#ws2 x reader

“Yeah, can I do the chicken parm,” he says easily, glancing at Mack as he points to himself, silently telling Will the same for him. “Can I make that two, actually?” Will says, nodding a bit as his eyes flick down to your finger which is pointing at what you want on your menu. “And my wife will have the vodka rigatoni.”

The side of the room you and Mack are sitting on goes dead silent, your head snapping toward him. Next to you, Mack’s eyes go comically wide at the exact same moment yours do. He looks at you, and you look at him. Then, both of you slowly turn back toward Will.

Your fiancé, meanwhile, is just nodding into the phone like he has not just dropped a bomb in the middle of ordering Italian.

“Yeah,” he says to the person on the other end, completely calm. “And can you add an order of garlic knots too?”

Mack is staring at him like he has just witnessed something medically concerning, and you are pretty sure you are too. And as Will ends the call, setting his phone on the coffee table, he leans back again, not saying a word to either of you.

“Uh, what was that?” Mack asks, and the question causes Will to blink in confusion.

“What was what?”

“You just said ‘my wife’ like it was nothing.” Mack says, sitting up a little straighter now.

“Okay?” Will says, glancing between the two of you, looking genuinely confused by this being a topic.

“Okay?” Mack repeats. “That’s your response? Okay?”

You can feel heat climbing into your face, because there is something about the total lack of care that gets you. There’s no teasing tone, no pause, no look to see your reaction first. He just said it like he didn’t even notice.

“You can’t just say that,” you say, your voice feeling small, wobbly almost.

“Why not?” Will asks, his mouth twitches as he takes in the shocked expressions.

“Because I’m not your wife.”

“Engaged is close.”

“No, it is not, that’s skipping arguably a very important part.” Mack disagrees, making a noise like he can’t believe his best friend doesn’t see the problem.

“You did want the rigatoni, right?” Will questions, and that completely derails you for a minute.

“Well… yes.” You start, your face feeling so hot you could probably cook an egg on it. “But Will, that’s not the point.”

“It’s what you wanted, I don’t see the big deal here.” He says, kicking his feet back up on the coffee table as he watches a bit of the game on the tv.

“You’re impossible.” Mack aims at his best friend, dropping his head back against the couch with a groan.

You are still staring at Will, still in shock, in awe. Still red in the face and honestly starting to sweat a bit. He catches it, finally giving you one of those lazy smiles that has the power to make you smile even on your worst days.

“What?” He questions, and he would never admit it, but seeing you like this is half of the fun.

“You said it so casually.”

“Because it felt casual.” He says, his arm finding its way behind you again.

“Can you get all of this mushy stuff out of the way before my dinner gets here? If you guys flirt in front of my chicken I’m going to chuck it at your head.” Mack says to Will, scoffing slightly as he looks back down to his phone. You could only guess he’s lighting the Sharks group chat up with what just happened.

You try to ignore the way your chest has gone all soft and weird over two words, but it does not work. And the thing that is almost as shocking as being called his wife, is that he’s not flustered or backtracking, hell, he doesn’t even seem interested in defending himself.

—

The second time it happens, Grace is in town. She comes down for the weekend, and by Saturday afternoon the three of you are out shopping, carrying too many bags and stopping every few blocks because Grace sees something else she wants to drag you toward. It is fun and loud and easy, full of teasing, slightly too much caffeine, and Will pretending he is not just there to carry things.

Eventually, you duck into a grocery store because Grace wants snacks for later, and Will insists on grabbing stuff for dinner. So you are standing in front of a shelf full of pasta sauces, comparing jars while Grace debates noodles a few feet away. Will grabs a jar of sauce, slipping it into the cart and starting to walk.

“No, not that one.” You say, grabbing it out of the cart and putting it back on the shelf.

“What’s wrong with that one?” He asks, turning his gaze to you as your eyes scan the shelves.

“You always pick that one.”

“And?”

“And it’s too chunky, it freaks me out.” you say, reaching past him to take a different jar off the shelf. “This one is better.” Will looks at the jar in your hand for maybe half a second, debating whether or not he wants to tease you about the smoothness of pasta sauce, but he chooses against it. He just nods, and swaps them without argument.

“You’re right. Happy wife, happy life.”

Grace stills, you freeze with your hand still hovering between the shelves, and Will just continues on like nothing happened.

“Excuse me?” she says, way too loudly, all thoughts of noodles leaving her head. “No,” she says, already laughing. “I must have heard that wrong.”

“What did I say?” Will asks, his wide grin telling both you and his sister that he knew exactly what he said.

“You called her your wife, in the pasta aisle.” She dead pans, shock and surprise so evident on her face and in her voice.

Will just stares at his sister like she is the one being weird. “And?” He says with a shrug, leaning against the cart.

“Can we maybe lower our voices?” You ask as you feel your face getting hotter by the second, not wanting to make a scene in a grocery store.

“Does he do this all the time?” Grace asks, pointing between the two of you delighted.

“Sometimes.” You supply.

“Sometimes?”

“More than sometimes.” You mutter.

Grace makes the most dramatic noise in the world and grabs your arm. “And you let him?”

Will answers again before you can. “She doesn’t stop me.”

“That is not the same thing,” You say, trying to defend yourself.

“Why don’t you stop him?” Grace asks the question as she narrows her eyes.

You open your mouth, but then close it, no words coming out. You never thought in the pasta aisle you would be having this conversation, but here you are. The siblings wait for you to respond, Grace still floored, and Will still leaning against the cart, waiting for whatever bullshit excuse he knows you’re going to try and supply. He knows how it affects you, he sees it on your face every time the words ‘accidentally’ slip from his lips. But you come up short, no explanation will cover your tracks, because the truth is embarrassingly obvious, and Grace sees it.

“Oh my god,” she says, everything falling into place in her mind. “You like it.”

“No, I don’t.” You hesitate as the lie leaves your mouth.

“You do,” she says immediately. “That was way too slow.”

Will is smiling now, small and smug and fond in equal measure.

“Don’t.” You say, pointing your manicured finger at him.

“I didn’t say anything.” He says, holding his hands up in defense.

Grace starts laughing so hard she has to grab onto the cart for support. “I cannot believe this.” But she is still laughing as you move on to the next aisle, and every time she catches your eye after that she starts grinning all over again.

—

The worst part is that it gets under your skin for the rest of the day. Not in a bad way, but in the kind of way where your skin feels flushed everytime you think of it.

Happy wife, happy life.

By the time the teasing stops, dinner is ate, and the sun has long since set, Grace is in the guest room, and the apartment has gone quiet. You are both in bed, the room dark except for the small lamp on Will’s nightstand. He is lying on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, while you curl on your side facing him, one hand resting on his chest.

For a little while neither of you say anything, but you break first.

“You really don’t care, do you?”

“About what?” Will asks, glancing down at you.

“You know what.” You say, propping yourself up a bit so you can see his face clearly. His hair is messy against the pillow, and it takes everything in you not to run your fingers through it and forget about it all.

“Ah, you must mean the pasta sauce.” Will says, and he can’t keep the cheeky look off his face as you gasp.

“I’m not talking about the sauce, William.”

“Woah, full name?” He gapes for a second, but then he cocks his head, looking into your eyes. “You mean calling you my wife?”

You press your lips together, already a little embarrassed that you are bringing it up at all. “Yes.”

“Why would I care?” He asks, looking like he almost doesn’t understand why everyone is so shocked by this.

“Because-“ You start, but you honestly aren’t too sure what to say. He looks at you for a second, expression softening into something quieter. There is still the amusement there, but underneath it is that steadiness he always gives you when he is being real.

“Because?” He asks, waiting for you to continue, but you don’t. You just look down, at a complete loss for words. “No baby, I don’t care that I’m saying it because you’re gonna be my wife,” he says simply. “I know you’re not yet,” he confesses as his fingers slide up and down your back. “I just don’t feel weird about it.”

“You don’t think people will think it’s strange?” You ask him, your heart speeding up, and your eyes making their way back to his.

He lets out a short laugh. “People do think it’s strange. Mack looked like he was about to pass out the other night.” That pulls a laugh from you. “And Grace almost yelled in the grocery store.”

“She did yell in the store.” You correct, your pointer finger tracing small shapes on his bare chest as you smile. But then your voice softens again. “Still. It doesn’t… I don’t know.. embarrass you?”

“Why would I be embarrassed?” Will ask, his brows drawing together like the question itself does not make sense. You don’t know how to answer that, and maybe he can tell that because he answers for you. “I love you,” he says, his fingers going to your chin so your eyes would meet his. “I’m going to marry you. You’re the person I think about when I think about home and my future and all of it. So why would I be ashamed of calling you what you’re going to be?”

You stare at him, at a complete loss for words. And Will just smiles softly, the teasing gone from him. His hand comes up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, his eyes searching your face in the dim light. “Does it freak you out?” And the level of sincerity in his voice hits you like a blow to the chest.

“No,” you say softly. “It doesn’t freak me out, it’s just,” you look down at his chest for a second, fingertips smoothing over his peck. “You say it so easily.”

“Because it is easy.”

You laugh a little, but it comes out shaky around the edges. “You know that makes it worse, right?”

“Worse?”

“In a good way,” you mumble and Will’s face changes, it is subtle, but you see it. He cocks his head, almost like he wants to hear you say it again. You make a small sound and hide your face against his chest. “Don’t make me repeat myself.” You say with a whine, as he laughs softly, one hand sliding to the back of your head to hold you there.

“So you do like it.” He jokes, but then yelps as you pinch his side, shoving you softly as you both laugh. “I hope you know it’s not some joke,” he says quietly. “I’m not saying it to mess with you.” His fingers move, tracing slowly along your back. “Sometimes it just comes out.”

The room feels very still all of a sudden, and you glare at him weakly as he just grins and leans up enough to kiss you, soft and slow. When he pulls back, he keeps his forehead against yours.

“I can stop,” he murmurs. “If you want me to.”

That gets your attention, and because it is late, or because your heart too full of love to lie, you whisper, “I don’t want you to stop.” Will goes still for half a second before he smiles, and it is soft and bright at the same time.

If you knew one person who hated pda in front of others, it was your boyfriend, Will.

At home it was one story. The second the front door clicked shut behind you, he’d be on you; arms wrapping around your waist from behind, chin hooking over your shoulder while you tried to kick off your shoes, lips brushing the side of your neck like he couldn’t wait another second.

He’d pull you down onto the couch with him, long legs tangling with yours, hands sliding under your hoodie to rest warm against your stomach, fingers tracing lazy circles until you laughed and squirmed.

He’d kiss you slow and deep like he was making up for every minute you’d spent apart, murmuring against your mouth how much he’d missed you, how pretty you looked even in sweatpants and his hoodie that swallowed you whole.

He’d cuddle into your side during movie nights, head on your chest, one hand always finding yours to lace your fingers together, thumb rubbing over your knuckles. Sometimes he’d just hold you from behind while you cooked, swaying slightly like it was a slow dance, pressing soft kisses along your shoulder blade whenever you reached for something on the counter.

He hated the thought of having his hands off you.

But the moment you stepped outside; it was a completely different story.

In public, Will kept it subtle. Always touching, but never made it obvious. A hand resting low on your back as you walked through a crowded bar. Fingers brushing yours when he passed you a drink. His knee pressed lightly against yours under the table at dinner with teammates.

He’d drape an arm across the back of your chair, thumb occasionally grazing your shoulder, but nothing that screamed couple in the way other couples did: sloppy kisses, loud declarations, hands everywhere like they were staking claim in neon.

And you were fine with it. You’d been together a little over a year now, long enough that you’d learned his rhythm. You weren’t big on pda either, you didn’t need to prove anything to anyone. The way he looked at you when no one else was watching, the way his eyes softened the second you walked into a room, the things he’d whisper to you when it was just the two of you was enough.

He wasn’t embarrassed of you. If anything, he loved showing you off in his own way. He’d introduce you to new people with his arm casually looped around your shoulders, proud smile tugging at his lips every time someone complimented how good you looked together.

He’d text you links to articles or tiktoks with captions like “Us” and half of them were disgustingly couple-y. He just didn’t want other people seeing the parts of him that belonged only to you. The greedy way he held you at home, the way he’d bury his face in your neck and breathe you in like you were oxygen.

Tonight you and Will went out with a few of his teammates to the bar a couple blocks from the rink that had become your unofficial spot. It wasn’t anything fancy, just something you all learned to enjoy going to. You’d dressed like you always did for a place like this: nothing too revealing, nothing too casual.

Will included you in every conversation like he always did. He’d lean in when Macklin was ranting about a bad call from the last game, repeating the punchline so you could laugh too, or he’d nudge you gently and say, “Babe, tell them what you said about that hit exactly.” His voice easy, and his eyes stayed on you longer than usual.

When the bartender came over, Will ordered your usual without asking and then slid it toward you with a small.

A little while later, you moved on the barstool. “I’ll be right back,” you murmured, slipping your hand from his.

Will nodded once, but as you stood, he reached over and tugged your glass closer to his spot, fingers brushing the condensation like he was guarding it. His other hand lingered in the air for half a second where yours had been before dropping back to the bar.

Once you came back from the bathroom after quickly fixing your lip combo in the mirror light, touching up the gloss that had faded from sipping your drink, you found Will still perched on his barstool, facing his teammates.

If you’d gone straight back to your own seat next to him, his broad back would’ve been turned to you the whole time. But the second he caught sight of you weaving through the crowd, his arm reached out without hesitation.

His fingers found yours, locking tight, and he tugged you gently toward him instead of letting you slide back onto your stool. “C’mere,” he murmured.

You let him pull you in, stepping right between his spread thighs until your hips brushed the edge of the stool. Your hands landed on his chest for balance, as he looked up at you.

“Where’d you go?” he asked, even though he knew.

“Bathroom,” you said, smiling despite yourself. “Took longer than I thought, someone was hogging the mirror.”

He hummed, the sound vibrating through his chest, and then he leaned in. The kiss was slow, sweet, nothing rushed or sloppy. Just his lips pressing to yours like it was the most normal thing in the world, his one hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck while the other stayed locked with yours at his side.

Your breath caught. Will almost never kissed you in public, not where anyone could see. For a heartbeat you froze, surprised, but then you melted into it, leaning forward until your forehead brushed his when he finally pulled back.

He didn’t say anything about it. Just handed you your unfinished vodka soda with a small, crooked smile.

You turned with him so you were facing the group again, your back settling against his chest. His arm came across your front, forearm resting easy over your collarbone, fingers splayed loose but possessive against your shoulder. His other hand found your waist, every few minutes he’d tug you closer, like he couldn’t quite get enough, even though you were already pressed flush against him.

Macklin raised an eyebrow, smirk tugging at his mouth. “You finally figure out how arms work tonight?”

Will just tightened his hold a little, chin dipping to rest lightly on your shoulder as he shot Macklin a lazy look. “Shut up, Mack,” he said a little amused.

You stayed like that for a while, cocooned against him, his heartbeat steady against your back. His fingers kept moving in small, absent strokes along your waist, thumb brushing the underside of your ribs every now and then.

Eventually your heels started screaming. Standing this long in them, even leaning into him, made your calves burn.

You tilted your head back just enough to murmur against his jaw, “My legs are killing me.”

Will’s arm loosened instantly. “Sit,” he said softly, kissing the shell of your ear before letting you go.

For the rest of the night, Will didn’t let the space between you grow. He kept one hand on you at all times: resting on your thigh when you were back on your stool, thumb drawing slow, mindless patterns over the denim; sliding up to play with the ends of your hair when you laughed at something one of the guys said; brushing your lower back.

Every few minutes he’d press a quick kiss to your temple, or drop his chin to your shoulder just to murmur something dumb and sweet.

You were happy for it. The warmth of his palm against your skin felt like nice in public. The guys ribbed him lightly but Will just shrugged it off with a smile and never pulled away.

By the time you both said goodbyes and stepped out into the cool night air, your cheeks were flushed from the bar’s heat and from the way his hand had stayed tangled with yours the whole walk to the car.

When you got home, the apartment was quiet, you kicked the door shut behind you, already reaching to slip off your heels, but Will beat you to it.

He dropped to one knee right there at the edge of the bed, fingers gentle around your ankle as he lifted your foot and eased the first heel off. Then the second, thumbs pressed into the arch of your foot for a second, massaging away the ache without being asked.

You watched him, heart doing that stupid fluttery thing it always did with him. “What’s gotten into you tonight?” you asked quietly.

He glanced up, brows lifting like he had no idea what you meant. “What? I always do this.” He asked setting your foot down and standing.

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “No, I mean.. being so touchy in front of everyone, kissing me like that. You never do that.”

He paused, then took your hand in both of his. Slowly he brought it to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, eyes never leaving yours. “Can’t a guy show how much he loves his girlfriend?”

You laughed softly. “You never do it like that.”

He tilted his head, mock offended. “What? I always show everyone how much I love you.”

“Yeah,” you said, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw, “but not in a way that makes Macklin tease you for ten straight minutes.”

Will’s expression softened. You pulled him down to you, as he started crawling over you until his weight settled warm and solid, knees sinking into the comforter on either side of your hips.

He braced himself on his forearms so he wasn’t crushing you, but close enough that you could feel every breath he took.

“I love you,” he said simply, as if it was the easiest truth in the world. His forehead rested against yours for a second before he kissed you, the kind of kiss he usually saved for when the door was locked and the lights were off. “I just.. wanted to be close to you tonight. Didn’t want to wait until we got home to touch you the way I always want to.”

His hand slid up to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “I like when we keep things private. But sometimes..” He exhaled. “Sometimes I look at you laughing with the guys, or just sitting there looking like mine, and I want everyone to know.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down until his chest pressed to yours. “That’s sweet,” you whispered against his mouth. “I liked tonight a lot.”

He smiled and kissed you again. “Me too.”

His hands found yours, fingers lacing tight as he settled more of his weight over you, like he was trying to memorize every inch of how you fit together.

TAGLIST: @alliwritespuck @bouncedatahhh @cheerymints @lynsdigitaljournal @ill-uminati7 @behindthescreenobsessed @lemsies25 @definitelynotdomanique @lcvlyhughesy @sh1ft1ng1234 @willsmiths2 @iknowtonystark @mintbrini98 @kazansky-slxt @siennaluvshcky @val413 @wherethezoes-at @macka @beckieepicaz00 @carlottawllms @blankenbirks @mcelebrini @probably--possessed @celebrinigf @postgamevibes @icetimedreamer @misslivinglegend @alexxavicry @sohhh09

The front door to his apartment slammed behind you with a sound that should’ve woken the neighbours. Will’s mouth was on yours before the lock clicked, his hands fumbling with the knot of your bikini top as you backed toward the stairs.

The hallway wall hit your shoulder blades hard enough to knock a gasp loose, but Will swallowed it with his mouth, his teeth catching your lower lip as his fingers tugged at the knot of your bikini top. The fabric gave way with a wet snap, saltwater dripping between your breasts as he palmed one, his thumb brushing over your nipple with a roughness that made your knees buckle. You fumbled with the button of his trunks, laughing against his mouth when it refused to budge. "Fuck—" Will groaned, breaking away just long enough to shove the fabric down his hips himself, kicking it off somewhere near the staircase.

The banister dug into your back as he lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. You could feel him—hard and hot against your stomach—as he carried you up the stairs, his grip slipping once when your wet skin slid against his. "Oh, fuck," he muttered, nearly tripping over the last step, but you were already pulling him down the hall, your fingers tangled in his hair as you backed into your bedroom door. It creaked open under your weight, and suddenly you were falling, the mattress hitting the back of your thighs as Will followed you down, his body covering yours with a weight that stole your breath.

His mouth trailed down your neck, sucking at the salt still drying on your skin, and you arched into him, your hands scrabbling at his shoulders.

"Off," he demanded, tugging at the knot of your bottoms.

The thought flickered through your hazy mind—how lucky you were that the apartment was empty, that no one would hear the way the bedframe groaned as Will shifted his weight, his hips pressing yours into the mattress. (you really didn’t want a repeat of last time when Mack had to listen to you go at it like rabbits and then help you two fix Will’s bed.) His fingers fumbled with the drawer of his nightstand, knocking against the lamp, and you could hear the crinkle of foil before he even pulled the condom out. You reached for his wrist before he could tear the wrapper open. "Don't," you breathed, your voice already wrecked, and Will froze, his pupils blown wide. "Will, please. I need you now."

"But—"

"You know I'm on the pill, Will, please just fuck me. Please."

The moment Will’s tip skimmed your slit, dragging through the wetness there, you swore your vision whited out. His touch was deliberate, teasing—the bastard knew exactly what he was doing, circling your entrance with the tip of his cock but never pushing in, just letting the heat of him hover there while you whimpered into the crook of his elbow. "Will," you gasped, your hips bucking uselessly against his restraint, "stop being such a fucking—ah—"

His laugh was dark, uneven, as he dragged the head of his cock through your folds again, smearing your slick between you. "Such a what?" he murmured, his breath hot against your jaw. "Say it."

You could feel him grinning against your skin, the cocky bastard, and you dug your nails into his shoulders hard enough to make him hiss. "Tease," you spat, but it came out half-moaned, your voice cracking as he finally, finally pressed the tip inside—just enough to stretch you, just enough to make your back arch off the mattress.

Will groaned, his forehead dropping to your collarbone as he inched deeper, his hips rolling in slow, torturous circles. Every drag of him sent sparks up your spine, your thighs trembling around his waist as he bottomed out with a curse. "Fuck," he breathed, his voice ragged, "fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck—"

Will groaned, his forehead pressed to yours as he rocked deeper, the drag of him so slow it bordered on cruel. "You feel—" he started, but the words dissolved into a hissed curse as you clenched around him, your nails biting into his shoulders. "Jesus Christ, keep doing that and I'm not gonna last."

You laughed, breathless and unsteady, but it caught in your throat when Will pulled out almost entirely, the head of his cock just barely inside you before he pushed back in with a sharp thrust that knocked the air from your lungs. "Asshole," you gasped, but your hips arched up to meet him anyway, your body betraying you with every ragged breath.

Will grinned down at you, his hair damp with sweat and saltwater, his eyes dark with something hungrier than you'd ever seen. "You love it," he murmured, dragging his cock through your folds again just to hear you whimper. His thumb found your clit, rubbing slow circles that had your thighs shaking, and you nearly sobbed when he slid back into you—this time with no hesitation, no teasing, just one smooth stroke that buried him to the hilt.

The sound you made was obscene, half-moan, half-scream, and Will's hips stuttered like he hadn't expected it either. He choked out a moan, his grip on your hips tightening as he set a brutal pace, each thrust punching a broken noise from your throat. The bedframe slammed against the wall in time with his movements, the rhythm so relentless you could barely catch your breath between gasps.

And then it was gone. 

"Will," you whined, your voice cracking on the single syllable, and his smirk was downright sinful as he traced your entrance again, the tip of his cock catching on your folds just enough to make you sob. "God, you're dripping," he murmured, his voice thick with awe, and the way he said it—like he was discovering something sacred—sent heat crawling up your neck.

His thumb brushed your clit in lazy circles, and you nearly screamed, as he pushed back in, your nails raking down his back hard enough to leave raised red lines in their wake. Will hissed but didn’t pull away, his hips grinding against yours in a slow, torturous rhythm that had you seeing stars.

The sound ripped from your throat before you could stop it—a guttural, desperate moan that didn’t even sound like you, raw and unfiltered in a way that made Will’s hips stutter mid-thrust. His breath hitched, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave bruises as he stared down at you, eyes wide like he’d just discovered something earth-shattering. “Jesus Christ,” he choked out, his voice wrecked, and you barely had time to process the awe in his tone before he was moving again, deeper this time, his cock dragging against some spot inside you that made your vision blur.

You were close—so close you could taste it, the heat coiling tight in your belly—but the second Will’s rhythm faltered, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your neck, you slapped a hand against his chest. “Wait—wait—” The word came out slurred, your fingers twisting in his sweat-damp hair as you pushed him back just enough to roll your hips beneath him. Will groaned, his grip on your thighs tightening as you flipped him onto his back in one clumsy, drunken motion, the mattress creaking in protest beneath you.

The moment you straddled him, sinking down onto his cock with a gasp, his hands flew to your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. “Fuck,” he breathed, his head dropping back against the pillows as you rocked against him, slow at first, then faster, your nails scraping down his chest just to watch his abs clench under your touch. His throat was flushed pink, sweat glistening in the hollow of his collarbone, and you couldn’t resist leaning down to drag your teeth over the sensitive skin there, sucking until his groan vibrated against your lips.

Will’s thumb found your clit again without hesitation, his touch rough and uncoordinated in the best way, and you nearly sobbed at the contact, your thighs trembling around him. His words dissolved into a groan as you clenched around him, your hips rolling in desperate little circles that had his fingers twitching against your skin. The pressure built like a storm, every nerve in your body alight, and when Will’s breath hitched, his grip on your hips turning bruising, you knew he was close.

The sound that tore from your throat was raw—something between a gasp and a sob, pitched higher than you’d ever heard yourself before. Will’s hips jerked beneath you like he’d been electrocuted, his fingers digging into your waist hard enough to leave crescent-shaped indents in your skin. “Fuck,” he choked out, his voice shattered, and you could feel the way his cock twitched inside you, pulsing with every ragged breath he took. “’M gonna cum.”

You didn’t recognize yourself—the way your body moved, the noises you made, the sheer need that had you grinding down on him like you were trying to fuse your bones together. Will’s hands slid up your sides, rough and desperate, his thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts before settling on your hips again, guiding you into a rhythm that had your vision spotting at the edges.

The words left your lips before you could stop them—raw, ragged, barely recognizable as your own voice. "Inside, please—Will, I want—" Your plea dissolved into a moan as his hips snapped up into yours, his cock hitting that spot deep inside you that made your thighs tremble. You could feel him twitching, pulsing, his breath coming in uneven gasps against your neck.

Will groaned, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. "You—you're sure?" His voice was wrecked, strained with the effort of holding back, and you nodded frantically, your nails scraping down his chest. "Yes, yes—Will,please— inside, inside, inside!"

Will didn’t need to be told twice. His hips jerked up once, twice—then he buried himself deep with a groan that sounded ripped from his chest, his fingers tightening almost painfully around your waist as he came. You could feel it—the hot pulse of him inside you, the way his cock twitched with every throb, the sharp exhale that ghosted over your collarbone like a prayer.

The sensation hit you like a lightning strike—sharp, sudden, inescapable—as Will pulsed inside you, his release triggering your own with brutal efficiency. Your body clenched around him in erratic waves, your nails digging crescents into his chest as pleasure ripped through you with a force that left you gasping, shaking, your thighs quivering against his hips. The orgasm tore through you until you collapsed against his chest with a sob, your forehead pressing into the sweat-slick hollow of his throat.

Will’s hands slid up your back, slow and reverent, his fingertips tracing the ridges of your spine like he was memorizing them. His breath was still ragged against your temple, his chest rising and falling beneath you in uneven hitches. “Holy shit,” he murmured, his voice hoarse, and you could feel the way his laugh vibrated through you, warm and disbelieving. 

"Why did it take so long for us to do that?"

The end-of-season team gathering was at your brother, Tyler Toffoli’s house.

It was loud, warm, and full of laughter—typical post-season vibes with half the roster sprawled across the backyard and living room.

You’d been staying with your brother for the semester while finishing up classes at a nearby university, and no one suspected a thing about you and Will Smith.

Twenty and twenty-one, sneaking around like teenagers even though you were both technically adults. The secret made everything hotter.

You slipped away first, claiming you needed the bathroom upstairs. Will followed two minutes later, locking the door behind him with a soft click that sent heat straight between your legs.

He didn’t waste time. The second the lock turned, his mouth was on yours, hands shoving your little sundress up around your waist. “Been thinking about you all night,” he muttered against your lips, spinning you around and bending you over the marble counter. Your palms slapped against the cool sink as he yanked your panties down your thighs.

“Will—fuck—” you gasped as he pushed in with one smooth thrust, stretching you open. He was thick, hard, and already breathing heavy. One hand fisted tight in your hair, pulling your head back so you had to watch yourself in the mirror—flushed cheeks, parted lips, tits bouncing under the thin fabric with every snap of his hips.

He fucked you hard, the wet slap of skin echoing off the tiles. Your thighs trembled, slick dripping down his shaft with every stroke. “So fucking tight for me, baby,” he groaned, tugging your hair harder. “Missed this pussy all week.”

You were close already, moaning into your hand to try and stay quiet, when the door handle rattled.

Even though Will had locked the door, it opened anyway—Macklin Celebrini stepping in, phone in hand, clearly not paying attention, before he froze.

“Shit—sorry.” But then his eyes went wide, and they didn’t exactly leave you right away. He took in the scene: you bent over the sink, dress bunched up, Will’s cock still buried deep, hips rolling slow and lazy even as he turned his head toward the intruder.

Will’s fist stayed locked in your hair. He didn’t pull out. Just kept grinding into you in shallow thrusts while he panted, “Mack… little busy here.”

Your thighs shook violently. You were dripping down Will’s balls, embarrassed heat flooding your face, but the way he kept moving—slow, filthy circles—made your eyes flutter.

Mack swallowed, still staring a second too long. “Dude… Ty’s gonna kill you.”

“Yeah, well,” Will grunted, rolling his hips again, dragging a broken whimper out of you, “not if you get the fuck out.”

Mack blinked, finally snapping out of it. “Right. Yeah. I’ll, uh… let you guys get back to it.” He backed out, closing the door with a quiet click.

The second the latch caught, Will slammed back into you hard. “Fuck, I can't believe Mack walked in,” he laughed breathlessly, pounding you faster. “You liked that? Liked him seeing how well you take my cock?”

You came seconds later with a muffled cry, clenching around him so tight he cursed and followed right after, spilling deep inside you with a low groan, hips stuttering.

You cleaned up as best you could, legs still shaky, and slipped back into the party separately. Mack was in the kitchen grabbing another beer. He caught your eye and gave you the smuggest little smirk, raising his bottle in a silent toast. Will walked past him and shoved his shoulder lightly, both of them chuckling like idiots.

Later, when most people had left, the remaining crew sat around the backyard bonfire. You were tucked against Tyler’s side on the big outdoor couch, his arm slung protectively around your shoulders like always. Big-brother mode fully engaged.

Someone made a dumb joke about how quiet you’d been all night—“Probably studying too hard, huh?”—and Mack, a little buzzed and grinning, laughed.

“Haha, ask Will about that.”

The group chuckled, confused. You froze. Will’s face dropped.

You blinked. “What?”

Mack, still laughing, kept going. “Well, I walked in on Y/N and Will—”

Tyler’s arm tightened around you. “What?”

The fire crackled. Everyone went dead silent.

Mack’s smile faded fast as he realized what he’d just said. “Uh… yeah. Bathroom. They were… definitely not studying.”

Tyler’s head snapped toward Will, then to you. His voice was low, dangerous. “You’re fucking my little sister?”

You buried your face in your hands as chaos erupted—half the guys laughing, half looking like they wanted to disappear, Tyler standing up with that protective big-brother glare locked on Will.

Will just rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks red, but his eyes found yours across the fire with a tiny, secret smirk that said: worth it.

peaceful, predictable, no waiting around for 5000 years.

you toss a detergent pod into the drum and slam the door. your basket sits at the side while you take a seat on top of the spinning machine, untangling your earphones while the door opens. you don’t look up.

“huh,” they speak, “was starting to think you’d transferred.”

you freeze.

god, please no.

you look up.

will’s standing in the doorway with an overflowing laundry basket in his hands, looking almost surprised by your existence. the second your eyes meet, he grins.

you tuck a bit of your hair behind your ear, lowering your hands as you try to fight the blush. “i . . what? what are you talking about?” you play dumb, forcing a laugh.

ok, so what if you’ve subconsciously been going out of your way to avoid will after you kissed him? only by a little bit - it’s not like you’re taking massive repercussions just to avoid him.

did you cross the soaking, soggy, muddy grass in the middle of campus and ruin your sneakers because he was walking in your direction? maybe, but you were running late for practice anyway.

did you completely by coincidence, start switching up seats from your usual spot just for a change? yeah, ‘cause it seemed . . fun to do?

did you duck underneath the cheerleading table during the student involvement fair because you spotted his baseball cap weaving through the crowd? yeah, but you thought your earring had fell out at the same moment.

will has actually been . . an angel. he’s left you alone. he hasn’t pried. hasn’t seeked you out to hound you. it’s you — you think about him for even a second and you’re riddled with guilt, you hear him and your face flushes with embarrassment, you see him and your chest starts beating too fast and your stomach gets that weird tingly sensation like it did when his tong—

“you’re getting creative.”

he snaps you out of your daze. you blink, lost. “what . . what do you mean?”

“you’re avoiding me.”

his voice makes you straighten, although he’s smiling, gum smacking in his mouth. he has a navy hat on, some baseball team on it, matching his navy t-shirt. “i’m . . i’m not,” you try to play off. “i’ve been busy.”

“doing what?”

“just with classes and stuff . . cheerleading . . usual.”

“i haven’t seen you in class. i was looking for you.”

that makes your heart squeeze with guilt. you’re unfazed when he doesn’t show up to class, he’s missed a dozen classes due to hockey, whether college-related or some variant of international play - you get on with your day.

when you don’t show up one day, will’s brain is wracked wondering if everything’s ok.

“i’ve been every day,” you answer, and you have, you’re not lying . . . you’ve just been on the complete opposite side you usually sit on. “did you need something . . ? my file—”

he shakes his head while lowering his basket, placing it on the floor to opening a machine door. “i just . . wanted to make sure i hadn’t done something.”

you frown. “what?”

he shrugs one shoulder, slightly turning his back to you while he loads up his machine. “just figured i made you uncomfortable or somethin.”

the joking tone is gone.

it’s so matter-of-fact that it makes your chest tighten. “no,” the answer comes instantly as you shake your head. “no will, that’s not . . . no. you didn’t make me uncomfortable.”

he watches you closely, turning around to you. “you promise?”

“i promise,” you hold up your hands as if to prove you’ve got nothing crossed. you even uncross your legs. “you didn’t make me uncomfortable. i . . it’s me.” you confess.

you slump in your spot, like you can no longer carry the weight. “it’s just — every time i see you, i — i get embarrassed. i can’t believe i tried to kiss you and i’m so sorry for it. ‘n then i was scared in case you started telling people and if brad found out so i’ve had this god-awful anxiety all week, it makes me sick—”

will’s standing in front of you now, his brows furrowed as he moves his hands across like as if to cut you off. you do. “you’d think i’d tell people?”

you raise a shoulder. “. . well yeah, like i thought . . maybe you’d tell your friends.”

he just looks at you.

“and they’d joke about it . . .”

still nothing.

“and then someone would overhear . .”

he slowly shakes his head.

“or maybe you’d bring it up to brad.”

will’s brows furrow. “you think i’d tell brad?”

“—not in a cruel way,” you say quickly. “just . . because you two don’t like each other and . . i thought maybe you’d . . . rub it in or something?”

a long silence settles between you. will steps closer, not enough to crowd you, but enough that you’re no longer talking across the room. you can smell his signature scent better, cleanliness and something masculine. “i don’t really like brad.”

“i know.”

“but i like you a lot more than i don’t like him.”

you close your eyes and that, feeling like your heart could melt through your fingers.

he says it so casually, with no shame or embarrassment.

“why would i do something like that? at your cost?”

your throat tightens as he keeps going, and you have to lift your hand to get him to stop taking. “will—”

“—you really thought i’d use you to get at him?”

“n—no.” the word comes out small. “i don’t know what i thought i just . . was overthinking it every possibility,” you lower your head. “. hiding just makes the most sense.”

he smiles, but it’s smaller this time - softer. the one that kind of pulls at your heartstrings. “hey,” he says quietly, waiting until you meet his eyes. “you really don’t have to do all that.”

“what?”

“hide from me.”

the words aren’t teasing anymore, and his gaze holds yours in a comforting reassurance. “i hate to think you’ve spent a week changing where you sit or taking different routes, worrying every time you see me because you think i’m gonna make things weird.” he gives a tiny shake of his head. “i’m not.”

you look down at your hands.

“i haven’t told anybody,” he continues. “and i’m not going to. not my teammates. not my friends. definitely not brad. it’s nobody else’s business but ours, and if you don’t want anyone knowing, then that’s where it stays.”

ours.

it sounds weird coming from him and doesn’t something weird to your limbs.

“you don’t have to explain yourself to me, and you don’t have to spend every day trying to make sure we never end up in the same room,” his voice is warm now, almost comforting. “i’d rather you just be yourself . . ” he’s closer now, standing directly in front of you, your knees almost touch him. “i’d much rather get the version of you that argues with me that i’m not 6’1 in skates and tells me i’m annoying.”

you laugh a little, looking away from his blue eyes. “you are not 6’1 in skates.”

“‘course i am,” he inches closer, face full of fake arrogance although his voice is soft and teasing. it eases your nerves, loosens you a little.

“i . .” you laugh at yourself without any humour in it. “you’re right. i’m sorry, i’m just . . i’m a mess at the minute.” you place your head in your hands.

you don’t know why you assume will to be cruel like that. you know he’s not. maybe it’s a you thing: you have a hard time learning not every guy is brad. it’s instinct to assume they’re all the same.

will doesn’t hesitate to peel your hands from your face, standing almost between your legs if they had been spread apart a little more. “you’re not a mess, y/n.” his hand’s nonchalantly relax on your thighs, your bare thighs because it’s approaching 10PM and you’re dressed for bed in a plain oversized t-shirt while 90% of campus is at that 80s themed party tonight.

your gaze drops to his hands, how they blanket your thighs, the way fingers stretch farther than they seemed capable of around them. when you finally drag your eyes back to his face, he’s already looking at you.

“nobody knows. nobody will know,” his voice is low, like it’s meant only for you.

his hands shift again, slower this time, thumbs brushing absentmindedly against your skin like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. “just you and me . . .”

you don’t mean to do it, you try to fight it - but you look anyway - you look at his mouth while he’s talking. pink lips moving, voice smooth like honey, soft in a way that doesn’t match how close he is standing. the sound settles under your skin, soft and slow, it warms every part of you until it feels like you’re physically melting.

your shoulders drop first, tension bleeding out of you in a way that makes you blink like you’ve just woken up.

it’s like the space between you starts shrinking on its own. “will,” you mutter, eyes dropping. “we—you’re too close.”

he huffs a quiet laugh at that. “too close?” his brow twitches, “after a week of not seeing me?”

you give him a look despite his teasing, but you still don’t move.

his lips tug in response, fingers sliding to the crease between your legs and torso, fingers curling around the back until he’s pulling you towards him. your breath catches before you can stop it, your eyes dropping eye-level with his neck. the smell of his aftershave hits you next, clean and sharp, drawing you closer to him.

“you’re telling me to move . . ” he murmurs, “but you keep coming closer.”

“’m not.”

“no?” his nose brushes yours, feather-light, enough to make your heart jump; your eyes close.

you don’t know what he’s saying anymore, your thoughts feel like they’ve been wrapped in cotton and you’re waiting for him to kiss you.

his nose grazes yours again as he leans in, slow enough to give you every chance to pull away, and when you don’t – he finally kisses you.

again.

the kiss is slow. unhurried, like neither of you has anywhere else to be.

somewhere between his hand finding your waist and your fingers curling instinctively into the front of his t-shirt, the noise you’ve been carrying around all week melts into silence, every anxious thought that had been ricocheting around moments ago simply fades.

will’s lips are soft. they’re gentle on yours. it’s so sweet it makes your ears ring.

when he pulls away, your eyes stay closed and you don’t dare move.

he kisses you again.

it deepens this time, his lips parting more gradually until his tongue slides against yours, warm and wet and tasting faintly of something minty. your arms come up to his neck in a mind of their own, tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. you can feel the smirk in his kiss.

he doesn’t let you breathe. it’s a kiss you’ve never experienced before; it sends tingles down your spine and makes your toes curl. you chase more.

will makes a breathy sound, lips pushing harder against yours as his hands tighten around your waist. he pulls your lower half closer to the edge of the machine until your knees bracket his hips and you grab his arm consciously. “will,” you hum breathlessly, his lips brushing yours. “we can’t—”

he cuts you off again, messily slotting his lips against yours.

the alarm bells in your mind silence with the the feel of his hands travelling back to your legs, caressing the top of your thighs, his thumb smoothing the inside of it. it makes your breath stutter; your brain short-circuit and thoughts turn to mush.

“will,” you say again between kisses, eyes closing with every stroke of his tongue massaging yours. it distracts you from the hand slowly making its way between your legs. “mmph—”

the sudden contact of will’s middle finger pressing against your clothed slit sends a jolt through your body; a high-pitched gasp past your lips. he continues to kiss you as you pull away, barely regaining consciousness as your hand snatches a hold of his wrist, stopping his hand from moving another inch. “will, will, will—” you whisper, trying to get him to stop.

he does. the second you whisper, he eases back, breaking the kiss gently between you. his eyes stay closed for a moment longer, forehead hovering yours, his lips glisten with saliva. his breathing is still uneven, his shoulders moving with each intake.

he doesn’t rush. he just lets you go, his nose brushing your cheek as if he’s giving himself a second before reality catches up.

“will . . .” your voice comes out embarrassingly small. you swallow. “i-i can’t.”

this time, he nods. slowly. like he’d already known that was coming.

it makes your chest hurt.

your eyes dart to the door, your heartbeat suddenly loud again.

you look back at him, eyes softening at the devastating sight: blond curls messily spread across his forehead, cheeks flushed pink from your intense makeout. “i’m sorry,” you blurt, gently easing his hand from your waist. he lets you. “i just—we shouldn’t’ve . . i shouldn’t have—”

he gives another small nod and takes half a step back. “i get it,” he says like he’s trying to spare you the conversation. “it’s cool.”

“no—” you trap him between your legs before he can step away anymore. “please wait.”

“it’s fine, y/n.” he unhooks your ankles over him.

“no will, wait, please,” you hop off the washing machine, ignoring the terrible ache down below as you try to get him to look at you. “it’s not you—”

“i know.”

“no but—”

he tries not to sigh. “y/n–”

“please don’t be weird with me.”

he pauses. he looks at you properly, confusion swirling in his eyes. “i won’t . . ?”

“don’t be mad.”

he looks back at you, brows knitting together. “i’m not.”

dismissive. matter-of-fact.

your chest only tightens. “no, but you are,” you insist quietly. “i can tell.”

“i’m not mad at you,” he establishes, furrowing his brows at the accusation.

“promise?”

he lets out a quiet breath through his nose, keeping his gaze on you. “yeah.”

you search his face for something, anything, that tells you he’s telling the truth. “i’m not going to avoid you,” the words spill out too fast, “not this time. i swear.”

his expression softens, eyes drifting to the floor, “you don’t have to promise me anything.”

“no but i do, i—” you don’t even know what to say. “can we just be the same? like, before?” your eyes are pleading as you look up to him. “i don’t want you to—” ditch me? leave me alone? ignore me? “i dunno, i’m — just—don’t change anything. we’re good.” you nod, smoothing the bottom of your shirt. “we’re good. you don’t need to—to disappear on me or—”

“disappear on you?” will perks an eyebrow at that, offended. “that’s you who does that.”

“i know, i know, i’m sorry. i won’t this time, i promise.” you cringe, cheeks flaming. “i’ll literally save you a seat on monday, i— we’re cool. we’re cool. this never happened.”

will raises his head in acknowledgment.

alright.

cool.

he nods. “yeah.”

it isn’t cold. it isn’t angry. if anything, that’s what makes your heart clench. he isn’t going to fight you on it or ask why, he isn’t going to make you feel worse than you already do.

he just accepts your response. “see you around.”

you take a step closer as he makes it to the door, basket scooped in his hand. “will—” you open your mouth, but nothing comes - because what are you even supposed to say?

you settle with a weak ‘i’m sorry’ and he gives another nod. “i know.”

and then he’s gone.

the second the door shuts, your chest caves. you drag a hand over your face.

idiot.

this never happened? why would you say that? that wasn’t what you meant. you feel even worse as you did before, and this time, you promised you wouldn’t avoid him.

-

the party buzzes around you.

people shout over the music, bottles clink somewhere in the kitchen, someone you’ve never met is laughing hard enough to fold in half. it’s chill for a saturday night. you stay tucked into brad’s side most of the night, fingers hooked loosely through his arm. you laugh when everyone else laughs, nod along to conversations you haven’t really heard.

you’re already moving when brad asks for you to get something for him.

you try to have a good time, you’ve had two seltzers to help you, but there’s a strange emptiness following you around all evening.

like something’s missing.

you don’t realize how often your eyes drift across the room until you catch yourself doing it again.

“babe, can you grab me another beer?”

“’course.” you grin, brushing a quick kiss against his cheek before disappearing into the kitchen.

it’s automatic, all of it - the way you lean against him when he pulls you in, play with the hair at the back of his neck while he’s talking to his friends - you’re attentive. sweet.

maybe a little too hard.

you weave through the crowd, muttering quiet apologies as shoulders knock yours from every direction. “sorry.”

“it’s fine.”

you step aside to let them through.

that’s when you see him.

will.

your heart stumbles so hard it almost feels painful.

he’s sunk into the corner of the sofa, one arm stretched lazily along the back of it. a girl sits tucked into his side, laughing at something he’s just said. another sits to his left, their knees touching.

your eyes stay fixed on them, unable to look away despite every part of you screaming to.

he says something that makes the one of the right laugh, and her fingers curl around the front of his t-shirt, collecting a firm grip – and your feet stop.

you watch him nod, lips pulled to the side in that smirk he does and you catch the way his eyes dip to her mouth.

your eyes could slice him.

don’t.

before your brain can make sense of what you’re looking at, will leans in, all confidence. she meets him halfway.

then it happens.

they kiss.

your brows raise and your mouth falls open before your brain has fully registered what’s going on.

he kisses her.

not accidentally.

not drunkenly.

deliberately.

for a second, all you can hear is the rush of blood flooding your head.

your entire body goes hot.

you watch like a complete weirdo, watching the way he slips his tongue in, the way his head moves to meets hers, the way his eyes remain closed and his hand rests on her leg.

something ugly flares inside you violently.

your whole body racks.

“babe?”

brad’s voice reaches you from somewhere behind.

you don’t answer.

you’re still staring.

still hoping, stupidly, that he’ll pull away.

“babe?”

you flinch at a hand brushing your elbow, so hard it almost startles you.

“what?” you bite.

brad blinks. “i just asked if you got my drink . .“

“well, i’m getting it, aren’t i?!”

his eyebrows raise, taken back by the tone. “alright . . .”

honestly, brad is at a loss these days. when he’s being an ass, you act a psycho, when he’s on his best behaviour and treating you good, you act a psycho.

“god!” you scoff, wrenching open the fridge harder than necessary.

“what’s wrong with you?”

“nothing.”

“doesn’t seem like nothing.”

“BRAD!” you shout this time, slamming the door closed with a flare in your eyes. “STOP talking to me.”

a couple of heads turn and brad raises his hands immediately. the look in your eyes is new.

“okay.”

guilt pricks at you for all of half a second when you hand him the can, because when you look up again—they’re still there.

heat surges through you all over again. you don’t even recognize the feeling.

“babe, chill out, alright? what happened?” brad’s voice is soft for once as he stands in front of you, blocking the view. he tries to be gentle. he says he’s been working on himself and you’ve noticed it.

you rip his hand from your side and storm off back to your spot, your whole body almost shaking with emotions you didn’t even know you possessed.

-

monday comes around when you’ve still got that furrow in your brow. the lecture theatre is already half full by the time you arrive, coffee in one hand, headphones still around your neck.

you scan the rows automatically whilst walking up the steps – and there he is.

will.

in your seat.

well, not your seat. your row.

he’s saved the chair beside him with his backpack, spotting you almost immediately. he lifts it onto his lap without a second thought.

“morning sunshine.” he says.

like friday never happened.

like saturday didn’t exist.

like two girls hadn’t practically climbed into his lap before midnight.

your jaw tightens.

“. . hi.”

you slide into the chair without looking at him.

the silence stretches. he doesn’t seem bothered by it.

“good weekend?”

is that a joke?

you just nod, keeping your head to the front. will lifts his in acknowledgment, sensing you’re not in a chatty mood.

“brad got asked to skate with us tomorrow,” he says after a while, looking over at you after he finishes taking notes off the slide.

that grabs your attention. you look up, barely meeting his eyes for a second, trying to sound interested. “he did?”

“yeah. jake’s got mono, leno’s concussed . . asked if he’d come by the rink tomorrow afternoon.”

you hum, typing on your laptop.

conversation = over.

he studies you for a second as you avoid his gaze, then shakes his head so subtly, you don’t see it.

something’s up.

you type while will scribbles notes. every now and then he fidgets in his seat, his elbow brushes yours, he stretches dramatically or readjusts his hat on his head and it slowly chips at your patience.

“will, quit smacking your gum.”

“will, your volume.”

“will,” you nudge his arm off your side of the desk. “your elbow.”

you try not to sound so quick with it, but you swear, he must be doing it on purpose. you’re laser-focused on the screen at the front of the room while he texts from next to you, and you can’t take it.

“oh my god, smitty! can you breathe through your nose?” your head cranks to him, unable to concentrate on anything other than the sound of his breathing next to you.

will pauses, mouth still open, glancing at you.

he shuts his mouth, not tearing his eyes from you.

ok.

five minutes later, after trying to be as mute as possible, he yawns.

you don’t even look up. “will.”

“huh?”

“why are you being so loud.”

he freezes. “ . . what?”

“seriously.” you grit your teeth.

will’s brows furrow. your attitude is clear as day to him now. “i . . yawned.”

“yeah. out loud. for everyone to hear.”

“i wasn’t aware there was another method?” he responds sarcastically, squinting his eyes at you.

“come up with one.”

his brow twitches. so that’s the mood you’re in today? he looks around theatrically. “anybody know how to yawn quietly?”

a couple of students glance over before returning to their conversations. will looks back at you. “you are in a mood.”

“i’m not.”

“could’ve fooled me,” he tilts his head, making your stomach flip. “seriously . .” he turns back to fix his notes, “tell brad to step his game up or something.”

you shoot him a look. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he shrugs. “i don’t know. dude’s clearly slacking if this is what i’m dealing with on a monday morning.”

your jaw falls. “he’s not slacking in anything.”

“pfft. ok.”

“hey!” you snap, “what are you getting at?”

“nothing.”

“no say it.”

“i said nothing.”

“you’re implying something.”

“you’re hearing things,” he smiles at himself, tongue poking his cheek. it’s cute seeing you mad. it’s actually cute seeing you mad at him.

you don’t find it funny.

instead, you thump his arm with your fist.

“OW!”

“you’re an asshole.”

“that’s assault.”

“good.”

he rubs his bicep dramatically but smiles. “jesus.”

the professor begins wrapping up the lecture, peers already exiting the room while others are still packing their bag. you’re halfway through closing a document to get out of here when—

clap!

your laptop snaps shut, and you jump.

will’s already standing, one hand still resting on the top of it. “tell your boyfriend he owes the rest of us an apology,” he says, swinging his bag over his shoulder, and your brows furrow. “ . . he’s gotta be doing something wrong if this is the mood he’s sending you into class with.”

there he is again. picking at your relationship. acting like he knows everything.

you snatch your laptop back. “get off his back.”

will’s lets out a quiet breath through his nose. “you should try getting off mine.” he bargains, inching close to your face.

you open your mouth, but end up looking like a goldfish because you open and close your mouth ‘cause nothing comes out. too distracted by him getting too close in your face, the dimple on his cheek, how pink his lips are. he walks off, unbeknownst to the heat clawing at your body.

-

you spend the rest of the week going about your day as normal. you go to class, you go to practice, you’ve even been to the rink, watching brad who’s been filling in for defence. it’s surprisingly easy tuning out the annoying sound that is will.

or at least you pretend it is.

in group discussions, you pretend to write something super important in your notebook when he gives his input. you don’t look at him when he talks. if someone asks the group a question, you answer them all but him. you leave your earphones in through every lecture you share, even when nothing’s playing anymore. at the rink, you don’t even turn your head when he flies past on the ice a dozen times, barely allowing yourself to clap twice when he makes a good play because everyone around you does.

the anger starts to dull around the edges by midweek, as if being away from him has allowed you to cool down and realize it’s not that deep. that you’re overreacting and his little remarks are nothing out the ordinary from him. you almost ask him for his notes on a slide that went by too fast — almost.

until a girl in the row in front turns around and asks for a pencil.

will passes her one before you even comprehend what she says, and you watch the way they interact: the way she smiles up at him, how she says his name when she thanks him, the way he winks back in response.

suddenly, you’re staring at his side profile and you’re replaying the image of him slipping his tongue in some girl’s mouth.

“FUCK!” you unexpectedly say out loud, palms smacking your forehead.

people turn and look at you concerned, including will, who’s is more confused, but assumes, like everyone else, that it’s an answer you’ve answered incorrectly on your sheet as you look down at it.

it’s not. you’re just going insane. you swear. you swear, you’re going insane.

friday rolls around when you find yourself at the rink, running a little behind to meet brad after he pitched dinner and a movie at his place after you were both finished with practice. you texted him you’d be there in ten and he never answered, so made your way in to the arena anyway, only to be met with the sound of a single set of skates still cutting through the ice.

i already know who this is, you think to yourself, strutting over to the ledge.

will sees you when you come in, still shooting pucks in the net despite practice ending 10 minutes ago. he’s always the last off the ice. always putting in an extra shift.

he goes back to firing shot after shot, aiming for a different angle in the net until the person on the zamboni will have to force him off the ice. he doesn’t acknowledge you. you don’t acknowledge him.

you set your bag up on the ledge to dig through the clutter for your phone; a mess of makeup products, your sweaty uniform, a bra, loose change, hair clips, pom-pom strands and water bottles - it makes it harder then necessary.

by the time you pull it out, you don’t waste time in checking if brad got your message and call him instead - trying to block out the crack of each shot that echoes around the rink. “hello?”

“hey. what’s up?”

“where are you, i just got here. i’m standing in the box?” you glance around, trying to see if you can catch sight of him lingering in the tunnel.

“babe, i left like 5 minutes ago. i was gonna hang at jordan’s ‘til you were done practice?”

“i told you i finished the same time as you?”

crack.

your eyes follow the trail of the puck hitting the boards.

“i though you finished at 5:30? and by the time you get showered ‘n shit i was just gonna wait for you to call me . .”

“i finish at 5:00 and that’s including getting showered ‘n stuff.” you glance to the side in disbelief.

“oh.”

“oh?” you repeat. “will i meet you at your place or not?”

“look, just come to jordan’s. i’ll text you the address. i’ve already had a beer so you’ll have to come grab me anyway.”

“okay,” you huff, lowering your phone. “bye.”

“bye.”

you throw your phone in your bag, shoving the other things you had to take out back in when your favourite lipstick hits the ice with a ‘clack’ as it falls from the ledge and begins rolling further out.

past the blue line, past the face-off dot, until it finally comes to a stop almost dead centre of the rink.

you eyes immediately jump to will, the only one on the ice, who was watching it as well.

he’s smacking his gum (as always), and shrugs a shoulder while looking at you. “i’m not getting it.”

the bluntness makes you straighten.

you blink.

“you act like i don’t exist so,” he pulls a face like it’s something out of his control, turning back to his setup. “come get it yourself.” another crack of the boards deafens your ears.

you look back to the lipstick in the middle of the rink, then to the type of shoes on your feet.

ordinary sneakers. barely a grip on them with how long you’ve had them.

can you even walk on ice with regular shoes on?

you look at will to see if he’s being serious, but he’s too busy on stick work, not even sparing you a second glance.

you swallow nervously.

is he really gonna make you grab it yourself?

you contemplate how badly you really need it, considering you haven’t skated on the ice since you were 10 and at that, had a penguin skating aid to lean on.

you then consider the fact the zamboni will probably crush a perfectly good $25 lipstick into little tiny pieces if you do.

you also then consider the worst case scenario: what if it shoots out a tiny piece at somebody? and causes a total freak accident where blood is on your hands because you couldn’t be bothered to pick up after yourself? that gets you moving.

you set your bag down and tuck your hair back so it doesn’t block your view. you mutter something under your breath and step carefully through the open gate, goosebumps running along your legs.

the second the rubber mat disappears beneath your white nikes, your confidence goes with it.

your foot slides at least a foot.

you immediately grab the boards.

you hear him snort.

you ignore it.

with one hand clamped to the top of the boards, you shuffle forward awkwardly, feet barely leaving the ice.

god, how are you making it to the centre?

you make it a whole three steps before one foot shoots slightly ahead of the other when will sends another puck against the boards, making you jump and lose footing. “whoa!—” you catch yourself at the last second.

you quickly realize how terrifying and dangerous it is be on the ice during a game.

the boards rattle with you.

you continue inching forward, tiny steps at a time, looking no-where but the golden-like rectangle. it’s so slippy. the shooting has stopped so you assume will is watching you. you don’t wanna know how stupid you must look tight now.

stiff. jumpy. covered in goosebumps.

it’s so cold, your arms and legs suffering the most as they remain bare from the worn BC t-shirt and shorts you first got years ago. you’re convinced the shivering isn’t helping with your balance.

will watches, leaning lazily on his stick before setting it against the boards beside his helmet. then, with a couple of effortless strides, he’s gliding towards you, almost racing you without looking like he’s trying.

you refuse to look at him.

your eyes stay fixed on the lipstick.

just a little bit more . . .

you crouch carefully, every muscle in your body tensing as your fingertips hover inches away – when a pair of skates come into view and give a soft tap of the golden case, sending the thing gliding further on down to the right, a few more feet across the ice.

you freeze, mouth dropping as you look up to see will already drifting backwards.

“ . . . ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?!”

“oh.” he looks theatrically around the empty rink. “you can see me?”

you stand in such a rush, stumbling, forgetting where you when his arm out stretches to catch you - and you hold on, closing the distance between you in two careful, clumsy steps, grabbing a fistful of the arms of his jersey. “you’re an asshole!”

“damn, i didn’t think you’d know it was me,” he continues with the joke, staring down at your face, “forgot my invisible cloak.”

“i’ve seen you all week, i’ve just been purposely ignoring you!” you snap, feeling smaller than usual as he towers inches above you in his skates.

“for no other reason than . . ?”

“for no other reason being you’re insufferable company and nothing but a pain in my ass.”

he rocks gently on his skates, taken aback but still finding it amusing. he loves when you swear. it’s surprisingly out of character. “gee . .” he tilts his head slightly, eyebrow twitching up, “guess brad’s still being a pussy and not eating yours.”

your face falls.

almost horror-like, as if you can’t believe he just said that.

you can’t believe he just said that.

your mouth hangs open.

nothing.

not a single comeback.

you just stare at him, heat rushing up your neck so fast it burns your cheeks. for once, your brain doesn’t have anything clever to throw back. just stunned, offended silence.

“you—” is all you manage, breathless with disbelief.

it isn’t even anger at first, it’s pure, stunned embarrassment.

you shove against his chest on instinct, creating space between you like distance might somehow undo what he’d just said. you can’t even bring yourself to meet his eyes. you just push him away, allowing him grin to himself while you twist on your heel to fetch your lipstick and go.

you make it just three steps in when your foot slips sideways and a squeak leaves you. “WHEUP!—”

your knees slam into the ice.

hard.

a cold thump echoes across the rink before your palms slap down after them, and the pain is immediate.

hot.

your mouth falls open, but nothing comes out. you stay frozen on all fours, forehead bowed, your palms stinging against the freezing ice as your knees throb beneath you.

it hurts so bad.

the scrape of skate blades reaches you seconds later. “shit, hey—” a gloved hand appears in front of you. you bat it away without thinking. you can’t even tell him to leave you alone, a lump lodged too tightly in your throat.

he’s surprised. “y/n,” he says, his voice different. the teasing is totally gone.

instead, you turn your face away from him, swallowing hard, refusing to let him see the tears prickling at the corners of your eyes - whether from the pain or the embarrassment, you don’t know. you force yourself forward, practically crawling the first couple of feet before grabbing onto the boards with both hands. every movement sends another throb to your knees.

will watches, heart racing, the guilt pulling him down. he wants to throw himself down on the ice and break every one of his teeth if it would make you feel any better.

he stays where he is when you push through the gate without another glance, limping while picking up your bag.

he stands in the silence on his own, his eyes drifting to the abandoned gold tube sitting alone in the middle of the ice. he spots the little dots of blood from where you’ve cut your hands.

he throws his head back, sighing loudly.

why did he do that?

-

by saturday night, you’re exhausted. it’s ridiculous: the weekend’s barely started. your knees are still bruised, ugly shades of purple blooming beneath the skin. every time you kneel or bend them too far, they remind you exactly how hard you hit the ice.

you cried in the car. not because of will, because they hurt fucking bad – because the second the adrenaline wore off, every movement stung like a motherfucker. only for 2 minutes, because you had to go collect brad, and brad hated crying, or he hated dealing with it, rather.

date night hadn’t lasted long anyway. the first time you’d shifted in your place, you’d sucked in a sharp breath.

‘what’s wrong?’ he’d asked, giving you a weird look.

‘it’s nothing, just . . my knees’ you rolled your pyjamas up to show the violent bruising already coating them. brad’s brows furrowed. ‘what’d you do?’

that made you pause, because you didn’t know what to say. the instant will comes to mind, your immediate reaction is to deflect and deny when brad brings him up. ‘i don’t know.’

you knew it was the wrong answer the second you’d said it.

‘you don’t know?’ he repeated, staring at you.

‘well i . . i fell, what’d you think i did?” you chuckled nervously, settling on the lie you did it at practice. however, brad’s face hardens at your remark, and you don’t realize the damage you’re doing right now.

he squints his eyes. ‘you tell me — what were you doing?’

you can guess how it ended.

now, you’re catching up on laundry, again, because there’s a party and you offered to do katie’s now that she’s back at her boyfriend’s place. as always, it’s empty. chill vibes. you have one earphone in, listening to your 80s playlist you always play, thinking about the little bit of work you could catch up on when you get back.

you finish sorting another pile before setting your next basket down next you, opening the door to switch them out.

when you finish emptying the machine, you reach for the next basket - only to find the little glimmer of gold sitting on top.

your hand pauses.

your lipstick.

from the rink.

you stare at it for a second before turning around, met with will standing opposite side of the room at a machine.

he stands with his hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants, his laundry basket next to him.

and all you can think is why — why does the sight of him tug at your heart?

you look back down at the lipstick.

it’s spotless, the scuffs are gone, there’s not a fingerprint on the metallic surface. he’s taken the time to make sure it wasn’t ruined before giving it back.

will’s loading up a machine when you look back at him, pressing buttons effortlessly before he turns around to lean against it, crossing his legs, his eyes focused on his phone.

you let out a quiet breath, turning back to your laundry.

you can’t seem to stay mad at him. you’re not mad at all when you block out saturday altogether, not when you know will is completely clueless to the situation - rightfully confused because he did, in fact, do nothing wrong.

you don’t even know what he did wrong. you just didn’t like seeing him with another girl, which is so strange to admit to yourself because you have a boyfriend . . . you like to think it’s because by seeing someone else look that excited to kiss someone made something uncomfortable shift in your own chest.

maybe it forced you to notice something your relationship had been missing for a while. that easy pull towards someone, that excitement, that thrill.

god, you don’t know. you still don’t know. it makes your head hurt when you think about it for too long. you just know it made you uncomfortable and you have to assume it’s somewhat an indication that your relationship is lacking in something. you want to feel what that girl felt. experience what she felt.

but you do know how she felt, you just don’t know what to do with the fact that it wasn’t with brad.

one thing is for certain is that it’s something for you to work on, not will. you’re mature enough to accept he did nothing wrong and he doesn’t deserve your cold shoulder while you try to figure out how to fix yourself.

you’re the fucked up one, not him.

will’s been nothing but sweet to you.

respectful.

familiar.

even though he had his tongue in another girl’s mouth.

FUCK!

why the fuck are you keep coming back to that, y/n?!

will glances up as you close your eyes and clench your jaw - and he immediately feels like he’s right back to square one.

stop thinking about it y/n. stop it. just focus on . . . laundry. you were doing laundry.

you steal a glance at him while picking up a shirt to fold, scanning him head to toe as if he’s gonna look any different from yesterday. he stays distracted on his phone, head dipped down. the only thing moving is his thumb, his fingers adjusting their grip every now and then around the phone. you swallow.

he’s so big.

tall! you mean tall. he’s still so tall even without skates.

he shifts, one leg holding most of him while the other relaxes, and you quickly look down, hoping you haven’t been caught studying him after ignoring him a whole week. he keeps one hand tucked under his armpit, the sleeves of his hoodie contracting against his forarms.

you divert your focus back to your dirty and clean clothes, the hum of the dryers being the only sound in the room. your music isn’t playing anymore, your earphones abandoned at the side.

he still hasn’t said anything.

ignore him. just ignore him, y/n, he literally can’t say anything without offending y—

“are you ignoring me now?”

the words leave before you can stop them . . and you can only own them once they leave, standing with a hand on your hip as your face frowns.

why did you just do that??

will looks at you confused, even glances around to see if you’re talking to anybody else.

“—‘cause i’m supposed to be ignoring you,” you continue, not knowing what you’re doing.

the fuck?

“i . . isn’t that what you want . . ?” will looks at you confused, tilting his head.

“i never said that?” you look at him like he’s not making any sense.

“oh, no i just . . assumed when you said . . i was insufferable company and you’d been purposefully ignoring me all week, that . . you wanted me to fuck off.”

oh yeah, you did say that.

still, it’s too late to back down now. “no . . ?”

will stares at you, mouth open, breathing without another thought in his head before shaking it off and turning his attention back to his phone.

you slouch, dropping your stance and backtrack. “ok ok, i’m sorry. i’m sorry, just — forget that. i’m sorry. i’m being annoying and . . gaslighting you to be honest. i don’t know what i’m saying.”

will slides his phone into his pocket then, giving you his full attention. “that’s the problem. if you don’t know, how am i supposed to know?” his tone pinches at your heart, because it’s gentle as always, despite your sense of frustration. “i’m doing what you asked, i gave you space and tried to keep things normal, and you . . wanted to rip my head off ‘cause i breathed too loud?”

“oh but will you always breathe loud! you’re a mouth breather,” your palm hits the washing machine like that’s an unfair reason to be mad.

he gives you a flat look.

you slump. “sorry.”

you do feel guilty, because he’s so right. the whole week, every stupid joke, every sarcastic comment, he’d been trying to get you back to normal – and you’d punished him for it.

“the rink yesterday, it was just me and you - i was messing with you ‘cause,” he shrugs awkwardly, “i don’t know. i thought it’d get you talking to me again.” then he pulls a face. “clearly misjudged that one.”

your eyes fall to the floor. “no, will—”

“—then you hit the ice and i can’t stop thinking about it. i felt like it was my fault. i shouldn’t have kicked it away again, i was just playing around, but . . i felt like an asshole after. it looked real sore. it looks real sore” his eyes dart to your purple knees.

“it is, but it wasn’t your fault,” you shake your head, “i probably would have fell anyway. i was storming off and forgot i wasn’t on normal ground.”

“did you cry?”

the equation surprised you. you debate telling him, your face straight. “yes . . . but because it hurt, not ‘cause of you . . ”

that still makes will’s stomach sick with guilt. he lets out a soft sigh. “look y/n—”

no, no what happened to gorgeous?

“—i don’t know what i did to make you mad, if i crossed a line, just tell me—”

“—you didn’t.”

“—ok but are you saying that because it’s true?” he looks back up at you. “or are you just saying it because you don’t want me to feel bad?”

“no! no i promise.”

“so why? why the bad attitude? why have you spent the whole week mad at me? are you mad at everybody?”

to be honest, yeah — you have been mad at everybody, and it’s all because of him.

but there’s no way in hell you’re telling him that.

‘i saw you kissing another girl and it ruined my weekend. more than it did when i caught my boyfriend staring at our waitresses ass on my birthday.’

you’d rather launch yourself into traffic.

“i . . i don’t know,” you rub your arm. you’re not used to this amount of communication. you’re also not used to having to think like this. usually sorry’s enough and you deal with whatever consequences that follow after.

will deserves more than that. “i guess i’m mad . . at myself. maybe. i don’t know. i just don’t like . . how i can’t think straight anymore. my head is so messed up. i don’t even know anymore. i don’t know. i don’t know what i’m doing.” your head falls into your hands with stress.

will’s expression softens almost immediately. he lets out a slow breath through his nose. “hey.”

you look up.

“i don’t want that.”

you frown.

“whatever’s going on in your head,” he gestures vaguely towards you. “i don’t want you feeling like you’ve got to force yourself into anything because of me.”

your chest tightens.

“if you’re fighting yourself over this . . . that’s not something i want to add to.”

“i’m not—”

he sighs, eyes stuck on you. “y/n, listen - there’s no hard feelings. if things were simple . . you’d probably know what you wanted. i’m not saying that to make you choose, don’t take it that way,” he holds his hands up, “i just . . i think you are happy in you’re relationship and i need to stop trying to get your attention, because it’s my interference that’s messing with your head.”

your heart sinks.

what?

“if me doing that means you spend the next week feeling guilty . . or confused . . or taking it out on yourself . . ” he shakes his head, “. . i don’t want that.”

your face falls.

oh no.

he notices your expression and immediately backtracks. “that’s not me trying to make this a thing,” he says quickly. “honestly. i’m just saying . . . maybe the best thing i can do is stop,” he gives another small shrug, his face offering a small, playful smile. “i’ll cool it with the jokes. stop trying to steal your attention. give you space, divert my attention on someone else.”

“no,” it comes out far too quickly, your face falling completely as you shake your head. “no, no, no,” you slip off the machine.

will watches you, face pulling in confusion as you approach him. “i have to—”

“no! no i—” you rush to him, hands instinctively grabbing his forearms as you almost collide. “i want your attention. i want you to annoy me, i—” your hands are on his face before you can even think, pulling him down to you. the kiss cuts him off completely.

you don’t even know what you’re doing.

all you know is that he’s saying the complete wrong thing and you don’t even want him to leave you be.

you don’t want that.

your lips collide forcefully, enough that will can sense your desperation.

you kiss him slow, lips lingering before taking a short second to part, just to breathe, before kissing him again.

hungrier.

will reciprocates this time, kissing you back. he takes a second to switch his hat backward, before his hands carefully place themselves on your waist and dips his head to meet you. you hum, melting against him.

he’s warm and soft and just as you remember him.

you kiss him harder, longer, like you can’t get enough, and quickly quicken the pace. you open your mouth, missing his tongue, missing him being up all close on you. tingles dance down your spine when you feel it, butterflies shooting around your stomach. “don’t ignore me,” you plea breathlessly, speaking between kisses, “don’t stop with your jokes . . and your teasing . . and–“ kiss “–your annoying breathing.”

a laugh escapes him, swallowed immediately by another kiss. “no?” -kiss- “you don’t want that?”

“no,” you kiss him back, needing him to stop talking.

“why’s that?” he pulls away to look at you, smirk taking up his whole face. when you try to kiss him again, he pulls back

“because m—” you inch closer again, watching him look at you with amusemen, “my days would be boring without you,” you confess, trying to pull his neck back down to you.

will’s brow twitches cockily.

not that you can see, you’re too busy focused on his lips.

your whole body feels electric. that weird, foreign feeling back in your belly as you hands gravitate shyly down his torso, resting there, unable to look him in the eye.

“y’want me to keep annoying you?”

you nod.

“want me to keep calling you gorgeous?”

you look up at him at that, and nod again.

he perks a brow. “you think you’re gorgeous?”

you tighten your grip on the back of his neck and pull him back into another kiss before he can tease you again. “shut up will.”

will smiles, satisfied, and gives you what you want. he kisses you good, real good, so good you forget all about that disgusting, green jealousy that’s been following you about you all week.

his lips are soft but his hands are rough - dropping to your hips with a firm grip, he pulls you against him in a way that makes your nerves explode and brain short circuit.

“will,” you half-gasp when he instinctively picks you up, setting you down on a different machine. he steps in between your legs, your hands on his shoulders as your eyes widen as he settles in front of you. the pulse in your neck sky-rockets from the closeness, from the familiarity or his hands.

his eyes look dark, pupils blew out, but the familiar softness of blue still remains there comfortingly.

you smile into another kiss, melting against him as his tongue slowly crashing against yours. you don’t realize his hands brushing your legs, your knees that are battered - you don’t even flinch, that’s how gentle he is.

he places them flat on your thighs, large, paw-like palms soothing you with warmth and familiarity as they move up and down. your mind is already hazy when you move closer to him, inching forward in a rocking-like motion which brings will to a pause. his eyes look up from you legs, blue orbs boring into yours as his voices lowers.

“i need you to make a deal with me.”

“what is it?” you hook your arms around his neck, keeping him close.

“i need you to promise me you’re not going to go weird on me again,” his eyes scan your face, distracting you from his fingers slipping between your thighs.

“i—i won’t,” you stutter.

“y’promise?” his finger brushes your front again, making you jolt. “you promise me this is what you want?”

your mouth slowly falls open as will slowly begins to stroke you through your panties, his gaze locked on you.

you forget what he’s asking. “m—will.”

“tell me,” he looks down at you, standing tall and full of confidence. entire frame blocking you from anyone who could walk in.

“—i promise . . i promise this is what i want,” you moan embarrassingly, head dropping in shame.

fuck! what are you doing right now?

his fingers move slowly, feeling your hot slick begin to pool through the material, “want me to keep goin’?”

you bite your lip to conceal your noises, nodding frantically. “mhm.”

he pushes your knees further apart, spreading them while slowly lifting his hand to slide under the waistband on your underwear. when his hand comes into contact with your bare cunt, you flinch, legs closing from the touch, your eyes shooting to him for comfort.

he’s not looking at you though, soley focused on his hand buried in your shorts.

his middle finger slides through your folds, soaked immediately, your arousal no longer a secret. a sharp gasp escapes you, your mouth hanging open. he watches your face carefully while sliding his finger in, watching the way your lips part and your eyes blink in poor consciousness as you stretch around his finger.

fuck, feels so good already.

“oh my god,” you whine, legs trying to close. “will—”

“—shh,” he leans in and kisses you again, wasting no time in sliding a second finger, using his other hand to keep your legs open.

you moan loudly against his mouth, brows pinched together with unfamiliar pleasure while your focus slips. “hmmm—fuck.”

“this what you wanted?” he grins, pumping his digits into you at a steady pace. “this what you needed all week, gorgeous?”

you’re already clenching your thighs, trying to push them together again. “uh-uh—huh.”

he grins at your lack of speech, kissing your lips, endeared. “—and you’re not gonna ignore me after this, right?” his fingers work faster in you, moving them in coordination with how your body responds.

the moans and whimpers don’t stop flying from your lips.

“m—mhm!”

“tell me. tell me you’re not gonna ignore me.” he tries to hold your eyes.

“i—i—will!”

“you will?” he fakes concern, stopping his movements.

“NO! no i won’t! i’m not! please! please i’m not going to!” you cry, grabbing his wrist. “please! don’t stop.”

will’s smirk grows as he continues.

he watches you, the way your head tips back on the machine, the way your mouth hangs open the majority of the time. it’s like you don’t even know where you are right now, the idea of someone being able to walk in not even a concept in your mind.

you’re completely surrendered to him.

just him and his fingers shoved knuckle deep in you. “FUCK!”

you cry out, ears burning with the noise of your juices slicking.

your stomach clenches, your legs flinching as you feel an unfamiliar build grow more and more by the second. it scares you. “will, will, will—” you squeak, feeling his fingers curl at a particular spot that makes you feel like you need to pee. “will stop, stop—”

“what’s wrong, baby?” he breathes, trying to hide his confusion, the nickname going straight to your core. he knows your close - he can feel you clenching around him, it almost hurts. “you gonna cum for me?”

your eyes practically roll to the back of your head at his words, struggling to stay open with each dazed blink. “i—i-”

“it’s ok babe, just let go. that’s what i want you to do,” his voice is soft and gentle, contradicting the violation his hand is doing to your pussy.

he has you melted down to nothing.

your face pulls together as your whole body racks, your hand clutching his wrist for stability as you breathe frantically. “can’t i—i need, you need—”

“—you can, gorgeous. cum for me. cum right now,” his fingers speed up inside you, pumping frantically, squelching deafeningly. little weird stars dot your vision as your eyes lock on each other’s. those sweet, dark and dangerous baby blues.

the moment will’s thumb presses against your nerves, you’re a goner. your jaw goes slack, your eyes flutter and your legs thrash trying to pull away. a wet, gushing, drip-like sound rings in your ears as you cum. “WILL!” you sob, nails digging into his skin. will’s fingers don’t falter, not even as he drops his gaze to see the water-like liquid squirt out of you, dripping onto washing machine, splashing onto the floor.

“holy fuck.” he breathes, neck craning to the ground as you cry out. you try to cover your mouth with your arm, embarrassed by the noise leaving you.

your eyes find his, immediately giving you away.

he sees it - the surprise. the nerves.

the quiet panic of not understanding your own body. your own heart.

but he doesn’t laugh. doesn’t point it out.

doesn’t make you feel exposed.

instead, a gentle smile tugs at his lips, so warm it quiets every anxious thought in your head.

he grins at you like you just hung a medal around his neck. “good job, gorgeous.” he praises.

you can only look at him, face blooming, contorted as your body slowly finishes riding out it’s orgasm on his hand.

will’s fingers slow, remaining inside you.

your chest rises and falls as you look at will with an intensity he’s never seen before.

you refuse to look anywhere else but him.

for a moment, neither of you say anything.

it’s fine.

you’re just staring at each other, heavy breathing filling the silence.

partly because both of you can’t believe what just happened.

“i didn’t — done that before.”

will’s face falls into a soft amusement, his lips tugging at the sides. “you what?”

“i mean!—” you facepalm a second, eyes closing as you try to think of what you’re trying to say. “. . i’ve never done that before. i don’t even—was—was ‘at supposed to happen?” you gulp.

anxiety immediately begins to set in.

oh god, did you just pee?!

will’s chuckle drowns out any second-guessing as he inches close enough that your noses touch, his voice smooth like honey. “that’s the hottest thing that could have happened . . .” his hair tickles you, “can’t teach that.”

your face burns, chest still rising as you refuse to meet his gaze.

will slowly retreats his hand, apologising when he notices the furrow in your brows at the discomfort and emptiness. “sorry gorgeous.”

you wipe your sweaty palms on your thighs that even feel sensitive while your eyes find the door, a weird sinking filling your chest.

that was a really stupid thing to do.

you don’t regret it.

you look back to will, waiting for him to make a move while you wait for the embarrassment to rush in any second now. it always does.

instead, he holds out both his hands for you to take.

still catching your breath, you take them.

he smiles, steadying you as you slide carefully off the washing machine. your legs wobble, but his grip tightens instinctively around your hands.

your legs are like jelly.

once you’re steady, he lets go, but he stays where he is, in front of you, watching you tuck your hair behind your ear.

his eyes dart across your face, the soft glow to it whether from him or the heat of the small room. “you okay?” he tucks a strand you missed.

you nod, too embarrassed to speak. hardly able to look at him.

he senses it. “i hope you meant what you said.”

you freeze, head snapping to him. “what did i say?”

will lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his had with a little smile. “about you wanting me to keep annoying you . . paying you attention . .” he teases.

you give his shoulder a playful shove. he barely moves. “ok.”

“your days would be boring without me—”

“—ok will!” another pathetic shove, still feeling loose on your feet.

“alright, alright.” he’s laughing now, catching your wrist before you can push him again. “just making sure you remembered.”

“i do,” you say, pulling away. “and . . i meant it.”

he smiles. “good. i meant what i said too.”

“about what?”

“about how you better not be a weirdo and start hiding on me again,” he sways on his feet, hands shoved in his pockets. “i don’t want you feeling like you ever need to avoid me . .” your eyes soften, “. . or worry i’m gonna tell anyone. this stays between us. whatever it is we do . .”

your shoulders loosen without meaning to.

the knot that’s been sitting in your chest since the kiss finally begins to ease.

he notices the perk up. you smile. “okay . . cool.”

“cool.” he smiles back.

before either of you can say anything else, before you can stand any longer just looking at each other, the laundry room door swings open. “YO! will!”

it’s one of the guys from the hockey team.

he walks in carrying an overflowing basket, not a shirt on, a towel around his neck.

will steps back so naturally you’d almost think nothing had happened. “what’s up?”

“you here?” he nods towards the empty machine.

“nah, all yours.”

“sweet.” the guy glances between the two of you. “hey.”

“hey,” you answer, hoping your face isn’t still flaming. he bends down, beginning to sort his washing without another thought.

will reaches for his own basket, then looks at yours. “you heading back to your dorm?”

you nod.

“i’ll carry that for you.”

he says it as casually as asking what time it is, already lifting it before you’ve answered.

you can’t help the small smile that escapes. “thanks smitty . . ”

“don’t mention it,” he shoots you a wink. “just focus on getting up those stairs on your own.”