alliwritespuck - Tumblr blog

alliwritespuck · 12 days ago

Text

Afterglow [Will Smith]

𓂁 Summary: After a fight ensues between you and Will, you’re quick to learn that his anger and frustration is driven by a deep-rooted insecurity, and he just wants you to tell him that it’s alright

𓂁 Warnings: cursing, fighting

𓂁 Word count: 1.6k

﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏

The fight was inevitable. And you didn’t like that. Not one bit.

The Sharks, while not in the best position in their division, conference, or the league, a playoff spot was possible. Not by much, but if by some miracle they win the rest of their games and do well, they could clinch a playoff spot. But the chances of that happening were slim to none.

And Will.

Well, Will didn’t know how to handle all of the pressure. The pressure of only having one year of college under his belt and then signing his ELC. The pressure of performing well when he knew he could very easily be sent down to the AHL. The pressure of being compared to players he wasn’t.

Sure, he had been doing well since January, getting at least one point every game. But there was still that lingering, nagging feeling in the back of his mind.

That he wasn’t good enough.

He wasn’t Macklin. He wasn’t William. He didn’t compare. He wasn’t them, and that was his fatal flaw.

At least that was what he thought.

The door to your apartment slammed shut, the harsh sound shaking the walls. The loud thud of the hockey bag landing on the floor. The sound of shoes squeaking against the tile as he took them off. He was eerily quiet. Too quiet. And that was even worse.

“Hey, hun. How was practice?” you ask, standing over the stove, making dinner for the both of you. A simple chipotle chicken pasta, easy to make, but full of protein and carbs for him for his game tomorrow night.

“It was fine,” he says, response short and clipped. That should have been your first clue that something was off. Usually, he was talking your ear off. Mack said this, Toff did that. Delly wants to go golfing on our next break. Sharkie played a prank and we answered a question for a TikTok. You usually couldn’t get him to shut up.

“Are you okay?” you ask, testing the waters. If something was wrong, letting it fester and sit, bottled up in Will’s mind wouldn’t help.

“I’m fine, Y/N. Just drop it,” he says, finally snapping. He doesn’t continue, he just walks out of the kitchen and into the living room. You hear the TV come to life, some show playing, filling the once quiet apartment with the noises of reality TV.

As you finish dinner, you tentatively walk into the living room to tell Will.

“Will. Dinner’s ready,” you say, not saying a word more than necessary.

He walks into the kitchen again, sitting at the fixed dinner plate on the side of the island. You stand across from him, but on the other side of the kitchen, keeping your distance. You didn’t want to fight. And you knew if you ask more questions, continue to press, it would end up in a fight.

“Come sit down,” Will says. His nonchalance and easy-going tone makes you question his earlier mood. The switch was unexpected, and while it confused you, it put you more on edge than you already were.

“I’m okay over here,” you say, voice quiet. You didn’t want to push him, knowing that sometimes that could make it worse, or could make him totally spiral into a fit of anxiety.

“What, are you scared of me now?” he asks, and you’re kind of shocked. Scared, no. Careful of what to say? Yes. You haven’t seen him like this before. And you didn’t want to say the wrong thing.

“No. I’m just eating over here,” you say, pleading with whatever, whoever could hear you that he would just simmer down a little.

“Y/N, just come eat over here.”

“I’m fine over here, Will. Just eat.”

“So I’m not good enough for you to sit next to me to eat?” he asks incredulously. Now you feel you might need to say something because you had no idea where that was coming from.

“No, that’s not what I said.”

“But it’s what you meant, right?”

“Will, what’s wrong? I tried just dropping it but something’s wrong. You never act like this,” you say, setting your plate on the counter.

“Nothing is wrong Y/N. I’m just tired from practice. It’s been a long week,” he says, fork clashing against the plate. His anger, while not unusual, was seemingly different than any anger of his you’ve experienced before. You didn’t know how to go forward. What could you say, do, to stop him from whatever was going on with him?

“Bullshit, Will,” you say. You may not want to fight, but if he wanted to, you would.

“What the hell is your problem?” Will’s chair screeches across the floor as he stands up.

“My problem? What the hell is your problem, Will? I have felt like I’m walking on eggshells tonight because you’re in a pissy mood. Now will you tell me what is wrong?”

“No. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Oh my gosh, Will. You’re being ridiculous,” you say, eyes rolling as you turn back to your food. You’re trying to remain calm, trying to keep your anger under control. Because his anger was one thing, yours was a culmination of a million different things. It was different entirely. And that would not make things any better.

“Well then leave me if you think I’m so ridiculous!”

“It’s my apartment! But that’s not what I want! I want you to tell me what’s wrong!”

“No, you should! Go be with someone who doesn’t play like shit, who isn’t benched, who is a lot better than me!”

“I don’t want someone else, Will,” you try to say, but Will doesn’t want to hear it. He cuts you off before you can say anything more.

“Go be with someone like Mack!”

It clicks. Everything clicks. You’ve seen what people say. What people think. Saying that he isn’t Macklin and should be sent down to the AHL. That he should’ve spent another year at BC. You’ve seen all sorts of comments from nobodies that can barely understand hockey, let alone play in the NHL. You knew these things, had seen them being said. But it never occurred to you that it was affecting Will. And you felt like shit for not noticing just how deep he was in everything.

Despite this, you knew that it wasn’t true. It didn’t matter what anyone else thought. You knew Will.

You only want him, and it hurts that he’d think you didn’t.

“I don’t want Mack, I want you!” you shout, and everything goes quiet. Will’s tirade ceases, and you two are left standing there. You could hear a pin drop. It’s silent, neither of you knowing how to proceed next.

The sound of the TV still playing from the living room makes it less awkward. You shift on your feet, suddenly feeling out of place in your own apartment. This was new territory for you.

“What?” Will asks, voice broken, quiet. And your heart breaks. He believes you want someone else. That he isn’t good enough for you. That he treats you like the other guys before him. That he doesn’t deserve you.

“Why would you think I want Mack?” you ask, making hesitant steps toward him.

“Everyone says I’m not Mack.”

“But you’re not. You’re Will. And that’s just as good. That’s better than Mack. I want you, Will. And I want you for you. I don’t want someone else,” you say, finally coming to stand in front of him.

“You mean it?”

“I do. I don’t care if you’re a good hockey player or not. It’s a bonus, for sure, but that’s not why I love you. Your performance in a game doesn't determine the amount of love I have for you. The wins and losses don’t determine how much I love you. I won’t love you any less for failing, Will. You’re human. I’d be more surprised if you didn’t fail. I love you for the way you treat me, the man that you are. I don’t care what everyone else says because I get to see the Will that they don’t. The sweet, shy, absolutely loving William Smith that I get to call mine,” you say, arms looping over his shoulders. “I love you, and no hockey game, no social media critic, no other man is ever going to change that.”

As you finish your monologue, you see the tear land on his cheek. And as quickly as it fell, you wipe it off with your thumb just as quickly.

“I love you too. I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you. Please don’t yell at me, and please don’t shut me out. I’m here for everything. The ups, the downs, and the everywhere in betweens. If something’s bothering you, I want you to trust me enough to talk to me.”

“I do trust you. I don’t know what happened. I just got in my head, thinking that everyone was right. I love you. So much.”

“I love you too, Will,” you say again, moving your hands to cup his cheeks, wiping any lingering stray tears.

You look him in the eyes, his all bloodshot but swimming with a hopeful glint. You pull him closer, placing your lips softly on his. The unspoken words flow into the kiss, ones that were too vulnerable to ever be spoken, saying everything he couldn’t bare himself to speak.

You felt the desperation, the longing need, the insecurities Will held onto for what seemed to be far too long. He kissed you like his life depended on it.

And when you pull away, his eyes look a little brighter, and a small smile starts to form on his face.

“Are we okay? Tell me we're alright,” he asks, pleads quietly.

“Yeah, baby, we’re good,” you say. And you were.

It may take a while for him to be completely willing to talk to you when he feels down, but you would remain here, by his side, waiting for when he finally could.

﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏

Do not copy, translate, or repost my work as your own

#will smith hockey #will smith nhl #will smith x reader #will smith imagine #will smith x you #will smith fic #will smith x y/n #nhl #nhl imagine #hockey #hockey imagine #san jose sharks #alliwritespuck

378 notes · View notes

alliwritespuck · 12 days ago

Text

Got It Handled [Will Smith]

𓂁 Summary: Will experiences you on your period for the first time since you've started dating

𓂁 Warnings: cursing, menstruation, alcohol, reader is of legal drinking age, maybe slightly suggestive? (let me know if I missed any)

𓂁 Word count: 2.7k

𓂁 A/N: This is my first fic! If you have any feedback or requests, please drop a message in my inbox!

﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏

“Y/N? Baby, where are you? Are you almost ready?”

You and Will were going to a formal dinner, a nice night out when his hockey schedule cleared a little.

“Upstairs. I’m almost ready,” you reply, panicking, hoping Will would stay on the other side of the bathroom door.

You had started your period, and while this was normal for you, it wasn’t for Will. You had bad PMS symptoms, but during your period, the emotional rollercoaster became ten times worse. You hurt, your emotions were running rampant, and Will, while sweet, could sometimes, unintentionally, get to be too much.

You cleaned up, slipping into your dress, putting the finishing touches to your mascara and final spritz of hairspray on your curls.

“Ready?” Will questions as you walk out of the bathroom and into the bedroom.

“As ever,” you say, giving him a soft smile. The facade would hopefully be enough to keep him from asking too many questions.

The drive to the restaurant was pretty nice. Traffic was light, and Will played music from your favorite playlist.

“Two under Smith,” Will tells the hostess, who stares at him, unashamed of the fact that you are standing right next to him.

You narrow your eyes at her, but she’s too busy looking, gawking even, at Will. And you don’t blame her, he’s gorgeous. But come on, you’re right next to him for heaven’s sake.

She sets the fancy menus down on the table, candle lit in the middle, with a vase of a few flowers.

“This place is nice, right?” Will questions, but you’re too busy trying to stare down the hostess. “Y/N?”

“Hmm?”

“I asked if this place was nice?”

“Am I blind? Of course this place is nice,” you say, albeit snippily, turning your attention to the menu, praying that Will would dismiss your little moment of absence.

“Are you okay?”

“Peachy.”

And as quickly as you thought that crisis was averted, another skinny blonde comes up to the table. And again, she also eyes Will.

“Hi, I’ll be your waitress tonight. Can I start you off with something to drink?” she asks, voice high-pitched and grating. And wouldn’t you believe, she’s looking at Will first.

“I’ll just have water.”

She turns her attention toward you, her smile dropping slightly now that her face is out of Will’s sight.

“I’ll have a whiskey sour.”

“Okay.”

She starts to walk away, but you speak again.

“Do you need to see my ID?” you ask, holding it up.

“No. You look old enough,” she says, turning on her heel and walking toward the back.

You scoff, muttering a quiet “bitch” under your breath and turning back toward the table. You hold the menu closer to your face, neck craned to hide your face more.

“Well that was rude,” Will says. You miss the concerned look on his face, instead opting for glaring holes through the fancy paper and leather booklet that comprises the menu’s physical structure.

She comes back with your drinks, setting them down.

“Do you know what you’d like for your meals?”

You zone out as Will gives his order, only paying attention when her grating voice asks you, “And for you?”

“New York Strip, medium rare, grilled asparagus and baked potato for the sides please,” you say, shoving the menu into her hand. If she replies before walking away, you miss it.

“Alright, what’s going on? You know her or something?”

“No, Will. I’m fine. She’s just being a little rude. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“If you say so,” he says, eyes saying otherwise, but you’re hoping that he drops it. And he seems to. He reaches a hand across the table, grabbing onto your right one and holding it gently. “I’m glad we got to do this. I know it’s hard during the season, but we have all summer.”

“I know. I’m just stressed with work. And I hate not having you there to help me calm down.”

“I know, honey. But we're almost done,” he says, gently squeezing your hand.

“Alright. We have the New York Strip,” the waitress interrupts, and before you can fully move your hand, she sets the steaming hot plate right on your hand and wrist.

“Ow, what the hell?” you mutter, looking up at her incredulously. She’s looking at Will, gauging his reaction, but he’s looking at you. You don’t have to see his eyes to know he's looking at you.

She looks at you before walking back to the kitchen, probably to grab Will’s plate.

“Let me see, baby,” he says, gently grabbing your forearm and pulling your hand towards him. He inspects the burn, noting the bright red color. He grabs his cloth napkin, pouring a little water from his cup on it, placing some of the ice cubes in it and wrapping it up. He gently sets it on your wrist, waiting for you to take hold.

“And here’s your dish,” she says as she returns, setting the plate down gently in front of him. And then she whispers, “You know, if you want someone younger, I’ll always be available for you.”

She slips him a piece of paper, and you assume her number is scrawled on it. She winks at him before walking away, leaving you to your meal. You see Will crumple the paper into a tiny wad, but it does little to calm the attitude brewing in you.

You eat in relative silence, minimal conversation made between you two. The only sounds predominating your experience are the ambient sounds of a restaurant: soft music playing over the speakers, clanking dishes from the kitchen, everyone else’s conversations.

As the waitress drops off the check, Will grabs it, setting his card down. And as quickly as she sat it down, she swoops back in and picks it up. She’s probably using it to stalk him on Instagram.

“Thank you for dining with us, have a great night,” she says, winking at Will.

“What the fuck?” you say, jealousy boiling inside you.

“What do we tip her?” Will asks.

“15 percent tops.”

“Y/N. She burned you. Intentionally. I’m not leaving her a tip.”

“Do or don’t. I don’t care,” you say, getting up without him and making your way toward the front.

Will scrambles behind you, grabbing your forgotten purse on the way.

You stand on the passenger side, hand idly waiting for Will to unlock the car. What was supposed to be a nice date night out, turned into an awful night because of some over-confident blonde and your jealousy.

You feel Will’s presence behind you, his hand coming to rest on your lower back, his other hand moving yours away from the door handle. He opens the door, letting you climb into your seat, watching you buckle in.

“Are you okay? And don’t brush me off. I know that waitress was rude, but I need to know that you’re okay,” Will says, hand running along your cheek.

You didn’t say anything, surging forward to kiss him. It takes a split moment for him to kiss back, to fully let himself go in you.

You deepen the kiss, pulling at the nape of his neck, forcing him closer to you.

After a minute, he pulls away, smirk adorning his face, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Are you jealous right now?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“Can’t help it. You’re so pretty, and every girl wants you. Need to make sure you’re still mine.”

“Y/N, baby, of course you’re still mine. You’ll always be mine. And I'm yours, always.”

And that puts a smile on your face. A smile that stayed in its place the entire way home. And when you both got into bed, and Will grabbed your waist and pulled you close, relaxing into the curve of your back, you knew, at least for a minute, you two would be alright.

﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏

The next morning, when you woke up, Will’s grip on your waist was tight, unwilling to let you budge a single inch. You tried grabbing at his arm, but that didn’t help any.

“Will, let me go,” you say, trying to pry his arm off.

“Mmm, no. You’re comfy.”

And you couldn’t pinpoint exactly why that angered you, because usually it would be sweet, but right now it just pissed you off beyond belief.

“Will, let me go,” you say, shoving his arm off, getting up and storming out of the bedroom. Will is left behind, shock on his face, clueless as to what made you so angry this early in the morning.

You two were good last night, and when you went to bed, you were fine. And now? He had no idea what was going on.

Will found you standing over the stove, one arm crossed over your front, the other extended, holding onto the handle of a pan of scrambled eggs.

“Y/N, honey,” he says cautiously, moving behind you, hands coming to rest on your shoulders.

You don’t say anything, continuing to cook your breakfast, trying to stay quiet to avoid saying something mean. It was imminent, but you wanted to avoid it as long as you possibly could.

And before you can even think of what to say, you speak.

“You do realize I’m in the best position to punch you in the guts, right?”

“Okay, okay. Noted,” Will says, taking his hands off your shoulders and backing away.

The beat of silence between the two of you washes over the room quickly, the air thick with tension, worse than any humidity you’d ever experienced.

“I’m going to go watch TV. Sorry for bothering you,” Will says, leaving the room.

And you immediately feel bad. Will had done nothing to deserve your anger, and yet, it was like you couldn’t stop yourself from doing so. You were in so much pain, and while that was no excuse, your pain demanded to be felt, and it didn’t care who was in the way or on the receiving end.

After you finished eating and doing the dishes, you walked down the hallway to the living room, standing at the entryway, not quite moving into the living room. You watch Will, his easy-going nature, his relaxed form laying on the couch, watching some TV show you’re sure you would never watch on your own.

You decide not to say anything, just walking back toward the bedroom. You flop on your side of the bed, sighing. You grab your heating pad from the drawer in the nightstand, plugging it in before rolling over to take a nap.

You’re awoken by the bed shifting under the weight of someone. Will.

“Hey sweetheart. It’s okay. Just me,” he says, going to pull you into his chest, but he stops, remembering your temperament from earlier.

“I’m tired. Just cuddle me. Please Will,” you say, voice groggy and full of sleep.

“Okay, okay. I’ve got you, baby,” he says, finally wrapping his arms around your waist.

And as he does so, Will feels the heat radiating from your stomach. The heating pad. And he feels like an idiot not having recognized it sooner. You were on your period. You weren’t trying to be mean, you just didn’t feel good. And Will felt like beating himself up for not having recognized this fact sooner. The jealousy, the anger, the exhaustion, it all made sense. Will grew up with an older sister, and even though he was more privy to period-related issues than some men, he knew that every girl was different. Grace wasn’t overly moody, wasn’t in a great deal of pain from what he could tell. But he knew you had issues with regularity in your cycle. And he knew that it was hard sometimes to figure out what each cycle would look like.

And Will, despite being warm and cuddled against you, couldn’t sleep knowing how much you weren’t feeling good.

And so he grabbed the body pillow from the closet, nestling it behind you to keep you comfy, and going on a mission to make you a period wellness basket.

Once at the store, he grabbed tampons, the ones he’d seen you say were the best because they were the most comfortable. He grabbed some of your favorite chocolate and other candy, and just for double assurance, he grabbed a pint of your favorite ice cream. He grabbed a little fluffy shark stuffed animal, thinking it would get a few laughs out of you because it would remind you of him, and the thought alone made him chuckle lowly.

As he was walking toward the self-checkout line, he called the local florist, requesting a bouquet of assorted flowers, insisting that your favorite flowers be amongst the mix.

And as he continued walking, a dainty gold chain caught his eye. It wasn’t anything super detailed or intricate, it was a simple necklace with a moon, a star, and a circular white stone. And on a whim, he put it in his basket and continued toward the self-checkout.

When he got home, he made sure you were still asleep before putting his gifts in a little basket on the counter, a messy note from him scrawled on a piece of paper set atop the gifts.

And as he made his way back out to grab the flowers, you, half asleep, made your way to the kitchen for water. You were parched.

And your eyes landed on the basket and the note, noticing all of the little gifts Will got you. You saw the baby shark, and you giggled lightly.

And you heard him walk in, tears welling in your eyes, turning around to see him holding a large bouquet of flowers.

“Will.”

“Shit. Sorry, I wanted you to see everything all at once,” he says sheepishly, hand rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly shy of the gift. He knew you didn’t like giving gifts to show your love for someone, but he couldn’t help but get you things to help you feel better.

“You bought me my favorite flowers?” you say, the tears thick in your throat and streaming down your face, sniffling. You saw the specificity in them, the arrangement clearly made to order. They were your favorites. He knew.

“Don’t cry baby,” he says, gently setting the flowers on the counter, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you in for a hug. “Of course I got you your favorite flowers. You’re in pain, and I thought you could use a little pick me up. I’m sorry it took me so long to notice.”

“No, no. You’re amazing. I’m sorry for being a bitch. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I’m so sorry,” you say through tears, now crying heavily. Not quite sobs, but definitely more than a couple of tears.

“Woah, shhh. It’s okay. I’ve got you sweetheart,” he says, running a hand up and down your back.

As you calmed down, you turned toward the basket, reading his note again, looking through the things he’d gotten. And as you were doing this, he grabbed the pints of ice cream from the freezer.

“Let’s go watch something,” he says, handing one pint and a spoon to you.

And as 10 Things I Hate About You played in the background, you ate your ice cream happily, cuddled into Will’s side.

“Thank you, baby,” you whisper.

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m sorry you have to deal with me like this. I know I’m a lot to handle.”

“Y/N, you’re a lot to handle on a good day. But I signed up for it. I’m sticking by you through everything, okay? I love you. I can handle you. All of you,” he says, dropping a kiss to your forehead. You tilt your head up, silently asking for another kiss, and he happily obliges, smiling as he places his lips on yours in a short and sweet kiss.

“I love you, too, Will,” you say, cuddling back into him.

And in the cafeteria scene, as Michael finishes talking to Joey, you and Will look at each other and quote, “I have a dick on my face, don’t I?”

And that was how the rest of your night went, laughter and cuddles shared between you two. And right then, you knew that you wanted him around for a long, long time. Even if you were hard to handle.

﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏

Do not copy, translate, or repost my work as your own

350 notes · View notes