pizzapie349

[pizzapie349]

𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐋𝐨𝐭, 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 // 𝐐𝐇𝟒𝟑

PART FOUR | SERIES MASTERLIST

Summary: “Y’know, you could always ask Quinn to relieve some of that tension if you’re that desperate.” – or the one where you have your first scan and are scared of everything.

Pairing: quinn hughes x afab! reader with she/her pronouns

Word count: 8.2k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ★ eventual smut in future parts. read chapter specific warnings. minimal use of Y/N. for this part: panic over a suspected miscarriage, but everything is fine!! baby is all good! reader is just a very anxious person. all usual pregnancy warnings and symptoms apply too.

A/N: someone needs to tell me to stfu because i can't keep writing parts this long. anyway, it's a cute one. i'm in love with both of them. tell me what you think, it's an order!!

PART FOUR | Nothing's gonna hurt you, baby.

The run ended in absolute silence.

Not because it was peaceful. Not because the trail was beautiful and Vancouver had actually been blessed with some nice early summer weather. Not because it had exhausted you in that satisfying way a workout should do. 

No, none of those was the reason for your silence. No, this silence came from the very real, very immediate possibility that you might actually be dying.

You and Kelly practically stomped onto the parking lot after coming down from the slight mountain you’d just run around. Both of you collapsed near your cars, gravel dust sticking to your leggings, sweat clinging to your skin, and the faint breeze doing absolutely nothing to cool you down.

The trail behind you was lined with towering evergreens, the air heavy with the clean, sharp smell of pine and damp soil. Somewhere in the distance, a woodpecker was having the time of its life. A lonely cyclist glided past, perfectly composed, as if he hadn’t just watched you and Kelly practically torture yourselves on a five-kilometer loop.

“Oh my god,” you finally croaked, slumping forward with your elbows on your knees. “We’re never doing that again.”

Kelly, who looked annoyingly unbothered for someone who’d just run the same hills you did, opened her car door, retrieved her water bottle, and took a long, smug sip before answering. “What? Running?”

You lifted your head just enough to glare at her. “Yes, Kelly. Running. I need a break for the next nine months.” 

You managed to drag your own car door open, grabbed your bottle, and chugged it far less gracefully, bracing one hand on your car roof for stability. 

Kelly closed her bottle shut with a little click. “Honestly, I think you’ll need longer than nine months, Bubbles. Tragic stuff, really. This is the death of your athletic career.”

You made a noise somewhere between a scoff and a groan, dragging your sweatshirt off and launching it into the backseat of your car. “I feel like my heart is about to come out my mouth. It’s like I can taste it. And, for the record, I will be crying about it later.”

Kelly tilted her head, studying you like she was debating whether or not to be nice. “Are the hormones really that bad,” she asked slowly, “or have you just… always been this dramatic?”

“Oh, they’re that bad,” you said immediately, no hesitation, no shame. “I cried in the grocery store yesterday, for instance.”

Kelly blinked. “Over what? Were they out of those little yogurts you mainline?” 

“No, I got a twelve-pack of those,” you laughed. Yogurt was one of the few things you liked that was still kind to your stomach. “But there was this old man buying only a box of microwave popcorn. And in my head, I—” You pressed your hand against your chest like you could physically contain the ache there. “I decided, completely unprovoked, that he was going home to have a movie night by himself. Like… in a little apartment, sitting alone on the couch, just watching an ancient DVD copy of Rain Man or whatever.”

Kelly covered her mouth like she was trying to be respectful, but her shoulders shook with restrained laughter anyway. “That,” she managed finally, “honestly sounds like something you would’ve done even if you weren’t pregnant.”

You shot her a flat look, refusing to dignify that with a response, and pivoted to your next complaint instead. “And Quinn,” you groaned, dragging his name out like it was its own personal burden, “won’t stop bringing me food. Which would be cute if I didn’t want to throw up, like, ninety percent of the time. He keeps showing up with bags like some kind of DoorDash driver.”

Kelly perked up immediately, smirking over the top of her water bottle. “It’s probably because he’s an athlete and knows actual science about nutrition. I think it’s cute. Hot, even. A little hockey boy feeding his pregnant lady.”

You looked at her so sharply your ponytail nearly smacked the side of your face. “Please never say ’pregnant lady’ in reference to me again.”

“Oh, come on.” Kelly’s grin widened, sharp and knowing, the kind of grin that made you instantly regret telling her anything even remotely personal. She shifted her weight against her car door, crossing her arms with the energy of someone who knew she was about to start chaos. “Speaking of hormones���how’s the sex drive?”

Your eyes went wide, but Kelly just wordlessly waited for you to answer, a hand on her hip.

“You don’t want to know,” you muttered. “It’s so pathetic.” 

Kelly raised her brows. “Pathetic pathetic, or just like… mildly tragic?”

You sighed, tipping your head against your car door. “My vibrator died while I was using it,” you confessed flatly. “Like. Actually. Died. While I was mid—” You gestured vaguely, as if miming the concept would somehow soften the humiliation. “Because I’d been at it for so long. That has never happened before.”

“Seriously?” 

“So I just laid there, Kelly,” you continued, groaning and dragging both hands down your face like you could scrub the memory from existence. “In total silence. Staring up at the ceiling. Crying a little. While I waited for it to charge back up so I could finish, y’know, like an actual freak.”

For two seconds, there was quiet. And then Kelly exploded. She didn’t just laugh—she folded, wheezing so hard she had to brace one hand on her knee while the other slapped uselessly at the air like she was swatting flies. 

“Bubbles. Oh my god. That is—” She wheezed again. “That’s new-level pathetic. Like, I’m adding this to my list of all-time favorite stories about you.”

“I’m not like this, Kelly!” you shot back, defensive even as your cheeks burned from embarrassment. “This isn’t me. I don’t even know who I am anymore. It’s like… like I woke up one day and got body-snatched by a hormonal stranger!”

Kelly finally managed to inhale. She straightened enough to sip from her water bottle, trying and failing to hide her grin behind the plastic. “I think that’s pregnancy for you, Bub.” 

“You don’t get to sound supportive right now after laughing in my face,” you accused, pointing at her. 

“I am supportive,” she said sweetly, which was impossible to take seriously with her eyes still wet from laughing. “I’m just laughing while being supportive. It’s called multitasking.”

“I swear to god, Kelly, if I make it through the next six months without completely combusting, it’ll be a miracle!”

The words hung there between you, heavy and a little too true, and you tried to smother the uncomfortable honesty of them by busying yourself with your half-empty water bottle. You took another gulp, even though the liquid sloshed uncomfortably in your stomach, just so you didn’t have to look at her smug, knowing face.

Of course, she didn’t let the silence stay silence. Kelly never did.

“Y’know,” she said casually, “you could always ask Quinn to relieve some of that tension if you’re that desperate.”

The words hit like a physical shove. You straightened up so fast you nearly toppled sideways. “Kelly!”

“What?” she said innocently, though the sharp edge of her grin betrayed her. “I’m just saying. You’ve done it before. Might as well make it a habit. Seems efficient to me.”

There it was. The memory.

The memory of that night had slowly started to come back to you. The edges still blurry, but somehow the sentiment was the strongest thing you think you’d ever felt. You couldn’t blame it all on alcohol anymore. There was no blackout memory loss that could make you hide from what had happened. 

Quinn’s hands on your waist, warm but hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to hold you like that. The uneven hitch of his breath and moans in your ear. The quiet curses he’d murmured. The heat of his body pressed against yours, solid in a way that burned into your skin and stayed there.

But your brain did not need to remember what his mouth felt like. 

And the last thing you should even dream of was him inside of you again. 

“Efficient?” you sputtered. You blinked hard, snapping back to the present with a violent shake of your head. The heat that had already been simmering in your cheeks now raced down your neck, prickling hot and humiliating. “Absolutely not. That’s just… no. Gross. I’d rather buy a backup vibrator so one’s always charging and—”

And then it hit you.

A sudden, sharp, stabbing pain low in your abdomen—so sharp it stole the air right out of your lungs. One second, you were mid-sentence; the next, your hand was flying to your stomach, your other bracing instinctively against the roof of your car to keep yourself upright. You froze, half-bent, eyes screwed shut, trying to breathe through the shock of it.

Kelly’s laughter was cut off instantly.

“You okay, Bubbles?” Her voice was tight now, pitched higher than normal. 

She was at your side in seconds, her hand hovering awkwardly near your elbow like she wasn’t sure if touching you would help or hurt. Trying not to make a big deal out of it but absolutely making a big deal out of it anyway.

You nodded. “Yeah, I—uh—” You tried to catch your breath, shifting your weight like that would fix it, but the sharp, stabbing pain low in your abdomen made you wince. “It’s fine. I just get these stabbing pains sometimes. It’s like… period cramps, but worse. Supposedly normal, but my god is it annoying. You’d think nine months without a period would be a win, but nope. Joke’s on me. Pain’s the same.”

Kelly’s face still looked pale, watching you closely, as though waiting for you to fold in half right there on the gravel. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” you muttered, breathing through your nose and straightening up slowly, testing your balance. “Totally. Just… annoying. That’s all.”

She didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t push. “Are you able to drive home yourself?” 

“Yeah,” you said again, nodding. “No worries.”

You stood there for another minute in silence, pretending you weren’t both thinking the same thing—pretending this wasn’t bigger than it was, pretending your heart wasn’t hammering unevenly in your chest. The wind rattled branches somewhere deep in the evergreens behind the parking lot, filling the silence that neither of you wanted to break.

It wasn’t until later, during your lunch break at work, that pretending stopped being an option.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

You didn’t even remember making the decision to call him. 

One moment, you’d been in the bathroom for a quick stop during your lunch break, and the next you were back at your desk, your phone already in your hand, your thumb swiping up, scrolling through contacts until Quinn’s name sat there on the screen.

Right there.

Your heart was pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears.

The low hum of the office faded to a dull roar around you—the muted clacking of keyboards, phones ringing two rows over, and snippets of small talk you couldn’t quite register. It was all too loud, too close, pressing in on you when you needed space to breathe.

Your legs moved before your brain caught up, carrying you out of your cubicle and past the copier and the tiny break room where someone had definitely microwaved something fishy—the smell of it hitting you so sharply it almost made you gag. You needed air, or quiet, or… just not other people right now.

At the end of the hall, you ducked into one of the small glass-walled office rooms reserved for private calls and shut the door behind you with more force than necessary.

Your legs felt unsteady when you sat down on the edge of the desk, phone clutched in one hand, the other twisting a button on your shirt. Your thumb was shaking as it hovered over his name, right before you pressed call. 

The ring barely lasted for a full tone before he answered. 

“Hello?” His reply was instant, his voice warm and steady despite the faint chaos bleeding through the line—kids yelling, laughter bouncing off rink walls, and the sharp clack of a puck hitting boards.

He was supposed to be swamped today. A junior development camp, probably juggling a million kids who treated him like he hung the damn moon. He’d taken on more than usual this summer because of you, really. Because he was still in Vancouver. You didn’t think he liked all the extracurriculars that came with his job, but it seemed he needed something to occupy himself with. Something besides the way his life was currently changing because of you and the fetus inside of you. 

So, you had expected him to be too busy to even pick up. The dedication in his voice threw you for a loop, like everything around him had faded. Like you were the only thing he could hear.

“Quinn, I’m—” Your voice caught, breath shallow. You tried again, softer. “I’m sorry for calling, I know you’re working—”

“Hey.” Quinn cut you off with quiet certainty before you could keep apologizing. “Unless I’m literally on the ice, you’re my first priority.” 

Your throat tightened unexpectedly, working around a lump you hadn’t realized was there.

God. The steadiness of his voice was a tether that didn’t necessarily help. The panic in your chest was still simmering, waiting for permission to rise all at once. 

You stared hard at the soundproof tiles on the wall, trying to ground yourself in their neat, perfect pattern. “I—well,” you started, fumbling. “I… um—”

“What’s going on?” His voice had sharpened slightly with focus. You could picture him already moving somewhere quieter, long strides carrying him toward a hallway.

You took a shaky breath. “I went on a run this morning with Kelly,” you started, words tumbling too fast, like speed could outrun meaning. “And I felt fine. Totally fine. But when I got into the office, I started having these stomach cramps. Like low, sharp ones. They’re supposed to be normal. I know they’re normal, but…”

You trailed off and swallowed so hard that Quinn could probably hear it. 

“But what?” he prompted, waiting.

“I went to the bathroom just now,” you whispered. “And there’s spotting.”

“Like blood?” 

“Yeah.” You blinked hard, forcing your voice to stay even, calm, rational. “It’s not much— really, it isn’t—so I’m sure it’s nothing but…” Your free hand was twisted tight in your lap now, nails digging crescents into the fabric of your pants. 

“You’re scared,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

You exhaled shakily, your gaze still locked on the wall tiles, but the pattern was just starting to make you dizzy. You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “Yeah.”

There was silence for a moment, and when Quinn spoke again, his voice had softened. “Did you call your midwife?” 

“I did. She can fit me in for my first ultrasound this afternoon, instead of next week. But if it’s severe, she said that I should go to the ER.” 

“Is it severe?” 

“No,” you said, shaking your head even though he couldn’t see that either. “I can wait until the afternoon. Honestly, waiting in the ER would probably take the same amount of time anyway.”

There was a muffled noise on his end, like someone was calling his name. And then his voice came back, closer now. “I can come with you,” he said quickly. “I just need to talk to—”

You could hear the rink behind him. You could hear the people expecting him to be there. You could picture him standing there in the middle of the chaos, phone pressed to his ear, already plotting how to carve out the time, how to rearrange an entire afternoon if that’s what it took. 

You weren’t having any of that. 

“Quinn,” you interrupted quickly, pinching the bridge of your nose, squeezing your eyes shut until little bursts of color sparked behind your eyelids. “You’re working. With kids. I don’t think you should leave them.”

“But I want to be there.” His voice was tight—not pleading, but close.

Your chest squeezed at that, sharp and unexpected. “There will be more than one scan, okay? Those kids deserve your time more than I do.” 

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think they do.” 

Your chest gave a painful little twist at that, sharp and unexpected. You almost wanted to laugh at how ridiculous he sounded. You swallowed hard, forcing his name past the tightness in your throat. “Quinn.”

“What time is the appointment?” he asked finally, conceding the argument without really letting it go.

“Three,” you said quietly.

“I’ll try to get there in time,” he promised, “but if I don’t, I’ll come straight to your place afterwards.”

“Quinn, you really don’t have to—”

“Should you call Kelly?” he cut in. “Or your mom, just in case?”

“I can do it alone,” you said quickly, maybe too quickly.

His silence on the other end said everything—like he shouldn’t have had to say the words that left his mouth next. 

“The point is that you shouldn’t have to.”

You sighed, still all shaky. “Quinn.” 

That was the truce. There was another pause—a small surrender, reluctant but there. “Okay,” he said finally, softer now. “I can sense that you think I’m annoying.”

Your lips twitched into the faintest, most exhausted semblance of a smile. “I think you should get back to work. I’ll text you updates, I promise.”

“I’ll keep my phone on me,” he said immediately, no hesitation. “Call if you need me.”

“Quinn.”

You were really wearing out his name today.

“Yeah, yeah.” There was a faint, barely-there chuckle under his breath, but it was shaky at the edges. “Take care. Both of you.”

You pressed your lips together tightly, swallowing hard to steady your voice. “We will. Talk to you later.”

The line went quiet, and the silence of the little office suddenly roared in your ears. The faint hum of the fluorescent lights, the low buzz of electronics, even your own breathing—it was too much, too loud. You pressed both hands flat against the desk, staring at the wood grain until your vision blurred, willing yourself to focus on the pressure against your palms rather than the raging storm inside of you. 

3 p.m.

It was already 12:30. You just had to make it to 3 p.m.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

You drove home from the doctor’s office on autopilot. You weren’t sure you could have said how you got home if someone put you on trial about it—the entire stretch of road between the clinic parking lot and your building blurred into one long blank space. One moment, you were driving out of the underground garage, and the next, you were standing in your elevator, staring blankly at the changing numbers like they were written in another language, your keys clutched so tightly they left little indents in your palm.

The second your apartment door shut behind you, your body went limp. Purse on the floor. Keys somewhere near it. Shoes kicked vaguely in the direction of the shoe rack.

You stripped out of your work clothes at record speed, tugging on the first soft thing you found in your closet. An ancient, oversized Christmas pajama set your mom had given you years ago. Candy canes and little reindeer in June was a solid choice. The fabric was pilled and soft from too many washes, one sleeve cuff slightly torn, but it was comfortable and not… suffocating. Work-appropriate shirts were suffocating. Slacks were suffocating. Buttons had become your worst enemy. 

By the time you collapsed onto the couch, you were wrapped in a blanket burrito, the lights still off, blinds still drawn. The room sat in that weird muted gray of late afternoon, completely calm except for the low hum of the fridge. You stared at a speck of lint on the ceiling for what had to be ten solid minutes, too drained to move, too wired to rest. Your whole body felt oddly heavy, like your bones had soaked up every ounce of adrenaline from earlier and now didn’t quite know what to do with it.

You didn’t have to panic any longer, but your body hadn’t caught up with that yet. 

Quinn had texted a good luck right before three o’clock. But when you’d updated him afterwards, you had not received an answer. You assumed that meant he was on his way. Or still too busy. 

You thought maybe you could stay there forever, cocooned under a blanket pulled up to your chin, when the sharp sound of the doorbell ringing forced you to get up. 

It startled you so hard your blanket nearly slipped off. Dragging it back into place over your shoulders, you waddled toward the door, feet shuffling slow and reluctant across the hardwood. When you opened it, Quinn was standing there, slightly breathless, his cheeks flushed. 

“You should just get a key to my place,” you said by way of greeting, leaning against the doorframe, your voice flat with exhaustion. “Because I’m already too tired of standing up from the couch. Imagine how bad it’ll be when my stomach is the size of Jupiter.”

He shot you a look that was unreadable to you. His hair was damp, like he’d showered at the rink before leaving, and he’d changed into casual clothes. A T-shirt that looked too soft and jeans you assumed someone had bullied him into wearing because they weren’t skinny. 

But Quinn’s wordless, out-of-breath expression caught your attention the most. 

“Did you—” you tilted your head, eyebrows lifting, a faint giggle escaping, “—did you run up the stairs or what?”

“Didn’t want to wait for the elevator,” he managed between breaths.

You blinked slowly, the corners of your mouth twitching despite everything. “Well, you can calm down now.”

Letting him inside, you shut and locked the door with a soft click before retreating instantly to your spot on the couch, sitting down with your legs tucked beneath you, blanket still keeping you warm. 

“You didn’t text,” Quinn shot back immediately, putting a hand on your kitchen counter to lean against it, his chest still rising and falling a little too quickly. “You said you were going to text.”

You’d always thought men looked out of place in your apartment, and Quinn was no exception. Your small, open-spaced one-bedroom sanctuary was too… girly for him to make sense there. Standing beside your baby pink kettle and a poster of Van Gogh’s water lilies, he looked like a caveman. 

“I did text,” you countered, tilting your head, mildly amused by his whole frazzled mess of an entrance. “I even asked if you could pick up donuts on your way here.”

He blinked. “What—no, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did.” You reached for your phone from the coffee table, unlocking it and waving the proof in his direction. “Four separate texts.”

He crossed the room in two strides, squinting down at the screen for all of two seconds before dragging a frustrated hand through his damp hair and muttering under his breath, “Fucking hell, the rink has shit service.”

You gave him a pointed look, deadpan. “So… no donuts?”

“No,” he admitted flatly, dropping down onto the couch beside you, shoulders sagging. “No donuts.”

“Well, that’s tragic.”

A silence formed between the two of you, sitting next to each other on your couch. It wasn’t awkward between you and Quinn anymore. Or at least you weren’t always pushing that limit. But sometimes, likenow, neither of you knew how to start talking again. You could feel the words you wanted to say buzzing under your tongue, and you were pretty sure he had his own.

Quinn glanced at you sidelong, his head angled just enough that you caught the sharpness in his profile, the slight bump along his nose. His chest rose with a controlled exhale, something sharper beneath that he didn’t quite show. 

“You seem…” he paused, like he was weighing the right word, “…weirdly calm. Can I assume that means the appointment went alright?”

You leaned your head back against the couch cushion, your blanket cocoon tightening instinctively around your shoulders. “It did,” you said after a beat, shrugging. “I was prepared for the worst, so now I just… feel kind of ridiculous for making it into this huge deal.”

Quinn shifted to face you a little more, one arm draped lazily along the back of the couch. His knee brushed yours beneath the blanket—just a tiny tap, the kind that wasn’t intentional but also didn’t feel accidental.

“You were not being ridiculous.” His voice had that low, unshakable steadiness to it, the one that always managed to sound so certain when you weren’t.

You huffed out a weak laugh, burying half your face in the blanket. “They should really put it on some brochure that vaginal ultrasounds are a common thing. Having something jammed up there was… definitely not something I was prepared for.”

Quinn’s nose scrunched at your sudden change of topic, his expression somewhere between discomfort and sympathy. “Oh.” He hesitated, like you’d stumbled into forbidden territory of what was allowed and not to be discussed between you two. 

“Yeah. Oh,” you echoed, slightly amused. 

He tilted his head, boyish in the uncertainty that crossed his face. “Is that… like… normal?”

“Apparently.” You shrugged, feigning casualness even though the memory still clung to you like static electricity. The cold, sterile smell of the room. The flimsy paper gown that refused to cover anything it was supposed to. Your midwife’s polite-but-pointed “relax your muscles” instructions like oh, sure, let me just casually unclench my entire existence real quick, Lindsey.

“In other words,” you continued. “you’re never coming to an ultrasound with me.”

“…I can’t even process what you’re saying right now,” he said, dragging a hand over his face. He hesitated for a moment, his gaze sweeping over your face like he was searching for something beneath your sudden humor. “The baby is fine?”

“The baby is good, Quinn,” you said, forcing yourself to slow down, to make sure the words landed. You met his eyes and let your smile settle there, small and tired. “Perfect heartbeat. No signs of trouble. The spotting and cramping are both normal for the first trimester. Nothing to panic about unless it gets worse or doesn’t stop.”

For a beat, Quinn didn’t move. Then, slowly, something in his shoulders unlocked—the tension you hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying disappearing like air from a popped balloon. His jaw unclenched. The faint crease between his brows smoothed. And then, just barely, the corner of his mouth twitched upward. 

“…Good,” he said finally. He leaned further back into the couch beside you, his knee brushing yours again, this time lingering without either of you acknowledging it. “That’s… really good.”

For the first time all day, you felt like you could breathe without bracing for bad news.

The baby was healthy. Quinn looked… happy. Or, at least, quietly relieved. And really, there wasn’t much more you could ask for.

You shifted on the couch, exhaling slowly, before your gaze fell on the envelope sitting half-buried beneath a magazine on the coffee table. You’d almost forgotten about it in the fog of the afternoon—the thin paper edges peeking out like a reminder.

Without thinking, you reached for it, fingers brushing over the seal before sliding out the small black-and-white print tucked inside. It felt almost weightless in your hand, impossibly thin, yet heavier than anything you’d ever held. 

You hesitated for a second before offering it across to Quinn. “I got this too.”

Quinn’s attention changed instantly, brows pulling together slightly as he took the photo—slowly, like he wasn’t sure how fragile it was. He leaned forward, elbows placed loosely against his knees, his gaze fixed on the small blur like he could will it into focus.

The grainy little blur sat in the middle of the frame, all shadows and light, but you could see the shape. Or a shape. You’d seen it earlier on the monitor—the tiny shape flickering there, wriggly and surreal—but seeing Quinn hold the proof in his hand made it different. More real.

“Is that them?” he asked finally, the quiet wonder in his tone catching you off guard.

You swallowed and nodded. “That little smear, apparently.” 

You reached out, pointing with your fingertip at the faint outline on the photo, the shape barely distinguishable unless you already knew what to look for. They looked more like a blurry kidney bean than a baby. 

“The round shape there is the head. They’re the size of a fig, and they already have all their organs.” 

Quinn glanced up at you briefly. “How big is a fig?” 

“Like…” You looked down at your hand, curling your fingers loosely into a ball. “Half the size of my fist, maybe?”

Quinn’s gaze followed the motion—and before you could drop your hand, his reached across the space between you. His palm was warm and dry when it wrapped lightly around your fist, his thumb brushing a soft line along the back of it, down between your knuckles. As if to visualize what half of it felt like. 

The gesture was simple. Barely anything at all.

But when he didn’t let go, when his thumb kept tracing faint, absentminded circles into your skin, something in your chest tightened so sharply it was almost dizzying.

You let your fingers uncurl slowly, and he adjusted without a word, holding just two of them now. Neither of you acknowledged it, like breaking the silence would force the air back into the room.

You cleared your throat, staring down at the ultrasound photo instead of him. “She also said they’re a little chunky for their age.” 

That earned you an unguarded laugh, low in his chest. Quinn shook his head, still looking down at the scan, though his thumb dragged absently along the edge of your knuckles as he spoke. “My brothers and I were all big babies.” 

“Great.” You sighed dramatically, tipping your head back against the couch cushions. “Guess I’m blaming all my weight gain and stretch marks on you, then.”

Quinn’s smile twitched wider for a split second. He glanced up at you again, his eyes making your stomach flip—soft, warm, impossible to read.

“I can take it,” he said simply.

The words hung there for a moment, easy and light, but the quiet that followed wasn’t. You shifted the empty envelope in your lap, the corner brushing against your thumb, and the silence stretched. Not exactly uncomfortable, just… heavier than before.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was lower, rougher around the edges, as if he’d been turning the thought over in his head before saying it.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you,” he said quietly. “But I’m really glad it went well.”

You hesitated, your free hand tugging at the hem of your sleeve, something curling in your chest. Your fingers worried at the frayed threads, restless, because you didn’t quite know what to do with his guilt. With yours.

“I promise it’s fine, Quinn,” you said finally, aiming for breezy and missing by a mile. “I’m glad too. Even if I was still… you know.” You gave a helpless little shrug. “Scared.”

“Yeah.” His agreement was quiet, his nod deliberate, and he handed the photo back with the same care he’d taken holding it. His fingers brushed yours before slipping away, letting go of your hand in the process.

The sudden absence of his touch shouldn’t have been noticeable. But it was.

“You’re allowed to be scared,” he said after a beat, leaning back slightly, his eyes still on you. “This scared me too today.”

It was such a simple confession, but it cracked something open. He’d been scared too. You hadn’t let yourself think about it too much—hadn’t lingered on the what-ifs, the alternate paths that splintered off from this morning. But sitting here, you felt the weight of it all over again. 

That it could’ve been over before it even began.

And then the two of you would’ve had… nothing. No blurry printout to hold like it was sacred. No quiet orbit around each other’s lives. Just the uncomfortable possibility of what might’ve been.

Your throat tightened. You had yet to fully cry today. Little tears had prickled in your eyes earlier, but you hadn’t wanted to release them fully. You still didn’t. 

You slid the photo back into the envelope and closed it, reaching for levity like a lifeline.

“Please don’t get me any fig-themed food this week,” you said, pushing the moment somewhere lighter. “I know you, and I know you’ll try, but I’m begging you. It’s just gonna remind me of all the charcuterie I’m not allowed to eat.”

Quinn’s mouth quirked, a subtle smile tugging at the corner. He felt the relief too. 

“Noted.” 

“Oh, and they don’t like lemon.” You rested a hand gently against your stomach without really meaning to, thumb pressing against the fabric. “Or acidic, sour things. For future reference.”

“Also noted.” 

You smiled at him and hoped he didn’t feel bad for the raspberry lemonade he’d gotten you a few weeks ago—the one that had given you acid reflux and horrible nausea. It wasn’t his fault. 

You picked up the envelope from your lap, careful not to bend the edges, and set it back down on the coffee table. “Guess I’ll just keep this somewhere safe,” you murmured, half to him, half to yourself.

Quinn leaned back against the couch, his legs stretching out until his shins bumped against the coffee table. “Or…” He gestured toward your kitchen with a lazy flick of his fingers. “You can put it on the fridge. Like normal parents do.”

You gave him a look. “We’re not normal parents, Quinn.” 

“Yeah, I know,” he said, smiling faintly. “But we can pretend.”

Before you could really process what he meant by pretending, Quinn stood up and reached for the envelope. He looked like a caveman again as he walked over to your kitchen, too big and broad to really fit there. 

He opened the envelope carefully, sliding the photo free with both hands, and scanned your fridge for a free magnet. His fingers hesitated for a second before settling on one shaped like a fried egg—a lopsided little clay thing you’d made in art class back in middle school, all uneven edges and chipped paint. Without comment, he used it to pin the printout in place.

It looked small up there. Out of place. But then again… maybe not.

There it was—your baby, frozen in black and white—hanging between a crumpled grocery list and a collection of takeout menus. It was ridiculous, and surreal, and a little heartbreaking how normal it looked. Even though you weren’t.

You thought Quinn would leave a few minutes after that. That he had a million other things to do. That would’ve made sense.

But forty minutes later, he was still there, on the couch next to you. And he’d DoorDashed donuts for you. Cinnamon and sugar. Just like you’d asked… because… you didn’t even know. 

He hadn’t said he was staying. He just… hadn’t left.

The TV played softly in the background, the low hum filling the silence between you. Some cooking show was on—an overly cheerful host aggressively zesting a lemon within an inch of its life. The sound grated against your nerves and it felt vaguely offensive given your new citrus ban.

You stared at the screen and muttered flatly, “I’m really starting to hate lemons.”

Quinn hummed, low in his chest, like the sound was halfway between agreement and amusement.

You licked sugar from the edge of your thumb, trying very hard not to look at him but, unfortunately, failing miserably. You glanced once. Then again. Then a third time because your brain, apparently, hated you.

His damp hair had dried into loose waves, curling slightly around his forehead. His T-shirt clung in unfairly strategic places—his chest, his shoulders, the curve of his bicep that flexed every time he shifted. He was tired, but somehow he didn’t look disheveled—more like someone designed in a lab to make sitting on a couch look annoyingly good.

You hated him for that. Or, fine, maybe not him. You hated your hormones for making you notice it at all. That was a better explanation.

“Why are you still here?” you asked finally, breaking the silence without looking at him.

Quinn tilted his head, considering the question like he actually needed to think about it. “Didn’t feel like leaving yet,” he answered. 

You blinked at him. “That’s not an answer.”

He smirked faintly, leaning further back into the couch until his shoulders touched the cushions, legs sprawled out like he owned the place. “It’s the only one I’ve got.” His eyes were on the TV, though you were certain he wasn’t actually watching it.

You immediately tried to not overthink it, verbally pushing him away without really meaning to. “You know you don’t have to keep showing up like this. You don’t owe me anything.”

He turned his head then, his gaze catching yours and holding it. It was almost like you’d offended him by even insinuating that he was here because of… guilt. 

“We’re doing this together,” he said simply, no hesitation in his tone. “I’m here because I want to be. And…” A tiny pause. A flicker of humor. “…because I’ve realized I kinda like your company.”

“Gee,” you said, reaching for another donut just to have something to do with your hands, “thanks.”

You’d lost count of how many you’d eaten. But maybe that was something good. Because it meant they weren’t making you nauseous. 

You laid down on the couch, shuffling to pull the blanket out from underneath you. You had to bend your legs to not touch Quinn more than necessary, but you were tired of sitting upright on your own couch.

You tore off a small piece of the new donut you’d grabbed, rolling it between your fingers to fight how the sugar stuck to them, before popping it into your mouth. 

“You feel like you’re getting the hang of being pregnant yet?” Quinn asked after a moment, voice soft but curious, his eyes fixed somewhere near your hands as you tore off another piece. 

You let out a quiet laugh, trying to clear your mouth from dough before speaking. “I’m getting used to it, but I don’t know if it’s something you can get good at, necessarily.” 

Quinn nodded like he understood. You didn’t know if he actually did. 

“I bought some books,” you admitted. “Talked to my midwife a bunch, too. But I still feel like I don’t… actually know what’s going on inside of me. Or what to expect from it all.”

He was quiet for a while, his thumb idly tracing the seam of his jeans, like he was thinking through something heavier than the question deserved. Finally, he glanced up at you, expression softened.

“I talked to my mom the other night,” he said. “Or… she talked and I listened, mostly.” His mouth curved slightly, like the memory amused and exhausted him all at once. “She went on this whole tangent about her pregnancies—what she remembered, what doctors told her, all the weird advice she got from relatives.” He hesitated, watching your reaction carefully. “Maybe talking to her could be good for you too.”

You raised a brow at him, shifting slightly to lie more fully on your back so you could see his face better. Quinn instantly lifted your feet to put them in his lap instead. Didn’t say anything about it. Simply to make you more comfortable. 

He caught the look you gave him and added quickly, “Or maybe your own mom’s good at that too. I don’t wanna—” he gestured loosely with his hand, “step on any toes.”

You snorted softly. “It’s fine, Quinn. I’d love to talk more to your mom, actually.” A wry smile curved your mouth before you added. “My mom and Nana would probably have a slightly different approach, and I fear they might just… scare me more.”

He gave a soft, genuine laugh at that, running a hand through his hair. “I’d still like to meet them. I don’t wanna just… show up with their grandkid one day and have them hate me.”

“I know,” you murmured, picking at a stray sugar granule on your thumb. “I just—”

Quinn didn’t push. He waited.

You drew in a shaky breath and forced it out slowly, keeping your eyes fixed on the ceiling like that would make it easier. “I guess I’m scared of that part too. I’m scared of everything, apparently.”

His brows furrowed. “Of me?”

“Of you. Of them. Of the future.”

The words felt strange to say out loud, sharp and bare. And maybe too honest. 

“I think my mom will try to scare you away,” you admitted, the words tumbling out before you could filter them. “Or make you realize that you should get out while you can. Do minimum damage to me and them.”

Yet again, Quinn didn’t interrupt. Even though he probably had good reason to. As if he could do damage to you and the baby, when all he’d ever showed was the opposite. But he let you talk, let his silence hold space for the weight you didn’t realize you’d been carrying.

“Or she’s gonna yell at you to prove yourself… worthy to the baby,” you continued, rolling the word on your tongue like it didn’t quite fit right. “I’ve been told my entire life that I should do things alone. That relying on anyone is weakness. So she’s not going to trust you to stay. Even for the baby’s sake, you know.”

Your throat tightened, and you shook your head quickly, like you could erase what you’d just said. “Not that I believe that,” you corrected, your voice unsteady. “They’re half your DNA. That’s enough to be… I don’t know. Enough. ‘Worthy’ is the wrong word—”

Quinn’s gaze stayed steady on you, unflinching in a way that almost made you squirm.

“But I—I do things alone,” you admitted quietly, like confessing something you didn’t want him to hold against you. “And she knows that.”

Your nails worried at the hem of your blanket, the frayed threads twisting under your fingertips. “I push people away just to prove they’re going to leave anyway. My mom and my grandma are just the same. And I keep thinking they’ll see the uncertainty between us, and they’ll make me question it even more, and now I’m just—”

“Hey.”

The word cut through your rambling, low but steady enough to still you. You blinked, caught off guard by the interruption, your gaze snapping up to meet his. 

Quinn’s eyes didn’t waver when he asked, quietly but firmly, “So how do I become worthy of being in your life then? And not just for the baby.” 

Worthy was the wrong word. And you hated yourself for having used it. Quinn didn’t need to be worthy. He didn’t owe you anything. He didn’t have to prove anything. And yet here he was. Asking. Waiting. .

There was really only one thing he could do—to be different from the rest. 

“You stay,” you whispered. “Even if I tell you the opposite.”

Quinn’s jaw flexed slightly, like he was holding something back, but his voice came out even, certain. “I’m already doing that.”

You turned quiet after that. No rambling could justify speaking over the steady promise he’d just given you. The heaviness of everything you’d just admitted hung between you, but it wasn’t unbearable. 

Your feet were still in his lap, one of his hands on the armrest and the other on the back of the couch to not touch you. You knew it was intentional. He wanted you close, though not in a way that demanded anything from you. And he wanted you to be comfortable. Which was why he never pushed further with a conversation when even you turned quiet.

You weren’t a quiet person. 

Eating the last piece of your almost forgotten about donut, you tried to blink away the intensity of the moment, telling yourself you could think about it later—maybe when you weren’t so aware of the warmth radiating from his body. 

Quinn looked at you as you chewed, a slight smile forming as you could almost see when a thought formed in his head. He almost looked like he was constricting a laugh. You tilted your head, brows knitting in amusement at his sudden change in emotion. 

“Your dad is not around at all, is he?”

You almost choked on your donut. You didn’t know Quinn Hughes knew how to laugh at something serious. That was your specialty between the two of you.  

“Wow. Show no decorum. That’s fine,” you said with a huff, the corner of your mouth twitching in a half-laugh, half-grimace.

It was obvious to anyone who knew of your family constellation. Terms like daddy issues and avoidant attachment were practically written on your forehead. It wasn’t rocket science to figure you out. 

You just didn’t expect Quinn to call you out on it. 

“You wouldn’t know decorum if it hit you in the face, Y/N,” he shot back, voice teasing, like he knew exactly the kind of reaction he would get out of you. 

“You—” You stopped yourself mid-word, exhaling through your nose with a soft laugh. “Might be right.”

Quinn’s expression softened slightly, the teasing receding into something more careful, more attentive.

“But no,” you said after a beat, your voice quieter now, almost matter-of-fact. “He hasn’t been around since I was little. He moved somewhere up north when I was like three. I’ve only really seen him in photos.”

Quinn twisted a little in his seat, his hand falling from the edge of the couch down beside where your legs were. But still he didn’t push, didn’t interrupt.

“My mom was not meant to be a married woman,” you admitted softly, your fingers absently fidgeting with the drawstring of your pants. “And neither was my grandma. It’s just… the way they are. They feel more power by being alone.”

“But you don’t?” Quinn asked. 

You hesitated, thumb looping into the string to pull the knot loose, and shook your head faintly. “I’m… open to seeing the other side of things.” 

Quinn didn’t say anything to that, but his hand found your ankle where it rested on his lap, his thumb brushing over it repeatedly, slow and steady. Your Christmas pajama pants rising up from the movement. 

He looked at you in silence. Slowly going from your ankle, up all the way to your face. You thought his gaze clung to sugar from the donuts still stuck on your face or something at first. 

But then his gaze drifted. Down.

His eyes were caught on the sliver of bare skin where your pajama top had accidentally ridden up. Your stomach all on show. No bump still, just a little pudge. You followed his line of sight, heat blooming in your cheeks, and directly tugged at the hem of your shirt to cover it.

Quinn blinked, catching himself, but didn’t look away for long.

“They’re really in there,” he murmured. 

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of the space between you, the faint brush of his presence, the way the room seemed to lean in around you both. “Apparently.” 

That was when he shifted even closer, lifting his hand from your ankle to brace it on the back of the couch again, leaning slightly over you—not crowding you, not even touching you besides where your feet were in his lap. But he was near enough that you could feel the faint brush of his breath when he looked down.

Your body tensed, instincts screaming to cover up, joke, distract. Just do something to break the weight of the moment. But then you saw his expression—the quiet awe, the furrowed brows—and you stilled. 

You let him look.

Slowly, like testing the edges of something fragile, Quinn extended his hand. His palm hovered a heartbeat above your stomach before settling against it. The warmth radiated through the thin fabric of your shirt, gentle but there, and you realized that no words were necessary.

You didn’t dare to say anything. You were too busy holding your breath to even form a coherent thought. 

And then, finally, he whispered, like he couldn’t believe it himself, “You’re gonna start showing soon.”

You stared up at him, a strange, overwhelmed heat forming in your chest. “Wild, right?”

Quinn’s thumb brushed idly across your stomach once, scrunching the fabric up again. It was so light, you weren’t even sure he realized he was doing it. Then he lifted his hand back.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Wild.”

thank you for reading! please tell me what you think, my asks are always open ★ also a reminder that you can send in suggestions for ideas/scenes you think could fit into this series!

[pizzapie349]

killing time

jack hughes x reader

word count 3.1k

content warnings- surprise :) ty for ur patience and being so nice to me i love you all a lot. astronomically. heres the long awaited first time :)

can be read as a vignette but check the rest of the series!

August 2018

When Jack opens the door, rubbing groggily at his half asleep face, shirt riding up his middle, grey sweatpants hung low around his waist, you can literally feel your brain short circuit, the entire plan you’d hatched nearly vanished from your subconscious. But it's been a long time coming, so even when your throat goes dry, you aim for nonchalance, dipped in casual annoyance at the sight of him, like he didn’t make your gut twist. “Where’s Luke?”

Jack takes a second before answering, drowsy and disoriented. He napped so often, always needed to after school, and you almost felt bad for knocking, knowing you were going to be waking him up at this time. “Um, he got detention, I think,” his face contorts with a yawn as he scratches his stomach. “Why?”

He’s already stepping aside, letting you into his house. You leave your shoes next to the door, right beside the sandals you kept here. You groan with frustration, like this was news to you that you hadn't known. “Ugh. We have a project,” you explain, dropping your bag on the kitchen table. “Procrastinated the whole week and it’s literally due tomorrow.”

“Damn,” he says, only half listening as he rummaged through the cabinets, looking for food. “That’s tough.”

“S’like, really big, too,” you pout, even though he’s not even looking at you. He’s staring at the macros on a box of frozen pizza. You roll your eyes and turn back to your laptop, cracking it open. It was easy to lie when it wasn’t even a lie. There was a project. You just knew Luke wouldn’t be here to help. And with his parents helping Quinn get settled in at college, you knew you’d have the house alone with him.

“Uh huh,” Jack hums, pretending to pay attention. “Hey, do you wanna split this?”

You look over your shoulder as he holds the box out and shrug noncommittally. He starts to rip open the box before blinking down at the oven like it was something foreign. “Which one’s the, uh, the pre-heat button?”

You have to bite the inside of your cheek to hold back your laugh as you get up from the table to go help him. He watches you hit bake and set the temperature, squinting in serious concentration like he wouldn’t forget and ask for help again the next time. You move your laptop off the table and place it on the island to work from there.

“I think the table’s easier to work on, no?”

“Wanna make sure you don’t burn the house down,” you drawl, even though you really just wanted to be closer to him. He leans against the island coolly.

Jack snickers, poking you in your side. “Hey, you gotta beat Luke’s ass for this. You’re not gonna wanna keep carrying his ass when you guys get up to Michigan.”

“Oh my god,” your eyes roll. “Spare me. That’ll be in like three years if I even get in.”

“What do you mean, you’ll get in. You’re smart.”

“I’m not smart like that.”

Jack points at the laptop by way of explanation. You counter by spinning it, showing the empty document. 

“I just do the work, it doesn’t mean it’s like, good work. Not an honor roll kid like you.”

He takes his turn rolling his eyes, then. “Okay, well. I still think you’ll get in. If Quinn could, anyone could.”

“That’s mean. He’s smart.”

“He’s athletic. S’why Luke’ll get in. You,” he points. “Will get in because you’re smart.”

You make a show of looking around, like a camera crew will jump out and surprise you. He’s confused at first before he picks up on your theatric. “You are!”

You stare at him for a second and he matches it, challenging you to argue with him. Your cheeks flush a little under his concentrated gaze. It was rare. Growing up with him as his pseudo little sister, you rarely got treated with such kindness. And, for all you knew, this wasn’t even serious for him, it was just him being nice.

Biting your lip, you let him win the face off, turning to look back down at your laptop. “Don’t forget to wear gloves when you take the pizza out.”

Part of you was dumb enough to believe he’d stick around to eat with you while you worked on your project. The real reason he lingered was because he was waiting to get it out of the oven. Second he had his food, he was off to his room. You felt sort of dumb for hoping because in hindsight it was obvious that was what he was doing. Slight accidental touches and casual courteous conversations with him gave you such a rush though that it didn’t even bother you. You were grateful for what you got. Even if for him it was just killing time.

After half-assing your assignment you make your way towards Jack’s bedroom. There’s a disgruntled sound on the other end when you knock, but he lets you come in after a second. You peek your head in cautiously.

“Hey,” he calls you in from his bed, inconspicuous, besides the faint flush on his face. He points at the plate he discarded at the end of the bed. “Can you get that?”

You groan, collecting his dirty dishes as if it bothered you. It didn't. “Anything else?”

“Nuh uh. What’s up? You can sit,” he says, like he noticed your slight unease.

You exhale a soft laugh as you crawl onto the bed, opposite from him against the headboard.  “Okay, sorry. I didn’t know if you were like, doing something.” You say it with enough innuendo that makes his flush deepen, and he hits you with a pillow, reprimanding.

“Oh my god, ew. I wasn’t,” Jack retorts. “And you're like, five, you're not supposed to know about that stuff."

You whine defensively, snatching the pillow so he’d stop hitting you with it. “I'm only two years younger than you!"

“Yeah, and even then you act like, way younger.” he teases, “And you look it, too.” He grabs at your cheeks cruelly, pinching at the baby fat.

It feels mean, maybe he means it to be mean, but you stopped letting that bother you ages ago. Instead you snicker, recoiling from him. "Ew, don't touch me with those hands, creep. I know what you were doing."

Jack pulls away like burned. "Shut up," he counters quickly, too quick, to try and play it off as nonchalantly as possible. He drops his hand, clearing his throat. "I wasn’t doing anything."

You make a vulgar gesture anyway, probably going a little too far, in over your head with taunting him. "And I bet you were doing it thinking about me, too. I was literally just downstairs."

Jack's breath catches, gawking not from shock, but from the sudden heat that floods his face. He stares at you for a beat, eyes wide.

Then, recovering, he grabs another pillow and smacks it right into your face.

"You are so gross," he snorts through forced laughter. “You don’t even know what you’re saying.‘Thinking about me’, holy shit. You're literally a child. You sound so fuckin’ dumb.”

And maybe you shouldn’t have said it but he’s just so casual with his cruelty, either he knows how deep he cuts you or he doesn’t and you don’t know which is worse. 

You’ve gotten really good at steeling your resolve, growing up around him and his brothers, skin so thick it’d take a real serrated knife to slice through. Your laugh is so effortless and natural, a good sound bubbling up from your belly, and you really put your back into it when you attack him with the same pillow you’d stolen away from him.

Jack's own laughter sounds just as genuine when you pounce on him, the pillow fight igniting that natural competitor’s spirit within him. He struggles against your weight and leverage on him with you perched above him with a grin, swatting madly at you with his own pillow.

"Get off me you little– creep!" he protests, so brainless he’s using your own insults against you, though the grin on his face betrays his effort to pretend like he didn't enjoy you being on top of him.

"Why, y'scared I’ll feel you get all bricked up?" you tease.

His jaw completely drops at that, not even able to hide his shock at you saying things like that. The startle twists into something like anger at you, your audacity, getting one up over him like that. 

"You don't even know what that means," he hisses.

And you go on laughing, so unbothered by his insistence at your inexperience. You don’t even protest, you agree, giggling as you shake your head. Even bite your lip, playing at that idea of innocence. "Wait. You're right. I don't. Show me, show me what it means."

His chest tightens. He just stares at you, and it feels like it goes on so long, too long, and you’re really chewing hard on your lip now, thinking you overplayed it. And this was the wrong way to go about getting him the way you wanted him. Your face heats up, every embarrassing word you’ve said rushing like blood in your ears, and your body betrays you even worse when you feel the slight prick of tears in your eyes before his grip on your wrists tightens, startling you.

He swallows. His voice cracks, even, you think you catch that, the way he half whines, "You're sure?” Splitting the sentence apart. “You want to know?" 

You lost all your words. You can only nod, dumbstruck, eyes wide.

Jack reaches for your wrist, moves your hand to his lap. The only reassurance you get is out of his own trembling fingers wrapped around yours, warm with sweat, gentle but firm when he forces you to feel him, palming at his crotch, his eyes flickering over your face, gauging your reaction with a lump in his throat he couldn’t swallow down.

His breathing is a little uneven, the heat in his face making him feel like he’s burning alive. He wants to say something cocky, but none of the words make it past his dry throat.

"Feel that?" he manages to get out. "That's what that means."

You really weren’t all that naive, growing up around three boys, but you’d never done anything like this, not actual touching, petting, real world stuff. Any ideas you got were just in your head, all fantasies centered on him. Everything that was happening right now was so beyond you, you felt out of your body, even doing something as tame as this. Less the action, more who it was with. You look up at him, eyes blown out wide, trying to stay cool as you grasped at him through his clothes. 

Jack lets out a strangled sort of sound, like a wounded animal, mumbling your name with a wheeze like it knocked the wind out of him. He white knuckles the comforter. His eyes never leave yours.

"Um– I just," you stammer, not able to look at his pretty blue eyes, think you’d lose your train of thought getting lost in them. It was a lot but it wasn’t enough. "I just wanna know, so, like. For when I do end up doing it for real." Then she looks back up at him, breathing shallow. "Can– you show me?" You bite your lips again. “All of it? All the way?”

Jack swallows hard, his breath shaky. He knows he should stop this–should, but the way you’re looking at him, all nervous and trusting, it breaks the resolve in him.

“Kid,” he rasps again, voice rougher now. “You don’t even know what you’re asking.” Even then, his hips twitch slightly under your hand. Still you nod. Your brows knot together and your eyes sting like you might sob on him if he says no. Maybe he doesn’t want to deal with that. Maybe that’s half the reason he lets you get your hands on him, moving past his sweatpants, aiming for the real thing.

Jack stares at the way your chest rises fast and falls faster, how your fingers tremble even as they grip him, nervous, but not saying no. Wishing you would. Wishing you’d act your age, act older than your age and say no for the both of you, but it never comes. 

You’re panting, near salivating like a dog when he covers his hand over yours, so much bigger, rougher, calloused from weights and sticks even after they’ve been all taped up.

“Like… like this,” he murmurs, helping you move just right. His breath hitches. “You’re… you’re doing it.”

"Is it okay?" You don’t mean to sound as whiney and desperate as you do, breathless as you pump him in your fist, voice small as you pinch your eyebrows together all hopeful, trying to be as good as you could. "'m I doing it right?"

He jerks up into your fist, lungs tight, jaw clenching, body taut. Every movement of your hand sends a jolt through him. "Yeah," he breathes, voice ragged. "More than okay."

His fingers tremble where they rest on yours. He wants to let go and let you take over, but he’s afraid if you keep looking at him like that, all wide-eyed and earnest, he’ll lose it completely. He could control it like this, at least. The sight of you like this was too much as it was.

"You're so good at this," he mumbles heatedly, hating how wrecked he sounds. Reverent, almost. Later, he’ll blame it on the actual shock of it all, never believing this’d happen if you told him even just yesterday. "Too good."

The praise makes you whine, and you believe him, naively, so you’re startled when he pulls your hand off. You look up at him and he’s wincing like it pains him to do it. 

“Gotta– stop,” he explains, squinting focused as he gets you on your back, twisting you one armed like it was easy. “Don’t wanna do that yet.”

“You were gonna?” You whisper, dazed, staring up at him starry eyed when he pulls your shorts down.

He nods, not saying it, but your gleeful little smile cracks a smirk out of him.

“Told you you were doing good, champ,” he smiles, and with no warning, he crooks his fingers in you. “Real good.”

You wouldn’t be this wet if it was anyone else, but it’s Jack, so you are. He slides right in and your eyes roll back, clenching hard on your teeth, head lolling back as you bite back a moan. You scratch at the arm he’s got bracketed by your head. It makes him laugh.

“How’re you this wet,” he snickers. You paw at his chest but he’s got you pinned with his weight in such a way that he doesn’t even need to hold you down with his hands. There’s so much of him, all over, everywhere, you feel him and see him and you can’t get away.

It’s worse when he gets his cock in you. Everything he does comes with no warning, and there’s nothing you can do but take it. It hurts when he fits himself in, and he knows it hurts, he's got to, because even if you weren’t crying, even if your body trying to shove him out, not wanting it, your still nails raked and clawed up and down his biceps and you kept on squirming under him, trying to get away.

“S’nice, yeah,” he breathes in your ear, watching you get all glassy. You nod, hiding it, but he pets your scalp, smoothing the hair out of your face, trying to be soothing you think, before you realize he was just trying to get a better view of you all screwed and twisted up in pain.

“More?” Jack mumbles. “You can take it. Doin’ so good.”

Your head rolls and he pats your cheek.

“Most guys aren’t gonna be as nice as me, y'know, when you do this for real,” he says, ignoring the way you have to bite into his shoulder to muffle your screams when he splits your thighs apart, hoists your knees around his hips and knocks your ankles at his lower back so he can hit deeper. “Want you to know what to expect, huh?”

Oh, there’s a joke there, you think vaguely, but he’s fucked you so stupid that you can’t find it. Only thing in your head is him, all over, everywhere, and something sick, a twinge of regret, like this’d gone too far and you were in over your head and it wasn’t right, but then he’ll thrust and get you at an angle he hadn’t had before and all you want is more.

“Good– good, fuckin’- girl,” Jack wheezes, “Fuck. You really haven’t done this before?”

Something about his meanness gets you clenching around him harder and he likes that, likes it a lot. It’s got him laughing and rubbing his hand all over your face, pushing you away when you try to get your mouth on his, smearing your tears but won’t deign to lick or kiss them off your face, because that’d be too close to something he’d never, ever want to entertain with you.

His grip on your hips tighten, so hard it’ll bruise and you’ll poke the purple spots afterwards just to remind yourself of how good he hurts. His strokes get sloppier when he comes and he only pulls out half way when he does, biting back a groan, slumped over your tensed up body. 

You knew there was supposed to be something bigger, for you, something like what he felt, but it never came. His skin pricks like he can feel your disappointment. His hand snakes down between your legs like an afterthought, shoving his come back in you when he fingers you, rubbing at the abused flesh til you’re sore and squirming away from it. 

You still don’t come but he gets tired after a little bit of that, and decides that’s enough show and tell for the day. He yawns, pulling you towards his middle, his chin over your shoulder.

“Can’t tell,” he says sleepily. “Our secret, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you agree, letting him ragdoll you til he was comfortable, happy to let him grope and  fold you up like you were his pillow. This part was the nicest, you think, both surprised and glad he wasn’t forcing you out once he was done with you. "But...probably, should. Um. Practice, more."

He snorts, your heart leaping when he nods, gripping you tighter, pressing new bruises into you.

But you end up jinxing yourself the second the thought crosses your mind, because just as Jack gets you nestled in his arms, you hear his brother slamming on the front door, Luke getting back home from detention.

[pizzapie349]

Can’t believe I missed this being posted….

I’m here now

🤤🤤

coming home again

jack hughes x reader

word count 1.2k

content warnings- none i think this is actually very tame ...hehehe...

can be read as a vignette but check the rest of the series!

February 2020

It’s not the homecoming he expects. Jack had slept the plane ride over, comforted by the team’s winning streak (if you could call two games a winning streak), and despite his less than stellar plays, he felt like playing back at home could be a good reset. Funny to call an away game playing at home. But he’d only lived in Jersey for a couple months by now and his driver’s license still said Canton, so.

The flight’s short but he still takes something to sleep through it. He’s trying to get away from the thought of seeing you, but he dreams of you anyway. He’s annoyed when he wakes up with the memory of you, plaguing him. Two years ago he was guiding you on his lap, rolling your hips on his and he was stretching you out for the first time, showing you how to take him, what this was like, how it would be. Said he was just showing you so you’d know, right, because this was only practice. Didn't mean anything. Didn't count. And then it happened about a hundred other times and a hundred different ways and you never ended up doing it with anyone else, and he did, of course he did, but it was never like how it was with you. And he’d tried pushing you all the way out of his head once he got to Jersey, once he got to the big grown up part of his life that was just his, only his, a part of his life he could have for himself that no one could get in on, and still you pervaded. Whether he had a girl under him and it looked like you or not, he only thought of you, wishing it was.

Thinking of it made him seethe, real bad. He hated you for it. Only because you represent just about everything he was trying to leave behind. The past, the youth, all the baby shit. And he found out the hard way that it’s not always better. He was making seven figures at eighteen and he was this--no, he was supposed to be this godsend to the sport, and he was completely terrible, disappointing everyone around him. He gets out on clean ice and the lights hit and he squeezes his eyes shut and prays, he prays so hard to be good, to be reminded how to be, and when he opens them there’s no where he’d rather be than playing a two on two on a frozen over pond in Michigan with his brothers and you. 

So. He’s thinking it’ll be good, maybe. It won’t be a pond but it’ll be close.

He doesn’t get to go home or anything, it’s straight from the shuttle to the arena, and before he knows it, he’s gotten an apple, two minutes for tripping, and a hit that he’s able to conceal just how sore it’s left his arm. His mom’s got the good prescription stuff at home, but they make the team spend the night at the hotel, and Jack’s too new to go breaking rules, so he falls asleep cradling his arm to his chest, practicing his forced grin, how great everything is, how he doesn’t feel like a complete imposter despite the win.

He’s got the next day off before they fly back so he spends it at home. Everyone’s there, he can imagine them all gathered around the tv pretending not to be disappointed in the fact that he wasn’t half the player he used to be. Or thought he was. 

He has a hard time remembering if he ever was any good at all, lately.

When you hug him, you’re not even weird about it, not leaping into his arms or wrapping your legs around his waist like in the movies. But he feels the eyes of all his aunts that’ve been pining for this, always asking his mom about it, so he peels your arms off of him and gets about arms length away from you, doesn't even look at you, even if it makes your face fall, confuses you, because everything was more or less fine when he’d left.

It’s not just something he can handle right now. This disappointed face you pull, though, at least that’s consistent.

Later on when everyone’s pulling him around, asking about everything, the mask starts slipping, only a version of him you’re familiar with. A little nasty and short and cold. It's suffocating and he wants to get outside but his dad's grilling over the barbeque, smoke wafting over his face like the devil standing at the gates of hell, and he thinks he'd rather get raked over coal than see Jimmy, cause if he thought development coaches were bad they were nothing next to his father, and his heart starts to clench in a weird sort of way that eighteen year old hearts shouldn't clench.

It gets to a point when he really can’t take it and you’re the only one that sees that. He’s boring holes into you when you slip down the hallway to his bedroom. It’s not long before he’s following after.

He’s usually not this quiet when he’s inside you. When he’s upset, and you could tell that he is, he’s real mouthy and mean. But the most you get is some rough groping. Purple fingerprints scattered up your sides and all over your ass. You look up at him and his eyes are wet and he’s holding back a scowl.

You don’t even want to ask. It’ll make it worse. You just let him sort of pummel into you and take what he needs, but then he’s folding you up, hiking your legs over his waist to hit deeper, and you screw your eyes shut so tight that you don’t realize him coming down over you, the crushing weight of him, hiding his face in your neck, getting it all wet and warm when he starts to cry on you.

His hips don’t ever really stop thrusting, the gait just stutters into these trembling twitches when he has half the mind to remember he's gotta move. He’s holding onto you so tight, whining, whimpering, so pathetic you’re nearly frozen from shock. You think touching him might freak him out, reminding him that you were alive and living and aware that he was doing this. But he’s squeezing you so hard, not like he’s afraid you’ll break– like he wants you to break. Needs someone to break with him.

You scathe your nails up his neck, play with the longer ends of his hair at the nape. His breathing slows. He even tells you that it feels nice so you don’t stop, even when your fingers start to cramp, even when his cock goes soft in you.

You consider all the times he’s had you like this, laid up on top of him. Looking down on you, pathetic and small and spent. Part of you wants to kiss his stupid head, suck out all the bad thoughts. He wasn’t awful like he thought. It was that, the thinking. Overdoing it. You want to tell him things’ll get better but you’re the last person he wants to hear it from.

You do what you can. You keep playing with his stupid hair.

[pizzapie349]

Off Season 3 - Quinn Hughes

Previous - one | two

-

It obviously isn’t a date, but it is something else entirely.

As July begins to fade and August approaches, you and Quinn fall into an easy routine. You meet each other on the street at the bottom of your driveways and head toward the trail of your choosing. Quinn always lets you pick the trail, claiming he doesn’t really know his way around despite living in Fairhaven for years at this point. 

You humor him, because the one time you insisted he choose, Quinn picked the most difficult one, almost twelve miles long and littered with enough terrain change to send you both into an unexpected panic. It was fucking awful, and you both nearly dropped to your knees and kissed the ground as soon as you finished.

It’s easy spending time with Quinn. Sometimes you chat the entire run, other times no one speaks and you both move in sync in your own worlds, music blasting through your earbuds. Your conversations range from surface level (gossip around town, incoming weather, Quinn’s brothers shenanigans) to surprisingly deep (Quinn’s career, your lack of one, the future, politics) but it’s never difficult. The two of you always fall in step with each other regardless of the topic of conversation, if there even is one. 

That’s why it’s weird when you jog to the end of your driveway this morning, Quinn is nowhere to be found.

It’s the first day of August and you’re ready to start the distance challenge Quinn had proposed for the month. This month is likely the last time you’ll see each other until next summer and you’ve both decided you want to push your running to the next level. 

You’re ready to dust him in the challenge for today but the minutes pass while you wait and he doesn’t show. 

Don’t tell me you’re giving up already, you shoot him a quick text thinking maybe he overslept. 

Ten minutes pass and you don’t want to double text him but this is annoying and it’s definitely out of character for Quinn. Not willing to wait any longer, you head out. It’s the first time since the beginning of summer you’ve gone without him and it feels a bit like a betrayal. 

You try not to let it bother you, he’s ramped up his workouts because the season is starting soon and he’s started doing media appearances as well, he’s probably just worn out because he’s so busy. It’s fine. Quinn’s a professional athlete and the captain of a major hockey franchise, he can’t always be available.

*

You run a total of eight miles and are drenched in sweat and satisfaction by the time you reach your street. It’s the longest you’ve run, other than Quinn’s nightmare trail, and you’re pretty fucking proud of yourself for getting through it with relative ease. 

Pulling your phone from your pocket, you let the current song play as you walk toward your driveway and check your messages.

I’m so sorry, oh my god, the fucking distance challenge! I totally forgot, i’m so sorry

Not to be weird but i’m watching your location and you’re killing this run, i’m so sorry i fucked up and forgot

Holy shit, your pace is crazy, I'm almost glad I'm not there. Couldn’t fucking keep up lol 

Proud of you, see you soon

And see you soon, he did. 

Quinn’s sitting on your porch with his head in his phone when you approach. He doesn’t seem to hear or see you come up the steps. 

“Get off my porch, stranger,” you joke as you come up the steps.

As irritated as you are that he didn’t show this morning, you can’t be too mad at him. He seemed apologetic in his texts and, in the grand scheme of things, it’s really not that serious.

“Stranger? I was under the impression you told her about us, Quinn.” 

That’s not a voice you recognize and when she introduces herself, not bothering to make actual eye contact with you even though she’s draped over your porch swing like it’s her own, you don’t recognize the name. 

You’re not about to rat Quinn out though, his business is exactly that and you don’t intend to do anything to intrude.

“Right,” you smile at her and extend your hand, “it’s good to meet you, Cade.” 

“You too,” she stands to shake your hand half-heartedly and drops it like you’ve got an infectious disease, “what a pleasure.” 

It’s pure sarcasm and it’s fucking irritating. You don’t know this woman and this is your fucking house, she can actually fuck off. 

“I don’t believe I invited either of you for breakfast, so you both can go now.” 

Quinn hasn’t said a word, he’s glued to an oversized wooden rocking chair watching the scene play out in front of him like he’s not the star of the fucking show. He’s probably embarrassed, which he should be, because his ‘girlfriend’ has no idea how to make a good impression or entrance. 

You don’t bother waiting for them to go before entering your home and shutting the door behind you. Quinn’s girlfriends, partners, flavors are not your business until they step foot on your property and start trying to assume dominance. 

No fucking thanks. You’re cool running by yourself if you don’t have to deal with this bullshit. You’re kicking yourself for even thinking you ever had a shot at anything pertaining to Quinn Hughes. You’re a regular person living a regular life and he is not, the two of you aren’t ever going to be running in similar circles, you might as well let it go now.

So you do. 

I’ve had fun getting to know you and running together but I'm not going to deal with whatever you’ve got going on with your girlfriend and I'm definitely not cool with her sitting all over my porch and talking to me like I'm beneath her. I don’t want any problems or to deal with any bullshit so I think we’re done here. Good luck with your season. 

If Quinn bothers to read your message, he doesn’t respond. You’re not surprised, he was conveniently silent when his girl was talking to you but he had no problem bringing her onto your porch when you weren’t home.

[pizzapie349]

Off Season 2 - Quinn Hughes

(Read the first part here)

He’s not easy to miss. 

You hear it instantly when Quinn’s oversized truck hauls ass into your normally quiet section of the neighborhood for the first time that summer. Unfortunately, the Canucks and the Devils missed the playoffs and you’re forced to deal with the Hughes brothers and their entourage much earlier than you hoped. It’s been several years since they moved in, one would think they’d be more respectful of their surroundings. 

They’re not though. 

Vehicle doors slam and the shouts of multiple people fill the once quiet morning air. It’s pushing 9AM, late enough for them to get away with being loud but early enough for the neighbors (read: you) to be irritated by it. 

Fairhaven spans the majority of the northern portion of the lake it shares a name with. When your parents built the home you live in now, there weren’t a ton of other people around. Now, nearly two decades later, the once empty lots are full, the open meadows are now manicured lawns, and boathouses dot the edges of the lake. The once empty streets are now lined with touristy shops, coffeehouses and diners. The once small town has developed into a small city and, for the most part, you’re fine with it. 

Growing up in Fairhaven was lovely, leaving for college and moving away was even better. You don’t dislike your hometown, but you never had any intention of coming back until your parents decided to buy an RV after they retired and travel the country in it. They didn’t want to sell, and you hadn’t secured a job post grad, so back to Fairhaven you went.

And, three years later, here you still are. Still living alone in your parents' big, empty house while they “vanlife” around the country. Still unemployed. You’re a work in progress, that’s what you tell yourself anyway. 

The urbanization of Fairhaven, oddly and specifically, ushered in more professional athletes than you would have expected. Most of them hockey players, three of them, the Hughes brothers. Unluckily for you, they bought the house next door and have spent their summers there ever since. 

You’ve met all of them at least once, Quinn being the one you’ve interacted with the most, and they’re fine, nice enough. It’s the chaos that they bring that really bothers you. The Hughes house has a revolving door all summer, with different groups of people constantly coming and going. 

It’s annoying but you tolerate it as much as you can. They’re only here for a short time. 

*

It’s awkward and you feel really, really dumb. Of course Quinn doesn’t remember you. He’s probably been introduced to more people in the last few months than you’ll ever be in your life, he can’t be expected to remember every single name and face. 

You can’t lie though, it does sting a little that he has no recollection of you at all, considering you’ve interacted a minimum of ten times. They’ve always been brief but damn, you’re a twenty-something woman living alone in a big lakehouse, doesn’t that suggest some mystery and invite intrigue on his part? 

Honestly, when you really think about it, probably not. Quinn likely doesn’t give a damn about mystery. It’s obvious when you look out on the lake and see him playing and partying on his boat with a bunch of women that mystery is very much something that doesn’t matter to him at all. 

You’re not jealous, not the slightest bit, it’s not like you started actively following the Canucks or keeping tabs on how Quinn’s career is going. You don’t even know the man, he could be an absolute nightmare. You’re definitely not jealous of the women that get to follow him into the house at the end of the night and close the door behind them while you sit on your porch nursing a glass of wine and wondering what’s taking place next door. 

Letting it go is for the best, you tell yourself. The hot neighbor is not and will not even be interested, and that’s fine. 

After a cold shower, hot cup of coffee and everything bagel with jalapeno cream cheese, you’ve put your latest interaction with Quinn in the past and have committed to finishing the first season of Real Housewives of Salt Lake City. You started watching two days ago but because you don’t have many other plans, you blew through it. Today was going to be no different, maybe you’d pause to take a walk around the neighborhood or go pick up a few groceries but there was nothing truly concrete to stop you from your housewives binge. 

It’s not as pathetic as it sounds, you tell yourself. You’re just a regular girl living in her parents house doing nothing except going running early in the morning and binging reality tv until she goes to sleep and repeats. 

You’re about three hours into your binge watch when a knock on the front door startles you off of the couch. You’re not expecting anyone so you ignore it. It’s probably one of those guys on segways with an ipad selling bug insurance or whatever the fuck it is.

After a few minutes of ignoring the bug guy at the door, he’s still being persistent as ever and the knocking hasn’t let up. He’s clearly determined to make a sale and you’re feeling particularly feisty after watching a fight between Lisa Barlow and Whitney Rose, so fuck it. 

“I’m not buying anything you’re selling,” swinging the door open, you don’t even give him a chance to get a single word of his sales pitch in. No fucking thanks. 

“Did you not see the no soliciting sign? Because it’s been posted for like twenty-five years at this point. Do you door to door bitches not know how to read?” 

The “bug guy” chuckles before taking a step back and throwing his hands up in defeat. He stands there for a moment before throwing his head back and bursting into laughter. It’s then that you realize the man knocking on your door isn’t a traveling salesman, it’s fucking Quinn Hughes.

You nearly trip over yourself apologizing. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Selling bug insurance, obviously.”

He’s being sarcastic and it should piss you off because he’s just interrupted your zen reality tv time and now he’s making fun of you, but you fold easily. You can’t help it. He’s so hot. 

“Obviously, I'm not buying. Did you need something?”

“I just wanted to apologize again, I know we’ve met, I was just being weird and panicking and in a mood. I fucking hate running. I’m sorry.”

“You’re forgiven, it’s fine.”

He lingers in your doorway a bit longer without saying anything before, “well ok, I just wanted to make sure we were cool.”

“We’ve always been cool.”

“Ok, good, yeah. So I'll see you tomorrow morning?”

“Yep, I always go out at the same time. It’s a date.”

What the fuck? Why would you say that? So dumb.

“Mhm,” Quinn shoves his hands into his pockets and turns to leave, “It’s a date,” he says without turning back to you as he cuts through your front yard to get to his own. 

The whole thing leaves you feeling mostly weird, kind of giddy and just a tiny bit hopeful. Maybe that whole mystery and intrigue thing actually does exist for Quinn. Abandoning the housewives, you rush upstairs and throw open your closet doors. The goal is to choose the cutest (without looking like you’re trying too hard) running outfit you own. 

After all, you’ve got a “date” tomorrow.

-

Note: unedited, fictional lake town, the first part got more attention than expected, thanks for the love <3

[pizzapie349]

Off Season - Quinn Hughes

Normally, summer is Quinn’s favorite time of the year. He gets to stop being the captain of the Canucks and the face of Vancouver hockey. He gets to leave the pressure of his on season behind, while he basks in the sun on the boat sipping his beverage of choice during his off. Summer is when he feels he’s at his most peaceful. 

This year is different.

The upcoming season could be his last hard push at leading the Canucks out of the regular season. If he wants to, he can walk freely to damn near any team he’d like. Everyone, if you’re not living under a rock, thinks he wants to. Quinn isn’t so sure though.

So, he’s determined not to let this summer slide easily by like those in the past. Quinn has been with the Canucks since he was drafted and there’s never been any real thought to giving himself entirely to anyone but the Canucks. There still isn’t, as long and he’s concerned, but the thought of leaving lingers in the back of his mind and weighs heavier than he’d like on his summer plans.

That’s why he decided to get into running. It isn’t the best idea he’s ever had, because he doesn’t fuck with running, at all. 

It’s not his thing but he’s come to find that the peace and quiet of the early mornings keep his hatred at bay for at least a little while. Every morning around 5:45 he pushes out the door with a water bottle and his thoughts and runs until it hurts his lungs. It’s a new development, one he doesn’t love but is slowly warming up to. 

At first, he’s sweating almost immediately but as the days of summer tick by, Quinn falls in love with the adrenaline rush that running gives, for the first time in a long time, he feels in control of himself completely.

He isn’t sure when he started noticing you. 

Someone he’s never met, never even seen before, runs his route around the same time he does. Quinn is jealous of your ability to make running look like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He watches you, trailing behind, as your hair whips back and forth and your arms pump through the run. He sees other things too but he tries not to look. 

It’s embarrassing that he notices because he’s not a creep at all, just a people watcher. One morning, early July, he gets ahead of himself and plows right into you. 

“Oh shit!” 

You tumble forward, barely catching yourself on the pavement and he follows, falling on top of you in an awkward mess. 

“What the fuck, man? Watch where the fuck you’re going!”

Heat springs into his cheeks immediately but he can’t help the smile that graces his lips as the two of you stand and dust yourselves off. 

“Sorry, I wasn’t paying much attention. I’m really sorry.”

“Oh, you weren’t paying attention? Could’ve fooled me.”

He’s caught. Yikes.

“Sorry, sorry about that,” he wants to collapse into himself. You’ve obviously noticed him and called him on it and he feels nothing but shame because of it. 

“It’s fine, I’m mostly kidding,” you extend your hand to shake, “nice to finally meet you running buddy.”

“Yeah, good to meet you,” he shakes your hand with a little too much force and gives you a small smile, “I’m not a creep I promise.”

“I know, I’ve seen you around enough to gather that.”

Quinn searches your face, hoping it’ll click and he’ll recognize you before this gets any more awkward than it already is. When nothing comes to him and then silence goes on too long, you laugh uneasily. 

“Damn Quinn, you really don’t know do you? We’ve only been living next door to each other since you and your brothers bought the place. I’ve introduced myself at least twice.” 

Holy shit, you’re the fucking neighbor? And you’ve met? And he couldn’t place your face or remember your name if his life depended on it?

“I’m really sorry, this is so shitty of me. I’m Quinn.”

You laugh at the situation, you’re a bit deflated and more than a little humiliated. You play it cool though, can’t let the hot, rich, pro athlete neighbor see you sweat. 

“Yeah,” you turn away from him and put your earbuds back in, “I know.”

Leaving Quinn behind, you break into damn near a sprint. The sooner you get away from him, the better. Holy shit, how fucking embarrassing and humbling at the same time. You don’t look at his house as you pass it and run up your driveway.

[pizzapie349]

Need him

little stretchies….(1 2)

[pizzapie349]

#ouchfactor 🤕

Has it ever occurred to you that maybe we're just not meant for each other - Quinn Hughes

Quinn x reader, prompt list here for requests

-

You’re very aware of what opposites are. You’re so painfully aware that it’s actually bleeding into your real life in a very unexpected and certainly very uninvited way. 

It starts with the small stuff, food preferences, movie choices, the temperature you keep the apartment, et cetera. Those are small things that can be dealt with, looked at with minimal annoyance and compromised upon, it’s fine. 

“Quinn, it’s so hot in here. Can we turn the air up a little bit?”

“Uh,” he runs a hand through his hair and looks at the thermostat like it’s committed an egregious offense against him, “I guess.” 

You don’t think much of it, it’s the end of summer and you’ve just returned to Vancouver for the start of the season. The apartment you share with Quinn is stuffy and dusty and desperately needs a refresh.

“Is 74 degrees good?” 

“Quinn? 74? It’s so hot, bump it down to 69 or 70.”

He does all he can to keep his eyes from popping out of his head but he loves you, so he reluctantly sets the air to 70 degrees. It destroys his routine, but it’s fine. 

The two of you moved in together at the end of last season, so this is the first time you’re officially coming home to a shared apartment with Quinn. You’re not too familiar with the way he does things at the beginning of the season, because you weren’t living with him the last two years, but you figure he probably doesn’t mind cooling the place down. 

He does though, Quinn cares very much that you’ve interrupted something so important to him. He needs it be at least 76 degrees in his apartment for the first week he’s back in Vancouver, which he knows is fucking ridiculous, because it’s the end of his break and he wants to enjoy the summer heat as much as he can, even if it’s manufactured. 

Quinn’s not a crazy person though, he cools it down after that first week, but it’s important to him, as silly as it is. He told you last year when you stayed over a few nights but you must have forgotten. 

It’s fine, he supposes, he’ll just deal with it.

The small stuff eventually gives way to bigger things, like communication issues and insecurity, but you both deal with them as best as you can, you love each other after all. 

“You’re late.” 

It’s been three hours since Quinn texted saying he was headed home from the arena and he’s just now walking in the door. 

“I’m sorry, some of the guys wanted to grab a drink after the loss and I felt like I needed to go.”

“A drink? Where did you go?”

Quinn names the bar as he heads to the bedroom to change and get into bed. The Canucks have an afternoon game tomorrow, which means an early flight that he isn’t excited about. 

“Shooters, you know the place, a block away from the arena. Nothing happened, come on, let’s get in bed.” 

You don’t want to go to bed though, because you’re pissed. Shooters is a notable Canuck fan bar that’s always crawling with women that want to sleep with the players, your player especially. 

“How many numbers did you get tonight?”

“None, please don’t do this, i’m so fucking tired and i’ve got to get up early as fuck.”

“How many numbers, Quinn?”

He reiterates that he got none but you can’t be convinced. After an unnecessary fight, Quinn goes to bed and you go cry it out on the couch until you pass out.

It’s fine, probably.

Bigger things keep piling up until you’re not sure who it is that you’re sharing a bed with, because it definitely isn’t the Quinn you met several years ago and fell in love with. This Quinn is a stranger, and this Quinn thinks you’re a stranger too. 

“I’ll move out, I’ll leave tonight, it’s fine.”

“You know I don’t want that, I don’t know why we’re fighting over this. It’s fucking stupid.”

Quinn was late again, claiming to be out with the guys. 

“Because you’re never home on time, you always lie to me!”

“I’m the captain of this team and I have responsibilities to them, why don’t you understand that? This is my career, my life, I have obligations.”

“I thought I was your life.” 

It’s stupid, you know it the second it leaves your lips but you can’t take it back now.

Quinn knows it too, and the two of you share a look of longing for something you officially lost yet.

“Fuck,” Quinn drops into the chair in the corner of the living room, “you are, you used to be, but I don’t think this is working anymore.”

You feel the weight of his words in every fiber of your being. This can’t be fucking happening. 

It is though.

“Has it ever occurred to you that maybe we’re just not meant for each other?"

[pizzapie349]

amazing

𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐋𝐨𝐭, 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 // 𝐐𝐇𝟒𝟑

PART THREE | SERIES MASTERLIST

Summary: “So, when’s the wedding?” – or the one where some people find out they're going to be grandparents.

Pairing: quinn hughes x afab! reader with she/her pronouns

Word count: 8.3k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ★ eventual smut in future parts. read chapter specific warnings. minimal use of Y/N. for this part: early pregnancy, morning sickness, one mention of miscarriage, a lot of talk about food.

A/N: i think this part turned out so cute! please like, reblog and comment what you think. also, a little reminder that i am taking suggestions for things to feature in future parts, if you have any ideas!

PART THREE | Two sides that fold.

Early pregnancy was nothing like you’d imagined.

Those cliché teenage daydreams you’d had of someday carrying a little miracle, sharing a secret with the love of your life that was only yours for the first trimester or so, before telling people or before it was simply obvious to the eye. 

Yeah? Those dreams were absolute bullshit. 

This wasn’t a miracle. It was a mistake that had stubbornly taken root. A statistical improbability proved possible. And you weren’t in love—nowhere near it.

Instead, you were speed-running an awkward crash course in Quinn Hughes, trying to figure out what you thought of him while your body was busy turning itself into a science project. You had no idea of how you felt about anything. 

Except maybe nauseous. In fact, nausea might have been the only emotion you’d experienced for weeks. Morning sickness, despite the name, didn’t politely clock out after noon. For you, it was a permanent shift—always clocking in about an hour after eating, no matter the day, time, or what food you had dared to consume. You’d seen more of your office’s restroom in the past weeks than you had in the two years you worked there. 

And Quinn… Quinn was exactly what you expected of a hockey player and somehow the complete opposite too. He was rough around the edges and short with his words; in that way, only men used to power could be. But then he’d also been the one to initiate most of your hangouts, to close the space between you when you didn’t know how to ask for it.

He didn’t even want to be in Vancouver this time of year, since he wasn’t playing hockey. But he’d said he would be staying for as long as you’d want him to.

Like that wasn’t confusing as fuck. 

Giving up his off-season and whatever parties, friends, or mystery women were waiting for him back in the States, just to sit in this weird limbo with you? Just to get to know you?

You weren’t sure you’d do the same if you had the capability of knocking someone up. Which probably made you the villain here—but at least you were an honest one.

That same logic made you occasionally wonder if Quinn was lying—if maybe he was just waiting for the right moment to disappear. You had this vivid, recurring nightmare where you’d wake up one morning and the only way to reach him was through his lawyer, and the words baby-trapping, defamation, and not the father ricocheted through the dream until you bolted awake.

Not that you had any evidence he’d ever do that. The truth was, if the roles were reversed, you’d probably have used your own get-out-of-jail-free card the second you knew you’d be stuck with you—at least in some form—for the next eighteen years. Which really did make you the villain. The honest, self-aware villain. 

But Quinn wasn’t the villain. Not even close. 

If anything, he was the opposite. He wascommitted to being this child’s father in a way that felt both reassuring and suffocating all at once. And that meant you had to deal with him. You had to learn him, had to let him learn you, even when every instinct in your body wanted to retreat.

The worst part was, you couldn’t stop wondering if he secretly hated you. Or maybe not hate. But dislike? That seemed possible.

It wasn’t like your one-night stand had been magical. You weren’t even sure you’d been attracted to each other beyond the blur of alcohol and circumstance. Well… Quinn was attractive, objectively. He had the face and body that came with being a young and wealthy professional athlete. That wasn’t the question. The question was whether he had ever looked at you and seen anything other than a momentary distraction.

Something that didn’t just scream we just missed the playoffs but this girl could probably give me an orgasm, and that would feel better than whatever the fuck I’m feeling now. 

But maybe it was better to keep the feelings out of this. Maybe it was safer. If you kept feelings out of it, you couldn’t be disappointed. If you never let yourself imagine the two of you as anything more than reluctant co-parents, then there was nothing to lose when reality didn’t measure up to fantasy.

Somewhere, buried deep in your subconscious, teenage you might still be sulking. But current you had no patience for her. Quinn wasn’t a love story. He was a co-parent. And that was what was best. Current you had made peace with the situation. Current you could live with practicality.

Or… you thought you could.

If only Quinn didn’t seem dead set on being the best goddamn co-parent in the world, that is. And if your influx of hormones didn’t make your brain the stupidest it had ever been.

You’d expected him to be distant. Untouchable. Famous. And part of that was true. He was careful about being seen with you in public, which, honestly, you were grateful for. The thought of being chewed up online by strangers dissecting your clothes, your body, your existence, made you want to crawl into a hole.

But behind closed doors, Quinn showed up. He texted. He called. He kept showing up.

It started small. He’d drive you to work in the mornings before hitting the gym. Then he started picking you up after. Then there were quiet movie nights at his place and dinners at yours—where he’d sit at your tiny kitchen table, scrolling his phone while you cooked, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

And the food, right. God, the food that you couldn’t keep down, but he was so determined on making you eat. You guessed he knew you were throwing up most of the nutrition you put in your body, but Quinn had almost taken the role of being your personal dietitian. 

You’d laughed the first time—your seventh week, when the baby was the size of a blueberry—because Quinn had shown up with a single blueberry muffin for you to eat on the way to work. You’d laughed. Because if you thought longer about it, your hormones would knock you flat with how cute it was.

Then came this Monday. Week eight. The baby now the size of a raspberry. And there he was, waiting in his car outside your office with a raspberry lemonade in hand. (Together with an order of chicken tenders and French fries, because you’d once mentioned that it hadn’t made you throw up). 

It was like he’d cracked the code on how to be the perfect partner—even though he most definitely wasn’t your partner.

The lemonade, unfortunately, gave you the worst acid reflux of your life… but you hadn’t had the heart to tell him. And now, privately, you prayed that when your second trimester rolled around and the baby hit the size of an actual lemon, Quinn wouldn’t proudly show up with something even more sour. 

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

The hallway smelled faintly of incense and spicy food when you reached your mom’s apartment, balancing your work tote against your hip and fishing for the spare key she insisted you keep. The hallway light buzzed faintly overhead, casting a familiar yellow glow against the scuffed door you’d walked through thousands of times, ever since your legs were steady enough to toddle on their own.

The plan was simple: grab the black-tie dress your mom had hemmed for you, maybe steal a sleeve of cookies from her snack stash, and head over to Quinn’s apartment to get ready for a gala. Quick in, quick out, no complications.

You were already tired and a little late from staying longer than planned at work. You really didn’t need anything else to mess with your plans. 

Because tonight wasn’t just any night.

Because if Quinn was still in Vancouver, he quickly had his calendar filled up with events and obligations, sponsorships and charities. You’d never been to a charity gala before. Barely knew it was a thing. But Quinn had to go. And you’d been invited by him to join.

Not because this was a date. Definitely not that. And not because he necessarily wanted you to go either. But because his parents had an obligation to be there too. 

The second you stepped inside your mother’s apartment, you froze. 

There was laughter coming from the kitchen. Not just your mom’s low, throaty laugh, but another one. Higher. Crackling. Unmistakable. Fuck. This was not going to be a quick visit. 

“Nana?” you called hesitantly, setting your bag down by the door.

“Bubbles!” 

A chair scraped loudly against tile, and then your grandma appeared in the doorway like some wild witch driven by Marlboro lights and sheer force of will. She was in flowing linen pants and a Mötley Crüe T-shirt you had no doubt was actually from the eighties. Her silver hair was twisted into a loose braid that was already unraveling around her face, and she had turquoise rings stacked on nearly every finger. 

“I was just telling your mom about that hitchhiking trip to Mexico my mom took me on in ’74—come here, my darling,” she said, pulling you into her arms.

“Oh my god,” you muttered into her shoulder, overwhelmed by a hug that smelled like perfume and jasmine detergent.

Smells. 

You were hypersensitive to them now. It was one of the crueler side effects of pregnancy—like your body had decided to become a human bloodhound without your consent. But jasmine and old-lady perfume? Those apparently still made the cut.

When you finally managed to peel yourself out of her arms, your gaze slid past her to the kitchen, where your mom was leaning against the counter, nursing a mug of something and smirking knowingly. She had one ankle crossed over the other, her eyeliner perfectly smudged in a way only she could manage, that you’d been trying—and failing—to replicate since you were a tween.

“Are you gonna tell us why you urgently needed a black-tie dress, baby?” she asked, raising a single brow like she already knew the answer.

Over one of the kitchen chairs hung a garment bag. The one you needed to grab and then quickly get the fuck out of here. 

“Oh, it’s just some work thing. Tonight—”

“Uh-huh,” she interrupted, narrowing her eyes. “Is that why you look like you’re about to be sick? Nervous about something?”

You blinked rapidly, caught off guard. “What? No, I’m fine. Totally fine.”

“Oh, she’s hiding something,” your grandma interrupted, gasping theatrically as she rounded on you with both hands on her hips. “I raised a liar, and she raised a liar. I can smell it on you, darling.”

“Wow, okay, great psychic powers, ladies,” you said, holding up your hands. “Ever consider using them to win the lottery?”

Your mom crossed her arms. “Spill. Now.”

You immediately hesitated.

You stood there, heart hammering, and suddenly you hated how small the kitchen doorway felt, how trapped you were between their identical gazes.

The problem wasn’t telling them. The problem was that you weren’t supposed to tell anyone. Not yet. Not in the first trimester. That’s what the internet said. That’s what your doctor said. You were supposed to wait—until the risk of miscarriage dropped, until things stabilized, until you were sure.

Week eight was too early. Week thirteen was supposedly fine. Out of the woods. 

But it wasn’t just the timing. It was everything about making this pregnancy real—making it something you could no longer hide or deny. 

That Kelly had kept reading you points from a list some girl on TikTok had curated on reasons to remain childless wasn’t exactly making things easier either. They made you want to crawl out of your own body and not be human anymore. Let alone tell your mom and grandma about it. 

The physical changes were one thing, like your hair thinning or gaining weight. You could grasp those things. They were cruel but logical. But then there were the other ones. The ones that haunted you when you tried to fall asleep.

What if your child gets bullied?

What if they resent you?

What if they’re born sick?

Those were nothing more than surreal. Impossible to even imagine.

And you didn’t know how willing you were to let other people into your little bubble. Kelly felt safe. Quinn somehow felt even safer. But telling your mom and grandma? Getting them excited about a child who could end up being ripped away from you? You didn’t know how to handle that risk, even in theory. 

But you were meeting Quinn’s parents tonight anyway, and you knew he planned on telling them. Or maybe planned wasn’t right. There was simply no way he’d be able to look them in the eye, introduce you, and just… omit the fact that you were carrying their grandchild. Quinn Hughes wasn’t a liar.

And maybe you weren’t either. 

So when you looked at your mom—who’d raised you on Bikini Kill, cheap wine, and bursts of chaotic, unconditional love—and your grandma, who’d turned rebellion into a lifestyle and somehow survived to tell the tales, you knew there wasn’t a chance in hell you were walking out of here without telling them. 

You inhaled sharply, closed your eyes, and blurted, “I’m pregnant.”

There was silence. For two whole seconds.

“HA!” your Nana whooped so loudly you jumped, clapping her turquoise-ringed hands together. “I knew it! Didn’t I say that, darling? I knew you were acting weird lately.” 

“You didn’t say that,” your mom muttered, smacking her lightly on the arm. But when she turned to you, her expression softened instantly, sharp edges fading like they always did when you were hurting. “Oh, baby…”

She had you in her arms before you could react, holding you the way she did when you were small—tight, grounding, one hand cradling the back of your head. You bit your lip hard, refusing to fall apart right there in her kitchen.

“I’m not even supposed to tell people yet,” you mumbled into her shoulder, voice cracking, “but if I didn’t, you’d know something was up, and I can’t—ugh, I can’t lie to you guys.”

Nana looped her arms around both of you, creating this little cocoon of warmth.

“Bubbles,” she said, kissing the side of your head. “We’re not mad. God, do you know how young I was when I had your mom? How young she was when she had you? We don’t do judgment in this family.”

“Speak for yourself,” your mom teased, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye. “Who’s the dad?”

You froze again. Your breath hitched. And then, forcing a laugh that sounded as shaky as it felt, you said, “I… don’t want to get into that right now.”

Two sets of very similar, very unimpressed eyes locked onto you.

“Mm-hmm,” your mom said slowly. “So, what, he’s married? A criminal? A cult leader?”

“No! God, no. Nothing like that. He’s just…” You rubbed your forehead, searching for words. “I want you to meet him first. Before you—before you form an opinion. He’s… different.”

“Different how?” your grandma asked. 

Your mom rolled her eyes as she figured it out. “He’s a rich boy, isn’t he? That’s why you need the dress.” 

You let out a groan, dropping your head back. “I’m meeting his parents at a charity gala tonight, okay? He’s gonna tell them I’m pregnant, and they’re probably going to hate me for defiling their perfect son and having a baby out of wedlock or some bullshit. That’s why I need the dress.”

Nana tilted her head, studying you carefully. “Tell me, darling… do we even like him? Because from where I’m standing, it sounds like you don’t.”

Your throat tightened. “No, I do. I mean—we’re not dating. We’re just… co-parenting. But he’s great. I just… don’t fit into his lifestyle.”

“Co-parenting, huh?” your mom repeated, tasting the word like it was sour. “You believe in that?”

“He’s making me,” you admitted quietly.

She hummed under her breath, eyes darting toward Nana, who shrugged like she was already scheming. “Well,” your mom finally said, voice softer now, “the dress will be perfect for the gala, at least.”

“The rest,” Nana said, looping her arm around your shoulders again, “we’ll see about. But if this boy hurts you, Bubbles, I have cousins who know how to make people disappear.”

Your mom nodded, agreeing. “And I have a good shovel in the garage.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “I hate this family.”

“Liar,” they said in unison, and you laughed.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

You were late, and you knew it.

Not the casual, forgivable kind of late either. The sick-to-your-stomach, pulse-hammering, watching-minutes-bleed-away kind.

You’d already been behind leaving the office, your brain scrambled from unexpected overtime. Then you’d stopped at your mom’s place, just for a quick pickup, just ten minutes—except Nana was there too, and somehow you’d ended up stuck in that kitchen, faced with a thousand questions you weren’t ready to answer. 

By the time you finally escaped, there was no fixing it.

Now, standing in the elevator, you were sweating under your coat despite the February chill still clinging to your skin. The ride crawled like it was mocking you, the numbers above the door ticking up too slowly. You bounced impatiently on the balls of your feet, one hand gripping the garment bag so tightly your knuckles ached. 

When the doors slid open, you bolted, crossing the hallway in strides to a door you’d grown to memorize the position of. You knocked twice, sharp and too loud, the sound echoing faintly in the quiet hall.

The door swung open almost instantly, like Quinn had been waiting right behind it.

You barely even looked at him. You slipped past his frame, your shoulder grazing his arm as you blurted, “I’m so sorry for being late!” You were already tugging violently at the buttons of your coat. “I had to stay overtime at work, and then my mom—and my Nana was there, and I didn’t prepare what to say, and I ended up telling them even though it’s too early, and—god, it was just so messy—”

The words tumbled, breathless, tripping over each other until you were practically panting. You shoved the garment bag tighter under your arm, your coat sliding off your shoulders as you kicked your shoes off in graceless, mismatched thuds. You tossed the coat vaguely toward a chair without even checking if it landed.

“But I’m here now,” you announced like it was some grand accomplishment, holding up the garment bag like a flag of survival before bee-lining straight for his hallway bathroom. “I have the dress! I’ll just change really fast and—”

“Hey—slow down,” Quinn called after you.

“I’m fine!” you shot back over your shoulder, fumbling with the zipper on the bag as you walked. “Just let me change and—”

“Slow down,” he said again, firmer this time, and you heard his dress shoes click across the hardwood as he followed you. “Are you okay? How did it go with your mom?”

“What? I’m fine, I’m—” You stopped mid-sentence, reaching up to find the clasp of the necklace you always wore. A little silver chain with a heart pendant you’d been gifted by your grandma the day you were born. It got tangled in your hair as you tugged at it, pulling harshly at your scalp. “It’s just—my necklace is stuck.” 

You turned to look at Quinn, momentarily distracted by how sharp he looked in his suit, polished in a way you’d never seen him before. Your fingers fumbled with the necklace, twisting your wrist awkwardly as you tried to free it. The dress you were supposed to wear had a halterneck, and the stupid thing had to come off somehow.

“You’re crying,” was all that Quinn said when he saw your face. 

Soft, quiet, steady. 

You froze, startled by his words. You looked at him like he was lying, but your hand darted instinctively to your cheek. Sure enough, your fingertips came away damp.

“Oh.” The word slipped out on a shaky laugh you didn’t recognize as yours. “That’s nothing. It’s—just hormones or… whatever.” You sucked in a quick breath, trying to wipe the tears away as best as you could. “I’ll change and—”

But Quinn was already stepping forward, close enough that you could catch the faint, clean scent of his cologne beneath his suit. Without hesitation, his fingers brushed lightly at the tangled chain where it had knotted into your hair.

You felt the soft scrape of his fingers against the skin just below your ear, the careful drag of them threading through strands of hair to free them one by one. It wasn’t anything overtly intimate—no lingering touch—but it was soft in a way that undid you anyway. And it was dangerous, how easy it would be to rely on him. 

“There,” he murmured after a moment, the chain slipping free at last. He let it drop softly into your palm, his knuckles brushing your fingers in the transfer.

You stared at it, the delicate silver suddenly feeling heavy, and then up at him. You managed a faint smile, though your throat was still tight. 

“Thanks,” you whispered.

Quinn nodded, expression unreadable but steady, before stepping back. “You don’t have to go tonight if you’re too tired,” he said softly. “It’s totally okay.”

“What? No, we have to—we’re telling your parents—”

“I can do that alone,” he cut in gently, like he’d already thought about this, planned for it. “Honestly, it’s probably better that way. Then I’ll get an honest reaction before I bring them into… all this.” He gestured vaguely between the two of you, at the silent thing neither of you said but both carried. 

He didn’t want to be seen in public with you. It was as simple as that. 

“And if it goes as I expect,” Quinn added after a moment, “I’ll bring them back here tonight. To meet you.”

“You… want me to stay here in the meantime?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.” His gaze softened, tilting slightly as he scanned your face. “When was the last time you ate?”

You blinked, thrown off by the change of subject. “Oh, um. I can’t keep anything down anyway,” you admitted, rubbing absently at your stomach. “My coworkers probably think I’m insane with how many times I’ve run to the bathroom. I kinda just wanna scream in their faces that I’m pregnant, but apparently that’s… frowned upon in professional settings.”

The corner of his mouth tugged faintly, like he wanted to smile but didn’t let himself. “You want me to bring you anything special when I come back?”

“No, whatever is fine.” You hesitated. “But do you really want me to stay here?”

“I want you to stop crying,” he said simply, “and then take a nap. Preferably in my bed.”

The words landed heavier than he probably intended. You hadn’t even realized that new tears were still slowly trickling down your cheeks, even though you’d wiped your face. You swallowed hard, heat climbing the back of your neck, and managed a weak deflection instead. 

“Your tie’s crooked, Quinn.”

He glanced down, fingers brushing the knot but not fixing it. You stepped forward almost without thinking, closing the space between you until you could feel warmth radiating from his body. Carefully, you reached up and slid your fingers along the edge of the navy silk tie, tugging it straight. 

For the first time, you really looked at him. The deep navy suit, tailored perfectly to his shoulders. The sharp press of his white shirt collar framing his jaw. The steady, unguarded focus on you while you fussed over something so small.

Your hand lingered a beat too long on his chest before dropping away.

“How did your mom and grandma take it?” he asked, voice low and careful, as though easing you back into safer terrain.

“Oh—uhm.” You forced your brain to reboot. “Good. Like really good, actually.” You fiddled with the necklace still resting in your palm, twisting the chain between your fingers as you spoke. “I knew they’d be excited. Kinda iffy about me not telling them who the father is, though.” You hesitated, glancing up at him through your lashes. “I… want them to meet you first. Want them to make up their own minds about you before I tell them a bunch.”

Quinn’s brows lifted slightly. “Because if you tell them I’m a professional athlete, they’ll hate me?”

“Something like that,” you admitted, a small laugh escaping before you could stop it.

The corner of his mouth ticked up, but you rushed to add, “But it was good. I promise. They’re going to love this child more than anything, and they’ll come around to you. Even if they initially think you’re kind of… a fuckboy.”

That earned an actual huff of laughter from Quinn, his head tilting just slightly as he asked, “Does your grandma know the word fuckboy?”

“She does,” you said, almost proudly. “Kelly taught her.”

His grin widened slightly, but it faded as quickly as it came, replaced with something quieter. He tugged at his cufflinks, gaze briefly dropping to the floor, like he was bracing himself for what tonight might bring.

And suddenly, your earlier panic twisted into something heavier—not about the gala, not even about his parents, but about you.

Because Quinn Hughes, who barely liked having his picture taken, who hated unnecessary attention, wanted you at a black-tie gala full of cameras and polite society and people who lived in a world you didn’t belong to. And yet… he also wasn’t making you go. He wasn’t forcing you into the deep end.

He was asking you to stay. He was coming back with his parents. He was, in his quiet, terrifying way, weaving you into his life.

Or maybe—whispered some darker corner of your brain—he was still weighing the easiest way to hide this. To hide you. To keep everything tidy until the problem went away. Until you went away.

“You should leave,” you murmured, fighting back the sting in your eyes and forcing your voice to be steady. “Don’t want you to be late.”

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

From Quinn’s perspective, the gala was exactly as unbearable as he’d expected. Maybe worse.

The hotel ballroom reeked of money—not in the literal way, but in the curated, chemical-clean way that expensive places always did. A string quartet played something soft and winding near the far wall, but the swell of voices mostly drowned them out. 

Round tables draped in pristine white linen spiraled across the room, each one crowned by ridiculous floral centerpieces so tall you had to lean awkwardly around them just to talk to someone sitting across. Waiters in black waistcoats glided between clusters of donors, balancing champagne flutes that caught the light like bait. 

Quinn tugged lightly at his collar, wondering if it was possible to suffocate in a room like this without anyone noticing.

This was his least favorite part of being Quinn Hughes™. The version of himself that existed purely for other people. Shaking hands with donors whose names he’d forget, smiling politely at people who wanted to feel like they knew him, standing still while strangers asked for photos, picturing the surface of his life without knowing anything beneath it. 

He didn’t even know what charity this was for. Sick kids? That was usually a safe bet. 

And the worst part—the part sitting just under his ribs, pressing hard—was that you weren’t here. He’d felt almost grateful when he suggested you shouldn’t come. Almost. Because part of him didn’t want you seeing this side of him. That events like these were in his job description. But another part, the bigger part, wanted you close enough to make it bearable.

“Quinn!”

The sound of his name snapped him back. Before he could turn, he was already being pulled into the softest, most familiar hug he’d ever known. Ellen lit up the way only moms could, her entire face crinkling when she smiled, pulling him into a hug that left the faint vanilla of her perfume clinging stubbornly to his suit jacket.

“Look at you,” she said, stepping back just far enough to smooth a hand down his lapel. “You look so handsome.” 

He managed a smile that felt real enough for her sake.

His dad stepped in with a firm clap to his shoulder, nodding like he was satisfied his son had survived adulthood mostly intact. Getting dressed in a suit by himself, that is. 

Then Ellen’s gaze sharpened suddenly, full of unrestrained curiosity. “Now, where is this date of yours?”

And there it was—the first landmine.

Quinn had no one to blame but himself for this one. He’d been the idiot who called his mom three days ago sounding way too casual. He’d slipped it into conversation like it was nothing, like, Oh, by the way, I’m bringing someone to the gala. And he could practically hear his mom sit up straighter on the other end of the phone, her voice all bright and delighted in a way that made his stomach churn immediately.

He hadn’t thought about what they’d assumed—that bringing a date meant something serious, something defined, something far easier than the reality of it. Now, watching Ellen’s expectant smile and Jim’s mild curiosity, Quinn felt like he’d set a trap for himself days ago and walked directly into it.

“She’s, uh…” Quinn hesitated, shifting his weight. “She couldn’t make it. Long day at work.”

Jim raised an eyebrow, slow and skeptical. “She stood you up?”

Quinn huffed a thin, humorless laugh. “No, actually…”

He trailed off, and just like that, both of his parents turned to him in perfect parental unison, expressions soft but expectant.

“I’ve got something to tell you,” he started, his voice lower than before, pitched so only they could hear him over the swell of chatter and string music. “It’s… not really gala talk, but I’d rather you hear it from me than…” He gestured vaguely, sweeping a hand toward the clusters of people around them as if the entire Vancouver gossip circuit was lurking just behind a pillar, waiting for headlines to write themselves. 

Ellen’s brow furrowed. “Quinn, now you’re scaring me.”

Her voice landed heavy in his chest, and he thought, suddenly, of you. Of how you must’ve felt when you told him. Of the look on your face that day—how you’d sat across from him on the edge of the couch, fighting your own nerves to get the words out, and how you’d immediately apologized for it. 

He’d hated how small your voice had sounded, like you’d expected him to walk away. Like you’d already pictured yourself doing this alone. Or not doing it at all. 

Now, standing here in the middle of this room full of crystal and champagne and strangers, Quinn thought he understood a fraction of what you must’ve felt like. His pulse thudded unevenly, his palms clammy. He just needed to rip off the bandaid. 

He blew out a shaky breath and said it.

“I’m gonna be a dad.”

It came out quieter than he meant, but still loud enough for Jim’s eyebrows to shoot up like startled shutters.

For a moment, no one said anything.

And in that thin, stretched silence, Quinn could feel the mental image collapsing in his mom’s head. The image she had in her head about how becoming a grandparent would be. The image she had in her head of the girl he would bring ever since he’d told her he was bringing a date. She’d probably spent the last three days filling in the blanks herself. None of which were correct. 

Because now, here he was, blindsiding her in the middle of a hotel ballroom, surrounded by donors sipping thousand-dollar champagne, announcing that—not only was there no date—but the girl she’d been imagining wasn’t a girlfriend at all. Just… a girl. A girl who was pregnant. With his kid.

He had the sudden, vivid image of his mom hunched over her laptop, typing “how to parent a fully grown disaster” into Google. She’d joked about it before, when Luke had thought laundry detergent and dish soap were interchangeable. 

Quinn might’ve outdone all the dumb things his brothers had done by telling her this. 

Ellen blinked finally, snapping him out of it. “I—sorry, what?”

“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly aware of just how warm the ballroom felt, the collar of his suit pressing uncomfortably tight against his throat. “It wasn’t planned. We’re not… together-together.” He gestured awkwardly, like the words themselves were explanation enough, without being overly explicit. “But she’s pregnant. And I’m… in it. Like, all the way.”

Quinn braced for impact.

His mom’s lips pressed into a thin line, her jaw shifting faintly as if she were forcing herself to process instead of react. Quinn had been right to do this in a room full of people to make it easier on himself. It gave her fewer places to aim her shock, fewer sharp edges to slice him open with.

Jim, meanwhile, gave him a long, assessing look, one Quinn couldn’t quite read—half disapproval, half pure calculation, like his dad was silently running logistics in the back of his head of how this could’ve happened.

You skip the condom, dad. That’s how. 

Finally, Ellen’s voice broke through, soft but careful. “Who is she?”

Quinn swallowed, adjusting his cufflinks to give his hands something to do. “I thought you could meet her later tonight. If we go back to my place.” He hesitated, then added, “She’s smart. Funny. A little… sharp around the edges.” A faint smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “And, uh… I think she’s terrified you’re going to hate her.”

Ellen’s hand instinctively moved toward his arm, smoothing the fabric of his sleeve like she’d done when he was a teenager fumbling through big news at the kitchen table. “That’s ridiculous,” she said automatically—but her voice had that careful lilt, the one she used when she was still deciding how she actually felt.

Jim crossed his arms. “So, when’s the wedding?”

Quinn stared at him, blinking once, slow. “There’s not—” He stopped when he caught the faint twitch of his dad’s mouth, realizing it was a joke. Bad timing. Terrible timing.

Ellen shot Jim a sharp look before turning back to Quinn. She reached out to touch his cheek, her thumb pausing as she stroked it. 

“Quinn,” she said softly, her voice steadier now. “This is… a lot. It’s insane, honestly. And if you think you can get away with not explaining this further just because you decided to tell us in public, you’re out of your damn mind.”  

Something in his chest loosened at her tone, even before she finished. 

“But—if you’re committed to being there for her—and for the baby—then we support you.”

Jim nodded once, short and firm. “Unconditionally.”

The words sat heavy in his chest. He nodded once, sharp, like anything more might crack him open.

All around them, laughter, champagne, and polished chatter rippled like static, but Quinn’s world felt quieter now—clearer, somehow. More focused on what was to come than whatever the rest of the gala could bring. 

He found himself scanning the room absently, searching for someone he knew wasn’t there. 

Quinn wanted to see you again. And that was now. He wanted his parents to meet you too—to know that this wasn’t as insane as it seemed. And God, he hoped that they would see what he was already starting to see in you.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

You weren’t expecting it when the knock on Quinn’s bedroom door came. 

The sound was gentle, almost like you didn’t believe it at first. But when the door opened and Quinn stuck his head in to see if you were still asleep, you jolted upright immediately, your heart beating in your chest. 

You blinked against the dimness of the room, trying to get your bearings and figuring out the shape of Quinn’s face in the doorway. 

The clock was nearly ten, and your mind had spiraled multiple times, thinking that they were too late for this to have gone. For their reaction to have been good. 

You’d spiraled over it multiple times already while lying there on his bed, staring at the ceiling, inventing a hundred possible scenarios where it ended badly. Your mind was overdramatic for the most part, but you could really see an outcome where his mom ended up crying her eyes out and his dad cursed him out for being irresponsible. 

You hadn’t even realized you’d fallen asleep mid-panic until Quinn’s knock on the door woke you right back up again. 

“Hey,” Quinn said softly from the door. “We’re home now.” 

You could hear his voice laced with laughter as he looked at you, probably resembling Bambi on ice as you tried to get out from under the covers and make yourself presentable. Like you hadn’t just slept in the clothes you’d worn all day. 

You gave a sound that was meant to be an “I’m coming,” but it caught somewhere in your throat and came out warped, almost unrecognizable. You smoothed your hair with shaky hands, checked yourself quickly in his bedroom mirror, even though there was nothing you could change, and walked up to him. 

When he opened the bedroom door fully to let you out, you could see his parents almost immediately. His parents stood near the front door, still in their gala clothes, framed by the warm glow of the overhead light. Ellen’s dress was simple but elegant, a black chiffon that shimmered faintly when she shifted; Jim’s tie had loosened, his jacket draped over one arm, giving him a slightly less imposing edge.

Quinn let you walk first, but you felt him follow closely behind you, his shadow swallowing yours as they showed on the hardwood floor. 

Practically feeding you to the wolves. 

They both turned when you stepped out, and suddenly, you felt sixteen years old again, standing in someone’s house while their parents tried to decide if they liked you.

They never did, did they? 

You were hyperaware of everything—how bare your face felt without makeup, how your socks didn’t match, how your pulse was loud enough in your ears to drown out most of the silence between you.

It was like you braced for impact. An earthquake to hit. 

But then there was nothing. 

Quinn placed his hand on your lower back as he did the usual back and forth with names. The introductions were brief, almost anticlimactic in the way significant moments sometimes are. A polite smile from Ellen, a short nod from Jim.

You felt weird standing there, trying to straighten your back, trying to answer their questions carefully, the way you’d do at a job interview. 

What do you do for work?

Where did you grow up?

How did you meet Quinn?

The conversation stayed polite—surface-level questions about it all. They got a very condensed, cleaned-up version of how you’d ended up in the… situation you were in. You answered as best you could, hearing Quinn stutter and laugh as you both tried to be careful to avoid the more chaotic truths. 

But you could feel Ellen studying you like she was piecing together a puzzle the entire time. 

You could tell that they didn’t believe it. That you weren’t dating. That you barely knew each other. Because you’d just emerged from his bedroom, having slept in his bed. And Quinn’s palm felt practically glued to the small of your back. 

You caught little flashes of Quinn’s dad softening—he almost laughed when the topic moved on to hockey and you looked as clueless as ever. Ellen was harder to read. She was warmer than you’d feared, but sharp in a way that made you certain she was filing away details to revisit later.

And then, almost suddenly, it was over.

Ellen hugged you lightly before they left to go back to their hotel—more of a polite embrace than a personal one, but something about the gesture left you shocked with a softness you didn’t expect. Jim gave you a short nod, less guarded now. 

The door shut behind them with a muted click, and you finally had time to realize how tightly you’d been holding your breath. You walked over to his living room, collapsing on the couch as if your legs couldn’t hold you upright any longer. 

Quinn appeared by your side a moment later, looking down at you, his expression unreadable except for the smallest flicker of relief in his eyes.

“See?” he said quietly, his voice gentle, almost amused. “Not so bad.”

You let out a breath that was half laugh, half tremor, dropping your head against the back of the couch. “I’m not sure I know how to breathe correctly, Quinn.” 

Quinn disappeared into the kitchen without another word, loosening his tie as he went, and you sat there on his couch, trying to listen without listening. The apartment was quiet except for the faint rustle of paper bags, the soft shuffle of his socks across the hardwood, and the creak of the fridge door opening. Then came the metallic pop of a soda can being cracked, followed by the muted clatter of plates. 

Your body still hadn’t fully unclenched from meeting his parents, a leftover nervousness settling stubbornly in your chest. You traced a faint seam along the couch cushion, grounding yourself. 

When Quinn returned, his tie and suit jacket were gone, his sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. He looked less polished now, softer somehow. Younger, too. Shoulders slouched, his hair slightly mussed from running his fingers through it too many times. He dropped a brown takeout bag onto the coffee table, placing plates beside it, and sank into the other end of the couch with an exhale that seemed to empty the night out of him.

“Truce offering,” he said, nudging the bag toward you without looking. “Chicken. Fries. Milkshake because you did good tonight.”

That pulled a laugh out of you despite yourself, small and tired and real. The baby did really seem to like chicken tenders. Or maybe you just did. 

You dug through the bag until your fingers brushed the warm cardboard of the fry box. The smell hit instantly—salt and oil and the promise of comfort—and you plucked a fry and dunked it into ketchup before leaning back with a quiet, almost relieved sigh.

“I think I slept the nausea away,” you murmured around the bite, the corner of your mouth tilting upward.

Quinn, unwrapping his chicken sandwich, glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. “Good,” he said simply, though there was a quiet satisfaction there that he didn’t try to hide. 

You wondered why he reacted like he did. You had to say something about it, since you’d noticed it like a pattern.

“You just keep on feeding me,” you said, gesturing vaguely at the spread between you. “Always making sure I’ve got something to eat.”

He shrugged without looking up, methodically breaking one fry in half, his thumbs worrying the pieces apart like he needed something to do with his hands. “It’s the one thing I feel like I can do to make you feel better. I can’t… fix anything else. Your body, the hormones, all of it changing. I just…” He trailed off, jaw tightening slightly, as though annoyed with himself for not having better words. “I feel sorta clueless about that part.”

Something in your chest softened, though you didn’t say so. Instead, you hummed quietly, chewing, swallowing, letting the silence stretch while he picked at his food but didn’t eat. When you glanced up, you caught him watching you instead of his plate, and the sudden weight of his attention made your throat feel tight.

You filled the space without thinking. You always did. 

“So, today,” you began, leaning forward a little, uselessly brushing crumbs off your fingertips because you picked up another fry immediately. “I had to stay overtime at work because of this ridiculous case.”

Quinn tilted his head, listening, quiet as always, and something about the way he looked at you made the words spill faster, easier.

“We’re representing this tiny patent owner, right? And they’re up against this billionaire tech company that’s basically saying our patent was registered against theirs, even though the dates prove otherwise. Turns out the CIPO completely screwed up the filing order years ago, so now it’s going to cost our client thousands to fight it. Which is insane, because the entire point of the patent system is to protect the smaller guy, but no—some clerk’s mistake, and suddenly this giant company gets to steamroll a little independent inventor who probably hasn’t even made fucking rent off their design yet—”

You stopped yourself mid-rant, blinking, realizing somewhere in the middle of gesturing wildly with your hands that you’d abandoned the fry you were holding halfway to your mouth. “Sorry. That was… a lot. This is probably, like, really off-putting.”

Quinn’s lips curved into the smallest almost-smile, though his gaze didn’t waver. “You keep calling yourself off-putting like it’s a fact.”

“Because I am,” you said quickly, then softer, shoulders hitching in a shrug that tried and failed to look casual. “Or… I’ve been told I am.”

“I’ve never found you off-putting,” he said simply. “I mean, you’re weird, yeah, but in a good way. In an honest way. When you’re rambling like this—” his gaze softened to the point where you could see it “—it’s like the only time I feel like I actually see you.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the nakedness of it, fumbling for something to hide behind “So… I should keep on rambling?”

“Yeah,” he said, and it was quiet but certain. “I’ll listen.”

You picked up your milkshake, twisting the straw between your fingers, trying to occupy your hands before your mouth betrayed you again. Eventually, it did anyway.

“I told my mom and Nana today,” you said softly. “But… you already knew that.”

You had his attention again, his brows lifting just slightly. Still, he didn’t push—he only waited, the way he always did, leaving space for you to fill with your words. Then came that small, knowing smile. An immediate callback to the promise he’d made to listen to you, even if all you did was ramble.

“They, uh…” you hesitated, biting the inside of your cheek before giggling a little, “…hate that you’re a rich kid. And I think they threatened to bury you six feet under if you ever hurt me or the baby. Mom said she has a good shovel, whatever that means.”

That got the smallest huff of a laugh out of him, his thumb tracing absently over the rim of his soda can. He didn’t argue against being a rich kid. You didn’t think he could. 

“But they’re excited,” you continued, a little breathlessly. “Probably more straightforward than your parents, but also like… less rational. Less realistic. They’re a bit… cuckoo.”

Quinn laughed again. “I’d like to meet them too, y’know.” 

“You will,” you assured, like it wasn’t the most terrifying thought ever. “I’m just preparing you for the worst.” 

You popped a few more fries into your mouth and sipped your milkshake until the straw scraped the bottom with a loud, obnoxious slurp. Silence stretched between you, but it didn’t feel awkward. Eventually, Quinn started eating too. You couldn’t help but grin when a smear of sauce landed on his chin, and with a little laugh, you gestured for him to wipe it away.

“Should I, uh, watch a highlight reel of yours to get the same feel for you? Like—to really see you or whatever?” you asked after a moment, your voice teasing, a little jab at how he’d sounded like a walking cliché earlier.

He tilted his head slightly, pretending to think. “Or,” he said, slow, deliberate, “you could just come to a game once the season starts.”

“Oh, sure,” you said scoffing, grabbing another fry. “Some random girl who’s a million months pregnant being seen with the Quinn Hughes. I’m sure that’ll go great.”

He didn’t look fazed. “We won’t be able to hide it forever.” 

“We could,” you countered, light but pointed. “I don’t need to be around you like that. In public, I mean. Maybe you can just keep buying me breakfast for the next eighteen years.”

“So when our kid wants to watch their dad play,” he said, voice quiet but dryly amused, “I should just… show up with them and not tell anyone who their mother is?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but nothing came out. “Okay, no. That’s weirder,” you admitted, swallowing a laugh. Chewing on your cheek, you added, “But… people are gonna call me a gold digger. Or a baby-trapper. That’s just… how people work.”

Quinn continued to look unfazed. Not a muscle in his face moved to show even the slightest concern, or even amusement now. “I don’t get why you’re so worried about that when I don’t give a shit.” 

“You mean I should just… learn how to care less?”

“No opinion but our own matters,” he said, and it was so simply put, like there was no other truth to be had.

Silence settled after that, low and steady, broken only by the hum of the fridge and the soft crinkle of takeout wrappers. You leaned forward eventually, stealing a fry off his tray without asking when you had finished all of yours. 

He didn’t say anything about it. 

He just let you.

thank you for reading ★ please remember to comment and reblog with your thoughts. my asks are always open too!

[pizzapie349]

hasnt even been three days and i already started coughing btw 😖😖

it backfired on me too… i’m coughing as well 😒

[pizzapie349]

Heidi Priebe

[pizzapie349]

the secret diary of laura palmer, jennifer lynch

[pizzapie349]

im gonna be so fucking sick

[pizzapie349]

fuck you. i hate him i hate him i hate him… you will begin to cough in 3 days.

you need to pay reparations (create a whole new series in which roles are reversed and y/n treats jack like shit nd does NOTTTT CARE ABIUT HIMMMMMM) so i’m expecting loser!jack x mean,evil,maneater!reader - like genuinely the smallest blurb bc this is heinous

i’m literally going to print out a pic of his face and punch it

star shopping

jack hughes x reader

word count 2.0k

content warnings- very mean, vague sh reference, slapping but its all fun you’ll like it trust me!!!!!!!!😸😸😸

can be read as a vignette but check the rest of the series!

August 2019

You’re sobbing dizzily like you were never gonna see him again. Like he’s gonna die, like they’re shipping him off to go meet his end, and really, it’s so dramatic and silly, he just wants to hit you. It’s not cute, your face is all blotchy and red and wet and you can’t see him leering at you with the most vacant stare, completely unaffected by your tears. 

“Are we like, not gonna…” he trails off. He was sat at the headboard of his bed, arms crossed because it was sort of cold, and you’d only gotten as far as getting his hoodie off over his head with your trembling shaky hands before you dropped your head and started your crying.

It was the night before he was leaving for Newark. You’d known it would come. It wasn’t sprung on you out of nowhere, he’d been projected to go in the first round for a while now, and you had just prayed Detroit would pick him. You felt like it was reasonable. They had the sixth pick and surely there were five better players than Jack.

But no. He had to go and be god’s gift and have the best hands to ever hold a hockey stick. Then there was the whole victory lap, him getting paraded around the city in a pj, trying to get girls to lift their shirts for him. Salt in the wound. You wanted to hit him.

His cool, easy tone made you see red. You do hit him. Rather you kind of just, lunge at him aggressively with no clear attack. Your vision was cloudy, so your sparring mirrors that of a feral cat. You have no defensive play, so when Jack flips you on your back and pins you down, all you can do is thrash under him, choking on your spit. 

He gets his hands on your shoulders, throttling you. “Jesus, fuck. Calm down.”

“Asshole,” you sob. You say other things but they’re unintelligible through your tears.

“No.”

“Yes!”

“I’m not fucking dying,” he seethes. “Are you alright? Like, in the fucking head? I think you’re insane. Genuinely. I think you should see someone. You have mental problems.”

You start kicking again so he sits back on your thighs. He grabs your wrists and holds those, squeezing. You were in a long sleeve and he knew about what you did and if he could guess, you’d probably done it again, maybe recently, since it was summer and you were in a sweater. So when he squeezes he hopes it hurts a little.

“No,” you sputter out. “I don't.”

“I think you have delusions. I promise I’m not joking.”

“Jack–”

“Because– listen,” he leans his face in. “Listen, alright? You’re listening?” He doesn’t wait for you to nod. “I, me, Jack, I’m not your fucking boyfriend.” There’s so much venom and hate and some spit even lands on your cheek and you’re shrinking in on yourself, trying to get smaller, so he gets closer. “I don’t like you. I've never liked you. You’re easy. That’s all you are. So if you’re gonna keep crying about me leaving, if you’re not gonna let me fuck you, then get the fuck out of my room. Get the fuck out of my house.”

You don’t even have anything good to say. Even if you tried. Nothing could hurt him. 

“Okay,” you say, flat and calm. Mimicking his own vacant unaffectedness from earlier. As if his little outburst was unwarranted. As if the remnants of your own tantrum weren't evident in your puffy red eyes.

Jack huffs out an exhale. He keeps both your wrists in one hand and moves the other up your sweater, tugging it up over your chest. He doesn’t get it all the way off, doesn’t wanna have to look at what you did.

He knows it’s not because of him, but part of him wonders. And he gets mad at you for doing it and mad at himself for caring and mad at you again for making him wonder in the first place. So he pushes the thought out completely and gropes at your chest, rolling his hips against yours. You moan a little, gasping soft at the friction. Jack leans over you, hissing in your ear. “My fucking parents are here.”

You hardly made a sound at all so you glare at him. “Oh, but it's your house, I thought.”

He slaps you a little, not as hard as he wants but enough to make your eyes go wide, and then he covers your mouth, clamping his palm tight over it.

Maybe he wanted your tears. Maybe he liked that. You wouldn’t give him more if you could help it. Except if he asked, if when he slapped you he told you cry for me then you think maybe, fine, if that’s what it takes, if then you’ll like me a little. 

“Can’t even let me be nice to you,” he mumbles, shucking your shorts down your legs before he spreads your thighs, settling himself between. “You’ve gotta- fuck,” he falters a little, losing it when he gets inside, working up a rhythm. “You- you’re annoying as fuck, all this fucking– crying.”

You like it, you wanna say, you love it. He wrenches a muffled little whimper out of you and it’s got his eyes rolling back.

It doesn’t even make you mad. Maybe because he was hitting so deep it made you dumb and boneless and pacified. Makes you forget he’s leaving and all the girls he’s gonna do this to when he’s ten hours by car or two by plane away from you. His grip on your mouth loosens a little and when you whine a little he shoves his fingers in your mouth, gets you quiet that way.

He could be doing this with another girl right now, you think, and decide to be briefly delighted that it’s you he’s fucking right now instead. This could be it, the end forever. Might never happen again. You wrap your legs around his waist and he drops down onto his forearms, bracketing your head, panting now. You hold him closer, try and savor it, locking your ankles at the small of his back. 

You stare at his face. He’s got his eyes squeezed shut but you’ll never forget the blue of his. You hope it’s not the end. You’d rather have him mean forever than never again.

You know begging is pointless. He wouldn’t stay for a girl. He doesn’t even like you. Some small child inside you warbles out a desperate little please, please, and you don’t even know what she’s asking for. He called you delusional earlier. He was probably right. Could you be delusional if you acknowledged that you might be?

“Yeah,” he says, “yeah, you can come.”

You gasp when you do and he doesn’t even get mad at the sound, maybe because it helps get him off too. In any case. You shut your eyes and pretend he’s saying yeah, you can come with me to Jersey, drop out of school and you can come with me everywhere, I want you to come with me, stay with me, be with me.

He yawns and drops his head down on your chest. You keep him there even when his heavy head starts to weigh on you. You don’t care. For all you knew you’d never feel it again, and he would always be your favorite burden.

It’s only because he feels bad for roughing you up. Because now when you should be crying, you’re not, and it unnerves him. You’d just been staring up at the ceiling, making shapes out of the flattened popcorn patterns.

“Hey,” he says, his voice a little croaky, trying to snap you out of it. He pats at your cheek, a softer kind of slap. He felt a little bad for doing that earlier, now.

You blink down at him, gaze so empty and tired his gut twists.

Jack grimaces. He rubs at the bone of your hip with his thumb. “You hungry?”

You shrug. It’s better than a ‘no’, and even if it was, he’d force something down your throat anyway. But you meet him halfway, which he’s glad for, because it means he doesn’t have to wrestle you into his car. He could say anything and you'd agree to it, would do anything to make your time with him last longer.

This is how you arrive at a McDonald’s drive thru at two in the morning, when he should really be asleep, because he’s got an early flight. But he was too wired now, with you, who's got too much to say but afraid to talk or say any of it, which he’s both relieved but also guilty for because it’s on him for making you feel that way.

"I want ice cream," you tell him. It's the first time you've spoken in a while, so it startles him. He squeezes your thigh and orders you a cone.

The worker says the machine's down, so Jack starts rolling up the window. You whine at him, tapping his arm. "What're you doing?"

"We can go to a different one, there's like, so many."

"No, just stay, it's fine."

"You want ice cream, though."

"Jackkk," you groan, covering your face, so you couldn't watch him pull out of the line, driving to the next closest one.

"They just shouldn't sell ice cream if they're never gonna have the machine working," he says after a while of dead air. You're curled up in the seat, scared and small, a frightened cat. He squeezes your thigh again. "Dude, relax."

"I'm so annoying," you say miserably.

"You're not annoying. I want ice cream too."

You sigh and pat his hand. He pulls it away quick, like he'd been caught with something he shouldn't have been doing. Only doling out affection if you wouldn't acknowledge it.

Once you get your cones he parks the car and kills the engine. Your back's against the door and your legs are over the center console, feet in his lap as you lick at the ice cream.

"I shouldn't have said some things," Jack says it casual, mid lick, because he never apologizes even when he should and when he does he's not going to make it this big, ceremonious thing. "I just don't wanna like, make you think it's something that it's not. Don't want you like, waiting around for me, or some shit."

"M'not."

He nods, staring at the cream all over your lips a little too heatedly before he wrenches his gaze away and focuses on the steering wheel.

"Like, we had fun. Yeah?"

"Yeah, mhm."

"And I'm gonna like, come back around sometimes. So we can, if you want, whenever I'm..." Jack huffs. "I don't know. Or whatever."

"Yeah."

"Yeah?"

You nod. "I know that you're just saying all this to make me feel better. You don't need to. I know you don't mean it."

"I do mean it," he frowns. His hand moves to your thigh before he pulls it away like it was scalding. He had to stop that. He was an ass for giving you this false hope as it was, he didn't need to lay it on this thick and be this touchy, even if it felt as natural as breathing. "I do mean it."

You roll your eyes a little.

"Fuck you, don't believe me," he laughs. "Just tryna be nice."

"But you're not nice," you say, sort of soft and with a smile too, and that gets him in a way he wasn't expecting.

He pauses before leaning over the middle, seeing if you'll meet him half way. It takes you a second, you stare at him a little unfocused, a little confused before you do, and he's taking your cheek in his hand and pulling you closer to kiss.

Which, arguably, was the meanest thing he'd done all night.

[pizzapie349]

and suddenly everything makes sense because biznasty is zaddy and i literally get suplexed anytime i say he’s fine shyt… glad this seems to be. safe space

babe i also think biz is very hot dw🙏

YOU GET ME OMG HES SOOO SCUMBAG UNCLE HOT😭😭😭

[pizzapie349]

and i’m here.

and i’m loving this.

and i’ve turned into dj khalid. ?…

and i’m dj khalid dancing. …..??

and…….???we the best……..??????

still havent written their first time but i can write their first smoochhh. this was supposed to be a blurb dont ask me why its 1.1k

high school era jack hughes x reader

can be read as a vignette but check the rest of the series here

2017

lukes taking you to a party, basically had to drag you by your hair out the door because it was your first big girl party and you were scared of making an idiot out of yourself. you're whining at luke that you'll go next year, you're still just a freshman and he's like doing anything to get you to go, sad eyes, reminding you he's a freshman too and he won't leave you alone. and jacks gonna be there! when he says that he pretends he doesn't clock that doe eyed look you get at the mention of his name. suddenly you're perked up in your head like well ok you should've just said. trying to play it cool like ugh fine i guess... if everyone's gonna be there might as well.

you're in the kitchen with some girls you're familiar with since luke abandoned you basically the second you got there, but he's coming back over to you now acting all weird. we were gonna play a game in the basement but we need a few more girls, you wanna come?

and that's how you end up cross legged sitting in a circle in front of jack, an empty bottle of heineken between you. luke's kissing your friend first and that's when it dawns on you that you shouldn't have come. you've heard jack putting girls through the mattress while you're trying to do homework with luke at his kitchen table but the idea of having to actually watch him make out with another girl was nauseating.

but you must've been really good in a past life, or gotten some good karma for something, because when he spins that bottle, snickering and confident, it lands on you.

his buddies are all oooooh-ing and clapping him on the back and he's got the nerve to look a little put off, shrugging their hands off him, rolling his eyes at them before he beckons you closer, waving you over with a lazy hand gesture.

he doesn't even meet you in the middle. you crawl all the way over to him, on your hands and knees like a dog. he cups your face in his palm, strokes your cheekbone, eyes scanning your face, you can literally see his pupils dilate and dart all over. your eyes are just as wide, like saucers, and your lips are already parted, though mostly just out of dumb shock.

s'alright, he laughs a little to himself at the sight of you so awestruck, like putting you at ease. and before you could get away, as if you would even dream of it, he's pressing his mouth against yours. it's really only a chaste peck at first, gently laying his lips on you, but it's spirals quickly into a deeper thing. his hands on your waist, grasping at your belt loops, pulling you into his lap and you're scrambling on top of him, the invitation well received. your arms wrap around his neck, his hands up in your hair, his tongue licking into your mouth, sliding over your incisors. you tear up a little because it's just so surreal. you forget there's other people staring.

and then he wrenches you off, out of breath, and the rest of the world comes flooding back in, crashing like a wave, really sobering. your cheeks aren't even flushed, they're burning red, and jack only makes it worse, 'cause he's looking at his friends like he was just attacked by some savage and they're all laughing like jesus, what the fuck. he's wiping at his mouth with the collar of his shirt. you're touching your lips with your fingertips, trying to commit the feeling of him to memory. one of his dumb friend's all like me next but you're already back at your spot beside your friends. you don't even remember crawling back over, just focused on somehow trying to get your skin to un-blush.

your friend's petting your back, that was so hot, he wanted you so bad. stop, you're fine. calm down. that was so good.

jack's eyes don't leave you the rest of the night.

later on he needs your help wrangling a drunk luke into the car. the house is mostly cleared out, the kid who was hosting threatening to call the cops since his parents were coming back from their trip early.

luke's in between the both of you, a lanky arm thrown over each of your shoulders. you're whining that he's too heavy and jack's telling you to stop bitching and lift. luke's legs are so long and gangly and he clips his ankle on a hedge before you and jack literally volley him into the backseat.

okay, you mumble, once all's said and done. see you.

what do you mean?

i- he's good, yeah? i'm gonna get a ride with my friend.

the redhead? she left.

you gawk at him, stunned.

yeah, said she was leaving when you were in the bathroom and i was like, what about you, and she said you came with luke. so she left.

oh, you say, feeling small and dumb. okay. i'll just-

he opens the passenger door for you. just nothing, come on.

luke's passed out and snoring, that's the only reason why jack's bold enough to put his hand on your thigh. even then he's hesitant to do it. uh, earlier, it was- y'know, it was just a game. so. you don't have to worry about anything being weird. we can forget it happened.

you stare out the window not saying anything, just a little, yeah, uh-huh in acknowledgment.

he knows you're a little hurt but you can't blame him, really, you're just a kid. he was being nice, even, letting you off easy the way he was. he was being a real gentleman about it, at least he thought so.

was that your first kiss?

no, you retort, so quick and defensive he knows it's a lie.

s'okay, he laughs. hey. don't be embarrassed, oh my god, you can look at me.

you were mean, you whisper, bottom lip a little wobbly so you bite down hard on it. hurt and vulnerable and showing the soft warm underside of your belly. you guys- you were laughing.

no, he's insisting, even though he's still laughing, even now. you feel your cheeks get warm again. no, kid- they just- i don't know, some of the guys were just- they wanted you to play, that's why they made luke go get you. i think they just wished it was one of them instead of me since i get you all to myself all the time anyway.

really?

uh huh, he grins, then punches your shoulder for good measure. but. they're not like, good guys or anything, so like, don't get any ideas.

okay, you smile, looking down at your lap, his hand still on your thigh. he gives it a squeeze.

and you were good, by the way. for your first time. but forget i said that.

said what, you tease.

he pats your leg. good girl.

[pizzapie349]

this slaps everybody needs to read this edit goes hard

It was so hard to believe him, but you wanted to. Even if it meant you knowing you were going to let him let you down again. He would never want you this way. Fully, forever.