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Pushing It Down And Praying

Quinn Hughes x Luke Hughes' Ex girlfriend reader

Part 1 of Running Back To You AU

a/n: hey so this actually only has to make sense to me for me to do it LMAO, this is me reminding you guys I do more than write heacanons !!!!!!!!!!!! title and a couple lines of the fic inspired by "Pushing It Down And Praying" by Lizzy McAlpine. I FUCKING LOVE THAT SONG SO MUCH OH MY GOD

content warnings; luke broke up w/reader, angst, reader feels like absolute shit, Quinn Hughes lowk manipulative king unfortunately!!, heavy feelings of guilt, SMUT!! (lowk barely any talking because I was too busy being Aristotle, hashtag hitting it raw, hair pulling, praise, oral m and f receiving, crying during sex, porn with plot, implied aftercare but not explicitly written) no use of y/n

4.5k wc

I want you to need me, I need to want something more.

You tell yourself you're only there for closure.

For the sweaters folded too carefully in Luke’s bottom drawer. For the spare toothbrush in the bathroom cup. For the framed photograph on his nightstand that you cannot bear to leave behind, because it feels like abandoning proof that what you had was real.

You do not tell yourself that you also wanted to see him one more time.

The breakup had been gentle. That is what makes it catastrophic.

No betrayal. No cruelty. No explosive argument that would allow you to construct a villain out of him and escape with your dignity intact. Just a long conversation at the edge of his bed, voices quiet, hands intertwined, both of you admitting what neither of you had wanted to articulate.

We love each other, but it does not fit.

Luke had cried. You had never seen him cry before. He kept apologizing as if incompatibility were a moral failure.

“You deserve something that feels bigger,” he had said, swallowing hard. “And I don’t think I’m it.”

He had not been deficient. He had been steady. Loyal. Patient. He remembered your coffee order. He showed up to your events. He defended you without being asked. He loved you in the clean, uncomplicated way that people claim to want for the rest of their lives.

You simply never stopped feeling like there was a dimension missing. Like you were living inside a room that had one wall too many and one window too few.

And now you stand on the front step of the house he shares with Jack, key in hand, stomach in knots, because he had texted you earlier.

Grab your stuff whenever. I’ll probably be out. Quinn’s in town, staying here for the game this weekend. But he’ll be out too. I'm sorry again.

Minnesota plays New Jersey tomorrow night. The Hughes brothers smiling for cameras, joking about sibling rivalry. Quinn flying in early, staying with Luke and Jack because hotels are impersonal and this is easier.

You tell yourself it doesn't matter.

You let yourself in, Luke never asked for the key back, you convince yourself you'd just forgotten to bring it back, knowing you were really just waiting for him to come back to you.

The house smells the same. Laundry detergent and something citrus and the faint, metallic undertone of hockey gear. Your chest constricts painfully.

You move quickly, efficiently, as if speed will spare you sentimentality. Sweaters into a tote bag, makeup from the bathroom. You linger as your fingertips meet the wood of the picture frame, holding a Polaroid of you and Luke. You shove it in your bag.

You're halfway down the stairs when you hear a voice.

“Y'scared me. Thought someone broke in or something. Luke didn't say anything about you coming."

Your heart plummets.

Quinn is standing in the kitchen doorway, arms folded loosely across his chest. He is barefoot. Casual. As though this is his home, and you are the unexpected variable.

“I thought you were out,” you mumble, and hate how guilty you sound for merely existing.

He steps fully into the light, shrugging, like this interaction isn't going to singlehandedly ruin your week, “Plans change.”

You tighten your grip on the bag. “I’ll be quick.”

“You don’t have to rush," The words are mild, but they settle over you like a hand at your back.

“I don’t want to intrude,” you reply.

A faint smile touches his mouth, “You’re not intruding.”

That feels false. You are a ghost in this house now.

He watches you descend the rest of the stairs. His gaze is not overtly inappropriate. It is simply attentive. Intent.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment.

“For what?”

“For how it ended.”

Your throat tightens. “It ended the way it had to.”

“He didn’t hurt you.” It's not a question, he isn't asking. The same way you don't ask why he knows.

“No,” you whisper. “He didn’t.”

Quinn nods slowly, as if confirming data in his head, "He loved you.”

The statement feels like a test, you blink, “I know.”

“And you loved him.”

Your chest aches, “I still do.”

He considers that carefully, “Love isn’t always sufficient,” he says at last.

You swallow. “You don't say.”

Silence hums between you.

“I think that’s what’s destroying you,” Quinn continues quietly. “If he’d cheated, or lied, or been careless, this would be easier. But he wasn’t. So you think you forfeited your right to leave.”

The precision of it makes your stomach turn.

“I didn’t want to leave,” you admit.

“But you had to.”

You nod, throat tightening unexpectedly. You thought you'd be okay enough to talk about this.

Quinn steps closer. Not invading. Just closing distance.

“He told me,” Quinn says, voice measured, “that he could feel you slipping, months ago.”

You look up sharply. “He said that?”

He hums, “He didn’t blame you. He blamed himself.”

Your guilt multiplies instantly, grotesquely.

“He said you needed something he didn’t know how to give.” The memory of that conversation on Luke’s bed flashes, almost word for word.

“He was right,” you whisper.

Quinn’s gaze softens, but there is something deliberate beneath it. Something evaluative.

“You think that makes you ungrateful,” he says. “Like wanting more than good is a moral defect.”

“Are you trying to diagnose me?” you mumble, bitterly.

He takes another step closer, ignoring your snapping tone, “It’s not.”

You shake your head once, eyebrows furrowed, “He was good to me. He did everything right.”

“Exactly.” The word lands strangely.

“You didn’t leave because he failed,” Quinn continues. “You left because you felt unfinished.”

Your pulse roars in your ears. It felt like the walls were shrinking in on the two of you with every word.

“That’s cruel,” you whisper shakily, “He gave me everything.”

“And it still wasn’t enough.”

The bluntness makes you flinch.

“You’re not allowed to resent yourself for that,” Quinn says softly. “Compatibility isn’t charity. You don’t stay with someone as a reward for good behavior.”

You feel exposed, flayed open, “This is none of your business,” you murmur weakly.

“It became my business when I watched you slowly suffocate in something that looked perfect.”

The accusation is subtle. You suffocated. Not Luke. You.

“I wasn’t suffocating.”

“You were shrinking.”

The word is quiet. Devastating.

He is close enough now that you can see the minute shift of his pupils.

“I’ve seen you animated,” he says. “I’ve seen you lit up. And I’ve seen you muted.”

Your stomach drops.

“You deserve to feel expansive,” he continues. “Not careful.”

You shake your head, overwhelmed, you hold a hand up, “Stop.”

“I’m not attacking him.” And he's right. He isn't. That's the worst part.

“I’m telling you that wanting more does not make you monstrous.”

“I feel monstrous,” you confess.

He reaches out, fingers brushing your wrist. The contact is featherlight., intentional. You feel sick.

“You feel guilty because he’s my brother,” Quinn says calmly. “And because he’s good, and because some part of you is relieved.”

Your breath falters.

“That’s not —”

“It is.”

The certainty in his voice makes you doubt your own denial.

“You’re relieved you don’t have to pretend it’s enough anymore.”

Tears spill before you can stop them.

“I hate it,” you say. “I hate that I couldn’t just be happy.”

Quinn’s thumb grazes your cheek, catching a tear.

“You’re not defective for wanting depth,” he murmurs.

The gentleness feels almost surgical. You felt like you were suffocating

“This conversation shouldn’t be happening,” you whisper. “He trusts you.”

“I’m not betraying him,” Quinn replies evenly.

The audacity of that makes you blink.

“You’re broken up,” he continues. “You’re here to collect your things. I’m standing in a kitchen.”

"In his kitchen." You correct.

His hand slides to your waist, steadying, “Nothing has happened that I should feel guilty over."

“You don’t owe him permanence,” Quinn adds. “You gave him honesty. That’s the most respectful thing you could have done.”

You want to believe that. Desperately.

“If you walk out of here tonight,” he continues softly, “you ll still feel the pull. You’ll still think about what it might have been.”

Your hands tremble against his chest. “This is wrong.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re his brother.”

“And I'm not him.”

The statement is firm, unyielding.

“I would not make you question yourself,” he says. “I would not let you feel half loved.”

You search his face for mockery. For recklessness.

You find only conviction. It makes you feel sick

“You’re manipulating me,” you whisper, though it sounds uncertain, as if you're trying to convince yourself.

“I’m telling you the truth you’re afraid to say.”

His forehead lowers until it nearly touches yours.

“I would take care of you,” he says quietly. “Not because you’re fragile. But because you deserve to stop feeling like the villain in your own story.”

Your guilt surges violently.

“This would destroy him,” you insist.

"He won't know what we don't tell him." He says.

His hands rest securely at your waist now, grounding, claiming.

“You aren'tr a bad person for wanting the right kind of love.”

Your defenses are collapsing under the weight of his logic, his proximity, his steady reassurance.

“I feel like I’m betraying him,” you say.

“You ended it before you ever touched me,” Quinn replies.

The technicality is razor sharp.

“You were honest. You did it cleanly.”

He tilts your chin up gently.

“You are allowed to move forward.”

Forward.

As if this is progress, not transgression.

“I shouldn’t want this,” you whisper.

“But you do.”

It is not a question.

Your silence is answer enough.

His mouth brushes yours, tentative, controlled. Not frantic. Not impulsive.

Measured.

You freeze, horror and desire colliding in your bloodstream.

He pulls back just slightly.

“You can stop,” he says softly.

But he does not remove his hands.

“You can leave.”

You don't move.

The second kiss is deeper, intentional, as if sealing an argument already won.

Your hands clutch his shirt, shame blooming so intensely it feels like heat beneath your skin.

Luke’s face flashes in your mind. His kindness. His tears. The way he said he hoped you would find something that felt bigger.

You feel like you're burning down something sacred, like you're mocking some sort of divine being.

And still, when Quinn draws you closer, promising quietly against your mouth that everything will settle, that it will be handled carefully, that he will make sure you are not alone in the fallout, you let yourself lean into him.

You feel reprehensible.

You feel chosen.

And even as guilt coils around your ribs like barbed wire, you let him convince you that stepping into his arms is not destruction, but inevitability.

You don't know when you start to cry, maybe it's when you walk past Luke's room as Quinn guides you to the guest room, maybe it's when you still smell Luke's detergent on the sheets, but you think it's when Quinn gently strips you of your clothes so gently you feel your guilty conscience leave with the fabric.

The kiss doesn't turn heated or desperate, it stays gentle in a way that makes you sick, you don't even remember sliding further down the bed until your placing a kiss on his thigh before taking him into your mouth.

Your tongue wraps around him in a way that makes his hands fly down to your hair, he apologizes gently when his hips accidentally buck up into you, when his tip kisses the back of your throat in a way that should make you uncomfortable, but it only makes you moan.

Tears well in your eyes as you take him completely, your forehead meets his stomach as he lets out praise you'd only ever imagined of hearing, "Y'so pretty when you take me like that. So deep, huh? Can feel you fuckin' swallow against me." He whispers, you glance up expecting his head to be tipped back in pleasure, you can't help the moan that escapes around him as you meet his eyes, which bore into you with a devotion you'd never felt.

You'd moan around him forever if you could, tears streaming down your cheeks from the intensity of the feeling of him in your mouth and the feeling that this is wrong in your stomach, but he doesn't let you wallow in the oversensitivity for too long as he gently cups your chin, pulling you off of him despite your low whine, desperately trying to get some sort of fix, as if sucking him off distracted you just enough, "Jus' didn't wanna come, baby." He mumbles gently, pulling you back up to face level.

He seems to understand without you having to say anything, his thumb wipes a tear before he guides you to lay under him, his hands run up and down your sides, thumbs digging in to every curve as he stares at you in utter devotion. You wanted to shrink, to tell him to stop staring. You don't get the chance to get a word out before he's lowering himself to your folds, licking a long, almost desperate stripe.

Your tears fall harder as you hear him moan as if you're the best thing he's ever tasted, your stomach flips, you weren't sure if it was from pleasure or the realization Luke had never treated you like this before, but your hands trail your way down yourself before tangling in his hair.

You don't tug, you don't need to, it's like he knew exactly what you needed and where. You can't help but wonder how many times he'd done this before, how many practice rounds he must have had to be this good. You can't think about it too hard with the way his nose nudges your clit, the way his quiet hums of concentration vibrate against you. You feel yourself come without any warning, only a moan of his name.

You could feel him smile against you as he lets you ride out your orgasm, encouraging you to do just that as he lifts your hips slightly, enough for you to ride it out. He kisses your thighs, leaving a trail of your own slick mixed with his spit as he continues to kiss up your stomach, eventually meeting your lips.

You'd never tasted yourself before, and you can't help the way you moan, lips parting, as if chasing the taste of the two of you mixed together. He rests his forehead against yours, letting out a shaky breath as he reaches between the two of you, guiding himself to align with you.

It feels like the dam finally breaks the second he's inside you, you let out a sob that he swallows instantly, he kisses you so sweetly, so gently, you felt fragile. He does't wait for you to ask him to move, he doesn't make you beg, he just looks at you. Really looks. He can tell when you're ready by the way your features relax despite your shaky inhales.

It feels too personal, too genuine. The way he lets out quiet moans against you, moving to place a gentle kiss on your forehead as you clench around him, your moans mixing in with your occasional sobs. You know he's big, but he feels deep. Not in the way that he fills you, but in the way you can feel him smile against your hair as you relax under him, nails digging into his arms.

His pace stutters as he feels you come around him, his breathing shakes, you look up at him just in time to see his eyes screw shut, eyebrows furrowed as he lets out a final moan, head desperately dipping down to kiss you, as if he needed your lips on his to be able to finish.

You barely recognize the feeling of him filling you up, you stare at the ceiling in a daze, your thoughts mix with the bliss of your orgasm and the guilt of what you'd done. Quinn doesn't seem to notice as he kisses your cheek gently, pulling out to watch as he spills out of you. He blinks, as if savoring the sight before he's off, probably to get you a cloth, leaving you with a gut wrenching feeling of disgust.

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