𓇼 the thing about Sid is that he was convinced everyone would try and flirt with his best friend over the summer break, the other thing about his is that y/n had always gone along with his silly ideas.
However, two young adults pretending to be dating over the summer holidays, spending hours in swimsuits with family visits and cocktails, happen to stay as composed as someone seeing a mermaid..
𓂃 𓈒𓏸𓈒𓂃𓈒𓏸𓈒𓂃𓈒𓏸𓈒𓂃𓂃 𓈒𓏸𓈒𓂃𓈒𓏸𓈒𓂃𓈒𓏸𓈒𓂃𓂃 𓈒𓏸𓈒𓂃
ch1: dear summer, live from Halifax!
𓂃 𓈒𓏸𓈒𓂃𓈒𓏸𓈒𓂃𓈒𓏸𓈒𓂃𓂃 𓈒𓏸𓈒𓂃𓈒𓏸𓈒𓂃𓈒𓏸𓈒𓂃𓂃 𓈒𓏸𓈒𓂃
Author's note: hi honeys!! This is a new blog, and I haven’t written in a solid second, but I’ve long thought about a probable mini-series about Sid and all the chaos that summer could get up to! Let me know how you feel, if anyone actually sees this lmao! But I’m so excited, okay, bye love youuu 🤍 see you soon xx
~ also also let me know if we're feeling y/n or original character
Sidney Crosby x wife!reader - A Little Birdie Told Me pt.2
You and Sid become parents to the perfect little boho baby...
an/cw: fluff, childbirth (not medically focused), probably inaccuracies, but the gif of how Sid reacts makes up for it
✧˖°.˚ ˚.° ˖ ✧ ✧˖°.˚ ˚.° ˖ ✧ ✧˖°.˚ ˚.° ˖ ✧
“Congratulations parents.. your baby is here.”
It was the first time in 24/hours you felt like yourself again. Not because labor was over now, not because your husband had finally stilled beside you after humming like a buzzing bee running on coffee and sheer spite after a nurse told him “usually the dads take a nap when the contractions are this light”. It wasn’t because the sun finally came up, it wasn’t even because you’d finally pushed the baby you grew out of you. It was because you had something to focus on.
The tiny, wriggling, bright pink body that's placed upon your chest. It’s high pitched squealing hushing ever so slightly as it clams to find your heartbeat. You barely register anything else at this moment. Not Sid’s arm settling behind your neck for support, not his kiss on your forehead, not the tear drop falling from his cheek. You forget you can even speak until he does; cheek pressed against your brushing sweaty hair off your forehead
“I’m so proud of you baby.. god beautiful, you’re perfect”
You sigh like your heart has never been fuller and lighter in your life.
“.. that’s our baby”
“Yeah… yeah it is”
From across the room, Julia, the veteran midwife walks over barely all the necessary tools to make sure babies' airways are cleared, says soft and proud, they type who really loves her job.
“Look at all that hair. He’s just like his daddy.”
He. A boy. It’s those words that make you and Sid look up from the baby for the first time since.. ever. Between the rush and reality you’d both actually forgotten the gender part mattered. Julia watched both your breaths hitch and look down in believing that something like this could get more precious. She had seen it hundreds of times, this one all beautiful the same. It’s Sid who breaks the silence. Brushing his finger off the baby's hair, having given up on pretending he wasn’t shaking, but putting no ounce more of weight than light drawing through curtains.
“Our boy… hello little man.”
The little one squeaks at all the new sensations. Sound, light, and touch all without barriers for the first time. Your chest tightens beneath him, drawing into a little hiccup. All the emotions and adrenaline forming into something so loyal it wraps a protective bubble around the room. With his little hand clinging to your fingertip you mumble
“Hey, mister Crosby”
Your husband's face falls into your neck. Sticky but he loved every part of it. Mister Crosby. Two Crosby boys circling around you like you’re the warmth of the sun. Home. The realisation doesn’t take long to settle. Like it was something the both of you had known your whole loving lives.
“Does he have a name?” Julia asks.
“Yeah” Sidney says before a second breath could go by, despite the fact that you hadn’t decided 100% on one.
But the reality was, you kind of had. For every day that went by after you found his list, hours flew by where the two of you would just lay there repeating soft sounds, strong origins, and rhythmic syllables. And eventually, Sid realised you had fallen in love. Not in an argumentative way, not in a way that didn’t let him test out names every time he put his lips to your bump. Just.. solemnly. Gently. And here, stood looking at the two people he loved most he realised he had too. And he wanted to hear it. Not the alarms that heartbeat the hospital, not the beeping, or even the hushes of trying to stop the baby crying. He wanted to hear you say his son’s name.
He kisses your shoulder, “tell em”
You look up, eyes widening slightly, “really?”
He nods, “yeah”
You inhale and exhale, looking around the room like this was one of the most important moments of your life. Arguably because it is. Your eyes flicker from Sid, to Julia, to baby Crosby himself in your arms… this was his introduction.
“Harlow Leon Crosby”
Hands fly over mouths, Sid leans down to kiss where Harlow's hand is attached to your finger. “Best name I ever heard.”
You laugh through another fresh wave of tears, because in this moment, maybe forever, he’s not wrong.
“You're biased.”
“Always will be... he's perfect” Sid murmurs, not even pretending otherwise.
Julia smiles to herself as she finishes jotting something onto the chart.
“Harlow Leon Crosby,” she repeats softly, as if trying the name on the morning air. “Welcome to the world, sweetheart.”
The room falls quiet again. Not silent—never silent. There are monitors still humming their steady rhythm. Nurses help you through post-birth rhythms with care, some speaking somewhere down the hall. Rain begins to tap against the hospital window as dawn washes the sky pale blue. But inside your little corner of the world, everything slows.
Harlow has stopped crying. You’ll try to latch soon but just for now his tiny cheek is pressed against your skin, warm and impossibly soft, his breathing evening out as though he'd already decided there was nowhere safer to be than right here.
Sid can't stop touching either of you. A finger over the impossibly small shoulder. A hand against your back. A kiss pressed into your temple every few seconds like he keeps forgetting he already has. He looks at your son the same way he looked at you the first time he told you he loved you—with complete certainty.
"I can't believe we made him."
He shakes his head unbelievably, "You did the hard part."
"We made him," you insist.
Sid looks between the two of you, his eyes impossibly bright.
"We really did."
He rests his forehead against yours, careful not to disturb the sleeping bundle between you.
Outside, the world is waking up. People are making coffee. Catching buses. Walking dogs. Starting another ordinary Tuesday without knowing that everything has changed. Because in Room 417, at 6:18 in the morning, the world welcomed Harlow Leon Crosby.
And somehow… the whole universe suddenly felt exactly the right size.
half an hour of writing on A Little Birdie Told Me pt.2 lagged and disappeared so if anyone needs me I’m going to be here breathing through resetting my nervous system and rewriting that. thank you so much universe x 😢
living in the city can be lonely but nothing brings rustic comfort like getting to know a man you've only seen from your window, writing a one off sign that turn into conversations and before you realise it an entire year goes by making routine with a stranger...
an/: fluffy slow burn, 2.7k words - was gonna name this 'fall in love again and again' - orchestra club version. play whilst you read for full ambiance.
It starts because of a smoke alarm. Not yours. His.
You only know because at 7:13 on a Tuesday morning, the guy who lives directly across from you throws open every single window in his apartment while waving a dish towel under the ceiling. You stand in your kitchen, coffee halfway to your mouth, watching the chaos unfold through your own floor-to-ceiling window.
He's tall. Ridiculously tall.
Light-dark hair sticking up everywhere, grey sweatpants, a red and blue hoodie, muttering something that is very clearly not family-friendly.
Then he notices you.
You freeze.
He freezes.
There is a beat where you're both just two strangers accidentally making eye contact through thirty feet of open air. He sighs dramatically, disappears from view. And for a minute you feel bad thinking you’ve embarrassed him through his own windows when then he returns holding a piece of printer paper covered in thick black marker–
I CAN EXPLAIN.
You laugh before you can stop yourself.
He points accusingly.
Then flips the page over.
I BURNED TOAST.
You disappear too. When you come back, you hold up your own notebook, making sure the lines are dark enough for him to be able to see before you even realise–
THAT'S NOT TOAST. THAT'S CHARCOAL.
His shoulders shake with silent laughter.
Then he gives you the thumbs up.
—
By the next morning he's holding up another sign while watering the world's saddest houseplant like a little bit of nurture will revive it from its slumber, when in reality the man has been drawing the poor fern for weeks. Evidence of this being the tracks of soily mud coming out the bottom of his windowsill, like tears only you could see. But he’s trying.
THE PLANT IS DYING.
You answer from your breakfast table.
IT LOOKS LIKE IT DIED LAST WEEK.
He clutches his chest in fake offense quickly scribbling
IT LOOKS THIRSTY!
Before turning it on the saucer so you had a better view through the glass.
—
It accidentally became routine after that, really. Not talking. Writing. Your kitchen table permanently had a stack of thick black markers because normal pens weren't readable across the courtyard. Sometimes the conversations lasted an hour, sometimes just when you really needed them.
WHY ARE YOU AWAKE AT 3AM?
You lift your laptop.
DEADLINE.
He nods sympathetically.
The next night he answers your question before you ask.
WEST COAST ROAD TRIP. JET LAG.
—
Or the time you were two glasses of chardonnay and a carry bradshaw meltdown deep into a friday night and he hadn't seemed to go out either. Instead, after 25 minutes of you trying not to be concerned from your peripherals with how he was handling boiling water he holds up a very serious–
RATE MY PASTA.
He holds up a bowl.
You squint.
CAN'T SEE. BRING IT CLOSER.
He walks directly into the glass.
You laugh so hard you nearly spill your tea.
—
One Sunday morning—
You opened your curtains and he was already there. Coffee mug, messy hair, duvet sleep lines running up his forearms only visible at that distance from the morning sun. In his hands holding up a sign–
GOOD MORNING, NEIGHBOUR.
You smiled despite yourself.
Found your notebook.
YOU'RE UP EARLY.
He flipped to another page.
JET LAG.
ROAD TRIP.
You answered—
WELCOME HOME.
Something softened in his face. He smiled. A real one. Not the goofy exaggerated expressions he'd usually make. Just… Warm. Because that's the thing. When you have something of such ephemeral drift, when it's at its place, it's at its place. Phone numbers be damned. Or in this case, unshared.
—
The next week, however, you couldn’t help it—
YOU LOOK TIRED.
He stared at your sign for a second, then wrote back.
LONG PRACTICE.
Professional hockey, you'd eventually pieced together.Not because he'd told you. Because this wasn’t just one of the days he came home carrying three hockey sticks, now he had a black eye. Which spurred enough of something in you to google the logo that's somehow on all of his hoodies.
Juraj Slafkovský: Twenty-something. Montreal Canadiens. Very famous.
Allegedly. Because despite the videos that came up you couldn’t find it in yourself to click on them. There felt like something more real about not watching them. Like maybe they’d come across too loud.
—
Spring arrives.
You begin timing your dinners with him. Not intentionally, mostly. Sometimes you'll glance over while stirring pasta and see him attempting to chop vegetables with the concentration of someone performing surgery. Sometimes he'll catch you dancing around your kitchen while cleaning.
He'll applaud through the glass.
You'll bow dramatically.
Sometimes neither of you writes anything. You just exist together. Separate apartments, shared silence.
—
One rainy evening the power goes out. The whole block goes black.
You sigh. Wonderful. No Wi-Fi, no lights, no work. You wander toward the window. Across the courtyard, a flashlight clicks on, it’s Juraj with a giant piece of cardboard. In enormous black letters—
HELLO DARKNESS MY OLD FRIEND.
You snort.
You grab your own marker.
I HAVE NOTHING ELSE TO DO NOW.
He thinks.
Then—
CHARADES?
You blink, then laugh. Why not? For the next hour, two grown adults silently act out increasingly impossible movie titles through apartment windows illuminated by flashlights. His version of Titanic is somehow mostly him pretending to drown. Your version of Jurassic Park makes him laugh so hard he slides down his wall.
—
Summer means open windows.
Music drifts across– sometimes yours, sometimes his. One evening you discover he likes the exact same underrated artist you do. You hold up a sign.
GOOD TASTE.
He shakes his head.
YOUR TASTE IMPROVED WHEN YOU HEARD MINE.
You flip him off.
He applauds.
—
With the warmer weather came weddings.
He’s at home on a zoom when the light starts to flicker over his window. The guests had been asked to wear metallic. Silvers, golds, emerald greens. And every time you panic spin around figuring out what heels to wear, a little flash of reflections focus bounces off and arrives in his room. By the time his meeting is wrapping up you hold up a sign.
LOOK OKAY?
And make it a point to put your hands to your dress showing him your coordinated nails.
But he was working. He can't write a sign now. So he tilts his laptop to the side until he’s out of frame and holds up both hands. All 10 fingers. 10/10. And then bows in his seat watching you curtsy back. It’s only when his meetings over does he look back over again. Wondering where you were going.
—
Then comes the night everything changes.
You're crying. Not dramatically, quietly. Curled up against the window after a phone call that left your chest aching. You don't even realize he's home until movement catches your eye. He looks over. Sees you, doesn't wave. Doesn't smile, which makes the streams on your face fall faster. He just disappears. A minute later he returns holding a sign–
BAD DAY?
You hesitate then nod. He disappears again. This time he comes back with another.
DO YOU WANT ADVICE OR DISTRACTION?
Something about that question makes fresh tears fall. No assumptions. No fixing. Just asking. You write—
DISTRACTION.
He salutes, disappears, then Five minutes later he returns wearing a dinosaur onesie. A full-sized green dinosaur onesie. He begins dancing. Violently, terribly, but completely committed. The moves get worse. He moonwalks. Attempts the worm. Falls over, gets back up. You are laughing so hard you have tears streaming down your face again. Different tears– better ones. When he's finally out of breath, he holds up one last sign.
MISSION ACCOMPLISHED?
You smile wider than you have all day.
MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.
—
The next morning there's a paper bag hanging from your apartment doorknob. Inside— A muffin, a coffee, and a sticky note.
WINDOW DELIVERY SERVICE.
No signature. It doesn't need one.
—
You start leaving things too.
Cookies. The ones you’d baked with the windows open. The ones he looked at you from across the courtyard when you were giving him a 10/10 sweets display. Extra soup. Left in his mailbox in a container you reused from the place you visited after he recommended it. A book he'd mentioned wanting to read through approximately fourteen signs and an elaborate mime. The one he’d pose very prestigiously with, arms folded and all, when he sees you putting dishes away one time. Neither of you waits around to be thanked. You simply collect the gifts after the other disappears back inside.
—
Sometimes you pretend not to notice when he wasn't looking.
When you do yoga in your living room. When you had friends over. The time you had your brother over and his living room light was off for two days. When it's 6am, fresh out of the shower, still in a towel pattering into the kitchen to get your ice roller. You wave if he's up, but he just covers his eyes. You’ll talk later. It wasn’t a requirement anyways.
—
Autumn paints the trees gold.
One evening you find him staring out his window. No sign, just...thinking.
You write first.
YOU LOOK SAD.
He takes a while. Finally—
LOST TONIGHT. PLAYED BADLY.
You tilt your head. Then write—
ONE BAD DAY DOESN'T ERASE ALL THE GOOD ONES.
He reads it twice. Three times. Then presses his hand against the glass. Without thinking, you press yours against your own. Thirty feet apart, separated by glass and empty air. Still somehow close.
—
Halloween arrives.
And so do your pink ghost pyjamas. He looks from across the way, consulting with himself very seriously. Then ducks to write a sign, pointing to it like this is specifically important–
VERY CUTE.
Butterflies.
Then another sign.
VERY PINK.
You huff. Looking down at yourself like, yes, that's the whole point. You scribble and hold up–
GIRLY.
He shakes his head vigorously.
SEXIST.
A warmth settles in your chest. You write slower this time.
YOU’RE RIGHT.
And then even slower–
YOU’D LOOK NICE IN PINK.
Which you get to see, because his cheeks start too bloom.
—
Then comes the storm.
A real storm raking through Montreal. Wind howling, rain slamming against glass. Around midnight a deafening crack echoes through the street. A tree series of branches crash into power lines. The lights flicker.
You instinctively look across. His apartment is dark. Then lit by candlelight. He looks toward your window. You both stand there– tiny figures framed by warm light.
He lifts a sign.
CAN'T SLEEP?
You shake your head.
Write back.
THUNDER.
He nods. Disappears. Returns.
ME TOO.
You smile. Somehow knowing someone else is awake makes the storm quieter.
—
The following week your building posts notices. Window replacement. Exterior maintenance. Scaffolding- Two weeks. You don't think much of it until Monday morning when metal frames rise between the buildings. Blocking everything. Your view disappears. So does his. You don't realize how much you've relied on seeing him until he's gone. No morning signs. No jokes. No tiny moments. The street suddenly feels… Empty.
You could've waited for him in the lobby or gone to his but.. that just didn't feel right.
—
The first snow arrives early. You wake to find one enormous sign already taped across his window.
GOOD MORNING WINDOW FRIEND.
You laugh.
Grab your notebook.
YOU USED THE BIG PAPER.
He nods proudly.
I WANTED TO MAKE SURE YOU SAW IT.
—
Your friends think it's insane.
"You've never actually talked?"
"No."
"You don't have his number?"
"No."
"You've known him for eight months."
"I know."
"So...what if you like him?"
You blink.
Like him?
You look across the courtyard, he's currently arguing with his smoke detector again, and spend the rest of the night hoping they don't subject your windows to embarrassing literary decoration.
—
December arrives.
You become well aware of, what other people might be surprised about, his rather large fluffy sock collection. And spend a shameful amount of time convincing yourself it didn't mean anything that you’d both gone out, separately, and bought the same shade of christmas light. It just meant that warm white accompanied you both.
The building hosts a holiday party in the lobby. You almost don't go. Until you glance outside. But then there Juraj is, standing at his window holding a sign.
GOING?
You shrug.
MAYBE.
He writes immediately.
COME SAY HI.
Your heart stumbles.
—
The party is loud. Too warm. Too many people pretending too well the carpet isn't slightly condensation damp. You spend ten minutes pretending to be interested in the cheese platter before hearing—
"Window friend?"
The voice is deeper than you imagined. You turn. He's even taller up close. Which seems unfair because 6’4 is already tall from far away. Juraj smiles nervously.
"So..."
"So."
"We've...never actually spoken."
"I noticed."
He laughs. It's exactly the laugh you imagined hearing all those mornings.Except now it didn't have to fight distance and architecture to get to you.
"I wasn't sure if you'd recognize me."
You stare.
"You held up signs saying your own name."
"Oh."
"...Right."
You both laugh. And then the awkwardness melts almost instantly.
Conversation is surprisingly easy. Months of friendship forming into reality. His accent is softer than you expected, he's funny without trying, kind in quiet ways. When someone interrupts asking for a photo, he apologizes to you before turning. When he comes back he looks embarrassed.
"Sorry."
"You don't have to apologize."
"I didn't want you to think I walked away."
You smile.
"I waited eight months to hear your voice."
His ears turn pink.
"I wasn't going anywhere."
—
At some point as the music changes someone accidentally bumps into you. You only stumble forward a step or two but his hands catch you softly, splayed wide across your waist. His eyes flicker down and then back to yours. Seeing if you’d step back. When you don’t his fingertips brush higher and he looks up to where the sound is caressing the room.
“You like this one”
And yeah. You did.
—
You end up walking upstairs together. No elevator to rush to get back. He gestures toward the hallway.
"So..."
"So."
He looks between your doors. Then your windows.
"I think..."
He scratches the back of his neck.
"...I kind of like our window."
You laugh.
"I do too."
"It was less scary."
"It really was."
He nods, then disappears into his apartment. You do the same. A moment later you both instinctively walk toward your windows.He is already there, holding a sign.
You laugh out loud.
THIS FEELS MORE NATURAL.
You grab your notebook.
AGREED.
He flips another page.
CAN I TAKE MY WINDOW FRIEND ON A REAL DATE?
Your cheeks hurt from smiling. Instead of writing immediately, you disappear from view. He waits, confused. Then you reappear pointing to your apartment door. You step into the hallway. A second later, his door opens too. For the first time, there isn't glass between you again. You walk the few steps that separate your apartments.
"Hi," you say.
He smiles in that warm, impossibly genuine way you've come to know from thirty feet away.
"Hi."
You reach into your pocket and unfold one final handwritten note.
You hand it to him.
He opens it.
YES.
He looks up.
"I was hoping you'd say that."
"I figured I'd tell you in person."
He folds the note carefully, like it's something precious.
"You know..."
"What?"
"We're probably going to have to text eventually."
You pretend to consider it.
"I don't know."
"No?"
"I think if you want my attention..."
You point toward his apartment.
"...you should probably make a sign."
He laughs so hard he has to lean against his doorframe.
"I can do that."
"I know."
The next morning, despite now having your phone number saved in his contacts, you wake to find four pieces of cardboard taped together filling his entire apartment window.
GOOD MORNING, WINDOW DATE. ❤️
Rolling your eyes despite the grin you can't hide, you hold up your own sign.
YOU ARE SUCH A DORK.
He pumps a triumphant fist into the air like he'd just scored the overtime winner.
Maybe, you think, some conversations are simply better written by hand.
✧˖°.˚ Sidney Crosby x gf head-cannons in the ˚.° ˖ ✧ ✧ gigisays444 universe ✧
fluff/smut-18+/angst under the cut
an/ in absolute sporadic order aka thought to page with v little proofreading, might give you whiplash, will also need to be doing more of these asap
• bf!sid who - wears your old cord headphones knotted around his neck like a necklace because tugging on them reminds him exactly who he is
• bf!sid who - wakes you up with his thumb playing with your sleepy pout just to go and shower before you can register what happened
• bf!sid who - has a pair of your panties hooked up like a flag on your at home sauna
• bf!sid who - spent all night drilling into you and then had you sit in Geno’s lap when there were no seats left because he knew you would try not to squirm on another man’s cock
• bf!sid who - does the dishes before you even thought about doing the dishes every time (this is very important to me idk why)
• bf!sid who - does the dishes shirtless and then wipes his clean hands on his shorts whilst every back muscle in evers existence ripples under the kitchen lighting
• bf!sid who - forces your feet under his thigh when you’re cold no matter where
• bf!sid who - spent all night making you squirt into the Stanley Cup like having it for hockey was just a beneficial reason
• bf!sid who - gets your morning smoothie delivered to the house whilst he’s a practice cause he knows but the time he gets home you’ll have worked out and be ready to shower
• bf!sid who - spent three days working under the car in summer because he checked on something once and nearly passed out when you put your foot up his leg to tell him you made lunch and he’s addicted to the idea it’ll happen again
• bf!sid who - says “oh she’s cute” when your hips lift off the bed when he’s eating you out because his biceps around your thighs mean your going exactly nowhere
• bf!sid who - leaves his water bottle around always full because he knows you’ll wanna drink more if it’s something of his
• bf!sid who - bought you to a summer family barbecue and barely said a word to his family because he was to focused on you and everyone let him just to see what would happen
• bf!sid who - had you carried around his hips and almost sat you down on the grill at the family barbecue
• bf!sid who - does the two finger cmere signal without looking back when he’s walking ahead of you and wants you to hold his hand
• bf!sid who - gets you flowers every week and gets you a second bouquet if he’s been away enough for all of your hickies that he gave you before he left have faded
• bf!sid who’s - favorite thing to say he gets if he wins a bet between you two if for you to sit on his face - like strait up y/n: “if I win we go look at another puppy” vs Sid: “if I win you sit on my face for two hours”
• bf!sid who - goes to train in the dark one night after he upset you in the early stages of your relationship because he needed to clear his head but couldn’t justify feeling like a cool enough guy to play with the lights on
• bf!sid who - fingers you slowly after an argument because watching hour juices flow down his wrist is easier than crying because he knows then you’ll cry too
• bf!sid who - will leave for golf early just to make sure he comes back wearing tighter shorts if he knows you’ve been cleaning just because now there’s more surfaces to pin you on
• bf!sid who - loves it when you get excited to sap him up like you’re one of the bro’s because at the end of the day you are really his best friend
✧˖°.˚ the exact way macklin looks at sid's pretty wife y/n when she pats him on the cheek and says "you had a strong day mack" after a good team canada practice, because the poor man has "mom 🥹" and "mommy 🥵" shouting through his mind at the same time and thinks absolutely no one can tell ˚.° ˖ ✧
~ texts between lolly (y/n’s girl best friend / housemate?) except she tweaks because Slaf can not text normally to a girl that isn’t y/n despite them NOT DATINGGGG (will def be doing more of these two probably more connecting to actual fic ideas)
~ you know them, you love them, you hate them. they clearly want to fuck each other but are too stubborn to take it seriously so you get exactly this ft. Slaf’s pov at the end completely rethinking all his life choices
relationship: unspecificly romantic (let me know if you want a longer fic / suggest rela status ie. together, exs, etl, bsf, hookup, ext)
“You’re going to fall”
“I’m not going to fall”
“Working on ice doesn’t mean you’re immune to water danger Slaf”
“Cmere then. Save me”
“What, no”
“Oh so you don’t love me”
“That’s not fair and you know it- you just want to push me in”
“Maybe I just want you to be my lifeguard pekné dievča” pretty girl
“Shut up” she shoved him lightly not thinking he was going to love at all until he grabs her wrist and they both go under when they come up every once of them is soaked head to toe, dinner wear clinging to skin like drapery. Y/n wrapped her legs around his waist half for buoyancy half because he owed her now. Juraj didn’t seem to mind, his breath hot on your face.
“See we’re not in trouble”
“We’re sopping”
“Mhm” he hums before dipping his head pressing his lips against yours.
me after absolutely yoloing a fic out unproof-read before I can doubt if it makes any sense, simply because my heart still thought the original idea was good
Juraj Slafkovský x bsf!reader !who tans very easily
Y/n and Juraj going to a festival with their friends over the summer break, and y/n leaving with handprints on her thighs from where her best friends had been holding her on his shoulders all day.
cw: implied height difference, like one weight comment, lots of yapping cause the group are menaces - because this essentially happened to my Australian ass once and I wish Slaf would make it happen again... also not proof read x
✧˖°.˚ ˚.° ˖ ✧ ✧˖°.˚ ˚.° ˖ ✧ ✧˖°.˚ ˚.° ˖ ✧
The thing about summer festivals is that everything about them could be included in one of two categories: the extreme highs & the extreme lows.
However... However, the sheer reality of being on summer break made most of those things blur like a persuasion. A few of these things included: the heat, the dryness, the sun exposure, being surrounded by strangers, very loud music, the revolution that bottled water had become currency, and officially whatever wall Y/n had hit by day 2. The high part was that everyone found it funny. The first day had gone great; that was the funniest part. The friend group got there on Friday morning simply to make the most of it, get their bearings, that sort of thing. It wasn't so crowded, they got food and watched the smaller music acts later that night, whilst the main ones were performing the day after and on Sunday.
One hotel sleep and outfit change later, Little Miss genetically engineered for the sun was slapped in the face by the realisation that she had not thought this through the whole way. And by slapped in the face, it was more being bumped by 6 shoulders, stepped on by two different boots, and having the view of the mainstage absolutely confiscated the second the group started walking again. Which was very nicely, all Juraj's fault.
"No holubica", he gruffed, absolutely way too certain for a man who decided to spend $45 on churros an hour ago was a good financial decision. "Nope, hold my hand, y/n are the type to get lost."
"I can't lose you, you're-"
But y/n protests were ignored. All 6 foot 3 of his solid Slovak body had already decided he was going to be her tour guide the second the holiday plans were made. Without looking over his shoulder, people parted like the sea, letting the two of them through.
"Oh, watch out, everyone, Hercules is coming through!" Cole shouts, nursing a beer a few feet away. The entire group breaks out laughing, light and airy, a few saluting with knowing grins.
"She can't see."
"Of course she can't see! Not all of us are giants, Slavko."
Someone shouts over the bass, but it didn't matter. Juraj's hand outstretches again, even though it's already full with hers. y/n was grateful the beating sun had already established more colour in her face than usual. Freckles pattering over the new bronze as blush crept up y/n's cheeks that had nothing to do with the makeup that had already half melted off. By the time both of them reached about as close to the front row, 15 thousand people parted as y/n reserved herself to Juraj’s back. And she gotta admit it was actually quite nice not to have to worry where she was going, albeit there was still one problem.
“Slaf, I still can’t see” y/n mumble still stacked under his arm.
He huffs a chuckle, “Yes, you can.”
“No, I literally can’t.”
“MainStage starts in ten”, someone yells, and with almost perfect timing, another man bumps into y/n again, completely by accident. Looking around at the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd over her head made Juraj sigh, the same noise that meant he had already made a decision and squats down.
“What’re you doing?”
“Get on.”
“What?”
“Do you want to get on my shoulders or not?”
y/n looks up at her best friend, mouth agape, trying to decide whether this was a ridiculous idea or whether her pulse had just decided it was a good time to be dramatic. “I can’t do that, I'll crush you”
But it’s a futile attempt because before y/n knows it, his massive hands are wrapping around her thighs, hiking her onto his broad shoulders before extending back to full height like she weighed nothing more than the baseball cap keeping the sun out of his brown eyes.
“No. But definitely better than having to hear you complain about having stoppable feet for the rest of your life.”
His words, so knowing, do nothing to help y/n's current state of fluster. It was a miracle he couldn’t see y/n's face, even if everyone in the crowd could. His shoulders ripple under the soft part of y/n's thighs. Her thighs themselves now sit on either side of his neck. And it changed the world. Because suddenly, y/n could see everything.
The stage.
The lights.
The giant screens.
The sea of people stretching in every direction.
“Oh my god.”
The curve of his smile pushed his cheek accidentally into y/n leg, “see! better right!”
y/n immodestly forgot why she was supposed to be arguing already fighting back the urge to call him comfortable thats fizzing in her stomach, “Way better….”
By the time the intro band started, y/n were silently giving it to him that Juraj had been right. This was the best place y/n could've been. Juraj was entirely too pleased with himself. Songs played one after another until everyone collectively forgot about any breaks that had been scheduled. And somehow every time Y/N suggested climbing down, someone stopped her. Usually Juraj. A quick squeeze of his palms, a shake of his head between her thighs, a "no holubica" that made her a little lightheaded. At one point, his hand permanently settled against her knee to keep her balanced. Later, somebody else grabbed her thigh while dancing. Then his shoulder. A sway here, a jolt there. Everyone spent hours holding onto everyone else just to avoid falling over. It was normal. Festive. The crowd shifted, people moved, but Juraj never entertained the idea of y/n being destabilised for a second.
By the time the sun began sinking behind the stage, painting the sky in streaks of gold, peach, and pink, they were all sweaty, exhausted, and just this side of delirious after spending the entire day outside. Dust clung to their shoes, glitter had somehow migrated onto everyone's clothes, and their voices were scratchy from hours of singing. A cooler breeze finally rolled across the packed field, earning relieved sighs from the crowd. Then the lights dimmed.
The roar that erupted when the headliner walked onstage was deafening.
Like someone had flipped a switch, every ounce of fatigue disappeared.
Y/N, still perched on Juraj's shoulders above the sea of people, threw both hands into the air so fast he instinctively tightened his grip around the backs of her thighs to steady her.
"This is our song!" she shouted over the music, bouncing excitedly enough that he could feel every movement.
Juraj laughed, craning his head back just enough to catch a glimpse of her grin. "You say that about every song."
"Because every song is my song!"
She started dancing without a second thought, swaying her shoulders and waving her arms as if she were the only person in the field. Juraj felt her weight shift dangerously to one side and immediately adjusted his footing in the trampled grass.
"Careful," he warned, one hand squeezing her leg a little tighter to keep her balanced.
"I'm fine," she insisted, barely missing a beat as she continued singing at the top of her lungs.
"You almost fell."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did." He couldn't stop laughing, though his grip never loosened for a second. Every time she leaned too far one way, he instinctively corrected it before she even noticed.
She huffed dramatically, twisting just enough to look down at him. "I didn't."
"You did."
"You're dramatic."
"I'm the one making sure you don't face-plant into fifty thousand people."
She rolled her eyes with an exaggerated groan before immediately throwing her hands back into the air again as the chorus hit, singing so loudly she drowned out even the speakers around them. Juraj just shook his head, smiling to himself as he kept one arm firmly around her legs.
"See?" he muttered, more to himself than to her. "This is exactly what I was talking about."
He looked up. She looked down. And the crowd quieted because now they were nose to nose. Breath to breath, centimetres from what they'd get teased for looking way too much like the Spider-Man kiss for people who insist they aren't dating. Her hair momentarily cast a shade over his face. For a second, neither of them said anything. He shivers, feeling y/n tangle her hands in his hair for balance, his eyes dropping to y/n's lips before pretending it didn't happen. Her breath hitches.
"I'm fine, Slaffy. I'm sturdy enough."
y/n squeezed his shoulders just to test the boundaries.
"yoy mean I'm sturdy enough?"
"Mmh"
He grins at y/n dismissive hum and looks back at the stage, but not before dipping his head to nip her thigh. Quick and teasing. Dismissable. But oh, y/n had a hunch she was going to have a hard time forgetting that feeling.
Then someone behind them screamed lyrics loud enough for y/n to realise she’d been in a moment entirely.
By the time the final set ended, nobody could feel their feet. Their group collapsed onto the grass. "I think I'm dying," somebody announced.
"Same."
"Same."
"you'll survived." Juraj's voice was amused as he steadied her by the waist, his hands still resting there from where he'd lifted her off his shoulders. Around them, the festival buzzed on—bass thumping through the ground, people laughing as they drifted between food trucks and stages, the late afternoon sun still warm against their skin. Glitter clung to her cheeks, and there was grass stuck to one of her boots.
"Barely," she muttered, rubbing at the ache in her thighs before looking up at him with an exaggerated glare.
A laugh escaped him, low and effortless. "y/n you weigh nothing."
"That is such a lie." She folded her arms across her chest, trying to look offended, though the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth ruined it.
He only shrugged, completely unbothered. "I carried hockey equipment heavier than you when I was twelve."
She stared at him for a beat before letting out a disbelieving laugh. "Oh my God."
"What?" His brows pulled together, genuinely confused, like he'd said the most normal thing in the world.
"you can't just say things like that." She reached over and shoved his shoulder, barely moving him an inch. "Do you hear youself?"
"It's true." He grinned, catching her wrist before she could swat him again, his fingers warm against her skin. "Besides, you spent half the day sitting on my shoulders. If I was struggling, I would've told you."
She rolled her eyes, though her cheeks warmed despite herself. "y/n version of reassuring someone is deeply concerning."
"My version is honest."
"And annoyingly cocky."
"you still had the best view, didn't y/n?"
She sighed dramatically before breaking into a smile. "...Yeah. I did."
She shoved his shoulder. Juraj barely moved, like actually barely moved. Because nothing about this man had changed from being built like a mountain. y/n friends watched the interaction with matching expressions.
"See?" Cole pointed. "There it is again."
"What?"
"The couple behaviour."
"We're not dating."
"I never said dating, I said couple. We all think you're sneaking around anyway."
"We're not."
"Sure."
Cole gets a packet of chips thrown at his head.
The conversation fizzles out but the peeks over never stop. Mostly just because everybody was too tired to continue arguing.
The next morning was slower.
Everyone looked a little worse for wear as they shuffled into the little café near the festival grounds, sunglasses hiding bloodshot eyes and coffees appearing on the table almost as quickly as everyone sat down. Half the group was still wearing yesterday's festival wristbands, and nobody had the energy to tease anyone for it.
Y/N had changed into a pair of denim shorts, her skin a shade darker than it'd been two days ago after hours under the summer sun. She was halfway through stealing fries off Juraj's plate—despite ordering her own breakfast—when one of the girls looked up from her coffee and nearly choked.
"...What the hell?"
The entire table looked over. Before anyone could figure out what she'd seen, Arber was already halfway out of his chair, pointing dramatically at Y/N's legs while reaching across the table to dap Juraj up. "My boy!"
Juraj blinked. "What?"
Arber grabbed his hand anyway. Juraj instinctively shoved him back down into his seat with a laugh, sending him stumbling against the booth.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Bro." Arber pointed again. "Look."
Everyone's eyes dropped to Y/N's thighs. She frowned, following their gaze. "...What?"
But then she saw them.
"Oh… oh, no."
Against the deep golden tan she'd picked up over the weekend were unmistakable pale airbrushed-looking patches. Not random ones. Handprints.Perfect, ridiculously clear handprints. Finger marks curved around the fronts of her thighs while broad palm prints sat against the sides, several shades lighter than the surrounding skin. They looked like someone had pressed paint-covered hands against her skin before she'd gone out into the sun. It was intimate to say the least. Silence lasted exactly one second until the table exploded.
"Oh my God."
"NO WAY."
"ARE THOSE—"
"THEY'RE SLAFKO'S!"
Juraj stopped laughing immediately. "...What?"
One of the girls leaned so far across the table that she was practically standing. "Those are yours."
"What?"
"Those."
He followed every pointing finger until his eyes landed on Y/N's legs. His smile disappeared for all of half a second. Then his ears turned unmistakably pink. Because… yeah. Those were absolutely his. His hands had been there almost the entire festival– every time the crowd surged forward, he'd instinctively tightened his grip around her thighs to stop her sliding off his shoulders. Every time she'd leaned too far while dancing, he'd caught her before she even realized she'd lost her balance. Hours. He'd been holding onto the exact same spots for hours. He slowly raised both hands in surrender.
"I can explain."
"You really can't," someone laughed.
Y/N stared down at her own legs in complete disbelief before looking back at him. "...you've got to be kidding me."
He bit the inside of his cheek. He was trying—trying—not to laugh. It wasn't working because the prints were enormous. Way bigger than anything accidentally semi-permanent had any right to be pressed into her thighs. A couple of smaller pale smudges sat higher up where friends had steadied her getting on and off his shoulders throughout the day, but the largest prints dwarfed them completely, resting perfectly on either side of her thighs. Exactly where Juraj's hands had been.
Suzuki whistled. "That's actually insane."
"I've never seen tan lines like that."
"y/n should frame them."
"No," Y/N groaned, burying her face in both hands. "Absolutely not."
"This is art."
"This is humiliation."
Juraj finally cracked. A laugh escaped him, followed by another, until he was bent over in his chair, shoulders shaking so hard he couldn't get a sentence out.
She kicked him lightly under the table.
"y/n're the worst."
"I'm—" He laughed again. "I'm sorry."
He wasn't. Not even remotely. One glance at his face confirmed that. Another friend leaned closer, studying the marks like they belonged in a museum.
"you literally have fingerprints."
"Stop talking."
The table dissolved into laughter again. Cole snorted. "y/n know what this proves?"
"What?"
"You reserved him."
Immediately, someone else shook their head. "No, no, no. He reserved her."
"What?"
"He carried her around on his shoulders for, like, six hours. That's basically calling dibs."
"Dibs?" Y/N repeated.
"Absolutely dibs."
Another friend pointed across the table. "Wrong. She texted him first about the festival. She asked if he was going. She reserved him."
"He literally wouldn't let anyone else carry her."
"Because he's six-four!"
"No, because he's obsessed."
"He is not."
"He held onto her like she was priceless."
"So she wouldn't fall!"
"Exactly."
The argument somehow gained momentum.
"I'm telling you, he reserved her."
"No, she reserved him."
"He didn't let go once."
"She didn't ask anyone else."
Juraj had gone uncharacteristically quiet. One hand covering his face, shoulders shaking with silent laughter, his ears still pink.
"You could help me," y/n muttered.
"I don't think I can."
"you absolutely can."
"I think..." He took a breath, failing to suppress another grin. "...I think they're making some compelling points."
Her jaw dropped.
"Oh, you’re unbelievable."
One friend was practically crying from laughing so hard.
"you two are ridiculous."
"We didn't do anything," Y/N protested.
"He literally branded you."
"I did not," Juraj defended.
"The evidence is sitting right there."
"I was stopping her from falling!"
"For six straight hours?"
"...She dances aggressively."
"I do not!"
"y/n almost fell seventeen times."
"That's an exaggeration."
"I counted."
The table erupted all over again.
Y/N groaned loud enough for nearby tables to hear.
"I'm never wearing shorts around any of y/n ever again."
"Probably smart."
"Especially until the handprints fade."
She pointed accusingly at Juraj.
"This is your fault."
He finally looked up, still smiling in that hopelessly guilty way that made it impossible to stay annoyed with him. "...Worth it."
Her eyes narrowed. "I cannot believe I voluntarily became your friend."
Juraj grinned. "Too late now."
One of their friends sighed dramatically, looking between the two of them. "The fact that you idiots still think this is a friendship is genuinely exhausting."
The table fell quiet for half a beat then, unfortunately, Y/N and Juraj spoke at exactly the same time. "We're just friends."
The synchronized answer only made everyone laugh harder—like it had unlocked something in the group. The teasing didn’t just continue, it snowballed. It followed them through the rest of breakfast, bouncing between tables like a joke that refused to die. It clung to their coffee cups, to the way someone kept nudging Y/N’s knee under the table every time Juraj reached for the sugar, to the knowing looks exchanged over toast and half-eaten plates. Even when they stood up to leave, it didn’t stop. It just changed shape.
It walked with them out of the café. It trailed behind them down the pavement in a loose cluster of sun-dazed, overcaffeinated friends. It lingered in the easy chaos of goodbyes—arms thrown around shoulders, promises shouted over each other, “next year, same place,” and “text me when you land,” and “don’t disappear again.”
And then, slowly, the group broke apart. Cars were found. Trunks opened. Keys jingled. People peeled away in different directions, the noise thinning until it was just fragments of laughter drifting across the parking lot. One by one, the group dissolved into exhaust fumes and waving hands.
Until there was nothing left but the two of them. Y/N and Juraj.
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, just… new. After days of constant noise, it felt almost too big. The festival grounds stretched out behind them in the distance, still faintly humming with leftover music and dismantled stages, but here it was quiet enough to hear the wind moving through the trees. Juraj leaned back against the side of his car, keys spinning loosely around one finger. Y/N mirrored him on the other side, shoulder pressed to the passenger door, arms folded loosely across her chest. Neither of them spoke right away. It was the kind of pause that felt like it had weight to it.
“you know,” Juraj said eventually, glancing sideways at her.
“No,” she answered immediately.
He laughed under his breath. “you don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“I know it was going to be annoying.”
“A little,” he admitted, like it wasn’t even up for debate.
She tilted her head back against the car window with a groan. “Go on then.”
He looked down at her instead of answering straight away. His eyes flicked, briefly, to the faint pale shapes still visible on her thighs—the handprints that hadn’t quite faded into anything normal yet. Then back up to her face. His expression softened in that quiet, unguarded way he never seemed to notice he did.
“you’ll probably lose the tan marks,” he said.
“Thankfully.”
“In a few weeks.”
“Hopefully sooner.”
A beat.
“But,” he added.
She sighed. “But?”
He shrugged one shoulder, still watching her like he wasn’t entirely finished with the moment. “It was a good weekend.”
That landed differently than the teasing. Softer. Heavier, in a way that didn’t ask for a response but still made her chest tighten slightly anyway. Y/N looked away for a second, pretending to study the empty parking lot, the scattered cars, the way the sky had fully shifted into late afternoon now. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter.
“Yeah,” she admitted. “It was.”
A small pause settled between them again, but this one didn’t feel empty. Just… full in a different way. Then Juraj pushed off the car. “Come here.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Hug.”
“you’re literally driving me home.”
“Hug.”
There was no real argument in it. Just certainty. Her eyes rolled so hard it was almost theatrical, but she still stepped forward anyway. Because not doing it would’ve been more effort than it was worth—and because, annoyingly, it felt natural. Juraj wrapped his arms around her easily, like he had done it a hundred times before and never once had to think about it. Solid. Warm. Familiar in a way that didn’t match how new everything was supposed to feel. Her cheek pressed briefly against his shoulder as he held her there a second longer than necessary.
Like he didn’t quite want to let go first. And that was when— “I KNEW IT!”
The voice shattered the quiet like glass, both of them jerked apart instantly. Half the group was still there. Because it seems now thadn’t left. They had hidden. Waiting. Absolutely unbearable. Arber was already laughing so hard he had to lean against a car door for support. Another person was holding their phone up like evidence in a court case.
Y/N made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a scream and buried her face in her hands immediately.
Juraj turned away, dragging a hand down his face. “Are y/n serious?”
The parking lot erupted again.
“WE LEFT YOU A PRIVATE MOMENT!”
“We were respecting the vibe!”
“No you weren’t!”
“We were observing!”
“You WERE SPYING!”
Their laughter carried across the asphalt, bouncing between cars, completely unbothered by either of their suffering.
Eventually, they really did leave this time—waving, still laughing, shouting things like “text us when you get engaged” and “we’ll be your bridesmaids” as they finally disappeared down the road. A few “piss off Arber”’s from the deep part of Slaf that was annoyed their words had broken the hug.
Y/N stayed where she was, still covering her face. “I hate all of them.”
Juraj smirked back beside her. “No you don’t.”
“I do.”
“Mhm.” A beat. Then, quieter, he added, “Ready to go?”
She nodded, still not looking at him. The interior was warm from the sun, the kind of heat that made the leather seats stick slightly against skin. The engine started with a low rumble, and for a while, it was just road noise and the distant fading of the festival behind them. Y/N stared out the window. Juraj drove one-handed, relaxed, the other resting loosely near the gear shift. They didn’t talk much at first. Then, as the road opened up and the trees blurred slightly past them, Juraj’s hand shifted. Not dramatically. Not like he meant to make it noticeable. Just… casually. He reached across the centre console while keeping his eyes on the road, fingers brushing lightly over her thigh. Right over one of the fading handprints. Y/N froze. Her breath caught so sharply she had to look down to confirm it was real. His palm settled there for a second longer than necessary—warm, steady, completely unbothered by the fact that it made her entire nervous system short-circuit. Her heart did something extremely unhelpful in response. Juraj didn’t look at her, just smirked a little, still focusing on the road, barely outwardly acknowledging it at all. Like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like he hadn’t just made the entire car feel ten degrees smaller. After a moment, he pulled his hand back to the wheel, still focused on the road ahead. Y/N swallowed, staring very hard out the window. Behind her ribs, her heart was doing something she was absolutely not going to think about. And Juraj, still driving like nothing had happened, said mildly, “Seatbelt’s still on, right?”
You thought you’d have to convince Sid to like your baby names, but turns out his list is just as hippie as yours
cw: lightly insinuated age gap, very fluffy, anxious reader, & this being the product of Gigi rewriting it 4 times - part two: here
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Everybody assumed that being pregnant would make you emotional about the big things:
~ the first kick
~the first ultrasound
~finding out the gender
But unfortunately not a single person warned you that you'd nearly cry because of a list of names. Especially not a list that belonged to your husband. Because if there was one thing you thought you knew about Sidney Crosby, it was that he liked tradition. Not in a boring way. Just in a... Sidney way. The man drove sensible cars, folded laundry immediately after it came out of the dryer, and still wrote grocery lists on actual paper. He called his grandmother every Sunday. He wore the same lucky hoodie for years. He still thought getting to the airport three hours early was "cutting it close despite record levels of successful travel experience. Traditional. Steady. Predictable. Wonderful.
Which was why you'd been quietly preparing yourself for the baby name conversation for months. You were six months pregnant now, the nursery half-finished upstairs and tiny clothes slowly taking over every available surface in the house. Sidney had embraced every single one of your baby purchases. Every single one. The knitted duck booties. The cloud-shaped nightlights that dimmed and illuminated on Bluetooth timers just so your baby wouldn’t have to get used to the big light right after waking up or before going to sleep when your hands were too full rocking them to turn down the dial manually near the switch. There were the tiny overalls that were objectively impractical but made you want to cry because they were so small. The 0-3 month Wellington boots because that’s when the baby wouldn’t be experiencing their first spring despite having no functioning ability to actually walk in them. The stuffed goose you'd bought purely because its face looked ridiculous and it looked kind enough in the boutique store for you to pout already thinking about teaching baby Crosby how to make friends. Every time you'd come home carrying another bag, Sidney would just smile and ask where you wanted it. You'd always interpreted that the same way. Sidney lets me have whatever I want. Which was sweet, but absolutely not mutually exclusive to agreeing with you. Because in your head, there was a difference between letting your pregnant wife buy a stuffed bunny and actually wanting your child named something unconventional.
You'd spent months carefully constructing a strategy. Ease him into it. Start with names that weren't too unusual. Work your way up. Don't immediately hit him with the ones you actually loved. You were absolutely convinced he'd want something like William, or James, or maybe even Richie if he was having a particularly well going about day. Something dignified, something that sounded like it came with a trust fund and a bath robe with their initials on it for every age. Meanwhile your own list looked significantly less conservative. Nothing crazy. Just softer names. Warmer names. Names that sounded like sunshine and wildflowers and storybooks. The sort of names you assumed Sidney would need convincing on. Which was why you hadn't actually shown him the full list yet. You'd only dropped hints. Tested the waters. Started reading candle labels aloud for him in stores just to see what he was more inclined to want in your home. Gathering data was a good way to put it. Like a scientist. A very hormonal scientist who was lowkey more petrified of getting her heart broken over something so important. Which is partly why you’d withheld this long in the first place.
Today, however, your carefully constructed plan completely exploded entirely by accident. It started because Sidney had left his notebook on the kitchen counter. Normally you wouldn't go through it. Not because it was special, but because it wasn’t unusually to just be there. Sidney loved his notebooks. Like genuinely, you got into fabric decorating a few years ago, and he carried around the leather-cased notebook you gold-foiled your anniversary on every day until it ran out. But even then, he keeps it in the top drawer of his desk like a prized possession. There were hockey notes, training schedules, random reminders. The man wrote everything down. Said actually putting it on paper helped it feel more real to remember. But you'd been looking for a pen. A simple pen. And when you opened the notebook, thinking it was empty paper— You froze. Because written across the top of the page was: BABY NAMES. You blinked. Then immediately felt guilty despite the fact the two of you always shared everything. Which probably came from hiding this one particular topic. The guilt was quickly followed by curiosity, which led immediately to you deciding curiosity was stronger than guilt. Just this once. It really would be informative to look. You lowered yourself onto a stool. And started reading. The first name made you stop.
Sunny
You stared. Sunny? You looked around the empty kitchen, making sure your perception wasn't warping anywhere else. Then back to the page. Sunny Crosby. You read it again. Maybe it was a coincidence, maybe he'd heard it somewhere. Maybe— Your eyes dropped lower.
Birdie Sunny
Goldie Holden
Dove Phoenix
Poppy Archer
Honey Wren
You stopped breathing. Birdie. Birdie! Your husband: Sidney Crosby. Captain Serious. Mr. Traditional. Had written Birdie Crosby on a list. You flipped the page. There were more... so many more.
Hope Levi
Iris Ever
Hazel Fox
Marigold Cedar
You actually covered your mouth. "Oh, my God." Because not only were these names unconventional. They were somehow significantly more hippy than yours. Your list suddenly looked conservative. You'd been preparing arguments, research, and cute nicknames. Meanwhile, Sidney had apparently been sitting around inventing woodland fairies. The moment may as well have been directly added to your core memories because finding out your husband's list of names he wanted to bring into the house, having been essentially what yours was before you told yourself you needed to turn it down, sent enough emotions through your body that it more or less made you feel like you were glowing in the best way. Surprise after all these years. He still surprised you after all these years.
Your eyes found little notes scribbled beside some names.
River - feels peaceful.
Sunny - impossible to be sad saying this.
Birdie - adorable.
Willow - sounds kind.
You genuinely felt your heart squeeze. There was something devastatingly sweet about seeing how he'd thought about them. Not whether they sounded professional. Not whether they'd look good on a business card, just how they felt.How kind they sounded. How happy they sounded. Your vision blurred. Pregnancy hormones were dangerous. You sniffed. Then sniffed again. Then suddenly started crying. Not dramatic crying. Just quiet emotional tears. Because somehow this ridiculous man had managed to surprise you again. You'd assumed he was tolerating your dreams. Supporting them because he loved you. Meanwhile he'd apparently been dreaming right alongside you. Maybe even further. The front door opened. "Hey sweetheart?"
You heard hockey gear hit the floor. Then footsteps. Then: "...why are you crying?" You looked up. Sidney froze halfway into the kitchen. Immediate panic. The kind he always got whenever you cried. His eyes dropped to your face. Then the notebook. Then your face again. Then the notebook. His expression changed. "Oh." You pointed accusingly. "What is this?"
His ears turned pink immediately, you almost had to suppress awing at him and it made you wonder if Baby Crosby would inherit his adorable sense of Canadian accountability. Which told you everything. "Oh no," you said. "You're embarrassed."
"I'm not embarrassed."
"You are."
"I'm not."
"You wrote Birdie." His face somehow became even redder.
"Oh my God."
"No it's so adorable, you wrote Birdie."
Sidney rubbed the back of his neck. "It is cute."
You laughed through your tears. The poor man looked trapped. Like he'd been caught doing something illegal. Instead of secretly liking adorable baby names. "I thought you wanted traditional names."
Now he looked confused. "What?"
"Traditional names."
"Why?"
You stared. "Because you're you." That apparently wasn't enough of an explanation because now he looked even more confused. "What does that mean?"
"You know."
"No." "You fold fitted sheets."
"That's not related."
"It absolutely is." He laughed, actually laughed. Then walk over and gently took the notebook from your hands. You watched him flip through the pages gently as if the paper itself was as delicate as the sentiment. Still blushing, adorable.
"How long have you had this?"
It was impossible to say the question didn't land with how it caused Sidney's entire face to change. It wasn't dramatic—just a tiny hesitation, a brief glance away—but after years together she knew exactly what it meant. Vulnerability. Immediate, undeniable rawness to the room. Your eyes narrowed. "Sidney."
"I don't know."
"That's a lie.”
"It's not a lie."
"You know exactly how long." He sighed through his nose, already losing the battle. "Maybe..." Another pause. "Maybe since the first ultrasound."
You stared at him. The first ultrasound had been almost four months ago. Four months. Four months of him carrying this notebook around. Four months of not knowing the gender. Four months of secretly adding names and little notes and star ratings. Four months of quietly imagining a tiny person that didn't even exist in the world yet.
"Sidney." Your voice came out much smaller than she'd intended. "The *first* ultrasound?"
His ears immediately started turning pink. "Yeah."
You looked down at the page again. Suddenly all the different handwriting made sense. Some names were darker, some lighter, some squeezed into margins, some crossed out and rewritten. This wasn't a random list he'd made one evening. It was months of collecting little pieces of their future. Months of seeing a name somewhere and thinking about their baby. Months of dreaming. Your throat tightened painfully. "You've been carrying this around for four months?"
He shrugged, suddenly fascinated by the table. "Sometimes I'd hear one and write it down."
–You could have cried right there.
While you had been assuming she cared more, assuming you were the one obsessing over tiny clothes and nursery decorations and baby names, whilst he hyperfocused on your safety mainly but also very intensely focused on stroller safety and air purifiers, Sidney had apparently been doing his own version in secret. Quietly. Patiently. Like he did everything. You reached for the notebook again, turning another page and finding even older entries. Some had dates beside them. Actual dates.
"You *dated* them?"
Sidney looked caught. "Maybe."
"You made a timeline?"
"Maybe."
Your eyes immediately filled with tears. "Oh, that's devastating."
"Why?"
"Because you're so excited." His expression softened instantly, the embarrassed smile slipping into something gentler. Something honest. "Yeah," he admitted quietly, looking down at the list. "I really am."
And somehow that was the sentence that finally broke you, because he said it so simply. No jokes. No teasing. Just the truth. Four months of secret lists and scribbled notes and names that sounded like they belonged in a storybook, and all of it because he was already completely in love with someone he hadn't even met yet.
"You had Birdie locked away for months?" He groaned. "Can we stop talking about Birdie?" "No."
"Please."
"Never." He dropped his forehead onto your shoulder. You could feel him smiling, wide, obnoxious, surrounded in his own love, smiling, and suddenly it was nothing to do with the notebook still trapped in his hands anymore.
"You thought I'd hate your names?" he asked quietly.
You nodded. "A little."
His head lifted immediately. "What?"
You shrugged. "Not hate."
"But?"
"I don't know." He watches you mumble as she picks at the sleeve of his shirt. "I just thought maybe you'd have a baseline."
"A baseline?" Sidney's eyebrows raise like that was borderline painful to believe.
"You know.. like normal names."
"Normal names?" The amusement in his voice was getting unbearable. You point directly back at the notebook which is still face up lying there like a moral presentation. "You named a child Ocean."
"It was a possibility."
"A possibility?"
"Yeah."
"You wrote three stars beside it." His laugh echoed through the kitchen. Loud. Uncontrolled. Your favorite version to watch when his eyes crinkle and he smiles wide. "You counted the stars?"
"Obviously."
He sat beside you.One hand immediately finding your stomach. Instinctively protective as ever in a way that had no way of being suppressed for a man as attentive as Sid. "You really thought I was secretly hoping for William?"
You looked away like maybe he got it a little too on the head in a way that shouldn’t have been so surprising for a man that studied you like art. The grin on his face grew. "Sweetheart." That tone. The soft one. The one that always melted you. The next things he says however could have been offensive given he was using it in reason. Even if he garnishes his amusement in genuine warmth.
"You bought our baby a blueberry pie pillow because it had a face on it."
"Okay?"
"You decorated the nursery around ducks."
"They're cute." "You cried over tiny overalls."
"They were emotional overalls."
"They were denim. They were tiny and Carhartt Sidney."
He laughed again, then squeezed your knee. "I never thought you'd pick names I didn't like."
Your chest tightens as it all seems to sink in again. The realization wobbles from your lip as you speak.
"Really?"
"Really."
The answer came immediately. Certain, like it wasn't even a question. In a way that made every other option feel like it was trespassing through your mind instead of being valuable like you had thought. He looked down at your stomach. At the baby. At the future. Then back at you. "I like the things you like."
Your eyes immediately filled again. It really would just be easier to make friends with it at this point.. "Oh no."
"What?"
"Don't say sweet things."
He grinned. "Why? I’m your husband."
"Because I'll cry."
"You already are crying."
"Exactly." His thumb brushed away a tear. Gentle, patient. The way he always handled you. Especially lately. Pregnancy had somehow made him even softer. Which seemed impossible. "I just thought," you admitted quietly, "that maybe you were going along with all the baby stuff because you wanted me to be happy."
His expression immediately softened, the teasing disappearing quicker than it came. And suddenly he looked almost heartbroken. "Baby." Just that one word. Baby. You already knew. "I am going along with it because you make me happy."
Your face crumpled immediately. "Oh, that's awful."
He laughed, full and homly. "That's not awful."
"It made me emotional."
"Everything makes you emotional."
"That's mean."
"It's true." He replies, but based on the smile on his face, you'd have to take it in stride as a compliment. He kissed your forehead, then your cheek. Then finally re-rested his hand over yours on your stomach. "You know what I think?"
"What?"
"I think our kid's gonna have a weird name."
You snorted. "A weird name?”
"A little."
"You wrote Cedar."
"I stand by Cedar."
"You wrote Fox."
"I still like Fox." And unfortunately that one makes you nod, looking down at you lap like you’re starting to finally, deep in your bones, accept the truth. You were both on the same weird page and there was no longer any safety in ignoring it. Because his opinion mattered more than anyone else’s to you and now it was sealed, his solidarity was real.
"You wrote Ocean." His grin widened. "Okay Ocean might've been ambitious."
"Ambitious?"
"Too much?"
"Sidney."
"What, I grew up by the ocean that makes it sentimental" And to be fair, you couldn’t fight it. Not something that cute. So instead you just lean into his shoulder. The familiar haven you found beneath your temple times on end. Disciplined muscle, structure, safety. Warm, comfortable, home.
His hand leaves your stomach for just a millisecond to tap the page with complete sincerity. "Plus, the first baby's name matters," you peek one eye open to see his theatrics. "All baby names matter."
"No, but the first one especially. It sets the vibe."
You immediately feel a giggle making its way up your throat. "Sets the vibe?"
"Yeah." He gestured vaguely with both hands, clearly believing this was a completely normal statement. "People hear the oldest kid's name, and they get a feel for the family”
“If you got to set the vibe, you'd start playing Phil Collins and dim the lights."
Sidney's hands fly in your direction as if you'd accidentally supported his argument perfectly. "Phil Collins named his daughter Lily."
You blink out of sheer knowledge that this is the way this conversation is going. He's fully committing himself to this reference now. "You know that?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because it's a nice name." This is hilariously unbelievable– you think, his own mother probably wouldn't believe this is happening if you told her. Well, the act of him researching something connected to something in his life absolutely, but not this subject, never in a million years.
"You searched for Phil Collins' children?"
"I didn't search—" He stopped when he saw your expression and then immediately folded after getting a sense, aka your glare, that he was in too deep to hesitate now. "Okay, maybe I looked up a few celebrity baby names."
You couldn't help but shift to face him more, laughing so hard your bump tightened, but she wasn't passing up front row seats to this event, even though she was the only other one besides the dog here. "You are unbelievable." Sidney, meanwhile, looked entirely pleased with himself. "Lily Collins is successful!"
"That's not how baby names work."
"I think it helps." And god, unfortunately that was as handsome of an answer as you could expect him to counter you on. Because reminded you of how sweet he was. Despite his career he was still built deep down on being genuinely optimistic.
"You think being named Lily got her acting jobs?"
"I'm saying it's a strong start."
Sid counters because your entire relationship was supported by banter and honesty, and now he just had another jury member to persuade, the fact that they're in your womb manages to dampen the conviction none at all. You try to contain yourself but every tear that falls from laughing out runs you at this point.
"So your strategy for naming our child is apparently woodland fairy meets Phil Collins?"
"I think that's a reasonable middle ground."
The fact that he sounded genuinely serious only made your laugh harder while Sidney sat there nodding thoughtfully, as though he'd just delivered a groundbreaking parenting philosophy. And maybe he had with how the notebook was still resting between you. Full of evidence that he'd been imagining this baby just as much as you had. Maybe more. You looked down at the page again. At the scribbled names. The little notes beside them. At the stars, underlines, and crossed-out ideas, months of dreaming, months of excitement. Months of him quietly building a future in his head. Probably years now that you can think with a little more clarity. Your future. Together. Like you’d always had been since day one. And suddenly one name caught your eye again. Birdie. You smiled teasing and coy but also true in a way that happened to run through your blood now. "Birdie's cute."
Sidney groaned so loudly that you nearly fell off the stool laughing. But when you looked up, he was smiling too and somehow that made your heart melt even more.
"I still have to show you my list by the way" you poke just to seal the deal, but it doesn't really work because he's already taking your hand and saying, "I've already read it three times, but lead the way, honey!" “You did what-?” “You linked me to the note!” “You saw that? You never look at your notes app!” He just kisses the side of your head, “I see everything you send me, sweetheart.” So maybe it wasn't so bad.
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author's note: hi lovies! Like I said, I re-wrote this 4 times to the point that I can't actually focus on whether this is good or not because I keep replaying the same words. i will definitely dive more into fluffy sid and preg!reader another time i just had to get this out before i scrapped it. i really hope you liked it tho, thank you for reading xx
where Macklin's fiancée told him it was his fault their toddler wasn't weaning off her dummy (pacifier) successfully and mack thought that was rude until he gets home, and his daughter starts crying when she sees the tape replays of her daddy chomping on his mouthguard every bench. ~ only proof read once so it might be chaotic x
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The argument started over something so small it barely deserved the word argument, which was exactly why Macklin Celebrini didn’t take it seriously at first.
“I’m just saying,” you said, leaning against the kitchen counter with the kind of calm voice that meant she was absolutely not calm, “you’re not helping.”
Macklin blinked. “Not helping with what?”
She lifted their toddler onto her hip, the little girl immediately sticking her pacifier back in her mouth like it was a life-support device. “Weaning her off the dummy.”
Now that got his attention. “Okay, I am helping.”
“You’re not,” you say simply.
“I am literally here,” he says, gesturing to himself as if his physical presence should settle the matter. “That’s help.”
You give him a look. “Yes, the both of us being here means the world. But Yesterday you let her fall asleep with two dummies because she convinced you she was ‘extra tired’ even though she fought off her nap to argue.”
“She was extra tired,” he defended. “It was a double-header nap situation.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is.”
You sighed, shifting the exact toddler in question higher on your hip. “Every time I take it away, she looks at me like I’ve personally betrayed her. And then you walk in, smile at her, and hand it back like you’re awarding her a trophy.”
Macklin frowned. “She likes it.”
“She loves it,” you corrected. “That’s the problem.”
Baby girl, sensing tension, removes the dummy followed by a very serious “uh-oh.”
Macklin softened immediately. “See? She’s fine.”
“She is not fine just because shes not crying. She’s stil emotionally attached to plastic.”
Macklin opened his mouth, then closed it again. Because unfortunately, there was no good counterargument to that. So he tried a different angle. “She’s teething.”
“She has been teething since she was born.”
“That’s not true.”
“It feels true.”
The toddler reached out for Macklin, the pacifier still dangling from her fingers like a lifeline. He took her instinctively, bouncing her lightly on his arm. She immediately relaxed, latching back onto the dummy like it was a garnish on every action she participated in. You couldn't help it, it was right there happening and your heart ached a little that he would just let her go back on all you’d spent almost every day this week actively working on, and he didn’t even make a comment about it once. “See? That. That is your fault.”
Macklin froze mid-bounce. “My fault?”
“Yes.”
“What did I do?”
“You reinforced it Mack… C’mon, every time she cries, you go full emergency mode and give her the dummy like you’re disarming a bomb.”
“It is an emergency,” he argued. “She cries like it’s an emergency.”
“She is a toddler, she cries when we give her breakfast and she forgets she likes blueberries"
“Exactly, she's sensitive, that’s not her fault”
She exhaled through her nose. “You’re making this harder.”
Macklin shifted the toddler to his other arm, suddenly very defensive. “So what, I’m just supposed to let her scream and do nothing?”
“No,” you said. “You’re supposed to be consistent.”
“I am consistent.”
“You are emotionally consistent,” you correct, sighing through your nose trying to keep this as and informative discussion not a fight. “Not behaviourally consistent.”
“That sounds made up.”
“It’s not made up.”
The toddler chose that moment to dramatically drop her dummy onto the floor and begin whimpering like she had just lost her entire inheritance. Macklin immediately bent to pick it up. And, unfortunately, it was evidence of his reflex. Your voice cuts in before he could reach it, “Don’t.”
His hesitation made your toddler escalate. Just wanting to get her dummy back from her daddy despite him not being the one who took it from her. Because that was the thing, babies learn what gets reactions, and in this case she knew Mack always soothed her back with it. Instead, Macklin actually took a moment to look between them like a man negotiating two opposing governments. “She’s escalating.”
“She’s negotiating,”
“She’s losing.”
“She’s learning.”
Macklin sighed. “This is cruel.”
“No, being cruel is letting her not learn how to be calm without a plastic chew toy. This is parenting.”
He looked down at the tiny, very upset human in his arms and made a decision that he absolutely believed was emotionally strategic. “Fine. We’ll do it your way.”
Your cheek is bitten, weary of the actual amount of success another time around would bring, but it's not like the option to give up was available or even in your heart. “Promise?”
“Yeah,” he said quickly. “I promise.”
You study him like you really need him to stick to believing his own commitments. “Okay,” you reply slowly. “But if you keep undermining me, she’s never going to drop it.”
“I am not undermining you.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“…I am occasionally supporting her emotional autonomy,” he amended.
“That’s not what that is.”
He smiled faintly. “It kind of is.”
You shook your head, but there was the slightest hint of a smile now. “Just try. One week. No dummy unless I say so.”
Macklin nodded solemnly. “One week. Got it.” The toddler immediately slapped his cheek affectionately and stuck her thumb back in her mouth like she had just won the negotiation.
By the end of the week, Macklin thought he had actually done pretty well. There had been some chaos, sure. Some sleepless nights. One dramatic 6 a.m. meltdown that involved the toddler crawling after a forgotten dummy like it was a lost relic. But overall? Progress. He was feeling confident. Maybe even smug. Which is why he didn’t think twice when you put on a game replay later that night.
They were on the couch, toddler between them, a blanket piled over her legs. Macklin had his arm around both of them, relaxed in that post-game, post-practice exhaustion he knew too well. “Oh, this is from last month,” you remember, scrubbing through the footage.
“Yeah,” Macklin said, half watching. The toddler was half-watching too, more interested in chewing the corner of her toy than anything else. Then the replay cut to him on the bench, which is arguable where it took a dive for the worst. Not for the game. For the particular audience viewing. On full big screen replay was your man, your fiancee, the father of your child, Macklin Celebrini, in full gear, visor up, chomping down on his mouthguard like it personally owed him money. The sound wasn’t audible in the living room, but she didn’t need it. She knew that look. The focus. The chewing. The unconscious rhythm of it. Your words didn't need to hit him first because every bone in Mack’s body knew what your sudden silence said so he gathered to have the first say-
“It’s concentration,” he said defensively.
“It’s aggression chewing.”
“It’s a habit.”
The toddler paused. Then looked up. To her parents and then back to the screen. On the replay, he was still chewing the mouthguard. Slow. Repetitive. Distractedly intense. Her lip trembled. Mack didn’t notice at first, still too busy drafting more time for defence when she made a small sound– A confused, uneasy whimper. You noticed immediately. “Oh no.”
“What?” Macklin asked.
The toddler suddenly pointed at the TV. “Da,” she said softly but still wobbling.
“Yes,” Macklin smiled, still overjoyed when she recognised him even after she'd developed well past that learning phase. “That’s me—”
Then the replay showed him biting down harder on the mouthguard again. The toddler’s eyes filled instantly. And she started crying. Not the usual toddler crying. Not hunger crying or tired crying. This was a distressed realization crying. Like she had just discovered something deeply unsettling about the world.
Macklin froze. “Wait—what?”
you covered her mouth, trying not to laugh. “Oh my god.”
“She’s crying,” he said, alarmed. “Why is she crying?”
The toddler buried her face into her mother’s shoulder, sobbing like she had just witnessed betrayal on an existential level. Macklin pointed at the TV. “It’s just me on the bench!”
“You are chewing it just like she does!”
“It’s a mouthguard!”
“It’s for safety not stimulus- it’s meant to stay all the way in your mouth!”
The toddler peeked out, saw it again on the replay, and immediately dissolved back into tears burying her face in his shoulder. "Daddy gets dummy."
Macklin sighed realising avoiding his participation in the bare bones of this situation wasn’t ever going to end up helping. "Okay."
He looked at the television, then at his daughter, then back at the television. And suddenly he couldn't unsee it. Every clip, every replay, every bench shot. There he was – chewing, gnawing. The repetition of working the mouthguard around his mouth like it was essential life support. The toddler sniffled against him, still emotionally wounded. Macklin tightened his arms around slightly and rested his chin on her hair. A reluctant realization was settling in, because maybe you hadn't been entirely wrong. Children copied everything, especially their parents. And unfortunately their daughter adored him, which meant she watched everything he did. The way he sat, the way he talked, the way he laughed, the way he chewed. Apparently the way he obsessively gnawed on his mouthguard too.
The toddler finally lifted her head. "Daddy."
"Yeah?"
She reached up and poked his mouth, which in the present wasn't actually occupied by anything. "Daddy dummy."
“It’s not a dummy baby, its a-”
“NO daddy dummy!”
“Mouthgaurd. Safety-”
“NO DADDY DUMMY DADDY DUMMY", she was relentless once she knew what she was fighting for. Macklin looked down at his daughter who was still staring blatantly – as if she was offended he didn’t understand the severity of the issue. "Tell you what," he said.
Her eyes narrowed. "We'll work on giving up your dummy." She looked doubtful so he continued, making a choice on his weighted options. "And Daddy will stop chewing his mouthguard."
The room went suddenly noticeably stiller. Your eyebrows shot upward so fast it almost made you dizzy. Your toddler just blinked, slower now but still sticky with tears.
"Daddy no dummy?"
Macklin immediately regretted everything, but it was too late now. "No dummy."
The tiny face brightened "Together?"
His heart nearly exploded, because she was smiling now. Trusting him, wanting to do it together. Looking over he saw you suddenly looking very emotional for someone who'd spent the last ten minutes laughing at him. And Mack was the type to hold his daughter's peace in the list of precious things he wanted to keep the most in his life. Her arms wrapping around his neck in reaction, squishing her little hands into where they don’t quite connect at the back, loving the fact that she had all her rights to melt into her daddy. Maybe all this time she’d just needed solidarity. Maybe so did he. "Yeah, bug. Together."
And from the kitchen came the most infuriatingly smug voice imaginable. "Told you it was your fault."
Macklin closed his eyes, the television replayed another clip of him chewing his mouthguard like a Labrador with separation anxiety. And unfortunately, for the first time all day, he couldn't even argue.
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An: I’m not really a Mack girl (also first time writing for him) but I couldn’t pass up the idea especially when Im already working on the crosby!babyname fic, also mo name for babygirl Celebrini yet so she can just be little shark for now, drop your suggestions if you want
the 4-part unfinished JSlaf fic looking at me scroll past it to work on a Celebrini idea I thought about today and finished in 30 minutes vs me just trying to stay safe and live my best life
an: the pic on the right if my favourite of alex, I loveeee her smmm!
