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.
warnings: mild language, hockey violence (fight), mentions of past relationship, protective behavior.
summary: during a heated game against a rival team, an opposing player runs his mouth about you, will’s girlfriend, while you’re sitting in the stands. will, normally calm and collected, sees red. what follows is a penalty, a postgame ejection, and a media frenzy. but behind it all is a deep, fiercely protective love. and even if it costs him a suspension, will would do it all over again for you.
fia’s notes: not a single will smith fic on my blog? truly unbelievable and absolutely unforgivable. so here i am, ready to right my wrongs. i’m so sorry, my will baby. it’s your time to shine now.
You didn’t expect to become a headline.
You were just there to support your boyfriend, front row, scarf in team colors, cheeks flushed from cold arena air and nerves. The San Jose Sharks were playing one of their most physical rivals tonight, and your boyfriend, Will Smith, #2, was centering the top line.
You knew the risks. Trash talk. Scrums. Elbows that just missed the mark. But you never expected you would be the reason Will dropped his gloves.
Not until it was too late.
The game was tense from the first puck drop.
Will’s face-off opponent, a smirking winger from Calgary, had bumped into him twice before the first whistle even blew. ‘Typical,’ you muttered, leaning over the glass as Will bent low in position, his eyes locked in focus.
But the moment that changed everything came in the second period.
It was a line change.
You saw it. Will was skating toward center ice when the opposing player, number 88, angled in too closely, bumping shoulders. You barely noticed it… until you saw Will’s posture stiffen. He turned his head.
Paused. Said something under his breath.
Then all hell broke loose.
Will shoved him. The other guy shoved back.
And then, gloves dropped.
You stood up instinctively, heart in your throat as Will gripped the collar of the guy’s jersey and landed a clean, brutal punch right to the jaw. He didn’t stop there, another hit, then another, until the refs had to yank him away, his chest heaving, mouthguard halfway out of his lips.
The arena erupted. A fight that came out of nowhere.
Except… it hadn’t come out of nowhere.
Because just before it happened, you saw it. Number 88 skated past your glass, eyes flicking up toward you in your seat and you saw his mouth move. Just a few words. Not even audible. But his smirk was unmistakable.
And Will had seen it too.
Ten minutes later, you found yourself pacing outside the Sharks’ locker room.
“He get kicked?”
You asked one of the Sharks’ media reps, trying to sound calm. Your voice cracked instead.
“He got tossed, yeah,” the rep said.
“Coach is dealing with it. He’ll be out soon.”
You nodded, hugging your arms tighter around yourself. Your phone buzzed, Twitter already ablaze with videos of the fight. Headlines forming.
‘Will Smith drops gloves in mid-ice melee. Sharks center ejected for retaliation’
‘What did #88 say? Fans speculate on mystery chirp that triggered brawl’
Your lips pressed together as you glanced at the slow-motion replay.
Will’s jaw had been locked. That wasn’t just frustration. That was personal.
And the second the locker room door creaked open, and you saw Will standing there, damp hair falling over his forehead, bruised knuckles clutched in an ice pack—
You knew it.
“Will.”
He looked up at you.
A thousand emotions flickered in his eyes, there’s anger, protectiveness, and… relief. He walked toward you, silent for a second before speaking low.
“He said your name.”
You didn’t even have to ask.
“What did he say?”
Will clenched his jaw. His voice was tight.
“He said he used to know you. Said it was ‘cute’ how I played house with someone who’d already moved on from him once.”
Your breath caught.
You knew who that was. You hadn’t seen your ex in years, but you remembered the smugness. The possessiveness. He’d never played professionally when you were together, but apparently he’d found his way into the league, onto a rival team, no less.
And he’d had the audacity to say that during a game.
“I saw the look on your face,” Will added, quieter now.
“I saw you go pale. I knew it wasn’t just trash talk.”
You swallowed, stepping closer.
“You didn’t have to fight him for me.”
Will’s eyes locked on yours. “Yes, I did.”
You ended up in the parking garage together, sitting in his car in silence for several long minutes. Will’s hand rested on your knee, thumb rubbing small circles through your jeans. His knuckles were red, swollen, a little blood crusted along the edge of his ring finger.
He’d gotten in a full-blown fight. For you.
“You’re going to get fined, aren’t you?” you finally said, voice soft.
“Probably suspended, too,” he admitted.
“Coach’s gonna be pissed. PR’s already calling it ‘emotional overreaction.’”
He looked at you sideways.
“I don’t regret it.”
Your heart ached at the raw truth in his voice.
“Will…”
He turned toward you fully.
“He disrespected you. Said something that no one should say, especially not about you. He thought he could get in my head. Make you a target. And I wasn’t about to let that slide.”
You reached over, brushing your fingers along his jaw, where a faint red scrape marked where the guy had landed a single hit.
“You’re not supposed to be a fighter.”
“Don’t care,” he muttered.
“He crossed a line. You don’t bring people’s girlfriends into it. He was smirking like he won something.”
You smiled faintly.
“Well, now he’s eating through a straw, so…”
Will laughed, short and breathy, and leaned his head back against the headrest.
“I knew the moment he looked at you. I’ve seen that look before. I just… snapped.”
You hesitated before speaking.
“I didn’t know he was on that team.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Will reached for your hand this time, lacing his fingers with yours.
“He’s not in your life. I am. And I don’t care what it costs me, I’m not letting anyone disrespect the person I love.”
Your breath caught.
He’d never said that out loud before.
You stared at him. “You love me?”
Will looked back at you, eyebrows drawn together slightly like he was almost surprised you had to ask.
“Of course I do.”
It came out without hesitation, without fluff or fanfare. Like it had been true for a long time, and tonight just cracked the seal.
“I’d do it again,” he added.
“Drop gloves. Take the hit. Hell, sit a game out. If it meant protecting you? Easy choice.”
You leaned across the console and kissed him.
It wasn’t just gratitude, it was love. Pure, intense, bursting-out-of-your-chest love.
When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his.
“You’re going to be the talk of Sportsnet tomorrow.”
He smirked.
“Good. Maybe they’ll leave out the part where I nearly fell over my own skate trying to get to him.”
You snorted. “I’ll edit the footage myself.”
Will squeezed your hand again.
“Can I come over after this? Just want to be with you tonight.”
You nodded. “Of course.”
The headlines did blow up.
‘Smith Ejected After Fight Over Girlfriend’s Name Drop.’
or
‘Sharks Center Stands Up for Love: ‘I Don’t Regret It’’
or
‘Protective King or Overreacting Rookie? NHL Debates Will Smith’s Fight’
But none of it mattered. Not to you.
Because that night, when he showed up at your apartment with his overnight bag and an awkward smile, you welcomed him in with warm hands and a warmer heart.
You iced his hand.
You made him tea.
You curled up beside him on the couch and watched the replay, this time from the safety of your blankets, his arm around your waist.
And when he whispered again, “I love you,” like it was second nature, you whispered it back. Loving him wasn’t always going to be easy, but it was going to be worth every penalty minute.
requested: yes | req: will smith x reader angst to fluff maybe reader sees a text on wills phone from a girl and thinks he’s cheating on her so she avoids and ignores him.
pair: will smith x f!reader
genre: angst to fluff, hurt/comfort, established relationship.
warnings: swearing, jealousy, emotional confrontation, mention of alcohol, misunderstandings, (waterproof) phone in a bathtub, implied emotional vulnerabilities.
summary: when will comes home late from a night out with the guys, he brings with him the scent of perfume, alcohol, and something heavier… doubt. you try to stay cool. you smile. you fetch him water. but a text from a girl on his phone shatters the fragile trust between you. driven by jealousy and a heart aching for answers, you confront him before he can even rinse the shampoo out of his hair.
fia’s note: heyy anon! i know your request was for the reader to fully ignore him and trust me, i considered it but the more i sat with the idea, the more i kept thinking… if she really did go full silent treatment, then boom, that’s it. no fluff, no tension, no hope, just crickets and heartbreak. and while that’s totally valid and angsty, i couldn’t help myself from adding a tiny twist. i decided to keep the vibe light and throw in a bit of humor instead, just so there’s still something left lingering between them. hope you don’t mind the little change, and i truly hope you enjoy how it turned out! thanks again for the idea, it really got my brain turning!
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“Baaaabyyyy,”
Will’s voice drawled as the front door clicked shut behind him. He wasn’t slurring, not yet, but his words stretched just enough to tell you he was leaning heavy on tipsy.
You were sitting on the couch, the TV screen flickering silently in front of you. The time read 2:03 a.m.
“You’re late,”
You said without turning around, trying not to sound like you’d been watching the clock since midnight.
Will kicked his shoes off with a grunt and padded closer.
“Zach wanted to do shots. I didn’t. But he got emotional about his ex, so…”
You turned your head. He was smiling, his stupidly charming smile that could melt steel when sober but now it was softened by too many drinks and the faint red flush in his cheeks. And then you smelled it. The alcohol, yeah but also that perfume. Sweet. Overpowering. Not his. Not yours.
You swallowed hard. “You smell like a headache.”
He blinked, confused, and looked down at himself.
“Oh. Yeah. Probably got hugged by like, six people. Most of them smelled like Sephora.”
You didn’t respond. Just stood and moved past him.
“Go upstairs. Get out of those clothes. Take a shower if you want. I’ll bring you water.”
He reached for you, pulling you in briefly, and pressed a wet kiss to your lips, messy and alcohol-stained. You didn’t pull back, but your smile was paper-thin when you said,
“Go on, Smitty. I’ll be up in a minute.”
Will looked at you for a second longer, as if trying to read what you weren’t saying, but the alcohol dulled his instincts. He nodded and made his way up the stairs, humming something under his breath.
You moved to the kitchen, filling a glass with cold water and breathing through the knot in your chest.
You didn’t want to be this jealous, paranoid girlfriend. But being in love with Will Smith, NHL player, everyone favorite boy of Jose Sharkies, meant you saw things. The way women hovered around him like moths to flame. The way some just didn’t care he was taken.
But it was fine. You trusted him.
Or… you tried to.
When you came upstairs, you placed the glass on his nightstand. His phone was right there beside it. Lit up with a new message.
You didn’t mean to look.
But the screen said.
‘Had fun meeting you tonight :) wish you stayed longer’
From a name you didn’t recognize. No heart emoji. Just a smiley face. But it was enough.
Your throat went dry.
Had fun meeting you.
Meeting. YOU
You blinked at the screen. Because no old friend, friends would word it like that. No girl who knew about you, who respected your existence would even dare.
Your vision blurred as white-hot jealousy rose like bile.
The bathroom door slammed open hard enough to bounce off the stopper.
“Who the fuck is Kaylee?”
Your voice was sharp, dangerous, and already echoing in the steam-filled room.
Will jumped. Actually jumped. Shampoo still lathered in his dark curls, water running down his back, and now staring at you like he’d seen a ghost.
“I. What?”
“You think I’m fucking stupid?”
You stepped further in, your heart thudding.
“You met some girl tonight, and now she’s texting you like you gave her a fucking reason to. You think I wouldn’t find out?”
He wiped shampoo from his eyes, still trying to process.
“Babe, what are you talking about?”
You didn’t wait. You raised his phone like a goddamn gavel and launched it into the bathtub.
*Splash.*
He blinked, water dripping off his nose.
“That’s waterproof.”
“Good,” you snapped.
“Then you can read your flirty little texts while you drown.”
Will shut the water off, breathing slow through his nose like he was grounding himself. He stepped out, grabbing a towel and wrapping it low around his waist. His hair was still sudsy, water trailing down his chest, but his voice was calm. Too calm.
“I didn’t cheat on you.”
You folded your arms tightly over your chest.
“Then explain that text.”
“She was some random girl. She was with a group we ran into. She asked for a photo. I said yeah. Then she got weird.”
“‘Wish you stayed longer’ isn’t weird. That’s flirty. That’s crossing a line.”
“She asked for my number, I said no,” Will said carefully.
“Zach was already halfway drunk, thought it was funny to play matchmaker, gave it out before I could stop him. I didn’t text her. I was gonna block her. But before she walked away, I told her something that you’d probably want to hear.”
You narrowed your eyes. “What.”
Will moved slowly, walked to his duffel bag in the corner and pulled something from the side pocket. A silver ring.
You stared at it.
“What is that?”
“It’s fake,” he said, almost sheepish.
“But I’ve been wearing it when I go out with the guys. Especially when I know they’ll end up somewhere stupid and loud and full of people who don’t care if I’m taken.”
He looked up at you then, honest and flushed, curls sticking to his forehead.
“She asked if I was single, and I showed her this.”
He slid the ring onto his finger. Left hand. Ring finger.
“Told her I was married. Told her I was going home to my wife.”
You blinked. “You… what?”
Will smiled, a little sad, a little proud.
“Yeah. You didn’t know because I never wanted to make a big deal out of it. But I’ve been calling you that in my head for months. Feels more honest than ‘girlfriend.’ You’re more than that.”
Everything inside you, the jealousy, the rage, the heartbreak tilted off its axis.
You stepped forward, heart thudding, looking at the fake ring and the way it seemed to fit too perfectly.
“You told a random girl you were married?”
He nodded. “And showed her this ugly-ass Amazon ring like it meant everything to me. Because it does. Because you do.”
You exhaled, every inch of you buzzing with disbelief and the sudden shift from fury to something close to shame.
“I’m such a dick,” you whispered.
“No,” Will said gently.
“You’re someone who’s been loving a guy in the spotlight and still trying to stay sane. That shit’s not easy.”
“I threw your phone.”
“You’re passionate.”
“I stormed in while you were literally covered in shampoo.”
“You’re dramatic. I like that about you.”
You cracked a laugh, half-choked on guilt.
“You should’ve told me about the ring.”
“I was waiting for the right time,” he said.
“And maybe for a real one.”
Your eyes snapped up. “Wait…”
Will leaned in, pressing a wet forehead to yours, voice low.
“I don’t need a headline engagement or a stadium proposal. But one day… I want the real thing. With you.”
You wrapped your arms around his damp torso, pressing your cheek to his chest. His heart was still racing.
“I’m sorry,” you murmured.
“I’m not,” he said.
“Because now you know how serious I am about you.”
You tilted your head. “You’re still shampooing your hair while saying all this.”
He grinned. “Yeah, but I sound hot doing it.”
You laughed, really laughed this time, the knot in your chest finally loosening.
Later, you’d dry him off with a towel, slide that ridiculous silver ring off his finger and kiss the skin beneath it like a promise.
You woke up to the sound of something clattering violently downstairs. For a second, your brain went to robber. Then earthquake. Then, most terrifying of all ‘Will attempting breakfast without supervision.’
You grabbed his shirt from the floor, padding out of the bedroom with sleep lines on your cheek and hair doing something wildly unflattering. As you crept down the stairs, the smell of… burning toast? eggs?… smacked you in the face.
And there he was.
Will Smith, San Jose Sharks center, casually standing in your kitchen shirtless, wearing plaid pajama pants and a black apron that said ‘Kiss the Cook (Even If He Sucks)’.
But that wasn’t the best part.
On his left hand, glinting in the morning light, was that cheap-ass fake silver ring, yea, right back on his finger like it had never left.
You squinted at him.
“Are you… seriously wearing that thing again?”
Will turned, spatula in hand, eggs in the pan questionably scrambled.
“Absolutely. You thought last night was just drunk sentiment? Nah. This is a lifestyle choice.”
You crossed your arms, hiding a grin.
“You’re lucky I didn’t throw your AirPods in the sink too.”
“I checked,” he said solemnly.
“They’re safe. I kissed them goodnight after the trauma you put us all through.”
You rolled your eyes and walked over.
“You’re not even married, Smitty.”
“Oh, I know,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows.
“But it got me out of at least two awkward conversations at the grocery store last month. This thing’s practically magical.”
He pointed to the ring like it was forged in Middle Earth.
You leaned against the counter.
“So this is it now? You pretending to be my husband in public?”
“Please,” he scoffed. “I’ve been pretending to be your husband in private for months.”
You blinked. “Explain.”
Will smirked and gestured at the chaos around him, the overtoasted toast, the butter melting off the counter, the eggs clinging to the pan like regret.
“Tell me this isn’t husband behavior.”
You laughed, full-bellied and still tired.
“It’s gremlin behavior.”
“And yet, you love me,” he said, sliding a mostly-intact plate in front of you like it was a five-star meal.
You looked at the eggs. “These are crunchy.”
He nodded seriously. “That’s pepper. Probably.”
You stared down at the ring again and sighed.
“You know you can’t propose with that thing, right?”
Will winked. “Noted. But I am wearing it to your cousin’s wedding next month and telling everyone you trapped me.”
You covered your face with one hand and groaned.
“I hate how good you are at this.”
He leaned across the counter, ring glinting in the sunlight, voice low and playful.
warnings: tooth-rotting fluff, mild teasing (from the twins!), excessive use of ketchup, will being the most lovable, clueless hockey dad ever.
summary: will is a fun-loving dad to your seven-year-old twins, charles and theo, two boys who love hockey almost as much as they love messing with their dad. on this particular ‘family skate day’ on sunday, the boys decide to switch identities to see how long it’ll take will to figure it out. the catch? you already knows.
fia’s note: you guys have been asking for more dad!will content, so here it is! i’ve honestly been wanting to dive into a dad!will yap for a while now, kind of like the ones i used to do with dad!luke. i mean, our will absolutely deserves his own little spotlight too, duh. there’s just something so fun about imagining him being a soft, overly proud dad like fully in his ‘my kids are my entire personality’ era. so if you’re down for some wholesome, sassy, protective, emotionally unhinged dad!will energy, then buckle up, because i’m definitely cooking more of that soon!
tagging team fia ! — @dancerbailey3 @mashmashi @kell9rs @nokiaholland @macka @smiley-roos @silvenyy @bd147ms @voidvannie @itsonlyaddi @puckinghughes @astrotrilogy @definitelynotdomanique
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Sunday mornings in the Smith house were a glorious mess. Not the kind of mess where you’re sipping coffee in peace or sleeping past 7, those days were long gone. Sundays were sacred because they were ‘Family Skate Day’, a tradition carved in stone since the twins, Charles and Theo, first wobbled on skates at age three. You, Will, and your two mini tornadoes would pile into the car, hockey sticks clattering, and hit the ice like it was the Stanley Cup finals.
This morning, you woke to the usual symphony, thumping footsteps, the sound of electric toothbrushes, and the twins’ voices and giggles. They were deep in a heated debate about which puck was ‘obviously faster’ the red one or the black one. By the time you shuffled downstairs, Charles and Theo were waiting in the kitchen, decked out in identical blue jerseys, gray sweatpants, and suspiciously matching grins.
“Morning, Mom!”
You stopped dead, hands on hips.
“Morning, Theo,” you said, pointing at the twin on the left.
His mouth fell open.
“What?! Mom, we swapped clothes! Even our socks! How’d you know?”
You smirked, leaning against the counter.
“Charles, I’m your mom. I carried you gremlins for nine months. You think a jersey swap’s gonna throw me off? I know your sneaky faces.”
You dropped your voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“You’re pranking Dad again, aren’t you?”
They burst into giggles, high-fiving eachother like they’d just scored the game-winning goal. Charles, the real one, leaned in.
“We’ve been planning this all week, Mom. Don’t tell Dad!”
You winked. “My lips are sealed. But you better sell it, or he’s gonna catch on.”
Will bounded downstairs a few minutes later, rocking his faded team hoodie and humming to Taylor Swift song, his all time favorite ‘Wildest Dream’. He was tying his sneakers, oblivious to the twin conspiracy brewing.
“Alright, team Smith, let’s hit the road!”
He called, tossing the car keys in the air and catching them with a flourish. The twins were already dragging their hockey bags to the garage, arguing over who could carry more sticks without dropping them.
“Careful, Theo, you’re gonna break my favorite stick!” Charles yelled.
“Your stick’s lame anyway!” Theo shot back, sticking out his tongue.
You and Will exchanged a look as you climbed into the minivan.
“They’re gonna be the death of us,” he said, grinning.
“Worth it,” you replied, buckling in.
“But if they break another stick, you’re paying for it.”
The drive to breakfast was peak Smith family chaos. Charles launched into a passionate defense of black beans, claiming they were ‘the king of beans’ because they were ‘smoky and cool.’
And, Theo, not to be outdone, argued that chickpeas were ‘the GOAT’ because they ‘crunched better.’ Yes, beans. For reasons no one could fully explain, the twins were obsessed with them, refried, baked, kidney, you name it. If it was a bean, they’d fight to the death over it.
So, naturally, breakfast was at The Bean Barn, a greasy diner with killer toast, eggs, and a side of beans that kept the boys happy. You and Will weren’t exactly fans, the coffee was weak, and the booths were sticky but parenting meant sacrifices. Beans were a small price to pay for two smiling kids.
“Why can’t they be obsessed with, like, pizza?”
Will muttered, pulling into the diner’s parking lot.
You laughed. “Because pizza’s too easy. Our kids gotta be weird.”
He smirked, reaching over to squeeze your hand.
“Just like their mom.”
“Watch it, Smith,” you teased, nudging his arm.
“You’re the one who taught them to love beans.”
At the rink, the twins’ prank kicked into overdrive. Charles (or was it Theo?) plopped down on the bench and whined,
“Mooom, my skates are too loose!”
A perfect imitation of Theo’s usual complaint. The real Theo, not missing a beat, chimed in,
“Mom, mine too! They’re all wobbly! can you please help me?”
You crouched down, tying two sets of laces, while Will stood nearby, scratching his chin and squinting like he was trying to solve a puzzle.
“Something’s weird with my boys today,” he said, half to himself.
“Y’all are acting… extra.”
You flashed him an innocent smile, tightening the last knot.
“Nothing’s up, babe. Just lace up and let’s skate.”
The session was a whirlwind of pucks, laughter, and the twins zipping around like mini pros. Both lefties, they played almost identically, which made their swap harder to spot.
But every so often, Will tilted his head, watching “Charles” pull a slick spin that was pure Theo, or “Theo” nail Charles’ signature backward glide with a little too much swagger.
“Nice one, Charles!” Will called after a particularly smooth move.
Theo (as Charles) grinned, puffing out his chest.
“Thanks, Dad! Stole it from Theo!”
Will nodded slowly, eyes narrowing.
“Uh-huh. Sure you did.”
You bit your lip to keep from laughing, pretending to adjust your skates. The boys were good, too good. But Will was starting to catch on, even if he didn’t say it yet.
After an hour of skating, Charles (the real Theo) skated over, panting.
“Mom, can we get extra ice time? Pleeease?”
“Yeah, we’re crushing it!” the other twin added, skidding to a stop.
You glanced at Will, who was wiping sweat from his brow.
“What do you think, coach? They’ve got energy to burn.”
Will groaned dramatically.
“Y’all are gonna kill me. But fine, ten more minutes. Then we’re outta here.”
The twins whooped, fist-bumping each other before zooming off. You leaned against the boards, watching them weave through cones.
“They’re getting so fast,” you said.
Will slid closer, his arm brushing yours.
“Just like their dad.”
You snorted. “Oh, please. You still trip over your own stick.”
He gasped, clutching his chest.
“Rude! I’m a legend on this ice.”
“Sure, legend,” you teased, bumping his shoulder.
“Let’s see if you can keep up with the gremlins today.”
Post-skate hunger hit like a freight train, and the golden arches of McDonald’s glowed like a beacon of hope. The twins sprinted to the counter, shoving eachother like it was game seven.
“Can I have a Big Mac, double cheese and extra fries please!”
They shouted in unison, not even glancing at the menu.
You and Will ordered your usual chicken burgers, exchanging a tired but happy look.
“They’re like little robots,” Will said, shaking his head.
“Same order every time.”
“Creatures of habit,”
You replied, stealing one of his fries before he could protest.
“Beans for breakfast, burgers for lunch. We’re raising predictable chaos gremlins.”
You slid into a corner booth, trays loaded with greasy goodness. The twins tore into their burgers, and that’s when their eating quirks gave them away. Theo drowned his Big Mac in ketchup until it looked like a modern art project. Charles, meanwhile, was surgically scraping off every trace of ketchup, muttering,
“Soggy buns are the worst.”
Will froze mid-bite, his chicken burger hovering over his tray. His eyes locked on “Charles,” who was squeezing a ketchup packet with chaotic glee.
“Hold up,” he said, pointing a fry at the ketchup fiend.
“You’re not… Charles.”
The boy didn’t flinch.
“Yeah, I am, Dad,” he said, flashing a grin so innocent it was suspicious.
Will’s eyes narrowed. “Nah. Charles hates ketchup. You cried over a soggy bun last month, said it ‘ruined the vibe.’”
“It’s a good bun today,” the boy said, shrugging like he’d rehearsed it in front of a mirror.
Will whipped his head to the other twin, who was delicately wiping ketchup off his bun with a napkin.
“Okay, then you’re Theo.”
“Nope,” the boy said, all wide-eyed innocence.
“I’m Charles.”
Will dropped his burger and threw his hands up.
“Am I in the Twilight Zone? Did I hit my head on the ice? Y’all are pranking me, aren’t you? This is some… some Twinsception!”
You snorted into your soda, nearly choking. “Will, breathe, babe, breath.”
He turned to you, eyes wide like you’d just betrayed him.
“You knew?!”
You grinned, popping another fry in your mouth.
“Of course. Clocked it the second I walked downstairs seeing them in their little matching outfits.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
He said, clutching his heart like you’d personally offended him.
“Wanted to see how long it’d take you,” you teased, nudging his leg under the table.
“I thought you’d catch on when Theo made me tie his skates second. You know Charles always goes first.”
“I thought he was being polite!” Will groaned, rubbing his face.
“I’m out here coaching, sweating, thinking my kids are just extra talented today, and y’all are playing me like a fiddle!”
The twins lost it, cackling like tiny supervillains. Theo pointed a ketchup-covered finger at his dad.
“You said my crossovers looked like Charles’!”
“Because they did!”
Will said, throwing his hands up again. “I was confused for two hours on that ice!”
Charles leaned in, smirking.
“You were confused all day, Dad.”
“Okay, that’s it,”
Will said, leaning back with a mock-serious glare.
“I’m done. I need a dad decoder ring or a lie detector or something. You all are too good at this.”
You reached over, squeezing his hand.
“Babe, you’re outnumbered by chaos gremlins. Just wave the white flag.”
The twins high-fived, chanting, “Chaos gremlins! Chaos gremlins!” like it was their new team name.
Will shook his head, but his grin was wide, all warmth and love.
“One day, I’m gonna prank you two back. Just wait. I’ll swap your hockey sticks or… oh! put peas in your beans.”
“Peas?!” Theo yelped, horrified. “Dad, that’s evil!”
Charles gasped, clutching his burger like a shield.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, I dare,” Will said, leaning forward with a mischievous glint.
“Kids, you think you’re slick? I invented slick. I’m coming for you, you little gremlins.”
You laughed, leaning against Will’s shoulder.
“Good luck, coach. You’re playing a losing game.”
He winked, that flirty spark in his eyes still as strong as the day you met.
“Maybe, but I got the best teammate in the game,” he said, nudging you back.
You raised your soda cup.
“Cheers to that, captain.”
The rest of lunch was full of laughter, and the twins negotiating over the last of the food. Charles tried to trade a pickle slice for Theo’s extra fries, which sparked a full-on debate about whether pickles were ‘gross currency’ (Theo’s words) or ‘a delicacy’ (Charles’ argument).
“They’re getting too smart,”
Will whispered, his arm draped around your shoulders.
“They’re seven,” you whispered back, smirking.
“You gotta keep up, babe.”
He chuckled, kissing your temple. “You’re the boss, mama.”
“Damn right,” you said, stealing one of his fries.
“Always.”
On the drive home, the twins were still buzzing from their successful prank, reenacting Will’s confused faces from the rink. You decided to throw in a little fun of your own.
“Hey, boys,” you said, turning in your seat.
“What if I told you I’m swapping your bedtime stories tonight? Charles gets Theo’s favorite, and Theo gets Charles’.”
They gasped, horrified. “No way!” Theo said. “I need my pirate book, Mom!”
“And I need my dinosaur book!” Charles added, crossing his arms.
Will laughed, glancing at you.
“Oh, she’s good. You two better watch out, Mom’s joining the prank game.”
You grinned. “Gotta keep you all on your toes.”
When you got home, the twins raced inside, already planning their next prank. Will pulled you close as you stepped out of the car, his hands on your waist.
“You’re trouble, you know that?”
“Takes one to know one,” you teased, standing on your tiptoes to kiss him.
requested: yes | req: angsty request for will smith!! maybe a relationship where the reader is a bit older and will feels anxious about being enough for them. reader babies mack a lot and will gets upset from a combination of insecurity about being younger (ex: “if mack is a baby what am i..”), jealousy of the way reader talks about mack in general (ex: “mack is so grown up now!! he looks so mature), etc and starts avoiding reader instead of talking it out, which makes the reader confused and spend even more time with mack since will is always gone. reader finally confronts will, they fight and spend a day apart but makeup at the end with a cuddle!!
pair: will smith x older f!reader
genre: angst, romance, hurt/comfort, fluff.
warnings: emotional angst, insecurity, jealousy, age gap (implied, not specified), heated argument, brief mention of self-doubt.
summary: you and will have been together for a while now, despite the slight age gap that people love to point out. you’ve always brushed it off, will’s maturity, his heart, his everything has always been enough. but lately, things have shifted. you’re spending more time around mack, your longtime friend, and your casual, affectionate remarks about him don’t go unnoticed. will’s insecurities about his age, about being ‘enough,’ start to eat him alive but instead of talking to you, he pulls away slowly, painfully.
fia’s note: yayyy so happy to be back!! i think i’ll be free until september, so hopefully that means more time to write and (fingers crossed) finally finish all the requests that have been accepted, i’ll also be scrolling through the ask box to see if anything else sparks inspiration so if you’ve sent something before, who knows 👀 as always, please enjoy this fic, and thank you all for being so lovely and patient. love you all sm!!
You say with a quiet laugh, scrolling through the latest team photo from the summer training camp.
“Look at him, he’s all broad-shouldered and serious now. He looks like a real pro.”
Will doesn’t say anything.
You glance up from your phone. He’s sitting on the other side of your living room couch, hood up, one leg bouncing as he stares blankly at the muted TV.
“Will?”
He blinks and shifts like he just remembered he’s supposed to be present.
“What?”
“I said Mack’s all grown up. Doesn’t he look different?”
He shrugs. “I guess.”
You frown. It’s the third time this week he’s shut down on you mid-conversation. You used to joke that he could talk through a commercial break and still make it back before the show resumed. But now? Every word feels like pulling teeth.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Just tired.”
That’s all he gives you. You study him for a second longer of how he’s been wearing the same shirt for two days, how he hasn’t really smiled at you.
You nod slowly and turn back to your phone.
At first, you blame the season. Early practices, post-training fatigue. But then he stops texting you good morning, he skips your Sunday lunch. When he does come over, he barely touches you anymore like his hands used to live on your waist, his thumb always resting at the curve of your back.
Now he sits beside you like you both are nothing.
You tell yourself not to assume.
But when you vent to Mack about it one afternoon at the rink, you feel Will’s gaze burning into you. He doesn’t say anything, just watches as you playfully nudge Mack’s arm and laugh at something stupid he says.
And then later, when you look for Will? He’s gone.
It keeps happening.
You reach out, he pulls away. You text, he leaves you on read. You joke, he gives you silence.
So you lean on what’s familiar, Mack. He’s easy to talk to, unbothered by your spiraling thoughts. He doesn’t flinch when you ask, ‘Am I hard to be with?’ He just says, ‘You’re not hard. You’re just real. And that scares people sometimes.’
You tell Will where you’re going, every time. But it doesn’t stop the pit from growing in your chest.
One night, you’re curled up on your couch in his hoodie and you check your phone again.
Nothing.
Dinner’s cold.
You’d planned it. Lit candles and everything. Told him to come by after practice. He said he would.
But he didn’t.
You call him. No answer.
You see him the next morning in the player’s lounge. He’s laughing with a teammate like nothing’s wrong.
You snap.
“Will.”
He looks over. His smile falters.
You don’t give him time to pretend. You tug him into an empty hallway, voice shaking.
“What’s going on with you?”
He blinks. “What?”
“Don’t ‘what’ me. You’ve been ghosting me for weeks. You bailed on dinner. You don’t talk to me. You barely look at me. So either you’re over this and too cowardly to say it—”
“I’m not over you,” he says, sharp.
“Then what is it?” you demand.
“Because I’m going insane trying to figure it out.”
He runs a hand over his face. “It’s not you.”
“Stop saying that.”
“I’m serious. It’s me, okay? It’s…”
His voice trails off, like he doesn’t know how to say it without sounding pathetic. He looks away.
“It’s the way you talk about Mack.”
“What?”
He exhales like it physically hurts.
“You call him ‘baby Mack,’ and then say he’s grown up, and mature, and strong, and… what am I supposed to be then? If he’s grown up now, if he’s the mature one, and what the hell does that make me?”
You blink, stunned.
Will’s voice a little shakes now. “I know I’m younger than you. I’ve always known. But it’s different when you start sounding like it matters.”
You take a step back. “You really think I see you that way?”
“I don’t know,” he mutters.
“I just know it’s been eating me alive.”
Your eyes sting. “You could’ve told me.”
“I didn’t want to sound insecure.”
“I want your insecurity. I want the messy shit too, Will. That’s what being in a relationship means.”
“I thought I wasn’t enough,” he whispers.
“I thought maybe you were realizing that too.”
The silence between you is unbearable. You look at him, shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets, like he’s bracing for heartbreak.
So you say the only thing you can.
“Then you’re an idiot.”
His eyes flash up to yours.
“I chose you,” you say, voice trembling.
“I keep choosing you. And you started acting like I didn’t. You don’t get to punish me for something I never said.”
He nods slowly face crumples. “I know.”
You leave before the tears fall.
After that day, you don’t text, he doesn’t call. Mack asks if you’re okay. You nod, but it’s a lie, the truth is that you cry in the shower.
You sleep in his hoodie but bury it under your pillow the next morning.
You check your phone ten times.
Nothing. Until…
Smitty: Can I come over?
You open the door.
He’s standing there like he hasn’t slept. Eyes red. Shoulders small. No hoodie this time, just a worn t-shirt and the weight of regret.
“I was wrong,” he says softly.
“I was scared, and I acted like a kid. And I made you feel like you didn’t matter and… I hate that.”
Your lip trembles.
“I’ve never felt like this about someone before,” he whispers. “And it made me so fucking afraid of losing you, I started making it happen myself.”
You step forward, your hand finding his.
“I don’t care how old you are,” you say, tears falling freely now.
“I care that you love me. And you do. I know you do.”
“I do,” he breathes, pulling you in, burying his face in your neck.
“God, I do.”
You hold him like the world is ending. And in a way, it is the end of the fear.
You curl into the couch an hour later, legs tangled, limbs heavy with exhaustion. He plays with your fingers like he’s never letting go again.
You whisper, “I’m never calling Mack ‘baby’ again.”
He laughs, just once, muffled against your shoulder.
“That’s not the problem.”
“What is?”
“I just want to be yours,” he murmurs, curling closer. “The way you’re mine.”
“Will, You are,” you whisper, kissing his lip. “You always were.”
warnings: none beyond mild teasing and tooth-rotting love.
summary: you and will, sit down together for your first ever joint interview on the graham norton show. between laughter, career talk, parenting stories, and memories, you both reflect on the rare kind of love that defied busy schedules, different sports, and public pressure. for the first time, the world gets to see not just the power couple but the best friends behind the jerseys.
fia’s note: okay so this is a totally different universe for dad!will, in this one, reader are also an athlete! i didn’t specify what sport reader play because i wanted to leave it open for your imagination. maybe reader’s into something competitive and fast-paced, or maybe it’s something low-key but still intense. whatever sport you love or vibe with right now, just slide that version of you into this universe. it’s all about having fun with it and making it feel personal to you!
tagging team fia ! — @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @dancerbailey3 @mashmashi @kell9rs @nokiaholland @smiley-roos @macka @alwaysclassyeagle @hopefulsuitcasemoneyzonk
You sit down beside Will on the famous red couch, just happy to be here, next to Will, in this rare moment of where it’s not about your sports or media days or parenting twins… it’s about both of you. Together.
“This is a proper treat,” Graham leaning forward with his trademark mischief.
“A married couple, both top-tier athletes, parents to twins, and somehow still disgustingly in love? I’m jealous, and I don’t even know where to start.”
Will chuckles, his thumb brushing your knuckles.
“We’re just happy to sit still for once. No rink, no gym, no toddlers throwing Cheerios.”
You nod, grinning. “Yeah, this is basically a date night. You’re welcome, Graham.”
The audience laughs, and Graham claps delightedly. “A date night on my couch? I’m honored, Mr. & Mes. Smith. But seriously, how do you schedule your lives? Two athletic careers, twins, do you… do you ever sleep?”
“Uhm… we don’t,” Will says, deadpan. “We just vibe on chaos.”
“Lies,” you counter, nudging him.
“We’ve got this color-coded calendar that’s basically NASA-level logistics. My trainer’s on it, his coach is on it, even our nanny gets pinged when we’re double-booked.”
Graham blinks dramatically. “I can’t even sync my calendar with my mum. You’re superheroes.”
You and Will exchange a look, stifling giggles like kids caught passing notes.
“Okay, Let’s rewind a little bit,” Graham says, eyes twinkling.
“Will, you’re a star with the San Jose Sharks, NHL’s golden boy. And you,” he turns to you,
“An absolute force in your sport. How did this power couple come to be?”
Will’s grin softens, his eyes flicking to you.
“Teammate dragged her to one of my games. He’s like, ‘Come on, meet my friend, the athlete.’ I turn around, and she’s standing there, all ‘I’d rather be napping’ energy.”
You laugh, because it’s true.
“I’d just come from practice, totally wiped. My friend guilt-tripped me into going. I was not ready for hockey charm.”
“And yet,” Will says, squeezing your hand, “fate said, ‘Chop chop chop, let’s make this happen.’”
Graham leans in. “First impression of Will?”
You tilt your head, smirking. “He was so… red. Fresh-off-the-ice, cheek tomato-level red. Sweaty helmet hair, cheeks like stoplights. I thought, ‘Oh cute, but someone get this man a towel.’”
The audience roars, and Will clutches his chest.
“My face was out here winning her heart.”
“Honestly, though,” you add, softer,
“He was sweet. I’d been a Sharks fan forever, so meeting a player was cool. I just didn’t expect… us, you know.” You gesture between you, and the crowd awws.
Graham raises an eyebrow. “A Sharks fan before Will? So you were already tweeting about his team?”
“Oh, yeah,” you say.
“I’ve got receipts, tweets from years back, hyping the Sharks. Probably manifesting him without knowing it.”
Will leans toward Graham, mock-whispering.
“She summoned me with her fandom. I had no choice.”
Graham cackles. “Okay, careers. Different sports, Will tearing up the ice, you dominating your field. Any competitive tension?”
You both answer at once.
“No.” — “Yes.”
You turn to each other, bursting into laughter.
“Okay, maybe a little,” you admit.
“If I outrun him in a sprint, he’s like, ‘Bet you can’t do a slapshot.’ It’s his go-to.”
“She’s worse,” Will says, grinning.
“Honeymoon in Italy, we’re strolling through this gorgeous piazza, and she goes, ‘Race you to that fountain.’ In sandals!”
“And I won,” you say, pointing at him.
“Because I was carrying our luggage and your gelato!”
Graham is doubled over. “So, no relaxing honeymoon vibes?”
“We relaxed,” you say, then crack up again.
“But really,” Will adds, his tone shifting to something softer.
“That trip was perfect. I’d lose a hundred fountain races just to see her smile like that again.”
He looks at you, eyes warm, and your heart does a little flip.
The audience coos, and Graham fans himself.
“Will, you’re making us all swoon. How are you this romantic?”
Will shrugs, a playful glint in his eye.
“She makes it easy. I mean, look at her, my wife, she’s out here killing it in her sport, being the best mom, and still putting up with my sweaty post-game self. I’m just trying to keep up.”
You blush, swatting his arm. “Stop it, you sap.”
“Never,” he says.
Graham claps his hands.
“Okay, let’s talk twins, Charles and Theo Smith, gorgeous names. How’s parenthood with your high-octane lives?”
You squeeze Will’s hand, grinning. “It’s wild. They’re two, and they’re already little tornadoes.”
“Charles is a thrower,” Will says.
“Balls, toys, spaghetti, if it’s in his hands, it’s flying.”
“And Theo’s obsessed with speed,” you add.
“He sprints down the hallway in socks, sliding like he’s auditioning for the Olympics. We’re terrified he’ll crash into a wall.”
Graham laughs. “Are they already little athletes, taking after you?”
“Oh, definitely,” Will says.
“Last week, we set up this mini obstacle course in the backyard, cones, a little slide, toddler stuff. Charles bulldozed through it, and Theo? He’s weaving around cones like he’s got a game plan.”
You nod, laughing.
“I caught Will ‘coaching’ them, like it’s NHL tryouts. He’s whispering, ‘Stick to the left, Theo!’ I’m like, ‘Babe, he’s two. Let him eat dirt first.’”
Will grins. “Gotta start ‘em young. But yeah, they’ve got her fire, stubborn, fast, and way too charming for their own good.”
Graham leans forward.
“So Will, we all wanna know, you’re a young dad for an NHL star, yea sure but what made you so sure about starting a family?”
Will’s expression softens, and he glances at you, his voice full of feeling.
“I just… knew. The second I met her, it was like my life clicked into focus. I didn’t want to wait five years, ten years, whatever. I wanted her, us, family. Even with our crazy schedules, she’s always been my home base.”
You bite your lip, caught off guard by the emotion.
“He’s always been all-in,” you say quietly. “Like, we’d be on FaceTime me at a meet, him at an away game and he’d still find a way to send me flowers or a text that’s like, ‘You got this, champ.’”
Will smiles, a little sheepish.
“I proposed like eleven months in because I was on a ‘chop chop chop’ timeline. Couldn’t wait.”
Graham pounces. “Chop chop chop! Explain this madness!”
Will laughs, rubbing the back of his neck.
“It’s this dumb thing I’d say when we were dating. I knew I wanted to marry her, like, yesterday. So I’d tease her, ‘Chop chop chop, let’s get this love story moving.’”
“He was ridiculous,” you say, but your smile is unstoppable.
“Proposed right after a competition. I’m sweaty, chugging water, barely alive, and he’s on one knee with this ring, saying, ‘Marry me, champ.’”
“Best moment of my life,” Will says, eyes locked on yours.
“She won her event and said yes. Double victory.”
The audience melts, and Graham pretends to wipe a tear.
“You’re killing me. How do you stay this in love with all the pressure careers, kids, the spotlight?”
You pause, glancing at Will.
“He’s my best friend. Even when it’s hard like when I missed his game-winning goal because I was at an event, or he missed my big win for a road trip we make it work. We cheer louder than anyone else for each other.”
Will nods, his voice soft but firm.
“She’s my everything. I’d skate a thousand extra laps just to see her in the stands. And when I watch her compete? I’m her loudest fan, screaming like I’m at a playoff game.”
You laugh, nudging him. “You are loud. I could hear you over my own heartbeat last time.”
Graham claps dramatically. “You’ve ruined every other couple for me. But one last thing, any big plans for the future? More kids, more medals, more fountain races?”
Will grins, glancing at you with a softness that makes your heart skip.
“More of her. That’s the plan. I’ve witnessed her through the pain, the grind, even before all this, her strength, her heart. So if she wants more babies, I’m ready, chop chop chop. But if not, that’s totally fine by me. I’m good as long as it’s what she wants.”
You blush, caught off guard by his earnestness, and swat his arm lightly.
“You’re gonna make me cry on national TV, Smitty.”
The audience awws, and Graham fans himself again.
“Will, you’re setting an impossible standard here! Any response to that?”
You smile, leaning into Will’s shoulder.
“He’s stuck with me, that’s for sure. More medals, maybe. But mostly just… more us. Chasing goals, chasing toddlers, chasing eachother.”
“Chop chop chop,” Will adds, winking at you, and the audience erupts.
Graham throws his hands up.
“That’s it, you’re officially the cutest. Get out of here before I propose to you both myself.”
requested: yes | req: hi! i loved the macklin fic you posted... like i was full on giggling to his adorable jealousy, so i wondered if you'd write something similar for ws#2. but like instead, it's will stealing the reader away from dream!macklin because he's like our childhood friend and the first time reader met will, he thought reader and macklin were dating, before they told him they were not.
pair: will smith x f!reader
genre: fluff, humor, friends-to-lovers, jealousy.
warnings: mild language, dream jealousy, over-the-top possessiveness (in a sweet way), secondhand embarrassment.
summary: will is never subtle, especially when he’s jealous. so when he dreams that you kissed your childhood best friend celebrini, he storms out of the bedroom in a full-blown drama spiral. the kiss didn’t happen. not in real life. but will wants answers and maybe, he’s ready to admit something more than that.
fia’s notes: thank you to @/romxntica for making this gif! my goodness, he looks like an actual angel in it. also, just a little heads-up that fia (yes, me!) has been thinking about starting a small series featuring dad!will smith… or maybe even single dad!will smith. we’ll see where the vibes take us!
“Why did you kiss him?”
You looked up from your phone, blinking.
“What?”
“Him. Mack.”
Will stood in the doorway, shirtless and glaring like he’d just emerged from a war zone or more accurately, a bad dream. His hair was sticking up in nine directions, voice gravelly, and expression devastated.
“…What are you talking about?”
You asked, scooting back on the couch.
Will stalked closer, stopping directly in front of you.
You burst out laughing, and Will looked even more betrayed.
“Don’t laugh,”
He said, flopping onto the couch beside you, arms crossed, scowl deepening.
“It was so vivid. I watched you run into his arms like a damn Hallmark movie. You giggled, babe.”
“You’re mad at me over a dream kiss with dream Celebrini?” you teased, wide-eyed.
“I’m devastated,” he corrected.
“I had to wake up and remember that you betrayed me in a hypothetical timeline I didn’t sign off on.”
You reached for his arm, chuckling.
“Okay, back up. Start from the beginning.”
Will nodded solemnly.
“You kissed him. With feeling. He wore a red flannel. He gave you a scarf. There was snow. And Dream Me? I just stood there. Watching. Like some awkward extra in your romantic subplot.”
“I would never,” you laughed.
“You know I love you. Not Dream Mack.”
Will didn’t smile.
“Should I start chopping wood and wearing Canadian flannel now? Is that the vibe you’re secretly into?”
You snorted and fell into the cushions.
Will leaned back dramatically.
“I swear I heard Celine Dion.”
“That’s how you know it’s a true Canadian fantasy.”
He pointed at you. “Exactly!”
You wiped a tear from laughing.
“Baby, Dream Me might be confused, but Real Me only kisses you.”
Will let out a big sigh and finally, finally, cracked a grin.
“Still hurts though.”
“Want me to kiss it better?”
“…Maybe.”
You kissed him, and Will instantly relaxed, hands finding your waist like a magnet.
When you pulled away, you asked,
“What is this really about?”
He hesitated. “Can I tell you something kind of dumb?”
“Always, Willy”
“When I first met you, before we were together I thought you and Mack were dating.”
Your eyebrows shot up.
“What? Why?”
“You showed up to that open skate together, you were wearing his hoodie, and he called you his ride or die. Then he glared at any guy that looked your way, including me. I thought I didn’t stand a chance.”
You softened. “I only wore his hoodie because I spilled coffee on mine. And Mack glares at everyone. It’s his resting face.”
Will chuckled. “Yeah, well. I was into you so bad, and I thought you were taken by the golden boy of British Columbia.”
You slid your hand into his.
“We’ve been friends since we were kids. He’s like a brother.”
Will looked at your joined hands.
“Took me forever to even ask for your number. I was terrified.”
“Terrified?” you repeated, amused.
“You check people into glass for a living.”
He smirked. “Yeah, well. You were scarier.”
You smiled. “You’ve got me now.”
His voice dropped, quieter, sincere.
“I know. But sometimes I still get a little… possessive. You’re my favorite thing in the world. Even Dream You.”
You leaned in and kissed him again, slow this time. When you pulled back, his lips chased yours like he wasn’t ready to stop.
“You’re mine,” he murmured.
“Always,” you promised.
Later, while brushing your teeth, you heard him mutter from bed.
“Still can’t believe the scarves.”
You spat into the sink, calling out, “What were they, plaid?”
“Red plaid. Peak Canadian,” he replied solemnly.
You laughed. “Did Dream Me say anything dramatic while kissing Mack?”
He groaned. “She said, ‘I’ve always loved you, even when you had braces.’”
“Braces?!”
“I don’t control Dream You, okay?!”
You climbed into bed, still wheezing.
“We should tell Mack. He deserves to know he starred in your rom-com nightmare.”
Will sat bolt upright. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“He’ll never let me live it down. He’ll post scarf photos. Tag me. I’ll never hear the end of it.”
You grinned. “You’re right. I’ll do it.”
Will flopped back with a groan. “This is actual emotional terrorism.”
The next morning, the real nightmare hit.
You walked into the kitchen, sipping coffee, only to see Will sitting at the island, pale and dead-eyed.
“…What?”
He slowly turned his phone toward you.
It was an Instagram post from Macklin, him, at a cabin in Banff, wearing a red plaid flannel, snow falling around him, a stack of chopped wood in the background.
You gasped. “Oh my god.”
Will whispered, “It’s happening.”
You nearly dropped your mug laughing.
“How is this real?!”
“I’m haunted,” Will muttered.
“Do you think he’s dream-stalking me back?”
You leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Maybe. Or maybe… we buy you a scarf.”
fia is opening up angst request ideas for macklin celebrini, will smith, and luke hughes because let’s be real, why not stir a little pain into the mix? up until now, most of my works for these three soft kings have been drenched in fluff, domestic sweetness, and forehead kisses galore… but now i’m in the mood to break some hearts (including my own, probably). i want to explore the tension, the heartbreak, the missed chances, the bittersweet reunions, all the things that make angst so addictive.
so if you’ve got a scenario, a prompt, or just a single devastating line of dialogue stuck in your head, send it my way! you can drop it in my ask box anytime. i’ll be going through every single one, and who knows, your idea might just become the next fic to wreck us all in the best way possible. let’s make our boys suffer (lovingly).
request. | those photos are purely for attention purposes only :) it’s mack btw, ok i’m jealous haha.
