fallinallincurls

[fallinallincurls]

LITERALLY

[fallinallincurls]

Made this weird drawing—thanks to all the goalies for their hard work in the 24–25 season, and thanks to my friend Chen for the help.

*No goalies or animals were harmed

**Fixed the number error

[fallinallincurls]

I am just happy I get to see crumbs 🥺🥺🥺

[fallinallincurls]

oh my heart🥹 this carried so many emotions with it but was so well written and i adore willy showing up in the simplest but most appreciated way

I’ve been going through it lately. I have bipolar and have been hit with a wicked depressive episode. Could you maybe write how Auston or Willy would help you through when you don’t like asking for help for yourself?

Hi, love 💕

I’m really sorry to hear that things have been heavy lately. I know this request came in a little while ago, so I truly hope you’re feeling even a little better now 🙏🏼

Just a quick note before we dive in - I don’t have lived experience with bipolar disorder, so if this misses the mark in any way, I genuinely apologise. This is simply how I imagine William might show up for you on a hard day ✨ It’s nothing grand or dramatic, just a quiet little moment that came to mind after reading your message 💕

I’d love to hear your thoughts - and if you’d like a version with Auston too, just say the word 😘 Also, if you need venting to a stranger, feel free to pop in as well - depressive periods can hit hard, and it's not easy to talk 💕

Tropes & warnings: William Nylander x reader, just a soft moment with either boyfriend or best friend!William - nothing special

Words count: 2K

➼｡ﾟ

The Weight You Don’t Say I William Nylander ✐

The world felt muffled. Thick with stillness.

Light bled weakly around the edges of the blackout curtains, barely cutting through the grey. Somewhere outside, traffic breathed in waves; an occasional car horn, the whine of a garbage truck - but none of it really registered. It was all distant, like you were listening through water. Like you were under it.

You lay on your side, knees loosely drawn up beneath the twisted mess of your sheets. The duvet clung in heavy, uneven folds across your legs, half-kicked off in the early hours when the restlessness peaked. Your sweatshirt smelled faintly like stale perfume and the vague, acidic sharpness of sleep. You hadn’t changed in… days? Time had gone a little slippery again.

Your eyes burned, though you hadn’t cried recently. Or maybe you had, you couldn’t really remember. The skin beneath your lashes felt tight and sore, like salt had dried there without you noticing, and you hadn’t even bothered to wipe your face the night before. You hadn’t done much of anything.

It was one of those periods… again. You couldn’t quite explain it. Mostly because most people didn’t try to understand. Still, there were those few that did. 

Then in the middle of the quiet darkness, your phone lit up against the pillow beside you. First, you didn’t look when it buzzed a few times before it then stilled. A few minutes passed. But then you picked it up anyway.

Five unread texts. Two missed calls. An email marked urgent. A group chat you couldn’t stomach opening. And a calendar reminder you’d ignored for the third time this week.

You scrolled through them all with the same blank detachment. Then closed the screen.

You told yourself, Get up now. Just swing your legs out and start small. But then another voice answered immediately, What’s the point?

And beneath it, something sharper whispered, they’ve probably stopped expecting anything from you anyway.

So, you just turned your face into the pillow and shut your eyes.

You had meant to try today. You really had. You’d told yourself you’d shower. Open the blinds. Eat something that didn’t come in a package. Maybe even text William back. But now it was mid-morning, and your body felt like stone, your limbs sunk into the mattress as if it might swallow you whole. The air in your lungs sat wrong - too thick and too slow - and the silence stretched.

But just like that, there was a clicking sound.

The door lock shifted - not loudly, but distinct - followed by the soft scrape of a key turning all the way through. And then the latch slid open.

Your whole body stilled. Only one person had a key, and you had even forgotten he still had it.

For a second, you froze. Panic fluttered at the base of your throat, as you pretended to sleep. You didn't move or say anything. Maybe he’d think you’re not home. But William didn’t call your name. He didn’t even knock again. He just stepped inside like it was the most common thing to do. Like this was something he’d done a hundred times before.

You heard the quiet shuffle of his sneakers on hardwood. The soft exhale as he took off a jacket. And something else, maybe a bag, rustled as it was set on the counter.

He didn’t come straight toward the bedroom. He didn’t say a word. He just… settled in. Like he belonged here. Like he hadn’t noticed the stagnant air, the fact that you hadn’t opened the blinds in days, or that you hadn’t moved from this exact spot in hours.

And somehow, that made it worse.

Guilt spread warm and sour in your chest. You should’ve texted him back. You should’ve made up an excuse. Or at least told him not to come.

Instead, he was here. Quiet and unbothered.

Your fingers curled around your phone. Your heart tapped uneasily in your chest. You should have said something. Anything. But your throat felt dry, your mouth thick with silence. So, you just lay there.

Still and quiet. And listened.

To the clink of glass in the kitchen. To the steady, rhythmic sound of him moving through your space like it didn’t scare him. Like he wasn’t here to fix you. Just to exist somewhere near you. And somehow, that was harder to face than anything else.

You heard him moving around the kitchen; soft clinks, the muted squeak of a cabinet door, the hum of the fridge opening and closing. Still no words. No call of your name. No hey, you in here?

Just the sounds of someone making himself at home in a space you hadn’t been able to exist in properly for days. Eventually, footsteps padded softly toward your bedroom, and the door creaked open. He didn’t knock, but you caught the rustle of a plastic bag; the faint fizz of a bottle cap being twisted off.

Then came the scent of him. Warm cotton and sleep and something a little citrusy. The hoodie he wore looked vaguely slept in, sleeves pushed up his forearms. His hair was flattened a little on one side, like he hadn’t done much more than drag himself out of bed and into your apartment.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just crossed the room and lowered himself slowly onto the edge of the mattress, careful not to jostle you. Then, after a moment, he shifted again, down onto the floor beside the bed. His back leaned against the frame; knees drawn up comfortably. Like this was just where he always belonged.

And then he held up the zip lock bag without turning to face you. “I peeled it for you,” he said, voice low and conversational. “No one should have to deal with orange skin when they’re sad. It’s basically nature’s sandpaper.”

He reached into the bag, pulled out a slice, and took a bite for himself.

“Mmm,” he mumbled. “Still good. I wasn’t sure if it would survive the ride.” He paused. “Or me almost crashing my car into a recycling bin trying to avoid a squirrel.”

A brief moment of silence passed, as you didn’t respond or moved. Still, he continued.

“I swear they aim for me now. Like I’m part of some Toronto wildlife obstacle course. Pablo’s been trying to chase them again, but he only gets about five steps before giving up and lying down dramatically. He flopped into a bush the other day and then just stayed there. We had a full standoff. Him in the shrubbery, me on the sidewalk with three bags of groceries and no leverage.”

A puff of laughter escaped him, soft and self-directed. “I think he’s gaslighting me, honestly. He looked smug for like three hours after.”

That’s when you felt the corner of your mouth twitch. Just barely, but it was something.

William then reached into the bag again and held out another orange slice, this time angled backward toward you without looking.

You didn’t take it right away, but he didn’t pull it back. And eventually, you lifted a hand and took it gently from his fingers.

It was cold. Sweet yet a bit sour against your tongue.

“You remember when we tried to make Swedish pancakes and nearly set your fire alarm off?” he then asked, like it had just occurred to him. “I still remember that it wasn't my fault. Your pan was criminally uneven. But I’ve been thinking about them again. You’ve ever had them the real way? Like, actually thin and golden and buttery, with lingonberry and cream?”

He shook his head to himself.

“I don’t know why I’m talking about pancakes,” he said with a quiet laugh. “I just… it’s what we used to make on slow mornings when I was a kid. Before games. Or on Sundays when we didn’t want to talk about school. My mum would always hum this one song while she cooked, too. I hated it at the time, but now I can’t make pancakes without hearing it.”

He paused. “I think that’s how it works, huh? You end up craving the softest parts of your childhood without realising it.”

You didn’t say anything, but your body had shifted - minutely. Enough that your arm now rested closer to his shoulder than it had before. Close enough to feel the heat of him radiating up from the floor.

Still facing forward, he reached for the drink he’d brought in and set it gently on the nightstand beside you. “This one’s still your favourite, right?” he asked softly. “They were out of the glass bottle, but the can tastes the same.”

You nodded almost imperceptibly, which made him smile; small and quiet. And then he kept going. Just simple soft talk. Not expecting anything from you.

He told you about a dream he’d had the night before; something surreal about getting stuck in an airport with three stray dogs who talked like the Muppets. He described the dream in detail, laughing a little at how vividly he remembered their voices. He made you picture Banksy in a tiny pilot’s uniform, flying a plane full of vegetables.

You didn’t laugh, but you breathed differently. A little deeper and a little steadier.

And he didn’t pressure you. He didn’t demand eye contact or say, “You look tired,” or “Why didn’t you text me back?” or “Are you okay?”

He just stayed.

His voice filled the room like a warm, low tide; something to lean into without fear of being pulled under. Every word he said was an anchor. Not to bring you back to shore. Just to remind you that someone still saw you floating.

You didn’t know what to call that kind of love, but it felt a lot like safety. And for now, that was enough.

_

You didn’t know how much time had passed, but the room had softened around you.

It was still quiet, still dim, but the silence no longer pressed so sharply against your ribs. It felt… gentler now. Loosened, like the air had shifted just enough to breathe without it catching.

You hadn’t moved much, but you’d moved. Your legs had uncrossed. Your body had curled subtly toward the side where William sat. And your eyes, open now, even if not fully focused, had started tracking the slow rise and fall of his shoulders.

He’d gone quiet, too.

And after a while, he eased further down onto the floor. Not with any great performance, just a quiet, casual sprawl. He stretched his legs out in front of him, then bent one knee, the other falling loosely to the side. His head tipped back onto the edge of the mattress with a gentle thud, as if he knew exactly how far the wood came up to meet him.

From where you lay, you could just see the side of his face, his profile soft in the half-light. The hallway cast a faint glow through the open door, enough to outline the curve of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble along his chin, the flutter of his lashes as he blinked up at the ceiling.

He looked peaceful. Not tense or guarded. Not waiting for you to explain yourself. Just a present.

And for a second, that did something strange to your chest. Like your heart forgot how to beat around it. Like your body didn’t know what to do with someone who could sit that close to your sadness and not try to make it better.

You watched him in silence, the way his hand absently fidgeted with the drawstring of his hoodie, the way his toes shifted inside his socks like he was grounding himself in the moment.

Then, after what felt like a long breath, he spoke again, softly.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured. “I just want to be here. Okay?”

The words landed without weight. No expectation and no obligation.

He didn’t say them to earn anything or crack you open. He wasn’t baiting you with softness, so you’d start talking. He just meant it. And somehow, that stripped the air bare.

You swallowed around the thickness in your throat. Still said nothing. But your fingers shifted beneath the blanket, and slowly, they inched toward the edge of the mattress, toward the soft fabric of his hoodie sleeve, stopping just short of touching.

You didn’t quite reach for him, but you let your hand settle near his shoulder. Close enough to feel his warmth. Close enough that if you wanted to, you could.

He didn’t look at you. Just let the moment sit. And maybe that was what broke something loose in your chest - not with noise, but with quiet. With permission. To feel like this and not to say a word and still be heard. 

[fallinallincurls]

visual representation of the born second come last meme

[fallinallincurls]

aww quinn being insecure but that all changing into confidence which leads to such a hot moment, wow! loved this omg

Uncovered

Summary: Quinn hides behind a shirt. You remind him he doesn't need to.

Word Count: 1807

Warnings: NSFW, body image themes (Quinn), praise, soft dominance, semi-public setting, oral (f. receiving), protected sex, established relationship.

A/N: this came to me in a dream idk how I feel abt it😭

It’s a hot July afternoon when you finally convince Quinn to join you and his brothers by the lake. Jack cannonballs off the dock with zero hesitation, and Luke is already halfway through a handstand contest on the paddleboard, showing off like he’s auditioning for Baywatch.

You glance over at Quinn, still sitting on the edge of the dock in swim trunks and a plain black T-shirt. The same shirt he always wears when he swims.

“You’re not gonna jump in?” you ask, brushing your wet hair off your face and floating toward him.

He shrugs, offering a small smile. “Maybe in a bit.”

The sun glints off the lake. You rest your arms on the dock beside him, water dripping from your elbows, and nudge his foot with yours. “You always say that. Come on. The water’s perfect.”

He hesitates. His fingers trace the wood grain of the dock. “I just... I dunno. I’m good right here.”

You tilt your head, studying him. He’s not pouting, not exactly. But there’s something quiet about his posture, his shoulders a little hunched even though he’s trying to act like nothing’s wrong.

You push yourself up beside him and sit cross-legged, leaning against his side. “You don’t like swimming with your shirt off.”

It’s not a question.

He doesn’t answer right away. Then, softly: “It’s stupid.”

You give him a second.

“I just—Jack and Luke, they’re built like athletes,” he says finally, staring out at the water. “They’ve got abs and muscle and all that. I work out every day and I still feel like the skinny one. The soft one.”

Your heart pinches at the word *soft.* Not because it’s true, but because he said it like it’s a flaw.

You hook a finger under the hem of his wet shirt and tug lightly. “You’re not soft. You’re just... Quinn. And I happen to love every version of you. Shirt or no shirt.”

He glances at you, lips twitching up into something shy and grateful.

“And for the record,” you continue, “I’ve seen all three of you shirtless. Yours is my favorite.”

He laughs quietly. “Liar.”

“Not even a little.” You pause. “Besides, confidence is hotter than abs anyway.”

He rolls his eyes affectionately, but the tension in his shoulders eases a bit.

After a long moment, he exhales, reaching behind his neck. You don’t say anything as he peels off the shirt and sets it beside him. His skin is warm in the sun, his arms freckled and slightly tan.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll swim.”

You grin. “Race you to the buoy?”

“You’re on.”

You both dive in, and later, when you come up for air and see the relaxed smile on his face, you know he’s not thinking about his brothers anymore. Just you. Just this moment. And that’s enough.

---

You barely make it back to the boathouse before Quinn’s lips are on yours again — soaked skin pressed to soaked skin, your hands knotting in his damp curls. His tongue slips past your lips in a kiss that’s deeper, messier than before. Less tentative. More certain.

There’s no one around now. The lake muffles everything but your breath, the creak of the dock, the faint squelch of wet feet on wood. You think he might second-guess himself again hesitate the way he usually does but he doesn’t.

He lifts you onto the boathouse’s bench with easy strength, settling between your legs. His mouth trails along your jaw, then down your neck, warm and reverent.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he mutters, “and I’m gonna forget I ever cared about that stupid shirt.”

“Good,” you breathe, letting your fingers skim over his chest all lean muscle and warmth. “Because I never cared about it, either.”

You tug at his waistband, grinning when he groans softly.

“Eager?” he asks, voice low.

“You have no idea.”

His hands are everywhere now firm on your hips, sliding under your soaked swimsuit top, brushing along your ribs. He peels it off slowly, eyes darkening as your skin’s exposed inch by inch. When his gaze finally drags over your chest, he swears under his breath and dips his head to kiss just above your heart.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re perfect.”

You tug him back up to kiss you again, harder this time. “So are you.”

His mouth crashes against yours with something deeper than hunger like he’s trying to believe you. His hips grind against yours, slow and deliberate, and you feel how hard he is through his swim trunks.

You gasp into his mouth. “Quinn…”

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says, already nudging the fabric of your bottoms aside.

“I don’t,” you whisper, breath catching. “Please don’t.”

That’s all he needs.

He sinks to his knees in front of you, and the sudden chill of lake air is nothing compared to the heat that rushes through you when he presses an open-mouthed kiss between your thighs.

You clutch at the edge of the bench as he licks a slow stripe up your center, fingers digging into your thighs to keep you spread. His mouth is good, devastating even, tongue flicking and circling just right, and when he sucks — gently, then harder your hips jerk.

“Q—fuck—don’t stop,” you pant.

He doesn’t. If anything, he gets bolder, groaning into you like he’s addicted to the way you taste, the way you sound. When your thighs start to tremble, he slips two fingers inside you, curling them until your whole body arches.

You come with a broken gasp, fingers in his hair, legs shaking.

He doesn’t move for a moment, just kisses the inside of your thigh, then rests his forehead there like he’s catching his breath or trying to process how deeply he wants you.

When he stands, his trunks are tented obviously, painfully so. You reach for him, tugging the waistband down, and his breath stutters as his cock springs free.

“Condom?” you ask.

He fumbles in his bag near the door of course he came prepared and by the time he rolls it on and presses back against you, you’re more than ready.

When he slides into you, it’s slow. Deep. You both moan at the stretch and the way it feels like everything.

He stills for a second, forehead pressed to yours.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough.

You nod, wrapping your legs around his waist. “Better than okay. Please, move.”

He does.

The rhythm is unhurried at first — controlled, like he’s trying to savor every second. But that control frays fast as you meet his thrusts, nails scraping gently down his back, whispering his name like a secret only he gets to keep.

“You feel so good,” he groans, kissing your jaw. “So fucking good.”

He grabs under your thigh to angle you just right, and when he hits that perfect spot, you cry out, clenching around him. His pace falters.

“Gonna come again?” he pants.

“Y-yeah—Quinn, I—”

He kisses you hard, swallowing your moan as you come for the second time tighter, more intense than before. It pulls him right over the edge. He buries his face in your neck as he thrusts once, twice more, then groans deeply, spilling into the condom.

You both stay there, breathing hard, his chest rising and falling against yours. His skin is flushed, damp, glowing in the soft late afternoon light.

He pulls out gently, helping you redress and sliding his arms around you as you both sit on the dock, legs dangling over the edge.

“I can’t believe I was nervous about taking my shirt off,” he murmurs.

You smile, leaning your head on his shoulder. “I told you. You didn’t need to hide.”

He kisses your temple.

“Guess now I really believe you.”

[fallinallincurls]

oh this was absolutely everything!! it was just the sweetest and so full of love! i couldn’t stop smiling and giggling while reading it omg🤭

PAR FOR LOVE

pairing quinn hughes x fem!reader

summary you don’t really know much about golf but you know quinn looks good doing it — so you spend the day by his side, decorating his golf balls with sharpies and calling every shot a hole in one. he plays, you giggle — and suddenly, golf doesn’t seem so boring anymore

word count 1.6k !

a/n i think finding pictures for my fics stresses me out more than writing them it’s a problem i almsot killed myself oh also idk anything about golf pls spare me i had to keep asking my brother in law what things meant. do u know how embarrassing that is.

you wake up to the feeling of quinn’s hand on your waist, warm and lazy, fingers moving in slow circles over the fabric of the hoodie you fell asleep in — his, of course.

the sun’s barely up yet, early morning light slipping through the edges of the blinds and painting soft shadows across the comforter.

you hum a little, eyes still closed, face buried in your pillow, and you hear him laugh, quiet and raspy.

“morning,” he says, brushing your hair back from your face.

“mhm,” you mumble, not even close to coherent.

“baby,” he says, grinning now. “c’mon. wake up for me.”

you peek one eye open, squinting at him. “what time is it?”

“not that early.”

you groan, dramatic and heavy, and roll onto your back. he’s already dressed in soft athletic shorts and a white tee, his hair still a little messy, damp around the edges like he just got out of the shower. he leans down and kisses your cheek, then your jaw, then just under your ear, and you sigh despite yourself.

“what do you want,” you mutter.

“i want you to come golfing with me.”

you stare at him. “you want me to what.”

“come with me,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “i have a tee time in an hour. you can ride in the cart, bring your little drinks, do your thing. you don’t have to play.”

“you want me to wake up this early to sit in a cart while you hit a ball around for four hours?”

“yes,” he says, already kissing your neck again. “please. come. i want you there.”

“why?”

“because i love you,” he says, like it’s obvious. “and because you’re cute and funny and make everything more fun. and because i look really hot when i golf and you should get to witness that.”

you laugh, already giving in, already weak for him. “you’re so dumb.”

“you love it.”

you do. so you sigh again, more for dramatic flair than anything, and pull the covers off. “fine. but you owe me one million iced coffees.”

“deal.”

you’re in the passenger seat of his car twenty-five minutes later, your legs tucked under you and your tote bag in your lap — sharpies spilling out of it, alongside your sunglasses, your lip balm, your sunscreen, and an emergency granola bar you packed just in case.

you’re wearing a pink sweater and a pair of white athletic shorts, your face bare and clean, the morning sun pouring through the windshield and catching on the strands of hair you barely remembered to tuck behind your ears.

quinn’s got one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your thigh, squeezing gently every now and then just to feel you there.

“i don’t understand golf,” you say as he turns into the parking lot of the course.

“i know.”

“and i will not be learning today.”

“also fine.”

“i’m just here to be annoying.”

he glances over at you and smiles. “you’re here to be cute. and distracting. and mine.”

you stick your tongue out at him, but your chest feels soft.

he carries his own clubs because you said, very seriously, that you would not be lugging around anything heavy. he didn’t argue. you find the cart, slide into the driver’s seat, and immediately stretch your legs up onto the dashboard. the sun’s warmer now, a little gold around the edges, and you open your bag to pull out the first few golf balls you stole from his stash this morning when he wasn’t looking.

they’re plain. white. boring. and you’re about to change that.

“what are you doing?” he asks, glancing back at you as he pulls a club from his bag.

“decorating.”

he laughs. “of course you are.”

you uncap your pink sharpie and begin drawing a flower, carefully dotting petals around the center, tongue pressed to the corner of your mouth. the first ball gets daisies — pink and yellow, clustered in a little bunch. the second, cherries. bright red, shiny, twin stems. and the third, grapes, drawn carefully in layered rows with a little green vine curling off the side.

quinn lines up his first shot while you work, and you don’t look up until you hear the faint thwack of the ball being hit.

“hole in one!” you call automatically.

he turns and squints at you. “it landed in the rough.”

you shrug. “still hot.”

he grins, already walking back toward you. “you’re ridiculous.”

“you love it.”

“i love you.”

he climbs into the passenger seat and reaches over to grab your water bottle, then pauses, blinking down at the ball you just set aside.

“is that—are those grapes?”

“they are,” you say, proud. “each one is a different shade of purple.”

he picks it up like it’s fragile. “you’re unreal.”

“you’re lucky i didn’t bring glitter glue.”

“please don’t bring glitter glue to the golf course.”

“you’re boring.”

you order a strawberry slush from the cart girl the first time she comes around and get a beer and two waters for quinn. one for now, one for later, because he will forget.

“you keeping me alive?” he asks as you hand him the second water without even looking.

“someone has to.”

“you’re too good to me.”

“you bribed me with coffee.”

he kisses your cheek anyway.

by the time he’s lining up for his third hole, you’ve already finished another ball — this one with a little grassy patch drawn across the surface and a crooked red flag poking up like a tiny cartoon version of the green.

he looks at it when you hand it over and lets out a quiet laugh. “did you draw me my own golf hole?”

“yes,” you say. “this one’s called ball going home.”

“you’re my favorite person.”

the course is big and open and quiet, and the sunlight is perfect. not too hot. just enough to warm the tops of your thighs where they rest against the seat, just enough to make the water taste better when it’s cold. quinn plays. you decorate. you sip your slush. he brings the club back. you say, “sounds like a hole in one to me,” every single time he hits the ball, no matter where it goes.

“you know that’s not how this works, right?”

“i’m manifesting, quinn.”

“you’re just saying it to flirt with me.”

“that too.”

you take turns driving the cart. you only almost crash once. he kisses your shoulder while you’re parked under the shade of a tree. you draw a smiley face on one of the balls. then a rainbow. then a sort of abstract swirl you claim is “modernist.”

“you should sell these,” he says, stretching his arms behind his head. “people would buy them.”

“yeah, and then immediately lose them in the woods.”

“like i’m about to?”

“exactly.”

you pop the cap off your red sharpie and start on the final one you’ve been saving. quinn’s watching you from the corner of his eye as you write it, slowly, carefully, the shape of each letter thick and curved and a little uneven.

i ❤️ my gf

when you’re done, you hold it up with both hands and say, “this one’s your last ball.”

he blinks. smiles. takes it so gently from your hand like he’s worried he’ll smudge it.

“this one’s getting retired,” he says.

“you have to use it.” you frown.

“i can’t lose this.”

“you’re not going to,” you say, bumping your knee against his. “she’s the luckiest of all.”

“because she has you?”

“obviously.”

he turns it over in his fingers, then pockets it for later.

by the time he’s on the last hole, your slush is long gone, your thighs are a little sun-kissed, your fingers are stained pink and purple from the sharpies, and your legs are tangled over quinn’s lap while he steers the cart slowly down the last fairway.

he kisses your ankle when he thinks you’re not paying attention. you hum like you didn’t notice, and then lean over and kiss the side of his neck in return.

the breeze is cooler now. the sky is starting to shift, a little softer, the late afternoon creeping in slow and golden.

he pulls the i ❤️ my gf ball from his pocket and doesn’t say anything when he tees up. you pull out your phone and hit record, framing the shot from behind. he swings. hits. and the ball glides cleanly, rolling to a perfect stop just inches from the flag.

you gasp.

“no way.”

quinn turns back, eyes wide.

“she is lucky!” you shriek, jumping down from the cart. “that was literally the best one all day.”

he meets you halfway. you throw your arms around his neck, and he wraps his around your waist, spinning you once, twice. your hair’s tangled and messy and your cheeks are flushed and you’re laughing so hard you can barely catch your breath.

“you did it!” you say. “that was so a hole in one.”

“it’s two strokes.”

“close enough!”

he kisses you with that same laugh still on his mouth — soft and messy and sweet. you kiss him back, your arms snug around his shoulders, fingers twisted in the collar of his tee, the sound of the cart buzzing faintly behind you and the breeze shaking through the trees above.

you press your nose to his and whisper, “told you she was lucky.”

he shakes his head.

“no,” he says, voice low and fond and full. “i’m the lucky one.”

and he kisses you again. and again. and again.

and maybe, just maybe you do like golf.

[fallinallincurls]

OHMYGOD HELLO??? as a girlie who is just over five feet tall, this was EVERYTHING like i ate it up and it might be the hottest fic i’ve ever read. like wow i’m speechless!

ok spam incoming, first up: quinn hughes with a size kink (i know he is the shortest hughes but i’m picturing this as him with like a REALLY tiny gf so maybe the size kink is like a new experience for him and he quickly realizes that he loves it)

warnings: SIZE KINK, unprotected p in v, fingering, munching (over spandex & panties), oral m!receiving, facials. really hitting all the quinn hughes classics here. panties stay ON during sex (pulled to the side) (they also magically disappear sometime between sex and getting in the shower afterward so like... plot hole, but ignore it because i don't want to fix it) (new panty idea: ones that dissolve in water like that video of the raccoon trying to wash his cotton candy) pairing: quinn hughes x fem!reader (5'0") wc: 3,540

once again, i didn't follow the request exactly, but i hope y'all can forgive me. this is where the vision went. title from tate mcrae's song/tour. i think you'll find it's very apt.

“Stop walking so fast!” you call after Quinn. You finish fixing the strap of your heel and hustle to catch up to him. Although the walk sign is on at the crosswalk, he stopped and waited for you. How kind. 

The red glow from the stoplight tints Quinn’s face. He grins at you, almost chuckling. “I can’t help it. It’s not my fault your legs are so short, baby.”

You glare at him, slipping your hand into his and squeezing it. “You’re so mean to me.”

Quinn gasps and squeezes your hand in return. “Never,” he teases.

Together, you continue the walk back from Rogers. You and Quinn attended the Tate McRae concert tonight and you, of course, wanted to dress up. You wore one of Quinn’s jerseys over cotton booty shorts, the sweater practically swallowing you with your size difference. 

The outfit is fire, but your shoes are killing you– high heels with long straps that wrap around your calves and cross over each other, crawling up to your knee before you tie them. They’re cute shoes and you never get to wear them, so you thought ‘Why not?’

There are a couple of pros for these shoes: 1. They’re cute, like you said, and 2. Quinn loves them. 

The singular con outweighs the pros: the heels are not comfortable. You were fine on the walk over and full of energy during the opening set, but once you’d been on your feet for an hour, you grew tired. Your heels and the balls of your feet are killing you, a dull pressure disappearing and reappearing with each step you take. 

Before long, Quinn starts to pull away again. He’s wearing his Air Forces, jeans, and a black t-shirt. He’s the picture of comfort, whereas you’re showing out for this show. His distance represents the sacrifice you made for looking good: your ability to keep up with your boyfriend.

Quinn approaches another crosswalk, the signal flashing numbers: 10… 9… 8…

He tries to hurry you, apparently under the impression that you can make it across four lanes in eight seconds, but you halt and refuse to budge. You lean against the streetlight after hitting the button to cross, unlacing your heels.

Quinn balks at you. “What are you doing?” he asks. “You’re not walking home barefoot.”

“Well, I’m not walking home in these shoes,” you respond, kicking off one shoe and moving to the next. 

Quinn opens his mouth to argue, but he’s interrupted by a fan who wants a picture. You were expecting this. That’s why you hung out in the Aquilini suite until most people had cleared out. Quinn appreciates the fans, but he hates when they interrupt his time with you. You’re unbothered by it, even grateful that this fan bought you some time to get this other shoe off.

You loop the straps around each other in a loose knot and throw the shoes over your shoulder, standing flat on the pavement and nearly sighing from the feel of the cool concrete against your aching appendages. You sidle up next to Quinn, the top of your head coming up only to his neck without your tall shoes, and wait patiently for him to send the fan on their way.

“Much better,” you tell Quinn with a subtle beam, bouncing up on your toes to give him a quick peck.

He frowns, despite returning the kiss, and looks down at your feet. “What if you step on something?”

“It’s only another two blocks,” you reply with a wave of your hand, brushing his concern off. “I’ll be okay.”

Quinn’s disapproval deepens. Now he’s the one refusing to budge, even though the walk sign has turned on again and the crowd of people around you has surged forward. 

“Baby, c’mon, I’m fine. I just want to get home.” You take Quinn’s hand and tug it, stepping off the curb. 

He comes with you, lingering a step behind you until you’re on the other side of the road. He seems to accept your determination to get home, humming one of Tate’s catchy songs as you walk.

The night has grown dark, but the streets of Vancouver are still bustling with people and cars. You have to dip around and dodge people as you walk, holding tightly to Quinn’s hand as he takes the lead and makes space for you to follow.

On a misstep, your foot lands squarely in a dirty puddle. You feel the water splash up as far as the back of your knee, jaw dropping in surprise and disgust as soon as it happens. An indignant whine leaves your mouth, which makes Quinn stop.

You’re less than 300 feet from home, literally so close to the door to the lobby, and your leg is splattered with mucky liquid, a drop rolling down your shin.

Your shoulders sag and you sigh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The corners of Quinn’s lips lift. You know what he’s thinking (“I told you so”), but you don’t expect him to turn around and squat slightly. “Hop on,” Quinn says, beckoning you towards him in the awkward position. “I’ll give you a ride the rest of the way.”

A smile grows on your face. “Aww, a piggy back ride? You are a good boyfriend.”

Quinn laughs, taking your weight easily. His arms loop beneath your thighs, holding you in place, and you throw your arms over his shoulders. “You thought I wasn’t?”

“You kept leaving me,” you say, an edge of teasing in your voice. You flick the shell of Quinn’s ear and kiss the side of his neck, shifting with each step he takes. Your mouth is right next to his ear as you continue in a low, seductive voice, “I think sometimes you forget how much smaller I am than you.”

Those are the magic words.

Quinn stiffens, falling out of step for only a second.

You act like you didn’t notice, leaving another soft kiss on Quinn’s neck before he pulls open the door to the lobby. You wave at the security guard behind his desk, wishing him a good night. 

Quinn sets you down gently in the elevator after he hit the button to your floor, turning and cornering you against the back wall. 

Your arms snake around his neck again, making Quinn bend a bit further to get on your level. “I like it when you carry me,” you tell him. “It’s so much easier to get my mouth on you.”

Quinn bites down on his bottom lip and releases a quiet chuckle. “You know what I like?” Quinn asks.

You have a feeling, but you play along. “What?”

Quinn hovers near your lips, his warm gaze trapping you in place. “I like that I could pick you up and fuck you against this wall and barely break a sweat.”

Your stomach drops, pulse quickening at his mere words.

Finally alone, the side of Quinn that only you get to see starts to emerge. “You’re so… delicate,” he murmurs. His fingertips skate along the neckline of his jersey, your chest rising and falling rapidly. A smirk overtakes Quinn’s lips. “Just begging to be manhandled, aren’t you?”

His thumb brushes the hollow of your neck and you let out a small noise, a wanting whimper. 

“Yeah,” Quinn breathes out, a belittling confirmation. “You are.”

The elevator dings and the doors open. 

Quinn sneaks a hand around your back and presses his fingers into the small of your back, guiding you down the hall to your shared apartment. His touch is casual, but you feel the intention behind it.

Your heart races as you enter the dark foyer, beelining for the bedroom as Quinn toes his shoes off. You put your heels away in your closet, ready to remove Quinn’s jersey and take a quick rinse in the shower before bed. 

Quinn catches you as you exit the closet, circling your wrist with his fingers and tugging you close to his body. Your hands automatically end up on his chest.

“Where are you going?” Quinn asks.

“Bathroom,” you reply, trying to turn in his grasp.

Quinn clicks his tongue and lifts you, carrying you to the bed and laying atop you. His fingers slide beneath the jersey you haven’t taken off yet, tickling your sides. “I don’t think so,” he says. “I want to play with you for a minute, baby.” Quinn’s head disappears under the hem of your top, placing gentle kisses over your stomach. His digits travel further up, reaching past the cups of your bra and pinching your nipples between his thumb and forefinger. 

You quiver on the bed, legs spread with one foot planted on the bed, the other dangling off the edge. One hand goes to your hair and the other covers Quinn’s hand on your breast, feeling his knuckles bend with each swipe of his touch and roll of your skin. 

His left hand goes to your bent knee, palming the underside of your thigh and pushing your leg to your chest. 

You fold, his hand keeping you in place as his mouth trails lower. His lips glance over the soft fabric of your shorts, kisses nearing your pulsating and covered hole.

Quinn’s tongue darts out and flicks over the seam of your shorts, wetting the fabric near your entrance. 

You jump at the sensation, surprised by Quinn’s daring.

He smiles and mouths over your heat again, licking a long stripe up your clothed slit and swirling his tongue around your clit. He hums, then blows cool air over the damp fabric. His hooded eyes find your face as his lips circle your clit again, suckling softly until you’re squirming.

“Quinn,” you squeal when his fingers start to rub against your hole, massaging your cunt as his lips tug at your clit. 

He wiggles his tongue against the sensitive bud, eyebrows dancing in time with his movements.

You release a moan by accident, the sound coming strangled from your throat. 

Quinn pulls from your clit with a wet pop, teeth bared in a wide smile. “Can taste you through your shorts, baby.” He kisses your slit and brings his hands to the band of your bottoms, inching them down your legs until he can take them off and throw them to the side. He seals his mouth over your clit again, audibly sucking the bud through your thin lace thong. The sensation is intensified by the thin barrier between your body and his tongue, your back automatically arching off the bed when he gently nibbles the sensitive spot. 

“Quinn, Quinn,” you moan, one of your hands finding his hair and fisting the locks. 

He smiles as you grind against his tongue, his thumb caressing the strip of fabric that covers your hole before dipping beneath it and pressing inside of you.

“Oh,” you mewl. Your hips gyrate faster, the flat of Quinn’s tongue held fast against your clit. 

Quinn pumps his thumb inside of you, drawing his tongue away and replacing it with his fingers. His mouth kisses back up your stomach, free hand pushing your jersey up until you take the hint and help him remove it, leaving you in just your bra and panties. He leaves a wet trail between your breasts, tonguing over your neck before filling your mouth with the muscle.

You whimper, both of your hands tangling in his messy brown curls. 

Quinn pulls his thumb from your entrance and replaces it with his two middle fingers, panties pulled to the side. “So wet, so responsive,” Quinn mutters, pecking your lips before he begins the journey back to your breasts. “You’re just begging to be split open on my cock, aren’t you, baby?”

“Please fuck me,” you implore, tugging Quinn’s hair.

He winces at a particularly harsh tug, but uses his free hand to unclasp your bra and remove it. Quinn sucks one of your nipples into his mouth, laving it with his tongue until it’s pebbled and puckered. “I want to be everywhere all at once,” he says, switching to the other nipple and repeating his ministrations. “Can’t decide if I want to cover this tiny body with marks or if I want to kiss you while I stuff you full.”

“Whatever you want, whatever, I don’t care.” You clench down on his fingers, chasing the feeling that’s building in the pit of your stomach.

Quinn smirks into your sternum, peppering kisses along your smooth skin. “All mine,” he simpers. He fits his mouth over your collarbone and bites down, leaving a red mark behind when he pulls away. “Mine to play with.” He sucks another mark over your pulse point. “Mine to please.”

“You really like that I wore your jersey today, huh?” you question breathlessly.

Quinn pulls back and eyes you, failing to hold back a fond smile. “It looked like a dress on you.”

“Everything of yours is big on me,” you reply. You pull his t-shirt over his head, placing it in a pile on the nightstand. “I love it.”

“I love it,” Quinn repeats, removing his fingers from your heat and quietly shushing you when you open your mouth, ready to complain about the emptiness inside of you. He frees his cock from his boxers, tossing them across the room. He wraps his hand, fingers wet with your slick, around his length and starts to pump it, thumbing over the slit and spreading the precum that blurted from it. He leans over your body, one hand holding himself up beside your head. His lips brush yours. “Love seeing you wrapped up in my clothes, baby.”

His cockhead lines up with your entrance, the slick slide of his thick member entering your tight hole making your eyes roll back. “Fuck, Quinn,” you sigh, placing a hand flat on his chest.

Quinn ducks his head, pressing kisses in the crook of your neck. He guides one of your legs over his shoulder, then the other, until there’s a healthy stretch in your hamstrings and his cock reaches deep inside of you. You cross your ankles behind his head and Quinn places a kiss on your lips before he thrusts inside you completely, his tip hitting your cervix.

You feel like he’s reaching into your stomach and scrambling your insides as his pace picks up, as the sharp sounds of skin hitting skin and wet pussy swallowing thick cock fills the room. The pillows are soft beneath your head, the mixture of your and Quinn’s breath steaming up the space between your faces. 

“You take it so well,” Quinn compliments with a grunt, looking between your bodies at the place where you meet. 

You follow his line of sight, eyelids fluttering with each thrust into your sweet spot.

“Fucking perfect,” Quinn continues. “Such a tight pussy, feels so good around me.”

You moan and capture Quinn’s mouth, teeth knocking together as he pounds into you, driving you towards orgasm. “Shit, yes, yes, yes,” you whine in a high pitched voice, the sounds escaping you almost pornographic in nature.

Quinn brings his hand to your core, the four fingers of his left hand flying over your clit. Your eyes roll back and spots dance in the darkness, stomach in knots until one final thrust has you contracting around Quinn’s cock. Your body shakes and quivers and trembles beneath him, muscles tight and stiff before they all relax at once and your orgasm travels through you like an electric shock. Quinn continues to rub your clit and fuck you, prolonging your orgasm and murmuring under his breath, “Yeah, baby, just like that, let go for me, keep squeezing my cock, gonna make me fucking come in this pretty pussy, fuck, baby.”

You ride out your climax with Quinn’s fingers toying with your swollen clit, his thrusts slowing until they stop completely. A bubble of precum blurts inside your spent cunt, Quinn’s teeth digging into his lower lip.

“Baby,” you encourage, a slight whine still attached to your tone. You lift your hips and roll them down, wanting Quinn to keep moving until he loses himself in your heat and floods the cavern with his seed. 

Quinn’s dark eyes fix on you, a hunger behind the pupils that sends a spark through you. Your legs fall from his shoulders and his cock leaves you, Quinn’s strong thighs flexing as he walks up your body on his knees. He comes to a stop with his cock in front of your face, one hand gripping his base and the other curled over the headboard. 

He seems ginormous from this angle, torso stretching for picturesque miles. His happy trail is dark and his cock is long and his stare is greedy, determined. 

“Clean me up, baby girl,” Quinn says. “See how good you taste, and if you’re good, I’ll come all over this pretty face.”

All desire to have him come inside you is swept away, his angry red tip looking like the perfect thing to put down your throat.

You open your mouth and stick out your tongue, eyes wide as you stare up at Quinn. He feeds you each inch of his cock, shallowly working the thickness past your lips until his glans hit the back of your throat. You moan around him, your tastes mixing together in a sweet, sticky, salty liquid that coats your senses.

Quinn smiles down at you mirthfully, drawing an inch from your warm, wet suction and pushing it back in. “You gonna gag on it, baby? I bet your jaw hurts, huh? Gotta keep that mouth open so I can fuck it like I fucked your pussy.”

An involuntary and completely muffled “Oh my God” surrounds Quinn’s cock, the vibrations from your vocal chords stimulating his veiny shaft.

“Oh, I know,” Quinn brags, aborted thrusts hitting the back of your throat each time. “You love having something this big inside you, I know you do.”

You keep your tongue flat against the underside of his cock, your throat constricting when he hits your gag reflex. The soft lining of your throat massages his length, precum leaking down your esophagus into your stomach. 

Quinn’s breaths are shallow. He groans, grunts, and moans as you work over him, his soft stomach tensing when he inhales sharply. You blink up at him and swallow harshly around his cock, milking another spurt of precum from his slit.

“Fuck, baby,” Quinn breathes out, clearly affected by your mouth. He wipes a bead of drool from the corner of your mouth with his thumb, pulling his cock halfway out of your mouth and wrapping his hand around it. 

You keep his tip in your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and swirling your tongue around the head of his member. 

Quinn’s jaw drops open with a moan, his hips bucking forward once in an uncontrolled manner. His hand comes to the hair on the top of your head, lifting your head slightly off the pillow as his cock leaves your mouth completely. He keeps his hand in your hair as the other strips his cock, the red, pulsing tip not even an inch from your tongue, which lays flat outside your mouth like a panting dog. 

The first strips of cum land on your tastebuds and lips. You catch Quinn’s hooded eyes and parted lips just before closing your eyes and allowing him to paint your cheeks with white lines, marking your face and ruining your concert makeup with his ownership. 

Your fingers absentmindedly trace the hair on Quinn’s legs, thumb rubbing the soft skin on the inside of his thigh. His slick movements slow and you blink your eyes open carefully, in case any stray cum made contract with your lashes and could drip into your eyes.

Quinn meets your gaze and grins. “Hey, angel,” he says. He shuffles back, moving off of your body but staying by your side. He kisses your cum-coated lips, bringing some residue with him that he clears off with a swipe of his finger. He brings the finger to your mouth, your lips circling the digit and cleaning it. His eyes dance with pride. “You look beautiful like this.”

You laugh, using your own thumb to collect some of his cum from your cheeks. “I feel dirty.”

“You’re a dirty girl,” Quinn confirms in a silly voice, putting his hands on your hips and kneading them. “Aren’t you glad I stopped you before you got in the shower?”

“Oh, God,” you sigh, deflating and sinking into the bed. “I’m exhausted, Q.” You lift your arms toward him. “Carry me?”

Now it’s Quinn’s turn to laugh, although he does so while getting off the bed and gathering you in his arms. He steps in the shower with you, bringing a washcloth with him, and turns on the water. He wipes your face with the wet washcloth, removing his traces from your skin. “Such a princess,” Quinn muses, admiring you openly. He hangs the washcloth on the shower handle and wraps his arms around your shoulders, smushing your face against his chest and kissing the top of your head. 

“Your princess,” you reply, pursing your lips between his pecs and kissing over his heart.

[fallinallincurls]

ohmygoddd you’ve done it again!! this was INSANE and SO hot i cannot get it over it wow

Can you please write a cock warming story that leads to sex? (Smut please 🙏)

Connecting ask: The cock warming story is about Quinn! I don’t remember if I added his name to it. Hello, lovely! Here we go 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ (I said I will be taking a break from thoughts but what is this?! jk i got inspired by Quinn's haunted face in his BAUER promo). Sorry if it's all over the place 😢

Behave

18+. Whore Thoughts. Smut. Cockwarming (orally and down there 👀). Light Hair tugging. Unprotected Sex. Slight Brat Reader. Slight Dom Quinn (he's not a great brat tamer 🙂‍↔️ but a good dom 🙂‍↕️. in Quinny, we trust).

Quinn would always be aware of how bratty you could be. He would just be playing video games with his brother over a call when you would suddenly prop up next to him, seemingly behaved at first. You would be offering him bites of whatever you were munching on, clapping at him when he managed to win, or scrolling through your phone with your head on his thigh. It was all cute.

He didn't mind any of that, but when you grip your water bottle, offering him drink after drink even when he shook his head, he would know something was up. That you were in a mood to misbehave, because the next thing you would be doing would be kneeling between his thighs, kissing and licking at his inner thighs exactly like a brat.

He gritted his teeth, muting himself to tell you to stop, but you only grinned at him, outrightly shaking your head, nipping at his flesh, before saying, "Don't wanna. I'm bored."

Quinn gripped his controller and clenching his jaw that he swore that he might crack a molar. His body heat rose the more you continued with your kisses and nips, and the more you moaned your complaints that he was playing for so long when in fact, he was only playing for less than thirty minutes.

"I'm really horny," you said when he unmuted, so he had no choice but to silence you.

He tugged his shorts down, giving you the look because he didn't need to tell you anything. You lifted from your ankles, giving his hard cock a playful lick from base to tip before you took him in your mouth, inch by fucking inch. It took all of him not to pounce on you, but he knew that was exactly what you wanted. Sometimes you must be reminded that not everything would be given to you. Quinn had no problem doing so.

Despite being a brat, you stayed there, your hands gripping his thighs, looking up at him and patiently waiting, moaning once or twice, making vibrations down his cock that had him dying in-game. He didn't mind that, immediately leaving the game with his brothers yelling for another round but they weren't as important as you.

He gazed down and watched you close your eyes, humming a little whine. It had him sharply inhaling, his hand finding the top of your head, his fingers tucking back your hair behind your ears.

"What am I gonna do with you?" He smiled when you opened your eyes that looked like they were sparkling with more fight. He knew what you would do. And you did, sucking his cock, gulping around him. "Such a brat."

He didn't stop his groan, his head tipping up, gripping your hair to force you off him. You protested, telling him that you wanted to make him feel good, but he was having none of it. He pulled you over his lap, making your mount him with your thighs spread widely. He teased up the nightgown you wore, exposing what else you'd done.

"No panties, really?" He chuckled, purposedly hovering his hand over your wet pussy, pulling away when you tried to seek his touch. His other hand gripped your hip, not letting you move. "You want to be fucked but you keep doing things that'll earn you nothing."

"Don't be mean, Quinny," you sniffled. "I just wanna have you."

You sounded so pitiful, but did you know that he could see the cogs turning in your head? You were planning on doing something devious. Admittedly, he was curious. You would always concoct such creative plans.

One time, he found you masturbating instead of preparing for your date because you didn't want to go anymore when you were the one who booked the reservation. You were so adamant on staying so you two did, but he ordered you not to come all night. He had you begging and crying for relief which he did give you. He made you come so much that you passed out with a smile on your lips.

Another, when you two were on a date, you handed him your panties after you went to the restroom, having the audacity to look so innocent when you were wearing such a short skirt. The date was cut short only after he punished you with vile promises on how hard he would fuck you. You really did piss him off that time, not wanting anyone else to catch the slightest glimpse of you.

And another, you were cleaning in nothing but your lingerie. He just came home from a horrifying game loss, but instead of kissing him like you usually do, you ignored him and proceeded with do your "chores". You did chase away his frustration about the game, but you replaced it with you. He broke him that night, making him tear your precious lingerie when he knew you didn't like your clothes to be destroyed, fucking you against the low table until both of you were panting and all fucked out.

Actually, he had been spoiling you. Every time you acted like a brat, he would end up fucking you anyway, when it would've been better not to. He just couldn't resist you and both of you were painfully aware of that.

"Don't move," he warned, guiding you to rub all over his cock before he sank into your quivering pussy. You felt so good. So fucking wet and ready for him. He could barely say, "I need to watch something, and you will behave for me."

"I'm behaving," you said with a trembling grin, gasping, gripping his shoulders tightly. "What are you going to watch?"

He didn't answer you. His ignoring only made your pussy clench, making him groan, sweat beading on his temples as he switched into a sports channel. It was so hard to simply watch hockey replays, when you were whining and sniffling with your arms wrapped around him. However, he tried and tried like he always did. At some point, he was just glaring into the wall clock.

What did it mean that it had only been an hour? It felt like an eternity and his cock was aching so fucking badly. His balls were begging for release the more your pussy quivered and shook. He could just fuck you. This fucking punishment was already enough. He had enough. He was sure that you also had enough. So why was he only gripping your hips in place instead of moving you to fuck him? What was he waiting for?

Quinn gulped for a hundredth time, craning his head to the side so he could inhale your scent. He was getting so fucking out of it that he couldn't think what perfume or body lotion you used. Was it vanilla? Lavender? Rose? Strawberries? What was he smelling? Why was his mouth watering so much for every inhale?

"Quinn, Quinny," you called like a siren singing your melodic songs, luring him with to his demise. It was working.

Bit by bit, he was losing every dwindling sense he had left. He should be stronger in taming you, but he didn't know what else to fucking do when you felt so good around him, softly whimpering like a good girl. Yes, he was so weak against you.

When he rubbed his hand over your back, you flinched and panted harder. Your pussy gripped his cock tighter. You felt so warm and hot. When your walls started to tremble, he stared at you, seeing you tip your head back, your eyebrows meeting, your lips parting.

Oh, shit. You're going to—

"I'm gonna come, Quinn. Oh my god, I can't stop it. Let me," you cried. "Let me please."

Why would he prevent you from your first orgasm by just being filled with his cock?

"Just let go," he murmured, his eyes not straying from you as you did, your pussy clenching and trembling around him. His breaths were turning shallower as he fought against his need to come with you. To take his mind off his dilemma, he started showering you with kisses on your neck, your cheeks, your temple, and the corners of your lips. "That's it. That's my good girl. Come all you want."

You started crying, so he soothed you with rubbing your arms, your back, and your thighs. He whispered soft praises on your skin, not touching the subject of how you misbehaved, only focusing on how well you responded to this. Because you did. You did such a good job.

You listened to him. You came for him. You did so well.

"I just wanted your attention, Quinny," you sniffled, leaning into his touch when he wiped away your tears. "I can't help it."

"I know, my sweet girl. I know."

"I don't like it when you're not looking at me." You pouted, sighing and pressing your forehead against his.

You were really a needy girl, and there was nothing wrong with that. He loved you the way you were. You were perfectly needy and bratty even if you tested his patience so many times. He would never have you in any other way. You were his perfect and sweet Love. Nothing could change that.

"Do you think that you could come again for me?" He asked, gently laying you down while keeping his connection with you. He teased, "Are you my sweet girl now?"

"I'm always sweet—ohfuck, Quinn!"

He fucked you, slowly and deeply. He took his time, loving the feel of your nails digging into his nape, of you clinging on him so tightly. He pressed soft kisses on your lips, letting your moans slip out.

He savored every little sound you make. Your sighs. Your mewls. Your whines. Your groans. He took everything down his heart, locking it up in his mind to remember when he was away from you even if he would call you religiously.

"Is this okay?" He asked, his hand slipping between you two, his fingers circling your sensitive clit. He smirked when you nodded, biting down on your lower lip so harshly. "Wanna come for me again?"

"Yes," you sobbed, your hips meeting his every thrust. "Please."

You didn't need to beg. Quinn kissed you, rolling his hips to pound at that spot that had you screaming into his mouth. He slightly increased his rhythm, listening to your moans get louder and breathier, until you came, your back arching off the couch. He came with you, spilling his hot cum deep, deep, deep inside your pussy.

"I love you," he panted as he rode your orgasms, his vision splotching at the edges. "You're all I see, my Love. I promise."

When he heard your small giggle, he swore his heart was pumping louder in his chest and his body was burning with everything that he felt for you. When he saw your bright yet tired smile, he couldn't help but wrap his arms around you tightly, half crushing you with his weight.

He realized why he was always spoiling you now.

It was all to see that adorable smile.

Lovelies @dancerbailey3 @loser-pretty-girl @tiredallthetimex @quinnintheabyss @r0wdymaize86 @macka @hughesmybaby @hockeygirlyyyy @bpinkblink @siennaluvshcky @arty-anon @hodgepodge-musings @alexxavicry @alwaysclassyeagle @svexhenthusiast @starrymari @hastielakeroad @thehuggybearslover @mrshelenhoran @tallrock35

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[fallinallincurls]

ohmygod🥹🥹 my heart is complete mush after reading this! it was the sweetest and most adorable thing ever, i’m a puddle! i love fics that focus on the simple moments so full of love and this did that beyond perfectly!

you, always you ✶ qh43

summary ⋆⭒˚.⋆ in which, quinn loves you in the quiet moments ⋆

word count 1053 ⋆.˚

note ⋆ idk if i fw this but lmk if u guys like these type of blurbs bec i have so many in my drafts <3

quinn hughes masterlist main masterlist ⋆⭒˚.⋆

the bathroom is still heavy with steam when you settle between his legs, the tile cool against your bare skin. quinn’s towel sits low on his hips, droplets of water catching the dim light as they trace lazy paths down his chest. his hair is darker when wet, curling slightly at the ends where it meets his neck, and you can smell the faint scent of his shampoo mixing with the lingering warmth of the shower.

“come here,” he murmurs, voice soft and sleep-rough, though it’s barely past midnight. his hands are gentle as they guide you closer, your back pressing against the inside of his thighs. the towel he reaches for is the softest one you own—the one you always fight over, but tonight he wraps it around your shoulders without question.

the first touch of terry cloth against your scalp sends shivers down your spine. quinn works slowly, methodically, like he has all the time in the world. like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than here, in your tiny bathroom with its chipped tiles and flickering light, drying your hair strand by strand. his fingers work through the wet tangles with a patience that makes your chest tight.

you close your eyes and let yourself sink into the feeling. the weight of his hands, the gentle pressure as he squeezes water from your hair, the way his breathing has evened out into something deep and content. this is quinn at his most unguarded—no cameras, no crowds, no expectations. just him, just you, just this quiet moment that feels infinite.

the towel moves in slow circles, and you can feel him being careful around your ears, around the sensitive skin at your nape. he’s learned your body like a language, knows exactly where you’re ticklish, where you’re tender. knows that you like when he runs his fingers through your hair just once more after it’s dry, just because.

“good?” he asks, though he doesn’t stop. his voice is barely above a whisper, like he’s afraid to break whatever spell has settled over you both.

“mhm.” it’s all you can manage, too lost in the sensation of being cared for so completely.

minutes pass, or maybe hours—time moves differently here, in this steam-warmed cocoon where nothing exists except the two of you. when your hair is mostly dry, quinn sets the towel aside, but his hands don’t leave you. instead, they settle on your shoulders, thumbs tracing gentle circles against your skin.

you can feel him looking at you in the mirror across from you both, though your eyes are still closed. you can feel the weight of his gaze like a physical thing; warm and wondering. when you finally open your eyes and meet his reflection, the expression on his face makes your breath catch.

it’s the look he gets sometimes when he thinks you’re not paying attention. during morning coffee when you’re reading something on your phone, or when you’re humming while doing dishes, or right before you fall asleep when you’re already half-gone to dreams. it’s wonder and disbelief and something so tender it makes your ribs ache.

his hand slides down your arm, fingers trailing along your skin like he’s memorizing the shape of you. when he reaches your wrist, he stops. his thumb finds your pulse point, pressing gently, and you wonder if he can feel how fast your heart is beating.

“what are you thinking about?” you whisper, because the silence has grown thick with something unnamed.

quinn’s thumb continues its gentle movement against your wrist. “just this,” he says finally. “you. how lucky i am.”

the words hit you sideways, unexpected in their simplicity. he’s not one for grand declarations, your quinn. he shows love in towel-dried hair and remembered coffee orders and the way he always gives you the better pillow. but sometimes, in moments like this, he opens himself up just enough to let you see inside.

you turn in the space between his legs, facing him now instead of the mirror. his knees bracket your ribs, and up close you can see the water still clinging to his eyelashes, the way his lips are slightly parted like he wants to say something else but can’t find the words.

instead of speaking, you reach up and trace the line of water sliding down his chest. his skin is warm despite the cooling air, and you feel him shiver under your touch. there’s something about these quiet moments that feels more intimate than anything else—more than rushed mornings or late night phone calls or even the hours spent tangled in sheets. this is intimacy stripped down to its bones: the simple act of being together, of choosing each other in the small, unspoken ways.

quinn catches your hand as it rests against his chest, right over his heart. his fingers intertwine with yours, and you can feel the steady rhythm beneath your palm.

“i love you,” he says, so quiet you almost miss it. but the words settle into your skin like a promise, like something you’ll carry with you long after you’ve left this bathroom, this moment, this perfect pocket of time.

“i know,” you whisper back, because you do know. can feel it in every gentle touch, every patient minute he spent drying your hair, every time he looks at you like you’re something miraculous.

the bathroom is cooling now, the steam finally dissipating, but neither of you moves to leave. quinn’s thumb is still tracing patterns on your wrist, and you’re content to sit here on the cold tile, wrapped in towels and contentment and the quiet certainty of being loved so completely.

later, you’ll make your way to bed, you’ll fall asleep to the sound of his breathing and wake up to coffee already brewing. you’ll go about your day, your separate ways, but you’ll carry this with you—the memory of his hands in your hair, the reverent way he touched your skin, the look in his eyes that said you were everything, everything, everything.

but for now, you just sit. just breathe. just let yourself be loved in the small, perfect way that quinn loves—with his whole heart, with quiet hands, with the kind of devotion that lives in the spaces between words.

[fallinallincurls]

This is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen 😭

[fallinallincurls]

oh my heart🥹

Flights — J Hughes

⸻

You hated the days before road trips.

The apartment always felt colder, quieter, like it knew he was about to be gone. You told yourself you’d gotten used to it, that it was part of loving someone whose life was always on the move. But no matter how many trips he took, the ache of him leaving never softened.

It started small like it always did.

You had just finished folding a load of laundry, carefully stacking it at the end of the bed. Jack was packing in the corner, grabbing random shirts from the pile without a second glance.

“Babe,” you said, a little sharper than you meant to, “I just folded those.”

He looked up, one eyebrow raised. “Okay?”

“Okay?” you repeated, heat rising in your chest. “I spent the last half hour folding your stuff, and you just—” You made a vague tearing motion with your hands. “It’s like you don’t even notice.”

Jack sighed, turning back to his suitcase. “I notice. I’m just trying to finish packing. I don’t want to fight right before I leave.”

“Then maybe don’t do things that make me want to fight,” you said before you could stop yourself.

That got his attention. He looked at you for a long second, something unreadable flickering in his eyes, and then zipped his suitcase in one smooth motion.

“Fine,” he said, voice low. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

He didn’t kiss you. He didn’t say I love you. The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence it left was deafening.

You told yourself you wouldn’t text him first.

That he’d be the one to break the quiet this time. But the hours ticked by, and your phone stayed still on the coffee table.

When the game came on, you muted the TV. You weren’t ready to hear the commentary, the crowd, the reminders of exactly where he was and how far away you felt from him. You told yourself you’d just check the highlights later, but your eyes kept drifting to the screen anyway.

The first time you saw him on the ice, your chest ached. He looked focused, fast, like he belonged exactly where he was. You wanted to be proud, and you were, but it was tangled with the guilt of knowing you hadn’t sent him off with a smile or a kiss or anything that showed how much you’d miss him.

You didn’t see the hit happen live. Your eyes had flicked away for half a second. But the sound that hollow thud of body against boards made your head snap up in time to see him slow to get up. Trainers rushed to his side. The cameras followed as he skated gingerly to the bench and disappeared down the tunnel.

Your stomach dropped.

The TV was still muted, so you couldn’t hear what the commentators were saying, but you didn’t need the words to understand that something was wrong.

That was when your phone rang.

Luke.

You answered so fast you nearly dropped it. “Hello?”

“Hey… don’t freak out,” he said, which only made your pulse spike. “Jack took a hit. He’s in the back right now. They’re running tests, but he’s awake. Just banged up. He’s asking for you.”

The guilt was instant. Crushing. Your last words to him had been sharp, defensive, nothing like the ones you should have said before a trip.

“I’m getting the next flight,” you said, already grabbing your bag with one hand and opening the airline app with the other.

The airport was a blur of fluorescent lights, security lines, and the endless hum of late-night travel. You kept seeing flashes of him on the ice in your mind, the way his body had gone into the boards, the way he’d skated off slower than usual. You scrolled through your texts — the thread between you was empty today, except for his name. No good luck. No miss you already. No I love you.

It made you want to cry all over again.

By the time you reached the hospital, it was just after dawn. The city was still waking up, the sky outside his window pale and quiet. Jack was sitting up against the pillows, hair messy, hospital gown draped loosely over his shoulders. His eyes found yours the second you stepped inside.

“Hi,” he murmured, voice a little rough.

You crossed the room without thinking, taking his hand and holding it against your chest like you needed him to feel your heartbeat. “Hi. I’m so sorry, Jack. I didn’t mean to leave it like that.”

He shook his head, thumb brushing gently over your knuckles. “I don’t care. You’re here now. That’s all I wanted.”

The fight didn’t matter anymore. Not when his gaze softened like this. Not when he looked at you like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing.

“I love you,” you whispered, and it felt like a promise.

His lips curved into the smallest smile. “I love you too.”

You pressed your forehead to his and breathed him in, swearing silently that you’d never let him leave again without hearing those words first.

[fallinallincurls]

And, baby, that’s show business for you. New album The Life of a Showgirl. Out October 3  ❤️‍🔥

https://taylor.lnk.to/TSTheLifeofaShowgirl

Album Producers: Max Martin, Shellback and Taylor Swift 📸: Mert Alas & Marcus Piggott

[fallinallincurls]

gahh i was losing it when she was looking around for the perfect girl for jack and was already describing herself!! but the way they both realized they were perfect for each other was everything and i love those sweet confession moments! this was so good and i really loved it!

The Names May Change

Here I am with another fic, here I am without a cool header picture/banner that people do because I am lazy and my Canva is connected to my school and I don't feel like making a personal account.

ANYWAY, here is a Jack Hughes fic with a happy (! surprising !) ending for @toasttt11 for the summer fic exchange run by @wyattjohnston. I had so much fun writing this and coming up with it (and agonizing over making it happy since I am an angst specialist) so I hope you enjoy it! Was this the fic I came up with on Sunday? No. Do I care? Also no, because this is better.

Warnings: swearing, men, mentions of alcohol

WC: 3073

Enjoy!

The names may change, but the feelings never do. 

Deni looked up from the book she was reading and stared at her wall. There was nothing in front of her but her landlord's special white paint but she felt overwhelmed because of a few words. There was no reason why that line from a random library book she checked out because the cover was cute should leave her staring at her wall. 

What feelings does she have that have never changed? Feelings for someone else? Wouldn’t she know? 

“It’s me,” she hears, her front door slamming so hard she can feel every object she owns rattling at the force. “I brought food.”

Deni shuts her book, throwing it haphazardly on her bed and running to her kitchen before Jack can break yet another plate of hers trying to get it out of her cabinets. “That’s the only thing you’re good for, isn’t it?”

“Some people say I’m good at hockey.”

Deni rolls her eyes, sitting down in front of her and Jack’s go-to meals from the Thai place down the street from her. “Did they give you the food before you ordered again?”

Jack nods, shoving curry in his mouth as if he can actually handle the heat, breathing back out like a dragon when the spice finally hits. “What if we wanted something else for once?”

“We never do.” 

They sat in silence, eating their food. 

“I think I need dates,” Jack breaks the silence, Deni trying not to laugh at the tears that were forming in his eyes from the spice. 

“Like,” Deni started, “With people?”

“No, like figs. Yes, with people.”

“Dates and figs are not the same thing.” 

“What?”

Deni rolls her eyes, letting out a sigh. “How do you plan on finding these dates?” 

“You can help.”

“Yeah, because I do so well in that department as it is.”

“You’ve been on more dates in the last year than I scored goals last season.” 

“Like that was hard.” 

“Hey,” Jack laughs, throwing his napkin at her. 

“Ok, fine, but really, what is your plan? You leave for Boston with your brothers in like, a week.”

Jack shrugs, “I was hoping you would be able to help me. And, you’re coming with me to Boston, so we can figure it out there, too.” 

“Is this all I am to you?”

“Hey, I bring you food, you help me find dates.” 

__________________________

The bar wasn’t too crowded, a good amount of people milling around and for once, the music seemed low enough in volume that Deni could hear herself think. She leaned her back against the bar, Jack right next to her waiting to order for them. Scoping out the people, she tried to look for anyone Jack might be remotely interested in. 

Jack nudges her, giving her the drink. 

“I don’t think I actually know what your type is,” she says after taking a sip. 

“My type is woman.” 

Deni scrunches her face, turning to look at him. “Why am I friends with you?”

“I buy you things and expect very little in return.” 

“So you’re a sugar daddy without any benefit to yourself.”

“Well, when you put it like that,” Jack moans, Deni laughing. She tried to figure out what type of girl she could picture him with. Jack responded to a girl who could joke with him and put him in his place when he needed it, like she did.

Jack needs a girl who is smarter than him, because he would listen to her telling him about anything she was passionate about. Deni couldn’t even begin to count all the times that she would go on a rant and Jack would watch her and listen to her like no one else in the world existed. 

He needed a girl he felt comfortable around; Jack was someone who needed to feel at home no matter where he was. He could walk into Deni’s apartment whenever he wanted because he felt safe with her. She could walk into his apartment the same way. 

“What about her?” Deni nods towards a girl who somehow, looked almost exactly like her. The only major difference was that Deni was a little shorter than the girl she was motioning to. “She’s cute.” 

Jack nodded. Deni could tell he was chewing on his cheek while he was trying to process that girl in front of him. “Yeah, she really is.” 

“Go talk to her. Ask her for her number,” Deni nudges him forward, watching her friend stumble on his feet as he tries to get himself together. 

She can see he’s a mess. He’s flustered, scratching the back of his head while the girl smiles at him in pity. He manages to get a laugh from her, Deni watching his shoulders visibly fall as he relaxes knowing that he hasn’t totally blown his chance. Deni can’t tell what they’re saying to each other, her inability to read lips really making her life difficult at the moment, but she can tell Jack is excited, acting in his ‘puppy way,’ that she calls it, when he’s bouncing on his toes a little bit, his eyes lighting up and the smile on his face infectious.

Jack hands the girl his phone, turning around to see Deni’s reaction. She gives him a quick thumbs up before he returns his attention to the girl, her friends calling her away from him. He stands there for a moment, dumbfounded before shaking his head and making his way back to his own friend.

“I have a date with her on Saturday.” 

__________________________

“How do you go on a date?”

Deni looks up from her book, not even hearing Jack come into her apartment, let alone her room. “Um,” she stammers, looking at the bags on his arms. “I can’t answer that until you tell me you don’t have body parts in there.”

“It’s clothing. I don’t know what to wear. I don’t know what to talk about. Do I open the car door for her? Do I-”

“First thing is that you calm down,” she says, taking the bags from his arms and dumping his clothing on her bed. “Where are you taking her?”

Deni ignores him once she gets the name of the restaurant, knowing that entertaining his nerves would only make him more nervous, just for the plot. 

“What do you think about on a date?” pulls her out of her organizing plot since his clothes were very clearly pulled from hangers and drawers at random and stuffed into whatever he had near his bed. 

“You should probably think about Marina.” 

“What if my mind wanders?” 

“Then you have ADHD and need to see your doctor.”

“Den, please,” he whines, throwing his body back on the pile of his clothes. 

She sighs, throwing him a shirt for him to change into. “It depends on what your mind is wandering to. If your mind is wandering to something not related to the date, that’s probably a good sign that you aren’t all that interested.” He moans again, pulling the shirt he had on over his head. Deni had seen him shirtless plenty of times before, but something about that made her breath hitch. “Look, if you have to force yourself to pay attention when you don’t want to, then that means you only go on one date and we can figure out how to let her down later. For now, don’t worry, just be yourself.”

“Myself?”

“What, do you want to be Quinn instead?”

Deni spent the rest of the night she had planned for reading talking her best friend down from the anxiety that was mounting inside him. This date for him shouldn’t be any different than when the two of them hung out. The only difference was that he and Marina would hopefully both want more than the conversation and dinner once they left the restaurant. 

Jack eventually leaves, barely getting out the door in time to make sure he wasn’t late to pick up Marina. It took Deni threatening to Lorena Bobbitt him if he didn’t make it to Marina on time. 

For some reason, Jack’s question of what she thought about rang over and over again in her mind. Yeah, she had been on a lot of dates, but that was because there weren’t many people who kept her interest. She had a close group of friends, she had her family, and she had Jack. She didn’t really need someone else, but she sure did want someone else. 

What did she think about when she was on those dates? Most of the time, the people weren’t that interesting. She had a habit of just saying yes to anyone who asked her, but they never kept her attention longer than ordering their drinks if they went out to dinner. Her mind normally wandered to Jack instead, thinking about what stupid thing he was doing, knowing that he was waiting at her apartment for her to come back. She would try to figure out what she was going to tell him when they did their normal debriefing later that night. 

What if Jack was thinking the same thing?

__________________________

“You better be dying,” Deni mumbles, her eyes still closed, her phone to her ear. Jack had not only managed to get past her Do Not Disturb function that was on while she was sleeping, but also gave himself a loud and annoying ring tone when her phone is on silent in every other situation. Somehow, it fit for him.

“I was dying of boredom on that date.” 

“This couldn’t wait until a normal hour?”

“It’s 9 pm, Grandma.” 

Deni pulls her phone away from her face, glancing at the time. The fucker was right. “Oh, shit.” 

“So you had a really fun night,” Jack teases. Deni can hear the smug smile in his voice.

“We’re not talking about me,” Deni whines, sitting up in her bed. “We’re talking about how you broke into my phone and gave yourself a ring tone and how your date went.”

“You act like our passcodes haven’t been each other's birthdays for years.” Deni rolls her eyes, a smile on her face as she pulls her knees up to her chest. “And she was great, but I don’t know.”

“What don’t you know?” she asks him as if he’s a small child who has done something silly. 

“Well, she doesn’t like hockey.”

“So she has taste.”

“Den,” Jack whines. “I don’t know. There just was nothing that had me excited about her. She’s nice and smart, but she felt like just another person, not a person I want to spend my life with.”

“It was one date, not a marriage proposal. But that's fine. You’re probably not going to find ‘the one,’ on your first try.” She hears Jack groan, followed by him hitting his leg against something in his apartment with him swearing. “Your lights are off and you walked into your coffee table again, didn’t you?”

“I don’t like you.”

“You’re right, you love me.”

“Of course.” 

“So, we find you someone else to date.”

“God, how long does this have to go on?”

“Until you find the person you want to spend your life with.” 

__________________________

The guy in front of her had not asked her a question in twenty minutes. He spent the entire time talking about himself. She wasn’t even sure that he noticed that her eyes were entirely glazed over as she looked just past him. Her attention focused on Jack instead, who was on a date with someone he apparently met at Trader Joe’s the other day, his dates back to Deni. 

He had a sly smile on his face that she didn’t like. 

She felt her watch vibrate with a notification. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be looking at your date, not me?’

Deni makes eye contact with him, rolling her eyes.

“And that made me realize that women shouldn’t be in charge of major businesses, so I left.” 

Deni turns back to her date, only hearing that last sentence. She found Aiden on a dating app. He was hot, his profile said the right things, and he seemed to be able to hold a conversation. As Deni learned after two guys from dating apps, however, the person on a screen is much different than the person in real life. 

“That certainly,” she starts, trying to find the words as the guy doesn’t even make eye contact with her, looking proud of himself as he finally scans the menu. “Is a sentence. I’m going to go to the bathroom.”

Deni runs from the table before Aiden can even make a comment. She looks back at her table before heading down the hallway with the restrooms; Aiden doesn’t even look like he’s bothered. 

“So how are we getting out of here?” Jack scares her as she scrolls on her phone, restoring to refreshing her email every three seconds to see if anything new comes in while the one bathroom is occupied.

“I need to put a bell on you,” Deni mutters, putting her phone in her pocket. “I don’t think my date believes women are able to hold a job.” 

“He’s sitting with you, and he doesn’t think women are able to work?”

Deni shrugs. “Men?”

“I’m sorry for our species. My date told me she expects to get married, get a joint bank account, and never have to work for anything because everything should be handed to her.” 

Deni nods, processing that for a second. “As she should,” she says sincerely. “We should introduce our dates to each other.”

Jack's eyes light up. “We could do that, you know.” 

“He kind of seems like an asshole, though. I wouldn’t want to do that to her.”

Jack’s shoulders deflate. “We do have to be girls girls.” 

Deni tries not to laugh at him. “Always, Jack.” 

__________________________

Deni hadn’t heard from Jack since yesterday. During his season, that was normal; he was getting paid to focus on hockey so he forgot his phone existed more than once depending on who they were playing next. But when he had a date planned, he would text her about before, sometimes during if it was bad, and always come by after. Not hearing from him was worrying.

Who was this girl that had Jack so occupied that he forgot about his best friend like this? Who was she that Jack couldn’t tell Deni anything about it? 

And who was this girl that made Deni feel like an elephant was sitting on her chest, her heart aching at the thought of Jack being taken away from her. Obviously, she knew deep down that if Jack found the girl of his dreams, that he would pay more attention to her, and shower her with everything she deserved. Deni knew that it meant she wouldn’t be the most important person in his life, because his dream girl is supposed to be his focus. 

She hated it. And she hated it more that she knew why she felt this way. The names may change of the guys in front of her on her various stupid and pointless and horrible dates, but her feelings for Jack have never changed. She knew they never would. 

She checked his location on her phone, the app for some reason not updating for her. The last time it updated was the last time she heard from him. 

What if something was wrong? 

Deni could feel herself starting to panic at every worst case scenario from the true crime podcasts Jack would make her listen to. She should call him.

She couldn’t call him. How would she feel if she was on a date with a guy and he left her to talk to a girl best friend? 

“You know what I realized?” jolts her out of her downward spiral, a voice coming from her front door that made her heart race. 

She follows the sound, shoes clattering to the floor by the door, keys being thrown on the small table that’s right there. Jack sounded like he was coming home. “What?”

“Well, my date made me realize it. She’s a therapist. It’s weird being analyzed like that, but I guess we do that to each other without realizing it.”

“Jack, get to the point.” 

“Right, yeah,” he makes his way toward him, a look on his face that made Deni feel warm while simultaneously sending a shiver down her spine. “I realized the type of girl I want.”

Deni smiles, rolling her eyes. The way he was looking at her, she knew what he meant. She had to let him tell her, first. “It took you long enough.” 

“I want a girl who can make me laugh.” He takes a tentative step toward her. He’s nervous. “A girl who isn’t afraid to call me out when I’m being an idiot.”

“She’s gotta be quick on her feet then,” Deni says, watching his Adam’s Apple bobbing as he swallows, his eyes flicking down to her lips as she takes her turn to step toward him.

“I want someone I feel comfortable around. I want to be able to see her and go into her life like I belong in it, not like I’m a guest.” Deni looks around at her entrance; the stuff there a mix of his and hers over the time that they’ve known each other. He’s left more things in her place than she thought he had in his own apartment. 

He takes a deep breath before he continues. “I want a girl who makes me feel stupid.” 

“You don’t need a girl for that.” He was saying all the things she already knew he wanted. She just didn’t realize that she wanted him, too. He rolls his eyes, the smile on his face telling her that he loved her comment. “I want that.”

“What?”

He doesn’t answer, instead closing the distance between them, his hands taking her face as his lips crash to hers. He kissed her like he was angry, the kind of intensity and passion that Deni had only dreamed of in this kiss. 

It was everything she didn’t know she wanted. 

It was everything she knew she didn’t want to let go of for as long as she could.

It was everything. 

It was Jack. And the name wasn’t going to change anymore. 

[fallinallincurls]

we need more teacher!luke!! i ate the up omg, it was such a fun read and i just loved it!

Luke Hughes Teacher AU

I kept telling myself I wasn't going to actually follow through and write any more Teacher AUs yet here I am with another one because I saw a tik tok that I now can't find and just started writing. It doesn't even really matter because while I was writing this, it went in a very different direction than I originally intended.

Teacher AU Series

Warnings: swearing, this is definitely suggestive

WC: ~1k

There was no way her alarm was already going off. She had just fallen asleep.

Alicia felt around her nightstand for her phone, trying to get the infernal device to stop blaring. 5:30 am was too early to be getting up.

She didn't help herself by going to sleep at 2:30 the night before. Actually, 2:30 that morning. Three hours before. But, as she did every summer break, she ruined her sleep schedule and needed to train herself back into her school year sleeping. Last night did nothing to help. In-service the week before didn't do enough to get her back into her normal routine either, not that it mattered. She was not back to her normal sleep schedule for the first day of school.

Which was today.

She wasn't ready. She was never ready, to be honest, but this year felt especially off. She had a new class she was teaching that she still barely had a plan for, a new set of students for homeroom, and something just wasn't right.

Alicia finally got her alarm off, putting her phone back down before sitting up and rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. Today was going to be rough.

She starts to go through her routine, doing her best to stay awake: go to the bathroom, get dressed, get her coffee started, eat something at lightning speed, brush her teeth, and head out the door with her bag full of things for her classroom that she forgot to bring in every day last week.

The drive to school was mundane, as it should be. It was early enough that she missed the school traffic, as well as most other work traffic given that it was the ass-crack of dawn and most people, much like herself, were still half asleep on the unfortunately dreary Monday morning. She was the first person on campus, as she was every morning, because she worked best when no one was around her.

She could probably get her entire life together with the peace and quiet she was about to find in her classroom if she weren't so fucking tired.

Her classroom looked like a bomb had gone off. While that was nothing new for her, this was particularly bad. Her supplies were everywhere, her desk was a mess, her walls were bare. She planned to get everything put together last week but they were only scheduled forty five minutes of classroom time. Who was that supposed to help? They weren't allowed in their rooms before that week to set up because of the cleaning schedule.

Alicia gets to work, trying to get as much of her classroom back together as she could before students started to show up. She pulled one of the desks closer to the wall, hoping up on it in a way that was definitely an OSHA violation to hang something from her ceiling.

A knock at her door nearly startles her off the table and onto the floor. Luke pops his head in, a concerned look on his face when he sees her. "What the fuck are you doing?'

"A student could hear you," she scolds, jumping off the table and pulling him into her classroom. His hands wrap around her waist as soon as the door shuts behind him, his lips pressing against hers immediately. "A student could see us."

He pouts when she tries to push him off, a smirk on her face at his reaction. "But I haven't seen you in so long," he whines, his grip on her tightening.

"I saw you," she checks her watch, her eyes nearly bugging out of her head at the time, "God, it's already 7:30? I saw you like, five hours ago."

Luke continues to whine, dramatically throwing himself on top of one of her tables. She ignores him, getting back to setting up as much as she could when she only had half an hour left before school officially started for the year.

"You could make yourself useful, you know," she tells him, tossing him a roll of tape and pointing to the stack of posters she still needed to hang up.

"What's in it for me?" he sits up, a devilish grin on his face. She knew what that glint in his eye meant, the feeling deep inside her making her face heat up. He hops off the table, coming toward her after grabbing the posters, his gaze never leaving her.

"You have the satisfaction of knowing you were the perfect boyfriend of a teacher." She swallows the lump that formed in her throat. She could hear students walking around outside her classroom. Any of them could come in at any minute.

"You didn't help me set up my room." His voice is low as he gets closer to her.

Alicia smirks, turning her back to him. "That's because you don't need to do anything except get your picture of you and your brothers on your desk. Your room is a barren wasteland."

She raises her hands to start to hang the poster when she feels Luke press against her back. "I like it that way."

"You like it because it's less work that way." His hands raise over hers, pinning her against her wall.

"Exactly," he whispers, his breath tickling her ear.

Alicia does her best to turn around, Luke still caging her in against him. His eyes are dark as he stares at her, the reason she didn't sleep last night rushing back to her and replaying in her mind in vivid detail. His lips find her neck, trailing their way across her collarbone.

"Anyone could walk in right now."

She arches her back slightly, his hips grinding against hers. He was way too excited for the setting.

"So, what do we do about it?"

She stares at him, her list of things to do running through her head. She had to finish setting up her classroom. She had to grab her syllabi from the faculty room. Both she and Luke were supposed to be at the welcome assembly that was starting in less than twenty minutes.

"Lock the door."

[fallinallincurls]

People post insane thing about old (in sports terms) men

[fallinallincurls]

this was so cuteee!! you captured luke so well with the sarcasm, flirting and just being endearing but i loved everything about this omg

Nurse — L Hughes

⸻

You were halfway through your shift when the chart landed in your hands.

Hughes, Luke. Knee reconstruction. Orthopedic wing.

Tall, even lying down. Hair sticking up in every possible direction. Hospital gown skewed like he had been fighting it in his sleep. One arm flung over his eyes, his mouth set in a thin line.

“You’re awake,” you said, moving to check the monitors.

The arm shifted just enough for him to peek at you. His eyes were still glassy from anesthesia, but sharp enough to carry a dry edge.

“Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately?”

“Yeah. Woke up and my knee still hurts. Thought surgery was supposed to fix that.”

You hid a smile. “Sure, that’s how it works. We wave a magic wand, no pain, and you are skating by tomorrow. Want me to go find your surgeon so you can tell him to try harder?”

His mouth twitched. “You’re a smartass.”

“And you are the one complaining to your nurse on day one. I think we are even.”

That set the tone. He had this sarcastic streak, and you matched it without hesitation. Over the next few days, you fell into a rhythm.

How he stalled before trying the exercises, staring at his leg like it was foreign. How his fingers curled into the blanket when the physical therapist talked about timelines. How the smile he gave visitors never quite reached his eyes.

On the fourth night, you found him awake past midnight. The television was muted, the room dim, and he was staring at the ceiling.

“You’re quiet,” you said, setting your chart down.

He shrugged without looking at you. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

He didn’t take the bait. “What if I am not the same after this?”

You stilled. “You mean as a player?”

He nodded. “It’s my rookie year. I am supposed to be getting better, proving I belong. Now I am stuck here. What if I come back slower? What if I can’t do what I used to?”

You pulled up the stool beside his bed. “I have seen guys come back from worse. And I have seen guys let that fear ruin them before they even tried.”

His eyes flicked to you. “Which one do you think I am gonna be?”

“That depends. Are you going to put in the work, even when it is hard and ugly and nothing like a highlight reel?”

His mouth curved faintly. “You are not much for sugarcoating, are you?”

“Only with the stubborn ones.”

From then on, the walls came down a little. He still made sarcastic comments about hospital food, but now he asked about your day, about what made you want to be a nurse. You lingered after his vitals were done, leaning against the bedrail while he told you about growing up with brothers, about the noise and competition and how quiet it felt now.

On his last morning, you walked in with his discharge papers and a card tucked between them. He took it without looking, flipping through the pages.

“What’s this?” he asked, holding up the card.

“In case you have questions about wound care,” you said, maybe a touch too casually.

His smile was lazy, teasing. “That what we are calling it?”

You gave him a pointed look. “Don’t make me regret it, Hughes.”

He was halfway out the door on his crutches when he paused and turned back. “Hey… thanks. For the pudding cups. And, you know… the rest.”

You smiled. “Just doing my job.”

But you both knew it was more than that.

Three days later, your phone lit up with an unknown number.

Unknown:

So… if the pudding cups at home taste better than the hospital ones, do I still have to pretend to miss them?

You grinned despite yourself.

You:

Only if you want me to keep answering your texts.

From there, it became a thing. He would send a picture of his progress: grimacing mid-quad stretch, a blurry shot of his crutches abandoned in the corner and you would fire back sarcastic comments about his terrible form. Sometimes, though, the jokes came with cracks. Late-night texts about how weird it was not being with the team. A photo of his knee captioned: Still looks broken to me.

Two months in, he asked if you wanted to grab coffee after his appointment.

You almost said no, but when you saw him outside the café in sweatpants and a hoodie, hair a mess under a backwards cap, you were glad you didn’t.

“You are upright,” you said as you walked up.

“Impressive, right?”

“I will clap when you can do it without the limp.”

He shook his head, smiling, but his eyes dropped to the cup in front of him. “It is taking longer than I thought. I keep thinking I should be further along by now.”

“Luke… your body’s not on your timeline. It’s on the one that gets you back without blowing out your knee again. You can hate the process, but you can’t rush it.”

His gaze met yours, quiet. “I hate when you are right.”

“You will get used to it.”

Coffee became lunch. Lunch became running into each other at the rink when you picked up extra shifts covering the team’s medical staff. You watched him go from stiff, awkward strides to real skating again, saw his smile reach his eyes more often.

One night after practice, you found him leaning against the wall outside the training room, gear bag at his feet.

“Hey,” he said, pushing off the wall.

“Hey. How’s the knee?”

“Better.” He hesitated. “You know… a lot of that’s because of you.”

“I think your surgeon might want some credit too.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t make the hospital feel less like a prison.”

You smiled. He stepped closer.

“Wound care, right?” he said softly, the same teasing line from the day he left the hospital.

You shook your head, smiling. “Yeah. Something like that.”

You weren’t sure which of you was more nervous for his first game back.

He tried to play it cool with chirps about how you better wear Devils colors, a photo of his knee taped up with bionic now written under it but you could read between the lines. You had been there for the nights he wasn’t sure he would get here.

When you found your seat during warmups, your eyes scanned the ice until you saw him. He did a double-take when he spotted you, the corner of his mouth curling in a grin that was equal parts relief and something softer. He tapped his stick lightly against the glass as he passed.

The Devils won, and as the final horn sounded, your eyes went straight to him. Helmet pushed back, cheeks flushed, laughing with teammates and then he glanced up toward your section. This time, he skated over and gave you the smallest nod before disappearing down the tunnel.

When you made it to the family-and-friends area, you were scrolling your phone when you heard your name.

He was there, hair damp, suit jacket slung over his shoulder. The adrenaline was still buzzing off him, but when he got to you, it softened.

“You came,” he said.

“You left me tickets.”

“Yeah, but you actually used them.”

You shook your head, smiling. “Nice game, Hughes.”

“Thanks.” He reached for your hand, casual but sure. “Come on. We are grabbing food. And yes, it is doctor-approved for post-game recovery.”

As he led you through the crowd, his thumb brushed your knuckles. People noticed. Whispers followed. But for once, it didn’t feel like patient and nurse, or just two people trading texts about pudding cups.

At the curb, he glanced at you with a teasing glint. “So, this is the part where you tell me you are only here to monitor my protein intake, right?”

You smirked. “Sure. Strictly professional.”

He squeezed your hand. “Yeah… we will see how long that lasts.”