˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ now streaming
Sidney Crosby
▶︎ Sidney Crosby x kid!reader texts
Macklin Celebrini
▶︎ Drop Dead ft. crosby!reader
Ben Kindel
▶︎ Drop Dead ft. bsf!ben kindel and macklin celebrini x crosby!reader
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Australia
seen from Belgium
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Saudi Arabia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Peru
seen from United States
seen from Canada
seen from Argentina
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from China
˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ now streaming
Sidney Crosby
▶︎ Sidney Crosby x kid!reader texts
Macklin Celebrini
▶︎ Drop Dead ft. crosby!reader
Ben Kindel
▶︎ Drop Dead ft. bsf!ben kindel and macklin celebrini x crosby!reader
Leave Them
Will Smith x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 1,340
Warnings: kissing, lipstick marks, religious item mentioned (?)
Summary:
You were supposed to leave twenty minutes ago.
You should've been in the car on your way to the venue by now. You know that. You’re going to be late, and you hate being late. You also know that there’s an inevitable earful from Toff waiting for the both of you whenever you do eventually arrive. But knowing all of that, and actually being able to resist Will when he looks like this are two completely different things.
He had you hook, line, and sinker from the moment you stepped into the bedroom. You’d known he was waiting for you to finish with your hair and makeup, lounging on the edge of the bed and fiddling with his phone mindlessly, pout still settled heavily on his lips from when you kicked him out of the bathroom earlier in the evening for being ‘too distracting’ with his wandering hands while you tried to get ready on time. Honestly, what had he expected when you’d had to swat his hands away for what had felt like the fifth time within the first five minutes of him coming in?
The sharp curve of his jaw catching the light from the various lamps around the room, blond hair tousled and sitting across his forehead in little waves. But worst of all, the white dress shirt that fit him like a glove. It stretched across the expanse of his shoulders, hinting at the ridges and valleys of him underneath, carved from years of his body adjusting to the demands of a professional career in hockey.
But you knew exactly what was underneath it.
He perked up the second he saw you, breath hitching when he took in your look for the evening. Already leaning towards you like he couldn’t help himself, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it, hands already reaching out for you as soon as you stepped between his spread thighs. The warmth of his palms sliding across the skin on the back of your legs as he tugged you closer, one hand already lifting to slide underneath the shirt you’d stolen from him forever ago, settling on the small of your back like it belonged there.
His chin settled on your sternum, blue eyes looking up at you with a heat that had your knees going weak. “Baby…” he exhaled through a shaky breath. Practically burying his face in your chest when you only hummed warmly in response. “You look beautiful.” His words came out muffled against your skin, warm enough to send a shiver skating down your spine. Pressing a lingering kiss there as he took a deep inhale of the smell of your perfume.
You gazed down at him, fingers threading through his hair as you took in the way his muscular thighs accommodated you. His dress pants already looked like they were losing the battle of trying to hide the strength of him underneath.
And yes, you did tug slightly on his hair in the way you know drives him crazy. You did rake your hands over his dress shirt and down his chest, maybe unpopping a button or two on your way. But Will was the one to hook both of his hands under your thighs and scoop you into his lap. Looked up at you with those eyes. The ones that you haven’t quite figured out how to resist in the entire time you’ve been together. Will’s the one who happily let you push him backwards the second he felt the pressure of your hands change against his shoulders.
So really, both of you are to blame.
Now, who knows how much time later, you sit perched in his lap, taking in the way Will tries to catch his breath, both of your chests heaving as you try to catch your own. Your palms resting against the heated skin of his stomach, his dress shirt completely unbuttoned at some point and falling loosely by his sides where you’ve pushed it away.
You run your hands across the planes of his stomach, relishing in the shiver you drag from him as your nails scrape teasingly along the ridges of his abs and across his waistband, just to drag back up to play with the chain that never comes off from around his neck, tip of your finger tracing the cross that sits just a little bit above his heart.
His hair is a tousled mess, lips kiss-bitten and swollen, cheeks flushing a beautiful shade of red. Similar to the shade of red that had been on your lips prior to this whole thing. And that red lipstick…
It’s everywhere.
Scattered across his skin in little marks of reverence and devotion.
Some nearly perfect prints of your lips where you’d really taken your time. Others smudged where you’d been hurried to get back to his lips or to other places. Some overlapping each other in the places you’d visited more than once in showing your love and appreciation.
Couldn’t help yourself, really.
And the way he’s looking at you, gaze half-lidded and glassy. The only thoughts behind those pretty blue eyes being centred around you. He’s got his hands resting on your hips, digging into the softness of you when he can’t help but hold you a little tighter with each press of your lips, like he needs a lifeline to keep him from falling too far.
He’s glowing.
So thoroughly loved that it’s written all over him.
You lean in once more, pressing a lingering kiss to the unmarked skin over his pulse, smiling to yourself as his breath catches beneath your lips. One hand comes up to cradle his jaw, gently angling his face so you can leave another kiss along the sharp line of it. He sighs softly, lashes fluttering against his cheeks as his arms instinctively tighten around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.
You brush your nose against his.
"I'm going to grab my makeup remover, and then we really need to go."
"Leave them," he murmurs, like removing them hadn't even crossed his mind. His arms tighten almost imperceptibly around you. "I like them."
"Will..."
"Most of them'll be under my shirt anyway." He glances down at himself before looking back up at you. "And..." A sheepish smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. "I kinda like knowing they're there. I don't really mind if people see a couple."
And he's right. Besides the one stamped neatly along his jaw, another somehow making its way onto the collar of his shirt, and the pair decorating his neck, the majority of your handiwork disappears beneath the crisp white fabric. Though the evidence around his lips is another story entirely. You laugh, leaning down to steal one last kiss.
"They're yours if you want to keep them. But I'm at least trying to get some of it off your lips before we leave." Your thumb sweeps gently across his lower lip, rubbing away the remnants of your lipstick.
Will practically wilts. "But then you won't let me kiss you again once you redo it. Not until we get home"
The little pout that settles on his face has your smile growing despite yourself. You simply shrug, trying (and failing) to look sympathetic.
His eyes narrow just enough for you to recognize that familiar look, "Then I need a few more before you put it back on," he bargains. "Just enough to hold me over."
Even if you both know he'll have you caving long before the night's over.
You really should leave.
You were supposed to leave twenty minutes ago.
Macklin is absolutely going to have something to say. Half the team will probably tease the two of you the second you walk in. You still have to change, redo your lipstick, and Will most definitely needs to take one look in the mirror before everyone immediately figures out why you're late.
But he's already smiling up at you like you've hung every star in the sky.
And you've never been particularly good at saying no to that smile.
Besides…
You're already late. What's another five minutes?
A/N: All my work is written and owned by me. Reblogs are very appreciated. Please do not steal my work, put it into AI, or on any other platform.
now playing :
˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ Drop Dead ♫
macklin celebrini x crosby!reader, bestfriend! ben kindel x crosby!reader
˚˖𓍢ִ໋ There are three, without a doubt, facts. 1. you are Sidney Crosby's daughter, 2. you keep to yourself, and 3. you have a crush on Macklin Celebrini. There is one question: will these facts haunt you when your forced to meet the San Jose Shark? Maybe. Probably. Definitely.
A/N: this is technically part one. a non smau version will come out eventually! it's about half-way done and it's taking a while but im very excited hehehe. stay tuned!
link to request
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
hey guys... it's me again. international best selling author tate puckingdiva....
i have a cute gabe drabble in the drafts rn BUT !!!
what y'all wanna see next
gabe wrong number pt. 4 where i make them kiss (maybe..)
cheating connor number 2 who might leave his girlfriend for you
fraser minten boyfriend texts where he's just happy to be here
mack bf texts pt 2 where you terrorize each other lovingly
your best friend's brother ryan leonard texts where you bully him a little...
Fall and Renaissance • 𝑊𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑆𝑚𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑋 𝑆/𝑁
Sinopse: S/NLowell suffers a severe fall while pregnant, triggering a premature birth. Her husband, Will, distant on a trip, struggles to arrive on time. The couple faces the fear of loss and the uncertainty of their son's future.
Triggers: Blood, insecurity, anxiety.
S/N Lowwey is thirty weeks and five days pregnant.
And according to Will, she is also completely insane.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay home?”
His voice comes through the phone, rough with sleep and worry. S/N smiles as she organizes a few papers across the table in the teachers’ lounge at Maplewood Elementary School, where she has been teaching for almost two years. The autumn morning sun streams through the tall windows, bathing the walls covered with children’s drawings in golden light.
“Will, I’m pregnant, not disabled.”
“I know.”
“Then stop acting like I’m going to break.”
“You’re carrying our child.”
“And I can still work.”
On the other end of the call, Will takes a deep breath. She can picture the scene: him in a hotel room in Vancouver, probably sitting on the edge of the bed with his elbows resting on his knees, his blond hair messy from another restless night.
He is in the middle of the fourth game of a five-game road trip.
Far away.
Tired.
And completely obsessed with the idea that something could happen while he was gone.
“Promise you won’t overdo it?”
S/N looks at the box of autumn decorations still sitting unopened in the corner of the room. Sheets of orange and amber crepe paper, along with a three-meter garland that needs to be hung in the main hallway for the school’s Friday celebration.
“I promise.”
“S/N.”
“I promise I’ll try.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
She laughs, the sound echoing softly through the empty room.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Now go play.”
“You’re going to rest?”
“Yes.”
He knows she’s lying.
S/N hears the heavy silence filled with suspicion.
“I know you.”
“And you still married me.”
“Best decision of my life.”
His tone changes.
That tone she has learned to recognize over the past three years together—soft, almost vulnerable, as though the words come out more slowly than he would like.
“Go.”
“I’ll call you after practice.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
The call ends.
S/N looks at her phone for a moment before returning to work, going back to the lesson plans for the following week.
The baby moves inside her, a gentle, familiar pressure against her ribs.
She places a hand over her belly, feeling its rounded shape beneath the gray knitted dress that stretches comfortably over her silhouette.
“Daddy is dramatic, isn’t he?” she murmurs. “But he loves us.”
⸻
By three in the afternoon, the school is nearly empty.
Most of the children have already gone home, and the hallways echo with the distant sounds of staff organizing classrooms and preparing for the weekend.
S/N is standing on top of a six-step aluminum ladder, trying to reach the hook near the top of the wall where the autumn garland is supposed to be attached.
“Vic, let me do that!” Mariana, the teacher from the classroom next door, calls out, appearing at the entrance of the hallway with a look of panic.
“There’s only a little bit left!”
“You’re pregnant!”
“I know!”
S/N laughs, stretching her arm with the double-sided tape.
Her gray dress rides slightly higher on her thighs, but she doesn’t care.
She’s almost done.
Just another meter of garland.
The baby moves again, a sharper sensation this time, and she brings her free hand to her belly.
“Easy, little one.”
Then she feels something strange.
Pressure.
Not from the baby.
Something building at the base of her spine, a warm, fluid sensation rising through her abdomen.
She frowns, the tape still suspended in the air.
“What…?”
The pain comes suddenly.
Hard.
Suffocating.
Like a hot knife slicing straight through her abdomen.
S/N drops the tape.
Her hand reaches for the railing, but her fingers are wet.
Sweat?
No.
She looks down.
Dark red stains her palm, dripping between her fingers.
The ladder moves.
She tries to hold on, but the world spins.
The railing slips from her sweaty hand.
Her knees buckle, and she feels the fall before it even happens—the air being knocked from her lungs, the sharp impact against the linoleum floor, the decorations tumbling down with her, sheets of crepe paper floating through the air like ashes.
“S/N!”
Distant voices.
Rushing footsteps.
Someone is crying, and S/N vaguely realizes that it might be Mariana.
She tries to breathe.
She can’t.
There is an intense pain tearing through her abdomen, a pressure crushing her from the inside, and something warm spreading between her legs, soaking her thighs and the back of her dress.
“Oh my God…”
“Call an ambulance! NOW!”
S/N tries to speak.
Her mouth moves, but only a hoarse whisper escapes.
“My baby…”
“Don’t move, S/N. Please, don’t move.”
Hands grip her shoulders.
Someone removes a jacket and places it beneath her head.
She feels the hot blood running down her skin.
Feels the terrible emptiness where there should be movement.
Where there should be life.
“My baby…”
The edges of her vision begin to darken.
Mariana’s face floats above her, blurred, tears shining on her cheeks.
“Call my husband…”
And then everything goes black.
⸻
Will is in the Rogers Arena locker room, sitting on the bench with his skate laces in his hands, when his phone vibrates.
He almost ignores it.
It’s 3:47 p.m. in Vancouver, and warm-up starts in less than two hours.
But then he sees the name of S/N’s school.
He answers.
“Mr. Smith?”
He turns, pressing the phone against his ear.
“Yes?”
“I’m calling from the school where your wife works.”
The world seems to stop.
The sounds of the locker room—the laughter, equipment being organized, the hum of the lights—all fade into the distance, as though someone has muffled everything with a pillow.
“What happened?”
Silence.
Far too long.
Eternal.
“S/N had a fall.”
Will goes completely still.
The phone slips an inch in his sweaty hand.
“Is she okay?”
Another silence.
This time, he hears something in the background.
Distant sirens, perhaps.
The sound of a hospital.
“She was rushed to the hospital.”
“My son?”
His voice fails, breaking in the middle of the question.
Someone in the locker room looks at him—Carter, maybe, or Macklin—but Will can’t focus on anything except the voice on the phone.
“They’re evaluating both of them.”
He doesn’t hear anything else.
He grabs his phone with his free hand, already standing, already searching for his keys, his jacket, anything.
“I need to go.”
“Will, you have a game in—”
“I NEED TO GET THERE.”
The problem?
He’s on the other side of the country.
Nearly five thousand kilometers away from her.
⸻
At St. Mary’s Hospital, S/N is taken directly to the emergency department on a stretcher rushing through the halls.
The ceiling lights blur above her.
Someone is shouting numbers—blood pressure, heart rate—and she tries to understand, tries to remain conscious, but the world has become fragments.
An oxygen mask over her face.
The cold IV fluid entering her vein.
The pressure of hands against her abdomen.
“Thirty weeks?”
“Thirty weeks and five days.”
“We need to prepare the operating room NOW.”
Everything happens quickly.
S/N can barely remain conscious, fighting against the darkness pulsing at the edges of her vision.
A nurse—a young woman with brown hair pulled into a tight bun—holds her hand firmly.
“My husband…”
“He’s coming.”
“Promise?”
The nurse squeezes her hand.
Her eyes are serious.
Determined.
“I promise we’ll do everything we can.”
S/N closes her eyes.
Tears silently slide toward her temples, soaking into the paper beneath her.
“My baby…”
“We’re going to take care of him.”
⸻
Will gets on the first available flight.
Vancouver to Calgary.
Calgary to Toronto.
Toronto to Boston.
He sits in airport corridors, in the most uncomfortable seats on the planes, anywhere that takes him closer to her.
Every few minutes, he calls the hospital.
No information is enough.
No answer reassures him.
“Is she stable?”
“Sir, the team is working.”
“And my son?”
“As soon as we have information, we’ll contact you.”
Will runs a hand over his face.
He is completely out of control, stumbling through terminals with his hockey bag still hanging from his shoulder, his team uniform only partially changed, his compression shirt clinging to his sweaty body.
He can’t stay still.
He can’t think.
He can’t breathe properly.
All he can imagine is S/N alone.
Scared.
And he isn’t there.
On the flight from Calgary to Toronto, he sits in the last row, pressed against the window, staring at the clouds below.
His fingers tap relentlessly against the armrest.
The businessman sitting beside him—with headphones on—watches him with a mixture of curiosity and concern, but Will can’t bring himself to care.
He closes his eyes and sees S/N.
He sees her the first time he met her, three years ago, at a friend’s birthday party.
She had been standing in the corner of the kitchen, laughing at something someone had said, red braids falling over her shoulders, the royal-blue dress making her peach-colored skin glow.
She had turned.
Her hazel eyes had met his.
And something inside Will—something he hadn’t known was broken—had fallen into place.
He sees her pregnant at seventeen weeks, showing him the first ultrasound with trembling hands and tears of excitement.
He sees her in the morning, hair messy, face puffy with sleep, somehow even more beautiful than in any carefully planned photograph.
And now he imagines her on a stretcher.
Bleeding.
Terrified.
Without him.
“Please,” he whispers into the emptiness, to the clouds, to anything that might be listening.
“Please.”
⸻
When he finally reaches the hospital, it is already nighttime.
Boston’s lights shine through the autumn rain.
Will practically runs through the halls, his hockey bag hitting against his thighs, his shoes still hiding the socks he wears beneath his skates—he hadn’t had time to change everything.
“S/N Lowwey!” he shouts at the reception desk, breathless. “My wife. She was brought in this afternoon. Pregnant. Thirty weeks. A fall.”
The receptionist—a middle-aged woman with thick-framed glasses—blinks before typing something into the computer.
Her expression doesn’t change, but Will notices the hesitation in her fingers.
“One moment, sir.”
She calls someone over the radio.
A nurse appears—different from the one he’d spoken to on the phone, older, with gray hair tied into a low bun.
Her eyes meet Will’s.
Something in her face—some softness, some understanding—makes his stomach twist.
“Mr. Smith?”
“Yes.”
“Your wife is in recovery.”
Will stops.
The world tilts.
“She’s alive?”
“Yes.”
He closes his eyes.
A tear escapes and silently rolls down his cheek.
He doesn’t care.
“And the baby?”
The nurse takes a deep breath.
The sound feels like a second of silence in the middle of a song, a pause Will has learned to fear.
“Your son was born.”
Will becomes completely still.
“Born?”
“Yes.”
“Is he alive?”
“He is.”
Will covers his face with both hands.
A sob escapes—single, uncontrollable.
He doesn’t recognize his own voice when he asks:
“Where is he?”
“Neonatal intensive care.”
His expression collapses.
NICU.
Intensive care.
For babies.
For babies who shouldn’t be here yet.
Babies born too early.
Babies who need machines to breathe.
To live.
“Can I see him?”
“We’ll take you to him.”
⸻
Will sees his son through the incubator.
So small.
So fragile.
The baby is wrapped in a blue-and-white striped blanket, but even so, Will can see how tiny he is.
Tiny arms as thin as winter branches.
Translucent skin with blue veins visible beneath it like a map.
Tubes emerge from his nose and stomach.
Monitors beep in rhythms Will can’t understand, but they seem steady, and he clings to that.
He places his hand against the glass.
It’s cold.
Smooth.
A barrier between him and his son.
“Hi, buddy.”
His voice breaks.
He clears his throat and tries again.
“I’m your dad.”
The baby moves slightly.
Such a tiny movement that Will almost misses it.
But no.
There it is.
A tiny finger curling into a fist.
An eyelid twitching.
He’s alive.
He’s here.
“You weren’t supposed to come this early.”
Will takes a deep breath.
The hospital air tastes like disinfectant and something else—something metallic and permanent.
“But I’m here.”
He stays there for several minutes, staring at his son.
The minutes stretch and lose meaning.
He doesn’t know how much time passes.
He only knows that he can’t move.
Can’t take his eyes away from that tiny human being who had fought inside S/N and was now fighting here, alone, inside a box of plastic and glass.
Until he hears a voice behind him.
“Will.”
He turns.
S/N is being wheeled toward him by a nurse.
Pale.
Paler than he has ever seen her.
Her peach-colored skin transformed into porcelain.
Tired.
Dark circles beneath her eyes.
Her hazel eyes lacking their usual brightness.
But awake.
Alive.
There.
He immediately goes to her, dropping to his knees on the linoleum floor.
He doesn’t care about dignity.
His appearance.
Anything.
Nothing matters except her.
“Vic.”
She slowly opens her arms, carefully, as though every movement hurts.
And it does.
Will sees the tension in her shoulders, the way she protects her still-swollen abdomen after surgery.
He kneels before her.
Wraps his arms carefully around her waist.
Rests his forehead against her lap.
And cries.
Without shame.
Without trying to hide it.
“I thought I was going to lose you both.”
S/N’s hand finds his hair.
Her fingers are cold.
Trembling.
But present.
She runs her fingers through his messy blond hair, caresses his temple, his ear.
“You didn’t.”
“I should’ve been here.”
“You got here.”
“I should have—”
“Will.”
She holds his face and makes him look up.
Her eyes meet his—red, swollen, desperate—and she smiles.
A small, broken smile.
But real.
“You got here.”
He kisses the palm of her hand.
Her skin tastes like salt and hospital.
Disinfectant and something indefinable that is simply S/N.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
He rests his forehead against hers.
Her skin is warm, perhaps feverish, and he worries, but he can’t pull away.
“Our son?”
S/N looks toward the incubator.
The baby is still there.
Still fighting.
Still alive.
“He’s fighting.”
Will nods.
His jaw tightens, that familiar angle she has learned to read over three years of marriage.
“Then we’ll fight with him.”
⸻
The following days are difficult.
Long hours in the neonatal intensive care unit, sitting in blue plastic chairs, their hands resting against the incubator whenever they are allowed.
Quiet conversations.
About names.
About the future.
About absolutely nothing.
Just to fill the silence that threatens to swallow them.
Fear.
Hope.
S/N slowly recovers.
The surgery left a scar she still hasn’t seen—she can’t look at it yet—and a pain that comes in waves, unexpected and overwhelming.
Sometimes she cries when she thinks Will isn’t looking.
She cries for the baby who should still be inside her.
For the body that failed.
For the guilt she can’t seem to push away.
Will barely leaves the hospital.
He sleeps sitting in corridor chairs, his neck twisted at impossible angles.
He eats when someone remembers to bring him food, or when S/N forces him to.
She can still be stubborn, even while heavily medicated with painkillers, even with tubes coming from her arm.
And every day, beside the incubator, he tells his son:
“Your mom is here.”
“Your dad is here.”
“And we’re going to take you home.”
On the fifth morning, a nurse walks in smiling.
It isn’t the professional, polite smile.
It’s wider.
More genuine.
It transforms her ordinary face into something almost beautiful.
“He’s doing better.”
S/N brings a hand to her mouth.
Her fingers tremble against her dry lips.
Will closes his eyes.
He sinks more heavily into the chair, as though his legs have finally given out.
“Better?”
“Yes. His numbers are looking good. He’s responding well and gaining weight. We still need intensive care, but…” She pauses, smiling even more. “He’s a fighter.”
Will wraps his arms around S/N.
Carefully.
Always carefully.
But truly.
Really.
Truly.
They both cry.
Tears that aren’t only relief, but something deeper.
Something that has no name in any language they know.
⸻
Two weeks later, S/N is sitting beside the incubator.
Finally, no wheelchair.
A normal plastic chair she managed to sit in herself.
It still hurts.
Everything still hurts.
But she’s here.
Will holds her hand.
Their fingers are intertwined, his knuckles pressing against hers in a rhythm she has learned to recognize.
Worry.
Love.
Contained fear.
The baby sleeps peacefully.
Small.
But strong.
Fewer tubes now.
The respirator was removed three days ago.
He is breathing on his own.
Still irregularly, with pauses that make Will’s heart stop, but breathing.
S/N looks at her husband.
He looks different.
Thinner.
Dark circles beneath his eyes that seem permanently tattooed onto his face.
His blond hair longer than usual.
But his blue eyes, when they meet hers, still carry the same light.
“Are you still going to say I should’ve taken maternity leave?” she asks, her voice still hoarse from the intubation.
Will laughs.
It’s the first time in days.
A surprised, almost raspy sound that seems to escape him without permission.
“Yes.”
“Even now?”
“Especially now.”
She smiles.
The smile isn’t quite the same as before.
There is still something broken inside it.
Something that needs time to heal.
But it is real.
“Maybe I should’ve listened to you.”
“Maybe?”
“Don’t push it.”
Will kisses her forehead.
His lips linger a second longer than necessary, the warmth of his breath against her skin.
Then he looks at their son.
The baby moves in his sleep, one tiny hand curling into a miniature fist.
“He’s going to know his mother is stubborn.”
“And his father is dramatic.”
“I crossed the country in a panic.”
“Exactly.”
He smiles.
That crooked smile she loves.
The one that first made her fall for him in a party kitchen three years ago.
“I’d do it all over again.”
S/N rests her head against his shoulder.
The fabric of his shirt is rough, worn—he hasn’t changed clothes properly in two days, she knows—but comfortable.
Familiar.
Home.
“I know.”
They remain silent.
The fear is still there.
It always will be, she thinks, somewhere in a corner, waiting.
But now there is hope.
Hope with a name.
With a face.
With a weight of two kilograms and three hundred grams, fighting to live.
And for the first time since that Friday afternoon at three o’clock, Will can breathe without feeling as though the world could end at any second.
Because S/N is there.
Their son is fighting.
And the three of them are finally together.
Not at home yet.
Not the way they had planned.
But together.
And in that moment, that is all that matters.
The baby moves again.
This time, his eyes open.
A color not yet defined, somewhere between blue and gray, which S/N knows will probably change.
He looks upward.
At the lights.
At nothing in particular.
And then, perhaps by chance, perhaps not, his eyes seem to find theirs.
Will squeezes S/N’s hand.
“He saw us,” he whispers.
“He saw us.”
They smile.
Three people in a hospital room, connected by something they still don’t have words to describe.
Something that began with a fall.
With fear.
With almost losing everything.
Something that might now become a beginning.
The future is still uncertain.
The baby still needs intensive care.
S/N still needs to heal.
Will still needs to learn what it means to be the father of a child who arrived too soon.
But here.
Now.
In this moment.
They are together.
And finally, that is enough.
I have a request for Jack Hughes: he has a crush on reader who has been best friends with Quinn for as long as Jack can remember (she is the same age as Quinn) and he never said anything because Quinn always said she is off-limits (but something happens and they grow a bit closer maybe)
Off-Limits
pairing: Jack Hughes x female reader
description: You remain completely oblivious to Jack's crush and the fact that your best friend Quinn has always declared you as off-limits.
CW: Fluff, some jealousy.
Learn to Love Part 2 is in the works
Read part 1 here ❤️
Summary: The reader is hesitant to start a new relationship with Will since her last one ended up badly. Will shows her how she should be treated and how a healthy relationship is like. In return, she shows him some tips and tricks in the bedroom as he’s younger than her.
Hi, if it wasn't bothersome and when you can, please write one about Will's beard (because I'm obsessed with the photo that came out of him with the big beard) it's growing and the reader loves it so he scratches it with his beard all over his body, you can choose if you want fluff or smut or a mixture, thank you very much!
The Rough and the Smooth
pairing: Will Smith x female reader
description: You're really into Will's beard.
CW: Smut, mdni, oral sex (f receiving), beard appreciation.
