image | will smith
Pairing: will smith x reader!gf
Prompt: Will can take a lot, a shove into the boards, a puck to the body, even the sharks chirping him. But, what he can’t take is someone disrespecting you, especially over things he loves that you have
requested!
Fancy lights, yelling reporters, and cameras flashing isn’t exactly your favorite way to spend an evening. However, how could you complain when you have your boyfriend at your side? Especially when you have him at your side looking like he does. His suit fits him perfectly, his golden hair falling in its normal curls, and the warmth of hockey worn hands on your back, keeping you pulled into him as you enter the ballroom of the charity event.
You smooth your hand over the front of your dress for the fifth time since you arrived.
“Are you okay?” Will asks quietly, ducking his head close enough that his lips almost brush your ear.
“Yeah,” you say, glancing up at him with a smile. “I’m good.”
His gaze drops over your face like he is checking anyway.
“You look beautiful.”
You roll your eyes, mostly because if you do not, you will smile too hard. “You already said that.” You chide, following him to the bar.
“Let me say it a thousand times more.” He says, as you nudge him with your elbow. He grins, then takes your hand as a photographer starts motioning for both of you to smile for the camera.
It doesn’t take long for a reporter to wrap up with Misa and float over to Will. You recognize him from past events, and as he starts asking Will questions you slowly sneak out of your boyfriend’s grasp.
He looks at you, eyes crinkling for a second before you just wink at him. Trying to silently tell him to answer the questions and come find you when he’s done. And even though you can tell he’s a little stiff, he gives a silent quick nod before laughing along with the reporter.
This is how the night starts. Will finding you easily again talking to Misa at the bar, a glass of red wine in your grasp as the younger player talks to you about also hating these events. Will barely has a minute to open his mouth, barely has a minute to ogle you for the millionth time tonight before a reporter wants to hear from him and Macklin.
“Go on, I’ll be okay.” You reassure him, a guilty look falling over his expression.
“I’m sorry baby.” He says, but Misa looks to him with a small head nod towards Macklin and the reporter. A silent, I’ve got her, to Will.
“Go, before poor Mack perishes over there.” You joke, taking a small sip out of your wine glass, your dark lipstick staining the rim. In that moment Will wants that lipstick staining his flushed skin instead, but he snaps out of it, kisses you for a second too long to be casual, and makes his way to Macklin, not really caring at all if the color transferred to his mouth.
—
As you and Misa continue your conversation at the bar, you begin to feel it. The weird warmth when you can tell someone is staring. Not a stare of recognition, but a stare of judgment. You know why immediately. Your tattoos are visible tonight in your black dress, not all of them, but enough. The ones along your legs, the one wrapping softly around your arm and going to your collar bone. You love them, and Will loves them, too. He traces them absentmindedly while you are curled up on the couch, he kisses them all constantly, he makes sure they’re covered in sunscreen when you’re outside. They are a part of you, sometimes you forget they are even there until someone points them out.
So you did not think about them when you had originally walked into the ballroom tonight. But you’re thinking about them now, you’re thinking about them as you watch your boyfriend joke and laugh with his best friend in front of a camera, you’re thinking about them even as Will spares you the tiniest glances and flirtatious smiles, you’re thinking about them as you can tell someone is staring at them.
Then someone steps up beside you, and at first, you think nothing of it. But it’s the way she just stands a little too close, the way Misa can instantly tell you’re distracted.
The woman has a small recorder in one hand, and a press badge hangs from a lanyard.
“You’re Will Smith’s girlfriend, right?” she asks you, not seeming to mind that she’s interrupting a conversation.
“Yes.” You say politely before turning your attention back to Misa.
The woman smiles, but it does not reach her eyes. “I thought so.” She says, her eyes glancing down at your legs. Then your arm, then near your collarbone. “Those are real?”
You blink, the question catching you off guard for a second. “My tattoos?”
“Yes.” She says with a disapproving tilt of her head. “It’s an interesting choice for tonight.”
Your fingers tighten around your glass, Misa stands up straighter, the need to defend you clouding his eyes.
You could ignore it, in fact you should ignore it. You know how this goes. It takes one reaction, one flash of discomfort, and suddenly the story is not about what someone said to you. It is about how you respond.
So you keep your voice even, you hold your hand out secretly to Misa, as if telling him to not say anything.
“They’re part of me,” you joke, motioning to your skin. “So yes, I find it hard not to bring them.”
The reporter gives tiny laugh, but not joyfully, instead in a mocking and condescending way.
“That’s one way to put it.”
Your gaze instantly tracks Will, he is in a conversation, though his body has shifted slightly in your direction. Like some part of him can feel you looking for him.
The reporter follows your gaze, as Misa gives you one look before following your eye sight as well. He knows in that moment what he needs to do, and he excuses himself as he tries not to look in a hurry to reach Will.
“He’s very young,” she says, snapping you out of your trance.
“I don’t think I understand.” You say, trying your hardest not to take a big swig of wine out of anxiety.
“Will.” She says, like you’ve very obviously missed the point. “He’s young, has a clean image, big future. And there are a lot of people who are very invested in what that future looks like.”
Your stomach dips, and you say nothing.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” she starts, a snake like smile pulling at her lips like she knows her words will hit a mark.
“Yet I get the sense you will be anyway.” You say, a piece of your control slipping.
“Do you really think you’re what Will needs?” she asks. “I mean, no offense, but with the tattoos and the whole look, don’t you worry you might, taint that?”
The word hits like a slap to the face. Taint. Your lungs constrict, but she keeps going, because people like that always do when they sense they have hit a mark.
“It’s just that he’s got this, wholesome thing going for him. And you must know how people talk, you don’t want to be the reason sponsors start asking questions.”
Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out, and suddenly your eyes are darting to Will, who’s listening to what Misa is explaining. Your eyes beg him to see you, beg him to understand, they scream help me.
“Oh, dear. Don’t look like that, I was only-“
“Don’t.”
The voice is low, calm, but carrying a sense of authority.
Will.
“What did you just say to her?” he asks.
“Will, I think there’s been a misunderstanding.” The reporter says, lifting her hands slightly even with the recorder still tucked in one palm.
“No.” His voice stays even. “I don’t think there has.”
You stare at him, your heart beating wildly as a few people nearby have started to notice something is going on.
“I was only making a light comment. It wasn’t serious.” She tries to defend herself.
“If it was so light you shouldn’t have a problem saying it again.”
The reporter’s face tightens, and your breath catches. You know Misa must have told him the basics, but here he is, unmoving and unflinching as he uses a tone you’ve only heard from him a few times. You know he must have caught some of it on his way over as well, and he takes a step forward, not aggressively, but protectively. His hand finds its home on your back, his thumb moving against you like he is reminding you he is there.
“Let me be very clear,” he says. “She doesn’t taint anything.” He spits the word out with anger. The reporter opens her mouth, probably to try to defend herself, but Will doesn’t let her speak. “She is not a problem for my image. She is not something I need to hide or be ashamed of. She is the person I love. She is kind, and smart, and stronger than anyone in this room. And those tattoos you decided to insult? They are a part of her, which means I love them too.”
“Will, I think you’re taking this very personally-“ she starts, but Will cuts her off.
“I am,” he says immediately. “You were cruel to my girlfriend, I am taking it personally.” He says as he turns slightly, angling himself so he’s standing just ahead of you. “And for the record,” he continues, “the idea that she is below me because she has tattoos says a lot more about you than it does about her.”
The reporter’s mouth snaps shut as she looks between the two of you, her pride shrinking with the fact that people are definitely watching now.
“I apologize if she felt-“
Will scoffs immediately. “You don’t apologize for how she felt, you apologize for what you said.”
But then someone else steps in, one of the event organizers, you presume.
“Is there an issue here?” She asks, looking between the three of you.
“Yes,” Will says. “She is making inappropriate comments about my girlfriend.”
Your ears start to buzz, you don’t hear the next words, only watch as the reporter is escorted from the event.
“Baby,” he says, his voice softer now as it breaks through the mist around your brain. “Follow me.”
You don’t say anything as you press your lips together and give him a small nod, and Will does not ask twice. He keeps your hand in his and guides you through the ballroom. He does not rush you, but his eyes appear to say, not now, to anyone who looks at him.
The second you are alone, you sigh and Will’s arms are around you immediately. You step into him without a second thought, burying your face into his chest.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
“Do not apologize.” He says sternly but not angrily. His fingers circling comfortably on your hot skin.
“I froze.”
“So?”
“I just stood there.” You say, embarrassed you didn’t have the fight in you to standup for yourself.
“You were shocked because someone was being cruel.” His hand moves over your back slowly. “That’s not something you have to apologize for.”
Your fingers curl into his jacket and he pulls back just enough to move his hands. His thumb brushes your wrist, right over the start of one of your tattoos.
“She doesn’t know you, baby.” he says. “She had no right to make you feel small.”
You look down at your arm, at the ink you loved this morning, at the skin that suddenly feels too visible. Will notices and he shifts, lowering his head and pressing a kiss to the tattoo on your wrist. Your breath catches as he follows it all the way up your arm with soft kisses, all the way to your collarbone.
“You are not below me,” he says against your skin. “You are not bad for me, honestly you are way out of my league.”
“Will.” You say softly, your slightly watery eyes locking with his.
He cups your face with both hands. “I need you to hear me baby.” he says. “I don’t care about what people think is perfect. You’re perfect, and we’re perfect together. That’s all I want, that’s all I care about. And I swear to God, if anyone ever tries to make you feel like that again, I’m throwing that glass of wine at them.”
You smile through unshed tears, pulling at his suit collar to bring his lips down to yours.
Then the hallway door opens, and you both break away from each other only slightly and turn.
Macklin steps out, scanning the hallway with concern written all over his face. Behind him is Misa, who looks equally as concerned.
“Hey,” Macklin says carefully to you. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m okay.” You say to him, before turning your gaze to Misa. “Thank you.”
“I should have said something sooner-“
“You did the right thing man.” Will says, cutting off his self doubt.
Macklin shifts awkwardly, then gestures back towards the ballroom. “Also, not to make this weird, but half the guys are pretending not to hover by the doors.”
Will sighs, before his eyes turn back to you. A silent question in them.
“Let’s go.” You say, motioning back towards the ballroom as you pull your hair forward, the waves covering your collar bone.
“Don’t cover them,” he says softly, almost pleading. And you watch the emotion floods eyes. He brings his hands up, pulling your hair behind your shoulders as his eyes light up with joy at the art of black ink that is fully on display once again. “I love you. I love you so much.” He says, not caring about his best friend or his teammate still behind him, even as they start to make a silent exit back into the ballroom.
“Kiss me, Smith.” You say, a smirk on your face. You know your lips taste of the red wine you were drinking earlier, and Will groans into them as his lips find yours.
“I love you.” He whispers, taking his lips off yours and kissing under your ear. Then he repeats it, kissing your cheek, your temple, your nose, your forehead, then back to your lips. “And for the record,” he murmurs, “I love your tattoos.”
“Someone is going to catch us.” You joke trying to ignore the feeling of melting under his touch and words, and squirming slightly at how ticklish his lips feel against your flushed skin.
“Let them.” Will says, clearly not bothered by anything. And as his lips continue to move around your skin, everything around you melts away. You’re not just the girlfriend of a famous hockey player, you’re you. And not only is that your favorite version of yourself, but it’s Will’s as well.
