time. You couldn’t help yourself—you mimed blowing him a kiss, your fingers brushing your lips before flicking them towards him with a playful smirk. His reaction was immediate and absurd. He clutched his heart, staggering back as if you’d physically struck him, his face contorted in mock agony. The exaggerated drama of it made you laugh, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably despite the tension in the air.

Faith rolled her eyes, but the effort to keep her expression neutral was clearly a struggle. Her lips twitched, and she shook her head, muttering under her breath, “You two are disgusting.”

“Disgustingly sweet,” you shot back, your voice sing-song and teasing, though your grin was genuine. The tension of the shoot-out was building, the crowd’s energy shifting to a low, anticipatory hum. The whistle blew, sharp and piercing, snapping the stadium back into focus. Will straightened, his expression shifting from playful to intense in an instant.

The game was on.

The final whistle blew, and the Allstars erupted—a tangle of sweat-drenched hugs and victory chants. Will collapsed onto his knees, chest heaving, before Chris yanked him upright to join the team’s lap of honour. His eyes scanned the stands, lingering on the VIP box as he jogged, waving half-heartedly at the crowd.

“He’s coming up here, isn’t he?” Talia said, watching Will duck out of the team huddle and bolt for the tunnel.

“Twenty quid says he face-plants on the stairs,” Faith replied, shielding Olive’s eyes playfully.

You barely heard them. Your pulse thundered in your ears as the stadium doors swung open—

And there he was.

Will, still in his grass-stained kit, hair plastered to his forehead, cheeks flushed from the game. He skidded to a halt in front of you, breathless and grinning like he’d scored a last-minute winner. The VIP section fell silent, phones snapping photos as he vaulted the barrier.

“You,” he said, pointing a trembling, accusatory finger at your jersey, “are a menace.”

“Me?” You arched a brow, fighting a smile. “You’re the one who blew a kiss to 90,000 people.”

“Had to claim my territory,” he shot back, stepping closer until the scent of turf and citrus sweat wrapped around you. “Everyone’s gonna want a Lenney kit now.”

“Doubt it,” you said, tapping the #2 on your chest. “This one’s custom.”

Will’s gaze softened. He reached out, calloused fingers brushing the embroidered name on your shoulder. “You’re a proper ride-or-die, you know that?”

“Someone’s got to be,” you teased, though your voice wavered.

He huffed a laugh, then hooked a finger under the jersey’s collar, tugging you forward until your foreheads pressed together. The crowd’s cheers faded to static. “Wanna know why I kept looking at the screen?” he murmured.

“To admire your own cheekbones?”

“Nah.” His thumb swept over your jaw. “Every time I saw you in my name, I remembered… this is real. We’re real. Even when I’m out here acting like a prat for the cameras.”

Freya fake-gagged behind you. “Get a room!”

Will flipped her off without breaking eye contact. “Swap kits with me,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “What?”

He didn’t wait for an explanation. Before you could even process what was happening, Will yanked at his own sweat-soaked Allstars kit, peeling it off in one swift motion. The crowd erupted, a deafening roar of cheers, whistles, and laughter as he stood there, bare-chested and unbothered, his grin wide and unapologetic.

For a moment, you froze, your brain short-circuiting. His skin glistened under the stadium lights, the faint sheen of sweat catching the glow as his chest rose and fell with each breath. The muscles in his shoulders and arms—usually hidden under layers of fabric—were on full display, defined and taut from the game. A faint trail of grass stains smudged his collarbone, and your eyes involuntarily dipped lower, catching the faint line of his happy trail, a subtle but undeniable detail that made your throat go dry.

“Your kit,” he repeated, snapping you out of your daze. He waved a hand in front of your face, his grin turning smug. “Earth to," he said your name "Give it. Now.”

“You’re mental,” you managed, your voice coming out higher than intended. Your cheeks burned as you tore your gaze away, but not before catching the way his smirk deepened, clearly pleased with himself.

“Oi, eyes up here,” he teased, tapping your chin with a finger. “Unless you’re enjoying the view?”

“Shut up,” you muttered, swatting his hand away, though the heat in your face betrayed you.

The crowd around the VIP box had started to notice the commotion, a few fans snapping photos on their phones, their laughter mingling with the noise of the stadium. Will, ever the showman, turned to them briefly, flexing with an exaggerated wink that sent another wave of cheers through the stands.

“You’re such a prat,” you groaned, though you couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips.

“And you’re stalling,” he shot back, shoving his crumpled match kit into your hands. The fabric was still warm from his body, and you could feel the faint dampness of sweat as you clutched it to your chest.

“You’re never living this down,” you groaned, reluctantly tugging your #LENNEY 2 over your head.

Will took the kit from you with a grin, holding it up like it was some kind of trophy. He shook it out, the fabric snapping in the air, before slipping it on properly. He adjusted the shoulders, smoothed the front, and tapped the #2 on his chest with a smirk.

“Looking good,” you said dryly, though your cheeks burned as you clutched his discarded kit to your chest, the fabric still warm from his body.

“Damn right,” he shot back, his grin widening as he raised an arm, flexing dramatically. The crowd around the VIP box had started to notice the commotion, a few fans snapping photos on their phones, their laughter mingling with the noise of the stadium.

“You’re such a show-off,” you muttered, though you couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips.

He spun back to you, his eyes bright and wild, the kind of look that made your stomach flip. “Yeah,” he said, quieter now, his voice barely audible over the chaos. “And I’m yours.”

The kiss wasn’t dramatic or cinematic—it wasn’t the kind of moment you’d see in a film, with sweeping music and perfectly timed lighting. It was messy, real, and inevitable. His lips met yours with a kind of urgency that spoke of relief, of triumph, of something deeper that had been simmering all day. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer, his grip firm but not possessive. The taste of salt lingered on his lips, a mix of sweat and the faint, sugary tang of Haribo from his half-time snack. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was him, and that was enough.

At first, it was almost hesitant, as if he was reminding himself that this was real, that you were here, that the chaos of the game was over and this moment was his to claim. But then his fingers tightened slightly on your waist, and the kiss deepened, his lips moving against yours with a quiet intensity that made your chest ache. His breath was warm and uneven, his forehead pressing against yours as if he needed the anchor, the connection, to ground him.

The surrounding chaos didn’t disappear, exactly—it just faded into the background, like static on a radio. The roar of the crowd, the flash of cameras, the distant shouts of his teammates—it all became a blur, muffled and distant. All you could focus on was the warmth of his body against yours, the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath your palm, the way your kit clung to his shoulders, still damp with sweat.

His hands slid up your back, pulling you even closer, and you could feel the tremble in his fingers, the faintest hint of exhaustion and adrenaline still coursing through him. His lips were soft but insistent, and when you let out a small, involuntary sigh, he smiled against your mouth, the curve of his lips breaking the kiss for just a moment before he leaned back in, slower this time, more deliberate.

The second kiss was different—less urgent, more lingering, as if he was savouring the moment, memorising the feel of you. His thumb brushed your cheek, calloused and gentle all at once, and you could feel the way his breath hitched when your fingers tangled in the damp hair at the nape of his neck. He tasted like victory and exhaustion, like the faint citrus of his energy drink and the salt of his sweat, and you couldn’t get enough.

Someone below shouted, “GET A ROOM, LADS!”—probably Ethan, judging by the tone—but Will didn’t pull away. He just laughed, the sound low and breathless, his lips still brushing yours as he murmured, “Ignore them.”

And you did. For a few more seconds, at least, the world narrowed to the two of you—his hands on your waist, your fingers in his hair, the way your kit clung to his shoulders like a second skin. It wasn’t perfect or polished, but it was real.

“You’re stuck with me now,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, barely audible over the noise.

“Was there ever any doubt?” you shot back, your voice trembling despite your attempt at levity.

He huffed a laugh, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. His thumb brushed your cheek, calloused and gentle all at once, and for a moment, it felt like the two of you were the only people in the stadium.

The moment didn’t last long—it couldn’t, not with the cameras still flashing and the crowd still roaring—but it didn’t need to.

Gang, let me know what you think of this! I don’t usually watch football, so I had to slowly go through the live stream to get a feel for the game. Eventually, I gave up and just watched the highlights and pick out the goal block scene.

I hope it’s okay.

I tried my best, I've went back and forth quite a bit, I’m definitely out of my depth here. Let me know if anything feels off or needs tweaking!

[octaneink]

October Rain

Will Lenney x Fem!Reader

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

You spend an hour picking out the dress.

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

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

A text from Will:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The waiter’s smile softens. “Anniversary?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods and walks off.

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

8:03 PM.

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

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

Outside, the rain thickens.

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

8:17 PM.

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

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

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

9:03 PM.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You walk faster.

The rain tastes like salt.

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

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

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

You nod back, silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You step inside, rainwater pattering onto the entryway tiles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

“The. Date.”

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

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

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

A beat. Rain lashes the window above the sink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

The door creaks. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hates cilantro

Hates roses (cliché)

Hums when she cooks (buy a home speaker)

Secretly loves my terrible puns (look up more)

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

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

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

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

Her ring size (6.25)

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

Your breath hitches. “How long…?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Will.”

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

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

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

His forehead drops to yours. “Always.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath hitches. He notices. He always notices.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re not married.”

“Yet.”

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

“Will—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[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]

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]

Easy Love

Will Lenney x Reader

Summary: The Reader tries a new scent, Will definitely notices. Warnings: None! Notes: Not an ask, just a random idea I thought would be cute ☺️☺️☺️

You'd been meaning to reorganise the junk drawer all week.

It was a task that nags at you every time you fish for a pen and come up with nothing but dried-out pens and a handful of foreign coins. Today, the mess had reached critical mass when you'd been searching for the spare key to your place and instead unearthed three dead AA batteries and what might have been a receipt from 2019.

So at 2 PM on Sunday, with golden afternoon light pooling across the kitchen tiles, you'd upended the entire drawer onto the counter. The contents formed a sad little monument to domestic chaos: twisted phone chargers, a single cufflink, half a dozen IKEA Allen wrenches, and at least three pens that definitely didn't work.

Will had watched this from his throne in the living room armchair, one eyebrow arched over the top of his novel. "Spring cleaning?" he'd asked, already knowing the answer.

"It's making me itchy just looking at it," you'd grumbled, aggressively untangling a knot of cables. "How do we even accumulate this much crap?”

That was an hour ago.

Now you're kneeling on the kitchen floor, elbow-deep under the sink, fingers brushing against the cold pipe as you search for the trash bags you could have sworn you bought last week. The cabinet smells faintly of lemon cleaner and something metallic, and you're fairly certain your jumper is collecting dust bunnies the size of tumbleweeds.

"Will," you call, voice slightly muffled by the cabinet, "did you move the—"

The only response is the soft whisper of a page turning. You twist to see him through the doorway, still curled in the armchair with his book propped against his knees. Afternoon light gilds the curve of his shoulders, catching in his hair where it's fallen across his forehead. His thumb moves absently along the edge of the page, but his eyes never leave the text.

"Will?" You try again, louder this time, knocking your knuckles against the cabinet door for emphasis.

"Hm?" It's the kind of distracted noise people make when they're only physically present, their mind still wrapped around a plot twist or character's fate.

You give up with a huff, the cabinet door swinging shut with a hollow thud as you rock back on your heels. The floor had left angry red impressions on your knees, and your shoulders ached from being hunched in that cramped space for so long. When you finally straighten up, your spine cracks in three distinct places—the kind of satisfying pops that make you feel both ancient and temporarily relieved. The clock above the stove reads 3:07—if you leave now, you can make it before everything closes at 4.

"I'm running to the shop before it closes," you announce, brushing dust from your clothes. "Need to grab milk anyway. I'll pick you up a snack for work tomorrow—want anything specific? Those protein bars you like, or should I see if they have more of those weird spicy nuts?"

Will makes a noncommittal noise, but you’re already heading for the hallway, stripping off your dust-streaked jumper as you go.

In the bedroom, you tug on a fresh top and pause, eyeing the little glass bottle on your dresser. The perfume was a gift from a friend last month—“It’s so you,” they’d insisted—but you’d barely used it. Today feels as good a time to use it for the first time. You spritz it on, the scent blooming: vanilla, bright and sweet at first, then something deeper, spicier, like amber melting into skin.

You give your wrist an absentminded sniff. Nice. Maybe your friend was right, it does suit you. Leaving your bedroom, you walk to the door and grab your tote from the hook, digging through its depths for your keys. They jangle somewhere near the bottom, buried under crumpled receipts and a pack of gum.

That’s when you notice it.

The silence.

No rustling pages. No absent tap of Will’s fingers against the armrest. Just the weight of someone’s gaze, like a touch between your shoulder blades.

You turn.

Will hasn’t moved from his chair, but his book lies forgotten in his lap, spine bent at an unnatural angle. His eyes lock onto yours, then drop—slow, deliberate—to the curve of your neck. His throat bobs as he swallows.

“Going out?” Will asks again, his voice gravel-dipped. It’s not really a question. There’s an edge to it, a tension that makes your pulse skip. You finally fish out your keys with a triumphant jingle. "Yes, Sherlock," you say, shooting him an amused look over your shoulder. "Like I said five minutes ago when you were too busy with your book to listen."

His abandoned novel lies splayed on the armrest like a wounded bird, pages crumpled under his restless fingers. The sight gives you pause, Will never treats books this way. “Want anything else?”

His answer comes in movement rather than words. He rises with sudden purpose, the book tumbling to the rug as he crosses the space between you in three long strides. Before you can react, he's shrugging into his coat with uncharacteristic haste, the wool collar sitting askew, his hair mussed from where he'd raked an impatient hand through it.

"I'm coming with you," he says, his voice low and rough around the edges.

You blink. "Since when do you volunteer for grocery runs?" The tease in your voice falters as he steps closer, shrinking the hallway with his presence. The heat of him radiates through the scant space between you, his hand brushing the small of your back as he reaches past you for the door. His touch lingers just a beat too long, sending an unexpected shiver up your spine.

The intensity in his storm-grey eyes betrays his usual calm—something restless simmers beneath the surface. You notice the faint tremor in his fingers as he holds the door open, the taut line of his forearm muscles as he gestures you through.

Outside, the evening is crisp, the streetlamps casting honeyed pools of light on the pavement. Will walks closer than usual, his shoulder bumping yours whenever you round a corner. You catch him staring again, his gaze snagging on your throat, your wrists, and the pulse point behind your ear. When the wind tosses your hair, he inhales sharply, as if stealing a secret.

“You’re quiet today,” you say, half-turning to face him.

He stops short, his eyes darkening. For a heartbeat, you think he might say something—do something—his breath warm against your cheek. But then he steps back, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Just thinking,” he says, the words rough, like they’ve been dragged through gravel.

What’s got into him?

The shop's sign buzzes louder as you approach, flickering in the gathering dusk. Will lingers by the door just long enough to hold it open for you, his arm brushing yours as you pass through. The warmth of his body lingers where he touched you, even as he falls into step beside you.

You grab a plastic basket from the stack near the entrance, its handle creaking in your grip. Will reaches for the same one too, his fingers briefly overlapping yours before you both pull away. There's a charged moment where neither of you move—just stand there in the harsh light, baskets in hand, breathing the same air.

You tug one free, its grip creaking under your fingers. Behind you, Will shifts closer than necessary—his chest nearly grazing your shoulder—as if drawn by some magnetic pull. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch his hand twitch forward, fingertips skimming the air just above yours before curling into a fist.

For a heartbeat, neither of you move. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, bleaching the linoleum into a sterile white. You can feel the heat of him against your back, smell the faint cedar of his shampoo mixed with something sharper, almost feral.

“Right,” you say, clearing your throat, pivoting toward the dairy aisle, "Milk first."

The aisles are narrow enough that Will has to walk behind you, his presence a constant warmth at your back. When you stop to examine expiration dates on the milk cartons, he crowds closer than necessary, reaching past you to grab one. His chest brushes against your shoulder, solid and warm.

"Got it," he murmurs, his breath stirring the hair at your temple. The milk carton drops into your basket with a dull thud, but neither of you move away immediately.

At the coffee display, the rich, roasted scent wraps around you both as you survey the options. You reach for your usual blend at the same moment Will does, his hand covering yours completely. His skin is warm, his fingers slightly rough against yours. Instead of pulling away, his thumb strokes once—slow, deliberate—across your inner wrist where your pulse jumps.

"Sorry," he says, though his voice is anything but apologetic. His eyes drop to your mouth for a heartbeat too long before he finally steps back, leaving your skin tingling where he touched you.

You swallow hard, focusing on the coffee labels with sudden intensity. "S'alright," you manage, dropping a bag into your basket with slightly unsteady hands. When you glance up, Will's watching you with that same dark intensity, his fingers flexing at his sides like he's resisting the urge to reach for you again.

The moment stretches, thick with something unspoken, until Will clears his throat and reaches past you for the sugar. His arm brushes against yours, his chest nearly pressing into your shoulder as he leans in. His breath ghosts warm over the shell of your ear, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine.

"Forgot we were out of this," he says, voice pitched low just for you. The words vibrate through you, and you're suddenly hyperaware of every point of contact between you.

At the checkout, the cashier—an old woman with a knowing smirk—watches with undisguised interest as Will crowds into your space while you unload the basket. His fingers keep brushing yours as you both reach for items, each accidental (or not-so-accidental) touch sending little electric jolts up your arms.

When your hand trembles slightly while handing over cash, Will's fingers cover yours again, ostensibly to help but really just another excuse to touch. "I've got it." he says, his deep voice resonating in your chest as he stands close enough that you can smell the faint remnants of his cologne mixed with something uniquely Will.

The cashier arches an eyebrow as she hands back your change, her eyes flicking between you two with amusement. You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, your pulse hammering in your throat, as Will's hand finds the small of your back to guide you toward the exit.

Outside, the cool evening air does little to calm your racing heart, especially when Will's fingers slide down to tangle briefly with yours before he seems to think better of it and shoves his hands in his pockets instead. The charged silence between you is louder than any words could be.

The walk home stretches taut between you, the grocery bag’s handles digging into Will’s palm as he walks just a half-step too close. His sleeve brushes your arm with every other stride—cotton whispering against cotton—and each incidental contact lingers like a brand. The city sounds fade into background static: a distant ambulance siren, the click-clack of a dog’s nails on pavement, the hum of a faulty neon sign above a shuttered laundromat. All of it feels muffled, drowned out by the rhythm of Will’s restless energy.

When you pass beneath a flickering streetlamp, its sickly yellow light catches the sheen of sweat at his temples. His gaze flicks to your neck again, lingering on the damp tendril of hair clinging to your skin. You watch his throat work as he swallows, the sharp line of his jaw flexing like he’s biting back words.

“You’re being weirdly intense today,” you say, nudging him with your elbow. The gesture aims for lightness, but your voice betrays you—it comes out breathier than intended, almost a challenge.

Will’s laugh is a rough scrape of sound. “Am I?” He shifts the grocery bag to his other hand, plastic crinkling like cellophane fire. His free arm swings briefly toward yours, fingers grazing your knuckles before he shoves both hands into his coat pockets. The fleeting touch leaves your skin buzzing.

You slow your pace, studying him. Moonlight bleeds through the clouds, silvering the tension in his shoulders, the way his collar sits crooked against his throat. There’s something feral in his profile—the dilated pupils, the slight flare of his nostrils as the wind shifts—that makes your stomach swoop. For a heartbeat, you think he might press you against the graffiti-tagged brick wall to your left, his body caging yours in the shadows.

But he keeps walking.

Three more steps, then he stops dead. You nearly collide with him, catching yourself on his forearm. The muscle beneath his sleeve jumps at your touch.

“Will—?”

He doesn’t turn. Just stands there, head bowed, breathing audibly through his nose. The grocery bag hangs forgotten at his side, a litre of milk threatening to slip free. When he finally speaks, his voice is ground glass. “You should’ve worn a jacket.”

You blink. “It’s not that cold.”

A beat. Then his coat hits your shoulders before you can protest, his hands linger at your collarbones, adjusting the lapels with unnecessary focus. His thumbs brush the hollow of your throat, once, twice, before he steps back.

“Better,” he mutters, already striding ahead like he can outpace whatever’s clawing at his ribs.

You hurry to catch up, the coat sleeves swallowing your hands whole. Up close, you notice what you missed before—the tremor in his left hand, the way his pulse thunders visibly at his neck. When he catches you staring, he angles his body away, jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts.

The remaining blocks pass in a fever dream. Every rustle of fabric, every shared glance, every time his shoulder bumps yours feels amplified. By the time your building comes into view, you’re both breathing like you’ve run a marathon, though neither of you will admit it.

At the front door, Will fumbles the keys twice before managing the lock. His hand covers yours on the doorknob, pressing down hard enough to feel the ridges bite into your palm.

“After you,” he says, but doesn’t move aside—just crowds you through the doorway, his chest grazing your back, his breath hot on your nape.

You tell yourself it’s relief that makes your knees weak when he finally retreats to the kitchen, the grocery bag abandoned on the counter. But as you hang up his coat, you press your shoulder to hide the wide grin on your face.

Dinner unfolds in a series of fractured moments. Will stands at the counter, chopping carrots, each thwack echoing off the tiled walls. You sit at the kitchen table, sorting through the junk drawer’s survivors: paperclips glinting like insect legs and rubber bands coiled tight as nerves.

The air smells of ginger and soy sauce. Every time you glance up, his eyes snap back to the cutting board, shoulders rigid. He’s wearing that grey Henley with the stretched collar, the one that exposes the hollow of his throat when he leans forward. You notice sweat dampening the fabric between his shoulder blades.

“You’re hovering,” you say, louder than intended.

He doesn’t answer. Just sets down the knife with exaggerated care and reaches for the kettle. You track his movements—the flex of his forearms as he fills it, the way his thumb rubs compulsively over the handle’s curve. Steam rises as he pours boiling water into two mugs.

The tea appears at your elbow without warning, Earl Grey swirling amber in your favourite mug he’d bought for you last winter. His pinky grazes yours as he withdraws, a spark of contact that lingers.

“Movie tonight?” he asks, leaning back against the sink. His arms cross over his chest, biceps straining the sleeves. Will leans back against the sink, the edge of the counter biting into his hip, but he doesn’t seem to notice. The sleeves of his Henley strain against his biceps, fabric pulling taut where his muscles flex unconsciously. A droplet of water slides down his wrist, tracing the ropy veins of his forearm before disappearing under his rolled cuff. You track its path, hypnotised by the way it catches the flickering kitchen light, until his throat bobs with a hard swallow.

He clears his throat. The sound is sandpaper-rough, startlingly loud in the cramped kitchen. You drag your gaze upward, past the smudge of flour on his collarbone and the damp hair curling at his nape, to find him watching you through his lashes. The fluorescent light overhead buzzes, casting sickly shadows under his eyes. For a heartbeat, he looks almost feral—jaw clenched, nostrils flared, the pulse at his temple throbbing visibly. Then he blinks, and the illusion shatters.

“Sure. Your pick.”

He nods but makes no move to leave the kitchen. His gaze burns a hole through the back of your head as you resume sorting. Rubber bands snap into a jar. Paperclips clink like loose change. The silence stretches, taut and humming, until—

“Casablanca”, he says abruptly.

You blink. “Since when do you like old movies?”

“Since never.” He pushes off the counter, mug abandoned. “But you do.”

The admission hangs between you, fragile as the steam still curling from your tea.

The couch has never felt this small.

Will’s usual sprawl—all loose limbs and careless angles—has been replaced by a coiled tension that makes the cushions dip dangerously toward him. His left arm rests along the back of the sofa, not quite touching your shoulders, but the heat of him bleeds through your thin jumper anyway. On screen, a spaceship disintegrates in silence. Neither of you registered the title when he queued it up, too busy pretending not to track each other’s movements.

His fingers find your hair first.

It starts as a graze—the rough pad of his thumb brushing the nape of your neck as he tucks a stray strand behind your ear. You stiffen, but he doesn’t retreat. Instead, he twirls the lock around his index finger, the motion hypnotically slow. His breathing hitches, audible even over the movie’s sudden explosion of gunfire.

“Will?” you whisper, turning your head just enough to see his profile.

He freezes. Moonlight from the half-open blinds stripes his face, sharpening the hunger in his expression before he can school it into something neutral. His thumb presses harder against your neck, a silent plea for you to stay still.

Then he sniffs.

A slow, deliberate inhale, his nose dragging along your temple. His breath fans hot over your skin, uneven and shallow, as if he’s been running. You feel the flutter of his eyelashes against your cheekbone when he blinks.

“You smell different,” he rasps, lips grazing the shell of your ear. The words vibrate through you, low and frayed at the edges.

Your heart stutters. “I—what?”

He doesn’t answer. Just buries his face in your hair, nuzzling the sensitive spot behind your ear with a low groan that makes your thighs clench. His free hand grips the couch cushion, fabric tearing under his fingernails.

“Your perfume,” he mutters, voice thick. “It’s… new.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out as a gasp. “Since when do you notice my perfume?”

His teeth graze your earlobe—a split-second scrape that might’ve been accidental. “Since it’s this one.” The hand in your hair tightens, tugging just enough to tilt your head back. His other palm lands heavy on your knee, fingers digging into the denim. “What’s in it?”

“I don’t—vanilla? Amber?” You’re babbling, hyperaware of his thumb tracing circles on your inner thigh. “Why?”

Will huffs a laugh against your skin, his arms tightening around you. “Been driving me fucking mental all day.” His voice rumbles through your chest where you’re pressed together, warm and honey-thick with confession.

Heat floods your cheeks. “You—” You twist to face him, but he catches your chin, calloused fingers tilting your head up. His eyes are heavy-lidded and gleaming, the blue-grey irises gone stormy at the edges.

“Yeah,” he admits, unashamed. “Full stalker mode. Followed you around the shop like a starving dog.” His thumb swipes over your bottom lip, daring you to scold him. “Pathetic, really. Nearly growled at that old lady for smirking at us.”

You laugh, swatting his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Guilty.” He nuzzles your jaw, scruff catching on delicate skin as his earlier intensity melts into something softer, sweeter. “Should’ve warned me. That perfume’s a biological weapon.” His nose trails down your neck, inhaling deeply with an exaggerated sniff that sends you into giggles.

“Oh, please,” you snort, tangling your fingers in his hair. “You’re just dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” Will nips your earlobe, gentle this time. “You leaned over the milk cartons. Practically waved your neck under my nose.” His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your ribs. “Sabotage.”

“I was checking expiration dates!”

“Cruel.” He kisses the offended pout off your lips, slow and lingering. He groans, flopping back against the cushions and dragging you with him in a tangle of limbs. “Going to have words with your friend,” he grumbles, even as his hands settle possessively at your waist. “Gifting chemical warfare disguised as perfume. Criminal negligence.”

“Hey!” You pinch his side, laughing as he jerks away with a yelp. “She has excellent taste!”

“Taste?” Will rolls his eyes, but the smile tugging at his lips betrays him. “That stuff’s lethal. Bet she’s cackling in her evil lair right now.” He tugs your wrist to his nose, breathing deep with a mock-agonised sigh. “Probably spiked it with pheromones.”

You prop yourself up on his chest, smirking down at his ridiculous pout. “Jealous she found my signature scent first?”

“Devastated.” His hands slide up to frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. For once, there’s no humour in his stormy gaze—just raw, disarming honesty. “Should’ve been me.”

The kiss starts soft, a barely-there press of lips that quickly deepens when your fingers find his hair. Somewhere in the apartment, the forgotten movie’s credits music swells dramatically. Will breaks away first, forehead resting against yours as you both catch your breath.

“For the record,” he murmurs, nose bumping yours, “you’re banned from wearing that to Ikea. Or libraries. Or—”

The protest dies in his throat as you kiss him—really kiss him—your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt to pull him closer. His lips part instinctively, a low hum of satisfaction vibrating between you as he tilts his head to deepen the angle. There’s nothing tentative about it now: his hands slide up your back, anchoring you against him with a possessiveness that steals your breath.

He tastes like Earl Grey and the dark chocolate bar he’d pocketed at the shop—bitter-sweet, addictive. His stubble scrapes your cheek as he breathes you in, but neither of you care enough to pull away. When your teeth graze his bottom lip, he lets out a ragged groan, fingers tightening in your hair.

“Christ,” he mutters against your mouth, the word more prayer than curse. His thumb brushes the hinge of your jaw, coaxing you to open for him again, and you do—gladly—melding together in a rhythm that feels older than either of you. The couch creaks as he shifts, pressing you into the cushions until there’s no space left between hips, between heartbeats.

Before you can protest, his arms lock around your waist like steel bands, dragging you sideways into his lap. His legs loop over yours, pinning you to the couch in a tangle of limbs. A shudder runs through him as he buries his face in the junction of your neck, nose pressed to your pulse point.

“Will—?”

He doesn’t answer. Just holds you tighter, his breath hot and unsteady against your skin. Slowly, you relax into the vice of his embrace. Your fingers card through his hair, nails scraping gently at his scalp. He lets out a sound, half groan, half sigh, and nuzzles deeper into your neck. The tension bleeds from his shoulders incrementally, his death grip on your waist softening to something almost reverent.

“You’re clingy tonight,” you murmur, smoothing the rumpled hair at his temple.

“M’not,” he mumbles into your collarbone, though his legs immediately tangle with yours, pinning you to the couch. His nose nudges the hollow of your throat, inhaling deeply, as if memorising the scent. “S’your fault. Drugged me.”

You snort, fingertips tracing idle patterns down his spine. “Dramatic to the end.”

He hums, noncommittal, his lips brushing your pulse point. The credits still roll, bathing the room in shifting blue light, but Will’s breathing already slows—deep, even pulls of air that stir the neckline of your shirt. His grip loosens incrementally, heavy limbs going lax as sleep claims him.

You don’t dare move. Not when his lashes flutter against your skin, not when his fingers twitch against your hip in some dream. The weight of him is solid and warm, his heartbeat a steady drum beneath your palm.

“Will?” you whisper.

A soft snore answers, his exhale warming the hollow of your throat. You stretch carefully, fingertips grazing the crumpled throw blanket at the foot of the couch. The fabric whispers as you drag it upward, dust motes swirling gold in the TV’s dying light.

He stirs when the blanket settles—a grumpy murmur vibrating against your collarbone. His arms tighten reflexively, legs cinching around yours like living rope. “Nuh,” he slurs, half-asleep, protest muffled in your skin.

“Octopus”, you accuse under your breath, laughter softening the word.

His only reply is to nuzzle deeper, lips brushing your pulse in unconscious affection. You let your hand drift back to his hair, carding through the messy strands. His sigh is a quiet surrender, breath evening out as he sinks deeper into dreams.

The credits fade to black. In the sudden dark, his heartbeat becomes your compass—steady thuds beneath your palm, syncing with yours until you can’t tell where he ends and you begin. His legs stay stubbornly tangled with yours, a human anchor keeping you grounded.

Sleep comes slowly, tethered to the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. His breaths paint the silence—a soft whistle in his nose, the faint tick of a swallowed snore. You press a kiss to the damp hair at his temple, lingering just long enough to memorise the warmth of his skin. Your eyelids grow heavy, the last thing you feel is the weight of his arm across your waist, anchoring you to this moment—to him—as the world dissolves into the slow, heavy pull of sleep.

[octaneink]

Hips don't lie

Will Lenney x Reader

Summary: Will doesn't feel very confident for the match, the Reader helps him practice. Warnings: Bit of make out at the start but nothing descriptive nor sexual and its implied that the Reader knows football Notes: Based on this request, I hope you dont mind that I went in this direction! Not to sure about this one, to quoute James Acaster "Started makin it. Had a breakdown. Bon appetite." football is hard as fawk

The credits of Shaun of the Dead danced across the screen, painting the dim living room in erratic bursts of blue and grey. Empty popcorn bowls littered the coffee table, their buttery scent mingling with the sticky-sweet residue of spilt soda. Will’s laughter from the film’s final joke still lingered, but now his knee bounced restlessly, his fingers drumming a staccato rhythm on his jeans. You tilted your head, studying him—the way his gaze clung to the paused screen, avoiding yours, and the tension in his jaw sharp enough to cut glass.

“Out with it,” you said, nudging his slipper with your socked foot. The couch groaned as you leaned closer. “You’ve been jumpier than a squirrel on espresso.”

He lobbed a lone popcorn kernel at you—a weak shot, missing entirely. It skittered under the couch. “Twitchy? I’m Zen. Practically meditating.”

“Sure. And I’m the Queen,” you deadpanned, snatching the remote off his thigh. The screen froze on Simon Pegg’s blood-smeared face, mid-yell. Will’s grin faltered, and his throat bobbed as he picked at a loose thread on his hoodie sleeve. You waited, elbow propped on the sofa back, until the thread snapped.

“Simon asked me to play in the Sidemen charity match,” he blurted, voice strained with faux nonchalance.

“That’s brilliant!” You grinned, but his flinch cut you short. His knuckles whitened around the cushion.

“Last time…” He huffed a laugh, sharp and brittle. “Last time, Twitter had a field day. ‘WillNE? More like WillNOT.’ Trended for three days. Three. Days.” His imitation of the trolls was pitch-perfect, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. It flickered to the floor, where the rogue popcorn kernel glinted in the dim light. “Now they want me at Wembley. In front of—Christ, millions. What if I…” He trailed off, jaw clenching.

You shifted closer, knees brushing. The heat of his arm against yours steadied the room. “That was a year ago. It��s different now, you’ve done more in terms of overall fitness. You’re quicker now. Smarter.”

“And if I faceplant? Become a national joke?” The raw edge in his voice pricked at your chest.

“Then you’ll be the funny face plant. Memes for days.” You nudged him, earning a half-hearted eye roll. “But you won’t. Blocking’s about reading your opponent. It’s simple, I’ll teach you.”

His brow arched. “Says the klutz who trips on flat ground.”

You hurled a throw pillow. He caught it, grin widening, and the room’s tension dissolved like sugar in tea.

“Fine,” he sighed, lobbing the pillow back. “But if we’re doing this—”

You lunged, toppling him into the cushions. His laugh burst free, warm and startled, as your socks tangled and the TV’s static hum faded beneath your pulse. “—We start with jockeys,” you declared, nose inches from his.

“Tyrant,” he muttered, but the protest dissolved as his palms slid around your hips. His thumbs pressed into the hollows just above your waistband—a searing imprint through the thin fabric of your shirt. You stiffened, every nerve crackling at the contact, his calluses catching on the ribbed hem like a struck match.

His breath hitched when your knee accidentally brushed his thigh. Distract him. Keep it light. You forced a smirk, tilting your chin up. “Scared I’ll beat you?”

His grip tightened reflexively, fingers digging into the soft curve of your hipbone. A shiver skittered down your spine. “You wish,” he scoffed, but his voice had gone low, frayed at the edges. The earlier tension in his shoulders had melted, replaced by a coiled heat that made your throat dry.

“You’re doing the thing,” he said softly, his gaze dropped to your lips, then flicked back up, a flicker of mischief cutting through the shadows under his eyes.

“What thing?”

“Your nose.” His thumb brushed the slope of it, feather-light. “Scrunches when you’re scheming. Like a rabbit with a vendetta.”

You swatted his hand away, cheeks burning. “Piss off—”

He kissed you. Deep and languid, his lips parting yours with a sigh that tasted of salt and the ghost of artificial butter. Your fingers twisted into his hoodie, cotton bunching beneath your grip as the world tilted—his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth, slow and deliberate, like he was mapping a route he planned to revisit. His hands slid up your back, calloused palms skimming the ridges of your ribs through your shirt, and your breath hitched. Everywhere he touched sparked, a live wire beneath your skin, and when you bit his lower lip—just a teasing nip—he groaned, low and throaty.

Not yet, your brain hissed, even as your hips pressed closer, even as his thumbs dug into the dimples above your waistband, anchoring you against him. The static hum of the paused TV blurred into white noise, replaced by the ragged symphony of his breaths, your pulse, and the creak of the couch as he shifted to deepen the kiss. His earlier hesitance had dissolved into something reckless, hungry, as he murmured, “Christ, you’re—”

You didn’t let him finish.

When you finally broke apart, his forehead rested against yours, sweat-damp and trembling. His cheeks were flushed, pupils blown wide enough to swallow the room’s dim light, but his grin was pure mischief. “I don’t know how good a coach you can be,” he rasped, thumb brushing the smudged corner of your lip. “You’re too distracting.”

The dizzying warmth in your chest flared—a wildfire threatening to burn through your resolve. You shoved him back against the cushions, ignoring the way your traitorous hands lingered on his chest, the heat of him seeping through his hoodie. “Jokeys first,” you said, voice steadier than you felt. “First thing tomorrow.”

He flopped backward, arm slung over his eyes in mock defeat. “Cruel. Absolutely cruel.” But his laugh was bright, unburdened, “Though I trust you, teach me how to not die at Wembley.”

The pitch squatted between a dual carriageway and a Lidl car park, its chain-link fence trembling under the lash of a north-easterly wind. March in London wasn’t spring—it was winter’s spiteful encore. Frost clung to the dead grass in jagged lace, and the penalty area had become a boggy quagmire from last night’s sleet. A deflated football lay stranded near the corner flag, half-submerged in a puddle slicked with rainbow petrol.

You found Will leaning against his car, hands shoved deep into his pockets, hood pulled tight against the weather. His breath plumed in the air as he squinted at the pitch. “This is where England’s future dies, then?”

“This is where you learn a new skill,” you corrected, slinging your kit bag over the fence. The metal rattled like a cage. “Pitch is alive. Listen to it.”

He snorted. “Alive? It’s wheezing.”

You let the silence stretch, the wind filling it with the groan of distant traffic. A crisp packet skittered across the centre circle, snagging on a tuft of frost-bitten grass. Finally, he shoved off the car, muttering, “Should’ve stayed at home.”

The first touch was a disaster. Will’s boot sank into the mud, the ball squirting sideways like a bar of soap. He stumbled, arms pinwheeling, and you bit back a laugh. “Lovely pirouette. Swan Lake at Wembley, yeah?”

“Piss off,” he grumbled, but his lips twitched.

For twenty minutes, you drilled him on stance—knees bent, weight forward, stop standing like a lamppost. The wind stole his curses as he wobbled, overcorrected, and nearly face-planted. By the time his shadow began to resemble something competent, the sleet returned—needle-sharp, horizontal—and the pitch became a slurry of ice and gluey earth.

You tossed him the ball. “Eyes up.”

He stared at it like it owed him money. “Why?”

“Because”, you said, stepping close enough to see the sleet caught in his lashes, “Harry’s not your nan. He won’t care if you slip. He’ll just take the ball.”

The ball skidded, the wind howled, and the real work began.

“Eyes up, remember?” you said, tapping your temple. “Not on the ball. Not yet.”

He dragged his gaze to your face, shoulders rigid. “Their eyes lie, hips don’t. Got it.”

“Good.” You feinted left, hips closed, and he shuffled sideways—too early. The ball rolled untouched through the gap he’d left. “Trust yourself. Watch mine.”

He groaned, kicking a clump of half-frozen mud. “Thought this was supposed to be simple.”

“It is. And you’re overcomplicating it.” You repositioned him, hands firm on his shoulders. “Feet wider. Knees bent. You’re not posing for a thumbnail.

He sank into a crouch, more gargoyle than athlete. “Happy?”

“Thrilled.” You stepped back, dribbling lazily. “Next—eyes on my hips. Ignore the ball. Ignore my feet. Just… react.”

You shifted left, hips snapping open. Will mirrored, a beat too slow, his boots skidding on frost. The ball slipped past, and he cursed, the sound swallowed by the growl of a passing gritter truck.

“Again”, you ordered.

By the fifth attempt, his movements grew less wooden. On the sixth, he anticipated your pivot, cutting off the angle with a grunt of effort. The ball ricocheted off his shin guard, vanishing into a puddle.

“There!” You jabbed a finger at him. “You saw it.”

“Saw your hip do a… thing.” He wiped his nose, red from the cold. “Still don’t get how this stops, Harry.”

“It helps you think and predict others’ movements.” You reclaimed the ball, spinning it under your heel. “By Friday, we’ll talk about huddling him toward the sidelines—that’s when you break his ankles.”

Will blinked. “Huddle?”

“Using the pitch like a cage. Force him where you want him.” You gestured to the chain-link fence, its rust bleeding onto the frost. “But that stuff’s for later. Right now…” You feinted right, hoping he’d pick up that your hips were falsely screaming go left, and Will bit hard, lunging. The ball slipped through, kissing the inside netting of the goal.

“Christ,” he muttered, hands braced on his knees. “Feels like learning to walk.”

You tossed him a water bottle, your voice softening. “Day One’s about trust. Trust your mind. Trust the pitch. The rest?” You nodded to the empty stands, where a lone pigeon pecked at a discarded crisp packet. “That’s just noise.”

He straightened, squinting at the goal. “Again.”

This time, when you danced forward, he held his ground—hips square, stance wide—though his fingers flexed at his sides like he was still arguing with himself. You juked left and right, your boots hissing over the frost, but he matched every feint, forcing you toward the touchline until your heel grazed the chain-link fence. The ball died in a slush pile, and his laugh burst free—bright and buoyant, a sound that carried the weight of unspoken relief.

“There you are,” you said, toeing the ball back to centre. It left a ragged brown scar across the ice.

He caught it mid-bounce, mud streaking his gloves. “Where’d I go?”

“Into your head. Again.” You nodded to the sodden turf. “But your feet stayed here. That’s… progress.”

He punted the ball skyward, its arc slicing through the sleet. “Progress? I just channelled prime Maldini.”

“Maldini wept during his first tackle.” You let the ball thud into the muck, untouched. “You’re drier. Marginally.”

He barked a laugh, but his gaze flicked to the goalposts, their nets sagging under the weight of old rain. “What’s tomorrow? You making me cry?”

“Depends.” You lobbed the ball at his chest, softer this time. He caught it, his reflexes sharper now, breath steady. “Tomorrow’s about why you held your ground today. Why you didn’t lunge.”

He rolled the ball under his palm, quiet for once. The wind gnawed at the silence, carrying the distant clatter of a train on the tracks behind Lidl.

“Dinner. My place,” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Carbonara. Or the biryani you’ve been whinging about since Tuesday.”

He brightened instantly, the practised sarcasm dissolving. “Finally. I’ve been dreaming about your carbonara since the last time you made it.”

You arched a brow. “Thought you’d beg for the biryani.”

“Carbonara’s your peace offering. Biryani’s for when I actually impress you.” He lobbed the ball into the gear pile, his grin widening. “Don’t pretend you’re not smug I remembered.”

You turned toward the gate, sleet needling your neck. “Keep standing your ground like today, and I’ll even add garlic bread.”

He fell into step beside you, close enough that his sleeve brushed yours. “Bribery? What happened to discipline and professionalism?”

“You’re the one moaning about my coaching,” you said, nodding to the abandoned ball—still upright, still defiant in the mud. “Discipline’s tomorrow. Tonight’s about… recalibrating.”

He hummed, a low, contented sound you’d only ever heard after he’d nailed a drill. “Recalibrating. Sure. Just admit you like watching me suffer through your chilli flakes.”

Ahead, the crow took flight from the crossbar, its wings scattering droplets that speckled the frozen turf. You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The warmth in his voice, the ease in his stride—it was all there, simmering beneath the sleet and sarcasm.

The pitch squatted between a dual carriageway and a Lidl car park, its chain-link fence trembling under the lash of a north-easterly wind. March in London wasn’t spring—it was winter’s spiteful encore. Frost clung to the dead grass in jagged lace, and the penalty area had become a boggy quagmire from last night’s sleet. A deflated football lay stranded near the corner flag, half-submerged in a puddle slicked with rainbow petrol.

You found Will leaning against his car, hands shoved deep into his pockets, hood pulled tight against the weather. His breath plumed in the air as he squinted at the pitch. “This is where England’s future dies, then?”

“This is where you learn a new skill,” you corrected, slinging your kit bag over the fence. The metal rattled like a cage. “Pitch is alive. Listen to it.”

He snorted. “Alive? It’s wheezing.”

You let the silence stretch, the wind filling it with the groan of distant traffic. A crisp packet skittered across the centre circle, snagging on a tuft of frost-bitten grass. Finally, he shoved off the car, muttering, “Should’ve stayed at home.”

The first touch was a disaster. Will’s boot sank into the mud, the ball squirting sideways like a bar of soap. He stumbled, arms pinwheeling, and you bit back a laugh. “Lovely pirouette. Swan Lake at Wembley, yeah?”

“Piss off,” he grumbled, but his lips twitched.

For twenty minutes, you drilled him on stance—knees bent, weight forward, stop standing like a lamppost. The wind stole his curses as he wobbled, overcorrected, and nearly face-planted. By the time his shadow began to resemble something competent, the sleet returned—needle-sharp, horizontal—and the pitch became a slurry of ice and gluey earth.

You tossed him the ball. “Eyes up.”

He stared at it like it owed him money. “Why?”

“Because”, you said, stepping close enough to see the sleet caught in his lashes, “Harry’s not your nan. He won’t care if you slip. He’ll just take the ball.”

The ball skidded, the wind howled, and the real work began.

“Eyes up, remember?” you said, tapping your temple. “Not on the ball. Not yet.”

He dragged his gaze to your face, shoulders rigid. “Their eyes lie; hips don’t. Got it.”

“Good.” You feinted left, hips closed, and he shuffled sideways—too early. The ball rolled untouched through the gap he’d left. “Trust yourself. Watch mine.”

He groaned, kicking a clump of half-frozen mud. “Thought this was supposed to be simple.”

“It is. And you’re overcomplicating it.” You repositioned him, hands firm on his shoulders. “Feet wider. Knees bent. You’re not posing for a thumbnail.

He sank into a crouch, more gargoyle than athlete. “Happy?”

“Thrilled.” You stepped back, dribbling lazily. “Next—eyes on my hips. Ignore the ball. Ignore my feet. Just… react.”

You shifted left, hips snapping open. Will mirrored, a beat too slow, his boots skidding on frost. The ball slipped past, and he cursed, the sound swallowed by the growl of a passing gritter truck.

“Again”, you ordered.

By the fifth attempt, his movements grew less wooden. On the sixth, he anticipated your pivot, cutting off the angle with a grunt of effort. The ball ricocheted off his shin guard, vanishing into a puddle.

“There!” You jabbed a finger at him. “You saw it.”

“Saw your hip do a… thing.” He wiped his nose red from the cold. “Still don’t get how this stops, Harry.”

“It helps you think and predict others’ movements.” You reclaimed the ball, spinning it under your heel. “By Friday, we’ll talk about huddling him toward the sidelines—that’s when you break his ankles.”

Will blinked. “Huddle?”

“Using the pitch like a cage. Force him where you want him.” You gestured to the chain-link fence, its rust bleeding onto the frost. “But that stuff’s for later. Right now…” You feinted right, hoping he’d pick up that your hips were falsely screaming go left, and Will bit hard, lunging. The ball slipped through, kissing the inside netting of the goal.

“Christ,” he muttered, hands braced on his knees. “Feels like learning to walk.”

You tossed him a water bottle, your voice softening. “Day One’s about trust. Trust your mind. Trust the pitch. The rest?” You nodded to the empty stands, where a lone pigeon pecked at a discarded crisp packet. “That’s just noise.”

He straightened, squinting at the goal. “Again.”

This time, when you danced forward, he held his ground—hips square, stance wide—though his fingers flexed at his sides like he was still arguing with himself. You juked left and right, your boots hissing over the frost, but he matched every feint, forcing you toward the touchline until your heel grazed the chain-link fence. The ball died in a slush pile, and his laugh burst free—bright and buoyant, a sound that carried the weight of unspoken relief.

“There you are,” you said, toeing the ball back to centre. It left a ragged brown scar across the ice.

He caught it mid-bounce, mud streaking his gloves. “Where’d I go?”

“Into your head. Again.” You nodded to the sodden turf. “But your feet stayed here. That’s… progress.”

He punted the ball skyward, its arc slicing through the sleet. “Progress? I just channelled prime Maldini.”

“Maldini wept during his first tackle.” You let the ball thud into the muck, untouched. “You’re drier. Marginally.”

He barked a laugh, but his gaze flicked to the goalposts, their nets sagging under the weight of old rain. “What’s tomorrow? You making me cry?”

“Depends.” You lobbed the ball at his chest, softer this time. He caught it, his reflexes sharper now, breath steady. “Tomorrow’s about why you held your ground today. Why you didn’t lunge.”

He rolled the ball under his palm, quiet for once. The wind gnawed at the silence, carrying the distant clatter of a train on the tracks behind Lidl.

“Dinner. My place,” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Carbonara. Or the biryani you’ve been whinging about since Tuesday.”

He brightened instantly, the practised sarcasm dissolving. “Finally. I’ve been dreaming about your carbonara since the last time you made it.”

You arched a brow. “Thought you’d beg for the biryani.”

“Carbonara’s your peace offering. Biryani’s for when I actually impress you.” He lobbed the ball into the gear pile, his grin widening. “Don’t pretend you’re not smug I remembered.”

You turned toward the gate, sleet needling your neck. “Keep standing your ground like today, and I’ll even add garlic bread.”

He fell into step beside you, close enough that his sleeve brushed yours. “Bribery? What happened to ‘discipline’ and ‘professionalism’”?

“You’re the one moaning about my coaching,” you said, nodding to the abandoned ball—still upright, still defiant in the mud. “Discipline’s tomorrow. Tonight’s about… recalibrating.”

He hummed, a low, contented sound you’d only ever heard after he’d nailed a drill. “Recalibrating. Sure. Just admit you like watching me suffer through your chilli flakes.”

Ahead, the crow took flight from the crossbar, its wings scattering droplets that speckled the frozen turf. You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The warmth in his voice, the ease in his stride—it was all there, simmering beneath the sleet and sarcasm.

The wind had shifted, swapping sleet for a spiteful drizzle that seeped into collars and chewed through seams. The pitch, still a quilt of mud and dead grass, now bristled with training dummies dragged from the clubhouse storage—their sagging vinyl bodies streaked with grime, zip-tied to rusted poles like drunk sentries. Will stood in front of the goal, breath visible in the raw air, hoodie sleeves darkened to sludge-grey with rain. His shadow pooled at his feet, thin and shivering.

"Near post", you called, and fired.

The ball cut through the drizzle, a blurred comet. Will lunged, boots skidding in the same boggy corner where he’d face-planted on Day 1. The impact echoed—a dull thud—as the ball smacked his thigh, then squirted wide, carving a brown scar through the muck.

"Better", you said, "but you hesitated."

"Because last time I committed, you chipped me," he snapped, wiping his nose on a sleeve already stiff with dried mud. A fresh bruise mottled his shin, purple bleeding through the grime, a trophy from yesterday’s failed block.

You rolled another ball forward with your heel, its surface filmy with rainwater. "Exactly. Decide, don’t guess."

For an hour, it was a rhythm of grit and failure: the slap of wet leather against skin, the clatter of poles as Will collided with dummies, their hollow heads sloshing with collected rain. The hiss of breath through teeth when he overreached, his ankle twisting on a buried stone. When he charged like a man chasing a runaway umbrella, you curled the ball around him, it kissed the inside post with a smug clang. When he held back, stiff as that first-day lamppost, you drilled it into the net so hard the crossbar shuddered, rust flaking like snow.

By the end, his hoodie clung to him like a second skin, rain dripping off his jaw in a steady tap-tap-tap against his collarbone. But his eyes stayed locked on your hips even as his teeth chattered.

"Your brain’s the enemy," you said, tossing him a thermos of tea to warm his bones against the weather. "Stop thinking. Move."

He gulped it, the scent of bergamot and honey briefly overpowering the wet earth. Steam fogged his glasses, turning his eyes into smudged watercolours. "Says the person who’s done this since they could walk."

You stepped closer, close enough to see the goosebumps on his neck and the raw split in his chapped lip. "Back home", you said, "I learnt doubt gets you beat faster than any striker." You flicked the ball up, catching it mid-air, your palm stinging with the cold bite of its seams. "You’ve got instinct—trust it."

He stared at the mud caked under his nails, black crescents that no amount of scrubbing would lift. "Instinct got me a 3–0 loss last season."

"That wasn’t instinct," you said, spinning the ball on your finger until the world blurred. "That was fear. There’s a difference."

The dummies sagged under the rain, their hollow heads filling like buckets. Will spat—a sharp, defiant sound—straightened, and nodded at the goal. "Again."

This time, when you fired, he didn’t lunge. Didn’t freeze. He shifted, hips pivoting with the lazy grace of a door on a rusted hinge, and redirected the ball wide with a controlled tap of his instep. It rolled to a stop at the base of a dummy, its grin streaked with algae.

You didn’t smile. Didn’t need to. The drizzle thinned just enough to gild the pitch in a silvered haze, and for a heartbeat, the goalposts didn’t sag. They waited.

"Again," he said, voice rough but steady.

You obliged.

Later, as you wrestled the waterlogged dummies into the storage shed, their vinyl limbs slapping lifelessly against the door frame, Will leaned into the threshold. His arms were crossed tight against the cold, breath curling into the damp air like cigarette smoke. “Dinner,” he said, not a question. “Your place again? Unless you’re sick of my face.”

You flung a damp towel at him, its frayed corner snapping like a whip in the wind. He caught it one-handed, the fabric unfurling with a wet slap against his chest. “Casserole”, you said. “Your pick—chicken or whatever’s in my fridge.”

He dragged the towel over his hair, mussing it into a damp tangle, but his smirk stayed intact. “Chicken, please. Because you’ll spite-season it if I don’t suffer.”

“Suffering’s extra.” You shoved the last dummy inside, its hollow head thunking against the shed wall.

He fell into step beside you, shoulders brushing as you picked through the frozen ruts toward the gate. The cold had turned the mud to jagged teeth, but he matched your pace, steady where he’d once stumbled. Ahead, a crow launched itself from the crossbar, wings battering the air, and the abandoned ball shuddered under the spray of droplets—still upright, still defiant, its scuffed hexagons glinting through the grime like a wink.

“Mud’s got better form than you did on day one,” you said, nodding to it.

He huffed, breath fogging the space between you. “Mud doesn’t have Twitter trolls.”

“Yet.”

His laugh was sharp and fleeting, but his stride never faltered.

Rain sheeted down in relentless curtains, turning the penalty box into a quagmire. The ball, waterlogged and sluggish, clung to your boot like a stubborn barnacle as you squared up to Will. His hood sagged under the weight of the downpour, plastering his hair to his forehead, but his stance was pure defiance—knees bent, fingertips grazing the mud, eyes locked on your hips like they held the secret to salvation.

"1v1," you shouted over the drumbeat of rain on the crossbar. "Stop me, you win. I score, you owe me a spa day—hot stones, cucumber eyes, the full mortification."

He barked a laugh, sharp and brittle. "Deal. But when I win, you admit my slide tackle’s better than Rio’s."

You feinted right, shoulders telegraphing a sprint, then cut left. He shifted with you, boots skidding but holding firm, herding you toward the corner flag. At the last second, you dragged the ball back with the sole of your boot, mud spraying as you slipped past his outstretched leg. The net bulged, then sagged, swallowing the ball whole.

"Again," you ordered, already rolling another ball forward with your toe.

This time, he jockeyed you like a shadow, his breath ragged but his feet alive—no more flat-footed statue, no more panic. When you tapped the ball between your legs, aiming to nutmeg him, he snapped his thighs shut like a bear trap, pinning the ball mid-spin.

"YES!" Your roar tore through the rain, fists punching the air. "That’s the Will I need! The one who bites!"

But when you spun him with a stepover—hips swivelling, boot flicking the ball over an imaginary hurdle—he overcompensated, his shin cracking against the post. The metallic clang shuddered through the goal goalframe. He crumpled, swearing, fingers clawing at his sodden jeans. "I’m useless at this! Christ, just—"

You marched toward him, boots sloshing through ankle-deep slurry. Rain needled your scalp, your shirt clinging like a second skin. Without a word, you hauled him upright, your grip iron on his bicep. "Look at me."

He didn’t. His gaze stayed fixed on the mud, jaw working like he was chewing glass.

"Look. At. Me." You waited until his eyes—wild, wounded—met yours. "You’ve blocked half my shots today. Half. Last week, I’d have danced around you like you were a traffic cone. Progress isn’t perfection—it’s persistence. It’s showing up when your knees feel like jelly and your brain's screaming, Quit!"

He wrenched free, but his voice frayed. "What if I crack during the match? What if I—"

"You won’t." You stepped into his space, close enough to see the tremor in his throat and the rainwater caught in his lashes. "I’ve seen you throw yourself in front of every ball I’ve blasted at you. Bruised ribs, skinned knees, that." You jabbed a finger at the fresh welt on his shin, purple blooming beneath the grime. "You think courage is some grand, shiny thing? It’s this. It’s getting up when every cell in your body wants to crawl into a hole. Courage doesn’t crack—it weathers."

For a heartbeat, the rain seemed to still. Then his shoulders dropped, the fight leaching out of him. He scrubbed a hand over his face, smearing mud and rainwater. "You’re a shit poet, you know that?"

"Tragic, isn’t it?" You nudged the ball toward him with your boot. "Now stop sulking. Spa day’s riding on your next tackle."

He huffed, but his stance widened, hips sinking into that feral crouch you’d drilled into him. The ball danced between you, a sodden pendulum, as the rain blurred the world beyond the eighteen-yard box.

The VIP box gleamed amber in the low March sun, its rays slanting through the stadium’s steel ribs to stripe the grass with gold. You leaned against the railing, the chill of late afternoon biting through your sleeves despite the sunlight, and watched the pitch below. Will prowled near the eighteen-yard line, breath visible in the crisp air, his red kit bright in contrast to the grass.

Simon struck first—a curling dagger toward the far post that ricocheted off the crossbar with a clang that reverberated through the murmuring crowd, the near miss hung in the air, sharp.

Move. MOVE.

Will didn’t celebrate. Didn’t pause. While Sketch was distracted, focus split between the ball and the masses, and Will drifted back, inch by inch, until his heels kissed the six-yard box line, and his shadow pooled inside the six-yard box—exactly where you’d burnt the position into his brain during those frostbitten drills.

George pounced on the rebound.

Time slowed.

The ball rocketed toward the top corner, a comet trailing turf and desperation. The keeper lunged, a split second too slow, but Will—your Will—was already airborne.

His body twisted midair, shoulders hunched, neck muscles taut as bridge cables. The impact was a loud crack—forehead meeting ball—sending the ball spiralling wide, skittering harmlessly toward the corner flag.

Will hit the grass hard, his momentum carrying him into a tight, controlled roll—shoulder to hip, one fluid whirl—before he sprang up in a single explosive motion, dry grass blades flying off his kit.

As he rose, the stadium erupted in a deafening wave of sound that shook the very foundations of Wembley. The crowd was on its feet before he even finished standing. A tidal wave of noise crashed down from the stands. Strangers hugged strangers. Scarves whirled overhead like battle flags. Behind the goal, a sea of supporters pounded the advertising boards in perfect, thunderous rhythm.

Will celebrated, looking to the sky, veins standing out in his neck as he screamed, fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white. The cameras caught every detail—the wild look in his eyes, the sweat flying from his brow, and the way his chest heaved with adrenaline and triumph.

On the pitch, teammates mobbed him, their celebrations almost violent in their intensity. Someone ruffled his sweat-drenched hair. Another player grabbed his face and screamed something unintelligible right into his ear.

Then pure, unfiltered joy exploded through you.

You were on your feet before you realised it, chair clattering backward as you vaulted up, arms already raised in triumph. A wordless scream tore from your throat—something between a battle cry and pure elation—raw and uncontainable. Your hands flew to your head, fingers tangling in your hair as you bounced on your toes, the sheer adrenaline making it impossible to stand still.

On the pitch, Will turned toward the stands, his eyes scanning the crowd. You swore he looked right at you—just for a split second—and you raised both arms higher, screaming his name like a prayer and a promise all at once. The grin that split his face then was worth every drop of sweat, every moment of frustration. It was perfect. He was perfect. And you were going to lose your voice tomorrow, but, God, it was worth it.

This is sort of a different universe from the other Will x Reader fic I made. I hope this was okay, I did it across the week, doing it in chunks, so there may be some inconsistencies. Sorry if there are. Please feel free to point them out, and I can fix them!

[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.”