genre: domestic fluff, realistic family romance, slice-of-life.
warnings: mild pregnancy discomfort, very light parenting tension (resolved quickly and lovingly), zero angst.
summary: nhl forward will smith and you are raising ten-year-old twin boys, charles and theo, who both dream of going pro. will’s intensity on the ice has always been part of the package, but now that the boys are hitting the age where hockey starts to feel like work, his ‘hockey-dad mode’ is creating tiny cracks at home especially with a baby girl due any week. a quiet kitchen conversation after practice reminds everyone that love, not pressure, is what keeps a family (and a dream) alive.
fia’s note: ahh finally got to update another dad!will smith fic for you guys, i’ve genuinely missed being on here and just… yapping with everyone 😭 especially about dad!player thoughts you know, those ‘what if in another universe…’ kind of ideas that slowly turn into full-on storylines in my head at 2am, there’s just something about domestic, soft, slightly chaotic dad energy that i can’t let go of like the idea of him balancing hockey and fatherhood, being strict one minute and then the softest dad ever the next… yeah i think about that way too much. anyway!! if you ever wanna come talk, share ideas, scream about fics, or just yap in general, please don’t be shy 🫶 my anon ask box is always open and i really do love hearing from you guys it makes writing all of this feel even more special!! i missed you guys a lot, truly. thank you for sticking around and being so sweet and supportive, hope you enjoy this dad!will fic 💙
fia’s masterlist | pow-wow box
“You can’t be serious, Mom. Dad made us do bag skates again.”
Theo dropped his hockey bag on the kitchen floor with a thud, cheeks still flushed from the rink. At ten he was already the spitting image of Will. You shifted on the couch, one hand resting on the very round swell of your belly, and tried not to laugh at the sheer injustice painted across his face.
“Bag skates, huh?”
“Twice,”
Theo groaned, flopping sideways so his head landed in your lap like he was still five.
“Charles kept up, but I was dying. Dad kept yelling ‘You want the NHL? Then earn it!’ like we’re already in the draft or something.”
Charles wandered in behind him, quieter, cheeks just as red but mouth set in a determined line. He was the mirror twin same features, opposite energy. Where Theo exploded, Charles simmered. He set his own bag down more carefully and shrugged.
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“It was so bad,” Theo muttered into your sweater.
“And Grandpa was there so Dad went full coach mode. I swear he smiled when I puked in the trash can.”
You ran your fingers through Theo’s sweaty hair, heart doing that familiar tug-of-war. Part of you wanted to defend Will, he was only trying to give them the head start he never had. The other part, the very pregnant, very tired part, ached at the thought that their favorite sport was starting to feel like a chore.
Before you could answer, the garage door rumbled open. Boots on tile, the familiar clink of keys in the bowl, and then Will’s voice, warm and a little winded, floated in.
“Boys! How we feeling after that session? Told you the second round would build character.”
Theo made a sound like a dying walrus and buried his face deeper into your side.
Will appeared in the doorway still in his Sharks hoodie, and the sight of him hit you the same way it had since the very first day you met him at a charity skate twelve years ago. Thirty now, two kids deep (three any minute), and somehow he still glowed. Fatherhood had only sharpened it, made it softer around the edges.
He clocked the scene immediately, Theo dramatically horizontal, Charles hovering like a referee waiting for a penalty call, and you trying to keep a straight face while rubbing slow circles on your belly.
“Rough one?”
Will asked, voice dropping into that gentle register he saved for home.
Theo lifted his head just enough to glare.
“You made us skate until I saw stars, Dad.”
Will’s eyebrows rose, but the smile never left. He crossed the room in three strides, dropped a kiss on your forehead, then ruffled both boys’ hair.
“Stars are good. Means you’re pushing. You said you wanted to play pro, right?”
“Yeah, but not today,” Theo mumbled.
Charles stayed quiet, but you caught the way his shoulders sagged just a fraction.
You reached up and squeezed Will’s wrist.
“Babe, can we talk after they shower and eat? I think the troops need a debrief.”
Will’s eyes met yours, the same look he gave you across the ice when he knew you were watching from the family box. He nodded once.
“Absolutely. Shower, dinner, then we’ll circle up. Sound good?”
The boys trudged upstairs, feet heavy on the steps. Will lingered, hand settling over yours on your belly. The baby girl inside gave a lazy kick right on cue.
“Hey, princess,” he whispered, leaning down so his forehead touched yours.
“Your brothers are dramatic tonight.”
“They’re ten,” you said softly.
“And their dad is kinda intense.”
He huffed a laugh, but there was a flicker of something uncertainty, maybe behind the easy charm.
“Intense is what got me here, babe.”
“I know.” You brushed a thumb across his cheek. “We’ll talk.”
Dinner was just like any others dinner, spaghetti, too much garlic bread, Charles reenacting a deke he pulled in practice while Theo stole meatballs off everyone’s plates. Will told stories from the road trip last week, hands flying like he was still on the ice. The boys laughed in all the right places, but you noticed Theo’s glances toward you, like he was waiting for backup.
After plates were cleared and teeth brushed, the twins climbed into their bunk beds, Charles on top because he liked the view out the window, Theo on bottom because he liked being closer to the door in case of ‘midnight snacks.’ Will read them one chapter of the hockey book they were on, doing the goofy voices that always cracked them up. By the time he closed the door, the house had settled into that rare, golden quiet that only happened after bedtime.
You were already in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a mug of herbal tea when Will padded in, socks sliding on the tile.
He didn’t speak at first. Just wrapped his arms around you from behind, careful of your belly, and rested his chin on your shoulder. The familiar scent of his shampoo and the faint trace of rink ice clung to him.
“Alright,” he murmured against your neck.
“Lay it on me. I can tell you’ve been thinking since Theo face-planted in your lap.”
You turned in his arms so you could see his face. Up close, the tiny worry lines between his brows were new fatherhood lines, you liked to call them.
“Theo said you went pretty hard today,” you started gently.
“Bag skates twice. He puked.”
Will winced. “He told you that part.”
“He did. And Charles didn’t say much, but I saw his face. Will… they’re ten. They love hockey. They talk about playing in the NHL the same way they talk about ice cream for breakfast. But if it stops feeling like fun—”
“I know.”
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair.
“I keep thinking about my own dad. He never pushed, but he also never had the chance to. I was the one who had to figure it out alone. I just… I look at them and I see so much potential. They’re fast, they’re smart, they’ve got hands. If they really want this, I want them ready. Every hockey dad I know starts the grind early. I figured ten was old enough to start building the habits.”
You reached up and smoothed the worry line with your thumb.
“I get it. I really do. And at first I thought the same thing, when they turned ten and started getting wild, a little structure felt right. But babe, there’s a difference between structure and… well, making them puke and then come home looking like someone kicked their puppy.”
Will’s shoulders dropped. He pulled you closer, one hand splayed protectively over your belly where the baby girl was doing slow somersaults.
“I don’t want them to hate it,” he said quietly.
“God, that’s the last thing I want. I just… I see the path, you know? The one that’s hard and long and full of kids who quit at fifteen because no one ever taught them how to grind. I thought if I started now, they’d thank me later.”
“They will thank you,” you said, “but maybe not for the puking part.”
A small laugh escaped him, warm against your hair.
“Fair.”
You stayed like that for a minute, the kitchen clock ticking softly, the baby doing her nightly dance between you.
“I’m not saying stop coaching them,” you continued.
“You’re incredible at it. They light up when you praise them. But maybe we ease up on the ‘every practice is a tryout’ vibe. Let them goof off sometimes. Let them remember why they fell in love with the game in the first place because it’s fun, because they get to be on the ice with their dad, because they get to come home and tell their very pregnant mom all about it.”
Will was quiet for a long beat, then nodded against you.
“I hear you. Loud and clear.”
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, that same glowing, heart-stopping smile slowly returning.
“When did you get so wise?”
“Pregnancy hormones and ten years of watching you be the hottest dad on the planet,” you teased.
He grinned, the full Will Smith megawatt version that still made your stomach flip even at thirty weeks pregnant.
“Hottest, huh?”
“Objectively. The league’s official stats.”
He laughed, and kissed you, the kind of kiss that said thank you and I love you and we’ve got this all at once.
When he pulled away, his hands framed your face.
“Tomorrow I’ll take them to the rink early, just the three of us. No bag skates. We’ll do skill stuff, then I’ll let them challenge me to a shootout. Loser buys slushies. And I’ll tell them straight up that I got a little carried away. That I’m proud of them no matter what.”
“They’re gonna love that,” you whispered.
“And you,” he added, forehead to forehead again, “are gonna sit here with your feet up because my wife is growing our dream girl and she deserves a break from driving two feral hockey players everywhere.”
“Deal.”
He kissed the tip of your nose.
“I love you. More than I loved the game even on draft day.”
“I love you too. Even when you make our kids puke.”
He winced again, but this time it was playful.
“Too soon.”
You laughed, later, after Will had carried you upstairs (because “pregnant wife privileges”) and you were curled against him in bed, his hand resting on your belly, you felt the baby girl give one last strong kick.
“Think she’s gonna want to play hockey too?” Will murmured, half-asleep.
“Probably,” you whispered.
“But we’re starting her at zero bag skates until she’s at least… twelve.”
He chuckled, the vibration rumbling through his chest.
“Deal.”
In the morning the boys would wake up to a slightly less intense dad and a mom who had reminded him gently that sometimes the best way to build future pros was to let them stay kids a little longer. And Will Smith, NHL star, strict-but-learning dad, and still the most handsome man you’d ever seen held you like you were the real trophy. Just like the day you met. Just like always.
pair: dad!will smith x mom!reader ; will smith x f!reader
genre: fluff, family, domestic comedy, established relationship
warnings: excessive cuteness, very mild language from nine-year-olds
summary: the boys, charles and theo have recently discovered the art of roasting their dad, and they’re terrifyingly good at it. tonight the whole smith clan is gathering at the smith’s house for salmon, smashed potatoes, the usual chit chat here and there. between travel plans to italy, hockey fights on the playground, and theo’s very loud opinions about his father’s equipment bag, one thing is clear that will might be a pro on the ice, but at home he’s happily outnumbered and lovingly destroyed by the three people he loves most.
fia’s note: i just had this random thought that will would be absolutely hilarious getting roasted by his own kids. he’s always so soft with them, not in the ‘treating them like little princes’ way, but in the ‘these are my tiny best buddies’ way so of course the boys adore him. but sometimes they just need to mess with their dad for fun. idk, watching his interviews just gives me that vibe… the ultimate soft dad energy. anyway, that’s it. hope you enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it. also, i kinda miss those yapping sessions with my moots!!
tagging team fia ! — @dancerbailey3 @mashmashi @kell9rs @nokiaholland @macka @smiley-roos @silvenyy @bd147ms @voidvannie @itsonlyaddi @puckinghughes @astrotrilogy @definitelynotdomanique
fia’s masterlist | join fia’s taglist | yap & fic
“Dad, your hair is doing that thing again,”
Charles said from the backseat the second Will pulled the Tahoe away from the elementary school curb.
Will glanced in the rear-view mirror. “What thing?”
“It’s running away,”
Theo supplied helpfully, kicking his feet against Charles’s seat. “Like it’s scared of your forehead.”
You snorted so hard you nearly dropped your phone. Will’s hand found your thigh and squeezed in fake betrayal.
“Thanks, bud,” he said dryly.
“Love the support from my own blood.”
“Technically we’re only half your blood,”
Charles corrected, pushing his glasses up his nose exactly the way Will does when he’s pretending to be serious.
“The other half is Mom’s, and her hair is perfect.”
“Facts,” you said, twisting around to offer both boys a fist bump. They lunged forward to meet it, seatbelts straining.
Will sighed the long-suffering sigh of a man who knows he’s about to be tag-teamed for the next twenty minutes.
“You two been saving these up all day or what?”
“Since Monday,” Theo said proudly.
“Coach made us run laps ‘cause Charles told Aiden his slapshot looked like a dying pigeon.”
“It did look like a dying pigeon,” Charles muttered.
Will’s parents only lived half an hour from school, but the twins treated every car ride like open-mic night when their dad was the only target. You settled back in your seat, phone forgotten, because to be honest this was so much better than any podcast.
“Also,”
Theo continued, leaning forward as far as the seatbelt allowed, “your gear bag is trying to kill us. It smells like sad onions, Dad.”
“Sad onions,” you repeated under your breath, wheezing.
“I febreezed it!” Will protested.
“Dad. Febreeze ran away screaming,” Charles said.
“We saw it. It jumped out the garage window.”
Will looked at you for rescue. You just patted his arm sympathetically.
“They’re not wrong, babe. That bag needs to be burned with fire.”
“Traitor,” he mouthed.
You blew him a kiss.
By the time Will pulled into his parents’ driveway, the twins had moved on to ranking their father’s bald-spot progression ‘like Pokémon evolutions.’ Will took it like a champ, laughing even while he threatened to leave them on the curb if they didn’t zip it before Grandma opened the door.
Colleen opened it anyway, arms already out.
“There they are! My favorite little comedians!”
“Grandma!” both boys yelled, launching themselves at her like missiles.
Will’s dad, Bill, appeared behind her holding a dish towel, grinning.
“Heard the material on the baby monitor you’ve got in the car, Will. Solid stuff. Nine out of ten.”
“Thanks, Dad. Really feeling the love tonight.”
Grace, Will’s older sister, leaned in the doorway sipping wine.
“I give it a ten. The sad-onions line killed me.”
You hugged everyone hello while the boys raced inside to claim their spots at the kids’ end of the big dining table that Colleen only broke out for family nights. The house smelled like lemon, rosemary, and the Atlantic salmon Bill had been perfecting on the grill for the last hour.
Will’s hand stayed at the small of your back as you moved into the kitchen, a habit he’d had since the day you started dating. Somethings never changed, even when your lives had added two loud, hockey-obsessed boys and one very stinky equipment bag.
Colleen handed you a glass of Sauvignon Blanc the second you crossed the threshold.
“You survive the ride over?”
“Barely,” you laughed. “They’ve entered their roast era. It’s brutal.”
“Good,” she said, eyes twinkling.
“Keeps him humble.”
Dinner was loud… well in the best way. Bill carried in the cedar-plank salmon like it was the Stanley Cup. Smashed red potatoes with too much butter. Roasted sprouts that the boys actually ate because Grandpa bribed them with extra dessert. Grace sat across from you telling everyone about the two-week girls’ trip to the Amalfi Coast she’d finally booked.
“I’m calling it the Divorce Diet Tour,” she announced, raising her glass.
“Except I’m not divorced, just exhausted by my siblings’ children.”
“Hey,” Will and the twins said in unison.
You nearly choked on a sprout.
Will and his dad fell into their usual easy hockey talk about how the Sharks power play was looking, whether Mario Ferraro’s beard was entering playoff form early, if Will’s recent hip twinge was anything to worry about. You half-listened while Colleen topped off your wine and asked about summer plans.
“We’re trying to pick between Maui and Italy,” you told her quietly.
“Will’s got that long break in July after development camp. I want the boys to see the world a little, you know? Not just hockey rinks.”
Colleen smiled the soft way she did whenever she remembered her son had somehow turned into this steady, ridiculous family man.
“Take them to Italy. They’ll eat gelato for breakfast and never shut up about it. You’ll love it.”
At the other end of the table, the twins were retelling the day’s playground drama.
“So Aiden says my wrist shot’s weak,”
Charles said around a mouthful of potatoes, “and I said ‘at least I don’t skate like a shopping cart with one bad wheel.’”
“Language,” you and Will said automatically.
“Then he pushed me,” Charles continued, undeterred, “so I was gonna drop gloves-”
“Charles,” you warned.
“… but Theo came in like bam!” Charles slammed his fork down for emphasis.
“Told Aiden if he touched me again he’d regret it, then he stole the puck and scored. Top cheese.”
“Top cheese,” Theo confirmed, nodding solemnly.
Bill was laughing so hard his shoulders shook. “That’s my boys. Protect eachother.”
Will looked unfairly proud. You kicked him lightly under the table.
Later, when the plates were mostly empty and the boys were arguing over who got the corner piece of salmon skin *both claimed it was the crispiest*, Will leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair the way he did when he was tired.
“I swear the hairline’s moving faster now,” he said, mostly to his dad.
“Too young to start planning my future as a bald guy.”
Theo’s head snapped up. He saw an opening and took it like a breakaway.
Grace wheezed. Colleen had to put her wine down. Even Bill looked like he might need medical attention.
Theo’s head snapped up. He saw an opening and took it like a breakaway.
“That’s because all your power went into your beard, Dad,” he said.
“Your head’s like, ‘we can’t compete with that, we’re out.’”
Will pointed a finger at Theo. “You’re grounded until you’re thirty.”
“You can’t ground me, you’re going bald,”
Theo shot back, then turned to his grandfather with the most betrayed expression a nine-year-old could produce.
“Grandpa, why does Dad’s gear bag smell like a dead whale? I opened it yesterday and the smell slapped me. I saw stars.”
Charles nodded vigorously. “We think it’s gaining sentience.”
Bill lost it.
You felt Will’s hand find yours under the table again, his thumb tracing your ring while he tried to look stern and failed spectacularly.
Theo wasn’t done. He looked straight at you, eyes wide and deadly serious.
“Mom. Real question. Why did you marry him? The bag is a war crime.”
The entire table went silent for half a second, waiting for your answer.
You set your fork down, leaned forward, and looked right at your little chaos goblin.
“Because,” you said, letting your voice go soft and sweet.
“Every single time your dad laces up those stinky skates, he’s doing it so he can give you two the world. And because when I was terrified, he held my hand in a hospital room and promised he’d never leave. And because everynight, no matter how many bruises he’s got or how many overtime periods he’s played, he still crawls into bed and kisses me like it’s the first time. And because he sings off-key to Taylor Swift in the car with you monsters and thinks I don’t notice him tearing up at ‘Never Grow Up.’ That’s why I married him, Theo. The bag’s gross, but the man carrying it? He’s the best person I know.”
You finished and realized the entire table had gone quiet. Grace pretended to wipe a tear. Colleen definitely wasn’t pretending. Bill reached over and squeezed Will’s shoulder.
Will just stared at you, in that way that still made your chest tight after all these years.
Theo considered your answer very seriously, then shrugged.
“Okay. But we’re still burning the bag.”
Charles nodded. “Ceremonial fire. Viking funeral.”
Will laughed, and pulled you halfway into his lap right there at the dinner table because personal space was never a thing in the Smith family. He kissed your temple, then turned to the boys.
“Tell you what. You two help me clean the bag tomorrow, I mean proper clean, no whining and I’ll take us all to the rink after. Full ice, just us. You can roast me in person while I let you score fifty goals.”
“Deal!” they shouted, already planning trash-talk strategies.
Later, when the dishes were done and the boys were sprawled on the living room carpet playing NHL 25 on the PlayStation with their grandpa who insisted on being the Sharks everytime because ‘family loyalty’, Will found you on the back patio breathing in the cool December air.
He wrapped his arms around you from behind, chin resting on your shoulder.
“You didn’t have to say all that stuff in there,” he murmured.
“Yeah, I did,” you said, leaning back into him.
“Someone has to remind those little gremlins their dad’s a superhero. Even if his gear bag is a biohazard.”
He laughed quietly. “I love you.”
“I know,” you said, turning in his arms so you could kiss him properly.
“Stinky bag and all.”
From inside, you heard Charles yell,
“Theo, look! They’re kissing again!”
Theo fake gagged loud enough for the neighbors to hear.
