i watched some clips of fraser and he's so soft-spoken and seems so sweet and polite omfg </333 i can't and his goal in the sharks vs bruins match was so good !!! now i have to watch fraser minten content aaaaa
to be honest, i rlly like the san jose sharks as a team so i can watch their content even if willmack aren't that present in it but im not rlly interested in boston bruins team rn kjsfksjfhds lol
🐈
with fraser content i’d say start w watching behind the b episodes !! not only do they have some clips of fraser, but i feel like it’s a good gateway into the bruins team and their dynamics since it focuses a lot on their lives away from the rink!
ep recs (in order of amnt of fraser):
The Vancouver Kid - basically a whole episode on fraser and him talking abt growing up in vancouver, and how he fell in love with hockey
Looking Forward - has the clips of fraser dressed up as robin, and later follows him going costume shopping which has THE photo of him dressed up as a lobster
The Road Ahead - includes some interview clips of him after scoring a goal, includes a more domestic-like scene with him packing for the road, and him talking abt his music taste
Take it Outside - has a couple clips here and there of fraser at the photoshoot for the stadium series, and has a clip of him being called a disney prince when the team is getting dressed up as patriots
Call to the Hall - literally has like one clip at the very end of fraser giving the belt to pasta after the game
Happy Returns - doesn’t include fraser, but mason mentions how fraser’s gonna spend time w him and his family over christmas since he couldn’t go home. gingermint moment !!
there’s also a bruins video of him learning a bit of history by visiting the paul revere house
nesn also has like a whole playlist of spill the b’s short videos of them asking players a random question per video, and fraser shows up in most of them!
i’d also recommend watching some of the older ones of the fraser world juniors videos! mack’s also in some of them which is a plus :P i personally love the gingerbread house decorating one w easton since i miss my leafs duo 😞🤞there’s a video (mack’s also in it) where they guess the meaning of swedish words and fraser pronounces late as latte lmao bless him 😭🙏🏻
other than that, just interviews here and there of him are fun to watch!!
"Knee deep in the passenger seat,
And you're eating me out,
Is it casual now?"
Request: "imagine minty w highschool sweetheart / childhood best friend gf and he’s just so downbad🥹🥹" (deviated slightly cuz i wanted it to be more angsty)
Summary: Love grows over the years for you two... but how does it end up?
Word Count: 3.9k
Pairing: Fraser Minten x fem!reader
Warnings: mentions of sex, virginity loss, one (1) nsfw scene of oral sex.
Notes:
this is very similiar to my "those eyes" fic and i love that one so much soooo
mourning minty so fucking bad. why BOSTON.
anyways. this request is pretty new i just HAD to write it.
You're six years old the first time you think Fraser is the cutest boy in the world.
It happens in the middle of summer, when the two of you are running around his backyard, barefoot in the grass, chasing each other with sticky, half-melted popsicles clutched in your hands. His mom made them—real fruit, she’d said, not like the store ones—and the one in your hand is raspberry, staining your fingers pink as you eat it in quick, messy bites. Fraser's is mango, bright orange against the flush of his cheeks. He’s been outside all day, and the sun has kissed his skin a shade darker, turned his nose pink, made the freckles across his cheeks pop. He looks like the picture of summer, all golden-brown limbs and wild hair, his bangs sticking to his forehead where the sweat hasn't dried.
He grins at you, the gap where his front tooth used to be on full display, and your chest does a funny little squeeze.
“You’re my best friend,” he says, like it’s a secret just for you, like it’s the most important thing in the world.
He says it all the time, every single day, but today—today, for some reason, it feels special. You swallow down a bite of your popsicle and nod, very serious. “You’re my best friend, too.”
He nods back, like that settles it, and then takes a giant, dramatic chomp of his popsicle. His eyes go big and round immediately.
“Brain freeze,” he gasps, hands flying up to his temples. “Brain freeze, brain freeze, brain freeze—”
His distress is so intense, so theatrical, that you can't help but laugh. It bubbles up from your chest, a bright, high-pitched giggle that makes Fraser scowl at you before promptly bursting into laughter himself. You both laugh so hard you have to sit down right there in the grass, popsicles melting against your fingers, pooling in little pink and orange streaks on your knees.
“Here,” you say after a minute, offering him the last little bit of your raspberry popsicle in what you think is a very grand and generous gesture. “You can have the rest of mine. To make up for the brain freeze.”
Fraser’s eyes go wide again, but this time in delight. “Really?”
“Really.”
He takes it carefully, holding it between his already-sticky fingers, and takes a slow, deliberate bite. He hums, nodding like he’s assessing the flavor. “Pretty good,” he says finally. “Not as good as mango, though.”
He sticks out his hand, offering you the rest of his in return, and you hesitate only for a second before leaning in and taking a tiny bite. It’s still cold, still sweet, but it tastes a little better because it’s from him. You think that’s funny, but you don’t say it out loud. Instead, you wipe your hands on your shorts and watch as Fraser licks his fingers clean, messy and careless. He has mango juice on his chin, a bit of melted raspberry staining the corner of his mouth, and his hair is sticking up in all directions.
He is, quite possibly, the cutest boy in the world.
“What?” he asks, catching you staring.
“Nothing,” you say quickly, looking away. Your face feels warm, and it’s definitely not from the sun.
Fraser shrugs, unconcerned, and flops down on his back in the grass. “I hope we’re best friends forever,” he says, stretching his arms up over his head. He blinks up at the sky, a contented little smile playing on his lips. “Even when we’re old.”
His words settle into your chest, warm and snug like your favorite blanket, and you smile as you lay down beside him. “Me too.”
“Even when we’re, like, a hundred?”
“Even then.”
Fraser sighs, satisfied, and lets his eyes slip shut. “Good.”
And for the rest of the summer, you let yourself believe that forever is a promise neither of you will ever break.
At thirteen years old, things start to change in ways neither of you can quite name yet. Fraser is still your best friend. That part is the same. But suddenly, he’s taller than you, which makes no sense because just last year, you were the same height. He teases you about it mercilessly, standing up extra straight just to make the difference more obvious. And his voice—it hasn’t changed yet, not really, but sometimes it catches, warbles unexpectedly between high and low, and when it happens, he gets embarrassed in a way you’ve never seen before.
There are other things, too. Like how he started playing hockey on a real team a year ago, and now it takes up almost all of his time. Or how he never used to care about what he wore, but lately, he’s been showing up to school in T-shirts that don’t have holes in them, with his hair brushed (most of the time). Or how his mom had to explain deodorant to him at the start of summer, and he’d grumbled about it the whole time but had listened anyway. He even made you smell his arm a week later to prove that it was working. You’d shoved him away, gagging, but not before admitting that, yeah, okay, it wasn’t bad. It was kind of nice, actually.
Not that you’d ever tell him that.
The weirdest part is that you’re changing, too. It doesn’t feel like it most of the time, but then you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and think, Huh. That’s new. Your face looks different, a little sharper. Your legs feel longer. Your chest is—well, something’s happening there, and you don’t want to think about it too hard. Neither does Fraser, apparently, because when he accidentally elbowed you in the front a few weeks ago and you yelped, he’d turned bright red and practically fallen over himself apologizing. It was the first time he’d ever looked flustered about touching you.
The realization had made your stomach feel weird, like you were teetering at the top of a slide.
You don’t talk about any of it. Not the changes, not the weird moments, not the way you catch Fraser looking at you sometimes like he’s noticed them too. Instead, you spend your time the way you always have—racing down the block on your bikes, playing video games in his basement, making fun of his little brother behind his back. Some things don’t have to change.
But then, one afternoon, you’re sprawled out on the floor of Fraser’s room, flipping through your math notes, and he asks, "Do you think I’m cute?"
It comes out of nowhere. So much so that at first, you think you misheard him.
"What?"
He clears his throat, shifting so he’s sitting up against his bed. "Like, I don’t know. Just wondering. Am I cute?"
Your face gets warm. You keep your eyes on the page in front of you, even though you haven’t actually read a single word in the last five minutes.
"Why?"
"No reason." He pauses. Then, in a quieter voice, "Some of the girls in my class said I was."
Something strange bubbles up in your chest at that. You can’t quite place what it is, but it makes you press your lips together and flip the page a little too aggressively.
"Oh. Well. That’s nice."
Fraser makes a noise, somewhere between a huff and a laugh. "You didn’t answer."
"I don’t know!" You roll onto your side so you don’t have to look at him. "I guess so."
"You guess so?" He sounds so offended that you actually snort, despite the weird feeling still twisting inside you.
"I don’t know, Fraser! You’ve got, like, a face and stuff. It’s fine."
He groans dramatically and flops back against the carpet. "That’s the worst answer I’ve ever heard."
"Okay, well, what about me? Am I cute?" You throw it back at him without thinking, but as soon as the words leave your mouth, you kind of want to shove them back in.
Fraser goes quiet. Too quiet.
Your heart thumps in your ears. Slowly, cautiously, you glance over at him.
He’s staring at the ceiling, face unreadable. "Yeah," he says finally. "Yeah, you are."
It knocks the breath out of you a little bit. You don’t know why. You knew the answer before you even asked. But hearing it out loud—having it confirmed—it feels different. Realer.
You swallow, then scramble to push yourself upright. "Okay, well, I think we’re both cute, then. Mystery solved. Can we go get pizza now?"
Fraser hesitates, then grins, and just like that, the moment passes. "Yeah, okay. Race you there?"
You don’t say anything else as you both bolt for the door, but for the rest of the day, the feeling lingers—something small, something quiet, settling just beneath your ribs.
You don’t know it yet, but it’s the beginning of something.
***
At sixteen, it starts slow. Subtle. So much so that, for a while, neither of you really acknowledge that it’s happening. It’s just little things at first. The way Fraser lingers too long when he hugs you goodbye. The way your hands brush under the lunch table, and neither of you move away. The way your eyes flick to each other’s mouths when you’re sitting too close, knees bumping, whispering secrets back and forth like you did when you were kids.
And then, one day, he kisses you.
It’s nothing, really. That’s what you both tell yourselves, anyway. Just a quick peck on the lips, a practice run. You’re sitting on his bed, facing each other, legs crossed, talking about how weird it is that people your age are already having full-blown relationships, and before you really know how it happens, Fraser is saying, "Do you think we should know what we’re doing?" And you’re laughing, saying, "Probably," and then there’s a moment of silence where you both just look at each other, and suddenly, he’s leaning in, and so are you, and it’s a kiss—brief, barely anything, but warm, soft.
When you pull away, you’re both quiet for a long second. Then Fraser clears his throat, rubs the back of his neck. "Huh. That wasn’t bad."
You don’t know why you’re breathless, but you nod. "Yeah. Not bad."
It should be the kind of thing you joke about once and never repeat, but it isn’t. Instead, it becomes… a thing. Not a big thing. Just something you do sometimes, when no one else is around. It’s never serious. Never deep. But when he kisses you again the next week—this time, lingering just a little longer—you don’t stop him. And when you kiss him back, he doesn’t stop you, either.
At first, it’s still just practice. Fraser kisses you like he’s testing a theory, and you let him, because you’re curious, too. But then practice turns into habit, and habit turns into something else, something that neither of you have a name for. One night, after a particularly drawn-out kiss, Fraser presses his forehead against yours and whispers, "I like this," and your stomach flips because, yeah. You do, too.
You know it isn’t normal. Friends don’t do this. But neither of you stop, and it never gets addressed, so you let yourself pretend that means it’s okay.
It escalates from there. The touches get braver. His hands start settling on your waist, your hips, his thumbs rubbing absent circles against your skin. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, and he groans into your mouth, and that sound—low, desperate—makes your entire body go hot. The kisses get deeper, messier, like you’re both trying to figure out just how far you can take it before it stops being just kissing.
And then, one evening, Fraser’s mom walks in.
The door was closed—your first mistake. You’re in his lap—your second mistake. His hands are under your shirt—your third mistake. You both freeze, deer-in-the-headlights style, but it’s already too late. His mom takes one look, gasps, and immediately backs out, slamming the door shut behind her.
For a long second, neither of you move. Then Fraser swears, dropping his forehead against your shoulder. "We’re so dead."
You’re inclined to agree.
The conversation happens at dinner. His mom tries to keep her voice even, but her expression is tense. "We know you’re both at the age where… exploration is natural," she says, clearly fighting not to cringe, "but there need to be boundaries."
Fraser’s dad is looking anywhere but at the two of you, his jaw clenched like he’s physically forcing himself not to intervene. His little brother is watching with a massive grin, eating it up.
His mom exhales. "New rule. Open door policy. Always."
Fraser groans. "Mom."
"No exceptions."
You’re still mortified, but you manage to nod. "Okay. We get it."
After that, things change a little. The open-door rule makes everything riskier, more careful. Kissing is limited to quick, stolen moments when no one is looking. Hands never stray too far. But the tension is still there, stronger than ever, a constant hum in the air between you. And sometimes, when you catch Fraser staring at you like he’s already thinking about the next time you’ll get to be alone, it’s enough to make you wonder how long you’ll actually be able to keep your hands to yourselves.
Montreal hums around you when you’re eighteen, neon and alive, but the only thing you can hear is the sound of Fraser breathing between your thighs.
The car is parked in the lot behind the hotel, secluded enough that the only light spilling in is from the flickering streetlamp by the entrance. It doesn’t matter. You’re barely aware of anything outside of him—the press of his shoulders wedged between your knees, the grip of his hands keeping you spread open, the slow, wet drag of his tongue against your cunt.
Your head tips back against the seat, fingers twisting into his hair, thighs trembling around his face. He’s been at it for so long, lapping at you with patient, focused attention, like this is the only thing he wanted out of tonight. Not the draft, not the cameras, not the celebration. Just you.
Your chest feels tight. You push the thought down, grind yourself against his mouth, and bite your lip to muffle the sound that wants to spill free. Fraser groans low, hands tightening on your hips, dragging you closer so he can lick deeper. His tongue flicks, slow and deliberate, circling your clit before dipping back inside, and you jerk at the sensation, your entire body pulling tight like a bowstring.
You whisper his name, and it’s not just pleasure—it’s everything. The years of this, the years of him. The firsts, the almosts, the things left unsaid. The way he’d kissed you for the first time like it didn’t mean anything, then kissed you a second time like it meant everything. The way you’d fumbled together in the dark, seventeen and shaking, losing it to each other in a bed too small, bodies pressed together, limbs tangled, hands searching. The way he’d held you after, silent, his forehead pressed to yours like he didn’t know what to say.
Like he knew what you felt but couldn’t say it back.
You gasp as he sucks on your clit, just enough pressure to make your spine arch, your hand tightening in his hair. He moans, the sound vibrating against you, and you feel the heat coil tighter, burning deep, spreading through your limbs, making it impossible to think of anything except the way he’s making you feel.
He pulls back just enough to catch his breath, lips glossy, pupils blown wide in the dim light. His fingers press against your thigh, sliding up, grazing along the slick mess he’s already made. "You’re shaking," he murmurs, almost like he’s in awe.
"Shut up." Your voice is breathless, wrecked. You sound like you’re on the edge of something, and you are.
Fraser smiles, just a little, and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh before diving back in, tongue pushing deep, curling, stroking. You whimper, hips jerking, and he holds you down, keeps you still so he can take you apart the way he wants to.
It’s always been like this. Always him giving, always him taking.
Even now—after the biggest night of his life, after his entire world has just changed—he’s still here, kneeling between your legs in the front seat of a rental car, like this is what matters most. Like you matter most.
Your throat feels tight.
You could love him forever.
You’re not sure you can handle knowing he won’t love you back.
The thought sends a fresh wave of heat through your body, but this time, it isn’t the good kind. It’s desperation, tangled up with everything else, clawing at your chest, at your lungs, making it hard to breathe. You grab at his shoulders, pulling him up, dragging his mouth to yours. You taste yourself on his tongue as you kiss him, deep and hungry, and he groans into it, his hands gripping your waist like he can feel the shift in you, the urgency beneath it.
You roll your hips against him, grinding against the bulge in his slacks, feeling the way he shudders, the way he fists his hands in the fabric of your dress. He wants you, just like you want him. That’s never been the problem.
But what happens when wanting isn’t enough anymore?
"Fraser," you whisper, against his lips, and he makes a soft, desperate noise, like he knows what you’re going to say, like he doesn’t want to hear it.
You say it anyway.
"I love you."
His breath catches. His fingers tense against your hips.
And then—nothing.
No reply. No whispered confession. Just silence.
You feel it like a gut punch.
He presses his forehead against yours, breathing hard, like he’s trying to find the right words, but you already know they aren’t coming.
Tears burn at the edges of your eyes, and you blink up at the ceiling, trying to swallow it all down, trying not to let it show. Because this is what you signed up for, right? Just your best friend who fucks you on his couch sometimes. This is what it’s always been.
Casual.
So why does it feel like your heart is breaking?
At twenty, the call comes late. Too late. The kind of late where your first instinct is that something is wrong. Your phone vibrates against your nightstand, the screen lighting up with a name you haven’t seen in months. Your stomach clenches. It always does when it comes to him.
For a long second, you debate letting it ring out. Letting it go to voicemail. You’ve spent the last two years trying to untangle yourself from him, to pry your heart free of the place he wedged himself into when you were too young to know any better. But your hands move before your mind catches up, and suddenly, you’re pressing the phone to your ear, voice thick with sleep when you mumble, "Hello?"
There’s silence. Just for a beat. And then, a sigh. "Hey."
You swallow. "What’s going on, Fras?”
He breathes out a quiet laugh, the kind that isn’t really a laugh at all. "You sound surprised."
"I am," you admit, because what else is there to say?
His voice is the same as you remember, a little lower now, a little rougher, like the last few years have worn him down in ways you weren’t around to witness. You picture him, sprawled out on some unfamiliar bed, the glow of a hotel lamp casting shadows over his face. You wonder if he looks different now. If you would recognize him the way you used to.
"I, uh—" He hesitates, and you hear the faint rustle of fabric, the shift of his weight as he adjusts. "I got traded."
The words take a second to sink in. When they do, your brows furrow, a frown tugging at your lips. "What?"
"Yeah." He exhales sharply, like he still doesn’t believe it himself. "Boston. Well, Providence, for now. But, yeah. Bruins."
You don’t know what to say. There was a time when this news would have meant everything to you. When you would have been the first person he told, sitting next to him in his car, legs tucked up against the dashboard, laughing and teasing and dreaming about the future like it was something you were both going to live together. Now, all you can do is nod, even though he can’t see you. "Wow. That’s… that’s huge."
"Yeah."
Silence stretches between you, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid. You press your lips together, shifting in bed, and finally, when it starts to feel unbearable, you clear your throat. "Why are you telling me this, Fraser?"
He’s quiet again. Then: "I don’t know. I just—" He stops, swears under his breath. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. "I wanted to talk to you."
It’s not fair. He shouldn’t be able to do this—to just show up in your life whenever he feels like it, to drop his voice into your ear like a match on gasoline, igniting everything you’ve spent so long trying to put out. But, at the same time, isn’t this what you always wanted? For him to care? To miss you?
You let out a slow breath. "Well. You got me."
Another pause. Then he laughs, and for a moment, it’s easy to pretend this is just another late-night call from when you were kids, whispering to each other about nothing until one of you fell asleep mid-sentence. "Yeah. I guess I did."
For a little while, it’s easy. Comfortable. You talk about meaningless things—the weather, a show you both used to love, a story about a mutual friend’s recent engagement. It’s familiar, effortless, the way it always was. Like no time has passed at all.
But then, after a lull, his voice drops a little. "I think about that night a lot."
Your stomach turns. You know exactly which night he means. You close your eyes, exhaling through your nose. "Fraser—"
"I fucked up."
It’s so simple. So matter-of-fact. Like he’s been holding onto it for so long that there’s nothing left but the truth.
You swallow. "It was a long time ago."
"Doesn’t mean I didn’t fuck up."
You want to brush him off. To tell him it’s fine, that it didn’t matter, that you moved on. But the words taste like lies before you even think about saying them, so you stay quiet instead.
Fraser exhales. "I didn’t know what to say back then."
"Yeah," you murmur. "I got that."
He groans, frustrated. "No, I mean—I did. I did know what to say. I was just too fucking scared to say it."
Your breath catches. The room feels too quiet, too still. "Fraser."
"Come see me."
The words land like a punch. You blink, shaking your head, as if he can see you. "What?"
"Come see me. Not for—" He stops himself, shifts gears. "Not like before. Not like that. Just… come."
It would be so easy to say no. To end this, finally, once and for all. To stop letting him have a say in your life, in your heart, in anything.
But you don’t say no.
Instead, you sit there, staring at the ceiling, and you wonder.
And for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like an ending. It feels like the start of something else.
[5.6k] socializing at parties was never quinn’s thing, so it isn’t a surprise when he hides in his room with you and some weed, just like any other time. or maybe not.
warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, smut, stoner au, drug use (weed), sex under the influence!!, oral m receiving, nipple play, mention of alcohol use, mention of masturbating (m and f), kinda made them perverts for a paragraph sorry, cum eating but blink and you'll miss it, lots of kissing, spit, and touching, shotgun smoke, best friends with benefits for the night; unedited
a/n: listen, he's so stoner coded to me haha i had to. also i was supposed to post this during the summer and then completely forgot so he's still a canuck in this oops okay
.
It was no secret to you, or any of his friends for that matter, that Quinn smoked every once in a while. For fun or to ease his nerves, he didn't mind indulging from time to time on his own, but for some reason weed always tasted better when he shared it with you.
During his summers he would go a bit more crazy with it, no responsibilities and no hockey to interfere with getting high all day almost everyday if it wasn’t for his brothers’ constant nagging to share some. That was why he found himself walking to the park down the street or staying at your place more often than not, smoking with the window open and a rug by the door apparently were enough to keep the smell out from your unsuspected parents.
Quinn groaned as he felt his phone buzz under his pillow, waking him up from his nap. He opened his eyes and closed them back quickly as soon as the sun hit his eyes, seeping through the window as it started to set behind the lake. Fishing for his phone, he turned on his back, eyes adjusting to the sunlight while trying to focus on his phone.
He rolled his eyes when he read Jack’s text asking him to help gather everything for the party he was throwing tonight. It was summer after all, and he knew how much Jack loved social settings like this where he could hang out with his friends to no end and get drunk every weekend, but Quinn was getting tired of having to stay up until sunrise and deal with so many people. He tried to escape as much as he could, sleeping at your place instead because as much as you went and enjoyed these parties, sometimes you needed a break, too.
“What time is it?” your voice came through soft, barely above a whisper and a tiny bit raspy from sleep.
“Almost eight.”
“Shit,” you mumbled. You couldn’t remember when you both fell asleep, but you knew sleeping later tonight was going to be a struggle. He let out a small breathy laugh as you rolled almost fully on top of his body. His arm instinctively wrapped around your back to pull you closer, as if you weren’t already nuzzling your face in his hoodie-clad chest. “We need to get ready.”
You released a long sigh and got up from your position before stretching your arms out with your eyes closed, completely unaware of Quinn’s eyes on your lower stomach as your shirt had ridden up. Dragging your feet on the way to the bathroom, you picked up a top and shorts discarded on the ground, not caring if they were wrinkled. It wasn’t like a Jack party was that big of a deal anyway.
“Do we really have to go?” Quinn groaned as he got up on his elbows to focus on you getting ready from the crack of the bathroom door, your back barely visible in the mirror in front of you. As you were done changing, you opened it wider to give him a look.
“Considering you’ve been staying here for the past four days, I’m sure your brothers miss seeing your pretty face.”
“Don’t care,” he mumbled.
“C’mon Quinn, it’s one of the last ones anyway,” you whined at his grumpy remark.
“I’m a captain now, I can’t be caught being irresponsible,” he joked.
“The same captain who has been smoking weed and rotting in my bed almost everyday since the season ended?”
“Okay, fine.”
You knew he was hooked when he threw himself back on your bed, hands coming to cover his face. You giggled, plopping down beside him and weight resting on your elbows. Quinn had always had a sweet spot for you growing up, you were his best friend from day one. From scraped knees playing street hockey to sneaking out past curfews, there wasn’t a single childhood memory where you weren’t right there beside him. You were the one who could always see through him, what was going on in his head, his feelings, his worries.
And then you grew up and nothing changed between you two apart from the fact that you never realized how hot Quinn was all this time until recently. You weren't necessarily catching feelings for your best friend—or that was what you told yourself—but you couldn’t lie that anytime you’d get drunk or high, your mind would wander to untouchable grounds.
It didn’t help at all that you moved relatively close to Vancouver after graduating, meaning Quinn would beg you to meet up after practice or come watch one of his games quite often, either situation ending up with the same outcome: a disheveled and sweaty (or wet) and panting Quinn. All which led to you going home horny and resorting to ‘drastic measures’.
He wasn’t any better though. He lost count of how many times he had to relieve himself under a cold shower after hanging out with you on the boat, skimpy bikinis and ass on display as you tanned. Or the number of times he found himself unconsciously moaning your name as he stroked his cock.
So he couldn’t say no to you, not when you looked so pretty smiling down at him, making him smile too. Happy you had finally gotten your way in less time than you expected, you got off the bed again and put your hand out to him.
He groaned as he resisted your pull, but eventually got up and let you lead the way. The walk to their house was short as you only lived a few houses down, but it felt nice, just the usual comfortable silence falling between the two of you. The chill breeze from the late July evening hit your bare legs, sending a light shiver down your body, pushing you to hold onto Quinn’s arm for some warmth.
The closer you got the slower he walked in hopes you would tell him you changed your mind, that you wanted it to be just you and him for yet another night, but as loud music billowed up with every step you took, you were buzzing, excited to spend time with his brothers and their friends.
“Oh my god, she’s alive!” You heard someone yell as soon as you turned around the corner to the back garden. Trevor’s eyes lighted up from his spot on the outdoor couch, nursing a beer with some guys. And before you could realize it, he was in front of you, shoving Quinn away so he could give you a proper hug.
“You really shouldn’t keep your friends hostage, you know?” He said while glaring at Quinn behind you.
“Don’t blame me, she didn’t want to deal with your annoying ass.”
“I never said that!” You gasped.
Trevor turned his back to Quinn with you still in his arms, lifting your feet off the ground just enough so he could drag you away. “I know, honey. He’s just jealous you like me more than him.”
You saw Quinn roll his eyes as he brought his hands on his hips, utterly annoyed that Trevor, out of all people, was the one to steal you away from him so soon. A giggle left your lips and you let Trevor walk you back to where he came from, while Quinn already made a beeline to the inside of the house, avoiding anyone who bumped into him and started looking for a drink, knowing he was going to need to put something in his body to be able to handle these many people.
It was well into the night when you noticed that Quinn was nowhere to be found. You couldn’t remember when you saw him last, you haven’t talked to him since you arrived, only ever spotting him chatting away with his brothers with a drink in his hand earlier in the night.
You lost count of how many rounds of beer pong you have played, but thankfully you weren’t drunk, Trevor so kindly taking most of the cups for you. But you were over it, tired, and in need of a change of company.
You made your way inside the house, squeezing between the sea of bodies before you unexpectedly bumped into something, or rather someone.
“Oh Luke,” you said surprised as you looked up. “Have you– are you okay?”
“When did you get here?” he asked.
“Like, a few hours ago. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, just… got up too fast. I think I drank too much,” he said sheepishly and blinking rapidly, the light blush covering his cheeks and ears was definitely an obvious giveaway. He put a hand on your shoulder as he started to walk past you when you stopped him by grabbing his forearm. “Have you seen Quinn?”
“No, I didn’t even know he was here,” he yelled over the music. “There’s only one place he could be, then.”
Of course, grumpy ol’ Quinn couldn’t have been far. The upstairs was always off limits for guests during parties so it was a plausible assumption to say that he hid up in his room away from everybody, especially since he didn’t want to come here to begin with. It was something he always did before settling on sneaking out and coming over to your place for some peace and quiet.
He loved his brothers, but sometimes the constant blaring of music and dealing with their hangovers the next day made him forget that. He knew they were just letting loose after working so hard during the season, he just had a different concept of “having fun”. Not that Quinn didn't go to parties, but between an ocean of loud and obnoxious people and a quiet day out on the boat in the middle of the lake, he’d definitely choose the latter.
As you started feeling overwhelmed by the crowd around you, you made your way upstairs, making sure nobody saw you sneaking up to the no-zone. You quickly opened his bedroom door and shut it behind you, smirking as you made eye contact with Quinn.
He stopped in his tracks, hands stuck midair holding a small box, and wide eyes looking at you like a deer in headlights before realization sat in his heart that it was just you. “Hey.”
“What you hiding there?” You teased, making your way to sit on his bed.
He didn’t respond, instead showing you exactly what you expected. “I’m starting to think you have some ready and hidden in your car too.”
“Gotta always be prepared, you know?”
“Jesus Q, you’re such a loser,” you laughed.
He chuckled in response, rising on his knees and reaching for the lighter and a small ashtray in the bedside drawer. He sat down in front of you, legs outstretched as your knee touched his naked thigh. Leaning back slightly with one hand propped behind for support, he rolled the blunt between his fingertips with the other, letting the flame singe the tip.
“Want the first hit?” he asked, letting his tongue run over his bottom lip in anticipation as he lifted the blunt from the flame to watch the smoke start floating in the air.
You nodded eagerly, lifting your hand to grab it, but Quinn beat you to it, bringing his own hand to your parted lips. As you pursed your lips and took a large hit, you let the smoke cloud your lungs and tighten your chest, your eyes fluttering shut at the sensation. It wasn’t until he spoke that you opened your eyes again, noticing his hand resting on your exposed knee, rubbing his thumb as he looked at you with a warm smile.
He took the joint from your hand, taking a drag for himself and blowing a cloud of smoke in the air before dropping some of the ash in the small bowl. “Fuck, I needed this.”
“I bet you did,” you smirked while taking the blunt back, holding it between your lips. “I don’t think you’ve been sober a single day so far.”
“Yeah,” he chuckled lowly, voice tainted with smoke.
No matter how many times he smoked, he could never get tired of the feeling of his nerves pleasantly lighting up all at once, though his speech and his movements slowed and slurred each time he tried to not get distracted from whatever conversation he was having with you. You weren’t much different from him, finding it funny how you’d reply slowly and a few seconds later after staring at him with a content smile on your lips.
After a while, silence fell between the two of you as time seemed to slow down, the blunt in his hand was half gone by now after exchanging it with you a few more times, and with each hit, you felt yourself fade more and more.
You inhaled the smoke again, closing your heavy eyes and relishing in the silence, in the stillness of the moment. Everything felt somewhat greater, almost like you were too conscious of your body and your brain hyper focused on things you never noticed before, like how your heart beat into your chest, maybe a bit more forceful than usual. You couldn’t tell, but it had to be a side effect of weed.
As you exhaled, you almost choked on the remaining smoke in your throat as you opened your eyes and met Quinn’s red-eyed gaze. Has he always been this close? Did he move? Was his hand touching my leg before? You were hyper aware of your surroundings now, but it didn’t matter much when his cologne was mixing in with the weed, overpowering everything, and you unconsciously leaned closer, chasing his scent.
“Do you wanna try something?” he asked, his eyes dropping to your lips before bringing them back onto yours.
You nodded, “What?”
He licked his lips and held your face still with his free hand, taking you by delayed surprise, while the other took the blunt between his lips. He inhaled more smoke than usual and pooled it between his cheeks, letting it settle in his mouth before leaning over, his face now mere inches from you.
You opened your mouth slightly, gaze dropping from his hazel eyes to his parted lips as he let the smoke pour out into your mouth. Inhaling slowly, you both stared entranced at the exchange of smoke from one mouth to another and you couldn’t help but feel a jolt run through your spine as you felt Quinn’s lips graze yours. It was a barely-there touch, yet his stubble was tickling your skin.
“Atta girl,” he said, lips daring to get closer to yours.
The warmth growing in your chest made you act without thinking and you inched closer, seeking for more. Your lips connected with his, eliciting a groan from him as you kissed him tentatively, despite the need that surged over you.
Before you could get carried away you parted from him, tension filling up the space between your bodies, but you didn’t get far as he took the hand holding your face and placed it on the back of your neck, harshly pushing you back onto his lips. You gasped into the kiss, unexpected of the fervor.
His tongue danced around yours, exploring your mouth and savoring every inch of it. You were soft, softer than he ever imagined your lips to be and he didn’t want to admit to himself that this was all he ever wanted, that this was so much better than the beginning of his wet dreams he’d have about you. But fuck it, he thought, there was no reason to lie and pretend like he wasn’t downright smitten for you, like he didn’t want to touch, to feel your body on his. And none of this was new, it was only natural for him to feel this way with you after being around each other majority of the time and see you grow into a woman in front of his eyes.
Breathless and panting, he put space between you, gaze fixed on the line of spit connecting your lips. You noticed it too, and didn’t resist the urge to dart your tongue out, licking the string clean off his bottom lip, his mouth closing around the tip of your tongue instinctively.
If it wasn’t for your hand reaching out, he would have forgotten all about what you were actually supposed to be doing. Your fingers wrapped delicately around his wrist and brought his hand up, angling it right so you could take another hit, mirroring his actions from before.
As you took the blunt between your lips, you stared at his hooded eyes, seemingly of darker shades of green now, and let the smoke fill your throat. You let out a moan as the weed fogged up your brain and you reached for him again with an open mouthed kiss, letting the smoke shift into his mouth.
He broke the kiss to puff out the smoke and before either of you could change your minds and realize that maybe making out with your best friend was a bad idea, he put out the remaining blunt in the small ashtray and placed it on the nightstand behind him.
Quinn wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you into his lap, smirking as your legs swinged over either side of his hips. His hands didn't waste time to grip at your thighs and hips, palming at the flesh while he kissed you harder, basking in the feel of your smooth, soft lips.
You ghosted your hands over his chest, fisting the collar of his hoodie to bring him closer to you. His lips were hot on yours, only parting ever so slightly to gasp for air, groans escaping from his mouth every time he would smash his lips onto yours again. He was on cloud nine, the feel of your body on top of him was driving him insane and he was doing his best not to lose control, but the smooth skin of your thighs was making it harder to suppress the ache for more inside his chest.
The noises you let out threw reason completely out of his mind and he let his hands roam further up, squeezing at your waist while his mouth left a trail of wet kisses on your jaw before settling to nip at the skin of your neck.
“Fuck,” you mumbled. Your hand got lost in his hair, tugging at his curls scared that he would pull away.
Quinn groaned as you guided his head toward your chest and took that as his sign for his hands to slide, spreading his fingers to tease underneath your chest, thumbs tracing around the curves of your tits. Without taking his mouth off you, he lowered your top just enough so he could keep biting and sucking at the now exposed skin, dangerously close to where your bra sat.
Goosebumps rose onto your skin, his breath on your wet skin made you throw your head back as you were sure marks would appear tomorrow. The more he bit and lapped onto your skin, palmed at your tits avoiding your hard nipples, the less control you had over your body. Unconsciously, you started grinding on him, both of you letting out a moan at the sensation, your highs making everything more sensitive even through your clothes. You pulled at his hair, earning a whine from him as he pulled away from your chest and looked at you through hooded red eyes. You held his face between your hands, fingers tangling in his hair. “Quinn?”
“Yeah?” he asked with a raspy voice.
“I want to touch you,” you whispered boldly. He chuckled at your words and let his head rest against the bed’s headboard, smiling as your hands moved from his hair to his lap just to trail up and draw random patterns on his stomach underneath his hoodie.
He hummed, letting his eyes fall shut. “You are touching me.”
“Don’t get smart on me now, Q.”
“Okay, okay,” he said as he straightened himself up before speaking up again, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve been thinking about you touching me.”
“Yeah?”
“Mh,” he nodded. “With that mouth of yours.”
It was your turn to chuckle. He probably didn’t mean it, you were both too high to think straight, but maybe all the times you caught Quinn stare at your mouth should have given you a hint that he was telling you the truth. It had been a while since you started noticing it, whether it was him focusing on your mouth while you were smoking or talking, it was more often than not that you found him staring at your lips.
So while your hands still roamed up and down his body, you ducked your head in the crook of his neck, licking up his pulse point until you reached where it connected to his jaw, planting a wet kiss before you bit at his earlobe. His cock jumped at the action, making your thighs close in as he grew rock hard underneath you.
“Okay,” you said, rising from his neck. You studied his features —his eyebrows furrowed in lust, lips slightly parted already missing yours, light blush on his cheeks as the room grew hotter now. His nails dug into the skin of your hips, his hold tight as he tried to raise his hips to get some friction and feel some relief, but you had other plans.
You crawled back until you reached the end of the bed, your hands working on the zipper of his shorts before you pulled them off, along with his boxers, unhurriedly and messily. He lifted his hips to help you out and looked down at you with sultry eyes, anticipating your next move. Quinn bit his lip and took a sharp breath in as you palmed over him, smirking when his cock bounced against his clothed stomach.
Instinctively, you let your finger run up his shaft, following the bulging vein that connected to his tip up and down until a small drop of precum stained his hoodie. “Knew you were pretty here too,” you said, licking your lips.
You leaned forward and teased him by darting your tongue out, licking over his slit to taste his precum. The groan escaping his mouth sent a jolt to your center and you were growing impatient, hungrier to feel him in your mouth.
“Fuck, don’t tease me like that,” he hissed, one of his hands coming to gather some of your hair in a makeshift ponytail, tugging you down so your mouth could connect with his length again. You chuckled through your smirk, your face closer now you couldn’t stop yourself from planting a small kiss to his head.
“But I wanna take my time with you,” you pouted. “What if this is my only chance to suck you off? Need to savor it.”
His stomach clenched at your words, the idea that you wanted nothing more than to stuff your mouth with his cock, memorize every detail of it because you thought this was going to be the one and only time you’d get to see him like this, had his brain feel fuzzier and foggier than weed ever could.
He thought he already lost it when you first touched him, but as he watched you lean forward and spit over his length, he truly was a gone man now. Your lips wrapped around his cock, soft and smooth as you took him in, whole, until your nose brushed at his pelvis and his tip hit the back of your throat.
Quinn sucked a breath in, fighting for his hand to keep still on the back of your bobbing head as the urge to push you to take him in deeper rose within him, but he was finding it harder not to fuck your pretty face so early in. You wanted to take your time, you said it yourself, and who was he to deny you that, especially not when your warm mouth felt like heaven.
Small sounds of pleasure escaped his lips and he closed his eyes again, the weed in his bloodstream making everything hotter, messier, wetter. Your mouth worked around him, drawing lines up and down his cock with your tongue until you found the perfect spot to make him wither.
You pulled back up, a line of spit connecting you to his sensitive tip before you kissed it away gently.
“God, please,” his husky voice threaded through your ears as he begged for your warmth again. He lifted his hips towards you, chasing your tongue as you licked up the bulging vein on the side of his length.
You giggled at how needy he was and let a ball of spit fall onto his tip before taking him back in your mouth, the added slick making your movements easier as you sucked fervently. You watched him through your lashes, the sight of his head thrown back in pleasure and lips hanging open was intoxicating, probably more than the weed you had just smoked.
“Keep going, baby,” he cooed. “Just like that, yeah.”
His grip on your hair tightened as you swollen lips wrapped around his cock and pushed your head further down until he reached the back of your tight throat. Bracing yourself on his thighs, nails scraping his skin at the feel of your mouth completely full, at how good it felt to have his hot and heavy dick on your tongue, you sucked him whole.
Quinn lulled his head forward and opened his eyes to stare at you, taking in how fucking hot you looked like this, your mouth stretched around his cock, your saliva sliding form his lenght and pooling at its base, your eyes closed as you focused on breathing, on making sure every inch of him was taken care of. And it only made things worse, encouraging him to lose even the last bit of control he thought he had and push onto your head.
“You were made for me,” he mumbled, buckling his hips to get your throat to close around his tip, earning a small gag from you as you weren’t expecting him to fuck up your mouth like that. He chuckled at your sounds, but a low moan replaced his chuckles as you sucked in your cheeks and picked up the pace, resting only part of him in your mouth while your hand wrapped around the base of his cock.
The squelching sounds coming from your mouth were loud, dirty, borderline disgusting as spit and his precum filled your mouth and slid down his cock like it was nothing, and Quinn didn’t want to admit it to himself that all of this was so fucking hot, way too hot than he would have thought. And he couldn’t help but pray that you would let him have a turn with you and show exactly how lewd it was for your fluids to mix like this, too. Oh, he knew you would taste so sweet he wouldn't be able to part from you.
He tried to ignore the curdle in his stomach and let your mouth work more, let your tongue swirl around him, let you trail kisses up his cock, let you suck on his flushed tip and lick over his slit until he couldn’t bear it anymore. He should have known that looking at you so eager, so hypnotized by his taste, sucking and twisting your hand around him would have made him tumble right over the edge.
“Shit– let me come in your mouth,” he said as he took a sharp breath in. You nodded your head and hummed at the idea, the vibrations from your throat sending another wave of heat through his body.
Hot and white ropes of cum spilled down your throat before you removed yourself from his cock, letting your tongue dart out and catch the last drops on your tongue and lips as you milked him dry with your hand.
“Good girl,” he whispered. “So pretty like this.”
Quinn dropped his hand cup your face, thumb brushing your cheek while he mumbled a few more soft praises at you, your eyes still closed as you regained your breath. When you finally opened your eyes, the sight in front of you got your heart to skip a beat. Quinn was panting, lips parted and raw, a few loose curls fell in front of his face, and cheeks red.
As your heartbeat started to slow back to normal, you rose from your position to straddle his lap again, his cock twitching as it made contact with your shorts. You mirrored his actions and let your hand tangle in his curls, his fucked out expression addicting. His eyes trailed over your face, searching for any sign of discomfort, of regret, but your eyes were still full of desire.
That was when he noticed the small drop of cum on the side of your lips that you must have missed, but before he could let you catch it with your tongue, he took two fingers to your face and scooped it on his fingertips and hovered them over your parted lips. Your eyes widened for a second, but when you tasted his cum again on them you couldn’t help but moan.
And maybe he should have stopped right there, but your pretty sounds were like a siren song to his ears and he couldn’t hold back from pushing his fingers past your lips and down your throat. He let out a groan as your tongue separated them, circling around and sucking them clean.
“You like having your mouth full, huh?” he teased, voice raspy sending a jolt to your core.
Quinn sat up and guided you until your back hit the mattress, his fingers never leaving your mouth as you held his wrist in place. He adjusted himself so he nestled with your legs on either side of his hips and pressed his body onto yours, his free hand trailing and squeezing up your leg.
“Oh,” you whined, his stubble scratched your neck as he kissed, nipped, bit at your skin. And you whined once again when he took his fingers out of your mouth, shining against the small light on his nightstand as they were coated in your spit.
His lips pressed on yours, sliding against each other at a slow pace, fully taking in how it felt to have your tongue tangled with his. It didn’t take long for either of you to get lost in lust and respond to your desires as Quinn’s fingers smoothed over the exposed skin of your waist leaving a wet trail behind.
Your hips buckled and you threw your head back in a soft wail as his hand reached to palm your tit, rolling your hard and sensitive nipples between his wet fingers. The weed in your bloodstream did nothing if not arouse you more, every lap of his tongue in your mouth, every squeeze of your tits, every pinch of your hardened bud, every bite of your bottom lip kept sending shock to your clit. If he kept touching you like this, you were sure you were going to come untouched.
The hill of your foot dug into his lower back begging for friction and then you felt it, his length prodding at your entrance through the fabric of your shorts.
“Fuck,” “yes,” you said in unison. He guided his head back to your neck as your mouth hung open in silent cry, his hand still palming and groping your tits.
Your hand carded through his hair, tugging and pulling, making sure he wasn’t going to part from mouthing at your neck just yet. But all good things must come to an end at some point and you couldn’t help whining when he lifted his head off of you, halting his movements to make sure the knocking sound was all in his head instead.
Both of you groaned as another rapid knocking came from outside the door and Quinn got on his feet, collecting his pants and sliding them on messily, almost stumbling in the process which made you giggle.
“What,” he said breathlessly when he opened the door ajar, not even bothering to voice it as a question.
“Y/N was looking for you,” Luke replied innocently as he took a peak behind his brother’s shoulder just to see you sprawled out in a starfish position staring at the ceiling. “What… are you two doing?”
“Fucking. What does it look like we’re doing?” Quinn rolled his eyes at the dumb question. The window was open, but smoke still lingered up the ceiling and he knew it was likely that the pungent smell of weed made its way to the corridor through the cracks of the door.
“Jeez, isn’t weed supposed to have a calming effect?” Luke smirked, but he didn’t receive an answer as the door slammed right into his face.
Locking the door behind, Quinn reached for the box underneath his bed and placed it on the bed, hurriedly taking everything he needed out to roll another joint. If he wanted to return the favor, he wanted to only think of your pussy on his tongue, to give you a taste of how good it felt to be fucked high.
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