introducing . . . will smith x oldercollege!reader
where smitty experiences love at first sight.
pairing: will smith x oldercollege!reader
summary: you’re hosting a cheerleading table at BC’s annual club fair where you meet a certain freshman.
ITS THE YEARLY event of BC’s club fair, your third year attending the grounds, your second time sitting behind the table, trying to invite this years freshman to try out for the cheer squad.
it’s late august. midday. the sun warms your shoulders, bronzing the skin left bare by your cheer uniform you were advised to wear, and there’s a gentle breeze in the air. you lean against the table, leaflets fanned loosely in your hands while tasha sits behind you pretending to organise stacks that don’t need organising. every time someone glances your way, you give them that easy, captivating smile — the kind that feels personal, like it was saved just for them. it’s less of an invite and more of a quiet pull.
if recruiting the girls was as effortless as catching the attention of the boys drifting past, you’d have packed up hours ago. you’re not naïve - you know the team won’t struggle for numbers with you standing front and centre, but coach wanted the first page filled today, and four names isn’t enough to satisfy that.
what you don’t realise is how you look to the girls you’re trying to recruit. tall. long-legged. sunlit. naturally beautiful in a way that doesn’t beg for attention but steals it anyway. there’s something almost unfair about how you look, and your presence is so self-assured, it’s intimidating. you’re not trying to be intimidating — you’re just standing there – but to them, being approached by you feels like being asked to step into a standard they’re not sure they’re ready to meet.
it’s not your fault you bring back that iconic 2000s cheerleader vibe - you don’t have the wide-eyed, ribboned look some of the younger girls lean into: no bouncing curls or rehearsed perkiness - just loose hair catching the light, bare legs crossed under the table, posture relaxed like you belong exactly where you are.
sometimes, you worry you give off the mean girl energy as you know it tends to go stereotypically with wearing the uniform. you know you can look intimidating, you know you have a pouty-teetering-bitchy rest face, but you never mean to come across as unfriendly. you try hard not to fall into the mean-girl destiny people expect from whoever wears cheer uniform, especially when you know that’s the opposite to your character.
“what time is it?”
“it’s 12:30.”
“URGH!” tasha looks at the sheet of names, tapping a marker to it. “four names, y/n.”
“freshmen are scared of commitment,” you reply, “give it a week. they’ll realize college is lonely and come crawling.”
she shakes her head, and looks off to the side. “i’m so done with this year already and it hasn’t even started . . .” she complains, “i have a weird vibe about it. it’s gonna be different.”
“you say that every year.”
“no, but like . . junior year different: internships, real classes, actual adulthood creeping in.”
“ew, don’t say adulthood before noon.”
she grins. “marketing princess scared of the real world?”
“i chose marketing so i never have to do maths again.”
tasha snorts. “HA! and yet, you’re repeating algebra?”
“tash, be quiet,” you ignore her, standing cross-legged against the table, watching all the different kinds of students go by.
you have everything on your table to grab anybody’s attention, it looks like a cheer squad threw up all over it: leaflets, photographs, pom poms, even some frosted cookies with the BC eagles decorated on them. you’ve ate three already.
the freshman are always fun to watch. every year it’s the same wide-eyed boys walking past the cheer table like they’ve accidentally stumbled into something mythical: the double takes, the fake confidence, the ones who think their smile or their joke or the way they say hi is somehow different from the hundred others before them. the thing that makes it worse is that you’re never mean about it - you just thank them and brush them off, sometimes tell them what they want to hear, which gives them false hope almost, that they have a chance.
on cue, a freshman slows near the table, glances, then looks away - then looks back again.
you give him a small wave so he doesn’t feel stupid for staring.
he lights up immediately.
kindness costs nothing. you learned that early.
“i swear, they get younger every year.”
“agreed.”
a trio of guys pass by, looking straight at you both in your uniforms, smirks growing on their faces. you imagine them to feel like their on a movie set, like seeing something in real life for the first time - cheerleaders! hot ones! they actually exist! when they linger or maybe point, you always hit them with the same line: “looking to try out, boys?”
it usually does the job of sending them on their way with a blush creeping their cheeks.
“junior year,” your friend sighs, lifting a cookie for herself, “how do we feel?”
you slowly exhale.
cheer responsibilities, marketing projects, a class resit, games, expectations, narcissistic boyfriends . . . “i think i just want it to be calm this year.”
she laughs like that’s the funniest thing she’s heard all day. “you do not attract calm, y/n — not with brad on your arm,” she mumbles the last part.
well, she’s right about that one.
“when is your anniversary? its coming up right?”
“next month.”
“nice, the big 365.”
mm, or somewhat.
“what are you gonna do?”
“i’d like to think whatever brad has planned,” you giggle.
people continue to wave as they pass – teammates, guys from last semester’s classes, someone from student media calling your name across the lawn – you wave back automatically, easy and warm, never making anyone feel ignored.
you like people. you’re a people-person. you remember names, ask about injuries, notice when someone cuts their hair or looks nervous standing alone near an event table.
being seen feels nice.
of course, there are few that don’t deserve your time of day, like the regular group of wannabe jocks, yelling and wolf-whistling to draw your attention. you’ve gotten pretty good at biting your tongue and making them look dumb by acting oblivious. like, if a shark fell from the sky and started eating them, that would just so happen to be the best time for you to start touching up your mascara.
you scan the other stalls, observing how well they’re doing.
that’s when you first notice him.
he’s laughing at something his friend says, his side profile mocking you; skin enviously clear and slightly bronzed, like he just got back from vacation. its the perfect contrast to the light curls atop his head, messily styled across his forehead, fluffy in the wind. his jaw is sharp without being harsh, his nose perfectly swooped, like the kind you save on your pinterest board for some nose job inspo. his lips are a pretty pink, complimenting the soft flush he has on his cheeks like only add to his soft, warm aura.
his hands are in his pockets and his tongue is poking out of his mouth as he listens carefully to his buddy, his eyes locked on him. they’re blue. a pretty blue, easily noticeable to scale with his big bright eyes. he’s the definition of pretty. all his features are pretty, and as a girl, you’re almost envious.
wow.
he manoeuvres through campus like he belongs here instead of trying to figure out where he’s going. head held high, a sway in his steps.
you glance at the exact wrong moment.
and he looks over at the exact same time.
eye contact.
brief, accidental, heavy - but he doesn’t look away.
in fact, he continues talking whilst holding your gaze - a smile growing on his face. even when moving your head to the table, your eyes don’t budge from him.
it’s like he’s too aesthetically pleasing to stop looking at.
he looks directly back at you.
smitty can’t not look at you. it’s physically impossible.
you’re thee most beautiful living thing he’s ever seen and nobody can expect him to just walk passed.
his eyes flick over you without even thinking, taking in details he knows he won’t forget later — the kind of face people double take at, the kind that doesn’t need trying.
the first thing he notices is that your height is all in your legs - they’re like skyscrapers, tall and toned, telling him you’re not wearing that uniform for the aesthetic. it hugs you flatteringly, not too tight though, as it compliments your curves rather than hide them. you talk with your hands, one wrapped around your bottle of water, fingers curled at the neck. he drags along your arms, up your shoulders ‘til he trails the column of your neck, to your jaw that moves as you speak, prominent, like your other bold features, and your hair – your hair moves cinematically with the breeze, framing the structure of your face that clearly belongs on a magazine. your eyes in a museum. he tries to drink in as much of you as possible, observing every detail, every moment.
he can tell you’re cringing at something that your friend has said, by the way you bite your lip with dread as she continues to spill the story, and all will can think about is how he wish you’d bite his lip.
it hits him in that reckless, teenage way that feels less like attraction and more like adrenaline: exciting, dangerous, fun. you’re prettier than he expected anyone to actually be in real life, he almost feels like he’s on set of a movie.
you’re untouchable, yet, that doesn’t register to him as intimidating.
he feels the rush before the thought even forms.
yeah. i’m going over there. i need to know who that is.
before he can remind himself you’re clearly older, clearly out of reach and probably already taken – he’s already walking over.
tasha kicks your leg. “incoming.”
he approaches casually, hands shoved into the pockets of his pants, stopping in front of the table. he has a friend on either side of him, their hair dark, making his look lighter than it usually is. he smiles warmly, revealing his unbelievably white teeth. his eyes lock on yours, “hi.”
you tilt your head, smiling politely. “hi — you guys thinking of signing up?”
his mouth lifts immediately, “if it means i get to catch you in my arms, put my name top of your list.”
tasha looks away to hide her humoured eyeroll.
you play into it, turning a page to face him. “well, if you take your measurements and come back to me, you might just.”
“oh i already know how big i am.”
incredibly, you feel yourself falter for half a second. in fact, your face falls slightly, not expecting that to leave his mouth.
his grin widens, completely unfazed.
“huh—” heat flickers up your neck before you can stop it, tongue feeling drier than before.
he notices, but there’s no smugness about it, just quiet amusement, like he didn’t expect to actually win that round.
“write your name here,” you instruct, acrylic nail tapping the empty space.
he smirks, pulling the lid off with his teeth and leans down to scribble it down. you watch the lid between his teeth, and quickly scan him head to toe.
first impression says skinny - second glance tells you you are very wrong. his arms aren’t bulky but there’s definition sitting naturally under rolled sleeves, the kind that comes from actual training, and they flex when he goes to write. his shoulders are broader upon inspection, neck solid rather than thin. he’s athletic in a quiet way, built for movement, not showing off.
and he’s tall.
you cross your arms as he writes, the silence too loud. you feel the need to take the power back, “so how big are you?”
“6’0,” he answers, “6’1 in skates.”
your brows furrow slightly, and willy’s heart leaps. “skates?”
tasha inwardly scoffs at you. “hockey player,” she says, looking at you like you’ve personally embarrassed her.
“oh,” suddenly the build makes sense — lean strength instead of bulk, balance sitting naturally in the way he stands, weight easy on his feet like he’s always ready to move. “well, the hockey team is on down.”
“oh, they’ve already met me,” he says, not even cocky, just . . factual.
“cool . .” you nod, “hockey’s a big thing here. maybe bigger than football.”
“i know.”
you just look at each other. you in silence, will with a smack of gum. the group senses the weird energy.
you break out of it, stupidly distracted by his eyes and stack the sheets together again in a neat pile, “sweet . . well, welcome to BC.”
“thanks,” he says lightly, glancing around the quad before looking back at you again, “seems promising so far.”
there’s something strange about the way he says it, like he isn’t overwhelmed or trying to impress anyone, just observing - taking things in.
taking you in too, but without the usual intensity.
for a moment, neither of you says anything.
then, one of his friends calls his name from across the lawn. “smitty! ry! over here man!”
he blinks, looks over to his friend and turns back again, smoothly pushing off the table. “see you around, gorgeous,” he announces, flashing you a final smile, and heads off, turning back to catch up with even more friends. you watch him go.
tasha looks slowly up at you.
“that one’s trouble.”
you watch him disappear into the crowd, strangely aware of the absence he leaves behind. you look down at the page, seeing his name and phone number scribbled messily at the top of the page. “i bet.”