[1.1], [2.9] Luke and her have been friends since they were little and in this Quinn and jack catch them fucking, [3.3], [4.3]
☕️ cams fic diner — order 120
🍒 thank you to the ones who love chaos, tension, and getting caught. you know it’s wrong, they know it’s wrong — and still, it happens.
💬 “On My Guest Bed?!”
✨ description & prompts:
character: Luke Hughes
prompt: his brothers walk in on you mid-hookup.
type: childhood best friends, secret situationship, summer house chaos, rough smut
🧁🍒🛼✨
You’ve just always been there.
Every summer, every road trip, every lake house weekend. You and Luke were a package deal from the beginning — both hockey kids, both a little too competitive for your own good, both hiding something no one else has figured out yet.
Which is why no one suspects a thing.
Why Jack doesn’t think twice when Luke pulls you into the guest room after a pickup game. Why Quinn doesn’t ask questions when Luke’s hand stays on your lower back just a beat too long during dinner. You’ve been around forever.
They just don’t know you’re getting railed by their baby brother behind closed doors.
Tonight it’s late. Everyone’s asleep — or so you think.
Luke is on top of you, one knee pressed between your legs, hand gripping your hair like it’s the only thing tethering him to the planet. He’s rough like always, fast and greedy and starved, whispering filthy things against your jaw as he grinds his hips into yours. You’re already shaking, mouth parted in a breathless moan, arms above your head like he told you to.
“Say it,” he grunts, lips brushing your ear. “Tell me who you’re for.”
“L-Luke,” you gasp. “You, it’s—fuck—Luke—”
“That’s right,” he snarls, and the thrust that follows has you arching up into his chest, whimpering into his mouth. “You’ve been mine since you were sixteen, don’t fucking pretend otherwise.”
You don’t. You can’t.
His fingers are between your legs, slick and messy and skilled. You feel him everywhere — his weight over you, his palm flat on your belly, his cock moving harder, deeper, meaner. He’s not sweet tonight. He never really is. He’s a hurricane with a mouth and a jealous streak. His teeth find your neck and you don’t care about the marks.
“You always gonna let me fuck you like this?” he pants. “Right under their noses?”
You nod frantically. “Always. Please don’t stop—”
The door swings open.
“Jesus CHRIST—!”
“OH MY GOD.”
Jack’s voice. Quinn’s voice. Luke goes completely still.
And you? You throw a pillow over your face.
There’s a moment of pure, suffocating silence. Then a choked noise that sounds like Jack dying.
“Bro, are you kidding me? On my sheets? On my guest bed?!”
“Get OUT,” Luke growls, voice hoarse and full of venom. He doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t pull out — he just grabs the blanket, yanks it over your bodies, and glares toward the door.
“LUKE—”
“I said out.”
Quinn mutters something about bleach. Jack is gagging. They both shuffle back and slam the door behind them.
Luke doesn’t stop.
If anything, it makes him more brutal. You’re wide-eyed and overstimulated and trying to muffle your own sounds into the pillow as he keeps going. “They know now,” he breathes. “So I’m gonna make sure they never forget.”
You come again minutes later — hard, messy, loud. Luke swears and pulls out just in time, finishing across your stomach, hands braced on either side of your head, mouth slack and wet with need.
You lie there in silence for a beat, both panting.
Then he laughs.
You roll onto your side, hair a mess, skin flushed, completely mortified. “We’re gonna die.”
He snorts. “You mean Jack’s gonna die. I’m going back to finish round two in the kitchen. You coming?”
Sending in a hot and ready request of {1.1} {2. Age gap with older man}{3.4 & 5}{4.3}
Babe, I love your writing so much! I am jumping on the Luke's best friend band wagon! So what I have in mind is Reader is Luke's innocent best friend and Jack has been trying to get her attention since Luke introduced her. However, she brushes him off even though she secretly really likes him. Throw some extra spice in when he gets jealous because he thinks she's flirting with Quinn and decides to stake his claim. 😈
☕️Cam’s Fic Diner — order 148
🍒 thank you: to whoever invented the “Luke’s best friend” trope — this one’s for you and the 3 brain cells it destroys every time, for asking for filth with emotional depth. bless your ruined soul.
💬 “Too late for sweet.”
✨ description & prompts:
character: Jack Hughes
prompt: you’re Luke’s sweet best friend, and Jack’s had enough of you pretending he doesn’t exist — especially when Quinn walks into the picture
You pretend not to notice. Pretend you’re just here for Luke. Pretend that when Jack leans on the counter, shirt half-riding up his stomach, you’re not looking.
But you are.
Of course you are.
He’s always been like this around you—hovering, teasing, standing just close enough to make it hard to think. Luke’s warned you once, half-joking:
“Don’t let Jack mess with your head. He’s bored.”
But Jack doesn’t flirt like he’s bored.
He flirts like he’s curious.
The first time he tries, you’re in the kitchen, helping Luke with drinks.
“You’re really good at that,” Jack says, sliding behind you to reach a glass.
His hand brushes your back.
You step to the side too quickly.
“It’s a margarita, not brain surgery,” you mutter.
He chuckles. “Still. I’d drink anything you made.”
Luke doesn’t even look up. “Jack.”
“What?” he smirks. “I’m just saying she’s got potential.”
You roll your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re beautiful.”
It’s soft. Real. Too real.
You ignore it. Walk out with the drinks. Pretend you didn’t hear it.
⸻
A week later, it’s worse.
You’re sitting in their living room, scrolling your phone, when Jack drops onto the couch beside you. Way too close.
“What are you doing Friday?”
You shrug. “Probably nothing.”
“Wanna go to that pop-up sushi thing?”
You blink. “Are you asking me out?”
“I mean. You could just say yes.”
You don’t. You laugh instead. Nervous.
“Luke would kill you.”
“Luke’s not invited.”
You shut it down.
You always shut it down.
You’re not Luke’s. But you’re not Jack’s either.
And being Jack’s? That feels dangerous.
Feels like losing control.
⸻
You don’t even notice him walk in.
Too busy laughing at something Quinn said.
Too busy touching his arm in that casual, soft way people do when they’re comfortable.
Jack sees it from across the room.
The way Quinn leans in, easy, relaxed. The way your mouth curves just a little wider. The way your fingers rest on the edge of Quinn’s hoodie like they belong there.
And that’s it.
Jack’s done watching.
He doesn’t make a scene. Doesn’t throw a tantrum.
He just waits. Waits until Quinn leaves to grab a drink. Waits until you’re standing by the kitchen island, scrolling through your phone, unaware.
Then he moves.
Fast.
His hand wraps around your wrist, not hard, but firm. Certain.
“Come with me.”
You blink up, startled. “Jack—?”
“Now.”
You don’t argue.
Because something in his voice has shifted—something low and final and full of a heat you’ve been pretending not to want.
He pulls you down the hall and into a room that isn’t his. Door shuts with a heavy click. His back hits it before you can say a word.
“You really think I don’t see it?” he mutters. “The games? The brushing off? The innocent act?”
You open your mouth. He’s already moving.
“You want him to touch you?” he says, stepping forward. “Quinn? That it?”
“No—Jack, I wasn’t—”
“Then why the fuck were you looking at him like that?”
“I wasn’t—”
“Don’t lie.”
His hands are on your waist now. Grip tight. Holding you still as his eyes rake over you.
“You think I haven’t noticed? You smile at me and then run the other way. Pretend you don’t feel it. Pretend you don’t fucking see me watching you.”
You swallow, hard. “I wasn’t trying to—”
He leans in. Breath hot at your ear.
“You were mine the second Luke introduced you.”
Your stomach flips. You hate how much you like hearing that.
“Say it,” he growls.
“What?”
“Say you’re mine.”
You whisper it before you even mean to.
“I’m yours.”
That’s all it takes.
His mouth crashes into yours like it’s a fight. Teeth, tongue, the drag of need spilling out all at once. You gasp, and he uses it—slides his tongue past your lips, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other already working under your shirt.
You feel his palm on your stomach. Warm. Rough.
Then he breaks the kiss, panting.
“Bed. Now.”
You stumble backward. He follows like a shadow, watching as you sit on the edge, eyes wide.
He drops to his knees.
You barely register it before his hands are tugging your thighs apart, dragging your skirt up with impatient fingers.
“You gonna be good for me now?” he murmurs, mouth brushing your inner thigh.
You nod, breathless. “Yes—Jack—”
“Too late for sweet,” he says. “You wanted attention? You’ve got it.”
And then he buries his mouth between your legs like it’s the only thing he’s been thinking about for months.
You cry out—high, shocked—hips twitching as his tongue moves, relentless. His hands grip your thighs, holding you wide open as he devours you.
No teasing. No mercy.
Just heat and wet and Jack Hughes reminding you that you are not allowed to look at anyone else like that ever again.
“You’re so fucking sweet,” he groans, voice muffled. “Could taste you forever.”
You arch off the bed. One hand in his hair, the other fisting the sheets. You’re close embarrassingly fast, thighs shaking, mouth open in a silent gasp as he sucks harder.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, watching you fall apart. “Come for me. Be good.”
You do. With a shudder, head thrown back, his name a broken thing on your lips.
And then he’s up. Standing. Undoing his belt with one hand, eyes locked on you.
“Need to feel you now. Can’t wait.”
“Condom—” you manage, dizzy.
He curses, digs in his wallet, rolls it on fast with shaking hands.
And then he’s on top of you, pushing in with one slow, brutal thrust.
You gasp.
He groans, forehead to yours.
“So fucking tight,” he growls. “You’ve been acting like you didn’t want this. Lying to me. To yourself.”
He starts to move. Deep. Rough. No holding back.
The bed creaks. Your breath stutters. His hand wraps around your throat—not squeezing, just holding—as he drives into you like he’s making a point.
“You’re mine,” he whispers. “Say it again.”
“I’m—fuck—I’m yours—Jack—”
“Louder.”
“I’m yours.”
His pace stutters. He leans down, lips ghosting yours.
“Good girl.”
You fall apart again with his name in your throat, and when he follows—grunting, spilling into you with one last brutal thrust—you swear the world goes quiet for a second.
Just him.
Just you.
Just the thing you’ve both been pretending you didn’t want.
⸻
You’re still breathing like you ran a marathon. One leg half-hanging off the bed, your underwear missing, his teeth marks on your collarbone.
And for a second, the world is quiet.
Warm.
Perfect.
Then it hits you.
“Fuck,” you whisper. “Luke.”
Jack doesn’t move at first. Just hums against your shoulder like you didn’t just say the one word that could ruin both your lives.
You push up on your elbows. “I can’t—Jack, I can’t—what the hell did we just do?”
He looks at you, hair a mess, chest still rising with aftershocks. And he smirks.
“What you’ve been pretending you didn’t want since May.”
“I was not—”
“You were. I watched you flirt with Quinn like I wasn’t two seconds from dragging you out by the hair.”
Your stomach flips. “It wasn’t flirting.”
“Didn’t look like that from across the room.”
You cover your face with both hands. “This is bad. This is so bad.”
“It was pretty fucking good, actually,” he mutters, eyes on your thighs.
You shoot him a look.
He sighs. Sits up. Pulls his boxers back on like this is just Tuesday to him.
“Hey.” His voice is suddenly softer. “You’re not in this alone.”
You blink at him. “Luke will kill me.”
“He’ll kill me harder.”
He stands, finds your shirt on the floor. Tosses it over.
“You think I’m gonna let him find out because you’re walking out looking like you just got wrecked by someone twice your size?”
You make a strangled noise. “I did get wrecked by someone twice my size!”
“And you’re welcome.”
You groan.
“Okay,” Jack says, voice more serious now. “Listen to me.”
He moves in front of you. Kneels. Grabs your chin gently.
“No one’s gonna find out unless you want them to. I don’t talk. I don’t brag. I don’t fuck around.”
“Not anymore,” you mumble.
“Not with you.”
You look up at him. He’s terrifying when he’s angry. When he’s quiet.
But when he’s like this—calm, focused, yours—he’s impossible.
“What happens now?” you ask.
He shrugs. “We sneak you out the back. I fix your hair. You pretend I’m just the annoying older brother for the next few hours.”
“And then?”
He leans in. Kisses you, soft, deliberate.
“Then I text you when everyone’s gone and you come back and do it again.”
Your mouth drops open.
“Jack—”
“What? You think I waited this long just for once?”
You don’t answer.
You’re too busy trying to remember when exactly the line between Luke’s sweet little friend and Jack’s dirty little secret stopped existing.
[1.4] [2.18] [3.5/6] [4.3] established relationship possibly another player was saying suggestive things about you to him during a game. But do whatever you want!!
☕️Cam’s Fic Diner — 152
🍒 thank you to this lovely anon, who said “make it jealous, make it make it hot” — and to the unnamed opposing player who made the mistake of talking about you like you weren’t someone’s everything. congrats on your dental work, king.
💬 “Mine enough for you yet?.”
✨ description & prompts:
character: Matt Rempe
prompt: another player says something suggestive about you mid-game — and Matt loses it. the fight happens fast. you’re waiting in the tunnel when it ends, heart racing, fear in your chest.
One second he’s skating past the bench, jaw tight, and the next? Gloves dropped. Helmet off. Throwing fists like his blood’s already boiling.
And it is. You know that look.
He’s not defending a teammate. He’s not playing enforcer.
He’s mad. Real mad.
And when you see who he’s fighting—#44, the one who was skating too close, who smirked at you in warmups, who said something to Matt that made his face go stone still?
You know.
You’re already heading down the tunnel before the refs even break them apart.
⸻
He finds you before you speak.
Still in gear. Still bleeding from the lip. Still breathing like he could kill a man and not blink.
🍒 thank you: to the unhinged genius who said “what if Quinn soft-launched you before you even knew you were dating?” — this one’s yours. feral, filthy, and straight to the press.
💬 “You didn’t know?”
✨ description & prompts:
character: Quinn Hughes
prompt: he tells the press he’s seeing someone — you didn’t know you were
Group chats. Twitter. DMs. Instagram stories. Even your mom texts you a screenshot with “😳???”
You blink at the post-game press conference clip.
“Quinn, big game. You looked locked in tonight. Just good energy, or something else going on?”
“Yeah. I’ve been seeing someone.”
“Oh?”
He shrugs.
“She’s good for me.”
You nearly drop your phone.
Because no one — not even you — knew you were dating Quinn Hughes.
⸻
You’re at his door fifteen minutes later.
No warning. No call.
Just a pounding fist and a boiling rage.
When he opens the door, he’s still in his compression shirt, hair damp from a shower, casual as hell.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey?” you snap. “You told the press you’re seeing someone?”
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t think to mention it to me first?”
“What?” He leans on the doorframe. “You didn’t know?”
You push past him.
“We hook up sometimes. That’s not the same as dating, Quinn.”
“We sleep over.”
“And?”
“You have a drawer.”
“You told the media, Quinn.”
“So?” His voice hardens. “You don’t want people to know?”
You whip around.
“That’s not the point!”
“Isn’t it?”
He’s closer now. Calm, but dangerous.
“You think I’d tell the world about you if it wasn’t serious?” he says. “You think I’d risk the fucking headlines?”
“I think you just decided we’re something without asking me.”
“You wear my jersey.”
“Because you leave it on the floor!”
“You sleep in my bed.”
“Because you fuck me in it!”
That’s when it shifts.
His jaw tightens.
He steps in. Close. Crowding you against the kitchen counter.
“Is that all this is?” he says, voice low. “Fucking?”
You hesitate.
Too long.
He sees it.
And then his mouth is on yours — hot, hard, teeth and tongue — and it’s not sweet.
It’s a claim.
⸻
You try to push him off.
You really try.
But he kisses like a threat — all jaw and tongue and hands that don’t ask for permission anymore. One wraps around your throat, the other slides under your shirt, palming your breast like he owns it.
“If this is just fucking,” he growls, “why do you moan my name like that?”
You open your mouth — to argue, to beg, to breathe — but he spins you around and bends you over the counter, chest flush to your back, his hand already between your legs.
“You wore my jersey last week,” he mutters into your ear. “Postgame. No underwear. Just that.”
You gasp.
He grins against your skin.
“You knew exactly what you were doing.”
He yanks your pants down — not careful. Not slow.
“Quinn—”
“What? You want soft now? You want slow, sweet boyfriend shit?”
You nod.
“Too bad.”
He thrusts in hard, makes you cry out. Doesn’t stop.
“You didn’t know we were together?” he says, voice feral. “I’ve had your taste in my mouth for weeks. You think I don’t know what this is?”
You can’t speak.
His hand’s back at your throat. Gentle, but firm. Guiding your head back, holding your body in place while he ruins you.
“You’re mine,” he breathes. “You think I’d let anyone else touch you?”
“I never said—”
“You didn’t have to,” he growls. “You scream for me like you’re in love.”
You cum on that.
Hard.
Shaking under his grip, whole body clenched, his name breaking off your lips like prayer.
And he doesn’t stop.
Not until you’re wrecked. Boneless. Chest pressed to the counter, his arms wrapped around you like a cage.
“Now,” he says, panting, breath hot on your neck, “tell me we’re not together again. Go ahead.”
You don’t.
You can’t.
Because this?
This isn’t just fucking.
⸻
You don’t even argue when he picks you up off the counter.
Just bury your face in his shoulder and let him carry you to bed — one hand under your thighs, the other gripping your back like you’ll disappear if he loosens his hold.
He lays you down gently. Kisses your forehead. Then your cheek. Then your mouth — soft, for the first time tonight.
“Still think I was out of line?” he murmurs.
You blink up at him, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen.
“You’re still a dick for telling the press first.”
“You’re still a liar for acting like we weren’t already more than this.”
Silence.
He watches you. You watch him.
And then — finally — you exhale.
“Fine,” you say. “We’re dating.”
He grins — all teeth, all satisfaction — and slides under the covers beside you.
“Took you long enough.”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
You laugh. Weakly. Blissfully. And let him pull you close.
I NEED Luke’s virgin best friend I mean full out corruption like never kissed a boy doesn’t even know anything about it! I need Quinn unhinged obsessed and Luke being a overprotective best friend
~gabs 💋
☕️Cam’s Fic Diner — order 151
🍒 thank you: to gabs who said “she’s never even kissed anyone” and meant it, who brings me filth disguised as softness and says “write it like he’s obsessed.” so I did.
💬 “kissed me like i belonged to him”
✨ description & prompts:
character: Quinn Hughes
prompt: a truth or dare game gets completely out of hand, and you find out Quinn’s been keeping something of yours in his locker — all while Luke’s watching way too closely
type: virgin!reader, soft smut, corruption kink, first time, overprotective!luke, unhinged!quinn
🍒🧁🛼✨
It starts with a sleepover.
You, Luke, and a few of the other boys, piled on couches, surrounded by takeout, horror movies, and a circle of beer bottles no one’s actually drinking from because someone (probably you) insisted on sparkling water.
It’s harmless.
Until someone says:
“Let’s play truth or dare.”
Luke rolls his eyes, muttering, “We’re not thirteen,” but sits back anyway.
You’re sandwiched between him and the arm of the couch, hoodie zipped up to your chin, legs curled under you. You’ve never been drunk. Never been kissed. Never done anything. You’re just here for the vibe.
You think it’ll stay light.
Until someone dares you to sit on Quinn’s lap.
You laugh. Eyes widen. But before you can answer—
“She’s not doing that,” Luke snaps.
Quinn just smirks.
Doesn’t even protest. Just sits there. Waiting.
“Truth, then,” you stammer. “Truth’s fine.”
“Okay,” someone grins. “Who was your first kiss?”
The silence is immediate.
You stare at your hands.
“I… haven’t kissed anyone,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.
Someone snorts. “No way.”
You nod. Your cheeks burn. “It’s not that weird.”
Luke says, “Leave her alone,” but Quinn?
He doesn’t say anything.
He just stares.
Not in a mean way. Not in a shocked way.
In a hungry way.
Like he’s just learned your deepest secret and he wants to keep it. Wrap it in velvet and stash it somewhere dark.
You avoid his eyes for the rest of the night.
⸻
You stay over. Of course. You always do.
And the next day, while Luke’s yelling at the Xbox and you’re sneaking into the laundry room looking for your hoodie, you find it.
Quinn’s locker. Open just a crack.
Inside?
Your hair tie.
Your old school photo.
A crumpled note you gave Luke last year — addressed in your handwriting.
You freeze.
“Looking for something?”
You jump. Turn. It’s him.
“I—sorry—Luke said I left my hoodie—”
He holds it up. “This one?”
You nod, face burning.
He steps closer.
“You ever wonder what I’d do,” he says, voice low, “if you actually sat on my lap that night?”
“Quinn—”
“Because I can tell you.”
You back up until the dryer’s at your spine.
“Luke—”
“Is upstairs.”
His eyes are locked on yours.
“You think I haven’t noticed? The way you look at me. Like you want to know what it feels like. To be touched. Kissed. Fucked.”
You gasp.
He leans in. Inches from your mouth.
“Tell me to stop.”
You don’t.
He kisses you.
And it’s not soft.
It’s not gentle.
It’s slow. Controlled. Overwhelming. Like he’s trying to undo you one nerve at a time.
“Open your mouth,” he whispers.
You do.
You let him in.
You let him push his thigh between yours.
You let him trail his hand up your hoodie, fingers brushing skin like it’s a map he’s memorizing.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.
“I’m—nervous,” you whisper.
“I know. I’ll go slow.”
And he does.
He pulls you onto his lap right there on the floor, hoodie hiked to your waist, panties shoved aside. He kisses you through it. Keeps whispering:
“Good girl.”
“Doing so well.”
“Let me show you how it’s supposed to feel.”
He doesn’t rush.
He takes his time.
He lets you ride his fingers until you’re trembling.
Lets you tug at his hair when your thighs start to ache.
Lets you cry out into his mouth when you come for the first time in your life with someone’s hand between your legs.
You bury your face in his shoulder, half-ashamed.
“Don’t hide from me,” he says, brushing hair from your eyes.
“I—Luke’s going to kill you.”
“Then let him try.”
⸻
It happens three days later.
You’ve been dodging it. The conversation. The look. The inevitable.
But Luke’s always been patient. Strategic.
So when you step out of your house one morning, hair still damp, hoodie zipped to your chin, he’s already waiting.
Leaning against his car in your driveway, hands in his pockets, eyes unreadable.
“Get in.”
You do.
He doesn’t start the engine.
He just sits there, staring at the steering wheel.
“I didn’t hear it from him,” he says quietly. “I saw it.”
Your mouth goes dry.
“The hoodie. Your perfume on his stuff. Your damn lip gloss in his locker. And you—”
He swallows.
“You haven’t looked me in the eye since that night.”
You sit still. Silent.
“You could’ve told me,” he says.
“I couldn’t.”
“Why? Because you knew I’d lose it? Because you knew he’s—”
He shakes his head. Laughs, humorless.
“You’re my best friend. And he’s my brother. Do you get how fucking—insane—that is?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Didn’t mean to?” He looks at you now. Fully.
“Didn’t mean to let him fuck you? Or didn’t mean to lie to my face about it every single day since?”
You flinch.
“I wasn’t—”
“You were.”
The air in the car feels too tight.
Luke scrubs a hand over his face.
“I’m not mad he wanted you.”
Silence.
“I’m mad you let him win.”
Your heart shatters a little.
“He didn’t win.”
Luke turns.
“Then tell me what it was.”
You blink fast. Swallow hard.
“It was… him. Just him. It was always him.”
And for the first time since you sat down, Luke actually looks hurt.
hiiii! can you please do [1.2][2.17] (enemies to lovers), [3.2][4.3] for quinn? basically angst with a fluffy ending. thank you sooo much, I love your writing!
☕️Cam’s Fic Diner — order 147
God, i missed this intro
🍒thank you love, for ordering this — long ago — and had patience while i was trying to fix my messes
i hope i didn’t lost the pen, and you like it
💬: “ Misdirection”
details and prompts✨
characters: Quinn Hughes
prompt: you try to set him up with someone else, it backfires you (+ enemies to lovers)
type: soft smut
wc~ 2k
🧁🍒🛼✨
⸻
You don’t remember what you were wearing.
You do remember the expression on his face. And the way it changed.
It was a Wednesday, because your calendar was stuffed with reminders that week—coffee with Tyler, your cousin’s birthday, something about renewing your health card—and because your hair was still a little damp from the rushed post-gym shower.
You were sitting cross-legged on his couch, still catching your breath from laughing about something he’d said. Something dumb. Something about Luke forgetting his skates.
And he was just watching you.
That should’ve been the sign, right there.
You looked at him, too. Long enough to register the shift, the quiet ache that settled across his features like something familiar. Like grief. Or hope.
And then he said it.
“I like you.”
Just like that.
No buildup. No warning. Like he’d run out of time or patience or both.
You blinked at him. Laughed—soft, confused.
“What?”
He didn’t say it again. He didn’t have to.
And you…
You looked away.
Because Tyler had just started texting more regularly again, and because you hadn’t really thought of Quinn like that, and because you were still tangled up in something messy from the month before, and mostly because—if you were being honest—you just didn’t expect him to feel anything.
Not for you.
“I didn’t mean to make this weird,” he said.
“It’s fine,” you replied too quickly.
“You don’t feel the same. Got it.”
“I didn’t say that—”
“You didn’t have to.”
He stood up like it hurt to stay seated. Like it hurt to stay.
You remember the sound of your voice as you scrambled for a better reply—
Something kind.
Something gentle.
Something that didn’t sound like I never thought you could be an option.
But he was already halfway to the door of his own apartment.
He didn’t slam it. He didn’t raise his voice.
He just left the room—and the version of you who didn’t know what he tasted like stayed behind.
After that?
You didn’t speak again.
Not properly. Not like before.
Not when you were at Luke’s birthday thing two weeks later, or when you ended up at the same table at that bar in Toronto, or when your friend pointed him out at the beach last month like oh my god, he’s so hot—what’s his name again?
You hadn’t meant to say Quinn, and you definitely hadn’t meant to add,
“He’s not interested.”
Because he had been. Once.
And you had ruined it.
⸻
“So, Quinn,” you say, voice too bright, like fake light on a grocery store tomato. “You remember Dani?”
He doesn’t look up from his drink. “Yeah. The one who thinks Luke is hotter than me.”
You roll your eyes. “She never said that.”
“She did. On Halloween. Loudly.”
Okay, yes, that happened. But you’re not letting him derail this. Not when you’ve worked so hard to make it normal again. This is normal, right? Sitting across from him at a bar, two friends trying to fill the cavernous silence that used to be almost something.
You take a sip of your cocktail and push on, like the trainwreck that you are.
“She’s single now. You two would actually… get along. She’s funny. And smart.”
“Like you?” he says.
You freeze.
Just long enough.
He doesn’t look up. Still swirling his drink like he doesn’t care, but you know better. You know that tone. The kind he uses when he’s trying to pretend he didn’t bleed for you once.
You smile. It hurts. “Funnier, actually. And not allergic to feelings.”
“Great,” he says. “I’ll text her.”
That’s it. That’s all he says. No sarcasm, no raised eyebrow, no this is weird, why are you doing this to me again.
Just: I’ll text her.
You nod like that’s exactly what you wanted.
The rest of the night is a blur of static. You talk, kind of. He laughs, once, maybe twice. You joke about Luke’s latest failed kitchen experiment. He pays for both your drinks even though you offer. He always does.
He walks you to your car. Not because he wants to. Just muscle memory. Routine. Ghost of what you used to mean.
“Text me when you’re home,” he says, like a habit.
“You don’t have to—”
“Just do it.”
You do.
And then, because you hate yourself, you stalk Dani’s page that weekend.
She posts a blurry story from a rooftop bar. There’s a glimpse of a guy’s shoulder beside her. Familiar grey hoodie. Your breath catches.
You swipe back. Pause the story. Stare.
It’s him.
You feel it, instantly—like being punched from the inside.
You made this happen.
You wanted this, remember?
You said she was smart. And funny.
You said he deserved someone better. Someone easier.
And Quinn Hughes, being the kind of man he is, decided to believe you.
⸻
You avoid them the next time you’re all out.
Not in an obvious way. You’re not a child. You just… stick closer to the bar. Closer to people who don’t have Quinn’s hands on their waist or Dani’s laugh in their throat.
You knew this would happen. You made it happen.
Still, it stings. Watching him pour her a drink. Watching her lean into him like it’s effortless. Like she doesn’t know the history buried in that hoodie he’s wearing. Like she doesn’t know you were the reason he went silent for weeks. Like she doesn’t care that he used to look at you like you were the moon and he was just learning how to breathe in the dark.
Someone nudges your side.
“You okay?” It’s Luke. Of course it’s Luke. He’s always been too perceptive for his own good.
You smile too fast. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
He doesn’t answer. Just follows your gaze across the room.
Then—
“You set them up, didn’t you?”
You say nothing. Sip your drink. Look at anything but him.
Luke exhales like he’s tired of carrying everyone’s emotional weight. “You’re a moron.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
⸻
By the time Quinn comes to say hi, your buzz is thick enough to make you mean.
“Look who remembered I exist.”
He freezes, eyes flicking to yours. “I didn’t realize we were pretending we still cared.”
You shouldn’t have said it.
He shouldn’t have answered like that.
But here you are.
“I’m not pretending anything,” you snap.
“Could’ve fooled me. You played matchmaker like it was a game.”
You hate the way his voice sounds. Tired. Tight. Like he’s fighting not to feel it.
You step outside because you need air. Because you need to scream. Because you need him to follow.
He does. Of course he does.
The alley is too quiet, and the streetlights make everything look fake.
You turn to him. “Why are you even mad?”
“I’m not mad.”
You laugh, sharp. “You’re so full of shit.”
He steps closer. “What do you want me to say? That it hurt? That watching you offer me to someone else felt like a second rejection?”
Your mouth goes dry.
He keeps going.
“You said no. Remember that? You made it very clear I wasn’t what you wanted.”
“That was months ago.”
“And now you’re what? Over it? Healed? Suddenly fine with the idea of me being with someone else?”
You want to lie. You need to lie.
But you look at him and the words twist in your throat.
“I didn’t think you’d actually go.”
He stares at you like he’s seeing something new. Something sad.
“Then you really don’t know me.”
⸻
You’re in his apartment. You don’t remember walking in, just the sound of your heartbeat hammering between his words outside.
You don’t know me at all.
It’s still echoing.
The door clicks shut behind you.
And then he just looks at you. No words. No movement. Just… stillness. That thick, aching silence before something collapses.
You stand there like a coward. Breath too shallow. Fingernails digging into your palm like if you clench hard enough, you won’t say the thing you want to say.
“Tell me to leave,” you say.
Quinn doesn’t.
Instead, he walks toward you.
Not fast. Not slow. Just steady. Controlled. Like he knows if he hesitates, he’ll lose his nerve. Like he’s never going to do this again unless it’s now.
And when he reaches you—
He doesn’t grab. Doesn’t crash into you. He just lifts a hand, cups your jaw with his thumb under your cheekbone, and waits.
You lean in first.
Because of course you do.
⸻
The kiss starts careful. Familiar. Lips brushing, slow, exploratory. Like you’re both still asking is this okay? even though you know the answer.
But then it builds. Heat curling under your skin like a lit match pressed to velvet. His hands slide to your hips, pulling you closer like he needs more contact or he’ll fall apart.
You tug at the hem of his hoodie, breath catching.
He helps you pull it off—your fingertips skimming the bare skin beneath, warm and solid and his.
Then yours.
He kisses you again, deeper this time. Less hesitation. One hand in your hair, the other low on your back, anchoring you.
“Come here,” he murmurs, pulling you gently toward the bedroom.
You follow.
⸻
The room smells like him—laundry detergent, pine, skin—and it’s too much and not enough.
You stop in the doorway, watching him pull off his shirt. His back to you. Shoulders tense.
Like even now, he thinks you’ll run.
You don’t.
You walk to him and touch his spine with your fingertips. Barely there. Like a vow.
He turns.
Eyes darker now. Focused only on you.
“You sure?”
You nod. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
He breathes once, hard. Then again.
And when he kisses you this time, it’s everything.
⸻
He undresses you like a ceremony.
One button at a time. One sleeve. One breath.
Every part of you he uncovers, he touches. Traces. Like memorizing you is more important than fucking you. Like he’s never going to get another chance.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, voice low.
You bite your lip. “Say it again.”
He does.
“You’re beautiful.”
“You always were.”
“Even when I hated you.”
Your laugh breaks. “You didn’t hate me.”
“No,” he says. “But I tried.”
⸻
When he lays you down, he takes his time.
Hands on your thighs, spreading you open like he’s afraid to be rough with something sacred. Kisses to your neck, your collarbone, the softest part beneath your breast.
He’s not rushing. He’s worshipping.
Your body aches in places you didn’t know could ache from being seen like this.
When his mouth moves lower, you forget how to breathe.
Tongue slow. Gentle. Thorough. The kind of rhythm that doesn’t chase your high—it teases it. Builds it. Holds it just out of reach until your legs shake and your fingers are gripping the sheets like lifelines.
“Q—Quinn,” you gasp, chest rising too fast.
He doesn’t stop until you fall apart. Until he feels it in your pulse, your moan, the way you whisper his name like it’s always been meant for this.
And then he’s kissing up your stomach, mouth warm on your skin, body hovering just above yours.
You feel him. Hot. Hard. Barely holding back.
“I don’t have—”
“I’m on the pill,” you breathe.
“But I need you to look at me when you—”
“Always,” he says. “Always.”
⸻
When he pushes in, it’s slow.
Excruciatingly slow.
Not to tease—but to feel.
Your fingers lock with his. Your legs wrap around his waist. And for a few seconds, it’s just this: the weight of his body, the sound of your breath, the unbelievable ache of finally.
“You’re shaking,” you whisper, lips brushing his cheek.
“You wreck me,” he answers, forehead pressed to yours.
The rhythm builds. Fluid. Deep. Like a conversation. Every thrust feels like another unsaid sentence. Another apology. Another why did we wait this long?
You hold his face in your hands as he moves in you, watching every emotion flicker behind his eyes.
And he watches you fall apart for the second time. Mouth open. Voice gone. Heart in shreds.
⸻
After—when he finally comes, breath ragged, body trembling—it’s not loud. It’s not performative.
It’s quiet.
Like a prayer finally answered.
⸻
You don’t speak for a long time.
Just breathing. Bare skin on bare skin. His head buried in the crook of your neck. Your fingers stroking his back. Both of you trying to process what you just did.
What it meant.
“I think I broke something,” you whisper eventually.
“What?”
“The part of me that was okay without you.”
He laughs. It’s tired. Real.
Then he pulls the blanket over both of you and kisses your temple like a vow.
“Good,” he says. “Now you know how I felt all year.”
⸻
You wake up to light. Not the dramatic, golden, filtered-through-curtains kind.
Real light. Too bright. A little annoying. Making you squint. You hate it.
You hate it less when you realize where you are.
Who you’re with.
The bed’s warm. The sheets don’t smell like your place.
The arm around your waist definitely doesn’t belong to anyone else.
Quinn’s breathing is slow. Still asleep.
You don’t move.
Not because you’re scared to wake him.
Because you don’t want to.
Because for the first time in months, you feel like the storm stopped somewhere in the night.
He shifts eventually. Nuzzles your shoulder. His fingers twitch against your stomach like his body wants to make sure you’re real before he opens his eyes.
“You stayed,” he says, voice like gravel and sleep and something you shouldn’t miss already.
“Yeah.”
“You’re warm.”
“You’re clingy.”
He hums. Smiles against your skin.
“Good clingy,” you add, after a beat. “Mostly.”
He lifts his head. Blinks once. Then again.
His hair’s a mess. Pillow-flattened on one side, sticking up on the other.
You want to run your hands through it. You want to press your mouth to the curve of his throat. You want to stay exactly here.
He says nothing for a second.
Then:
“So, are you gonna pretend this didn’t happen?”
“Not unless you want me to.”
“I don’t.”
It’s quiet again. But this time, it’s the good kind.
The shared-breath, unsaid-things-already-understood kind.
The kind you ruined once.
And somehow get to try again.
“I should’ve said yes,” you whisper. “Back then.”
He nods. “I wasn’t ready, either.”
“But you said it anyway.”
He shrugs, like it’s not a big deal.
Like it didn’t alter everything.
“You were the only person I wanted to say it to.”
You turn toward him. Hand against his jaw. Forehead brushing his.
“I don’t want anyone else,” you say. “Not now. Not ever.”
He kisses you. Not hungrily. Not like last night.
Just… sure. Certain. Like he’s not afraid of wanting you anymore.
⸻
Later, there’s coffee. He makes it strong, quiet in the kitchen while you steal one of his shirts and sit cross-legged on his counter like it’s yours.
He passes you your mug. It’s chipped. Ugly. Familiar.
“You okay?” he asks, softly.
You nod. “More than okay.”
Then, you glance up at him.
And it hits you—
you never stopped loving him.
Not even when you told yourself you didn’t want to.
He leans in, resting a hand beside your thigh.
“You owe me breakfast,” he says, eyes flicking down to your legs.
“You owe me months of emotional clarity.”
“I brought you coffee.”
“Bare minimum,” you grin.
“Fine. Stay tonight and I’ll upgrade to pancakes.”
You don’t answer right away.
You just take a slow sip of your coffee, give him a look like he’s already yours,
Hi! I'd love to order dom!Will, sub!Mack with 2.8, 3.3 4.2
maybe it's the 2nd/3rd time they've run into each other while partying and Will finally gets the guts to approach the reader but it turns out the reader thought Will and Mack were boyfriends
☕️Cam’s Fic Diner — order 150
🍒 thank you angel, who said “sub!mack and dom!will” and meant it. this one goes out to every unhinged girlie who’s ever seen two hot men in a club and thought: “i could survive that.” (you couldn’t.)
💬 “Not his, baby — yours”
✨ description & prompts:
character: Will (& Mack)
prompt: it’s your third club run-in with Will and Mack — you think they’re together, until Will invites you in and makes it clear who’s in charge
type: dom!will, sub!mack, MFM, rough smut, club setting, power imbalance, mistaken assumptions
🍒🧁🛼✨
It’s the third time.
You’ve seen them before. Different club, different night, same effect.
Will: quiet, looming, unfuckwithable.
Mack: gorgeous and twitchy, always too close to Will to be just friends.
They move like a set. Dance like magnets.
And they always watch you.
So yeah, you assumed they were together.
Two hot guys? Close at the hip?
One clearly in charge, the other blushing his way through a conversation?
Obvious.
Tonight, your table’s near theirs again. Close enough to feel Will’s stare across the bottle service. Close enough to notice Mack fidgeting when you laugh too loud.
You don’t look long. You’ve already misread it once. No need to fantasize about men you’ll never touch.
Then Will’s voice is in your ear.
Low. Direct.
“You always this obvious?”
You turn, startled.
He’s close. Very. Leaning down so no one else hears.
“Excuse me?”
“Three times. Same table. Same dress code. Same eyes on me.”
Your breath catches.
“I—I wasn’t trying to stare.”
“You thought Mack was my boyfriend?”
You blink.
“I mean. Yeah.”
He smiles. It’s not friendly.
“You’re half right.”
You swallow. “So you’re—?”
“He’s mine,” Will says flatly. “Not the other way around.”
Then, without asking:
“Come with us.”
⸻
It’s the club’s private lounge. Velvet and neon. You’re not sure how Will got the key. You don’t ask.
Mack is already there when you enter. He looks up, startled—then flushes when he sees you.
Will shuts the door.
“She thought we were together.”
Mack stammers, “I—I mean—”
Will cuts him off.
“On your knees.”
Mack obeys. Immediately.
Your breath catches.
Will turns to you.
“Still confused?”
You shake your head.
“Good. Dress off.”
Your fingers tremble, but you obey.
Mack watches. On his knees. Mouth parted.
Will nods.
“She’s gorgeous. Say it.”
“You’re—fuck—you’re gorgeous,” Mack blurts.
Will steps closer to him.
“You want her?”
Mack nods. Eyes wide. Eager.
“Then you’ll take her. But you’ll follow every instruction.”
You forget how to breathe.
⸻
They don’t undress you. They handle you.
Will kisses you first. Rough. Commanding. While Mack stays kneeling, watching.
“Hands on the couch,” Will orders.
You obey. Bent forward, knees on the cushions.
Will stands behind you. Mack in front.
“Mouth open,” Will says—to Mack.
And when he kneels behind you, when he thrusts in without warning, deep—you cry out right into Mack’s mouth.
Mack groans like it hurts to hold back. Will grabs your hips like he owns them.
“Good girl,” Will growls. “Keep taking it.”
He fucks you deep. Hard. Mack leans in, kissing you like he’s starving, hands cupping your face as you fall apart.
“Touch her,” Will says.
Mack obeys. One hand on your throat, one between your legs.
You sob. You’re not even sure who you’re moaning for.
“She’s gonna come,” Mack pants.
Will grunts. “Not yet.”
You cry out.
“You’ll wait. Or I’ll stop.”
You try. You fail. You shatter around them, trembling, gasping.
Will slows. Not because he’s done—because he wants more.
“On the floor. Mack, on your back.”
Mack obeys. Eyes glazed.
Will helps you straddle him—slides you down onto Mack’s cock while he stays behind you, one hand gripping your waist.
“You wanted to know who’s in charge?” he whispers at your ear.
“You’re lucky I’m letting you breathe.”
Then he slides in with him.
You scream.
It’s too much. Too full. Too fast.
“You can take it,” Will says. “You wanted this.”
Mack’s breath is ragged beneath you. You’re caged between them. Used. Worshipped. Fucked.
You lose count of the thrusts. The moans. The way Mack begs under you and Will commands from behind.
Your body burns.
When you come again, Will holds you through it. Mack sobs beneath you, hands in your hair, mouth on your neck.
Then Will comes. Low. Groaning. Pressed to your back like he’s claiming territory.
You collapse. Boneless. Used. Floating.
⸻
Later, on the velvet couch, Mack’s curled half on top of you, blinking slow.
I’m back for more! Can I please get [1.1 x 1.2] [2.19] [3.4x 3.6] [4.3]
Age gap! You know I’m a sucker for Luke’s best friend!
I can’t wait to see what you come up with!
☕️Cam’s Fic Diner - order 138
🍒 thank you: to gabrielle, my ride-or-die girlie with the most unhinged, absolutely elite taste in corruption kink and double Hughes trouble. this one’s for you, forever.
💬 “You sleep here now.”
✨ description & prompts:
characters: Jack Hughes + Quinn Hughes
prompt: he keeps something of yours in his locker for good luck — you finally find out
type: age gap, Luke’s best friend, first time, corruption kink, double trouble threesome, SMUT!!
🛼🍒✨🧁
You don’t remember which night it was — one of those early summer ones, hazy and warm and forgettable — but you remember the shirt. It was Luke’s, oversized, half-faded, cotton-soft from a million washes. You stole it to sleep in. Ended up wearing it for breakfast the next morning, legs bare, hair damp, laughing at something on your phone.
And that’s when Jack saw you.
That’s when it started.
He didn’t know what to do with the image burned into his brain. That shirt sliding off your shoulder. Your lips wrapped around the straw of Luke’s protein smoothie. The tiny scar on your knee. The way your voice went hoarse when you laughed.
He tried to brush it off. You were Luke’s best friend. A decade of sleepovers, school dances, holidays. You were younger. Too sweet. Untouchable.
But then Luke tossed the shirt in a clean pile after laundry one day and said,
“You can toss that in her bag next time you see her.”
Jack didn’t.
He kept it.
⸻
It lives in his locker now.
Stuffed behind his gloves, folded carefully, hidden like it means something — because it does. He doesn’t wash it. Can’t. He’s terrified the scent will fade. It smells like shampoo and summer and something that makes his stomach twist.
He brings it to every game. Doesn’t tell anyone.
But one day, you’re visiting practice. You’re waiting in the hallway with Luke’s coffee order and laughing on FaceTime, not paying attention, and the locker room door swings open — you’re not supposed to look, but you do.
Jack’s locker is cracked open.
And you see it.
That stupid shirt. Yours.
“Jack?” you ask, eyes narrowing. “Is that…?”
He freezes.
“I meant to give it back,” he lies. “Didn’t want it to get lost.”
You step closer. His breath hitches.
“You kept it in your locker?”
“It’s good luck.”
Silence.
You blink slowly. Your voice is barely above a whisper.
“Why?”
Jack can’t answer. His jaw’s tight, eyes flicking to Luke’s nameplate down the hall. Then back to you.
“You should go,” he says hoarsely.
⸻
That night, he doesn’t sleep.
He can’t take it anymore — so he calls the only person who would get it
Jack’s sitting on Quinn’s couch, holding that damn shirt in his hands. He looks wrecked.
“It’s not just— I’m not just into her,” he says quietly. “It’s not like that.”
Quinn doesn’t say anything. Just waits. Lets Jack try to breathe through it.
“It started that way. I mean… obviously. She’s gorgeous. And then she started sleeping over all the time and wearing stupid little shorts and laughing at everything Luke said and— I tried to ignore it.”
He looks up, like he’s afraid to keep going.
“But then I started remembering her favorite songs. I started noticing when she looked tired. I watched her cut strawberries into stupid little hearts one morning in the kitchen and—Quinn, it’s not just a crush. I’m fucking in love with her.”
The silence stretches. Jack looks down.
“I don’t even care if she never looks at me that way. I just… needed to say it out loud.”
A beat. Then Quinn exhales slowly.
“She does look at you that way.”
Jack blinks. “What?”
Quinn leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“You think I haven’t noticed how she watches you? She holds her breath every time you walk into a room.”
Jack swallows hard. “That doesn’t mean—”
“She holds her breath when I walk in, too,” Quinn adds quietly. “She just doesn’t know what it means yet.”
That’s when Jack really stops breathing.
Quinn’s voice is low. Careful. Measured.
“I’ve been trying to be good,” he says. “I told myself it was a phase. That I was too old. That Luke would kill me.”
“Same,” Jack whispers.
Quinn leans back.
“But I think she deserves to be wanted properly. Loved properly. And if we’re gonna give in… she deserves both of us.”
Jack looks at him. Really looks.
“Together?”
“Only if you’re sure it’s more than just wanting her.”
“I’ve been sure for months,” Jack says. “I just didn’t know you were.”
Quinn nods. “Then we stop pretending.”
⸻
They don’t rush.
They don’t touch you, not yet.
They just… change.
It starts with Jack’s eyes lingering longer when you talk. A hand on the small of your back when you pass behind him. A tension in his jaw when some guy at a party makes you laugh too loud.
It starts with Quinn asking quieter questions. “You get home okay?” — even when Luke drops you off. “Did you eat?” — even when you say you’re fine. His voice is steady, but his eyes give too much away.
You notice the difference.
You just don’t know what it means.
⸻
The Plan, in Quinn’s words:
“We don’t push her. We don’t crowd her. We wait for the moment she’s already halfway ours — then we make it impossible to say no.”
“We?” Jack repeats, blinking. “You keep saying that like we’re not gonna fuck this up.”
“We won’t,” Quinn says, calm. “We’ve both wanted her this long without touching her. We’ll survive a little longer.”
“Easy for you to say,” Jack mutters. “You didn’t almost kiss her last week.”
Quinn smirks. “Didn’t I?”
⸻
They make it feel casual.
Jack pulls you aside in the kitchen at Luke’s — hand brushing yours, lingering. “You smell like that shampoo I like,” he says lowly, and you blink like your brain just shut off.
Quinn offers to drive you home — just the two of you — and when you glance at him from the passenger seat, his hand tightens on the wheel, his jaw flexing.
“You’re quiet,” you murmur.
“I’m thinking,” he says.
“About what?”
“You.”
He says it so plainly you don’t know what to do with it.
He doesn’t elaborate.
⸻
Later, Jack calls Quinn.
“She’s getting curious.”
“Good.”
“I don’t think I can wait much longer.”
“Then we don’t.”
“You said slow.”
“I said right,” Quinn corrects. “If she looks at you the way she looked at me tonight? We move.”
⸻
You don’t see it coming.
Not when you show up at their place after Luke leaves town for the weekend.
Not when Jack opens the door with that easy smile and says “just us tonight.”
Not when Quinn’s voice floats from the kitchen, low and calm and so close:
“You hungry, baby? Or just gonna stand there and blush like that all night?”
⸻
You should’ve known something was off when Luke said he was going away for the weekend and Jack offered to host movie night instead.
You should’ve known when Quinn was already there, lounging on the couch like it was his idea.
You should’ve known when they both looked way too relaxed — beers in hand, soft music playing instead of the TV.
But you didn’t know anything until Jack took your phone out of your hand with a quiet little
“You can answer that later.”
He drops it on the counter and turns to you, smile still there — but his eyes?
Dark.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you say, blinking. “Just… didn’t expect to hang out with both of you alone.”
“Is that a problem?” Quinn asks from behind you.
You turn.
He’s closer than he was a second ago.
You look back at Jack.
He’s even closer.
“You guys are acting weird,” you murmur.
Jack smiles — but it’s different now. Slower. Hungrier.
“You think we haven’t noticed how you look at us?” he says. “How red you get when we sit too close?”
Your breath catches.
“I don’t— I don’t look at you like that.”
“Sweetheart,” Quinn says gently, “you wear your crush like perfume. It’s all over you.”
You step back. Your knees hit the edge of the couch.
Jack’s already there — stepping in, hand curling lightly around your jaw.
“You left that shirt at Luke’s,” he says quietly. “I kept it. I know I shouldn’t have. But I did.”
“Jack—”
“It’s not just about wanting you,” he whispers. “I… fuck. I’ve felt this way for months.”
Your eyes widen.
That’s when he kisses you.
Soft at first. Careful. But he’s shaking, like he’s been holding it back for too long.
And when you don’t stop him — when you kiss him back, helpless and gasping — Quinn moves in behind you.
His hands are warm on your waist. Anchoring you.
He speaks low into your neck:
“You’re not going anywhere tonight, are you?”
You shake your head.
“Good,” he says. “Because we’re not done yet.”
⸻
The kiss with Jack leaves you breathless.
You’re still catching up — pulse racing, knees weak — when Quinn moves in behind you and unzips your hoodie like it’s his. Like this moment has belonged to them all along.
“Take it slow,” he murmurs to Jack. “Let her feel what it’s like to be ours.”
Your breath stutters.
Quinn’s hands roam your waist, gentle but sure, guiding you backward — until you’re standing between them, held.
Jack cups your face, forehead pressed to yours, eyes searching.
“We’ll stop if you say stop,” he whispers. “No pressure. Just… want to make you feel good. Both of us.”
You nod.
“Say it,” Quinn says. “Say you want this.”
You can barely breathe — but you do.
“I want this. I want you.”
Jack groans, like the words break something inside him.
They start slow — hands moving over your body like worship. Your shirt lifted carefully, lips trailing skin. You gasp when Jack’s mouth finds your collarbone, when Quinn’s palm skims down your thigh.
Every touch is soft. Almost too soft.
“She’s shaking,” Jack whispers.
“She’s never done this,” Quinn murmurs back. “We take our time.”
You’re lowered to the bed.
Jack strips his hoodie. His shirt. He’s flushed, nervous, but burning — crawling over you like he needs to feel everything at once.
Quinn stays at your side, kissing your shoulder, brushing your hair from your face.
“You look so fucking pretty like this,” he says lowly. “All laid out. Letting us take care of you.”
Jack’s fingers slide under your waistband. You tremble.
“Okay?” he asks.
“Yes. Please.”
Your shorts are gone.
Then your panties.
You’re bare — vulnerable — and they’re both fully clothed above you, starving.
“I’ve thought about this,” Jack says, eyes raking down your body. “So many times. I wanted to be good. I tried to be good.”
“You are good,” Quinn says. “Look at her. She’s safe. She wants this.”
Jack’s mouth finds your thighs, kissing gently — then lower. You arch when his tongue flicks over your clit.
“Jack—oh my god—”
Quinn holds your hand, steady and calm.
“That feel good?”
“So good— I didn’t know it— it could feel like this—”
“That’s ‘cause you’ve never been touched right,” Quinn says. “We’re gonna fix that.”
Jack eats you out like he needs it. Like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense. He moans into you when you start to fall apart, your hips bucking, your voice breaking.
“She’s close,” Jack breathes. “Fuck— she tastes—”
“Let her,” Quinn murmurs. “Let her come for the first time on your mouth.”
You do.
Hard. Shaking. Eyes shut, thighs clamped around Jack’s head.
When you come down, Quinn is kissing your jaw. Jack’s hand is on your stomach, rising and falling with your breath.
And then—
They strip.
Fully.
You don’t know where to look — they’re both beautiful in different ways. Jack’s leaner, carved, flushed and wide-eyed. Quinn’s broader, steadier, cock already hard against his stomach as he leans over you.
“You still okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” you whisper.
“You want us to keep going?”
“Yes. I want— I want both of you.”
Jack shudders.
“Fuck.”
Quinn’s the one who enters you first.
Slow. Gentle. Stretching you open with careful patience, one hand in yours, one steady on your waist.
“Breathe, baby,” he murmurs. “You’re doing so good.”
You cry out — not from pain. From how full it feels. How intimate.
Jack kisses your temple, your throat, your lips, hands everywhere. He’s trembling.
“You look so good taking him,” he whispers. “Can’t wait to feel you like that.”
When Quinn starts to move, your body goes molten — it’s too much. Too slow. Too good.
“Yeah, baby,” he whispers. “I’ve got you. When he’s done, it’s my turn.”
You’ve never felt like this.
You’re still trembling when Quinn slides out of you — careful, steady, pressing a kiss to your temple.
“So good for us,” he murmurs. “You okay, baby?”
You nod, breath catching.
Jack is kneeling between your legs already.
His hands are shaking.
“Jack…”
“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he says, voice raw. “Don’t know how I kept it in. Don’t know how I didn’t fuckin’ lose it every time you walked around the house in those tiny shorts.”
You reach for him.
He kisses you like he’s drowning.
Then he lines himself up — and pauses. Presses his forehead to yours.
“You tell me if it’s too much,” he whispers. “I’ll stop. Even now.”
“Don’t stop,” you breathe. “Please, Jack.”
He groans — like he’s in pain — and finally slides in.
And fuck—
He’s overwhelmed instantly. Face buried in your neck, hands gripping your thighs like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
“She’s so warm,” he gasps. “Fuck— she’s perfect.”
“Breathe,” Quinn says softly from beside you, stroking your hair. “Don’t rush.”
But Jack’s not rushing — he’s savoring.
He moves slowly, hips grinding deep, every thrust more careful than the last.
“I dreamed about this,” he murmurs. “You don’t get it. I’ve been losing my mind for months.”
His voice cracks.
“Used to jerk off with your fucking shirt in my hand,” he whispers, broken. “Didn’t even care if it made me pathetic. You were already in my head all the time.”
You whimper, nails raking down his back.
“Jack—”
“I love you,” he says, suddenly. “I didn’t mean to say it like that. But it’s true. I do.”
Your breath shudders. He kisses you again, slower now, full of it — full of love and obsession and everything he’s been holding back.
“You’re mine too,” he whispers. “Not just Quinn’s. You’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” you say. “Both of yours.”
That’s what undoes him.
He groans into your mouth and loses it — hips stuttering, chest pressed to yours, everything collapsing into heat and need and breathless release.
You hold him while he shakes.
Quinn moves beside you, wrapping you both up in his arms.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s our girl.”
Jack kisses your cheek. Then your shoulder. Then everywhere.
“We’re not letting you go,” he says. “Ever.”
⸻
The room is quiet now.
Jack’s curled into your side like he needs to feel every breath you take, one hand trailing lazy circles over your thigh, his face hidden in your neck.
Quinn’s sitting at the edge of the bed with a warm cloth, cleaning you gently — not saying much, but watching you like you’ll disappear if he blinks too long.
“Still with us?” he asks, voice low.
You nod. Eyes glassy. Lips parted.
“Wasn’t too much?” Jack mumbles against your skin.
“No,” you whisper. “It was everything.”
Quinn leans in, presses a soft kiss to your temple.
“Let’s get you cleaned up properly,” he says.
They help you to the bathroom — Quinn steady and strong, Jack trailing behind like a shadow. You sit on the counter while they run warm water, Quinn dampens a cloth and gently wipes between your legs, Jack brushing your hair back and kissing your shoulder.
No one says much.
It doesn’t feel awkward.
It feels real.
When you’re wrapped in a towel and carried back to bed (by Jack, obviously — he insisted), Quinn tosses him a hoodie and climbs in beside you.
