Warning for one instance of drug use (pot). You’ll know the scene from the first sentence, feel free to skip if it bothers you. 20k
It’s embarrassing, really, is what what it is. Because he’s supposed to have his shit together, he’s so mature and poised and all that other bullshit that comes when you make it to 21 and famous without humiliating yourself in public one way or another. Which, considering how difficult that particular achievement seems to be - fair enough.
“I’ll sell my soul for a fic in which Chris calls Will’s penis "Willdo”. I’ll sell my soul.“
Anon, you can send your soul here. No rush, just whenever you’re done using it. Made rebloggable by request.
“Did you ever name it?”
Will cracks a grin and looks down his body. Chris is curled sideways across the bed, his hair an absolute disaster where it’s resting against his thigh, and he’s currently cradling Will’s soft dick in the palm of his hand, his wrist shoved against his balls and a curious grin on his face while he just… holds it. They’ve been awake and lying around long enough for his morning wood to have abated, and he just feels heavy, lazy, like they could lie in bed all day just petting each other and chatting about bullshit and trading slow, sloppy kisses and dumb stories.
“Um, no.” He gets a hand in Chris’s hair then, pets him right back. “That phase passed me by while I was still kind of afraid of it and what it seemed to be into.”
Chris hums, runs his fingers over the head, looks at it. “Got it. You don’t seem scared of that anymore, though.”
Chris meets his eye then, and Will holds it and grins dirty right back. “No. Not so much.”
“Hello birthday boy.” Will says it in a ridiculous seductive-temptress voice that nonetheless makes Chris’s stomach swoop. Then again that could be all the alcohol or it could just be the fact that he hasn’t seen Will in almost an hour and even surrounded by all of this, he has still managed to miss him.
Behind him, Will snakes an arm around his waist and hooks his chin over Chris’s shoulder to press a kiss to the corner of his jaw. Chris surveys the room from the quiet corner Will found him in, looking from guest to guest, searching out cameras and inquisitive eyes. Not that he really cares; it’s more habit than anything else now. He relaxes back against Will’s body and, not for a second, does he consider pulling away.
The Practical Consequences of Grinding in Hooves (NC-17)
Prompt: Will and Chris hook up for the first time (I imagine this being quite early on, and not like a big deal, maybe after a few drinks?), and cue curious/embarrassing/teasing friends the day after. Plus some personal headcanon stuff after reading the tag. 7,300+ words. Enjoy! :)
In September, Ashley gives him a heads up.
“A little birdie told me Will and his man are on the rocks,” Ashley whispers as she presses a cold drink to his palm. Chris glances over and Will does seem to be a bit closed off, guarded. His smile’s not reaching his eyes. “Get ready, tiger,” Ashley adds with a smirk and an exaggerated wink, and Chris just shakes his head, filing away the info.
In October, it actually happens.
“Splitsville,” Ashley mouths over Will’s head a few weeks before Halloween when he walks into his kitchen to find them gathering pumpkin carving supplies. Chris’s eyebrows jump to his hairline and he schools his face into a smile when Will turns back around, smacking Ashley hard once they’re alone together for springing it on him like that.
“When?” he asks quietly, holding her back as they watch everyone else gathered around his table from just behind the doorway. She tilts her head backwards towards the kitchen, hair falling in her face to hide their gossip, and replies, “Few weeks back. Told ya so. Let me know if you need a wingman, buddy.” She shoves at his shoulder and leaves him to join the others, the wheels already turning in his head.
Chris tells him. He says, “It’s going to be weird.”
“It’s going to be 10 times worse than when we’re out for brunch.”
“It’s longer than SAG. They’re going to get a lot of pictures.”
“Don’t get your feelings hurt if they want just me. Hang out with Ashley. You’ll be fine.”
What Chris does not say is that even before the actual broadcast is over, he’ll be halfway to drunk (because Grey Goose is a sponsor), and that Chris will have his hand halfway between Will’s knee and his crotch (because Chris is a host). And you’d think that would mean mingling, talking, doing something, but apparently what it means is that Chris can sit here and feel him up and people will come by and talk and take their picture, and they don’t even have to stand up. They just sit there and receive guests while Chris’s pinky and ring finger brush against his balls.
“Weren’t you supposed to be writing today?” he asks, ruffling Will’s hair as he passes by.
“It wasn’t working for me.” Will smiles at Chris, leaning back to give him an upside down kiss as he places the iPad aside. “How was work?”
“Long,” Chris says, walking away toward the kitchen, “but good, you know?” He opens the fridge door and stares into it blankly before closing it. He’s not hungry or thirsty really, but tends to wander into the kitchen and look into the fridge for no reason he can discern. Will says it’s adorable.
Happy 4th! This is what you get when we are left to our own devices for fanart. If you’re ever interested in working with CAD for art purposes, leave an ask! Enjoy the day.
It’s a holiday, so they celebrate their freedom by showering together. For America, and for the wellbeing of the planet.
Chris is feeling loose, then, happy and maybe a little bit cheeky, when he pulls one of his “British at heart” t-shirts from the drawer.
“Really,” Will drawls. “Provocative choice.”
He smoothes it down, glances at himself in the mirror. “I feel like living dangerously.”
He only has himself to blame when Will tackles him to the bed, and he laughs at the ceiling while he tangles his hands in wet hair.
That doesn’t mean he doesn’t put it back on later, when they’re running late to get out of the house and over to a friend’s. Will goes the other way - a blue tank and red shorts, thematic and clean, and pulls a face at him in the mirror when they both go in to check their hair at the same time.
“You’re going to hell for that, I hope you know.”
Chris smirks. “I can take it. I mean really. What has America ever done for me?”
Will pulls a face, gives him a pretty hard side-eye. “Are you serious right now?”
“Okay, fine. You know what I mean. Don’t tell me you didn’t have fun in London.” Will’s face softens into a sweet smile, and he presses the point. “You like Harry Potter. And also tea.”
“We put it over ice. It completely revolutionized the whole thing.” Will’s emphasis on the word is accompanied with an eyebrow waggle before he heads for the stairs, scooping his wallet and phone off the dresser. It’s unsupportably adorable.
“It’s where the history comes from,” he calls down after him, grabbing his phone and hurrying to catch up.
“It’s where gay people still can’t get married,” is what Will comes back with.
“Adele,” Chris says, eyes on the road, while his hands slide over the wheel.
“Beyonce,” Will counters, lounging against the car door and looking at something on his phone.
“You’re only naming stuff in California.”
“You’re only naming stuff in London. Besides, if I can beat England with just one state, you’re proving my point.”
Later that night after the sun goes down it starts to get a little chilly, and Will pulls his tank top back on, smudges of body paint spread over his shoulders where he’d painted his chest with a flag earlier while he’d grinned at Chris the whole time. His eyes are bright reflections of the sparkler in his hand. There’s a red cup full of Long Island Iced Tea in the other, and he’s laughing at something when he looks over and catches Chris’s eye, loops the sparkler into a glittering heart.
A/N: A little one-year-later snapshot from The Hooves Verse. In that verse, Chris and Will’s anniversary is October 28. Happy totally-fictional-anniversary to them, and happy one year of “who is that guy?” to the Chill fandom. In celebration (of course), have a little fic. NC-17, 2000 words. Inspired in part by a prompt from an anon - thank you! We do read them, so feel free to keep ‘em coming.
They’ve been shopping for months, Brian’s been hiding for 3 hours since the Yoda-vs-Chewie costuming summit, and Ashley has sent no fewer than 17 panicked text messages since Thursday, but by Saturday afternoon the whole thing feels like it came together effortlessly.
“Half of the internet thinks you’re my assistant,” Chris says, his face grim. Will leans against the bar and watches him, watches him slam his laptop closed and slide it across the table so he can rest his forehead there instead, banging it lightly against the wood.
Will goes closer, rests the Diet Coke bottle in his hand against the back of Chris’s neck and grins when he flinches at the cold. “Does that mean I should stop bringing you a Coke?”
Biting his lip, Chris takes a sharp breath, toes his shoes off and tries really, really hard to keep his mouth shut. Will kicks his shoes off sloppily toward the closet and doesn’t bother to put them away. “It’s not like this is my fault, you know!” Chris says to Will’s retreating back.
“Oh god.” Will hasn’t budged from the door where he’s been standing for a good thirty seconds, completely ignoring Chris’ flustered invitation in. “I’m…you’re not ready. I’m early.” He checks his watch, “Really early. I’m sorry, I was just-”
“It’s okay.” Having Will show up when he’s in his ratty jeans and a white undershirt when he’s spent the better part of an hour harassing Ashley over the phone about his wardrobe…well, it’s less than ideal.. Especially because Will’s wearing that shirt, the shirt he’d worn at Ashley’s summer party, the one that grips his biceps delicious-tight. It’s the palest green; Chris remembers him in it, flush skinned and so handsome. What Chris remembers most, though, is way Will had looked at him, bright and smiling at over Ashley’s head to a joke only they got.