Can I get record 4, track 2, record player 3 with Will Smith? Please and thank you!
𝒇𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒊𝒕
summary: Your fake dating arrangement with Will spirals the moment he storms into your hotel room acting like he didn’t leave you high and dry the night before. word count: ~2.9k warnings: explicit smut (mf), jealous!will, roughness, begging, marking, praise, slight brat tamer energy, condoms, fake dating tension, possessive behavior
The knock on your hotel door is sharp, impatient, and instantly irritating.
You know it’s him. Only one person knocks like you personally offended them simply by existing.
You swing the door open. Will stands there, hoodie halfway unzipped, hair still damp from practice, jaw flexing like he’d rehearsed being angry on the way up.
“You don’t get to walk in and act like nothing happened,” you snap before he can even breathe.
His chest rises—slow, deliberate. “Then let me in so we can actually talk instead of shouting in a hallway.”
You roll your eyes but step aside.
The moment the door shuts, he turns on you.
“You bailed on me last night.”
You laugh, bitter. “You ditched our stupid fake-couple dinner first. I just decided not to sit there like an idiot waiting for you.”
“I didn’t ditch you,” he says, stepping closer. “Coach called a meeting—”
“You could’ve texted.”
His jaw tics. “I know.”
“You didn’t.”
“I know,” he repeats, voice dropping lower. “And it pissed you off.”
“Obviously.”
He closes the distance until your back hits the wall. His scent clean soap, mint, a hint of sweat wraps around you like memory and trouble.
“This whole fake dating thing?” he mutters, bracing one hand beside your head. “You’re taking it way too personally.”
“No,” you bite back, “I’m taking being treated like I don’t matter personally.”
His eyes darken, something sharp and hungry sliding into place.
“You think I don’t care?” he asks, voice suddenly rough. “Fuck, sweetheart… you really think that?”
Your breath catches.
This wasn’t in the script. This wasn’t in the deal.
“Move,” you whisper, trying to shove him off, but he grabs your wrist gentle, firm.
“Say it again,” he murmurs. “Say I don’t care about you. Lie to me.”
Your pulse stutters, heat crawling up your throat.
This was not why you agreed to fake date him. Not for his fans. Not for PR.
This was dangerous.
“Will…” you start.
He leans in, nose brushing your cheek, lips grazing your jaw. “You’re angry because I didn’t show up. Because you wanted me there.”
Your stomach flips.
“And maybe,” he adds, voice a sinful whisper, “because you like when I’m close like this.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you breathe, even as your knees go weak.
His smile is slow and devastating. “You’re all talk until I call your bluff.”
Your inhale is sharp. And he knows exactly what he’s doing.
You grab his hoodie, yanking him closer. “You want to call my bluff?”
He doesn’t answer. He just kisses you hard, impatient, claiming.
You gasp, and his tongue slides against yours, swallowing the sound. His hands grip your waist, dragging you away from the wall, pushing you toward the bed with a certainty that makes your skin ignite.
“Take it off,” he murmurs, tugging lightly at your shirt.
“You take it off,” you shoot back.
His eyes gleam with something filthy. “Brat.”
The word hits you low and hot.
His hands slip under the fabric, dragging it over your head before you can blink. Then he strips his hoodie off too muscles flexing, eyes glued to you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted.
“Get on the bed.”
You swallow. “Will—”
“That wasn’t a suggestion.”
Heat floods between your legs.
You sit on the edge of the mattress, breathing hard. He kneels in front of you, spreading your thighs with a slow, possessive drag of his palms.
“Still think I don’t care?” he asks, kissing your knee, then the inside of your thigh. “Still think this is fake?”
Your head tips back when his mouth trails higher.
“Will…” you whisper, fingers threading into his hair.
He groans—deep, needy—and pulls your underwear down with one smooth motion.
You barely have time to exhale before his mouth is on you.
You moan, hips arching as his tongue slides through your folds, circling your clit with practiced, devastating control.
“Fuck—Will—”
His grip tightens on your thighs. “Say my name again.”
You do. You can’t not.
He pulls back just enough to look up at you, lips wet, expression hungry.
“You taste like you missed me,” he murmurs, voice thick with desire. “You want more?”
You nod, breathless.
“Then lie down.”
You obey instantly.
He climbs over you, kisses you again messy, desperate, tasting like you.
“Condom?” he asks, already reaching into the nightstand.
“Yes,” you breathe.
He tears it open, rolls it on, and for a moment just looks at you like he can’t believe you’re real.
“You sure?” he murmurs, nudging your nose with his. “Once I have you like this… I’m not faking shit anymore.”
Your chest squeezes.
“Then don’t fake it.”
He groans low, wrecked and presses inside you slowly, inch by inch until your nails dig into his shoulders.
“Jesus—fuck—” he gasps against your neck. “You feel unreal.”
You pull him closer, legs wrapping around his waist.
He starts to move deep, hard thrusts that punch heat through your entire body, your back arching into him.
Your moans mix with his low, guttural noises as you cling to him, the tension building fast, sharp, overwhelming.
Will presses his forehead to yours, voice breaking.
“Say you wanted me there last night.”
You pant, “I did—”
“Say you wanted me.”
“I wanted you,” you whisper, shaking.
He kisses you deep and messy—thrusts stuttering.
“Good,” he growls. “Because I wanted you too. Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
Your orgasm hits hard, your whole body tightening around him as you cry out his name. He follows seconds later, cursing, shuddering, burying his face in your neck as he thrusts through it.
After, he collapses beside you, breath uneven, hand finding yours automatically.
A long, quiet moment settles.
Then—
“Still think I don’t care?” he asks, voice soft, teasing.
You glare weakly. “Shut up.”
He grins, leans in, kisses you slow this time. Real. Dangerously real.
“Not faking anymore,” he whispers against your lips.
“Good,” you breathe.
Because neither are you.
