(None of these works are mine, they are just some of my favourite reads)
Contents: WoSo, F1, Doctor Who, A Song of Ice & Fire, Bridgerton, Ted Lasso, NHL, Superman, The Vampire Diaries/The Originals, Off Campus
Summary: Dean is many things. Hot, rich, deceivingly perceptive, and a bit of a slut. But worst of all, a blonde. And you are his friend. Just his friend. And you hate it.
Convinced that your own personal purgatory is the friend-zone, the only way to escape is through a good book. Too bad for you that you’re as subtle as a gun shot. I still hate summaries.
Warnings: ROAD-TRIP!!! High School Musical reference, Dean is the ultimate shit disturber (affectionate), Logan and his fuck ass acronyms, Garrett is confused, Tucker is oblivious, Allie is a star and Hannah is perceptive as hell. No physical descriptions of reader! No use of y/n! Insinuations to sex and ‘happy endings’. I think that’s all, lmk if I missed anything!
A/N: One-shots my beloved. Beta’d by the woman, the myth, the legend @deceasedanddesist
WC: ~1.9k
Graphics: @saradika-graphics
Masterlist
You were a masochist.
Seriously, there was no other explanation for it.
‘It’ is your willingness to participate in an impromptu road trip with your best friends. A trip which now included Briar Hockey’s core four in addition to the two earth angels whom you met on your first day of freshman year.
But back to the matter at hand. The road trip; the reason why you were stuck sandwiched in between the boy you’ve been lying to yourself about liking and your best friend who knew. Knew that even though you said being attracted to blonde men was a ‘recession indicator’, the defenseman to your left had been the star of your most inner fantasies as of late.
Hannah’s first clue?
Your recent over consumption of romantic novels.
Most notable to the observant brunette, were the love interests of such novels; of a very specific variety. Cocky, emotionally unavailable, built-like-a-brick-shit-house blondes.
You said it was exam stress. That you had needed a big ole helping of escapism to get through the barrage of tests you were facing; a little harmless pleasure.
Nevermind that your recent reading binge had begun just after Hannah had formally introduced you and Allie to Garrett and his friends. Friends including Dean. No, no; that was a coincidence. Something to laugh about over sangria with the girls.
Well, you laughed. They didn’t. All they gave in response were teasing looks.
Now here you are; months later. Friendships forged with Garrett over your mutual love for Hannah, with Tuck through the sharing of family recipes, Logan via him doubling over laughing at you as you asked him what the ‘genie lamp’ symbol on your car’s dashboard meant, and Dean through… Well, everything.
It started one night in the hockey house after a call from back home. Nothing easy, it never was, and Dean knew. You didn’t say anything; didn’t have to. He knew something was wrong from how hard you were staring at the TV during a group movie night; the flick of the evening supposedly being your favourite, but when your expression hadn’t shifted in the first 15 minutes he knew something was wrong.
And so, you’d talked about it. And kept talking. About the mundane, the serious, anything that made you laugh or think just a little too hard.
Despite the seemingly shallow charisma that practically oozed from his pores, Dean was smart. He could read you not just like a book, but like a damn billboard posted on the highways of America. Much like the ones you were currently passing.
Thus made the seating arrangement in the minivan (because yes, mama Tucker had rented a minivan for your road trip) all the more awkward.
For you at least, strapped between Dean and Hannah in the middle of the van.
Curse your car sickness. If not for that, maybe you could have been asleep in the rear rather than practically hyperventilating from the forced proximity to your friend. Your hot, hot, blonde, hockey player friend who knew your signature coffee order and what kind of god forsaken reels made you laugh.
Fuck my life you thought.
Hannah was having smug, silent conversations with Garrett through rearview mirror eye contact alone. But even with all her NOT so subtle galances toward you and Dean, the poor boy still couldn’t get it.
Tucker was at the wheel with a rod-straight spine and his hands at 10 and 2 like he was 16 again.
Allie was belting High School Musical, playing solely in her own ears via her headphones, and Logan was somehow sleeping through it all across from her in the back seat.
But Dean–
Ooooh Dean was practically vibrating with self satisfaction. Comfortably leaning back in his seat with his right arm across your headrest, bent at the elbow to allow his wrist to rest loosely on your shoulder. All while he smiled happily and whistled to himself as he looked out the window.
You thought you were going to die here.
Sure you were comfortable with these people. Probably more comfortable with them than you were with anyone else on the planet.
But this was different.
Because as much as you’d convinced yourself that it was a trick of the mind—only a consequence of ovulation—you were in fact crushing on Dean, hard.
As hard as the rigid muscles that had been pressed against your side since before the state border.
“Gettin’ a little low on gas here guys. I’m gonna take the next exit to top ‘er up.”
Thank. God.
You thought you could kiss Tucker from the pure relief that flooded you after his statement. But alas, you already wanted to kiss one Briar Hockey player, and that was more than enough for your nervous system at the moment.
The second Tucker put the car in park, you practically crawled over Hannah’s lap to escape the confines of this soccer-mom-mobile.
Much to the entertainment of Hannah… and Dean
And the bewilderment of everyone else in the car who was conscious.
“What the fuck was that all about?”
Garrett had never been one to sugar coat things, as much was evident as the group watched you practically sprint into the store ahead of you.
Both Hannah and Dean couldn’t contain their laughter.
Hannah immediately snapped her eyes over to the blonde positioned a seat over from her. Laughing hard enough to shake blonde tendrils out of his eyes like a golden retriever.
So he knew. Like really knew.
Dean didn’t even bother to respond with words. Only throwing a wink her way before he was tossing open the vans sliding door and strutting in after you.
Tucker was already headed in to put sixty bucks on pump four before Garret could speak again.
Still confused.
“Again I say, what the fuck was all that about.”
Logan and Allie were still in the back.
Still sleeping.
Still singing.
Hannah couldn’t fight her smile as she responded.
“Like Allie said. It’s the start of something new.”
-
You hadn’t meant to bolt like that; to high tail it out of there like you were on fire. But to be fair, it sure felt like you were.
The second Dean slid into the seat next to you, your temperature had gone up. Heat rising to your cheeks because apparently your body couldn’t differentiate between physical proximity to an attractive male, your friend, and being held at gun point.
You were in dire need of some escapism. Again.
So naturally, you had found yourself in the print section of the gas station.
Magazines, newspapers, sudoku books and a slim selection of novels. Romance novels.
Here we go.
You grabbed the first one that caught your eye.
It also happened to catch Dean’s eye. Who was roughly three feet behind you, grinning like a jackass as he watched you grope for a novel with a muscle-toned football player on it.
Football?
He could forgive you for that, he decided, because said football player was blonde.
Oh so blonde; with hair that swooped in front of his eyes as he seductively dipped the woman on the cover.
You didn’t even bother reading the synopsis. You’d both seen and read enough novels in your lifetime to know the contents of this one. So, you did what any hormonal, touch-starved, forever friend-zoned woman your age would do.
You skipped to the good part.
Right to the centre of the book.
Right to where Dante (because of course that was his name) slowly slid his hand into the back of Mel's jeans.
You were so entranced in the book it was as if someone was whispering the words into your ear.
“Fingertips edging past her delicate lace-”
Oh dear god.
“Shit!”
Exactly. Because a shit eating grin is what you saw when you turned around to find that it was Dean of all people who was leering over your shoulder, softly reading to you the straight up smut you had chosen to peruse. In public.
“Hey, wait! It was just getting good.”
That fucking smile.
“Dean. You scared me.”
“Clearly.”
Silence. But you swore that megawatt smile of his had to be humming with electricity.
“Well, what do you want? Perve.”
“Oh I’M the perve?!” He asked giddily, pointing a thick finger at himself, “you’re the one reading porn in the middle of a gas station.”
“Yeah, well, you were the freak reading it to me!” You hushedly screeched back at him.
He didn’t say anything; just stepped closer. Close enough his head tilted further down to keep your gaze.
“I happened to like where it was going. The devilishly handsome blonde jock and his girl, who seems far too oblivious for her own good. Who seriously thinks that said handsome devil would sit in a minivan for four hours listening to country music, because he just wants to be next to his friend.”
This was getting too real.
Real enough that your first instinct was to shy away from his eyes. Convinced his flirting was teasing.
“Yeah, but it doesn’t end well. Trust me, I know.”
Dean softly, but sternly, gripped your chin and raised your gaze back to his own piercing blue one.
“No. You don’t.”
You dropped the book as he released your chin for your hand and tugged you further into the store. Into the bathroom of all places.
The lock clicked as he softly pressed you up against the door.
“Let me show you how it ends. Really, because I think you’ll find it’s just the beginning.”
The earnestness in his eyes was almost enough to make you forget your surroundings.
Almost.
You couldn’t help but laugh.
“Dean. There will be no happy ending in this gas station bathroom.”
He released his breath in soft laughter and leaned his forehead against your own. Hands smoothing over your denim clad waist. Meeting a respectable end right above your curves.
“Later then?”
“…We’ll have a lot to talk about first.”
“Hmmmm. How about you write it down first? I’d rather have you read to me this time.”
“As long as it’s not the only time.”
Releasing a pained groan he lowered his face into the crook of your neck. Hot breath at your pulse.
And -
Unlocked the door behind you.
“Deal.”
-
Grinning in disbelief you let him guide you out of the single bathroom.
Back into the open, and into the awaiting gaze of John Logan.
So he finally woke up, you thought.
Logan rapidly looked from the toilet behind you two, to your flushed face and back. Rubbing his eyes in between each glance.
“Did you just desecrate the room where I'm about to TAS?”
TAS?
It didn’t even take 10 seconds to figure it out.
“Let me guess. ‘Take A Shit’.”
You just shook your head at the steep drop in the conversation.
“Correct. This is a nightmare; an unhygienic nightmare.”
“Maybe your nightmare. But my dream bro.”
Dean’s clarification didn’t help the heat crawling up your skin.
“We didn’t -”
“Yet.”
You should have known by now that glaring at Dean wouldn’t dissuade him, but you tried anyway.
“Slow down hot shot.”
“Oh trust me, I’ll go slow. You can’t spell Dante without Dean, baby.”
And with the combination of Dean’s gleeful expression and the look of sheer disgust on Logan’s face, you knew you were never going to live this moment down.
And honestly? If Dean had meant what he said about this being just the beginning, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.
imagine will cuddling with you around a campfire, a blanket hugging both of you. the sun is setting in the distance, meeting the water line and creating colorful ripples. you feel his fingers rub small circles on your palms and between your small talk, there's giggles and sweet kisses left on your temple.
mack and the guys are arguing over who gets the roast the first marshmallow for a s'more. the two of you couldn't be bothered to move to break up the mess and let them tackle it out. mack wins eventually and smugly makes his s'more.
"biggest baby award goes to macklin celebrini," you chirp, causing will to shake beneath you. "congratulations, champ."
mack attempts to ignore you, but he eventually flips you the bird.
later, a game of soccer passing is prompted. the guys start a couple of their vehicles to use the headlights for visual. will asks if you want to join, but you'd rather stay in the cozy chair and warmth of his arms. he agrees, however you know he wants to join. it's tugging at him.
"go," you mumble with a sigh.
"you sure?" he looks at you over your shoulder, eyes soft as hell that it breaks your heart.
"yes, go, babe. get your kicks in."
he chuckles under his breath. "okay."
you stand up for a moment so he can untangle himself from you and get out of the chair. then you swiftly plop back down and wrap the blanket tightly, using your arm as a pillow to rest your head. will kisses your forehead, rubbing your cheek with his thumb.
"i'll be back shortly, baby. promise."
you smile, keeping your eyes closed and straining every memory cortex in your brain to remember his comforting touch. "have fun."
"i love you."
now you couldn't help giggling under your breath and popping open one eye to look at him. "i love you too, goof. go before they think i'm putting a spell on your or something."
mack calls from the close distance. "are you joining or not, smitty? you've been attached to (y/n) all night!"
you shoot him an appointive look.
he rolls his eyes. "i'm coming!" he yells back. despite that, he leans over to kiss you on the lips softly, his eyes gazing into yours sweetly. now your heart did the aching tug. you were trying to be the cool girlfriend, but it sucks sometimes.
Girl the lake house quinn one shots are amazingggg I love them
Lake House Days - Quinn Hughes
pairing: Quinn Hughes x female reader
description: You spend an amazing day with Quinn and his brothers on the boat.
CW: Fluff, kissing, established relationship.
The Michigan sun is warm on your skin as you sit on the edge of the boat, your feet dangling in the cool water. Two weeks. You've been living in this slice of paradise with Quinn and his brothers for two weeks now and it feels like a lifetime in the best way possible.
"You ready to get your ass kicked?" Jack calls out from the driver's seat, grinning at you in the rearview mirror.
"Only if you're talking about yourself in a race," you retort, earning a laugh from Quinn, who's adjusting the life jacket on your shoulders.
"He's just jealous because he can't stay up on the wakeboard as long as you can," Quinn says, his hands lingering on your arms. "You're a natural."
"That's because I had the best teacher," you reply, leaning into his touch.
"Alright, lovebirds, break it up," Luke pipes up from where he's organizing the ropes. "Some of us want to actually get on the water today."
Quinn grabs the board, his movements practiced and easy. "Remember what I told you. Keep your knees bent, weight on your back foot and let the boat do the work. I've got the rope, so just focus on finding your balance."
You nod, taking the board and sliding into the water. The cool lake is a welcome relief from the heat. You position yourself on the board, gripping the handle connected to the rope Quinn holds in the boat.
"Ready?" he calls out.
You give him a thumbs up and the boat begins to move slowly. The rope tightens, and you feel the pull as the boat accelerates. Quinn's voice carries over the engine, steady and encouraging.
"That's it, baby. Now… up!"
You push up with your legs, finding your balance as the board glides across the water. For a moment, you're steady, riding the wake with a confidence that surprises even you. Quinn whoops from the boat, his pride evident even from a distance.
"See? I told you you could do it!" he calls out.
You're so focused on Quinn's encouragement that you don't notice the larger wake coming until it's too late. The board wobbles and with a yelp, you're tumbling into the water, coming up sputtering as the boat circles back.
"Nice form!" Jack yells, earning a glare from Quinn.
"Shut up, Jack," Quinn mutters, tossing a life preserver toward you. "You okay?"
"Fine!" you call back, laughing as you swim to the boat. "Just giving you guys a show."
Quinn helps you back into the boat, his hands steady on your waist as you climb aboard. He wraps a towel around you, pulling you close for a quick kiss.
"You were amazing," he says softly, for your ears only. "Even when you were falling."
"It's all about the dismount," you reply with a grin, earning another laugh from him.
The afternoon passes in a blur of sunshine and water, with each of you taking turns on various water toys. Jack, of course, has to show off with his impressive wakeboarding tricks, while Luke proves surprisingly adept at waterskiing. Quinn spends most of his time coaching you, his hands constantly finding yours, his praise making your cheeks flush.
By evening, you're all exhausted but happy, gathered around a crackling campfire on the beach. Quinn sits behind you, his legs bracketing yours as you lean back against his chest, sharing a blanket that smells faintly of woodsmoke and him.
"Marshmallow?" he offers, holding out a perfectly roasted one.
You take it, savoring the sweet, gooey goodness. "You're surprisingly good at this."
"I have many hidden talents," he murmurs against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine despite the warm fire.
"Alright, group decision," Jack announces, breaking the moment. "Never Have I Ever. Loser has to do the breakfast dishes tomorrow."
Everyone agrees and the game begins with Luke. "Never have I ever… broken a bone."
You, Quinn and Jack all put a finger down. "What? You broke a bone?" you ask, surprised.
"Collarbone," Quinn admits. "Junior hockey. It hurt like hell."
The game continues, the confessions growing increasingly embarrassing and hilarious. Jack admits to using Luke's toothbrush once by mistake, Luke confesses to having a crush on one of Jack's old girlfriends and you reveal that you once got stuck in a turnstile at a subway station.
When it's Quinn's turn, he grins. "Never have I ever… secretly replaced my brother's favorite protein powder with flour."
Jack groans, putting fingers down. "That was you?" Luke accuses. "I thought I was just losing my gains!"
"You were," Jack says innocently. "For about a week."
As the game progresses, you find yourself watching Quinn more than playing, charmed by the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, the easy affection he shows his brothers despite their constant teasing. At one point, he catches you staring and leans in to whisper, "What?"
"Nothing," you say softly. "Just happy."
His expression softens, and he presses a gentle kiss to your temple. "Me too."
The fire dies down as the night deepens, stars appearing in the dark sky above. Jack and Luke have retreated to their respective bedrooms, leaving you and Quinn alone by the embers.
"I'm going to miss this," you say quietly, breaking the comfortable silence.
"This?" he asks, his arms tightening around you.
"All of it. The lake, the boat, even your annoying brothers. But mostly… just being with you. Like this."
Quinn is quiet for a moment and you worry you've said too much. Then he shifts, turning you to face him.
"You don't have to miss it," he says, his voice serious. "It doesn't have to end when you leave. This… us… it's not just a lake house thing, right?"
You shake your head, your heart swelling. "Of course it's not just a lake house thing."
"Good," he says, relief evident in his expression. "Because love you so fucking much."
Tears prick at your eyes as you lean in to kiss him, soft and sweet. "I love you too, Quinn."
He smiles against your lips, deepening the kiss as the last embers of the fire fade to ash. In the quiet darkness, with the sound of the lake lapping at the shore, you know that this feeling, this connection, is something that will last long after your lake house days are over.
Pleaseee do something for Connor, I feel like there isn’t enough out there!!
MISSING YOU • CB98
Pairing — Connor Bedard X Girlfriend!Reader
In Which — Connor’s comes home after a week of away games, craving his favorite thing to eat (you).
W.C. 1.3k
Warnings — NSFW. Oral F!Recieving. Slight Biting? Fingering. (Connor Is A Munch).
──────────────────────
Sometimes you find it difficult being Connor’s girlfriend. It’s not anything to do with your feelings towards him, but you hate how he’s regularly on the road. Since he’s a hockey player, he’s almost always on a flight or the Blackhawks bus, playing away games and leaving you alone. You don’t blame him. It’s part of his career and he’s worked hard to be one of the best in the league. You like how committed he is to that.
But it sucks when you’re left alone at home with nothing to do and no boyfriend to fuck you. Thankfully, Connor’s supposed to be coming back home tonight.
You can’t help but smile to yourself when you finally hear the sound of the front door unlock. You’ve missed Connor so much, more than you can put into words. Maybe it’s because every time you watched him play on TV, all you could think about was the way he always has you whining and moaning beneath him.
The bedroom door creaks open, revealing Connor standing there. He has a duffel bag thrown over his shoulder, looking even more attractive than you remember. Except, it’s in that tired athlete type of way.
“Hey, pretty,” Connor murmurs, quickly setting his bag down. He wastes no time making his way towards the bed, taking a seat at the edge. “I missed you.”
“Con!” you practically squeal his name out of excitement. “I missed you more.”
Connor grins before he twists his body around, climbing on top of you. Your faces are flush against each other’s, close enough that you can notice almost every new change since you last saw him.
He’s got facial hair now, the light hairs appearing above his top lip and on his chin; he doesn’t like to shave while he’s on the road. He also has a new scar on his cheek, probably because he got shoved into the boards during his last game.
Connor knows that you’re staring at him, trying to examine his features. He likes that you’re observant, but there’s honestly only one thing on his mind right now.
You.
His face between your legs.
Your pure moans of pleasure.
He leans in closer until his lips are pressed against yours, capturing them in a hungry kiss. You missed the feeling of your tongues overlapping, and you can tell he did too. He’s kissing you like he hasn’t seen you in years, nipping your bottom lip with his teeth.
“Missed something else too,” he whispers through the kiss, his hand moving from your waist to your clothed cunt. He cups it, slowly rubbing you through the thin material of your sleep shorts.
You bite your lip to stifle your lewd sounds. “Fuck, Con,” you whimper. He doesn’t say anything, he just applies more pressure. “Please.”
“Please?” Connor repeats in that same whiny voice you’re using, mocking you. He’s trying to act like he’s not the one fighting the urge to rip your clothes off.
You roll your eyes before you grab his face, your fingertips pressing firmly into his cheeks. “Please, you know what I’m asking for.”
He grins. Typically, he’d press you for a clear response, but he simply cannot be bothered to do that right now. Throughout the entire flight back to Chicago, tasting you was the only thing on his mind.
Connor leans in, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before moving to your neck, sucking and biting your soft skin. He moves further down, peppering light kisses on your almost exposed stomach. He stops his movements once his head is between your legs, looking up at you.
“Missed this,” Connor repeats, trailing his tongue across your thigh. He’s just teasing you now, his eyes staying on yours.
“Please…” you whine, knowing what you want. You don’t want to beg, but you’re desperate.
He presses a kiss above the waistband of your shorts before he slowly pulls them off. Now you’re left in your black cotton underwear, your bottom lip wedged between your teeth as your gaze stays on him.
Connor’s movements are painfully slow. He likes watching your desperation, he likes seeing how much you need him just based off your body language. Even though it’s killing him inside as he’s silently begging to taste you, a large part of him is enjoying this.
He takes the waistband of your underwear between his teeth, pulling it down until you’re left bare for him. Connor just stares at your glistening cunt, eyes sparkling while his lips part.
“Don’t move,” Connor grumbles. Then he wastes no time, diving straight in. His tongue lands on your clit, sucking and lapping at the bud.
You immediately throw your head back, one hand landing in his hair as the other grips onto the blanket beneath you. You tug at his messy strands, squirming while attempting to stay still for him. He scored in all of his games. You should listen to him. He’s been waiting for this and he deserves it.
Connor’s strong, veiny arms wrap around your thighs, pinning you down and limiting your movements. “C’mon. Quit moving, baby,” he whispers, speeding up his movements. “Just lay back and let me enjoy this.” His breath is hot against your core.
“I’m— I’m trying,” you manage, eyes squeezing closed. You can feel his facial hair scratching against your delicate skin, the burning sensation adding a new feeling that makes it even harder to stay still.
You can’t help the pornographic moans and whimpers that leave your lips as he sucks on your most sensitive area. You absentmindedly grind against his face (which he doesn’t complain about), trying to seek your own release.
He drags two fingers over your folds without warning, parting them and giving him easy access to slip them both into your hole. Your moans become even louder while Connor remains unfazed. His eyes are closed as he moves his fingers and tongue at the perfect pace, enjoying this way more than he should.
He’s hard right now. Painfully hard, because his cock is quite literally straining against his sweats and begging for attention. But Connor’s choosing to ignore it. He’s fully focused on you and especially how good you taste.
“Holy shit— It feels so good, Con…” you trail off, your grip on his hair tightening. Your facial expression contorts out of pure pleasure—cheeks flushed, eyebrows furrowed, nose scrunched. You’re a fucking mess.
Connor just hums in approval because he doesn’t have anything else to say. This is what he’s been craving for days, and here he finally is. Tasting you, listening to your moans, feeling your fingernails dig into his scalp as you struggle to listen to his orders and stay still.
You’re shifting around repeatedly; Connor knows that you’re close. He increases his pace, not even giving you the chance to say anything. He curls his fingers inside of you, hitting that perfect spot that makes you stutter out a series of moans.
It doesn’t take you long to reach your climax, although that doesn’t stop him. Sure he removes his fingers, but his tongue continues to lap at your folds, collecting every single liquid and not letting a single droplet go to waste. At this point, you can’t even function. All you can hear is the sound of Connor slurping and his satisfied noises.
He eventually pulls away. You look down at him, staring at your juices coating his lips and chin. “Too much?” he asks.
You shake your head, reaching out to wipe his chin. He grabs your wrist, stopping you from cleaning him up.
“Ew, Con,” you tease him. “You’re so fucking gross.”
Connor just shrugs. He doesn’t care. This is what he’s been missing for an entire week, so he’s not just going to let this moment pass. And as long as he has a say, this is definitely about to become some sort of sacred tradition every time he comes back from an away game.
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🐰 bedsy definitelyyy needs some more appreciation on this app <3 thank you for the req!! i hope i wrote this well i lowkey had no idea what direction to take this in
Hi, love your fics, can you please do one where the reader borrowed Quinn car to buy groceries and she had an accident, the reader is fine just has bruises but the car is damaged. And she calls Quinn crying trying to explain what happened afraid of his reaction to his damaged car but he didn't care about the car. He wanted to know if she was alright and where she is because she is more important than a car. Maybe he was at practice when she called him.
CarCrash - Quinn Hughes
pairing: Quinn Hughes x female reader
summary: After borrowing Quinn's car and getting into an accident, you call him in tears, terrified about his reaction to the damaged vehicle.
CW: Car accident, emotional distress, minor injuries, established relationship.
The screech of tires still echoes in your ears as you sit on the curb, phone trembling in your hand. The front end of Quinn's pristine black SUV is crumpled like paper, steam hissing from somewhere beneath the bent hood. Your knees are scraped, your wrist aches from where it hit the steering wheel, but it's the sight of his car that's making your chest tighten painfully.
You should have just walked to the store. It wasn't that far. But it had started raining. He is at practice as you dial his number, tears blurring your vision.
"Hey," his voice comes through the line, slightly breathless. "Practice just ended. Everything okay?"
The sound of his calm voice is your undoing. A sob escapes before you can stop it.
"Whoa, hey, what's wrong?" Quinn's voice sharpens with concern. "Are you crying?"
"I had an accident," you manage, the words barely intelligible through your tears. "Your car... Quinn, I'm so sorry. It's... it's bad."
There's a pause on the other end and you brace yourself for his anger, for the frustration you know is coming. Quinn loves that car.
"Where are you?" he asks, his voice steady, devoid of the anger you expected.
You give him the intersection, still sniffling. "The other driver is fine, we exchanged information. The police came and filed a report. But Quinn, the car... the front is completely smashed. I know how much you..."
"Are you hurt?" he interrupts, his voice urgent now. "Did you go to the hospital? Are you bleeding?"
You shake your head before remembering he can't see you. "No, I'm fine. Just bruises. My wrist hurts a little, but I think it's just sprained."
"Stay right there," he says firmly. "I'm leaving now. Don't move. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
True to his word, fourteen minutes later, Quinn's truck pulls up beside the damaged SUV. He jumps out before it's fully in park, his eyes scanning the scene wildly until they land on you. He's still in his practice gear, sweat dampening his hair and jersey.
Without a word, he kneels in front of you, his hands gently cupping your face. "Let me see," he says softly, turning your head from side to side. His thumbs brush away tears you didn't realize were still falling.
"I'm so sorry about your car," you whisper, fresh tears welling. "I know how much you love it."
Quinn's eyes follow your gaze to the crumpled SUV, then back to your face. "I don't give a shit about the car," he says, his voice low but intense. "I care about you. Are you sure you're okay? We should go to the ER, get you checked out."
"I'm fine," you insist. "Really. Just shaken up."
He helps you stand, his arm wrapping securely around your waist. "Let's get you home." He pauses, looking at the other driver who's watching from a distance. "Did you get his information? Insurance?"
You nod. "The police handled it. Everything's documented."
"Good," he says, guiding you toward his truck. "We'll deal with all that tomorrow. Right now, we're focusing on you."
The drive home is quiet, Quinn's hand resting on your thigh, a comforting weight. He keeps glancing over at you, his expression unreadable but his touch steady.
"I really am sorry," you say as he pulls into your driveway.
"Stop apologizing," he says gently, cutting off the engine. "It's just a car. It can be fixed or replaced. You can't."
Inside, he directs you to the couch while he disappears into the kitchen, returning with ice packs and a glass of water. He carefully places one ice pack on your wrist, another on your scraped knee.
"Quinn?" you ask softly as he kneels in front of you.
"Yeah?" he looks up, his brown eyes full of concern.
"Weren't you angry? Even a little?"
He sighs, sitting back on his heels. "Angry? No. Worried? Fuck yes. All I could think about was getting to you, making sure you were okay." He takes your uninjured hand.
Tears fill your eyes again, but this time they're not from fear or guilt. "I love you," you whisper.
A small smile touches his lips. "I love you too. Now let me properly check you out."
His examination is gentle but thorough, his fingers carefully probing your wrist, checking the bruises on your arms and legs. When he's satisfied that nothing is broken, he sits beside you on the couch, pulling you into his arms.
"You scared me," he murmurs into your hair. "When you called crying, I've never been so terrified in my life."
"I was scared too," you admit. "Not of getting hurt, but of how you'd react about the car."
He pulls back slightly, his hands framing your face. "Listen to me. There is nothing, nothing, more important to me than you. Not my car, not hockey, not anything. If I had to choose between you and every possession I own, I'd choose you every time. Without hesitation."
You lean in, pressing your lips to his. The kiss is soft, reassuring, full of unspoken promises. When you pull apart, you rest your forehead against his.
"Thank you," you whisper.
"For what?"
"For being you."
He smiles, that rare, genuine smile that still makes your heart skip a beat. "Always."
Hiiii can you do a story where the reader has Quinn’s baby right before the Olympics and Quinn is struggling with leaving them both for 3 weeks please 🤭🫣
Three Weeks
Pairing: Quinn Hughes x Reader
Word Count: 1559
Request open!
24 days of Christmas | Hockey Masterlist | Hockey Masterlist II
Quinn Hughes Playlist Valentine's Day Masterlist
The Shape of Control
You give birth three days before Quinn has to leave.
It is, by every possible definition, unfair.
The timing feels like a cruel joke from the universe, because one second Quinn is pacing your hospital room with dark circles under his eyes and the next there is a tiny, furious little person in your arms and Quinn is staring at them like he has forgotten how language works.
He is not crying exactly.
But he is close.
You look at him from the bed, exhausted and aching and absolutely wrecked in the best possible way, and say, “You can breathe now.”
Quinn blinks at you. “I am breathing.”
“Barely.”
He looks back down at the baby. “I do not know what I’m supposed to do with my face right now.”
You laugh weakly. “You can just look happy.”
Quinn’s mouth twitches. “I am happy.”
“You look terrified.”
“I am also terrified.”
That makes you smile, because honestly, fair.
The baby makes a tiny sound, and Quinn straightens like he has been summoned by the sound alone. He reaches out one finger, unbelievably gentle, and the baby grabs it with a grip so small it nearly destroys him on the spot.
Quinn stares.
You stare at Quinn.
“He has your whole hand,” you whisper.
Quinn swallows hard. “She.”
You blink. “She has your whole hand.”
He nods vaguely, still not taking his eyes off the baby. “Yeah.”
You watch him for a second, your chest full in a way you do not have words for. Quinn has been amazing from the moment he found out you were pregnant, but this version of him, the one standing there looking like his entire world just cracked open and became bigger, is almost too much to take in.
Then reality hits again.
Three days.
Three days until he leaves for the Olympics.
You do not say it out loud yet, because saying it out loud makes it real in a different way. But Quinn notices anyway. He always does.
That night, after the nurses have gone and the baby is asleep in the bassinet beside your bed, Quinn sits in the chair next to you with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped so tightly together his knuckles pale.
You watch him for a minute before asking, “What are you thinking about.”
He laughs once, without humor. “Too many things.”
“Try me.”
His eyes flick up to yours, then away again.
“I’m thinking about leaving,” he admits quietly. “And I hate it.”
Your chest tightens.
He keeps going, voice low and rough. “I know this is what we planned. I know it’s the Olympics and it matters and I should be excited, and I am, I really am. But I just had a baby and I’m supposed to walk out of here and pretend I can focus on hockey for three weeks.”
You swallow.
“Quinn,”
“No, I know,” he says immediately, shaking his head. “I know I have to go. I’m not saying I won’t. I’m just saying I hate that I have to.”
The room is quiet for a second.
Then you say, honestly, “I hate it too.”
He looks at you then.
You reach for his hand, and he lets you take it instantly, like he has been waiting for permission to fall apart.
“I don’t want to make this harder for you,” you tell him softly.
“You are not making it harder.”
You give him a look.
He exhales. “Okay, you are making it harder, but in a way that is unfair because it is not your fault.”
That gets a tired laugh out of you.
Quinn’s eyes soften a little.
“I keep thinking about the moments I’m going to miss,” he admits. “The first nights. The little noises. The bad sleep. The way she looks when she’s sleepy. And I know I won’t miss everything, but I’ll miss enough that it already hurts.”
Your throat burns.
“Quinn.”
He shakes his head quickly, embarrassed by how much he is saying. “I’m sorry. I know this is supposed to be a happy thing.”
“It is,” you say firmly. “It’s just also hard.”
That settles him a little.
He nods once. “Yeah.”
You shift carefully in the bed, wincing a bit, and Quinn is immediately on alert.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
He does not believe you.
“You should not have to do this alone,” he says.
“I am not alone.”
His jaw tightens. “Not while I’m here.”
You watch him carefully. “You’re really freaking out.”
“Yeah,” he says bluntly. “A little.”
That makes you laugh softly.
He looks at you, still miserable. “It is not funny.”
“It kind of is.”
“It is not.”
You squeeze his hand. “You’re allowed to be sad about leaving.”
Quinn goes quiet.
Then he says, almost reluctantly, “I know.”
“Even if it means the team and the schedule and the Olympics and everything.”
“I know.”
“And even if it makes you feel selfish.”
He looks at you sharply. “I don’t feel selfish.”
“Good.”
He relaxes a fraction, then glances toward the bassinet again. “I just keep thinking, what kind of dad leaves three days after the baby is born.”
Your expression softens so quickly it almost aches.
“The kind who is doing something huge for his career,” you say. “The kind who is trying to provide. The kind who loves his family and is being asked to split himself in two for a little while.”
Quinn looks unconvinced.
You squeeze his hand harder. “You are not abandoning us.”
The words make his eyes flash to yours again.
He is quiet for a long moment.
Then, very softly, “You promise you’ll say that if I start spiraling?”
You smile despite the tears that threaten immediately after.
“Yes.”
He nods, breathing out a shaky laugh. “Good.”
The next two days are a blur of feedings, diaper changes, sleepy phone calls to family, and Quinn learning every possible detail about how to be useful in a room full of tiny, chaotic human needs. He carries the baby like he has been doing it for years, even though every movement is still so careful it hurts to watch. He asks questions about everything. He writes notes in his phone like a man preparing for a final exam on fatherhood.
On the morning he leaves, he is already half-dressed when he comes back into the bedroom, because he apparently cannot do simple things like put on a tie without checking the baby six times.
You are sitting in the bed with the baby in your arms, both of you still sleepy. Quinn stops in the doorway and just looks at you.
You know he is trying to memorize the scene.
It makes your chest ache.
“You’re staring,” you whisper.
He gives a small, helpless smile. “Yeah.”
“Come here.”
He crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed, one hand brushing carefully over the baby’s blanket.
“I hate this part,” he says quietly.
“I know.”
He looks at you. “You sure you’ll be okay?”
You laugh softly. “I just gave birth to your child, Quinn. I think I’m allowed to be a little tougher than you are right now.”
That gets a tired laugh from him, but his eyes stay sad.
He leans in and kisses you gently.
Then he kisses the baby’s head, and his face completely changes again, like the whole world is being split in half by love.
When he pulls back, he says, “I’m coming back the second I can.”
“I know.”
“I’ll call every day.”
“I know.”
“I’ll probably be annoying about it.”
“You absolutely will.”
He smiles a little.
Then his expression falls again. “I do not want to leave.”
You reach up and touch his face.
“I know.”
His eyes close for a second under your hand.
“You can go be great,” you tell him softly. “And we will still be here when you come back.”
That does something to him.
He nods once, but you can see how hard he is trying not to break apart.
“Three weeks,” he whispers.
“You can do three weeks.”
“I know I can do three weeks.”
His mouth twitches. “I just hate it.”
You smile sympathetically. “That makes two of us.”
He laughs under his breath, then looks down at the baby one more time. “Be good for your mom.”
You roll your eyes. “She can’t even hold up her own head.”
Quinn looks offended on the baby’s behalf, which would be funnier if his eyes were not still glossy.
When he stands, he hesitates by the door.
You know he is trying to make himself go.
So you say, “Quinn.”
He looks back.
“You’re not leaving a hole here,” you tell him softly. “You’re just going to the Olympics.”
His throat works once.
Then he nods.
“Okay,” he says, voice rough. “Okay.”
He leaves with one last look over his shoulder, and the room feels bigger and quieter and a little too still after he’s gone.
But the baby stirs in your arms, and you think about Quinn standing on Olympic ice thinking about you both, and somehow it hurts less when you remember this is not goodbye.
It is only three weeks.
And he is coming back to the two people who will always know exactly how much he loves them.
۶ৎ boyfriend!john logan does anything you want without you asking twice. need help carrying something? he’s already got it. your car is making weird noises? he’s on it immediately, his friends called him whipped but he calls it love.
۶ৎ boyfriend!john logan loves holding your hand. whether it’s walking down the street, you two are at a restaurant, or even if you’re in class. his hand finds yours always, rubbing soft circles on the back of it.
۶ৎ boyfriend!john logan loves when you steal his hoodies. especially when they start to smell like you after awhile. he starts to notice his shortage of hoodies and gets slightly confused til he goes over to your apartment and see your closet full of his hoodies.
۶ৎ boyfriend!john logan secretly loves doing facemasks with you. he thought he would hate it at first but he loves the silent moment between you two when you’re on the bathroom counter & he’s in between your legs, watching you concentrate placing the mask on his face.
۶ৎ boyfriend!john logan lets you know you’re beautiful in moments you don’t feel it. when you’re sick, he’s calling you the most beautiful woman he’s ever met. when you’re kind of grouchy and annoyed at the world, he thinks you’re absolutely gorgeous.
۶ৎ boyfriend!john logan has a girlfriend instinct. he can feel when you’re close or about to walk into a room he’s in. his friends think it’s crazy how he can tell when you’re close and how he’s right every. single. time.
۶ৎ boyfriend!john logan is an absolute gentlemen. ever since you’ve started seeing each other, you never open you door with him, you don’t ever pay, you’ve never walked on the outside of the street. and you for damn sure don’t worry about guys hitting on you.
۶ৎ boyfriend!john logan kisses your cheek or forehead as a goodbye. when you first started dating, you always kissed his cheek and just never stopped and now it’s apart of your routine. whenever you or him are about to leave, you kiss his cheek and he leans down and kisses your forehead.
you hear the door click open and the familiar shuffle of john coming back from practice, his duffel hitting the floor with a soft thud.
he doesn’t even spare you a glance, immediately muttering something about drills and how coach was on his ass again, not even looking up as he takes off his shoes and heads straight for the desk where his laptop sits open.
you’ve been waiting, standing there in the middle of the room wearing nothing but delicate black lace that hugs your curves just right, the material doing little to hide anything, tiny bows at your hips and between your breasts catching the low light. he doesn’t notice. not at first.
“john,” you call softly, but he’s already typing, shoulders hunched, completely focused on whatever assignment or schedule he’s pulling up.
you try again, a little louder this time. “johnnn” you drag on. still nothing. he’s lost in his own world, his fingers flying over the keys, the only sound in the room the quiet click of the keys and his occasional sigh.
you take a slow step closer, the lace shifting against your skin with every movement.
“john. logan.” this time your voice carries a little more frustration, enough to make him pause.
he glances over his shoulder, distracted, his eyebrows drawn together like he’s about to give up completely.
then his eyes land on you.
his mouth opens, breath catching hard enough that you see his chest stop and inhale heavily. the assignment is forgotten, the laptop screen dimming as he turns fully, and before you can even smile he’s dropping straight to his knees on the carpet of his bedroom floor.
the sound is a soft thud but like every ounce of tension leaves his body at once. his hands rest on his thighs, palms open, and those hungry, yearning eyes lift to meet yours, they’re wide, dark, almost pleading.
“come to me, baby” he says, voice low and rough, every word wrapped in that same aching need that makes your stomach flip. he almost sounded like he wanted to cry. your poor baby was so overworked.
you take the few steps that close the distance, and the second you’re within reach his hands are on you, gentle at first, his fingertips tracing the edge of the fabric at your hips before sliding up, palms warm against your skin. he leans in, pressing his face right against your stomach, breathing you in like he’s been starved for it.
a soft, shaky exhale leaves him, and you feel the shake in his shoulders as he holds himself back from pulling you down too fast.
his fingers hook under the thin straps at your hips, not tugging, just holding, feeling the texture of the lace against his skin. he looks up again, those same puppy eyes darker now, lashes low, and you can see how hard he’s fighting to stay still, to let you come to him the way he asked.
the clear yearning is there, enough that you feel it in your own pulse.
you thread your nails through his hair, and that’s all it takes for him to surge forward, mouth pressing open kisses along the line of lace just above your navel, tongue flicking out to taste skin wherever the fabric allows.
his hands slide around to cup your ass, squeezing once before he drags you even closer, burying his face between your thighs without hesitation. the lace is already damp from how wet you are, and he moans against it, the sound vibrating straight through you. “john” you moan quietly.
he doesn’t rush. he stays on his knees, worshipping every inch he can reach, kissing the inside of your thigh, the sheer thin covering your pussy, breathing hot and heavy until you’re rocking against his mouth without meaning to.
his tongue presses flat through the fabric, licking slow and deliberate, soaking the lace even more until it clings to you. every time you tug his hair he groans, the sound needy and desperate, and he looks up again with those same hungry eyes like he’s asking permission to keep going, to pull the delicate material aside and finally taste you properly.
when you nod, his fingers are quick but careful, easing the lace down your hips just enough to bare you to him. he doesn’t stand up yet.
he stays right there on the floor, pulling you forward until your thighs cover his face, and then his mouth is on your bare pussy, tongue sliding through your folds, lips sealing around your clit to suck gently before he flattens his tongue again and laps at you like he’s been thinking about this all day. “ugh, you- you make me feel so good johnny.”
his hands grip your ass tighter, holding you steady while he eats you out with slow, thorough strokes that make your knees shake. if it wasn’t for his grip on your ass, you would’ve fallen to the floor by now.
you can feel how turned on he is, the hard outline of his cock against his sweats, but he doesn’t touch himself. he just keeps his focus on you, licking and sucking until your hips are rolling against his mouth and soft sounds are slipping from your throat.
every few seconds he glances up, checking your face with those same yearning eyes, like your pleasure is the only thing that matters in the world right now.
when your thighs start to tremble harder he pulls back just enough to press a kiss to your clit, then another lower, tongue dipping inside you for a moment before he stands in one fluid motion.
his arms wrap around you, lifting you easily, and he carries you the short distance to the bed without ever looking away from your face.
he lays you down carefully, the lace still tangled around one thigh, and climbs over you, settling between your spread legs.
he kisses you then, so deep, slow, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, while his hand works between your bodies to shove his sweats down just far enough. the head of his cock nudges against your entrance, hot and slick from how ready you both are, and he pauses there, forehead resting against yours, breathing hard.
“tell me you want this honey,” he whispers, voice wrecked, eyes searching yours like he needs the words as much as the act itself.
when you pull him closer and say yes, he sinks into you in one smooth thrust, burying himself to the deepest he can with a groan that vibrates through both of you.
he stays still for a moment, just feeling you around him, then starts to move, slow at first, rolling his hips so every stroke drags against that perfect spot inside you.
his hands never stop moving, sliding over the lace still clinging to your body, fingers tracing every strap and bow like he’s memorizing the way it looks on you.
he leans down to kiss the swell of your breast above the cup of the bra, teeth grazing lightly before he sucks a mark there, claiming you even as he fucks you deeper. the bed creaks under the steady rhythm he sets, each thrust pushing you higher, and he keeps his eyes on your face the whole time, watching every reaction, every flutter of your lashes when he hits just right.
you come first, clenching around him hard enough that his rhythm falters, and he follows right after, burying his face in your neck as he spills inside you with a broken moan, hips jerking through the aftershocks.
he doesn’t pull out right away. he stays there, cock still twitching, pressing soft kisses along your jaw and whispering how beautiful you look, how much he needed this, how he’ll never get tired of seeing you like this just for him. “you’re just so perfect baby.” he whimpers into your neck. “i’d do anything for you. anything, i promise.”
~ ~ ~ ~
a/n: as it’s clear, i’ve been heavily into my logan era, specifically yearning logan. this is based off this request! requests are open! 💗
summary: Connor wants to learn how to braid your hair.
CW: Fluff
The first thing Connor registers is the quiet. It's too quiet. There's no gentle rustle of movement, no soft humming, no familiar click of your vanity drawers opening. He blinks his eyes open, the morning light filtering through the curtains just enough to illuminate the familiar landscape of his bedroom. And then he sees you.
You're still there, a warm, breathing lump tucked against his side, your hair a soft halo across the pillow. This is wrong. You, the human embodiment of a sunrise, is never still in bed this late. He gently nudges your shoulder.
"Hey," he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep. "You okay?"
You stir, burrowing deeper into the warmth of his side with a soft groan. "Mmm. 'm fine."
"You're still in bed," he states, a note of concern creeping into his voice. He props himself up on an elbow to look at you properly. Your eyes are still closed, your face soft and peaceful. "It's almost nine. You're usually up by seven."
"Sleepy," you mumble into his chest. "Don't wanna move."
He smiles, his heart doing that funny little flop it always does when you're like this, all soft and pliant and his. He runs his fingers through your messy hair, the strands silky between his fingers. "Okay, sleepyhead. But you're going to be late."
"Don't care," you sigh, content to stay right where you are.
A few more minutes pass in comfortable silence. Connor knows your routine as well as his own. He knows that the next step, the non-negotiable part of your morning, is for you to sit at your vanity and weave your hair into its signature French braid. The thought of you skipping it feels... wrong.
"You're not going to do your hair?" he asks, trying to sound casual.
You crack one eye open, giving him a sleepy look. "Don't have the energy today, Con. It's just hair."
He frowns. "No, it's not. You love your braid." He knows this with absolute certainty. He's spent countless mornings watching you, mesmerized by the graceful, practiced dance of your fingers. It's his favorite part of the day, a quiet, intimate ritual that calms him before the chaos of his own schedule begins.
"It's fine," you insist, though you both know it's not. "I'll just throw it up in a bun."
He hates the idea. Hates the thought of you not feeling like yourself today. A sudden, fierce wave of protectiveness washes over him. He wants to give you this. He wants you to have your perfect morning, even if you're too tired to create it yourself.
"Then I'll do it," he declares, his voice full of a determination that makes you open both your eyes this time.
You let out a soft laugh. "You? You can't braid hair, Con."
"How hard can it be?" he challenges, a grin spreading across his face. "I watch you every day. It's just... crossing some stuff over."
The sheer confidence on his face is so endearing that you can't help but agree. "Okay, Mr. I-Can-Do-Anything. Go for it. But don't blame me when I look like a tangled mess."
You sit up, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. You grab your brush from the vanity and sit on the floor in front of where he's now perched on the edge of the mattress, your back to him. He takes the brush from you, his touch gentle as he works through the tangles, his strokes long and smooth.
"Okay," you say, tilting your head back to look up at him. "You start at the top and take three sections."
"Right. Three sections." He gathers the hair, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Then... I cross them?"
"You cross the right over the middle, then the left over the new middle," you instruct, trying not to smile.
He follows your directions, his movements clumsy and unsure. The first attempt results in a lopsided knot that he has to undo immediately. "Okay, that wasn't it."
"No," you agree, trying to stifle a giggle. "That was not it."
He tries again. And again. Each attempt is more disastrous than the last. One braid is so loose it falls out immediately. Another is so tight it pulls at your scalp. He gets frustrated, letting out a huff of annoyance that makes you want to kiss him.
"This is impossible," he groans, dropping his hands. "Your fingers are like magic. Mine are just... dumb hockey sticks."
"You're not a quitter, Bedard," you tease, reaching back to pat his knee. "You can't be defeated by a little hair."
He's not deterred. He just shifts his strategy. "Hold on." He grabs his phone from the nightstand and you hear the faint, tinny sound of a TikTok video. "Okay, okay, I'm watching a tutorial. This girl makes it look so easy."
For the next ten minutes, you sit patiently as he mutters to himself, rewinding videos and trying to follow along with the influencers on his screen. He's so serious, so determined to do this one small thing for you, that your heart feels like it might burst.
"Okay," he says finally, his voice full of renewed confidence. "I think I got it. The secret is to add more hair each time. Let's try again."
This time, something clicks. His movements are still a little clumsy, but they're more deliberate. He's concentrating so hard you can practically hear the gears turning in his brain. He works slowly, section by section, his tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth in the way it does when he's truly focused. You can feel the braid taking shape, neat and tidy, down the back of your head.
When he finally ties the end with the elastic band you handed him, he lets out a triumphant whoop. "I did it! I actually did it!"
You reach back, your fingers tracing the length of the braid. It's not perfect, it's a little lopsided and there are a few bumps here and there, but it's beautiful. It's the most perfect, lopsided, bumpy braid you've ever seen.
You turn around, kneeling between his knees and look up at him. His face is lit up with pure, unadulterated pride, his smile so wide it could power the city for a week.
"Connor," you say softly, your voice thick with emotion. "It's perfect."
"Really?" he asks, his eyes searching yours.
"Really," you confirm, your hands coming up to cup his face. "You did so good. I'm so proud of you."
He leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss that's soft and sweet and full of love. When he pulls back, he's still smiling.
"See?" he says, his thumb stroking your cheek. "I told you I could do it."
"You're my hero," you declare, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him in for another kiss. "My braiding hero."
He laughs, the sound warm and happy. "Anytime you need me, babe. Just say the word. I'll be your personal hair braider."
Hello, I previously requested the one with Quinn Hughes and being at the lake house.
I loved the way you wrote it so thank you so much!!
If you are open to writing something more, I would love something about the readers first time at the lake house with Quinn and her being like, I can’t wait to spend more time here with you cause she sees him really relax and be calm for the first time like he’s not running on fumes trying to make it through the season - but also I imagine he’s like oh anywhere you are I feel calm and safe.
Thank you so much again, I love your writing!!
Calm Waters - Quinn Hughes
pairing: Quinn Hughes x female reader
summary: You visit Quinn's lake house for the first time and witness a side of him you've rarely seen the last couple of months which makes you fall even more in love with him.
CW: Fluff.
The gravel driveway crunches under your tires as you turn into the tree-lined property. You cut the engine, taking a moment to simply breathe in the scent of pine and fresh water. The lake house is even more beautiful than Quinn had described, a beautiful house nestled among towering pines, with a panoramic view of the sparkling water beyond.
Quinn appears on the porch, a soft smile on his face as he watches you. He's dressed simply in a worn t-shirt and shorts, his hair slightly messy from the afternoon breeze. There's an ease about him that you haven't seen in months, not since the season began, really.
"You made it," he says, jogging down the porch steps to open your car door. "Traffic wasn't too bad?"
"Not at all," you reply, letting him pull you into a hug. His arms wrap around you and you immediately feel the tension melting from your own shoulders. "It's beautiful here, Quinn. More beautiful than the pictures."
"Wait until you see the sunset," he murmurs against your hair, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Come on, I'll show you around."
As he leads you inside, you're struck by how different he seems here. In Minnesota, during the season, there was always a certain tightness around his eyes, a subtle tension in his shoulders that never quite disappeared. Here, he moves with a fluid grace, completely relaxed.
The interior of the cabin is exactly what you'd expect, tasteful but comfortable, with touches of hockey memorabilia scattered among family photos and cozy furniture. Large windows frame the lake view, filling the space with natural light.
"I thought you'd like this," he says, gesturing toward a comfortable-looking reading nook by the windows. "You can sit here with your coffee in the mornings."
You turn to him, your heart swelling. "I love it, Quinn."
"And I love you," he admits softly, his cheeks flushing slightly. "I always imagined you here. With me."
Later that evening, you're curled up together on the porch swing, watching as the sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. Quinn's arm is wrapped around you, his thumb stroking lazy circles on your shoulder.
"I've never seen you so relaxed," you observe quietly, resting your head against his chest. "It's like you're a different person here."
The season had been brutal, the trade to Minnesota had been both exciting and exhausting and you'd watched him push through injury and fatigue, always putting the team first. But here, miles from the rink and the pressure, he seems lighter somehow.
"I like seeing you this way. So calm," you add, pressing a kiss to his chest.
He shifts slightly to look at you, his eyes soft in the fading light. "It's not this place that makes me like that," he says quietly. "It's you. Anywhere you are, I feel calm and safe."
Your breath catches at his words. "Quinn..."
"I mean it," he insists, his voice earnest. "During the season, I'm always running on fumes, trying to keep everything together. But when I'm with you... I can finally breathe."
Tears prick at your eyes as you lean up to kiss him, pouring all your love into the gentle press of your lips. When you pull back, you rest your forehead against his.
"I can't wait to spend more time here with you," you whisper. "Seeing you like this... it makes me so happy."
His smile is genuine, reaching all the way to his eyes. "We have all summer," he promises. "And every summer after this."
As darkness falls, you move inside, Quinn starting a fire in the stone fireplace while you prepare a simple dinner. The domesticity of it all feels so right, so natural, as if you've been doing this together for years.
After eating, you settle on the rug before the crackling fire, Quinn's head in your lap as you run your fingers through his hair. His eyes are closed, a contented smile on his face.
"I love you," you say softly, continuing to stroke his hair.
His eyes open, and the look he gives you makes your heart skip a beat. "I love you too. More than you know."
UGHHH im gonna miss him next season 😭😭 i hope the sens treat him well. the reader is blonde, and her dad being lowkey evil is mentioned. neither are that big of a deal in the story tho. love you. love eky. hope u enjoy
ig this is my thing now...
tumblr has made me violent today. I posted this and it genuinely only uploaded two text ss. ugh
Dean Di Laurentis as a Jealous and Clingy Boyfriend
Dean likes to act like he’s above jealousy. He’ll laugh whenever someone suggests he’s the possessive type and throw out some cocky comment about how he has nothing to worry about. But the second another guy starts getting a little too comfortable around you, all that confidence becomes something much more dangerous.
The first sign is how quiet he gets.
Most people expect Dean to make a scene, to crack a joke or insert himself into the conversation. Instead, he watches. He leans against a wall with his arms crossed, jaw tight, pretending he isn’t paying attention while tracking every smile, every laugh, every second your attention is on someone else.
And when you finally look over at him?
That smile is gone.
Not completely. Just enough that you know exactly what’s bothering him.
He won’t say anything in front of other people. Dean is too proud for that.
Instead, the second you’re alone, he’ll casually ask, “So who’s that guy?”
You answer.
He nods.
Then comes the follow-up questions.
“How do you know him?
“Why does he text you so much?”
“Has he always been that friendly?”
When you point out that he’s being jealous, he’ll immediately deny it.
“I’m not jealous.”
“Dean.”
“I’m not.”
“You literally stopped talking for twenty minutes.”
“I was observing.”
“You were glaring.”
“I was evaluating the situation.”
The worst part is that he genuinely believes he’s being subtle.
He’s not.
The entire hockey team knows.
Garrett knows.
Logan knows.
Tucker knows.
The moment Dean wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you against him while staring directly at another guy, nobody is fooled.
Dean also becomes ridiculously clingy whenever he’s feeling insecure.
If you’ve been busy all week with classes, work, or friends, he’ll suddenly decide he hasn’t seen you in years.
You’ll be sitting in your dorm trying to study when he appears out of nowhere.
“What are you doing?”
“Studying.”
“That’s boring.”
“Dean.”
“I miss you.”
“You saw me yesterday.”
“I know. Tragic, isn’t it?”
He’ll flop onto your bed and refuse to leave.
He’ll put his head in your lap while you’re trying to read.
Wrap his arms around your waist while you’re making coffee.
Follow you from room to room just because he wants to be near you.
Half the time he doesn’t even need attention. He just likes your presence.
He’s the type to constantly reach for you without thinking.
His hand finding yours under a table.
His arm draped over your shoulders.
His fingers hooked through your belt loops while standing in line.
A hand resting on your thigh whenever you’re sitting together.
Physical touch becomes second nature for him.
And if you try moving away?
He’s immediately pulling you back.
Not forcefully.
Just enough to keep you close.
At parties, Dean somehow always ends up attached to you.
You start talking to someone, and within minutes his arm is around your waist.
Someone asks if you’re together and Dean answers before you can.
Someone flirts with you and suddenly Dean is standing much closer than before.
Not because he doesn’t trust you.
Because he doesn’t trust them.
When it comes to texting, he’s worse than anyone expects.
Dean pretends he’s low-maintenance.
He’s not.
If you don’t answer for a few hours, his messages slowly become more dramatic.
Hey.
How’s your day?
Miss you.
Are you ignoring me?
I know you’re alive because Instagram says you were active ten minutes ago.
This is actually a crime.
I’m suffering.
The second you respond, his reply appears almost instantly.
As if he’s been staring at his phone the entire time.
At night, the clinginess reaches another level.
Once Dean gets used to sleeping beside you, he’s ruined.
He wants you tucked against his chest.
He wants an arm around your waist.
He wants to wake up and immediately know you’re still there.
If you try getting out of bed early, you’ll feel his arms tighten.
A sleepy groan leaves him as he buries his face into your neck.
“Don’t go.”
“I have class.”
“So skip it.”
“I can’t.”
“You can. I believe in you.”
And if you actually manage to get out of bed, he’ll spend the next hour sending messages about how abandoned he feels.
The truth is that Dean falls harder than he ever planned to.
For someone who spent years avoiding serious relationships, he becomes surprisingly attached once he finds someone he loves.
He wants to know how your day went.
He wants random pictures while you’re apart.
He wants to hear your voice before bed.
He wants every spare minute he can get with you.
And no matter how much he complains when the team makes fun of him for it, the smile on his face whenever you walk into a room gives him away every single time.
