#puck you

[tortured-poet-of-thursday]

why can’t gay people flirt normally like tf you mean “no <3”

[deaddriv]

Translated with permission!!

Here's the author's Twitter (achu_0u0) and the original post!

Note from author: Wouldn't it be hard for half-foots to go to the movie theater?

[teaboot]

Wait you had autism and still got along with the other kids and knew what was going on with them?? I was never able to do that! I still chose to do my own thing but would have been unable to answer those questions.

I mean I didn't really WANNA make friends for a super long time so it didn't really matter? And if anyone was outright mean I don't think I noticed till like 6th grade.

After 6th a few other kids liked to throw or kick things at my face or steal my art supplies or give me mean nicknames- I remember almost all the boys in my class one year started a thing where if I got within 4 feet of them they'd yell "[tea] GERMS!" and make a dramatic mad-dash escape, and that was kinda hurtful, but IDK how long that was a thing??

Anyhow I started asking them if they had a crush on me or if they were just stupid, and when they asked what I meant I'd just be like "well there's two reasons boys act stupid around girls. Either you have a crush on me, or you're just always this stupid"

And that invariably led to them yelling "I'm stupid, I'm stupid!" or telling me, "I'd rather say I'm stupid than say I like you!"

Which might have been hurtful if I wasn't growing into a mild superiority complex that assured me I was smarter than them, and nicer than them, and there was really no need to desire the approval of stupid, mean people.

(This was, of course, backed up by the fact that my father was one of those mean, stupid sorts of people, and I fully beleived if I could handle him, I could handle anyone my size, and so what if you dont like me? My own dad doesnt like me, am i supposed to value your opinion?)

Then by highschool I got hot, and if one of them started chatting me up I'd just be like "You wrote in my yearbook in 2002 that I was a huge loser. Why would I want to hang out with you"

And by THEN I'd met enough genuinely fun, interesting people who actually liked me that I was never around anyone who openly disliked me anyways.

Not until I started to realize I wasn't 100% a girl and cut my hair off- Then I started hearing other girls whispering to each other that I looked like a lesbian- gasp- which, again, was actually pretty funny, 'cause then I'd just tell them not to get their hopes up 'cause I wasn't available.

Then I graduated, and moved, and it turns out I'm actually kind of hot funny smart and successful, and whenever I fall into the deep deep pit of dumb ugly stupid imposter-syndrome, I remember that as mean as other kids were sometimes, their parents thought I was the best.

So anyways get fucked Gabe from ninth grade, your mom used to give me candy and bail me out of detention. I had the biggest fucking crush on your mom dude

[puck-luck]

sunrise celebration | luke hughes

warnings: slight somno, but everyone is awake for the actual celebration. oral, m!receiving. established relationship. praise. hair pulling. fingering. unprotected p in v. cockwarming. riding. multiple rounds (alluded to, not necessarily included in the actual fic). creampie. lazy morning sex and makeouts and all that good stuff. happy birthday luke! pairing: luke hughes x fem!reader summary: luke's girlfriend wakes him up with one of many, many birthday presents. wc: 1805

You wake at quarter to seven with Luke beside you. He’s breathing evenly, laying on his back with an arm under your neck and the other resting on his chest. He’s shirtless, like always. He’s snoring slightly, twitching in his sleep, and you pick yourself up a bit so that you can get a better view of your serene-looking boyfriend.

You place your hand on his stomach, smoothing over the sculpted skin. He’s been working out so much lately, trying to build himself up into a “unit” (as Jack has been calling him all summer) ahead of his second full season with the Devs. Your pinkie traces over the tip of his happy trail, the dark strip of hair a favorite of yours. You admire him for a while. With the light coming through the window in his room, Luke reminds you of an angel.

When you look at the clock, you remember that it’s officially his birthday. 

Your hand is still on his stomach, fingers still petting over his happy trail. Now though, your hand is going lower, to the waistband of his underwear. You don’t dip in yet, instead opting to trail your fingers daintily over his length. It’s mostly soft in his pants, only barely swollen from his typical morning wood, but he reacts when you touch him over the fabric. His cock jumps under your palm, seeming to seek you out.

You continue rubbing over him until he’s hard and leaking, his tip prominent as it strains against the wet patch of fabric. You use the pad of your index finger to stroke over his slit, bubbling out another drip of precum when you do. 

You smile, blinking lazily before leaning up and ghosting a kiss over Luke’s cheek. He bends his arm at the elbow, the one under your neck, just to keep you close. Even in his sleep, he always wants to keep you close. 

As you continue to touch him, he starts to stir. 

“What’re you doing,” Luke mumbles softly, voice riddled with sleep. His hand on his chest drifts down to where yours is, touching your wrist and stilling your movement.

“Happy birthday,” you whisper, nosing against his cheek. Luke turns his head to you and you kiss him sweetly, bad breath and all. “Happy, happy birthday.”

“Mm, thank you,” Luke hums, catching a strand of your hair between his fingers and twirling it. 

“Wanna give you a present,” you murmur, the heel of your palm scraping over his cock. You fit your fingers around his length and pump him over his underwear. 

A groan rips from Luke’s throat, more precum leaking from his tip. You imagine his cockhead is weeping and red and you really wish you could see it. 

You shift again, trying to shift down the bed without jostling Luke too much. You do, but he doesn’t seem to mind, just moving his hips so he’s in the middle of the bed. His hands go behind the back of his head, threading through his curls. He uses his hands as a rest, settling against the pillow so that he can look down at you. 

You dig your hands into the sides of his waistband, kissing down his stomach and abdomen until the curls at the base of his cock are revealed. It’s then that you nuzzle against the hair, kissing the point where his shaft meets his groin, a breath away from where his balls rest. You kiss over the tight skin as his length is revealed to you.

His tip is just as red as you thought it would be, and just as appetizing. You flick your tongue over the crown of his cock, then press a close-mouthed kiss to his slit. 

Luke barely breathes out a moan, his hand leaving his own curls to find the back of your head. He gathers your hair into a messy ponytail, cursing under his breath. “Fuck, baby,” he sighs as you circle your fingers around his base, holding him still.

You slide his cock between your lips, eyes fluttering shut as his weight settles on your tongue. You suck, creating a vacuum over his tip. 

“Fuck,” Luke curses more sharply, his hips bucking forward involuntarily. 

You chuckle when you pull away, pumping him and swiping your thumb over his slit with a graceful twist of your wrist. “Such a pretty cock, Lu. Wanna suck it all the time. Always need you in my mouth.”

Luke grins crookedly, then bites his lip. His eyes darken, still a little clouded with sleep. “Do I not fuck you enough, baby?” He teases. “You always need more, don’t you?”

“Just want to make my boy feel good,” you say innocently with a flutter of your eyelashes and another kiss to his cock. “My birthday boy.”

As you seal your mouth over his length again, bobbing your head as you take more of him in your mouth, Luke lets his eyes drift shut and the pleasure overtake him. His hand on the back of your head is a heavy weight, helping you swallow him down until your nose brushes his pelvis and the curls there. You gag around him, but remain there, drooling until his length is slick with your spit and his precum.

You relieve yourself after a moment, taking a breath and pumping him. Luke’s eyes remain closed, hanging onto sleep in your comfortable shared bed.

“Can we just stay here all day?” Luke asks, opening his eyes and blinking at you.

“My mouth might get tired,” you reply, giggling at the joke before taking him again.

Luke laughs too, dropping your hair to thumb over your hollowed cheek. “Just in bed, baby. That’s how I wanna spend my birthday. Being lazy with my pretty girlfriend.”

“Hm, we can rot after I make you come,” you agree. “And then I wanna make you come again with you inside me.”

“Gonna ride me?” Luke asks.

“Yeah, later, if you want me to,” you sigh dreamily, licking up Luke’s shaft. You reach up to bring his hand back to your hair, then you shuffle your hand down between your legs. You touch yourself over your underwear, feeling the way the fabric clings to your soaked folds. Sucking Luke always makes you this excited– he’s just that good.

“That’s it,” Luke moans. “Love watching you make yourself come. Touch your clit for me, baby.”

You obey, petting over your clit in time with the bobbing of your head. Eventually, Luke starts to shift his hips up and you release your grip on him, curving your hand over his hip and opening your mouth so that he can fuck up into it. You shift and run your fingertips through your folds, finding your entrance while your clit finds your palm. You rut your hips against the contact, filling yourself with two fingers. 

“Oh, baby,” Luke says, tossing his head back. “Always so good. Your mouth– oh. Fuck, wanna come inside you.”

He grips your hair and pulls you off, guiding you back up his body. He rolls you onto your back in the middle of the bed, pulling your t-shirt over your head and ducking his head down to take your nipple in his mouth. He sucks, biting down on the peak, then switching over to the other. All the while, he’s pushing your panties down and replacing your fingers with his own long ones.

He fills you with two, pumping them inside of you in a way that has you arching into his mouth. Luke hurries to kick his own underwear off, the blankets falling askew as he moves. His cock slides against your thigh, hard and dripping. It doesn’t take long for Luke to make you babble and clutch at his curls, begging for that length to fill you up with his cum.

Luke complies, whimpering out a gasp as you clench down on him. “Fuck, you’re tight,” Luke groans, unable to stop his hips from stuttering into yours. He’s well-endowed and he always fucks into your heat just right, able to make you come as quickly or as slowly as he desires.

The blowjob has him worked up, so this one’s quick. Luke is clutching at you desperately, kissing your lips and your neck until they’re swollen and splotchy with hickies respectively. He’s murmuring in your ear, a load of sweet nothings that have you whining and squirming beneath him, trying to hold off until he reaches his peak. It’s his birthday, you want him to come first.

“Baby, I’m close,” Luke chokes out. “I’m gonna come.”

His hips drive against you, shuddering with the effort to hold back. His thumb finds your clit, the pressure of his weight making you keen. He breathes into your mouth, panting. His eyes are wild as you find them, the eye contact making you that much more desperate. Luke presses his forehead against yours, his body blanketing yours.

“Fill me up,” you implore, holding him tight. Your fingernails dig into the muscles of his back, feeling them move as he bucks against you. 

Luke’s grunt is animalistic as his seed starts to spill into you, nothing between you. It’s exactly what you wanted, spurring your own climax on. Your body shakes, muscles tight as your eyes roll into the back of your head. Luke keeps fucking into you, biting his lip hard as the overstimulation sends a new rush of pleasure through him. He stays inside of you even as his cock softens, plugging you to keep his cum inside. He kisses your lips, then another. The series of kisses turns into a lazy tangle of tongues and hushed giggles, the occasional twitch of Luke’s cock inside of you until he starts to grow hard again as a side effect of your wandering hands. 

“Round two?” You ask between kisses.

Luke laughs and smiles, laying back and dragging you on top of him. You sit perched on his lap, cock pressing deep inside of you at this angle. You bring your hands up your body, a hand cupping your breast and the other moving through your hair in a stretch. He grins, eyes still hooded like he’s tired, and lets his hands fall to your asscheeks, kneading the skin there. He nudges you forward, guiding your circling hips. 

“This is going to be the best birthday ever,” Luke says.

“Oh, baby, you have no idea,” you promise. “We’re gonna do this all day long.”

“You’re gonna run me dry,” Luke jokes.

“Well, as long as you feel good, then I’ll have done my job.” You plant your hands on Luke’s abs and grin down at him, leaning low enough to capture his lips in a sweet kiss. “Happy birthday,” you sing. “I love you.”

Luke smiles against your lips. “Best birthday ever.”

notes: HAPPY BIRTHDAY LUKEY! I hope he enjoys his first legal drink in the U.S. and has a really good night :) sweet lukey deserves a sweet, fun birthday <3

[cyanide-sippy-cup]

I think my favorite thing about Fionna and Cake has to be how unapologetically queer it is. In every corner, whether it be a cameo appearance from the gay couple,

a quick visual cue/reference to the pilot,

a questionable line from Brian David Gilbert of all people,

[img: Winter King (on the right) saying "Don't think it hasn't occurred to me!" This is in response to Cake suggesting he kiss Simon (left)]

or actually being integral to the primary or secondary plot.

Seeing such a casual yet important and beautiful inclusion of queerness in this show fills me with such indescribable joy. Without even trying, without even stepping away from it's own story, it's making a statement.

Without going out of its way, it's teaching genuine stories while saying "We are here, we have a place, we have a history, and we're here to stay."

[rowdyluv]

Say Yes - qh43

Summary: Quinn’s girlfriend attends the Hughes Bowl at Rogers Arena. She’s overtly in love with him (kind of annoying tbh) Quinn surprises her after the game.

Warnings: fluff, obsessy gf, eyes don’t leave bf, use of y/n, oc?

Word Count: 2.35k

Notes: I chose a random name for readers best friend. Ahem split second appearance of other nhler with bff. May or may not have successfully? wrote something.

In the hustling and bustling heart of Vancouver, nestled between the towering skyscrapers and the gentle caress of the Pacific sea breeze, stood the mighty Rogers Arena. Its gleaming exterior reflected the city's vibrant energy, a beacon of excitement that drew in locals and tourists alike. The chilly winter evening had descended, casting a soft glow upon the cobblestone streets, as the anticipation for the night's event grew palpable.

The Hughes Bowl also known as the Vancouver Canucks versus the New Jersey Devils

Inside the arena, the air was electric. The mouthwatering scent of popcorn and nachos mingled with the faint aroma of fresh lemonade and the mixture of alcohol in some areas. The thunderous roar of the crowd grew louder with every passing second, echoing through the vast space like a crescendo of anticipation.

Y/N and Mia, perched in the first row by the glass barrier, were surrounded by a sea of blue and green jerseys. A few red and black jerseys sprinkled in the mix. Guests in attendance dressed out were the die-hard fans, their eyes glued to the rink, where the players currently skated about in a blur of motion, warming up for the night’s showdown between the Canucks and the Devils.

When the lights had dimmed and both national anthems for Canada and the United States had a chance to play, a collective chorus of cheers fell over the stadium.

The spotlights that once bathed the ice in a soft multicolored glow lifted replaced with the bright white, and the players took their positions.

Quinn, was the center of y/n’s attention, his eyes focused and intense. He looked over at Y/N and Mia, flashing a quick smile that sent her heart racing. The puck dropped, and the game was underway.

Throughout the first period, Y/N did all she could to try and memorize every move Quinn made. An attempt to hold on to his years in the league for when they’re long over. His stick-handling was mesmerizing, a dance of precision and power that left the opposition scrambling. Whenever he checked one of his brothers, she held onto a strange mix of pride and protectiveness that swelled within her. She knew that behind the smiles and jovial rivalry, they were all fighting for the same thing: victory.

Leaning over to Mia, she whispered excitedly, "Did you see that? He totally outplayed them both! Jack and Luke!" Each time she spoke, her voice grew a little louder, the excitement spilling over like a fizzy drink. Mia, ever the supportive best friend, nodded and cheered along, even though she wasn't as versed in the nuances of the game. Y/N's eyes never left the ice when her love was on for a shift, captivated by the grace and strength of the man she loved.

Midway through the second period, Quinn scored a breathtaking goal through the goalie’s 5-hole. He spun around, stick in the air, as the crowd erupted in a cacophony of cheers. Y/N's face lit up brighter than the goal lamp as she jumped to her feet, slapping the glass in exhilaration. Quinn skated to where she was sitting behind the glass. He blew her a kiss and yelled to her, “that was for you babygirl.” She turned to Mia, her eyes sparkling with pure joy, "I knew he was just as bad as you are!" Mia giggled, pulling her best friend in to a hug, the sound of their laughter lost in the deafening applause.

The game continued, each play more intense than the last. The tension grew as the score remained close, neither team willing to concede an inch of the ice. With every check, every pass, and every shot on net, Y/N felt her heart pound harder in her chest. Her eyes never left Quinn, not even when his brothers had the puck. It was as if she could feel his every move, his every breath. Her cheers grew louder, her hands slapping the glass more vigorously, leaving behind a smudge of her palm print like a silent applause.

In the third period, the game reached a fever pitch. The crowd was on the edge of their seats, a symphony of hope and nerves. The Devils had managed to tie the game, and the Canucks were desperate to pull ahead. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and the metallic tang of fear. With minutes to go, Quinn stole the puck from his youngest brother, breaking away on a two-on-one. The arena held its collective breath as he streaked down the ice, the sound of his skates slicing through the frozen surface like a knife through butter.

Y/N's eyes were glued to him, her heart racing in her chest. The play unfolded before her in slow motion, every second stretching into an eternity. Quinn passed the puck to his teammate, who whipped it back to him with the grace of a ballet dancer. The goalie saw it coming, but it was too late. Quinn's shot was a rocket, flying straight into the top corner of the net. The arena erupted into a frenzy of cheers and the sound of thousands of hands clapping together in unison. The goal lamp flashed red, the buzzer sounded, Quinn’s media tape looped on the scoreboard. His teammates rushed him for a celebration. Y/n was watching in awe of her man. Mia was watching her best friend in happy wonder.

Mia nudged her, "Looks like you got yourself a star player!" she said, her voice barely audible over the din. Y/N nodded, her smile so wide it hurt. She felt like she was floating, the adrenaline from the goal still pulsing through her veins. The final buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the game. The score was 3-2 in favor of the Canucks. The arena echoed with the chant of "Quinn! Quinn! Quinn!" She could see the pure elation on his face as he skated over to her, the grin stretching from ear to ear. He tapped the glass, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

Quinn had the last scoring game puck in his hand. He had already wrote on it and brought it straight to her, he pointed up towards the top of the barrier and then to her, a silent message he was tossing it to her. With a flick of his wrist, he flung it over, sending it soaring through the air. Time seemed to slow as it spun, a perfect arc of twisting team logos and black against the vibrant backdrop of the cheering crowd. Y/N's hand shot up, her palm open and ready to receive it. The puck smacked into her palm with a satisfying thud, the residual ice shavings from the game still clinging to it.

The crowd's roar grew even louder as they noticed the gesture, the cameras flashing from the stands and the Jumbotron spotlighted on her, capturing her disbelief and pure happiness. She clutched the puck to her chest, feeling its coldness against her skin, a stark contrast to the warmth flooding her cheeks. The moment was surreal, a memory she knew she'd cherish forever. She mouthed a silent "thank you" to Quinn, who was already being dragged away by his teammates for an impromptu interview.

As the players filed off the ice, the tension in the arena didn't dissipate. Instead, it transformed into a buzz of excitement and congratulations. Y/N watched Quinn closely, her eyes tracing his every move as he was interviewed, his voice steady and humble despite the victory. He talked about teamwork and the importance of family, never failing to mention his brothers and their shared love for the sport. Her heart bursting with pride as she heard him speak, his words resonating with the audience.

Finally, the moment came. The Zamboni glided onto the ice, smoothing out the battleground where Quinn had just claimed victory. He skated over to the bench, his gaze seeking hers through the throngs of people. She waved, the puck still clutched in her hand, a symbol of his triumph. He pointed at her, then at the locker room, signaling for her to wait for him. The crowd began to disperse, the blue and green jerseys forming rivers of humanity that flowed through the arena's exits.

Y/N and Mia remained in their seats before heading down to wait outside of the locker room, the excitement still coursing through them like an electric current. They chatted animatedly about the game, replaying Quinn's heroics in their minds, their voices a mix of disbelief and pride. As the last of the fans trickled out, the arena staff started prepare for the post-game cleanup.

The doors to the locker room finally swung open, and the players began to emerge, their faces flushed from exertion and their eyes gleaming with the adrenaline of victory. Quinn spotted Y/N immediately, his grin growing even wider when he saw the puck in her hand. His strides to her were urgent and quick, the sound of his skates, that were hanging off the side of his bag, clanking against one another echoing through the now-quiet corridor. He was dressed back in his game day suit, no tie, but perfectly put together.

Y/N looked up at him, her confusion palpable. "Why aren't you in your comfy clothes?" she questioned, gesturing to his suit.

Quinn chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "I had to make an impression, didn't I?" He leaned down, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Besides, I had a surprise for you."

Y/N turned the puck over in her hand, her eyes widening as she read the message scrawled in black sharpie. "Best game of my life," it read, "make it better by saying yes." Her cheeks flushed, and she looked up at him, her eyes filling with unshed tears as he’s down on one knee. "Quinn, this is..."

"It’s crazy, yes but I couldn't wait. You're it for me, you're everything. And after that game, playing against my brothers, I just know this is right." His voice was earnest, his gaze unwavering as he pulled out a small velvet box. “Yes I know in front of the locker room isn’t ideal, but I just had the best game I’ve had in months, I finally beat my brothers. You’re the girl of my dreams and I can’t hold onto this any longer because I’m afraid the yahoos behind you will let it out while they’re here. So baby, please will you marry me?” Quinn asks tears of love in his eyes.

Y/N felt as if the world had stopped spinning. She looked down at the box in his hand, her heart racing like a bullet train. She assumed this was coming later on in life, but she never expected it to happen here, in the lower interior of the arena she had watched him play in so many times before. An indescribable warmth spread through her, expansive spread across her from her toes to her fingertips. She looked into his eyes, her voice shaking with raw emotion, "Yes, Quinn. Yes, I'll marry you."

The words hung in the air, suspended for a moment before reality crashed back in. The locker room doors opened wider, and his remaining teammates spilled out, cheering and clapping. They had been waiting for this moment, and now it was here. Quinn slipped the ring onto her finger, the diamond sparkling under the harsh fluorescent lights. It fit perfectly, as if it had been made just for her. She couldn't help but admire it, the way it caught the light and danced across her skin. Y/n turned to Jack and Luke to greet the brothers she was unaware were there until Quinn said something, but instead was met by Jim and Ellen.

“You’ll officially be our daughter!” Ellen saps pulling y/n into a hug.

“Can’t wait to have another female Hughesy!” Jim laughed with her, ruffling up her hair.

Y/n’s eyes are misty with happy tears. She hadn’t seen this coming like this at all, she had thought maybe it would happen in a year or two but not now.

It doesn’t matter the timing, Quinn is forever hers and she’s forever his.

“Quinn, This, here. It’s perfect.” She says, her voice full of wonder and love. “I wouldn’t want it any other way. So it is ideal. Don’t worry about what it looks like.”

Quinn broke away from Elias and Brock’s playful teasing, his smile growing as he wrapped her in a warm embrace. The cheers of his teammates and the small gathering of family erupting once more, but all Y/N could hear was the steady beat of his heart against her chest. He leaned down, cupping her face in his hands, and kissed her.

It was a kiss filled with the passion of a thousand suns, the promise of a lifetime together, and the sweetness of a love that had only grown stronger with each passing day. His lips were gentle yet firm, a declaration of his love and commitment. Hers responded eagerly, her arms snaking around his neck, the coldness of the ice forgotten in the heat of the moment.

Mia had been standing off to the side watching her best friend happily. As the couple kissed she muttered to what she thought was just herself “I’m so painfully single.”

“You and me both. Hi, name is Nico. Captain of the New Jersey Devils.”

[fairylando]

allora.

[puck-bunnies]

or nah..?

quinn hughes x fem!reader

warnings: nsfw 18+, oral sex (m and f receiving), degrading, praising, dom!quinn, semi public sex, car sex

word count: 2.1k

getting into a argument after a tough loss, the only way you can resolve your fight is by quinn bossing you around. can you take all of him, or nah…?

“it’s not your fault quinn, you played the best you could.” we’re on the road driving home from the canucks game. they lost 4-1, he’s beating himself up, thinking he lead his team to failure, against an easily beatable team at that. quinn’s fingers grip harshly on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white with pressure. i notice his jaw clench, teeth grinding together as he lightly speeds down the dark road.

he doesn’t talk to me, there isn’t much to say. i look out the window, not daring to look at him in his angered manner. “what do you want from me quinn, do you want me to coddle you and tell you everything will be okay?” i bicker at him, my short temper showing when i know this isn’t a good time. my heart regrets the second those words escape my lips.

his teeth pierce the inside of his cheek, his eyebrows squeeze together in annoyance. “jesus Y/N, can you take five seconds off to being a complete asshole.” i’m not stunned by his words, we often have disagreements and bicker back and forth, but it always ends in the same thing. hate sex.

“i’m not the one who’s moping around because his team lost one game, it’s not the end of the world quinn.” i roll my eyes and look out the window.

he huffs, “don’t roll your eyes at me Y/N, i’ll give you a reason to roll your eyes.” quinn’s grip tightens on the wheel, turning into a backroad on the way to our house. i don’t listen to him, rolling my eyes at his bitchy demeanour again. he pulls over on the side of the road and slams on the breaks, making me wince with a jump. “out of the car, now.” he demands, i don’t waste a second to work with his wishes.

the cold winter air hits me hard, my cheeks and nose flushing with a blush. quinn slams the car door once he steps out of the drives seat, rounding the car and meeting me on the side of the abandoned road. popping open the back car door, he sits on the seat, facing me on the outside. “on your knees.” he husks.

i don’t hesitate, the rubble piercing my exposed skin as i’m only wearing a skirt, i don’t mind it, just ready for what’s in store my adrenaline overrides the soft pain. quinn unzips his own jeans, “you’re going to suck my cock like the slut you are. it’ll keep your mouth shut for once.” his eyes glare down at me, shimmying his jeans and boxers off of his hips.

quinn’s already hard cock springs out of his boxers, hitting the bottom of his stomach before coming back at my face. my fingers graze his light pink tip that’s already coated in pre cum, softly rubbing before going down the shaft, warming up his needy cock. i lower my head down, swirling my teasing tongue around the head, my spit coating his aching cock. “don’t be tease now. take it all.” quinn forms my hair into a makeshift ponytail, pulling the roots of my hair enough to make me wince.

i curse under my breath, he bucks his hips up, letting himself slide into my warm and wet mouth. my hand goes down to his base, playing with the length i haven’t touched yet. my tongue acts as a pillow for his cock, laying on it as i slide myself down farther. it doesn’t take long for quinn’s length to hit the back of my throat, he stops forcing himself farther when he feels be gag too much.

easing his hips back before bucking themselves up again. my hand corkscrews the rest of his base, my other resting on quinn’s thigh to steady myself. he uses his hands to guide my head up and down while thrusting his hips, fucking my face softly at first. it doesn’t take long for him to start getting rougher, hitting the back of my throat to receive a little gag every stroke.

i dig my nails into his thigh, my pussy starting to drip with need and desire to be filled with him. i clench around nothing, trying to give myself a little something to feel good with. i take my hand off of his thigh, running down my body to my crotch. my fingers slide up and down my clothed cunt, pressing harder where my clit sits, getting a soft moan around quinn’s cock as i hit my sensitive bud.

he pulls my hair up, his cock leaving my mouth with a soft pop. “are you touching yourself while sucking my cock?” he asks in a rough manner, i nod, not being able to find words. “what makes you think you deserve that. you’ve been nothing but a brat, make me cum and maybe you’ll get something in return.”

my eyes are soft and wide as i look up at him, dragging my hand away from my desperate cunt and back onto his thigh. “good girl.” he mutters. before he can ask me to, i take him back into my mouth, sliding down till it hits the very back of my throat. quinn groans with surprise above me, letting out a soft whimper as he tightens his grip on my hair, pushing me up and down with ease.

my tongue drags up and down, feeling every vein that runs up his length. my freshly manicured nails dig into his skin, my thighs clench together to cause the friction that it so needs.

quinn turns into a groaning mess above me, every time i get to his tip and circle my tongue around it he softly whimpers. sliding my mouth back down on his cock, the sound of a passing car makes my stomach burn with anxiety. it makes me stop in my tracks, quinn’s cock filling up my mouth but my head doesn’t move an inch. i feel his burning gaze down at me, scolding me for stopping.

“no one’s doing to see us, don’t stop, not now.” he practically growls at me. he pushes my head down him farther, taking control of me. i let him continue his control, pulling my head by my hair back up his cock. he bucks his hips at the same time, not letting himself slip out of the warmness of my mouth again. i soft moan against him, “oh yeah..? you like when i fuck your mouth like this?” quinn’s voice comes out in a groan, showing his neediness for me but his dominance over me at the same time.

i can tell he’s getting close as his thighs clench underneath my hands, his thrusts up into my mouth becoming more needy. every time his tip hits the back of my throat making me gag gets him closer, groans filling the night air.

“fuck.” he curses out, then i feel it. liquid spitting out of his cock as his pace slows, chasing his own high desperately. my eyes stay trained on his face as he tilts his head back, his eyes screwing shut as he lets his orgasm take over him.

quinn pulls my head back up, his spent dick falling out of my mouth. he smirks at me, acknowledging the talent i have with just my mouth. “see, it wasn’t that hard to be good.” he whispers, pulling me up his body.

quinn’s lips smash onto mine, my teeth biting down on his bottom lip to let my tongue slide in, letting him taste the hint of him that still lingers in my mouth. he releases his grasp on my hair, instead falling down to my waist as he replaces my tongue with his, filling up my mouth.

he suddenly backs away, getting up from the car seat and joining me in standing next to the car. i don’t expect him to slam the door shut, his hands going back to my waist to pin me against the closed door. hands running down my sides to my ass, giving it a tight squeeze receiving a soft hum from me.

quinn lowers his body, kneeling on the ground as his hands slowly make way down my naked legs. my leg gets lifted, hooking onto his shoulder to let him look up at my core. getting a glimpse of my black laced panties, he slides a singer up my folds, landing on my clit, giving it a teasing rub. i take a deep breath in through my teeth, my pussy clenching around nothing as i badly crave for more of him.

he hooks two fingers in the side of my panties, moving them to the side to get an easy view of my soaked pussy. i don’t miss the smirk on his face, he always takes pleasure in seeing what i do to him, even just by sucking him off.

he replaces his fingers with his mouth, giving me a soft and teasing kiss on my clit. my hand gravitates to his hair, pulling at his soft brown curls. i push him closer to me, needing more of him so badly. he pulls against my wishes, not granting me the one thing i need so badly.

“be patient baby.” quinn’s demeanour changes from the once demanding man to a soft and gentle one. that’s how quinn always is when he eats me out, soft and praising as he gets drunk off the taste of my pussy.

he finally goes back in, his tongue flicking softly against my sensitive bud. the stubble of his growing out beard rubs against the inside of my thighs making me whimper. my knees buckle as i try not to fall from the pleasure, my back slightly arching off the cold car door being me. my head rolls back softy as quinn slides a finger into me, “keep your eyes on me pretty girl.” he softly demands of me. it’s one of his rules in bed, when he’s eating me out, my eyes have to stay on his.

i oblige, staring down at him as his mouth disappears under my skirt. my hands grab the hem of my skirt, hiking it up so i can see more of what he does to me. his tongue circling my aching clit as he adds a second finger into my hole, my walls clenching with the new added filling.

i mumble curses under my breath, quinn’s fingers curling up to my g-spot instead of jamming in and out. he takes his time with me, my hands pushing him in farther as i already feel my orgasm coming up to me, about to hit me like a bus. quinn knows it’s coming too, the quickness of his tongue against me rabidly increasing with every lick. his grip on my thigh that’s laying on his shoulder tightening, and the other on my ass playing with it.

my body can’t take it anymore, clenching one more time around him as i set my release. my loud moans filling the chilly air around me, my breath leaving with a smell smoke of air. i don’t realize the closing of my thighs, capturing quinn who has to guide my legs apart to release himself.

his fingers leave me, making me feel empty again. he slides them into his mouth, licking me off of them before doing the same against my folds. i wince slightly, my still sensitive pussy being cleaned by quinn’s tongue. “you taste so good baby.” he mumbles against me making me whimper once more.

he finishes, climbing back up my body to press his lips back against mine. this time i taste myself along his lips and tongue, moaning at the taste of sex between our mouths. “see, it doesn’t take a lot for you to be good.” quinn whispers to me.

the passenger door opens as he pulls it, letting me slip into the chair. he rounds the car, slipping into the drivers seat beside me. we finish our drive him, finally both getting the rest we so desperately need.

[tiger-balm]

Love that natemac is still a proud mitch lover bc im sure it makes the hockey uncles soo mad. Oh one if the best players in the world, a guy who they might even consider the best bc he already has a cup, is out here constantly complimenting mitch? Inviting him to train together and saying he wishes he could have him on his team? I just know the uncles are sick to their stomach

[holy-puckslibrary]

─ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜.

pairing(s) — fwb!MATTHEW TKACHUK x reader wc — 3.2k synopsis — best not-boyfriend boyfriend ever! (read the request here) note — bestie, your brain? marvelous! this was an absolute joy to write, and i hope this captures your vision!!! thank you for the request <3

main masterlist

content warnings under the cut.

cw — hints of a debut-inspired ensemble; complicated, grossly intimate situationship + emotional constipation; angst (not really) to fluffy fluffy; tswizzle references; suggestive section: "heavy petting" but nothing explicit / fade to black; brief alcohol mention + consumption; brief mention of food (no specifics); and ~emotions~ 

I. it’s getting so much clearer… 

Matthew regrets making you a key. 

Majorly.

If he’d known the can of worms he was opening when he unceremoniously dropped them in your lap one night, he would’ve listened to his brother; you don’t give girlfriend privileges to women who aren’t your girlfriend. It only leads to hurt feelings, broken console controllers, and unnecessary trouble. 

However, it’s highly unlikely this is the “trouble” to which Brady was referring. 

Rooted in the entryway, he surveys the damage. 

Beads of all shapes, sizes, and colors sit in a sea of jars. Some have spilled out under the coffee table and couch, others have made it all the way into the kitchen. Knotted balls of elastic are sprinkled throughout the chaos, as are multiple pairs of scissors, skeins of embroidery floss, and shards of construction paper. There are markers everywhere, but for some unknown reason, the crayons and sticker sheets are in nice, neat piles. A white feather boa is draped over the entertainment center and there’s a pink one curled by his feet. And, in the eye of the storm, is an anxious lump frantically stringing together DIY jewelry and muttering along to the megamix blaring through the room; he doubts you even heard him come home. 

“Sweetheart, is there a reason it looks like a craft store threw up everywhere?” Matthew shouts as he gingerly braves the hurricane. 

Something crunches under his shoe, and from the sound alone, he knows it would’ve been worse than stepping on a Lego if his feet were bare. 

He also knows that if the music were even a decibel lower, you would be pissed beyond belief. How dare he move freely through his own home without first checking for rogue pieces of plastic? His ears are ringing, but he’s grateful for it. From many years of mistakes and misadventures, he's learned you won’t get on top if you’re mad, regardless of how much groveling he does. And he's got one foot in the doghouse after last weekend as it is. 

“T-minus two days ’til Taylor, Matthew,” you grumble from the floor. “What do you think?” 

You’ve been at this for weeks. It gets worse the closer the concert gets. The mess and your mood. 

Matthew isn’t stupid, and he knows you better than he lets on. You panic under the weight of your own (often unrealistic) expectations. You need everything to be perfect, or the entire world crumbles. This, Night One of the Florida dates of the Eras Tour, is, understandably, no exception. If anything, the pressure’s dialed up to eleven. 

In stressing over every little detail, you’ve made yourself miserable. Watching you unravel makes his chest feel strange. 

You won’t ask for help. You don’t want it, either.

But, he can’t let you flounder. For his own sanity, he can’t do it. And he does care about you. Maybe not in the way everyone assumes or hopes, but he does. He’d do almost anything to lighten your load. 

Yet, Matthew treads lightly. If he’s too forthcoming, you could get the wrong idea. He doesn’t want to spook you, and he can’t have any wires getting crossed. What’s so good about your situation is how markedly uncomplicated it’s been. He refuses to be the one who fucks it up for everyone. 

So, he does what he can, and he does it without making a big deal about it. 

After a quick shower and a change of clothes, he sinks down onto the floor beside you. You’re perched on one of the obnoxious throw pillows you insisted he order to “spruce up” the space and make it look less “bachelor pad-y." As if that’s not exactly what it is. He takes this as rare permission to do the same, placing one under his hips and cuddling another to his chest as he stretches out on his stomach, phone in hand. 

Well, as stretched as a person can be in the middle of an obstacle course. 

Between the second play of “cowboy like me” and the third of “Tim McGraw,” his various feeds dry up, and he’s spammed his contacts into oblivion. You're still chugging along, like a Sad Girl automaton locked in an endless glittery assembly line. 

At one point, you murmur, “Give me your wrist." 

And he does. 

Matthew’s taken aback when you loop elastic around it to get a measurement.

He’s confused, but not for the reason one might assume. He’s painfully familiar with the friendship bracelet phenomenon and the giddy exchanges, having been force-fed hours' worth of tour content over the past year, but he never thought you’d rope him into it.

The buzz under his skin is oddly auspicious, watching you clip the appropriate length before reaching for the pile laid out near his head. 

It’s not long before you make the same request again. However, this time, you slide on a custom creation. You fiddle with it for a moment, then turn back to your station to begin the next one on the list. 

“And in which era does she cosplay as a camp counselor?” Matthew teases as he thumbs the letter beads.

They spell out a moniker he’d honestly find offensive if you hadn’t looped the song one too many times. He wonders if you’ve made yourself the matching one. 

You emit a sound that haunts his nightmares and side-eye him in a way that would’ve made a lesser man disintegrate. 

“If you don’t want it, give it back so I can give it to someone who will appreciate my time and effort,” you bite with your hand outstretched, palm up and open expectantly. 

Matthew shoves it away, suddenly defensive. “I never said that.” 

The sun slips behind the fence an hour later, and the sky bathes the house in purple-pink hues. As he gathers ingredients in the kitchen, Matthew watches the slow-moving clouds absentmindedly. He hasn't felt this content in a while.

Arms full, he wades through the arts and crafts on the way to the backyard. 

You’re still in the den, still hunched over in the same place he found you in. He shakes his head when he passes you, knowing he’s got an hour (at least) moonlighting as a masseuse in his future. 

You don’t startle or acknowledge him until the grill set you bought for his birthday clatters to the floor. 

“Why’re there two cowboy hats getting glitter all over my patio?” he asks, despite knowing the answer. And hating it. Vehemently. 

You fix him with an unamused glare. Your brow quirks, and your hands still. Then, you blink at him very slowly. Like he’s an idiot. Like he just asked a stupid question—because he did. 

Matthew’s head wags so intensely that his neck cracks.

“Oh, hell no.” 

II. it’s coming undone…

Matthew scowls at his reflection. 

“—looks so fucking stupid.” 

He can’t tell if he looks worse with or without the fur-trimmed, shimmery cowboy hat. And, honestly, it's a little distressing. After temporarily ditching it, he tugs at his curls. Then, the hem of the jersey. 

Resigned, he reaches across the bed for the homemade accessory. Wearing it will make you smile—and it gives his dignity something to hide behind. 

Twitter’s going to have a fucking field day. 

Your panicked voice spills out from the hotel bathroom, “Really?” 

“Of course, it fucking do—” 

His tirade of vanity grinds to a screeching halt at the sight of you, backlit and wilting. 

“That’s not—ah, fuck.” Matthew digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. “What I meant was—me, it looks stupid on me. Not you. On you, it looks… It looks…” 

“It looks, what?” 

It looks like he’s glad none of your friends were available because he won’t have to pretend you’re less than you are.

No lectures, no goading, no scrutiny. Just you. 

“Right.” That’s the word he settles for. “It looks right.” 

The emphasis chips away at what little believability the underwhelming affirmation had. That much is evident from the insecurity bleeding through your makeup. 

“Right,” you parrot. Skeptically, you drag out the vowel long enough that it disappears into the bathroom with you. 

Before the door clicks shut, Matthew’s already berating himself for whatever just happened. For acting like a complete doofus with a foot shoved down his throat. 

His mind is as quick as his tongue is sharp. He’s got confidence for days and a cocky demeanor primed and on-call, one that most women find endearing. Yourself included. He’s never had an issue dishing out pretty words or flirting before, especially not with you. 

With you, banter came easy. Sweet or salacious, it didn’t matter. The bob and weave, from platonic chatter to something charged and suggestive, is effortless. And it’s been that way for as long as he can remember. It's innate. He should be able to uphold his reputation in his sleep. 

What’s gotten into him? 

(You’d say the power of Taylor Swift, or some shit. Which is why he doesn’t open the floor for discussion. Among other reasons.) 

Matthew makes the executive decision to put things right. To redeem himself, to feel more like himself. 

His palms are hot and tingling as he sets off to do what he does best. Something fool-proof. Something that’ll erase the past ten minutes from the collective consciousness. Something to scratch an itch...

He won't make it through three and a half hours without catching a public indecency charge. 

Not with you looking like that.  

“I was thinking,” Matthew trails off as he comes up behind you in the en suite bathroom. His hands land on the counter, one on either side of you. “We should fool around a little bit before we leave.” 

With his chest flush to your back and his chin propped on your shoulder, he blatantly checks you out.

You, albeit begrudgingly, find it flattering. On principle, you roll your eyes. 

You snort. “Funny." 

Sarcasm pinches his face as he unintelligibly mocks you. 

Whatever witty retort he had died on his tongue when you lean forward to put some eyeliner in your waterline, inadvertently pushing the curve of your backside right into his growing bulge. 

Matthew turns you to face him without warning. 

The kohl pencil goes flying, dotting the pristine space as it tumbles to the floor. Its final resting place is unknown; you’ll follow the smudge-crumbs later. 

Later, when he doesn’t have you pressed tight between the harsh edge of the counter and his chest. 

Later, when the dull ache in your arched back dissipates. 

Later, when his attraction isn’t so painfully tangible. 

Later, when he isn’t looking at you the way he is now.  

You’re sinking in a shade of blue you don’t recognize. It’s stormy, vast and disquieting. Like any collision, you’re unable to tear your eyes away even though you know you should. It betrays an aura of foreboding, yet somehow, Matthew’s charged gaze carries a soothing effect. It's hypnotic in an stomach-twisting way. 

“I’m not laughing, sweetheart.” He breathes the words through the slight part in your lips, his voice rich and thick like honey. 

“W-We need to be quick—” 

Matthew buries his face in the sweet-smelling crook of your neck. Intent on shutting you up, he succeeds with infuriating ease once he’s latched onto your throat. He nips and sucks whenever you protest, and soon, you don’t even bother trying anymore.

Why lie and deny when what you want feels this fucking good? 

When your nails dig impatient little half-moons into his forearms, Matthew bares his teeth with a triumphant hiss.  

He grins against your skin, humming atop your erratic pulse. 

“Better hurry up and spread ‘em, then.” 

Matthew’s between your dangling boots as soon as you’ve hoisted yourself onto the counter. Kneading the soft skin of your thighs, inching up and in with eager hands, he doesn’t slow or stop until the white Self-Titled sundress is bunched up in the hinge of your hips.

“That’s my girl.” 

III. it’s delicate…

“All Tequila, No Crime” isn’t as diabolical of a cocktail as it sounds. 

Spending $100+ to taste test it and three other signature mixed drinks is. 

A robbery, if you ask him. 

What's downright criminal, though, is your inability to finish a single one. A “Last Great American G&T” with a few sips missing, a half-finished “Midnight Mule,” and a watered-down “Blue Debut” sit abandoned amongst an assortment of sweet treats and small bites. 

As he waits for what he ordered, Matthew picks at the vibrant fruit salad. He’s about to pluck a honeydew star from the pile stacked high in a bowl fashioned from a watermelon rind when the back of his neck prickles. 

“Knock it off.”

You blink, bemused. 

Matthew, having watched your reaction in a reflection, rolls his eyes. 

Back still to you, he clarifies. “You promised you wouldn’t make this a whole thing.”  

“I'm not.” 

“You've never been a good liar.” 

“Isn't that a good thing?” you deflect. 

You turn your attention back to the lively stadium, watching as it fills with laughter and anticipation. You're hoping he'll take the hint and drop it, that he won't pull the night apart at the seams. 

He abandons the sprawling buffet table in favor of the plush recliner beside yours. Once settled, Matthew slides a plate of your favorites across the small table between you. 

“Don't change the subject.” 

The cement under your boots makes for a captive audience as you sail into dicey weather. “I know—I know what I said, and I'm really trying my best, but can you blame me? I mean, c’mon, Matty. Look where we are.”

“A Taylor Swift concert?” Matthew does what he does best.

You know his tells and his tricks. You indulge neither. 

“My first Taylor Swift concert. Ever. I came out of The Queue From Hell empty-handed and shit out of luck, yet here we are. The Eras Tour. And not way up the nosebleeds or side-stage with an obstructed view. A suite. A private, fifteen-person suite—for just us. You did that.” 

Matthew shifts uncomfortably. He scratches the shadow clinging to his jaw. He looks everywhere, at everything. Everything except you. 

“So?” 

The probe is firm yet reluctant but not inherently dismissive. 

“So,” you heave a labored sigh of unease. “—so, how could I not? This ‘whole thing’ is the kindest, most thoughtful gesture anyone’s ever done for me. It means the absolute world, and I know you know that.” 

A thick, paralyzing quiet descends on the balcony. 

He does know that, which is what makes it so terrible. He knows, he knows, he knows. Matthew knows; he wishes he didn’t. For years, he successfully kept it at bay because… because you can’t just un-know something like that. Even entertaining the thought felt too big a risk. It jeopardizes the delicate peace only willful ignorance can safeguard. 

“Alright, alright. Jesus, sweetheart. Can't have you emptying the tank before the show even starts,” Matthew teases as he thumbs the tears away. “How d’ya know I didn’t pull some strings just to put an end to your perpetual pity party?” 

He’s trying to lighten the mood. Hoping to inch away from the emotionally dense zone of uncharted territory, hoping you’ll have mercy—or take pity—on him and his plight of avoidance. 

And you do.  

Ever the benevolent people-pleaser. 

You take your foot off the gas. You retreat to the status quo. You yield, but for a good cause.

Good and right aren’t synonymous. And we can’t will them to be. So, instead, we choose our battles and bide our time. 

There’s no reason to rain on tonight’s parade. 

“Thank you,” you acquiesce.  

Mathew smiles. 

This ceasefire, this tacit truce, is as fragile as rice paper. It feels as though, if someone pushed too hard from either side, they'd go right through it unchallenged. But, for now, it's enough. 

He takes your hand and squeezes. “And for the hundredth time, you’re welcome.” 

IV. it’s been a long time coming…

He gets it now. 

Truthfully, he understood after the very first bridge of the night. There’s just something about the intimacy of the spectacle; it's… indescribable. With thousands from all walks of life gathered in a single stadium to celebrate nearly two decades of singing, crying, and growing up together, it wasn't difficult to get swept up in the magic. 

For someone who’d consider themselves fan-adjacent at best, he wasn’t expecting to feel much of anything, let alone goosebumps, misty-eyed. 

He can’t even imagine how extraordinarily special it must’ve been for you, a lifelong fan, to partake in the world’s most cinematic sing-along. To luck out with your opener of choice, to be surprised with your favorite song during the acoustic set—you could probably die happy. Matthew can still feel your tear-streaked cheek against his shoulder and your shakey hand clasped in his. And he’ll remember the warmth of your joy for the rest of his life. 

He, however, doesn't have to imagine how much the experience took out of you. 

“Hey, hey. Don’t pass out on me yet, sweetheart.” 

You’re one minute into a five-minute Uber ride, and he’s already had to nudge you twice. 

Curled against the cool window like a cat, you groggily protest, “I’m not. My mind is alive, promise.”  

He snorts. “Then why’re your eyes shut?” 

“They aren’t!” 

They absolutely are. 

Matthew tugs you across his lap with a smile pulling at his cheeks. 

“Sounds like you need to get yours checked, Matthew Brendan,” you quip into his chest before drowning the backseat in delirious giggles. 

In the golden glow of the streetlamps, his smirk rests against your temple. 

Here is the moment. There have been hundreds like it in the years since you met. Lighthearted banter and late night laughter spill over into the early morning hours, all of it utter nonsense he wouldn’t trade for anything. It should be perfectly ordinary, but it's music to his ears. 

The cowboy boots he swore he wouldn’t carry home rest against his similarly sore calves. The ziplock bag, once bursting at the seams with bracelets, is empty and folded in his back pocket, and his arm is full from elbow to wrist. The glitter he contested clings to him like a second skin, there to stay. 

And he doesn’t hate it. 

💌 if you liked it, pls lmk! 💌

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[puckpocketed]

12/10/2024 - NJD @ WSH

[ratatatastic]

every new paul lore drop we get we just learned hes just been the worlds punching bag ever since he was a wee lad

[possessedbymypast]

just like you said - the story so far

[onismdaydream]

hockey player yuji who always finds time during the warm-ups to skate over to where you're standing behind the glass, that big, crooked smile on his face as his eyes land on you. he always knocks a puck over the barrier for you and you can tell that he's saying an "i love you" by the way his lips move. you blow him a kiss for good luck before he goes back to the rest of his team and continues the drills.

[puck-luck]

hallmates | quinn hughes

warnings: voyeuristic themes (thin walls), masturbation (fem), dirty talk, wet dreams, drunkenness, quinn pining but barely, garland mentioned before i found out he followed trump and tucker carlson on instagram..., PROTECTED p in v (for once), the smut in this is not as strong as previous pieces of mine, use of Y/N. pairing: quinn hughes x fem!reader summary: when fem!reader moves in next to qh, there are two instances where she forgets just how thin the walls are. the second time, quinn is sure to remind her. wc: 5746

Your first grown-up job out of college has been great. You like your coworkers, you’re not bored with your daily tasks, and they gave you a very generous relocation package for your move to Vancouver. You were lucky enough to find a nice apartment with the money, and you paid the first three months’ rent easily. It’s your first one-bedroom apartment, finally living on your own for the first time in your life, and almost everything is perfect.

Almost everything.

Your one gripe is that you can hear your neighbor through the wall when he gets home from his job at weird hours, or when he has friends over during weeknights when you’re trying to prepare for work the following day, or even when he hosts holiday parties for what sounds like fifty-plus people.

It happens often enough that you’re annoyed when his presence makes itself known, but you’re not the kind of person to go over and tell him to knock it off. Plus, you decided that you’d give him a pass because it’s not like he’s doing it on purpose.

Well, that, and he’s cute.

The first time you met was on move-in day. You were lugging your suitcases up the stairs leading to the apartment and he offered to help you carry them in. He took them both– one in each hand– and lifted them like they were nothing. He brought them all the way to the lobby, then smiled softly at you instead of saying “You’re welcome” when you thanked him. You had to talk to the security guard to get your key before ascending up to your floor in the elevator, and in that time, the cute boy had disappeared. You hadn’t caught his name, but you had texted your best friends and informed them that there was at least one hottie in your building.

You learned his name the second time he helped you carry something up the stairs. You had gone grocery shopping at the market down the street and had conveniently forgotten your reusable bags. Before you realized your mistake, you had gone a little crazy with the fruits and vegetables. You’d had to pack all of your goodies into two bursting paper bags that one of the vendors had on hand, and they were filled to the brim. You made it all the way to the bottom of the steps to your apartment when the handles of the bags tore off and all of your hard work was suddenly for naught.

The bags went crashing to the pavement, dirty and littered with the fallen leaves that hadn’t been corralled when they first made their way to the ground, and the prized red onion that you were going to chop up tonight as part of your dinner rolled about a foot away. 

All in all, you should’ve been glad it was the onion. You always peel the skin off of an onion before you cook it, and you always wash it thoroughly before cutting it up, but you reacted like it was the end of the world. Your prized onion was tarnished by the ground, which was silly, because they come from the ground in the first place. 

The onion rolled all the way to your neighbor’s feet. He was arriving home with a friend, a short brunet with floppy hair and a mustache. “You okay?��� Your neighbor asked. He picked up the onion and cradled it in his palm.

“I’m fine,” you replied. “Just not sure how I’m going to carry all of this upstairs without the handles.”

“We’ll help out. You live next to Huggy, right?” The friend said, bending down to lift one of the bags. He cradles it in his arms and your neighbor does the same.

“Huggy?” You asked, furrowing your eyebrows.

Your neighbor, in the meanwhile, had blushed beet-red and stooped down to pick up the other bag of groceries. “That’s me. It’s a nickname.”

“Huggy Bear,” his friend cooed, bumping his arm and knocking your neighbor off balance. 

“It’s Quinn. My name. You can call me Quinn,” your neighbor said, diverting your attention from the silly nickname.

“How do you know which apartment I live in, Quinn?” You questioned. You walked alongside the men as they took your groceries up the stairs, into the elevator, and into your apartment.

Quinn had cut his friend off by replying first. “Moving in makes a lot of noise. I live next door and we share a wall. You weren’t really quiet when you built your bed. I’m glad you have somewhere to sleep, but I could live without the expletives.” He reveals the information with a smile, the same slight curve of his lips that you’re starting to really admire.

That was that. They dropped the groceries off on your kitchen counter and you thanked them for the help, then sent them on their way.

The third time you saw Quinn– well, it started this whole mess. He’s been nice to you twice, so you thought you would repay him with the best thing you could think of: brownies. You’d just gotten the recipe from your aunt to make them from scratch and, hey, he’s a guy, right? Guys like baked goods. 

The quickest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Not that you’re trying to get to Quinn’s heart. You wouldn’t mind it, but you’re not… trying.

Thirty minutes later, you’re knocking on Quinn’s door with a plate of brownies. Half of your goods are on the platter, ready for Quinn to dig into. The rest are on your counter, their yummy scent rising in waves from them like in a cartoon and waiting for you to return. 

You only know that he’s home because you can hear him through the wall. After he told you that the walls were thin, you’d been noticing the same thing. It wasn’t just when he gets home or when he has people over. You can hear him moving around and cooking throughout the day. You can hear his sports channels through the wall– yes, that’s right, channels. Multiple. You’re not sure, but he might have two or even three TVs. 

Long story short, Quinn’s home. It takes him a few minutes to come to the door when you knock. “Who is it?” He asks, voice muffled through the door.

“Your friendly next door neighbor,” you reply. “With a plate of fresh brownies.”

The lock slides open and Quinn appears from behind the door. You hold the plate out to Quinn and he takes it from you with one hand. The other rests above his head on the doorframe. He leans over you, smiling softly. 

Suddenly, you don’t know what to say. You don’t know where you were going with this. Your eyes are drawn to his neck, which looks muscular and, well, biteable.

“Enjoy the brownies,” you squeak out, then you turn on your heel and bolt away.

Like any normal woman who is shocked by her sudden visceral attraction to her admittedly-hot next door neighbor, you call your best friend. She talks you through it for a little while, then starts to stray into enemy territory: “Go out, Y/N. Get your mind off of it. Have a drink, get a little tipsy, then go over to his place and tell him how hot you think he is. You’ve never heard a girl’s voice, right? I feel like you would’ve, if he has a girlfriend. The worst he can say is that he’s not interested.”

When you try to weasel out of it, speaking in low tones so that Quinn doesn't hear you through the wall, she reminds you that your resolution for this “new stage of your life” was to stop being so anxious about what someone could say to you. You had declared that you wouldn’t let your own anxiety affect your ability to be vulnerable, especially not with the people that you find attractive. 

Damn your best friend. How dare she look out for you. She even promises to call you in four hours to check in on your drunkenness.

You make plans with the girl in your office that you’ve been taking lunch with. She’s also new– not compared to you, but within the past year. She remembers what it was like to be brand new to Vancouver, so she’s eager to go out with you and offer up her friendship. She takes you to two bars in the downtown area: when the first one gets too full with what she calls “the sport crowd,” you move to the next.

Your coworker’s favorite liquor is tequila. After three shots, which make you cringe despite filling your stomach with warmth, she pulls your troubles out of you. You tell her all about your “sexy” roommate– that’s right, Quinn has been upgraded from “hot” to “sexy” as a result of the alcohol– and she encourages you to try and bag him, just like your best friend did. She agrees that there’s no reason not to and that you should be fine because you’ve been bolstered by the tequila.

She tells you about the person she’s currently seeing and how confusing it is, rambling on and on. When the time comes, and you’re still out, your best friend does call. You talk to her for a second, then she meets your coworker through speakerphone, and they bond over the fact that they both think you should hook up with Quinn.

You party into the night, getting more and more loopy. Your confidence skyrockets by the end of the evening and your drinks are tasting like water. You’re probably too far gone to actually talk to Quinn tonight, but who cares? You feel good. You needed a night out like this.

By the time you’re getting in the Uber, there’s a goofy smile that hasn’t left your face since maybe your fifth drink. You’re able to stumble up the stairs to the lobby and gleefully greet the nighttime security guard at his desk, then you ride the elevator up to your floor. You look up and see yourself in the mirrors on the ceiling of the elevator, which is a treat for Drunk-You. It’s almost a shame when the elevator dings, having finally reached your floor, and you have to leave.

You walk down the hall and consider going up to Quinn’s door, but your phone vibrates in your pocket and you dig it out. It’s the newly minted group chat between you, your coworker, and your bestie. It distracts you, and the clock in the top left corner informs you that you’ve gotten home at a crisp 1:30am, so you decide to go to bed. 

You go to bed, alright. You get ready, you get comfy, and then you remember Quinn’s neck. 

The skin looked so soft. The hair from his beard had started to creep down towards his adam’s apple, but it was neatly maintained. You can imagine how scratchy it would be in your palms, or against your cheek when he graces you with a little kiss, or against your neck while he sucks hickeys onto your skin… or against the sensitive expanse of your own thighs.

You know just how sensitive and delicate the skin is on your thighs because it’s where your fingers are dancing. 

As you drift off, mind still foggy from your drinks, your touch starts to feel much more like you imagine Quinn’s would. His big fingers, on that manly hand, would touch you so carefully. He’d be so determined to play you like a fiddle.

As you imagine your very sexy next door neighbor touching you, you’re making a lot more noise than you realize. It starts with a whimper here and there, then crescendos into actual moans and desperate keens. You’ve shoved your face into the pillow below you, but it does very little to muffle your moans– considering you’re a big fan of breathing, your face is more turned to the side so that you don’t actually suffocate yourself while in the middle of getting off. Your middle two fingers are shoved into your cunt, your index finger erratically sliding against your clit. 

“I know, baby, you feel so good. You want it so bad, don’t you?” Quinn’s imaginary and gently deprecating words wash over your brain like an intrusive thought. 

You bite your lip and turn into the pillow, pleading with him belligerently into the cushion. You’re fighting for your life in this little fantasy, feeling so overwhelmed, and the man you’re imagining isn’t even here. But, in your mind, he’s the one with his fingers inside of you, making you gasp out his name once when his finger passes over your clit just right. In your mind, he doubles down and turns you into a mess. The drinks clogging your mind are able to make it feel more real.

You’re so caught up in your own pleasure that you forget just how thin the walls are. You miss the sound of your neighbor tossing and turning in his bed, even standing at one point and pacing around his bedroom.

It’s only after you come that you hear his bedframe creak with the weight of his body and the faint music that he seems to be playing– maybe just as white noise to fall asleep. You write it off and succumb to the clawing hands of your own slumber. 

You see Quinn again the next day. You’re heading to work with a heavy hangover weighing on you– why did you listen to your best friend when she told you to go out on a Sunday? Why did you listen to your coworker when she brought out the second and third round of shots?– and Quinn seems to be heading to his own job. You still don’t know what that is.

You meet him in front of the elevator, waiting for its doors to open and let you in. You’re honestly not sure if the movement will make you feel more sick, or even push you over the edge and make you dizzy and on the verge of throwing up, like getting out of bed did when you woke up later than you meant to and you had to rush to get ready. Everything is too bright.

Quinn yawns three times in two minutes. You’re the only two in the elevator and the silence is growing more uncomfortable than the ache in your head, since you consider Quinn to be your… friend now? General acquaintance, distant crush, or next-door neighbor might be a better categorization. 

“Long night?” You ask. 

His cheeks turn pink, bizarrely, and Quinn seems determined to face straight forward. His eyes look a little more deer-in-headlights today, rather than the calm and serene blankness that you’re used to. Not that you’re used to looking into Quinn’s eyes. “Couldn’t sleep,” he mumbles.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you apologize, feeling for him. You’ve been the victim of a restless night many times over, so you know how dreadful it is the following day. “Do you know why?”

Quinn swallows harshly. “Um, I have an idea.”

It’s a weird answer, only because he doesn’t elaborate any further. You keep waiting for him to say something else, but he doesn’t. That is, until the elevator arrives in the parking garage under the complex, when Quinn starts to head one way towards his car and you start to go the other way to your own. To make things even more confusing, Quinn says in a very stilted voice, “Thanks for the brownies.”

Then, like you did when you dropped the brownies off the previous day, he bolts. 

At first, you’re confused, but you let it go. Maybe he was late for work. At least he took the time out of his day to thank you for the brownies, right?

You consider gifting him some of your sleepy-time tea, since he was having trouble sleeping and it’s clearly affecting him. Then you think to yourself that if you kept bringing Quinn treats, you would seem like a cat dropping a mouse at their owners’ feet… so you decide not to.

You feel vindicated with your choice in the coming days. Each time Quinn sees you, his eyes go wide and he scampers away as quickly as he can. It proves itself to be very confusing because he was so nice before. 

After a tough week at work, and another near-miss with Quinn, you’re just… tired. It’s been a weird few days. What you really want is to snuggle up in your bed, throw on some ambient music, drink a glass of wine, light a candle, and fall asleep early– after blowing out your candle, of course. You’d be damned if you were the reason the entire apartment burned down in the middle of the night.

You’re lucky enough that your plans for the night work out. You get to settle in with a book– a spicy romance novel that your coworker recommended to “take the edge off if you won’t knock on Quinn’s damn door.” She seems to think that the reason you’re having a bad week is because you haven’t hooked up with Quinn yet. You don’t think there’s any correlation.

There does seem to be a correlation between the spicy book, the mention of Quinn, and what happens later. You fell asleep with your book open against your chest, having been lulled to sleep by the comfort of your own home. 

It starts simple. Quinn’s lips are sliding against yours, his hand resting securely on your waist. You’re laying in bed and you’ve got a thigh over his hip, grinding into his generous length. Before you know it, and in dream-land it seems like a flash, Quinn’s length is inside of you. He’s got a thumb on your clit while the other plays with your hair, sweet kisses gracing your lips. Quinn’s content teasing you, thrusting as shallowly as he wants and leaving you whining for more. 

“Quinn,” dream-you insists between kisses. 

“Not enough for you, sweetheart?” dream-Quinn chides playfully, his voice riddled with fondness. “You weren’t even supposed to take my cock tonight. But no, you just had to be full. You couldn’t be content with warming me either, huh? You need me to fuck you whenever you want. Isn’t that right, baby?”

“Quinn, I need you,” you confirm, whining a little bit and pursing your lips so he finds them again.

“Music to my ears,” Quinn tells you with a smile. “Let me make you come, yeah?”

“Quinn,” you moan again, his touch reducing you to a mess that can only say one word: his name.

You wake to a loud knock on your apartment door. “Y/N!” The person calls, and it sounds like a man, which alarms you in your freshly awoken state.

You roll out of bed and tug on your bathrobe, which you had thrown in the dryer during your first stint in bed, the one that had sent you into sleep. And– and– had sparked that weird dream that has you wet in your panties and wishing Quinn had been there when you woke up.

You tie the belt of the robe around your waist and look through the peephole– it is Quinn. Your wish came true, in a bizarre way. He’s here and he looks concerned. He’s lifting his hand to knock again, but you open the door.

“Quinn, what’s–”

“Are you okay?” He asks. He’s wearing sweatpants and an undershirt, as well as his tennis shoes. He probably just slipped those on to come over here. “You were saying my name. I heard you through the wall. You said you needed me. Are you hurt? Is something wrong?”

The barrage of questions leaves you rattled. You blink in surprise, trying to process all of his inquiries. “What?” You ask, squeezing your eyes shut hard to try and wipe the sleep away. 

“You were saying my name,” Quinn repeats. 

You squint, crossing your arms over your chest. “I was asleep,” you say, aware of how confused you sound.

“You were asleep,” Quinn repeats. He blinks twice, then repeats himself, sounding more sure. “You were asleep.”

“I was asleep,” you agree.

Quinn goes to leave, then faces you again and tilts his head to the side. “What were you dreaming about?” He asks. 

You feel your face flood with embarrassment. You’ve never been good at controlling your expression. “It was nothing.”

“Was I there?” Quinn checks. “Is that why you were saying my name?”

“You were there,” you confirm, hoping it’s enough to satisfy him and he leaves. 

Quinn smiles. He looks extra handsome when he smiles. He was smiling at you in your dream. He was doing a lot of good things in your dream. If only you could fall asleep and jump right back in– you were so close and his cock was filling you so well. 

“What was I doing in this dream?” Quinn crosses his arms and takes a step closer to you. 

You move closer to the door, keeping your hand on the doorknob, ready to slam it behind him as soon as he heads back to his apartment. “I don’t remember,” you lie. “You know, most people forget their dream within ten minutes of waking up.”

Quinn nods, still smirking. “You didn’t forget this one, though, did you?” He teases knowingly. 

“Bits and pieces.”

The next thing Quinn says is Earth-shattering. 

“Were you dreaming last time, too?”

You wish you could melt into the floor or camouflage yourself against the wall. You had a theory that Quinn had heard you getting off through the wall the night that you were drunk, although you don’t imagine that he understood your wanton noises. That was why he was running away so much. 

But… he’s not running away this time. He’s here and he’s pressing you for more and more details.

“What do you mean?” You ask, swallowing hard.

“The last time you were saying my name,” Quinn prompts. “Were you asleep then, too?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do.”

“No, I don’t think so,” You reply, scrubbing over your arms. It’s a sign of being uncomfortable. Hopefully Quinn picks up on that and goes, sparing you any further humiliation. You’ll never talk to him again. He’s heard you make sex noises twice, and now you know that he knows. It’s embarrassing.

Quinn takes another step forward. He’s right in the doorway now, inches away from stepping across the threshold and entering your apartment. “If you have another dream,” he says, pushing his long sleeves up to his elbows and revealing his arms. He dips his head, lowering his voice to a timbre that has you growing damp again. “You know where to find me.”

Like a final stamp of approval on an official document, Quinn touches the knot at the front of your robe. It’s a brief, fleeting touch and it’s so close to where his hands were originally planted in your dream.

He turns to leave and gets all of three steps away before you call him back. “Quinn.”

“Mhm?” He asks, knowing smile on his face. 

“How, um… how much did you hear?” You scratch the back of your head awkwardly. 

“The first time?” Quinn asks. “Or this time?”

You don’t really want to know the answer, but you nod anyway. “Uh...both?”

“Well,” Quinn says. “Today, you didn’t seem to get very far.”

No thanks to you, you think bitterly. I would’ve liked to see how that dream ended.

“But the first time, I heard everything,” Quinn informs you with a little shrug. “You… you sound really pretty when you come.”

It’s a sheepish admission and it has your jaw dropping. You fishmouth at him for a second, unable to think of something to say. He can just say shit like that? What? How?

“I guess I was hoping…” Quinn licks his lower lip, then looks you up and down. “That if I interrupted you this time, I’d get to… experience the real thing. Not just listen in through the wall.”

“You want…” you trail off, overwhelmed by the information he’s giving you. Quinn wants to have sex with you? But he’s your neighbor crush– this is a new development in the dynamic that you were not expecting. You’re not usually the kind of girl whose little crushes are reciprocated, at least, not like this.

Quinn raises his eyebrows, waiting for you to complete the sentence. When you don’t, he asks another question. “What was I doing in your dream, Y/N?”

“We, um, we were in bed,” you stammer out, feeling unsure. He wants to know– he’s made that very clear. Still, you’re somewhat reluctant. It might be coming off as coyness by accident.

“Can I come in?” Quinn asks. “I need to get the full picture. I don’t know what your bed looks like.”

You stand aside and allow him in. You close, and, out of habit, lock the door behind him. He follows you to your bedroom. You try to see it through his eyes for the first time, although you’ve been living here for a while, so it’s hard. It’s just your bedroom.

“So this is where we were,” Quinn says. “Then what?”

“We were laying down,” you explain.

Quinn starts to take off his shoes, then his socks, then he climbs into your bed. “Like this?”

You feel lightheaded. What is he doing? This is so bizarre.

“Kind of?” You reply. You join him. “It was more like– this?” You pull at his arm until he lays on his side, facing you. You face him, bringing his elbow up so it rests on the pillow. 

He asked, you remind yourself. He wants to know. He asked. It’s weird, but you’re just showing him. 

You resolutely avoid his eyes, which have been trained on your face this whole time. Your cheeks are probably going to remain stained pink from the constant blush on your skin. You lay your head on the curve of his arm, then touch his cheek. Just his cheek. You’re still avoiding his eyes. It’s getting harder. “And then, um, my leg was over your hip, too.”

“Like this?” Quinn asks, bringing his warm palm to the curve of your knee and guiding your leg into place. He leaves his hand there.

“Like that,” you confirm faintly. 

All of your neurons are firing like crazy, making you question if this, too, is a dream. Has your subconscious gotten so meta that you can’t decipher what’s real and what’s fake?

“What else did we do?” Quinn’s voice has dropped to a whisper. His hand is still on your thigh.

“Well, your hand was here,” You say, correcting him and bringing his hand to your waist. “And you…”

Quinn gives your waist a little squeeze. “I… what?”

“You were kissing me,” you say, your voice barely a breath. This can’t be real. 

Quinn surprises you. “Good,” he murmurs. “I’ve been waiting to do that.” He leans in, letting his lips ghost over yours before he meets you completely. He’s hesitant, waiting for you to relax with him. 

You don’t fully, still confused from waking up and the fact that this happened so quickly and in such a bizarre way. When he pulls away, you voice your confusion. “Are you real?” You question under your breath.

Quinn chuckles, leaning in to kiss you again. “I’m real.”

He continues to kiss you. Over and over, until you finally melt into his touch and start to do exactly what you were doing in your dream– grinding against him. 

“Were you doing this in your dream?” Quinn asks. He’s helping guide your movements and you can feel him swelling beneath you. He’s not wearing underwear– you can tell. You want it, bad, and now that you’ve been kissing him, you’re more willing to explain the rest of your dream to him.

“More,” you breathe out. “I needed your cock inside me.”

Quinn makes a noise of surprise, but the way he kisses you after you say that reveals his enthusiasm.

“And you were talking to me,” you reveal as Quinn starts to meet your rolling hips. “You were– you were teasing me for being so needy.”

“What was I saying?” Quinn’s hand twitches against your waist, pulling you closer. He licks into your mouth briefly, then pulls back. “What had you begging for me, sweetheart?”

“Making fun of me,” you exhale. “Saying– I couldn’t get enough of you. That I was greedy and that I couldn’t be satisfied with just warming you–”

“Warming me,” Quinn repeats quietly, interrupting you.

You talk over him. “So you had to fuck me, but you weren’t really fucking me– you were just, inside, barely moving and your thumb was on my clit.”

“As if I could hold myself back like that,” Quinn scoffs. You grab the sides of his shirt and tug petulantly, bringing him in for another kiss. You’re addicted. 

“Show me,” you invite. “Show me how you’d fuck me. Show me what you’d do differently. Please. You came all the way over here– I want to make it worth your time.”

Quinn groans into your mouth, bringing his hand from your waist to the tie of your robe. “Really?”

“Don’t make me ask again,” you say. “I was so close in my dream.”

Quinn reacts to that in the same way. “Fuck, let me get my fingers in you first–”

“No.”

“No?” Quinn repeats, pulling away from you. 

“Not no,” you correct, bringing your hands to his waistband and snapping the band impatiently. “Just– I want your cock. Just your cock. Please fuck me, Quinn.” You kiss him sweetly one more time. “Please?”

“Undress yourself,” Quinn says. “I want to see all of you.”

“You too,” you reply. “Take your clothes off.”

As you undress, untying the knot of your belt and tossing the robe to the floor of your bedroom, you talk. You take your big t-shirt off, asking, “Condom?”

Quinn digs into the pocket of his sweats, having shed his shirt. He pulls out a foil– just one, sadly– and tosses it to you. 

You catch it, tearing the edge of the packet and taking out the ring of plastic inside of it. You push your panties down with one hand, while Quinn loses his sweats. As soon as his cock is revealed to you, hard and pink at the tip, you jump into action. You’re rolling the condom on quickly, unable to help yourself from pumping his shaft a few times.

“Quit,” Quinn remarks, batting your hand away and laying back down. He’s on his side, pulling your thigh back over his hip and resuming the position from before. He puts his hand under your jaw, then guides his cock to your opening. He pushes in, rolling his hips until every single inch is sheathed inside of you. “Fuck, baby. You feel so good.”

“You’re big,” you reply, holding his shoulders and tilting your pelvis forward to encourage him to move. “Filling me so nice, Q.”

“Q,” Quinn echoes, his voice sounding a little strangled. “That’s– that’s nice.”

You wonder if he’s holding back. He always seems to when it comes to talking to you. After a while, maybe he’ll give you something more than his shy words and his hesitant admissions. He’s in your bed now, but he’s still holding back.

He starts to rut against you, finding a rhythm in which his cock slides in and out of your heat. The movement is smooth because you’re so wet from dreaming about him, then kissing him, and now having him inside. Even though there’s the barrier of protection between you, he’s warm and you can feel the way his skin stretches over his veins and his tip. That, combined with the scrape of his member against your fleshy walls, creates something so warm inside of you that you can’t help but ask for more.

Quinn gives you everything you ask for like he can’t imagine doing anything else. Soon enough, he’s holding himself up slightly by his elbow so he has some leverage to fuck into you harder and faster. 

You’re moaning, pulling him closer and threading your fingers through his hair. “Quinn,” you’re saying, repeating the word that inspired him to come over in the first place. 

He’s saying your name, too. He’s whispering it into your ear and into your mouth as he presses kisses wherever he can reach. He thrusts, he says your name, he kisses. He thrusts again, he says your name again, and he kisses you again. It’s an endless cycle, a perpetual loop. It’s soft and sweet, even though the way he’s fucking you is anything but. His thrusts are sharp and pointed, hitting the right spot inside of you as often as he can. 

The kiss to your neck is your undoing. He’s sucking a bit, biting down just barely, and his tongue works against your pulse point. It’s too much, too full of something deeper. You let go, making the noise he likes so much– the noise that he said was pretty, and he meant it, even as bashful as he looked when he said it. Your moan mixes with his name again.

Quinn spills into the condom shortly after, touching you reverently and letting his hips jerk and twitch through his release. 

You feel innately close to him, like you’re part of him. It’s bizarre how one hookup with your cute neighbor leaves you feeling satisfied and unsettled– ‘unsettled’ because, well, why would you feel so close to a man you’ve slept with once and only had a few genuine conversations with?

Quinn eases your thoughts by letting you know that he feels, at least, a little bit similar to you. 

“Can I take you to dinner?” He asks. “I’m busy most of the time, but I want to take you out. Let’s make time to have a real date.” Quinn pauses. “Unless you don’t want to– if you just want this, that’s okay. I just– I’d feel stupid if I didn’t ask.”

You touch his mouth, effectively silencing him, even though you hadn’t meant to. You just wanted to feel his lips move while he spoke. “I’ll go to dinner with you,” you agree. “If you sleep here tonight.”

Quinn smiles. “Done.”

[finnesse]

3 times Chucky stares down at the camera looking all handsome and cute and | FLA @ MIN (December 18, 2024)

one of the best vs god is he nice with the puck (screams into the void)