Quinn Hughes X Reader
Sinopse: Quinn becomes overprotective with Victoria's pregnancy, controlling who touches her belly, even with her own family. The situation creates comic and emotional moments, revealing his vulnerability and deep love.
Warnings: Mention of pregnancy, possessiveness, comedy and protection!
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Forbidden Touch
Quinn becomes fiercely protective of S/N’s pregnancy, controlling who gets to touch her belly—even his own family. The situation creates both hilarious and emotional moments, revealing his vulnerability and the depth of his love.
Quinn discovered he was going to be a father and immediately lost any ability to behave normally.
At first, it was sweet.
“Are you hungry?”
S/N looked up from the book she was reading on the couch in the living room of the Lake House. The fireplace cast dancing light across her face, highlighting the delicate freckles scattered over her nose. She slowly closed the book, marking her page with her index finger.
“I am.”
Quinn immediately stood from the armchair where he had been sitting, the tablet displaying game statistics forgotten on the armrest.
“What do you want?”
She tilted her head to the side, thinking. Her red hair, loose for the first time in days, fell over the shoulder of the navy-blue maternity dress Ellen had given her.
“Strawberries.”
He nodded and disappeared into the kitchen without another word.
S/N heard drawers opening, the refrigerator closing, and the precise sound of a knife against the wooden cutting board. Less than two minutes later, he returned with a glass bowl filled with washed and sliced strawberries, still glistening with drops of water.
“Thank you.”
She picked up a piece with her fingers, chewing happily.
Quinn sat beside her, moving close enough that their thighs touched. He didn’t take any strawberries for himself. He simply watched her with that look she had already learned to recognize—the look of someone trying to memorize every second.
“Good?”
“Perfect.”
He smiled.
He rarely smiled, but when he did, even the faint stubble on his face couldn’t hide the expression that seemed to illuminate his entire face.
Then came the worrying.
“Are you tired?”
S/N was folding baby clothes over the bed in the master bedroom—tiny blue and white pieces, gifts from Ellen. She looked up and found Quinn standing in the doorway, his shoulders tense in a way she already knew very well.
“A little,” she admitted, because lying to him was pointless. He always noticed.
Quinn crossed the room in three long strides.
He immediately took the clothes from her hands and placed them on the dresser.
“Sit.”
“Quinn, I can walk.”
“I know. Sit anyway.”
She stared at him, eyebrows raised.
He pointed toward the rocking chair Ellen had brought up from the basement specifically for the nursery, complete with new cushions and a knitted throw draped over the back.
“You’re being ridiculous,” she said, but she sat anyway because her back really did hurt—and because there was something about his determination that melted her from the inside out.
Quinn knelt in front of her, removed the comfortable shoes she was wearing, and began massaging her bare feet.
His fingers were precise, methodical, almost as if he were studying a game strategy.
“Better?”
“Better,” she admitted.
He smiled again, satisfied.
S/N found it funny.
Until her belly really started to grow.
Because when the baby began moving insistently, when the kicks became something she could feel both awake and asleep, when her belly rounded into something impossible to ignore—that was when Quinn established the rule.
No one was allowed to touch S/N’s belly without permission.
Especially when he was around.
The first victim was Luke.
The Hughes family was gathered in the living room when S/N felt that familiar sensation—as if something inside her were doing gymnastics. She placed her hand over the exact spot and waited.
“Oh!”
The exclamation came out louder than she intended.
Quinn, who had been talking to Jack near the window, immediately turned around, his green eyes searching for her with surgical precision.
“Did he move?”
“He did.”
She confirmed it, her hand still resting over her belly.
Quinn crossed the room in seconds, kneeling beside the couch where she was sitting. He placed his palm over hers and waited.
A few seconds later, the contact came.
A firm, deliberate push against the skin.
Quinn’s smile appeared instantly, transforming his serious face into something almost childlike.
“He’s kicking.”
“Sounds like a hockey player,” Ellen commented from her corner, knitting needles in hand.
Luke, who had been sitting on the floor near the coffee table, stood and approached with the curiosity that characterized him.
“Can I feel?”
Quinn didn’t take his eyes off S/N’s belly.
His hand remained exactly where it was, as if he were protecting a treasure.
“No.”
Luke blinked.
Once.
Twice.
“I just asked.”
“And I answered.”
S/N started laughing, the sound filling the room.
She looked at Quinn, at the stubborn expression on his face, and laughed even harder.
“Quinn.”
“What?”
“Let your brother feel.”
Quinn frowned.
He looked at Luke.
Then at the belly.
Then back at Luke.
“But he already felt it yesterday.”
Luke spread his arms, disbelief written all over his face.
“I didn’t even feel it yesterday!”
“Exactly,” Quinn replied, as though that explained everything.
S/N laughed even harder, her belly moving beneath her hands—whether from the baby or from her laughter, she wasn’t sure anymore.
“You’re ridiculous,” she told Quinn, gently running her fingers through his dark brown hair.
“I’m a father,” he replied, as if that were explanation enough.
“He isn’t even born yet.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Ellen chuckled softly, the sound mixing with the clicking of her knitting needles. Jack simply shook his head from across the room, but there was a smile on his lips.
——————————————-
The second victim was Jack.
It happened a few days later during Sunday lunch.
Jack was standing behind the couch where S/N was sitting, talking about some game he’d watched on television, when he casually reached out and placed his hand on her belly to steady himself while leaning forward to grab a French fry from Luke’s plate.
Quinn appeared on the other side of the room.
No one saw him move.
One moment he was in the kitchen.
The next, he was standing beside his brother, his voice low but unmistakable.
“Take your hand off.”
Jack froze, the French fry halfway to his mouth.
“What?”
“Take it off.”
“Quinn,” Jack began, his playful tone disappearing.
“You heard me.”
S/N was practically crying from laughing so hard, one hand covering her mouth, her body shaking.
She looked at Jack, at the confusion on his face, and couldn’t stop laughing.
“Jack, you might want to listen to him,” she managed between laughs.
Jack slowly removed his hand as though he were defusing a bomb.
He looked at his own palm.
Then at Quinn.
Then at S/N.
“This is unbelievable,” he declared.
Quinn didn’t answer.
He simply moved into the space Jack had left behind and placed his own hand exactly where his brother’s had been.
S/N’s belly was warm, her skin stretched over the life growing inside her.
“There,” Quinn said.
There was such satisfaction in his voice that S/N laughed even harder.
Jack looked at Ellen, searching for support.
“He’s lost his mind.”
Ellen didn’t even look up from her knitting.
“Ever since he found out he’s going to be a father.”
S/N held Quinn’s hand against her belly, intertwining her fingers with his.
She looked at him, at that serious and satisfied expression, and felt something expand in her chest.
Not only love.
But a deep understanding of who he was.
Of all the layers beneath that controlled exterior.
The third situation happened at the grocery store.
——————————————-
It was a Tuesday afternoon, an unlikely time for grocery shopping, but they needed milk and something for Quinn’s midnight snack—which now included strange things like ginger jam and saltine crackers because S/N had mentioned once that the baby seemed to like them.
An elderly woman with white hair tied into an elegant bun stood beside S/N in the deli line.
They talked about the weather, about her belly, about the excitement of becoming a first-time mother.
“How many months?” the woman asked, her blue eyes shining with genuine kindness.
“Seven,” S/N replied, her hand naturally resting over her belly.
“May I feel?”
Before S/N could answer, before she could even open her mouth, Quinn appeared beside her.
He had been in the pasta aisle a few feet away, but now he was right there, grocery basket in one hand, his other arm already moving around her.
“She doesn’t like strangers touching her,” he said, his voice polite but firm.
S/N turned her head and met his eyes.
There was a mixture of embarrassment and amusement in her expression.
“Quinn,” she murmured.
“What?”
“I never said that.”
The woman began laughing, her laughter light and completely without malice.
“He’s protective,” she commented, admiration evident in her voice.
S/N smiled because she couldn’t help it.
“Very.”
Quinn wrapped his arm around her, his hand resting against the curve of her waist, just beneath her belly.
It was possessive, she knew that.
But it was also sweet.
The way he pulled her closer, as if he constantly needed to make sure she was there, that they were okay.
“I’m just taking care of my girls,” he said.
There was a tone in his voice that S/N had never heard before.
She raised an eyebrow.
“Girls?”
He looked at her belly, then at her.
“You and him.”
“It’s a boy.”
“I know.”
“So they’re my girls?”
Quinn thought about it, his brow furrowing in concentration.
He was like that—precise and meticulous, even with words.
“You’re my girl,” he corrected. “He’s my boy.”
She laughed, the sound echoing through the nearly empty grocery store.
“Much better.”
The woman, still smiling, continued on her way.
——————————————-
Quinn didn’t remove his arm from S/N—not while they paid, not while they carried the grocery bags to the car.
His hand remained where it was.
A constant anchor.
The fourth victim was the doctor himself.
The appointment was routine, the obstetrician’s office filled with that peculiar smell of alcohol and latex gloves.
S/N was lying on the examination table, her hospital gown open, her belly exposed for the examination.
The doctor, a middle-aged man with metal-framed glasses, washed his hands meticulously.
“May I examine you?” he asked, as he always did.
Quinn, sitting in the chair beside the examination table, answered before S/N could open her mouth.
“Of course.”
S/N turned her head toward him, eyebrows raised in surprise.
“You do realize he’s the doctor, right?”
“Yes,” Quinn answered, but his jaw was tense, the muscle pulsing.
“Then why are you making that face?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
His eyes were fixed on the doctor’s hands as they approached S/N’s belly with professional, impersonal movements.
“Because he’s going to touch our son.”
The doctor started laughing, surprised but not offended.
“Mr. Hughes, I promise it’s for a good cause.”
“I know.”
“And, to reassure you, Ms. Lowwey gets to decide who touches her.”
S/N smiled, strangely moved by that small victory.
“Thank you.”
Quinn remained quiet, his posture rigid in the chair.
She reached out and found his hand, intertwining their fingers.
“You’re really cute when you’re jealous,” she whispered so only he could hear.
“I’m not jealous.”
His voice came out lower than usual.
“You are.”
“I’m protecting you two.”
“Of course.”
She kissed his cheek, feeling the faint stubble against her lips.
“My personal bodyguard.”
The doctor continued the examination, completely indifferent to the drama.
Quinn remained still, except for his fingers tightening around hers at regular intervals—a silent count, a way to keep himself calm.
——————————————-
The fifth victim was the grandmother.
Ellen was sitting beside S/N on the porch of the Lake House, an autumn afternoon when the air was cool but the sun still warm.
They were talking about names.
Ellen suggested family names.
S/N suggested names from children’s books.
They both laughed at the impossible suggestions.
The baby kicked.
Hard.
Insistently.
As though he wanted to join the conversation.
Ellen placed her hand over the belly without thinking, the gesture natural for someone who had already been a mother three times.
“May I?”
She asked, but her hand was already there.
“Of course,” S/N smiled.
Quinn entered the room at exactly that moment.
He had been in the kitchen preparing tea and stopped when he saw the scene.
The cup in his hand froze halfway to his mouth.
He looked at Ellen’s hand.
At S/N’s belly.
At the peaceful expression on both their faces.
“Mom,” he said.
There was a note in his voice S/N had never heard before.
Something between a plea and a warning.
Ellen didn’t move.
Her fingers remained where they were, feeling the life beneath the skin.
“Hi, sweetheart,” she answered calmly.
“What are you doing?”
“Feeling my grandson.”
Quinn pointed with the teacup, the gesture almost comical in its seriousness.
“He was with me.”
“He isn’t your property,” Ellen replied, and there was tenderness in her firmness.
S/N started laughing, her belly moving beneath Ellen’s hand—whether from the baby or her laughter, it was impossible to tell.
“Thank you, Ellen,” she said, gratitude in her voice.
Quinn crossed his arms, the teacup forgotten in one hand.
He looked like a five-year-old boy claiming his favorite toy.
“I just think everyone is touching too much.”
Ellen slowly removed her hand.
Deliberately.
Her eyes met Quinn’s, and there was a silent conversation between mother and son—years of understanding, shared losses, unconditional love.
“There,” she said.
Quinn immediately approached, abandoning the cup on some nearby surface, and placed his own hand over the belly.
He waited.
Patient.
Still.
The baby kicked.
His smile appeared instantly, the kind that transformed his entire face.
“See?” he said, looking at Ellen, at S/N, at anyone who might be listening.
Ellen rolled her eyes, but there was affection in the gesture.
“Insufferable.”
S/N rested her head against Quinn’s shoulder, feeling his warmth through his flannel shirt.
“I like it,” she murmured.
And she felt him relax beside her.
——————————————-
A few weeks later, the situation reached its peak.
The entire family was gathered in the living room on a Friday night when no one had plans for the following day.
Jack had brought pizza.
Luke had brought ice cream.
Ellen had brought the knitting project that never seemed to end.
Quinn and S/N were sitting on the couch, her body resting against his, his arm wrapped around her shoulders.
The baby began moving.
S/N felt it first—that sensation of fluid shifting, tiny limbs stretching.
She placed her hand over the exact spot and waited for the next movement.
“He’s kicking!” she announced, excitement in her voice.
Everyone looked.
Luke approached first, kneeling beside the couch.
“Can I?”
He asked Quinn, not S/N.
Quinn looked at her.
She smiled and gave him the smallest nod.
“You can.”
Luke placed his hand carefully, hopefully.
He waited.
Seconds passed.
One.
Two.
Five.
Nothing.
Jack tried next, playfully nudging his brother aside.
He placed his hand more firmly, as though that could somehow provoke a reaction.
Nothing.
Ellen tried, her experienced hand resting gently against the belly, her patience that of a grandmother.
Nothing.
Then Quinn moved.
He didn’t say anything.
He simply reached out and placed his hand over S/N’s belly, beside his mother and brothers, beside everyone who had failed.
The baby kicked immediately.
A firm, deliberate movement, almost visible beneath the fabric of the dress.
Everyone fell silent.
S/N began laughing, the sound filling the room almost shrilly.
She looked at Quinn.
At the expression on his face—pride, surprise, and something deeper she couldn’t quite name.
“He recognizes his dad,” she said.
There was emotion in her voice that surprised even her.
Quinn’s smile grew proud.
The rare one he almost never showed the world.
“I knew it,” he said simply.
Certain.
Luke complained, indignation in his voice.
“That isn’t fair.”
Jack pointed at Quinn, his finger shaking dramatically.
“You’re training the baby to be your biggest fan.”
Quinn answered, still smiling.
“It’s working.”
S/N held his face between her hands, forcing him to look at her.
Her hazel eyes met his green ones, and the intensity of the moment made everything else disappear.
“You know he’s not exclusively yours, right?”
Quinn looked at her, his expression softening.
“I know.”
“And other people are going to want to hug him?”
“I know.”
“And hold him?”
“I know.”
“And kiss him?”
Quinn sighed, the air leaving his lungs slowly.
He closed his eyes for a moment, and she saw the struggle on his face—the desire to protect, the fear of losing, the love consuming him.
“I’m trying to accept it,” he admitted.
There was a vulnerability in his voice she rarely heard.
She laughed, but it was a tender sound, filled with understanding.
“You’re going to survive.”
He placed his hand over her belly again, feeling the life pulsing beneath his fingers.
“It’s just that I’ve waited so long for him.”
His voice cracked slightly.
A memory of all the nights he’d woken up alone.
All the times he’d seen families and felt the emptiness.
S/N softened completely, all the teasing disappearing.
“I know,” she whispered.
Quinn kissed her belly, his lips touching the fabric of her dress, the skin beneath it.
It was a reverent gesture.
Almost sacred.
“And I love you both more than anything,” he said.
The words came out simple.
Direct.
Without the ornamentation other people might have used.
She ran her fingers through his messy hair, feeling the texture beneath her fingertips, the warmth of his scalp.
“Then you can share,” she said.
It wasn’t an order.
It was a request.
An offering.
Quinn made a displeased expression, his brow furrowing.
He looked at Luke.
At Jack.
At Ellen.
All of them watching silently.
“I’ll try,” he promised.
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
The baby kicked again beneath his hand.
Quinn smiled, but there was mischief in his eyes when he added:
“But nobody needs to know I said that.”
S/N burst into laughter.
“Too late.”
On the couch, Luke raised his hand.
“I heard that.”
Jack raised his arm too.
“Me too.”
From the kitchen, where she was heating water for more tea, Ellen shouted:
“I heard it too!”
Quinn closed his eyes, a theatrically defeated expression crossing his face.
S/N leaned in, kissing his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth.
“You’re completely insane,” she murmured against his skin.
He smiled, his eyes still closed, his hand still resting over her belly.
“For you two,” he replied.
And there was absolute truth in his words.
This time, S/N had absolutely no complaints.
She simply leaned against him, feeling his heartbeat against her back, their son’s movements beneath their intertwined hands, and knew—with a certainty that transcended words—that this was her home.
Not the Lake House.
Not the apartment in Minneapolis.
Not any place that could be defined by walls or addresses.
It was him.
It was them.
It was this.
The fire in the fireplace crackled, casting dancing shadows across the walls.
The sound of Ellen’s knitting needles returned, a steady and comforting rhythm.
Luke and Jack quietly argued about who would get to hold the baby first—a discussion Quinn heard, one he could feel in the tension of his muscles, but tolerated.
Because he had promised.
Because he was trying.
Because he loved more than he feared.
S/N closed her eyes, allowing herself to be filled by the moment—the mess, the warmth, the love surrounding her like a blanket.
She thought about Ellen’s letter, about the wisdom the woman had left for whoever came after her:
Not to fill the hole, but to stay inside it.
She understood now.
She understood that the hole didn’t disappear—the loss of her grandmother, the absence that still crossed through her at unexpected moments.
But she also understood that she could exist inside it.
That she could find beauty along its edges.
That she could build something new from what remained.
Quinn moved his hand over her belly, searching for another kick.
When it came, he smiled—a small movement of his lips that she felt more than saw, because her eyes were closed, because she was here.
Present.
Whole.
“He’s active today,” Quinn murmured.
“He’s your son,” she replied, affectionately accusing him.
He laughed—a rare, precious sound—and tightened his arm around her.
They stayed like that until the fire burned down.
Until Ellen announced she was going to bed.
Until Luke and Jack disappeared into their respective rooms.
Until it was just the two of them, in the quiet of the house that had become theirs, in the darkness that no longer frightened them.
Quinn walked her upstairs, one hand resting on her waist, guiding her up the steps with an attentiveness she no longer needed but accepted because it came from him.
He helped her lie down.
Removed her shoes.
Pulled the blanket over them both—her and the baby.
He lay beside her, facing her, his green eyes shining in the darkness.
“I love you,” he said.
The words came easily now.
Practiced.
True.
“I know,” she answered with a smile, because she also knew he would check whether she was comfortable, whether she needed water, whether the baby was quiet.
She knew he would wake three times during the night just to place his hand over her belly and feel him.
