honeyslibrary

[honeyslibrary]

Ghost of You | Quinn Hughes

Pairing; Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); DEATH, grief, mention of car crash, marriage, fluff, edited once.

Summary; A piece based on the song Ghost of You, by 5 Seconds of Summer. I would recommend listening to that while reading to enhance the experience.

Word Count; 4.6k

Author's note; I did cry writing this. This is a lot. I was listening to the song last night, and just started writing. The flow might be a little weird since I did not write this in order, I wrote bits and pieces and then combined it. Also, I couldn't decide between you or she point of view (if there's any mistakes regarding that, please ignore it lol). I ended up going with you, but now I kind of wish I went with she, but it's fine, because I cannot go back and read this again as it is lowkey triggering for me ! Anyways, hope you enjoy it and it makes you cry 😁 -Honey

The house was too quiet again.

It always was now.

The hum of the fridge, the distant creak of settling floorboards—none of it filled the space like your voice used to. No footsteps padding through the kitchen in socks that didn’t match. No soft laughter echoing from the other room. Just Quinn, standing in the dim glow of the stove light, his keys still in his hand, his heart still stuck somewhere between the past and the present.

He hadn’t turned on the main lights when he got in. He never did when he got home late. He told himself it was because he didn’t want to wake anyone, but there was no one to wake anymore. Just him.

And the ghost of you.

His gear still smelled like the rink, sweat, adrenaline. The post-game mix of a man who was supposed to be holding the weight of a team, a city, a legacy—but couldn't even carry himself some nights.

His skates had been sharper today. A little too sharp. Petey noticed and asked if he was okay. Quinn had just nodded and muttered something unheard, then deflected with a chirp about Elias missing an open net. That got a laugh out of the guys. They won tonight. But his smile didn’t reach his eyes, and everyone saw it. No one said anything.

The silence wrapped around him as he made his way through the house, each step echoing just a bit too loudly. It still looked like you lived here. Your touches were everywhere. The blanket on the couch, the mason jar with dried lavender you refused to throw away, the framed Polaroid of the two of you in front of the house the day you moved in.

God, that day.

You’d barely graduated when he asked you. It was after your ceremony—still in your cap and gown, your smile beaming like summer sun as you clung to your diploma and asked him if he was proud of you. Of course he was. He always was. And when he’d kissed your forehead and said, “Come to Vancouver with me,” you didn’t even hesitate.

You just laughed and said, “Only if we can get the ugly throw pillows I like.”

He let you buy four.

Now he stood in front of one of them—pink and puffy and godawful—and touched it like it might dissolve if he pressed too hard.

The air was thick with memories, and he was always breathing them in.

He passed the kitchen, and the floor creaked under his weight. His gaze flicked to the little speaker on the counter. He hadn’t touched it in weeks. Not since that night he tried to cook dinner—your favorite, the pasta with too much garlic—and ended up standing in the middle of the room, crying while Sinatra sang about moonlight and love and holding someone close.

You used to dance here. Right here on this tile.

It didn’t matter if it was noon or midnight. If he was exhausted from a back-to-back or if he’d just come home from a brutal loss on the road. If you were here, and music was playing, and dinner was cooking—or even just leftovers heating up—you'd grab his hand and pull him into a slow dance like you had all the time in the world.

“Just one song,” you’d say, smiling up at him. “Come on, Cap. You won’t get benched for dancing with your wife.”

He used to tease you. Used to grumble that he was tired. And then he’d give in anyway, and sway with you like he didn’t have a care in the world.

Now the music was off. The speaker was dusty.

So was the record player in the corner.

Quinn exhaled and pressed a hand against the counter to steady himself. His knuckles were scraped from practice—he hadn’t worn his gloves when he took a spill morning skate. The trainers told him to take better care of himself. That the team needed him healthy. That he couldn’t afford to play reckless.

They didn’t understand. Or maybe they did, and just didn’t know how to say it.

He closed his eyes.

The house was heavy with your scent. Faint vanilla, like the candles you loved. They still sat on the shelf by the window. Half-burned. Unfinished. Just like everything else. He kept buying more, like letting smell disappear would make it too real.

It had been two months.

Two months since the phone call. Two months since the early morning rain slicked the roads, and someone ran a red light, and you didn’t come home.

Two months since he last heard your voice that wasn’t trapped in a voicemail or a dream.

He hadn’t gone into your closet. Not once.

He still used your shampoo, though, small amounts in a futile attempt to savor what was left of you. Still wore your hoodie when he couldn’t sleep. The one you stole from him first and claimed as yours.

It still smelled like you, if he closed his eyes and didn’t try too hard to remember.

Quinn wandered to the living room window and looked out at the city. Vancouver glittered beneath the night sky—indifferent, beautiful, alive. He’d once told you that this view made him feel like he could breathe. That was back when you stood beside him, arms wrapped around his waist, head on his shoulder.

Now, all he felt was the ache of where you used to be.

He turned away and glanced at the shelf beside the fireplace. Photos lined it—smiling ones, golden ones, the kind that belonged in a life well-lived.

One caught his eye.

University of Michigan. Fall semester. You were laughing, a coffee cup in hand, your other hand tugging the sleeve of his jacket. He looked stunned in the photo, caught mid-sentence.

He remembered that day.

It was your first week of classes. You were late. He was late. You rounded the corner in the lecture hall, juggling your bag and your drink and your headphones—and he barreled straight into you.

Coffee exploded down your front.

“Oh, shit—I’m—uh—” Quinn panicked, dropping his own backpack and grabbing uselessly at napkins that didn’t exist. “I’m so sorry.”

You blinked down at the damage, then looked up at him. “Wow. You come here often?”

He stared. Speechless.

You grinned. “If this is how you flirt, you’re gonna need to work on your game.”

And just like that—his face broke into a sheepish smile.

“Can I buy you another?” he asked, awkward but sincere. “Coffee, I mean. Not a new shirt. I mean, unless it’s ruined. In which case…”

You laughed. Loud and honest. “Just the coffee, Hughes. For now.”

He blinked. “You know who I am?”

“Sure. But don’t let it go to your head, Mr. Hockey.”

That laugh.

He could still hear it sometimes. In his dreams. In the rink. In the echo of the empty house.

Quinn turned away from the photo and wiped a hand over his face. His jaw clenched. His eyes burned. He didn’t let the tears fall. Not tonight.

Instead, he sat down on the couch—the one you picked out—and reached for the remote. Hockey highlights played, muted. He couldn’t watch them anymore. Couldn’t bear to see himself skating, smiling, high-fiving teammates when he felt like he was hollow inside.

He clicked the TV off.

And sat there.

Alone.

The morning light crept in like an unwelcome guest, filtering through sheer curtains you’d picked out because they made the bedroom feel “soft and cozy.” That was how you described it. “Soft and cozy, like a Sunday morning,” you’d said, perched cross-legged on their unmade bed with fabric samples fanned out around your legs, excited about decorating your first home together.

Quinn blinked up at the ceiling, unmoving, his head heavy against your pillow. Your scent was gone from it now. He didn’t know when it faded. Just that one day, he buried his face in the cotton and it wasn’t there anymore.

It was the little absences that gutted him most.

Not the obvious ones—not your inactive Instagram , or the toothbrush that was never replaced, or the unopened box of birthday decorations you’d ordered off Etsy two weeks before the crash. No. It was the quiet.

It was brushing his teeth alone and not having you peek around the corner with toothpaste foam in your mouth, saying, “Did you remember to floss, Mr. Hockey?”

It was opening the fridge and not finding your post-it notes stuck to the oat milk: Drink me. Don’t let me expire :(

It was not hearing you hum in the shower.

It was dancing in the kitchen to nothing but his memory.

He didn’t get up right away. Not that morning. Not most mornings. Sometimes he just laid there, listening to the hollow thump of his own heartbeat and the wind outside the window. February was cold this year. Not the bone-deep kind of winter cold, but the wet, lingering kind that made everything feel gray. Vancouver had always felt vibrant with her in it. Even the rain felt romantic when you were in his passenger seat, bare feet on the dash, hair a little wild from the wind, singing along to Fleetwood Mac like you didn’t have a care in the world.

Now, it just felt like grief pressing against the glass.

Eventually, the alarm on his phone buzzed—Skate @ 9:30. He ignored it for seven more minutes. Then he finally got up.

He didn’t shave. Didn’t really look in the mirror, either. Just brushed his teeth, pulled on an old team hoodie—the one you used to wear that hung just a little looser on him now, like everything else in his life—and left the house without breakfast.

The rink was quiet when he arrived. Most of the team wasn’t there yet.

“Morning, Cap,” called out Brock, tossing him a nod from the trainer’s table.

Quinn gave him a tight smile. “Hey.”

Conor passed him in the hallway, shoulder-checking him gently. “You good?”

He nodded. The lie was automatic.

They were good guys—his teammates, his brothers. They didn’t pry. But they didn’t avoid him either. They skated with him, trained with him, laughed around him, and gave him space when his eyes went somewhere else. Somewhere you still lived.

Only Jack and Luke really knew how deep the spiral went. Quinn tried to protect them from the worst of it, especially their parents, but there were nights when he'd call Jack at 2 a.m., voice cracking, and just sit on the phone in silence. And Jack would sit there with him. No questions. No pressure. Just presence.

Sometimes that’s all grief needed. Someone willing to sit inside it with you without trying to fix it.

Practice was a blur. He was sharp. Focused. Too focused. It wasn’t intensity so much as detachment. He skated like he wanted to be somewhere else. Or nowhere at all.

Coach said something about defensive gaps and ice time. Quinn nodded, but his mind was elsewhere.

In another time.

Ann Arbor was golden with autumn. The leaves scattered like confetti across the sidewalks, and you always dragged him off the main path so you could crunch every single one under your boots. “It’s a crime to step around a perfect crunchy leaf,” you’d declared, mock-serious.

He loved that about you. The way you found small joys and treated them like treasure. Like they mattered.

That day, after the coffee spill, he met you outside the student union. You were early. He was nervous. He didn’t get nervous often—not about hockey, not about media, not even about scouts in the stands—but he was around you.

You waved when you saw him, eyes bright. “Captain Hughes,” you said with a grin, holding up your new coffee. “Redemption achieved.”

He flushed. “Thanks for giving me a second chance.”

“Third, actually. The coffee, the shirt, and the delayed class entrance.”

He laughed, and for the first time in what felt like years, it felt easy.

They sat outside on the lawn, trading stories. You told him about your dream of being a kindergarten teacher. About your love for messy finger paint and the chaos of snack time. He told you about growing up in a hockey family, about missing his parents, about how much pressure came with making mistakes.

And you said, “Well, I don’t care about your mistakes, Quinn. I care about your smile. So keep doing that.”

You didn’t know it then, but he’d remember that sentence forever.

After practice, he stayed late. The rink had emptied out. He sat alone in the locker room, taping and re-taping his stick like he didn’t want to go home.

Eventually, he drove. The city flickered around him. He didn’t turn on the radio. Couldn’t. Too many songs you used to sing to.

At home, the front hallway was still cluttered with reminders of you. He'd tried once to clean up. Lasted ten minutes before he ended up sitting on the floor in front of your rain boots, sobbing.

Tonight, though, he made it to the kitchen.

The lavender candle on the counter. The crooked fridge magnet from the weekend trip to Tofino. The playlist you made on the speaker, still titled Midnight Snack Dances.

He reached for the speaker.

His thumb hovered over the button.

Then he pressed it.

The song that came on was Sinatra.

"Fly Me to the Moon."

He didn’t remember the last time he let it play. Didn't remember if you picked this one, or if it came up by accident, one night when you two were tipsy and cooking pasta at 1 a.m. But the second the first note played, he felt you again.

Your hands in his.

Bare feet on tile.

“You’re not even cooking,” he’d murmured once, letting her lead. “You just want to dance.”

You laughed. “Cooking is overrated. But dancing? That’s what makes life delicious.”

Now, he moved to the center of the kitchen, eyes closed.

He let the music wrap around him. Let himself remember the weight of her head on his chest. The sway of your body against his. The way you used to hum along to the trumpet parts like you were in a jazz club in another life.

He danced alone.

To a song that didn’t belong to him anymore.

To a memory that wouldn’t fade.

Later that night, he sat outside on the back step, hoodie drawn up, coffee cooling in his hand. The stars above the city were faint, but he looked for them anyway.

He imagined you up there sometimes.

Not in the spiritual sense—he didn’t know what he believed anymore—but in the poetic one. Like your laugh became starlight. Like your soul settled somewhere that still saw him.

His phone buzzed.

A text from Jack. "You good?"

He stared at it for a long time. Then typed: "Not really. But I’m here."

Jack replied a few seconds later. "That’s enough for tonight."

Quinn nodded to no one, set his phone down, and leaned back against the step.

The air was cold.

But for a moment, in the stillness, he swore he could hear your laugh on the wind.

The third voicemail on his phone had never been deleted, for that reason.

"Hey Quinny… it’s nothing, just calling before you hit the ice. You left your protein bar on the counter again, by the way—one day you’re going to starve during a game and it'll be your fault. Anyway, love you. Don’t get checked into a wall tonight."

You laughed at the end of it.

That quiet, musical kind of laugh that only came when you were talking to him. He used to play the message on away trips when he couldn’t sleep. Not every night. Just the bad ones. The nights when the hotel room felt unfamiliar, or when the game went wrong, or when the silence inside his own chest started to get too loud.

Now he barely listened to it at all. It hurt too much. The laugh, especially. It sounded so alive. So present. So unaware of what was coming.

They told him it was instant. That you didn’t feel it. That you didn’t suffer.

He didn’t believe them.

Not because he thought they were lying, but because part of him needed to believe you’d known he loved you in that final moment. That you had thought of him. That you felt him, even as the world tilted and shattered and the rain kept falling like it had every damn day since.

Some nights, the guilt clawed at him like an animal. He’d replay the morning over and over.

You had argued. Stupidly. Quietly. One of those soft-voiced, tension-tight arguments that stretched through breakfast and followed them into the hallway. He was distracted—thinking about line changes, about the upcoming game against Vegas, about whether his hip was going to hold up under the forecheck.

You wanted to show him something. One of your students made a drawing: Mrs. Hughes and the Hockey Prince. Stick figures. Crayon crowns. A dog, even though you two didn’t own one.

“You’ve gotta see this one,” you said, smiling. “It’s so cute.”

“Later,” he said. “I’m late.”

He rushed out.

He didn’t kiss you goodbye.

He always kissed you goodbye.

And then you were gone.

He told no one about that. Not his family. Not even his therapist, the one the team’s mental health staff gently encouraged him to see after he broke down in two post-game interviews in one week.

He’d gone to one session.

Sat in the parking lot for thirty minutes.

Left.

The grief didn’t hit in full force all at once. It came in waves.

Sometimes it was a tsunami—pulling him under so fast he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t be.

Other times, it was soft.

A song on the radio. A kid in a Canucks jersey pointing at him with wide eyes at the grocery store. The lavender scent in a stranger’s shampoo. A memory triggered by a piece of toast he accidentally burned the way you used to when you were distracted in the mornings.

He never knew which version of grief he was going to get.

He’d surprised you after practice. You had parent-teacher meetings that night, and he figured he’d swing by, bring her a coffee, maybe dinner. He was trying to be romantic.

You met him at the door, a smear of glitter across her cheek and a string of construction paper hearts dangling from her wrist.

“You look like a kindergarten Picasso,” he teased, handing her the coffee.

You kissed his cheek. “We made valentines. One kid ate the glue.”

He laughed. “Are you allowed to admit that?”

“I’m not naming names. Teacher code.”

Your classroom was pure chaos—bright drawings, finger-painted handprints on the wall, tiny desks with tiny chairs. But it was magic. It was yours. And when you moved between the kids, kneeling to their level, praising their stick-figure whales and lopsided hearts, he swore he’d never seen anyone shine like that.

After the parents left, you walked him through the class library, stopping to point out your favorite picture books.

“You know,” you said, brushing hair out of your face, “this job is exhausting, but it’s the best kind of exhausting.”

He smiled. “You’re good at it.”

You shrugged. “They make it easy. Kids see the good in people first. Grown-ups forget how.”

That memory haunted him now.

The funeral had blurred past, just weeks after your passing. It felt too quick for him. The condolences, the flowers, the carefully constructed eulogies. Everyone told him you’d been light. That you lit up a room. That you were joy, wrapped in wild curls and vanilla-scented perfume.

He knew that.

He didn’t need to hear it in past tense.

The school had invited him to a small gathering for the parents and students. The kids adored you. The staff adored you.

He went.

He stood in the back, silent, hands jammed in his coat pockets, and listened to one of her students—a little girl with sparkly clips in her braids—read a letter she wrote:

“Mrs. Hughes said I was brave when I was scared. She let me wear the crown even when it wasn’t my birthday. She smelled like sunshine. I hope she’s dancing in the sky.”

He didn’t cry there.

He waited until everyone had left.

Then he stepped into your classroom.

It smelled like glue and markers.

Your handwriting still covered the whiteboard: “Be kind. Be brave. Be YOU.”

Your coffee mug—Kindergarten Queen—still sat on her desk. He touched it like it might shatter under his fingertips.

On the back wall was a photo of them at the team’s charity skate day. You’d worn a Canucks hoodie that hung off her shoulder, laughing as a kindergartener tried to chase Quinn across the ice.

He stared at that photo for a long time.

Then he left without saying a word.

He went home, and opened the bedroom closet.

He sank to the floor, hoodie bunched in his fists, your clothes surrounding him like a cocoon.

He cried like a man unmade.

No noise. Just the kind of sobbing that comes from somewhere deep and private and untouched by language.

And when it passed, when he couldn’t cry anymore, he sat there, eyes swollen, heart split down the middle, whispering to the dark.

“I’m so sorry.”

For the argument.

For the missed kiss.

For not being there.

For not saving you.

He took you back to Michigan.

Said it was a nostalgic trip.

You suspected it from the beginning—he wasn’t good at lying—but you played along.

The two of you walked the campus. Stopped by the coffee shop where he spilled your first drink. You ordered the same thing: vanilla oat milk latte, two pumps, no foam.

He dropped to one knee just outside the old lecture hall.

“I know the timing’s crazy, and the travel sucks, and my schedule is chaos, but there’s no world I want to live in where I’m not waking up next to you.”

Your hands flew to your mouth.

“I love you,” he said, voice shaking. “Always. Even when I’m a pain in the ass. Even when the season’s long and I’m gone more than I should be. You make me better. You make me whole. Will you marry me?”

You nodded, laughing through her tears.

And whispered, “Yes. Yes, yes, yes.”

That night, for the first time in weeks, he took off his wedding ring.

Not forever.

Just to clean it.

He set it carefully on the bedside table, wiped it gently a small cleaning towelette.

He held it up to the light.

“Love you,” he whispered.

And in the silence that followed, he thought he could almost hear you say it back.

The ring felt heavier once he put it back on.

It wasn’t symbolic. Not in a grand, poetic sense. It just felt heavier—like maybe his body was finally acknowledging the weight of everything he’d been carrying alone.

He stared at his hand for a long time after sliding the band over his knuckle again. The skin underneath was lighter now. A thin line. A ghost of something permanent. Something that once was.

The ceremony had been simple.

Lakefront. Small. Close friends and family.

He remembered every second.

You walking barefoot down the aisle.

You whispering, “You’re shaking,” when you reached him at the altar.

Him choking out, “I’ve never been this happy.”

The vows.

Yours: “You are my home. Whether we’re in Vancouver or Michigan or on the moon, if you’re there, that’s where I want to be.”

His: “You remind me who I am. And who I want to be. You make the world make sense.”

They danced to Can’t Help Falling in Love. You sang softly into his ear as they swayed.

“I’ll love you in every lifetime,” you whispered.

The phone buzzed beside him. A name on the screen: Mom.

He didn’t answer.

He went home.

Real home.

Michigan.

The house hadn’t changed. The same backyard net. The same cluttered garage. His childhood bedroom still had the worn poster of Datsyuk, corners curled.

Ellen opened the door before he knocked.

“Hi, baby,” she said softly, and pulled him into her arms.

He didn’t say anything. Just held on.

Inside, the house smelled like soup. Like love. Like memory.

He didn’t eat much.

But he sat at the kitchen table, head bowed, while Ellen laid her hand over his.

“You have to let yourself feel it,” she said.

“I’m afraid if I do,” he whispered, “I won’t come back from it.”

“You will,” she promised. “Because she wouldn’t let you drown.”

He stayed a week.

Jim didn’t say much—just sat with him in front of old Leafs games, passing popcorn, offering comfort in the only way he knew how.

It was raining the day he opened your side of the closet again.

Five months had passed since the accident.

He hadn’t touched it since that first time he broke down.

Not the hoodies you stole from him. Not the floral dress you wore to the engagement party. Not the polaroids clipped to the inside wall.

But he needed something. He didn’t know what. A sweater, maybe. A memory.

He reached for a box tucked in the corner.

Inside, he found a card. A sealed envelope with his name on it, one he hadn't seen before. Your handwriting, unmistakable, the date on it—the night of your wedding. The sticker was a tiny gold heart.

He opened it.

My love,

There are things I feel so big I can never say them out loud without crying, and I don’t want to cry tonight. I just want to smile until my cheeks hurt.

Quinn… you are everything. You’re strength and softness. You’re the calm in every storm I’ve ever had. You are more than the name on your jersey or the goals you score. You are home.

I know sometimes you don’t see the light in yourself. But I do. I always will. You make me feel safe and wild and alive and steady—all at once. I’m so proud of you. Not for what you do. But for who you are.

I can’t wait to build a life with you. To wake up beside you. To dance barefoot in our kitchen at midnight. To grow old, and grumpy, and still completely in love.

You are my beginning. And my end.

Love, Y/N

He read it three times.

Then pressed it to his chest, and let the tears come—not like before. Not broken. But whole.

Full.

Alive.

Spring came late to Vancouver.

Not the bright, sudden kind of spring that bursts through like a symphony, but a slow one—measured and hesitant, like the world was still grieving something too.

Quinn woke to the sound of rain easing against the windows, not hammering. For the first time in a long while, it didn’t feel oppressive. Just… soft. Like it was letting up.

He sat in the kitchen, barefoot, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. The Sinatra playlist still played quietly in the background—track number four, your favorite. “The Way You Look Tonight.”

There was toast burning in the toaster.

He didn’t even mind.

He’d read the letter every night for a week.

Not because he wanted to memorize it, but because it felt like you. Not a memory, but a conversation. A tether. Words from beyond the veil that didn’t close the wound, but helped him breathe through it.

He tucked it into the inside pocket of his gear bag. Right beside the laces you used to knot for him when you got bored in the locker room.

“Only the left ones,” you’d say, grinning. “I’m superstitious.”

He tied both the same way now. Just in case.

He’d gone back to therapy.

Not for anyone else. For himself.

It wasn’t easy. The words didn’t come all at once. But the therapist—an older man with gentle eyes and quiet pauses—just sat with him. Listened. Let Quinn unravel slowly.

One session, Quinn brought the letter.

Read it out loud.

Didn’t make it past the second paragraph.

Didn’t need to.

At the rink, the guys had started chirping him again. In the old way. Not walking on eggshells. Just giving him hell like brothers do.

It was the best thing in the world.

Brock called him “washed-up.”

Petey joked he “didn’t look like a homeless man anymore.”

Even Demko raised a brow when Quinn played Sinatra during pre-practice warmup.

“You good, Cap?”

Quinn nodded. “Getting there.”

That was enough.

One morning, Quinn visited the cemetery.

He didn’t go often. You weren’t there. Not really. But this time, he brought something.

The ugly pink throw pillow you loved—the one he always said was hideous. The one you insisted gave the living room “character.”

He set it down beside the headstone and smiled.

“Okay,” he murmured. “I admit it. It made the couch better.”

Then he sat with you.

Told you about the last game of the season, the Canucks narrowly missing a ticket to the playoffs. About his teammates, Conor’s new baby boy, and his family. About the letter he found.

“I read it,” he said softly. "I miss you so much" He admits, for the first time out loud.

The wind shifted gently.

He closed his eyes and imagined you there, arms folded, leaning on the stone like you were teasing him from the other side of the veil.

“Still sappy, Hughes,” you’d probably say.

And he’d reply, “Still yours.”

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[honeyslibrary]

Strike | Jack Hughes

Pairing; Jack Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Situationship, SMUT, cursing, spanking, semi public sex? unprotected sex (wrap it up!), edited once.

Request;��"girlie could you please do a NSFW(18+) of Jack, like the reader does something that makes him jealous and it turns into spice. Thanks so much!! <3"

Word Count; 2.8k

Author's note; Thank you so much for the request, friend!! I hope you like it (: The intro is a little rushed, but I didn't want this to be straight porn, so there's a teeny bit of plot. Any thoughts + reblogs are appreciated. Much love. -Honey

Jack knew you were doing it on purpose. The way you giggled beside Trevor, leaning just a little too close, pretending not to know how to hold the damn bowling ball properly—it was all a performance. A coy tilt of your head, that innocent shrug, all just bait so Trevor would step behind you, hands slipping around your waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Jack took another swig of his beer, the bottle cold and slick in his grip, but it did nothing to wash down the sour taste rising in his throat. His eyes stayed fixed on you, on the way your head tipped back in laughter at something Trevor said, your hair swinging, lips parted just a little too wide. You weren’t even trying to be subtle.

It only took a moment before Trevor backed off, grinning like he’d just won something, and you stepped up to the line. Jack narrowed his eyes. Suddenly, your stance shifted—shoulders squared, knees slightly bent. No hesitation. No awkward wobble. Just a smooth, confident release. The ball glided down the lane, curving cleanly before smashing into the pins with a satisfying crash—strike.

Jack barely restrained an eye-roll. His jaw tightened as you let out a high-pitched squeal, spinning around and leaping into Trevor’s open arms like you’d been waiting all night for an excuse. Trevor caught you with practiced ease, hands slipping low, fingers resting right on the curve of your ass. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t protest. You just clung to him, beaming like the whole thing was harmless fun.

He finishes off the last of his beer in one long pull, the bottle hitting the table a little harder than necessary. Quinn, seated beside him, throws a sideways glance, brow raised, but Jack ignores it. He doesn’t have the patience for concerned looks—not right now.

"Your turn," Trevor says with a grin, swaggering back to the table with his arm draped casually around your shoulders. Jack grits his teeth as he watches the way you tilt your face up toward Trevor, eyes shining like you’ve forgotten anyone else exists. Like he’s the only one worth looking at.

Jack pushes himself out of his chair with a suddenness that makes it scrape loudly against the floor. He rounds the table without a word, heading to the lane. His fingers slip into the holes of the bowling ball with a practiced familiarity, but he doesn’t bother with form or focus. He just throws.

The ball rockets down the lane, humming against the polished wood, slamming into the pins with a violent crack. Strike.

"Damn, Jack," Trevor calls out with a low chuckle, "what’d those pins do to you?"

That gets a laugh out of you—light and unrestrained, as if it’s the funniest thing you’ve heard all night. Jack’s eye twitches, his fists clenching as he turns around—and that’s when he sees it.

You’re not in your chair anymore. You’re in Trevor’s lap.

Perched sideways, comfortably nestled against him like you’ve done it before. Trevor’s hand rests on the inside of your bare thigh, fingers splayed just beneath the hem of your skirt. Not hidden. Not subtle. And you’re not tensed. You’re smiling.

"I'm gonna go use the bathroom," you say softly, voice barely rising above the hum of music and clatter of pins in the background.

Trevor gives your thigh a lingering squeeze before letting you slide off his lap. You adjust your skirt with a quick tug and turn toward the dim hallway at the back of the bowling alley, your footsteps muffled against the sticky, beer-slick floor.

Jack doesn’t move. His jaw locks, muscles twitching, as he watches you walk away—hips swaying slightly, hands tucked into the sleeves of your sweater like you're trying to disappear. It's only when Luke brushes past him on the way to take his turn that Jack snaps out of it.

"I'm getting another beer," he mutters, already turning away. He doesn’t head to the bar.

His Nike's echo in the corridor as he follows, the lights overhead flickering slightly, casting long shadows against the colorful walls. Just as you reach the corner where the bathrooms are tucked away, he grabs your arm—not roughly, but firm enough to stop you.

You flinch. Panic spikes in your chest, fast and sharp—until you spin around and see it’s Jack. Not a stranger, Jack. Still, the look in his eyes makes your stomach twist with something you can't describe, perhaps excitement.

“What are you doing?” you ask, brows furrowing as you pull your arm back, but not completely out of his grip.

He lets out a bitter, hollow laugh. “What am I doing? No—what the hell are you doing?”

His voice is low, rough with disbelief and something rawer underneath. His eyes search yours, as if he's waiting for you to say this is all some kind of joke.

You shake your head slowly. “What are you even talking about?”

You sound calm, but inside, you're unraveling, legs pressing together as his words go straight to your core. You know exactly what he's talking about.

Jack stares at you, his jaw tight, eyes darting between yours like he’s trying to find something—confirmation, maybe. Or a way to stop himself from saying the next thing. But it slips out anyway, harsh and unfiltered.

“Why are you all up on Trevor?” he asks, voice sharp, the words hitting with more weight than volume.

You lift a shoulder, letting it fall with studied nonchalance. A small, almost wicked smile curls at the corner of your lips.

“Can’t a girl have some fun?” you counter, light and playful.

“Not with Trevor,” he snaps, fast, like it’s a reflex. His hand tightens its grip on your arm just slightly—not painful, but enough to let you know he’s not just playing along.

Your smile widens a fraction, and you lean in just enough that he can smell the sweet trace of your perfume.

“Careful, Jack,” you hum, tilting your head to the side, “you’re starting to sound jealous.”

He scoffs, shaking his head with a laugh, the sound void of any real amusement.

“Jealous?” he repeats, as if the word tastes sour. His eyes lock with yours, sharp and unblinking. “I already had you. What’s there to be jealous of?”

Your breath catches—just for a second. Just enough that he might notice.

The words hang between you, heavy with history. The hallway is suddenly too quiet, like the world outside it has faded away, leaving only the hum of the flickering fluorescent lights and the sound of two people trying not to fall apart—or fall back into each other.

You swallow, hard, bringing yourself back into the moment. You straighten your shoulders, schooling your features into something smug.

“If you’re not jealous,” you say slowly, tilting your head just enough to look up at him beneath your lashes, “then why’d you follow me to the bathroom?”

You pause, letting the question hang for a beat, then smile like you’ve just cornered him. “I think you want me.”

Jack’s expression hardens. In a single step, he closes the space between you, backing you against the wall. The sudden shift steals the breath from your lungs. His hands frame your body without touching, like he’s holding back by the thinnest thread.

“I think I want you,” he says, voice low and venomous, “to stop fucking with my best friend.”

The words crack like a whip, but you don’t flinch. Your pulse is thudding in your ears, but you keep your gaze locked on his.

“Or what?” you challenge, sliding your hand out of his grasp and pressing it flat against his chest. His heart is pounding under your palm. “Scared he’ll fuck me better than you did? That I won’t come running back to you anymore?”

His jaw clenches. His entire body goes still, rigid with something between rage and restraint.

“You shut your mouth,” he grits out, his head dipping lower. His breath fans across your lips, hot and uneven. His face is so close now you can see the dark flecks in his irises, the tension in his jaw, the war behind his eyes.

You arch a brow, breathless but defiant. “Make me.”

All of Jack’s restraint snaps in an instant.

He surges forward, and his mouth crashes against yours—hot, unrelenting, desperate. It’s not a gentle kiss; it’s teeth scraping lips, tongues tangling with a kind of hunger that feels both furious and familiar. Like neither of you knows whether you’re fighting or surrendering.

Your back hits the wall with a soft thud, and his hands are everywhere—sliding down your sides, gripping your waist before moving lower. His fingers dig into your ass as you grind against him, your hips meeting his in a frantic rhythm, seeking friction, seeking anything.

Jack pulls away just long enough to catch his breath—his eyes dark, wild, mouth swollen and red. Then he grabs your hand, wordless, and pulls you behind him down the narrow hallway.

The unisex bathroom door swings open, and you’re barely inside before he slams it shut and twists the lock. The click of it echoes, sharp and final.

Then his lips are on yours again.

There’s no pause, no hesitation—just raw, explosive need. His hands are back on your body, roaming like he’s trying to memorize every inch, relearn every curve he once knew so well. You pull at his shirt, nails scraping over his skin, and his groan rumbles against your mouth, low and primal.

Jack pulls away from your lips, his mouth trailing down to your neck. His breath is warm against your skin, and then—his lips press a wet, open-mouthed kiss just below your jaw, followed by a deep, slow suck that draws a gasp from your throat.

You want to stop him—you should stop him. A protest flickers somewhere in the haze, a distant thought about the mark he’s leaving, about who might see it later. But your mind is syrupy with want, your limbs loose and uncooperative, and all you can do is breathe.

Your fingers slide into his messy hair, thick and overgrown, tugging hard at the roots as his teeth graze your neck. He nips at the skin, sharp enough to sting, before pulling back—just enough to let his breath sweep over the spot, cooling the freshly branded heat. Your knees nearly buckle.

He doesn’t say anything at first—just looks down at you with an unreadable gaze.

Then, slowly, he reaches up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His touch is unexpectedly tender, a strange contrast to the fire still crackling between you. He tilts your chin up with the knuckle of his finger, forcing your gaze to meet his.

“Mine,” he murmurs.

The word is soft, but there’s nothing gentle about it. It lands between you like a brand, final and unyielding. A claim, not a question.

You barely have time to react before Jack yanks you from the wall and spins you toward the sink. Your palms slam down on the cool porcelain as he pushes your hips forward, bending you just enough that your breath catches. The mirror in front of you reflects it all—the flushed heat in your cheeks, the wild look in his eyes as he steps in behind you.

A low, primal groan rumbles from his chest as his hands slide to your waist, then down to the waistband of your mini skirt. With one smooth motion, he tugs it down your thighs and lets it fall to the floor in a soft rustle, pooling around your ankles.

His gaze drops—and lingers.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, eyes locked on the baby pink panties barely covering you. His fingers trail lightly over the lace, teasing the seam before tracing along the curve of your ass, slow and possessive.

Then, without warning, his palm cracks sharply against your skin.

You let out a surprised yelp, the sting blooming hot as the slap echoes against the tile walls—cutting through the distant thump of music from outside. The shock of it sends a jolt through your spine, your fingers tightening on the counter.

He soothes the red skin with a slow, soft rub.

“Walking around in that tiny ass skirt,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and full of lust. “You were just begging to be fucked, huh?”

He’s staring at you through the mirror, jaw clenched, pupils blown wide. The intensity in his eyes pins you in place more than his hands ever could.

You bite your bottom lip, trying to muffle the shaky breath that escapes you—and give your hips a small, deliberate wiggle, daring him.

It works.

His hand comes down again—harder, meaner. The second slap pulls a whine from your throat before you can stop it, the sound slipping free and echoing like a confession.

Jack leans forward, lips close to your ear.

“Don’t bite your lip,” he growls. “Want everyone out there to hear exactly what I’m doing to you.”

As he speaks, his left hand drops to his waist, fingers already working his belt loose.

Jack pulls his cock from his boxers, the head already slick with anticipation. He wraps a hand around himself, stroking slowly, languidly, spreading the pre-cum with a low, satisfied grunt. His eyes don’t leave yours in the mirror as he moves behind you, and you feel the weight of his stare like a second touch—hot and unwavering.

Without a word, he hooks two fingers into the waistband of your panties, tugging them to the side with little care for the delicate lace. Cool air hits your now-exposed skin, sending a shiver up your spine.

Then—he lines himself up.

There’s no warning. Just the sudden, searing stretch of him pushing inside you, inch by inch. The pressure builds deliciously slow, your body clenching to take him, adjust to him. A long, strangled moan rips from your throat as your elbows buckle, your weight slumping forward against the counter.

He bottoms out with a low groan, hips flush against you, filling you completely. The stretch is intense, nearly overwhelming—and yet your body aches for more.

“Fuck,” he growls, the sound low and feral in your ear. “So fucking tight.”

Before you can catch your breath, he draws his hips back and slams into you again—harder this time, setting a punishing rhythm that echoes in the tiny bathroom, his skin slapping against yours, breath ragged and uneven.

You meet his eyes in the mirror, barely able to hold his gaze, but he doesn’t look away. If anything, it only fuels him more.

His rhythm builds—harder, deeper—with each thrust, rocking your body forward against the edge of the counter. The cool porcelain digs into your hips, grounding you just enough to stop you from completely unraveling. But your legs are already trembling, breath hitching with every sharp, wet slap of skin against skin.

“Look at me,” he growls, one hand snaking up your spine to tangle roughly in your hair. He jerks your head up just enough to make your gaze meet his in the mirror. “I said, look.”

Your eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded and dazed, locking onto his. The sight steals whatever air you had left—his jaw clenched, chest heaving, eyes dark with something deeper than just lust.

“You feel that?” he hisses, driving into you again, the motion sharp enough to drag a choked cry from your lips. “No one else gets you like this. No one else knows you like I do.”

Your fingers claw at the counter, knuckles white from the grip. You nod, or try to, but your body is too busy trying to keep up with the sensations flooding through you.

His free hand moves around your waist, slipping between your thighs without warning. His fingers find your clit and begin circling—slow, taunting, perfectly timed with each relentless thrust.

“You’re dripping for me,” he mutters, almost in awe. “Still so fuckin’ needy for me, even after everything.”

The coil in your stomach tightens sharply. You’re panting now, cheeks flushed, your reflection trembling in the mirror. You can’t look away from him—you don’t want to.

“Say it,” he demands, voice wrecked. “Tell me who you belong to.”

Your mouth falls open, but at first, nothing comes out—just a whimper, a moan caught halfway between shame and need.

His grip on your hip tightens, fingers digging into your skin.

“Say it.”

“Y-you,” you stammer, voice hoarse and breaking. “Fuck—Jack, I’m yours.”

His eyes blaze in the mirror, satisfied and hungry all at once. He slams into you one final time, deep and intense, and your body clamps down around him with a gasp so loud it drowns out the music beyond the door. Your climax rips through you—hot, overwhelming, electric.

He follows seconds later, burying his face in the crook of your neck as his body shudders behind you, breath warm against your skin as he spills his cum into you.

For a long, breathless moment, neither of you moves. Just the sound of your panting and the fading thump of bass from outside.

Then, slowly, he pulls out, your body trembling in the sudden emptiness. His hands are gentle now—smoothing down your sides, fixing the panties he so carelessly displaced only minutes ago.

And still, his eyes find yours in the mirror.

“Mine,” he says again—this time, quieter. Not a command.

A reminder.

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Mood Swing | Quinn Hughes

Pairing; Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Established relationship, pregnancy, that's it i'm pretty sure, edited once.

Summary; An installment of the Sweet Girl universe, but can be read as a stand alone.

Word Count; 1.1k

Author's note; Super short. If you have any ideas for this AU please hit my inbox (: -Honey

"Y/N is mad at me," Quinn says unenthusiastically, walking into the living room where his brothers are glued to the TV, fingers flying over their controllers as they battle it out in Fortnite. He drops into the recliner with a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair.

Both Jack and Luke snort in unison, barely sparing him a glance as they keep their eyes on the screen. Jack, with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, shakes his head. "Pretty sure she's been mad at you since the second trimester."

Luke chuckles, still mashing buttons. "Yeah, man. What’d you screw up now?"

Quinn throws his hands in the air. "I don’t know! That’s the problem. I don’t think I did anything."

He leans back, exasperated, as Jack and Luke exchange a knowing look, the kind only younger brothers can perfect. They both laugh again, this time a little louder.

"That’s what makes it worse," Jack says. "You probably did something without even realizing it."

Quinn lets out a heavy sigh, the kind that lingers in his chest before escaping through slightly parted lips. He scrubs a hand through his hair, fingers catching on a stubborn tangle, as he racks his brain for anything—anything—he could’ve done to set you off. But all he finds is a frustrating blank. Absolutely nothing.

He wasn't new to the emotional rollercoaster of pregnancy—he’d read the articles, joined the forums, even downloaded that one app to track your cravings and moods—but this? This felt different. Last night had been perfect. You’d snuggled into his side on the couch, whispering that you were craving that one burger—the one from that tiny roadside diner two towns over. Without hesitation, he’d grabbed his keys and hit the road, driving two and a half hours through winding backroads and humid summer drizzle just to get it for you. The way your eyes lit up when you unwrapped it? Worth every minute.

But this morning... you’d woken up with a scowl etched into your face like it had been carved there overnight. The moment he said “good morning,” you gave him a look—flat and unreadable, like a stranger on the subway. Like you couldn’t stand the sound of his voice.

"I'm ready for this to be over," Quinn groans, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, head hanging for a moment before he shakes it slightly, like he's trying to flick the thought away.

On the couch, Luke doesn't look at him—just flutters his eyes over briefly before refocusing on the video game controller in his hands. "How do you think she feels?" he mutters, his thumbs still moving, the flicker of the TV casting dull light across his face.

Quinn rolls his eyes and slouches back against the armchair. "Obviously I know she feels the same way. Worse."

From the corner of the couch, Jack lets out a low laugh, the kind that says he's been there before, even though he never has. "Just gotta ride the storm, brother," he says, lifting a beer to his lips. "It'll pass. They always do."

Quinn narrows his eyes at Jack, irritation flickering across his face. "I know," he snaps, sharper than intended. He opens his mouth to say more—maybe defend himself, maybe vent—but the sudden sound of your voice cuts through the room, yelling his name from upstairs.

His spine stiffens. The whole room stills for half a beat.

"...Duty calls," Quinn mutters under his breath, already rising to his feet.

"Good luck," Luke says, stifling a laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching as he keeps his eyes on the game.

Quinn flips him the middle finger over his shoulder without looking back, a lazy gesture that earns a louder laugh from both of his brothers. He takes the stairs two at a time, the familiar creak of the third step under his heel disappearing beneath the fading sound of their amusement.

At the top, the house feels quieter, but not heavy—just still. He walks down the hallway toward your shared bedroom, already picturing the look you’ll give him when he walks in. He knocks with the backs of his knuckles—just enough to be polite—then pushes the door open.

You're right where he'd left you this morning—nestled in a pile of pillows, a book discarded beside you, eyes trained on your phone. You hadn’t said a word when you banished him, but you hadn’t needed to. Your silence had done the talking, and your eyes had done the rest.

"Everything okay, sweetheart?" he asks, voice low, careful.

Your brows furrow as you sit up, hands instinctively drifting to your baby bump, protective and automatic. "Why do you look scared?" you ask, your tone soft but skeptical, watching him closely.

Quinn blinks, caught off guard. "I don't—I’m not," he stammers, before catching himself. He crosses to the bed and perches on the edge, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. One of his hands reaches out, settling gently over yours.

"Just don’t want to get yelled at." he answers honestly, lips twisting into a small smile.

"I didn’t yell at you today," you say, tilting your head slightly, feigning innocence.

"You kicked me out of the room," he deadpans.

"I did not," you say, sitting up a little straighter, your tone defensive but not entirely serious.

He lets out an exaggerated sigh, dragging a hand down his face. "You just about glared a hole through my skull," he mutters, raising his eyebrows at you. Then, more gently, he lifts one of your hands from where it rests on your baby bump and threads his fingers through yours, giving it a small squeeze.

You pause for a beat, watching the way his thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles, before your lips twitch into a pout. "I'm sorry," you say softly, though your expression is already giving you away.

He grins, wide and shameless, eyes lighting up with amusement. "No you’re not."

"No, I’m not," you admit, breaking into a giggle. "But I am tired."

He laughs, shaking his head. "How are you tired? You just woke up."

You give him a look—the kind that says really?—then smack his shoulder lightly. "Maybe because I’m turning food into a human?"

"Touché," he says, fingers rubbing at the spot you hit, as if it actually hurt.

"Do you want to nap with me or not?"

"You know I do, baby," he says, already kicking off his shoes. "Scoot over."

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Shutout | Quinn Hughes

Pairing; Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Smut, angst(?), cursing, not sure what else, edited once. The ending is very abrupt and kind of awkward but I'm tired of looking at it so maybe one day I'll go back and fix it probably not though.

Summary; Canucks lose to the Seattle Kraken and Quinn needs a release except is kind of weird because I have a tiny kink for men crying (? newly discovered) so yeah. 

Word Count; 2.5k

Author's note; I don't care for this and I may delete it.  Also it's not my best work but uh yeah. Also life is lowkey kicking my ass but we are powering through. Any thoughts are appreciated 😊 -Honey

Quinn, who was usually all soft touches and whispered praises in bed, became an entirely different man when anger simmered beneath his skin. It didn’t happen often—he was patient, level-headed, the kind of person who shrugged off most things with a quiet sigh. But when he did get angry, it was usually because of one of two things: the Canucks losing a game, or him playing like shit in said game.

And when that happened, there was no slow, sensual love-making. No lingering kisses, no careful caresses. No, when Quinn was angry, he took. Pressed you into the mattress, into the wall, bent you over whatever was closest. He used you—gripped your hips hard enough to leave bruises, drove into you with a desperation that had nothing to do with affection and everything to do with exorcising the frustration knotted inside him. He wouldn’t stop until he felt something shift, until the tension in his muscles melted away, until he was wrecked enough to forget the sting of failure.

And you? You were his outlet, his release, the only thing that could pull him from the storm raging inside his head. He’d make you come again and again, dragging you over the edge until your body was trembling, until your voice was hoarse from moaning his name. Because when Quinn was in this kind of mood, satisfaction wasn’t just a desire—it was a necessity. And he wouldn’t stop until he had wrung every ounce of it from you.

You had barely stepped through the door before Quinn was on you. His grip was firm, desperate, fingers digging into your waist like you were the only thing tethering him to the present. The Canucks had just suffered a brutal 5-0 loss to the Seattle Kraken—one that all but crushed their playoff hopes—and no one felt the weight of it more than Quinn.

He had been eerily silent on the drive home, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the road like he was still replaying every mistake, every missed opportunity. When you had approached him outside the locker room, searching his face for some sign of how he was handling it, he had brushed past you with a stiff nod, his expression unreadable. But now, with the door closed behind you, his emotions bled through in a different way.

There was no hesitation. No words. Just Quinn, seething frustration radiating from his body as he scooped you up without a second thought. He didn’t give you the chance to question him, to ask if he was okay—because he wasn’t. And he didn’t want to talk.

He carried you upstairs with single-minded purpose, the tension in his muscles betraying the storm inside him. When he reached your shared bedroom, he dropped you onto the mattress with a kind of urgency that sent a shiver down your spine. His breathing was heavy, his eyes dark with something unspoken.

Quinn didn’t need comfort. He needed release. And you were the only one who could give it to him.

Your clothes were gone in seconds—torn from your body with a desperation that left no room for patience. His hands were rough, hurried, gripping, pulling, as if he couldn’t stand the barrier of fabric between you for even a moment longer. And then he was on you, over you, inside you—all heat and frustration, no warning, no foreplay, no condom. Just need. Raw and unfiltered.

His fingers curled around the headboard, knuckles white with the force of his grip as he snapped his hips into you, each thrust sending a sharp creak through the mattress. The rhythm was relentless, punishing, each movement driving deeper, faster, as if he was chasing something neither of you could name.

You let your eyes slip shut, surrendering to it—to him. The way his body moved against yours, the heat of his skin, the sheer force of his frustration being poured into you. You welcomed it. Let yourself drown in the pleasure, the intensity, the way he used your body to quiet the chaos inside his own.

“It’s not fuckin’ fair,” he groans, his hips snapping into you with an unrelenting force. His frustration bleeds into every movement, every rough thrust, like he’s trying to fuck the disappointment out of his system.

Your eyes flutter open, meeting his as he looms over you. His gaze is dark, stormy—anger and exhaustion warring behind the glassy sheen of his frustration. His chest heaves, sweat slicking his skin, muscles taut with tension he can’t shake. For a moment, his grip on the headboard loosens, and his hand drifts down, fingers brushing against your face with a gentleness that contradicts the rest of him. He tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering as if grounding himself in you.

“I do so much,” he grits out, his voice strained.

“You do,” you murmur, nodding, knowing there’s nothing you can say to ease the ache inside him.

His jaw clenches, a deep, ragged moan breaking from his lips as his teeth sink into the soft flesh of his bottom lip. He’s unraveling, but he’s not ready to stop—not yet.

“I played through my injuries,” he growls, each word punctuated by a sharp thrust. “So much fucking pain… all of it—for nothing. Just to miss the goddamn playoffs anyway.”

His voice is laced with bitterness, laced with frustration, but underneath it all, there’s something else—something heavier. Defeat. And you feel it, in the way he moves, the way his hands grip your body like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

“I-It’s not your fault,” you moan out, voice breaking as your back arches beneath him. His cock drags against that perfect spot inside you, sending a sharp wave of pleasure up your spine, making your breath hitch.

Quinn lets out a laugh, but there’s nothing light about it. It’s cutting, edged with something self-destructive. His grip tightens on your waist, fingertips pressing hard enough to leave marks.

“Whose fault is it, then?” he questions, almost demanding. His hips snap forward, forcing another moan from your lips.

You don’t have an answer—not one he’ll accept.

“I’m the Captain.” Another thrust, deep, punishing. His jaw clenches, frustration burning in his eyes as he glares down at you.

“This is all on me.” Another thrust—harder this time, as if trying to fuck the guilt out of his own body, as if the act itself could erase the weight of responsibility crushing his chest.

The bed creaks beneath you, the headboard rattling against the wall with every forceful movement. His breath is ragged, his muscles tense, and though he’s buried inside you, his mind is somewhere else—lost in the what-ifs, the could-have-beens, the relentless weight of expectations he feels he hasn’t met.

“I’m so fuckin’ tired of doing everything,” he breathes out, but this time, his voice isn’t rough with frustration—it’s fragile, barely more than a whimper. His body presses against yours, the weight of him sinking into you, his exhaustion seeping into your skin. His head falls into the crook of your neck, damp strands of hair sticking to his forehead, his breath hot and uneven against your pulse.

“So fucking tired,” he murmurs, voice cracking on the last word.

Before you can respond, a ragged moan rips from his throat, raw and agonizing. His entire body tenses, fingers digging into your hips as he spills inside you, thrusting shallowly as he rides out his release. His hips jerk with every pulse, fucking his cum deeper into you, but there’s no longer that sharp, frenzied desperation behind it—just something heavy, something broken.

You’re teetering on the edge yourself, pleasure coiling tight in your core when you suddenly feel something warm hit your neck. A single drop. Then another. Then the quiet, shuddering sound of Quinn’s breath hitching as a sob escapes him.

Your eyes snap open, your heart lurching in your chest.

Quinn was never one to shy away from emotion, but this—this was different. He had never sobbed in front of you before. Not even when the Canucks got eliminated in the second round last season, not even in his worst moments of frustration.

His hips still, his body going rigid, his breath coming in shaky, uneven gasps. Another quiet sob escapes him, muffled against your skin, and that’s when you realize—he isn’t just tired. He’s breaking.

Without thinking, you wrap your arms around him, pulling him in tighter. One hand glides soothingly down his back, feeling the tremble of his muscles beneath your touch, while the other tangles in his damp hair, fingers threading through the strands in slow, comforting strokes.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, your lips brushing against his temple. “I’ve got you.”

Quinn shudders against you, his breath coming in uneven gasps, his body still pressed tightly to yours. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out, his voice thick with emotion.

You don’t let him finish. “Don’t apologize,” you murmur softly.

His breath hitches, another sob shaking through him, and his hands tighten their hold on you. “Just—” his voice breaks, the words barely making it out before he exhales sharply. “It’s just so much pressure.”

You feel the way his body trembles against yours, the weight of the season, the losses, the expectations pressing down on him like a crushing force. He had carried it all for so long—on the ice, in the locker room, in every interview where he shouldered the blame, in every moment where he put the team before himself.

But here, in your arms, there’s no need for that. No expectations. No burden he has to bear alone.

“I know,” you whisper, your fingers still threading gently through his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. “I know, baby.”

His breathing is still shaky, but he exhales against your skin like he’s finally letting some of it go, like the pressure that’s been caging him in is cracking just enough for him to breathe.

You hold him through it, not saying anything more, because you know he doesn’t need words right now. He just needs this. Needs you.

And you’re more than willing to be that for him.

Quinn stays wrapped around you for a while, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. His sobs fade into quiet, relaxed breaths, and slowly—so slowly—his body begins to relax. His grip on you loosens just a little, his fingers no longer clutching like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You keep holding him, running your fingers through his hair, feeling the damp strands against your fingertips. Every so often, you whisper little reassurances—soft, meaningless things that aren’t really meaningless at all. I love you. You’re okay. I’m here.

And eventually, after another long moment, he shifts, lifting his head just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes are still glassy, red-rimmed, but there’s something softer there now, something less dejected. He blinks at you, then sniffles, scrubbing a hand down his face as if embarrassed.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice hoarse. “I—”

You shake your head before he can say it. “Don’t.”

A small, almost sheepish huff leaves his lips, and though it’s not quite a laugh, it’s something lighter than before. His arms tighten around you for a second before he finally shifts, drawing back.

Carefully, he pulls out of you, and you wince slightly at the sudden emptiness, at the mess left between your thighs. Quinn notices immediately, his brows furrowing, a flicker of guilt flashing across his face.

“Let me clean you up,” he murmurs. He presses one last kiss against your collarbone before sitting up and moving off the bed.

You watch as he disappears into the bathroom, returning moments later with a warm, damp cloth. He’s gentle as he wipes you down, his touch slow and careful, the rough edges of his frustration from earlier completely gone now. When he’s finished, he tosses the cloth aside and settles back in beside you, pulling the blanket over both of you before wrapping an arm around your waist.

For a while, neither of you say anything. Just the steady rhythm of breathing, the quiet hum of the furnace. Quinn’s arm stays draped over your waist, his fingers idly tracing little circles against your skin. His body is warm, heavy with exhaustion, but his breathing has finally evened out, the tension from earlier slowly ebbing away.

Then, after a moment, he shifts slightly, propping himself up on one elbow as he looks down at you. His voice is quieter now, almost hesitant.

“Did you…” He pauses, rubbing a hand over his face before trying again. “Did you cum?”

You blink up at him, lips parting slightly. You think about sparing his pride, but the way his expression shifts—hopeful but wary—makes you decide to be honest.

“Um, no,” you say, shaking your head.

Quinn stares at you for a second, then groans, flopping onto his back with a dramatic sigh.

“Fuck,” he mutters, covering his face with his hands. “Are you serious?”

You can’t help but laugh, the corners of your mouth curling up as you turn to face him. “Yeah. I mean, you kinda had a lot going on, Quinn.”

“I can’t believe this,” he groans again, dragging his hands down his face before peeking at you through his fingers. His ears are tinged pink now, embarrassment creeping in, and you swear you see an actual pout forming on his lips. “That’s so fucking embarrassing.”

You grin, rolling onto your side as you rest your head against his shoulder. “It’s not that deep.”

He huffs, clearly unconvinced. “No, it is. I just—God, that’s so bad.” His hand drops to his stomach as he stares up at the ceiling, shaking his head. “I was too busy having a goddamn breakdown, and I didn’t even—” He exhales sharply. “Jesus.”

You giggle, nuzzling into his neck, your lips brushing against his jaw. “You’re cute when you get all flustered.”

Quinn groans again, turning his head to press his face into the pillow, clearly trying to hide from the world. “Don’t patronize me,” he mumbles, voice muffled.

You laugh, tugging the blanket up over both of you again, letting the warmth of the moment settle between you. After a few seconds, he turns his head back to face you.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he mumbles, “Promise.”

You hum, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. "You can make it up to me by telling me what's going on inside your head."

He sighs, wrapping his arms around you again, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. "Any chance I can get you to ignore what happened?"

"No," a laugh escapes you. "Now talk, or I'll get the team psychologist on your ass."

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[honeyslibrary]

in a writing mood, who would you most likely want to read for ?

[honeyslibrary]

Hi hi!! I love your writing, especially for Quinn and I was just wondering if you could write some Quinn x reader angst? Like maybe he's been coming home late and she reaches her breaking point w him? Tysm!! 💕💗

Completed your request here: Late Again

Sorry it took so long, and I hope you like it 😊 Thank you for submitting a request.

[honeyslibrary]

Late Again | Quinn Hughes

Pairing; Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Established relationship, angst, cursing, not sure what else, edited once.

Summary; Inspired by this request: Hi hi!! I love your writing, especially for Quinn and I was just wondering if you could write some Quinn x reader angst? Like maybe he's been coming home late and she reaches her breaking point w him? Tysm!! 💕💗

Word Count; 3.4k

Author’s note; This was requested sooo long ago n I'm so sorry for the wait, but nonetheless I hope you like it. 😊 I listened to the song The Exit by Conan Gray when I wrote this, it doesn't fit the vibe, but it's a great song I newly discovered. Also I have no idea if he likes chicken fried steak, I just chose something random lol -Honey

You poked at the dinner you'd carefully prepared—chicken-fried steak, Quinn's favorite—half-heartedly pushing the mashed potatoes around your plate with your fork. The food was getting cold, untouched. You couldn't even bring yourself to take a bite. A home game tonight against the St. Louis Blues—he’d mentioned it this morning, and you’d nodded, knowing the routine all too well by now. Quick meal, pregame nap, then off to the rink. You understood how demanding his schedule was, but tonight was supposed to be different. He promised. The effort you put in, starting dinner earlier than usual so he’d have time to eat before his nap, now felt wasted. The smell of the crispy steak and buttery potatoes filled the air, but it only made you feel emptier.

You sat alone at the dinner table, your eyes flicking toward your phone every few minutes, hoping for the screen to light up with a message from him. But it never did. The minutes stretched into an hour, the silence from your phone growing heavier with every second. He’d promised to be home for dinner today—said it with that familiar smile like he really meant it this time. But here you were, waiting, yet again. The clock on the wall ticked louder in the empty room. The sound seemed to amplify the absence, reminding you of just how late he was. You glanced at your phone one more time, willing it to show some sign of life—an apology, an excuse, anything—but the screen stayed dark. Not a text. Not a call. Nothing.

You took a deep breath, trying to quiet the disappointment clawing at your chest, but it didn’t help. The food, once so full of effort and care, now seemed like a mockery of your good intentions. You wondered if he even realized how much you’d gone out of your way tonight, or if he’d forgotten, caught up in his routine, his career, his world. You weren’t sure anymore.

An hour and a half late now. You stood up from the table, abandoning the cold meal as you walked over to the window, peeking outside as if expecting to see his car pulling into the driveway. Nothing. The quiet suburban street was empty, just as it always was. The sky had started to darken, and with it, the flicker of hope you’d been clinging to all evening. How many more times would you find yourself waiting, wondering if you were ever going to be a priority in his life again?

The more you thought about it, the more the dull ache of disappointment twisted itself into something sharper, hotter—anger. It started as a slow simmer in your chest, but with each passing second, the heat rose, spreading through your veins like wildfire. Was he serious? A bitter sigh escaped your lips as you walked back into the kitchen. You grabbed your plate first, then his—untouched, of course—and headed to the garbage can. With one swift motion, you scraped the food into the garbage, the chicken-fried steak falling in with a dull thud. It almost felt like a relief to throw it away, like you were getting rid of something that no longer had meaning. The mashed potatoes smeared against the sides of the plate as you tossed the rest, the food you’d spent time making reduced to nothing more than trash.

The pans on the stove caught your eye next, and before you even realized what you were doing, you were scooping the perfectly good leftovers into the trash as well. The scent of the meal you’d so carefully prepared—the aroma of rosemary, garlic—rose up as if to remind you of the effort you'd put in. It stung, but you didn’t care. Fuck that. He didn’t deserve your cooking. He didn’t deserve the time, the thoughtfulness. Not anymore.

His favorite meal, no less. What a joke. You felt ridiculous for even caring so much, for putting in the effort when he clearly couldn’t be bothered to be home like he'd promised, or even give you the courtesy of a text.

You slammed the pans down into the sink with more force than necessary, the clang reverberating in the quiet kitchen. You stood over the sink, glaring at the pile of dirty dishes, your hands tightening and un-tightening at your sides. The dishwasher was right there, but using it felt too easy, too detached. You needed something more physical, something to work out this simmering frustration before it consumed you.

So, instead, you grabbed the sponge and turned on the water, scrubbing the first plate with a force that made your knuckles whiten. The warm, soapy water splashed up against your arms, but you didn’t care. You scrubbed harder, as if each circular motion could somehow scrub away the resentment building inside you. The plate wasn’t even that dirty, but you attacked it like it was covered in grime.

Each scrape of the sponge against ceramic echoed in the quiet kitchen, filling the space where his excuses should have been. The more you scrubbed, the more it felt like you were scrubbing away the traces of him—his absence, his broken promises, his selfishness. If only it were that easy. If only a sink full of dishes could clean up all the messes he was leaving behind.

It was Quinn’s second year as captain of the Canucks, a role that had transformed him in ways you hadn’t fully anticipated. The weight of the 'C' on his chest seemed heavier this season, with expectations higher than ever after last year’s breakout performance. The team had exceeded everyone’s predictions, turning heads and silencing critics with a season no one saw coming. Now, all eyes were on them to prove it wasn’t just a fluke.

You knew Quinn was feeling that pressure—how could he not? He had something to prove, not just to the fans, the media, or his teammates, but to himself. The burden of leadership was always in the back of his mind, quietly pushing him to go harder, to be better, to set an example. And you understood that. You really did. You knew he was doing the best he could, managing the weight of it all in his own way. But even understanding had its limits. And so did you.

Quinn, on the other hand, seemed to have no boundaries when it came to pushing himself. It was almost like he didn’t know how to stop, how to pull back. Even now, he was still nursing that hand injury—an injury that should have sidelined him weeks ago—but he kept playing through it, insisting he could handle the pain. Thirty minutes a night, almost every game, skating until exhaustion blurred the edges of his vision. You’d seen the way he winced sometimes when he thought no one was looking, flexing his hand to work out the tightness, but refusing to sit out even for a single shift.

You admired his dedication. How could you not? His determination, his relentless drive to push through, to carry the weight of the team on his shoulders—it was part of what made him the player, the leader, that he was. But it was also the part of him that worried you the most.

You knew he felt like he had to do it, that as captain, anything less than perfection wasn’t enough. And while you respected that drive, it didn’t make it any easier watching him run himself into the ground night after night. Especially when you were the one sitting at home, picking up the pieces of what was left, wondering if he was going to come back from each game a little more broken than before.

You were patient. You’d learned to be. But your patience wasn’t endless.

The sound of the front door opening jolted you from your thoughts, the creak of the hinges cutting through the sound of the running water. You pause, your hands submerged in soapy water, your grip tightening on the sponge as Quinn stepped inside. He walks in, clad in his usual post-practice attire—Nike sweatpants hanging low on his hips and a black compression shirt clinging to the lines of his torso. He looked worn, as if the weight of the day hadn’t just been left on the ice but was still hanging on his shoulders, pulling him down.

You glanced over your shoulder, giving him a quick once-over, but you didn’t say anything. The words felt stuck in your throat, trapped behind the frustration and sadness swirling in your chest. Instead, you turned back to the dishes, resuming your task with more force than necessary, the clinking of the plates louder than before. You didn’t offer a greeting, and neither did he. It was almost as if the two of you existed in different worlds now—yours, filled with waiting and disappointment, and his, consumed by the game, by the pressure that never seemed to leave him.

Quinn, oblivious or perhaps just avoiding the tension, didn’t seem to notice your silence. Without a word, he headed upstairs, his footsteps soft but steady, the sound growing fainter as he disappeared into the bedroom. A familiar ache settled in your chest as you stood there, staring down at the soapy water swirling in the sink. You could feel the sting of tears threatening to rise, but you blinked them away quickly, shaking your head at yourself.

Anger had been your companion all day, burning hot and steady in his absence. It had been so easy to hold onto, so easy to let the frustration build when you didn’t have to see him, when you didn’t have to look into those hazel eyes that always seemed to make your resolve crumble. The anger had felt justified when he wasn’t there—easy to fuel when it was just you, alone, staring at a cold, empty dinner table. But now that he was home, the anger began to unravel, slipping away and leaving only the sadness behind. It happened every time. That familiar pang of disappointment mixed with resignation, the sharp edges of your frustration softening into something more complicated, something you didn’t have the energy to untangle.

You bit your tongue, holding back the words you wanted to say—the questions, the accusations, the things that would start a fight you weren’t ready to have. You’d been here before, in this exact moment, torn between wanting to yell and wanting to break down. But you didn’t want to argue tonight. Not again.

The dishes were your only focus now, your hands scrubbing mechanically as your mind raced with thoughts you couldn’t quiet. You wondered if he even knew how much you’d been waiting, not just tonight, but for weeks, months—for some sign that you still mattered in all of this, that you were still a part of his world. But it was getting harder to tell, harder to feel like you weren’t slowly fading into the background of his life, just like the sound of his footsteps fading upstairs.

By the time you finished the dishes and wiped down the counters, the kitchen was spotless, as if the day hadn’t happened at all. The room was clean, but the heavy silence remained, settling into the spaces between the freshly scrubbed surfaces. You paused for a moment, staring down at the empty sink, the exhaustion setting in—not just from the chores, but from everything that had been weighing on you lately.

When you finally made your way upstairs to the bedroom, Quinn had already begun his pregame nap. You stopped in the doorway, leaning against the frame for a moment, just watching him. He was sprawled out on his stomach, the way he always slept, one arm curled beneath the pillow, his face turned slightly to the side. In sleep, the tension in his features was gone, the hard lines softened, and for a brief second, you felt a pang of something—nostalgia, maybe—for the way things used to be. Before all the pressure, before the distance between you had grown so wide.

You stood there, caught between wanting to crawl into bed next to him and knowing it wouldn’t make a difference tonight. He was already somewhere else, lost in the brief reprieve of sleep before the game. You let out a quiet breath and turned away, heading back downstairs, leaving him to his rest.

In the den, you curled up on the sofa, pulling a throw blanket over your legs as you flicked on the TV. The familiar theme song of One Tree Hill played in the background, but your mind wasn’t fully on the show. You watched the characters move across the screen, but their drama felt distant, unimportant compared to the real-life ache sitting in your chest. You’d seen these episodes a hundred times before, and yet tonight they felt like nothing more than white noise, a distraction to fill the space while Quinn slept upstairs.

Time passed in a blur of dialogue and background music, your eyes unfocused on the screen. You’d just started another episode when you heard footsteps approaching. You barely registered them until Quinn appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame just like you had earlier. He stood there for a moment, running a hand through his hair, before exhaling a deep sigh that seemed to carry the weight of everything unsaid between you.

"I missed dinner," he said, his voice quiet. It wasn’t a question, just a statement. The guilt was there, hanging in the air between you, but it didn’t quite land the way you wanted it to.

You turned your head toward him, feeling the familiar mix of emotions bubbling up—frustration, sadness, the lingering ache of disappointment. You nodded slowly, your voice calm but clipped. "You did."

That was all you said. Two simple words, but they carried so much more. The weight of your unspoken thoughts lingered in the air between you: You missed more than dinner. You missed me. You missed us. Again.

For a moment, Quinn didn’t say anything, just stood there, as if searching for something to say that would make it better. But nothing came. The silence stretched on, and you could see the exhaustion in his eyes, the same exhaustion that you felt deep in your bones. Hockey had taken so much from him, and in its wake, it felt like there wasn’t much left for the two of you.

You shifted on the couch, turning back to the TV, not sure what else there was to say. If you opened your mouth now, you weren’t sure if you’d be able to stop the flood of everything you’d been holding back. So you stayed quiet, letting the distance between you grow a little wider, hoping—just once—that he’d be the one to cross it.

Quinn lingered in the doorway for a moment longer, the silence between you heavy and uncomfortable. You could feel his eyes on you, like he wanted to say something, to bridge the growing gap, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he just stood there, his shoulders slumped, the weariness from the day etched into every part of him.

You kept your eyes on the TV, pretending to be more interested in the show than in the ache inside you. You didn’t trust yourself to look at him right now—not when the quiet between you felt so suffocating, so loaded with everything neither of you were saying. If you looked at him, you were afraid the dam would break, and all the frustration, the loneliness, the resentment that had been simmering beneath the surface would come pouring out.

He took a deep breath, and you could hear the slight hesitation in the exhale, like he was on the verge of speaking but didn’t know where to start. "I’m sorry," he finally muttered, the words barely audible, but they hung in the air nonetheless. It wasn’t much, and it wasn’t enough, but it was something.

You closed your eyes for a brief second, letting the apology settle in, but it didn’t ease the ache. You had heard it before—too many times now. It always came after the fact, always when it was too late, and it never felt like enough to patch up the cracks that were forming between you.

Opening your eyes, you kept your gaze fixed on the TV, though you weren’t really watching. "You always are," you said softly, your voice lacking the sharpness you intended. There was no anger left, just a quiet exhaustion that had taken its place. "But it doesn’t change anything, Quinn."

The words hung between you, heavy and final. You didn’t mean for them to sound so distant, so resigned, but that’s where you were now. It wasn’t just about tonight, or the missed dinners, or the broken promises—it was about the slow unraveling that had been happening for months, the quiet slipping away of the relationship you once had.

Quinn pushed off the doorframe, his expression unreadable as he took a few steps into the room. He stood at the edge of the sofa, as if unsure whether he was welcome to sit down. His eyes, those familiar hazel eyes that once made your heart skip, were full of something—regret, frustration, maybe even guilt. But none of it seemed to change the fact that he wasn’t there when you needed him most.

"I know," he said, almost under his breath. He rubbed a hand over his face, the fatigue obvious. "I’m trying, I really am. It’s just—this season… it’s a lot." His voice trailed off, and you could hear the helplessness in it. He didn’t know how to fix this, and maybe he didn’t have the energy to try anymore.

You nodded, finally turning to look at him, but the sadness in your gaze must have said more than your words ever could. You understood that the season was demanding. You understood the pressure, the expectations, the endless grind. But understanding didn’t make it any easier to deal with the growing distance, the nights spent waiting, the feeling that you were slowly becoming an afterthought in his life.

"I know it’s a lot," you replied quietly, meeting his eyes for the first time since he’d walked in. "But it’s not just about the game, Quinn. It’s about us. I’m still here, waiting for you to show up… and I don’t know how much longer I can keep waiting."

The vulnerability in your voice hung in the air, and for a brief moment, you saw the conflict flicker across his face—worry, a twinge of something else, maybe fear. He took another deep breath, his hands flexing at his sides as if he wanted to reach out to you but wasn’t sure how.

"I don’t want to lose you," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper, as if admitting it out loud made it all too real.

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening at his words. For a second, you almost believed him, almost let yourself hope that this was the moment he’d truly understand how close he was to losing you. But then reality sank in, and you realized that wanting wasn’t enough.

"You already are," you said softly, the weight of your admission settling over both of you like a heavy blanket. You saw his expression falter, the pain in his eyes unmistakable, but there was nothing more you could say. You were tired—tired of the waiting, tired of the excuses, tired of being second to hockey and everything else in his life.

Quinn stood there, rooted in place, his eyes searching yours for some sign that he could fix this, that there was still time. But you didn’t know how to make him understand that you needed more than apologies, more than empty promises. You needed him to be here, fully present, not just physically but emotionally.

Without another word, he let out another sigh and slowly walked back toward the doorway, retreating once again into the space between you that had become too wide to cross. And you stayed on the couch, watching the TV, your heart aching with the truth you couldn’t ignore any longer: the Quinn you once knew was slipping away, and you didn’t know if he would ever come back.

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[honeyslibrary]

Could you please do Jake Neighbours smut?

I don't know much about him, but if I did some research, then sure! I'd only write for him when I feel confident enough to capture his personality (if there's anything specific I should know about him that's not common knowledge, please let me know) 😊

[honeyslibrary]

Tangled in You | Luke Hughes

Pairing; Luke Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Fingering, unprotected sex, cursing, overuse of the words 'pleasure' and 'sensation' probably, edited once.

Summary; Lazy morning sex with Lukey.

Word Count; 2.3k

Author’s note; I've received many requests for Luke smut, so hopefully you guys enjoy this (: Slow morning sex might be the hottest thing ever, honestly. Also the title is kind of random, I couldn't think of anything 😄 -Honey

Your eyes flutter open, the remnants of sleep still heavy on your lashes, as the familiar body behind you shifts. The mattress dips slightly under his weight, and a quiet rustle of sheets stirs in the stillness of the room. You instinctively snuggle deeper into the blankets, letting out a soft, sleepy grunt, willing the morning to wait just a little longer.

A moment later, you feel him—the solid presence of Luke moving closer, his chest pressed against your back, his legs tangling lazily with yours beneath the comforter. His breathing is slow, brushing warmly over the nape of your neck, sending a soft shiver down your spine. Then, the gentle pressure of his lips follows, trailing feather-light kisses from your shoulder to the sensitive spot just below your ear.

"Luke…" you murmur, voice thick with sleep, though you make no effort to stop him. The sound of his name on your lips is soft, almost an exhale, as if you’re caught somewhere between the dream and the waking world.

He hums in response, a deep, contented sound vibrating against your skin. "Morning, baby," he whispers, his voice low and rough, the kind of rasp that only comes from the first moments of waking.

His hand slips beneath the covers, searching for the warmth of your skin. You feel his fingers glide under the hem of your nightshirt, tracing the curve of your waist. His palm presses against your bare skin, grounding you in the moment.

For a few heartbeats, you both lie there, wrapped in the quiet, the softness of the early morning cocooning you in its embrace. The room is bathed in the pale, silvery light of dawn, and outside, the world is still—just the faint rustling of leaves and the distant hum of life stirring to greet the day. But here, in this bed, it feels like time has slowed, like the day belongs only to the two of you.

Luke shifts behind you, his body molding to yours, and the movement draws your attention to the unmistakable pressure against the small of your back. The feeling of him, hard and insistent, pulses through the thin fabric of your clothes, and you realize he’s already awake in more ways than one. He lets out a low, almost involuntary groan, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your skin. His breath brushes your ear, warm and thick with unspoken need.

One of his hands drifts upward, slipping under your shirt with a lazy familiarity, cupping the soft curve of your breast. The weight of his palm is heavy and reassuring, but the gentle squeeze that follows sends a ripple of pleasure through you, igniting something deeper. Your breath hitches, a small, uncontrollable sound that seems to spark something in him. Almost without thinking, you shift closer, pressing yourself more fully against him, your body answering his touch before your mind can catch up.

His fingers find your nipple, pinching lightly, rolling it between the pads of his thumb and index finger in slow, deliberate motions. A soft gasp escapes your lips, the sensation sharp yet teasing, and for a moment, your entire world narrows to the exquisite point of contact. He releases it with a gentle tug, his breath catching in your ear, and then his hand slides down, gliding over your ribs and waist with practiced ease, as though he’s relearning every curve of you this early morning.

His fingers reach the band of your panties, playing with the fabric for a moment before hooking underneath it. His breath is hot and ragged now, his voice little more than a rasp. "Can I?" he murmurs, the question hovering between you like a promise and a plea.

You nod, unable to find words, but the sound that escapes you—a soft, breathy hum—is all the answer he needs. It’s the smallest permission, but for him, it’s everything. His fingers move with purpose now, pushing your panties aside with a smooth motion, the fabric slipping down just enough to grant him access.

His hand dips lower, and the first touch of his fingers against your clit is delicate, testing, as if he’s savoring the moment as much as you are. The feel of him against such a sensitive spot makes your breath falter, a slow, shuddering exhale that fills the quiet room. He circles your clit gently, teasing you, drawing out the tension with slow, intentional strokes. Every nerve in your body seems to hum in response, the sensation both soothing and electric, like a rising tide of pleasure pulling you under.

Then, without warning, he slides a finger inside you, and the sudden fullness makes you gasp, your body tensing at the unexpected rush of heat. Your legs instinctively clench around his hand, trapping him there, not allowing him to let him go. He chuckles softly into your ear, a low, knowing sound, as he enjoys every tiny reaction you give him.

He moves his finger with unhurried precision, curling it inside you, pressing against a spot that makes you arch ever so slightly into him. The sensation is maddening, the slow build-up of pleasure pushing you toward the edge, but still, he doesn’t rush.

The moment his finger slips out of you, it's abrupt—too soon, too quick—and a sharp, needy whine escapes your lips before you can stop it. The sound hangs in the air, but Luke only chuckles softly in response. "Needy girl, hm?" His voice is thick, teasing, with a thread of hunger woven through it.

You don’t respond—not with words. Instead, you shift your hips back, aching for him to fill the sudden emptiness he’s left behind. His answer comes not with words either, but with the action of his hips lifting to pull his boxers down just enough to expose his cock. He gives himself a few languid strokes before you feel it—the thick, hard length of him pressing against you, nudging at your entrance.

"Fuck..." he groans under his breath as he begins to push inside, the word slipping from his lips like a prayer. The sensation is slow and steady, every inch of him stretching you in the most delicious way, the fullness of him making your breath catch. Your eyes flutter shut, and your teeth sink into your bottom lip as a soft gasp spills out.

For a moment, Luke remains still, savoring the feel of being inside you for the first time in weeks, the quiet hum of pleasure pulsing through the air. His forehead presses against the back of your head, his breath warm against your neck as his chest rises and falls against your back. Then, slowly, he starts to move.

His hips rock gently against you, each thrust relaxed, as if he has all the time in the world. The rhythm is a slow, intoxicating, sensation that leaves you craving more with every movement. His cock glides in and out of you, the friction sparking small waves of pleasure that build steadily, like the tide pulling you under.

His arm snakes around you again, his hand finding the curve of your breast, squeezing gently before his fingers find your nipple once more. The added feel pulls a gasp from your throat, and you arch slightly into his touch, your body answering every movement with unspoken need. He rolls your nipple between his fingers, teasing, pulling, as his hips continue their slow, steady rhythm, each thrust more maddening than the last.

You feel his breath hitch in your ear, his moans slipping out in soft, ragged bursts, the sound sending shivers down your spine. His body presses even closer, the curve of his chest molded against your back, his mouth grazing the side of your neck as if he can’t get enough of you. His lips find the sensitive skin just beneath your ear, planting soft, heated kisses there, each one sending little sparks of pleasure through you.

The slow, measured pace he’s set begins to unravel, each thrust a little deeper, a little more intense. Your body responds in kind, pressing back against him, meeting him with urgency. The tension in the air thickens, the pleasure building between you both with each passing second, coiling tighter and tighter, as if the entire world has shrunk down to the exquisite push and pull of your bodies moving together in perfect sync.

"Fuck, you feel so good..." Luke’s voice is rough, a low groan that hums in your ear. His hand tightens on your breast, his other arm pulling you closer, holding you in place as he continues to thrust into you, slowly driving you both toward that inevitable edge.

The slow rhythm of his thrusts starts to falter, a subtle shift in the way his hips meet yours, as if he’s struggling to maintain control. His breathing becomes uneven, his soft groans more frequent, and you can feel the tension coiling in his body, like a taut string ready to snap. Every time he drives into you, it’s a little harder, a little deeper, and with each thrust, you feel the pleasure building inside you, spiraling tighter and tighter.

His hand on your breast grips you more firmly now, his fingers teasing your nipple with a rougher urgency that sends jolts of sensation straight to your core. You gasp again, a soft, breathless sound that seems to spur him on. The friction of him inside you, his length stretching you, combined with the steady pressure of his hand, is overwhelming, each movement pushing you closer to the edge.

Luke's lips are at your neck again, but now his kisses are more insistent, more desperate. His mouth moves along your skin, his breath hot and ragged as he murmurs something incoherent against you—your name, perhaps, or some wordless expression of how good you feel wrapped around him. His free arm tightens around your waist, holding you in place as he moves faster, the slow and conscious pace giving way to something more primal, more urgent.

You can feel it, too—that growing wave of pleasure deep in your core, building with every thrust, every flick of his fingers. Your breathing turns shallow, your pulse quickening as your body starts to tighten, the tension coiling in your belly, low and hot. It’s an all-encompassing sentiment, like you're standing on the edge of something vast, your body straining for release, teetering just on the brink.

Luke’s voice, thick and gravelly, breaks through the haze. "Are you close?" he groans, his breath catching on the words as his hips slam harder against you, his cock driving deeper with each thrust. "I can't... hold back much longer."

The sound of his voice, so raw and vulnerable, sends you careening toward the edge. Your hand reaches down instinctively, slipping between your thighs to where his cock is still buried inside you. Your fingers find your clit, already sensitive and swollen, and the moment you touch yourself, it’s like a lightning strike—a burst of agitation so intense it nearly steals your breath.

Your legs start to tremble, the pleasure building so fiercely now that you can hardly keep still, your hips grinding back against him with a need that feels insatiable. His name falls from your lips in a desperate whisper, and that’s all it takes—everything inside you unravels at once, the tension snapping as the wave of pleasure crashes over you, hard and fast.

Your orgasm tears through you in sharp, rolling waves, leaving you gasping and clinging to him as your body pulses with release. Your inner walls tighten around his cock, squeezing him as you come, and the sensation of you contracting around him pushes him over the edge too.

"Shit—" His voice breaks, a deep, guttural sound ripped from his throat as his hips jerk against you, and you can feel him pulse inside you, hot and thick, as he spills himself into you. His entire body tenses behind you, his grip on your breast tightening for a moment as he moans into your neck, the sound low and desperate, a mix of relief and raw need.

For a few seconds, neither of you move, both lost in the aftershocks, the lingering spouts of pleasure rippling through your bodies. His chest is heaving against your back, his breath still coming in short, ragged bursts, and you can feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat pressed against your spine. Your own breath is shaky, your body still trembling from the intensity of your climax, but there’s a deep sense of satisfaction settling over you

Luke's arm around your waist loosens slightly, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his lips brushing your skin in soft, almost absent-minded kisses as you both come down from the high together. His cock still rests inside you, softening now, but neither of you are eager to break apart just yet.

"Fuck," Luke breathes after a long moment, his voice still rough with the remnants of pleasure. "That was incredible." His lips brush your shoulder, and his hand, now resting gently on your waist, gives a tender squeeze, his touch soft and affectionate.

You hum in response, a small, satisfied smile tugging at your lips. Your body feels listless, content, as if every muscle has melted into the mattress. You turn your head slightly to catch a glimpse of him over your shoulder, his eyes still half-lidded and heavy with the aftermath of release, a lazy grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he begins to speak again. "You have the craziest bedhead right now."

My Patreon, where you can find exclusive fics not posted anywhere else: HERE

[honeyslibrary]

So, someone requested "cuddly quinn" but Tumblr deleted the ask, and the draft that I sad saved, so hopefully if you requested that, you see this!! I'm sorry, I'm not sure what happened 🙁 -Honey

“Do you mind?” you ask Quinn, your voice edged with playful irritation. His body presses into yours, forcing his way onto the limited space of your tanning chair. The sharp creak of the plastic under both your weights is accompanied by the sensation of his warm skin against yours, his presence overwhelming and unmistakable.

His arms snake around your waist, casually, as if he belongs there, as if the thought of moving is beyond him. His head nestles comfortably against your bikini-clad chest, cheek pressing into your sun-warmed skin. A strand of his hair tickles your collarbone, dry and unruly from time spent in the lake. You can feel the heat radiating off him, his body a heavy blanket that contrasts sharply with the sun’s rays beating down on you from above.

The rest of the boys had gone off for an afternoon round of golf, their laughter and trash talk echoing faintly as they piled into Jack's truck and disappeared down the road. Normally, Quinn would have been right there with them, the first to challenge Trevor who was the reigning 'champion'. But today, he’d stayed behind.

“I’m not in the mood for golf,” he’d said earlier, shrugging in that casual, offhand way that wasn’t fooling anyone. You hadn’t even pressed him on it. You knew better. Quinn was always in the mood for golf. Always in the mood for competition, for the camaraderie of the group, for the thrill of outdoing someone.

There was no denying it. The moment the others had left, he’d drifted closer, lingering by your side, his eyes following you with a soft attentiveness that made it clear. He didn’t want to be out there with them, he wanted to be here, with you. You could feel it in the way his body had subtly leaned toward you earlier, as if some invisible force drew him closer. The way his fingers brushed against yours when he handed you a drink, lingering a second too long, as if testing the waters. There had been an invitation in his gaze, a quiet plea for your attention, a need for solitude—alone, with you.

Quinn was never one for words when he could express himself in other ways. Actions were his language. So when he slumped into your chair now, wrapping himself around you like he belonged there, it wasn’t a surprise. It was sort of what you expected—his silent way of saying what he couldn’t, or maybe just wouldn’t, out loud.

“No, I don't mind,” he hums against your skin, not bothering to lift his head. His voice is low, muffled by your chest, but you can still hear the slight smirk in it. The summer heat was pressing down on you, thick and relentless, the kind that clung to your skin and made everything slow and languid. Now, with Quinn's 180-pound frame sprawled across you, the warmth was stifling.

You let out a sigh, tilting your head back and closing your eyes against the glare of the afternoon sun. The sky is a vast, endless blue, not a single cloud to offer reprieve. Michigan summers could be deceptive—cool and inviting one minute, suffocating the next. Your skin, already slick with tanning oil, feels sticky under Quinn’s weight, but you don’t immediately push him off.

“I’m trying to tan.” you murmur, fingers betraying your words as they weave absentmindedly through his overgrown locks.

"I want to cuddle," he replies simply, voice vibrating through your chest. There’s something about the way he says it—so matter-of-fact. Though initially shy when you first met him, you quickly learned that Quinn never seemed to care much for personal boundaries. His affection came in waves, like the tide, inevitable and unrelenting.

You huff in mock exasperation, rolling your eyes, though he can’t see it. “We cuddled all morning, Quinn,” you remind him, though your tone carries more amusement than annoyance. You had woken up tangled in his arms, his breath warm against your neck, his hands resting comfortably on your waist like he’d never let go. Even after hours together, it seemed it wasn’t enough for him.

He shifts slightly, adjusting his weight, making himself more comfortable on top of you. His stubble brushes against your skin as he nuzzles closer, and despite the sweltering heat, you feel a warmth bloom in your chest that has nothing to do with the sun.

“So?” he mumbles, his lips brushing the bare skin between the straps of your bikini top. “Not done yet.”

You bite back a smile, trying to maintain some semblance of annoyance, but it’s hard to stay mad at Quinn for long, his persistence endearing in its own way.

"Fine," you say, giving in, your fingers still brushing through his hair, "but you owe me later."

Quinn grins without opening his eyes, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. "Deal."

[honeyslibrary]

Changed my username from puckstories to honeyslibrary. So if you notice something different, that is why 😊 Hopefully posting at some point today <3

[honeyslibrary]

I’m at the devs vs canucks game tn and both boys are so pretty in person 🥺. And Quinn skates so fast it’s actually insane

ahhh i hope you’re having so much fun!!! i can only imagine how gorgeous they are in person omg 😊

[honeyslibrary]

if you want to, please write some more for ryan leonard, that last piece was literally so incredible 😭

I would love too! Send any requests if you have any 😊

[honeyslibrary]

thinking about drunk quinn

I feel like Quinn gets like, clingy drunk. Like when he’s drunk he’s emotional and clingy and annoying in the most adorable way 😭 (lowk not represented in this though I was just writing idk) -Honey

It’s a little after midnight when Quinn stumbles into your shared room, his silhouette framed by the dim light spilling in from the hallway. The faint smell of smoke and beer clings to him—remnants of the night spent with the boys around the backyard fire pit, their voices and laughter echoing long after you’d slipped away. You’d retreated an hour ago, completing your nightly skincare routine before sliding into bed, letting the familiar comfort of Sex and the City drown out the muffled sounds of their conversations.

The door clicks shut behind him, and he leans back against it, a crooked grin on his face that tells you everything you need to know. He’s drunk. Not the tipsy, half-lit version of Quinn you’re used to seeing on rare occasions, but properly drunk—the kind that has him swaying slightly, his head tipped back like the ceiling might steady him. He rarely drinks. Never during the season. Even in the offseason, it’s only the occasional buzz, just enough to relax. But tonight, it seems, was an exception.

You glance away from the TV, your eyes trailing over him. His cheeks are flushed, a faint pink spreading from the cold air outside or maybe from the beer warming his bloodstream. He meets your gaze and grins wider, his lopsided charm cutting through the otherwise ungainly way he’s standing.

“Hey there, killer,” you say, an amused tilt in your tone.

The laugh that tumbles out of him is unrestrained, airy, like he’s been holding onto it for too long. He lets it echo around the room before it fizzles out, leaving him breathless but grinning. For a moment, he just stays there, one hand braced against the door, like he’s trying to hold himself together. Then he pushes off it, his steps uneven but determined as he makes his way to you.

When he flops onto the bed beside you, the mattress dips under his weight, and the smell of him—beer, smoke, just a hint of cologne, and the crisp winter air—wraps around you. He buries his face in the pillow for a second, mumbling something incoherent before turning his head to look at you. His eyes are bright, glassy, but there’s a tenderness in them that’s unmistakable.

“Hi, baby,” he says, his voice low and affectionate, the words soft but warm enough to spread through your chest like the coziest blanket.

You shift, propping yourself up on one elbow, your head resting lightly on your hand. Your free hand finds its way to his hair, fingers slipping through the soft, dark strands. He shuts his eyes the moment you touch him, like the simple motion is enough to quiet the world around him. A faint, lazy smile tugs at his lips, and you feel him exhale, his whole body softening as if he’s giving in to some invisible weight he’s been carrying.

He leans into you instinctively, his body inching closer like its second nature. The space between the two of you disappears as he buries himself deeper into the warmth of the bed and the comfort of your hand.

For a moment, you wonder if he’s already falling asleep, but then his eyes flutter open again. They’re slightly unfocused, still hazy from the alcohol, but there’s a warmth in them that makes your heart ache a little. His gaze drifts lazily around the room, as if he’s piecing together where he is, until it finally lands on the glowing screen of the TV.

“What’re you watching, baby?” he asks, his voice low and gravelly, the words slurred just enough to make you smile.

“Sex and the City.” You murmur, keeping your voice quiet like you don’t want to break the spell of the moment.

“Ah, I should’ve known,” he says with a lopsided grin, his laugh bubbling up almost before he’s finished speaking. It’s a carefree, loose kind of laugh, the kind you don’t hear from him often, and it fills the space between you like a favorite song you haven’t heard in a while.

He tilts his head slightly, his eyes flicking back to you. “How many times have you seen it now?”

You smile, shrugging. “Enough to know Carrie’s about to make a terrible decision in this episode.”

He chuckles again, his head sinking further into the pillow. “That’s, like, every episode.”

“Exactly,” You agree, dragging your fingers through his hair again, this time scratching lightly at his scalp. His smile widens, and he lets out a contented hum, the sound vibrating against the quiet hum of the TV.

“You’re too good to me,” he mumbles, his voice trailing off as his eyes grow heavier. The words are simple, but the way he says them—low, honest, and just a little slurred—makes something stir in your chest.

“I know.” You hum, leaning in to press a kiss against his cheek.

[honeyslibrary]

NSFW Luke Hughes boyfriend headcanons?

Hey Anon! Finally completed your request, and you can find it HERE. I hope you like it ☺️

[honeyslibrary]

NSFW A-Z Headcannons | Luke Hughes

Pairing; Luke Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Smut, depiction of smut, not sure what else, only edited once

Summary; Based on this request: "NSFW Luke Hughes boyfriend headcannons?"

Word Count; 6.5k

Author’s note; Didn't mean for this to be this long, that's just kind of how it happened 😄 Also, I skipped letters N, R and W because I couldn't think of anything for them, also I got lazy. Disclaimer, these are just my opinions, you might feel differently! And to the Anon who requested this, sorry for the long wait, but I hope you like it ☺️ As per usual, any thoughts/reblogs are appreciated. This was also my first time writing for Baby Hughes, so please let me know how I did <3 -Honey

A - Aftercare (what is he like after sex?)

Luke is incredibly attentive and gentle after sex, making your comfort his top priority. As soon as the moment passes, his first instinct is to check in with you, asking how you’re feeling both emotionally and physically.

Whether it’s simply wiping you down with a warm, damp cloth or helping you slip into fresh clothes, Luke takes his time ensuring that you feel clean and refreshed. If you seem especially worn out, he'll be the first to suggest drawing a hot bath for you. He loves pampering you with little things, like lighting a few candles or adding soothing bath salts to help you fully relax.

He’s also always thinking ahead about your needs: offering you water and making sure you’re hydrated is a must in his book. He’ll quietly remind you to sip from the glass he's brought to the bedside, and often, he’ll head to the kitchen to toast some bread or fix up a light snack. The sight of him coming back with a slice of buttered toast, maybe even with a dab of honey if he’s feeling sweet, is almost a ritual at this point.

B - Body Part (his favorite body part of yours.)

Luke may claim he doesn't have a preference when it comes to your body—after all, he loves every inch of you—but deep down, you both know he's an ass man through and through. Despite his playful insistence that he appreciates your curves equally, the way his eyes linger and his hands instinctively gravitate to your backside give him away every time.

He has this habit of sneaking up behind you, only to give your ass a firm, playful slap as you walk by. It never fails to catch you off guard, leaving you gasping and shooting him a glare, though you can't help but laugh at his antics. He loves that moment—the surprise in your eyes, the way you scold him halfheartedly, knowing full well it's an act you both secretly enjoy.

But when things get heated, his obsession becomes even more obvious. When you’re riding him, there’s something about the way your body moves that drives him wild. His hands always find their way to your hips, then to your ass, gripping you firmly as he guides your movements or bucks his hips up to meet you. The way his fingers dig into your soft flesh, holding you tight as you move together, is as much about his need for closeness as it is about his love for that part of your body. He relishes the feel of your skin under his hands, squeezing harder with every thrust, like he can’t get enough of the sensation.

C - Cum (anything to do with cum.)

Luke is insatiable when it comes to the taste of you. There’s something about the way you respond to him, the way your body trembles and arches under his tongue. Every time he’s between your legs, lapping at you with vigor, he’s already anticipating that moment when he’ll push you over the edge. He can tell when you’re close—your breath hitching, your thighs tensing—and just when you think you might pull away from the intensity, Luke grips your thighs a little tighter, holding you in place with firm hands. He’s not letting go, not until he’s had his fill.

He loves the way your body reacts, the way you try to squirm but can’t escape his eager mouth. His tongue moves faster, hungrier, riding out every wave of your orgasm as he devours you completely. Nothing goes to waste—he swallows eagerly, savoring the taste of you like it’s something he’s been craving all day. The look in his eyes when he finally pulls away, face glistening, tells you everything you need to know: he could do this forever and never get tired of it.

But it’s not just about you—Luke has his own obsessions too, and cumming on your chest is one of them. There's something primal about it, something that excites him in a way he can’t fully explain. When he’s close, he’ll pull out and stroke himself over you, watching with an intense gaze as those little white spurts land against your breasts, decorating your skin. It’s a sight that makes his breath hitch every time—the contrast of his release against your soft skin, the way it glistens in the low light.

And you know exactly how to make it even more irresistible to him. The way you run your fingers through the sticky substance, swirling it around your chest before gathering it up and slowly bringing it to your lips. The moment your eyes lock with his and you place your fingers in your mouth, sucking and swallowing his cum, Luke is undone, your boldness making him burn with desire all over again.

D - Dirty Secret (a dirty secret of his.)

He had a dirty little secret, one he’d never admitted to anyone—not even you. The sound of your voice alone could undo him, unraveling every shred of self-control he thought he had. There’d been more than a few nights when he was away on the road, exhausted after a grueling game and longing for you in ways he couldn’t quite put into words. But then, his phone would ring, and there you were.

Your soft, familiar voice would fill the lonely silence of his hotel room as you checked in on him. “How’d the game go?” you’d ask, your tone warm and caring. And then, almost instinctively, he’d turn the conversation toward you. He loved hearing you talk—about your day, your little triumphs and frustrations, even the most mundane details. It wasn’t just the words themselves; it was the way you said them, with a natural emphasis that made him feel like you were right there with him.

What you didn’t know, though, was that he wasn’t just listening. As you spoke, his hand would slide down, stroking himself in slow, deliberate motions. Every laugh, every sigh, every little inflection in your voice sent a jolt of heat straight through him, tightening the coil of arousal in his stomach. He’d bite his lip to keep quiet, the phone pressed tight against his ear as he imagined the look on your face if you knew what he was doing.

“...And then the meeting ran over, so I didn’t even have time to grab lunch,” you’d say, completely unaware of the effect you were having on him. He’d hum in response, his breath hitching slightly—just enough to betray him, though you never seemed to notice. He’d let you keep talking, your voice a sweet and addictive melody that pushed him closer and closer to the edge.

Sometimes, he barely made it through the call before he came undone, biting down on his fist to muffle the groan threatening to escape. Other times, he’d let the pleasure build, teasing himself as long as he could, savoring every word that fell from your lips. When he finally released, it was always with your name tumbling from his own, his mind painted with vivid images of you.

Afterward, he’d feel a little guilty—maybe even a little embarrassed—but never enough to stop. How could he, when you had such a hold on him?

E - Experience (how experienced is he?)

Luke’s no stranger to sex, and his confidence in the bedroom shows it. As an attractive guy who’s spent years in the spotlight as a professional athlete, it’s no surprise that he's had his fair share of attention. In college, he had a few regular hookups, enjoying the freedom and thrill that came with it. But even then, Luke was never the type to chase every opportunity that came his way. While some might expect him to embrace the stereotypical “player” lifestyle, he always kept his distance from that image. For him, it’s never been about numbers or conquests—he’s more concerned with the kind of person he is, and he’s always been mindful of the reputation tied to his last name.

As for his skills in the bedroom? You’ve never had any complaints. In fact, Luke has a way of constantly exceeding your expectations. Whether it’s his ability to read your body, his keen understanding of your needs, or his desire to make every moment feel deep and personal, he’s always one step ahead. He makes you feel cared for and satisfied, every. single. time.

F - Favorite Position (what is his favorite position?)

Missionary. Call it basic if you want, but for Luke, it’s far from ordinary—it’s his favorite for a reason. There’s something undeniably sexy about being able to look directly into your eyes as he thrusts inside you, the way your face contorts with pleasure, how your mouth falls open in gasps and moans, it drives him wild.

There’s a particular thrill he gets from being able to see every reaction as he pounds into you. Sometimes, he has to fight the urge to do something just a little bit dirty—like letting a line of saliva drip from his mouth into yours, testing that boundary between passionate and primal.

He also loves the physical closeness missionary provides—the way your legs instinctively wrap around him, pulling him in deeper. Every thrust sends waves of pleasure through both of you, your bodies perfectly aligned. The way your thighs tighten around his waist or pull him closer, as if urging him never to stop, fuels his desire. He knows he’s hitting all the right spots when he feels your legs trembling around him.

But it’s not just the pleasure that gets him—it’s the way your body responds to him. He loves the sight of your back arching off the bed, your chest rising and falling with each ragged breath, every movement showing just how deeply you’re feeling him. The way your breasts press against him, the warmth of your skin, the way your hips tilt up to meet him—it’s all intoxicating to him.

G - Goofy (is he serious or humorous during sex?)

Luke is almost always playful in the bedroom, constantly cracking jokes or doing something to make you laugh. It’s a dynamic that completely caught you off guard at first—so different from the seriousness of your past relationships—but it’s one of the things you love most about him. With Luke, sex isn’t just about finishing, it's about enjoying each other, truly. His sense of humor and lightheartedness bring a kind of joy that makes everything feel more relaxed, and you find yourself loving it more than you ever expected.

It could be something as simple as an unexpected tickle to your sides when you least expect it, sending you into a fit of giggles, or him saying something off-the-wall mid-act that makes you burst into laughter. Sometimes, he’ll break the intensity of the moment just to whisper something ridiculous in your ear, leaving you gasping, not just from pleasure but from trying to catch your breath between laughs.

And he lives for that reaction—the way you scold him while your cheeks flush with laughter, but at the same time, you’re completely enjoying every second of it. He’s got this natural ability to blend humor with passion, making the experience feel light, but no less intimate. Luke seems to know exactly when to switch it up, keeping the mood playful and teasing, but always bringing it back to the heat and intensity when the moment calls for it.

Unless he’s in a bad mood, which is rare, you can always count on a few jokes or spirited antics during your time together. It’s just how Luke is—he loves seeing you smile, hearing you laugh, and knowing that the two of you can have fun together, even during the most affectionate moment.

H - Hair (how well groomed is he?)

Luke’s grooming style could best be described as “free-flowing” and low-maintenance. He’s the kind of guy who doesn’t stress over keeping everything perfectly trimmed down there. Unless you specifically remind him, he’s more than happy to let things grow as they do. For him, it’s just not something he gives much thought to—he’s confident in his body and comfortable with whatever state he’s in.

That laid-back attitude extends to how he feels about you as well. He’s never been one to care whether you’re perfectly shaven or not; in fact, he makes it clear that your natural state is just as attractive to him. There have been times when you’ve felt a little self-conscious, maybe because you haven’t shaved in a while and hesitated when things started to heat up. But Luke is quick to shut that down. The moment you show even the slightest sign of resistance, he’s right there reminding you that it doesn’t matter to him in the slightest.

I - Intimacy (how is he during the moment? the romantic aspect.)

When it comes to intimacy, Luke is the definition of generous and affectionate. He’s not just focused on the physical aspects of being together—he’s deeply invested in making sure you feel loved and cherished throughout every moment. During sex, he’s constantly telling you how much you mean to him, whispering soft “I love you’s” as his eyes lock onto yours, making sure you feel the weight of those words every single time. It’s more than just a routine declaration; he wants you to know just how much he adores and values you, not only in the bedroom but in every aspect of your relationship.

Luke has this innate ability to make you feel completely safe and adored, whether it’s through his soft kisses that trail down your neck or the way he runs his fingers gently through your hair as you’re wrapped up in each other. He makes it a point to ensure that you’re comfortable every step of the way, taking time to listen to your body and respond to what you need.

J - Jack Off (does he masturbate?) 

Yes, Luke definitely masturbates—he’s a man with needs, and with the way his career keeps him on the road for half the year, it’s inevitable. Whether it’s late nights alone in his hotel room after an away game or just the long stretches when you’re not physically together, Luke'll find the time to take care of himself if needed. But even in those moments, it’s never just a mindless act for him. More often than not, you’re on his mind when he’s getting off, thinking about you, about the way you look, the way you feel, the way you moan his name.

When he's away, he often craves more than just the release—he craves you. That’s where the magic of FaceTime comes in. It’s become almost a ritual between the two of you, a way to bridge the physical distance when he’s miles away. He loves nothing more than seeing you on screen, watching as you touch yourself, knowing that you’re doing it all for him, even if he’s not there in person. Those late-night video calls where you both pleasure yourselves separately but together are some of his favorite moments. There’s something incredibly intimate about the way you can share that experience, seeing each other’s reactions, hearing each other’s breaths hitch in real-time, even if you’re not in the same room.

He’s open about it too—there’s no shame or secrecy when it comes to masturbating. If you ask, he’ll tell you exactly when he’s done it, maybe even teasingly sharing the details of how he got himself off, knowing how it’ll stir something in you. Sometimes, if he’s feeling extra bold, he’ll even text you in the middle of the day when you’re apart, letting you know just how much he’s thinking about you, how much he misses you. It’s not uncommon for him to send you a cheeky message or a suggestive photo after a session, making it clear that you’re the one always on his mind when he’s handling things himself.

K - Kink (one or more of his kinks.)

Luke definitely has a praise kink, though he’s never outright admitted it. You can tell by the way his body responds when you start whispering those sweet, dirty words in his ear. It’s subtle at first—the way he breathes a little heavier, his movements becoming a little sloppier—but you’ve learned to recognize the signs. Whenever you pull him closer, moaning into his ear about how good he feels, telling him that no one else could fuck you like this, his whole demeanor shifts. You’ll say he’s doing such a good job, that he’s absolutely ruining you in the best way, and that’s when you feel it—the unmistakable twitch of his cock inside you, a clear sign that your words are hitting just the right spot.

He thrives on that affirmation. Every praise-filled gasp or moan from you makes him work harder, thrust deeper, trying to live up to every compliment you murmur against his skin. He’s focused, determined to be everything you say he is, and knowing how much you’re enjoying it only pushes him closer to the edge. The look in his eyes when you tell him he’s amazing, that he’s giving you everything you need, is one of pure satisfaction, and you know just how much those words mean to him, even if he doesn’t say it.

But there’s another side to Luke, one that he’s kept tucked away—his spit kink. He doesn’t really know where it came from, but there’s something about the thought of it that makes his pulse race. Whether it’s the idea of spitting into your mouth or watching you do it to him, it’s an unspoken fantasy that lingers in the back of his mind. The desire is there, burning low and hot, but he’s never mentioned it. Part of him worries that it’s a little too explicit, a little too bold, and while he doesn’t think you’d be opposed to it, he’s hesitant to bring it up. He’s worried it might cross some invisible line or shift the dynamic in a way he doesn’t want to risk.

Instead, he keeps that desire to himself, enjoying the way it bubbles up during particularly intense moments. There are times when he’s close, thrusting into you with wild abandon, and he finds himself staring at your parted lips, imagining what it would be like to take that next step. But he holds back, content to let the thought simmer in the background for now. Maybe one day he’ll feel comfortable enough to share it with you—he trusts you, 100%—but for now, it remains one of those quiet, secret fantasies.

L - Location (where's his favorite place to do it?)

For Luke, his favorite place to do it isn’t exactly the most conventional—it’s the hot tub. Unorthodox? Definitely. Comfortable? Not particularly. But there’s something about the memory of that one night last summer that makes the hot tub hold a special place in his mind. It was at the lake house, where the two of you had snuck away for a little private time while everyone else was out at the bar. You had the house to yourselves, and while you could have taken things inside, there was something enticing about the night air, the bubbling water, and the idea of doing something a little more daring.

The heat of the tub and the coolness of the night created this perfect contrast, and before you knew it, you were both in the water, bodies pressed together under the stars. The sensation of the warm water lapping against your skin, mixed with the weightlessness that came with being submerged, made everything feel even more intense.

Luke had you up against the side of the tub, gripping your hips as he moved inside you, the water splashing around the two of you with every thrust. It wasn’t the most comfortable position—your body occasionally slipping against the smooth surface of the hot tub—but neither of you cared. It was spontaneous, raw, and exhilarating in a way that made you forget about everything else. There was a sense of freedom in that moment, the two of you completely exposed to the open air, surrounded by nothing but nature and the stars above.

Even now, months later, Luke still thinks about that night—the way your moans echoed softly in the dark, the feel of your body in his hands. It’s etched into his memory, and he still swears that’s the hardest he’s ever cum.

M - Motivation (what turns him on, gets him going?)

There’s one thing that never fails to get Luke going: seeing you in his jersey. It might be cliché, sure, but that doesn’t stop it from driving him wild every single time. Something about seeing you wear his name and number on your back sparks something primal in him, a deep-rooted sense of pride and possessiveness that he can’t quite put into words. The moment you slip it on, whether you’re lounging around the house or teasingly flaunting it before a game, he can’t help but let his gaze linger, eyes following your every movement with a dark intensity.

And he has absolutely no shame about how much it turns him on. That manly, macho side of him—the part that loves feeling strong and protective—comes to the surface whenever he sees you draped in his jersey. To him, it’s more than just a piece of clothing; it’s a bold statement, a silent way of marking you as his. It’s as if, by wearing his number, you’re announcing to the world that you belong to him, and that thought alone fuels his desire. He loves the idea of other men seeing you in his jersey, knowing full well they’d have no chance because you’re his, and his alone.

N - No (something they wouldn't do, turn offs.)

Too lazy to think of anything for this I apologize lol.

O - Oral (preference in giving/receiving, skill, etc.)

When you and Luke first got together, oral wasn’t exactly his strongest suit—whether it came to using his fingers or eating you out. He had the enthusiasm, sure, but the technique? That took some time. It wasn’t that he wasn’t willing—he was more than eager to go down on you—but it took a few sessions of ‘coaching’ to help him figure out what really made you feel good.

Now, though? He’s got it down to an art. You don’t have to say a word anymore. He’s learned to read your body, to know exactly what makes you tick, and it shows every time his head is between your thighs. He knows when to tease and when to dive in, how to drive you crazy with a slow buildup before pushing you over the edge. His tongue moves in perfect sync with his fingers, hitting all the right spots with precision, and it never takes long before your legs are shaking uncontrollably. That focused look on his face, the way he grips your hips to keep you still as your body tries to squirm away from the intensity—it’s clear he takes pride in the way he can unravel you like this. Watching you come undone has become one of his favorite things.

Still, if he had to choose, Luke definitely prefers receiving. Something about watching you suck him off drives him absolutely wild. It’s not just the physical pleasure—it’s the sight of you on your knees, the hunger in your eyes, the way your lips wrap around his tip, teasing him with soft kitten licks before taking more of him in. He’s obsessed with the way you look up at him while you do it, like you’re savoring the moment.

There’s something primal that kicks in when he’s receiving. His hand will instinctively find its way to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair as he pushes you down to take more of him. And you—trusting and eager—let him guide you, allowing him to set the pace, and that sense of control over you in that moment makes him feel completely in awe of you. The way you look at him, eyes full of lust and submission, only fuels his desire. He loves watching your lips stretch around him, feeling the heat of your mouth, and hearing the soft, breathy moans you let out as you work him over.

P - Pace (is he fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Luke is all about taking his time with you—he loves to truly worship your body. You’ve never been with anyone as attentive as him, so insistent on making sure that your pleasure comes first, no matter how long it takes. He’s patient and unhurried, savoring every moment, every inch of your skin as if he has all the time in the world.

He has this way of treating your body like something sacred, like a temple deserving of devotion. His touch is always gentle at first, as he explores every curve, every sensitive spot, making sure you’re comfortable and relaxed. Luke loves to make you feel cherished, letting his hands and lips move slowly, appreciating the way your body responds to him. He’s always so sweet, whispering soft praises, making sure you know just how beautiful and desirable you are to him.

And he’s in no rush to get you off quickly. In fact, Luke takes pride in breaking you off as many times as you want, however long it takes. He enjoys seeing you lose control, your body trembling beneath him as he builds you up with slow, measured thrusts. He’s focused, always watching your reactions, listening to your breaths and moans, adjusting his pace to keep you right on the edge, drawing out your pleasure as long as possible. He makes sure you feel completely adored in those moments, like you’re the only thing that matters to him.

But Luke also knows when to switch things up. If you demand more—if you beg him to go harder, faster—he’s more than happy to oblige. He’ll pick up the pace, his hands gripping your hips a little tighter, his thrusts becoming more urgent as he gives you exactly what you’re asking for. And when the mood shifts, he’s not afraid to get a little rougher, maybe even giving your ass a firm slap or two as his hips pound into you.

Q - Quickie (his opinion on quickies, how often, etc.)

Quickies don’t happen often with Luke, but when a quickie does happen, it’s hot. The urgency, the pressure of time, the sheer need to make the most of a fleeting moment—it all gets him going in a way that’s completely different from his usual slow and worshipful approach. There’s something about that frantic, adrenaline-fueled rush that really ignites his desire.

Maybe you’re both running late—you're supposed to be out the door in five minutes, or it’s early in the morning, and Luke has to leave for a morning skate at ten. There’s no time for the usual slow buildup, no teasing, no drawn-out foreplay. It’s all raw urgency, him pressing you up against the nearest surface, already hard and ready, and thrusting into you with a single-minded focus. He’s desperate, but not for himself—his goal is always to get you off, to pull an orgasm out of you as fast as he can before the clock runs out.

That intensity, the lack of time to think or plan, only makes it hotter for him. The way you’re both caught up in the heat of the moment, with no room for hesitation, just pure, animalistic need—it’s exhilarating. There’s something deeply satisfying about the way your body responds so quickly to his touch, even with no buildup. His hands will grip your hips firmly, guiding your body against his as he thrusts into you fast and hard, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as he tries to push you over the edge before you both have to rush out the door.

R - Risk (is he game to experiment? does he take risks? etc.) 

Too lazy to think of anything for this I apologize lol.

S - Stamina (how many rounds can he go for? how long does he last?)

Being a hockey player, Luke's stamina is undeniably impressive. He’s an athlete through and through, and it shows in the way he can keep going in the bedroom. But even a grueling two-minute shift on the ice is nothing compared to bottoming out inside you, especially when you’ve lost track of what round you're on.

Luke prides himself on being able to last as long as you need him to. He knows how to pace himself, whether it's a slow, drawn-out session where he holds back for as long as possible, or a fast-paced, intense round where you're both gasping for breath. He’s got the control and stamina to match whatever mood you’re in, and he never rushes—unless, of course, it’s a quickie.

Early on in your relationship, though, there was one time when he came too fast—much quicker than he intended. It happened when you had just started dating. The excitement had gotten the best of him, and despite his best efforts, he finished way sooner than expected. You, ever the tease, had ribbed him about it for weeks afterward. And while Luke knew it was all in good fun (you were flattered, honestly), it still lit a fire in him.

Since then, he’s made it a point to ensure you always come first—or, better yet, that you both reach your peak at the same time. Luke has mastered the art of reading your body, knowing exactly when to hold back and when to let go.

When it comes to stamina, Luke’s athletic training definitely gives him an edge. He can go for multiple rounds without missing a beat, always ready to keep the pleasure going for as long as you want. Even when you’re both exhausted, drenched in sweat, and completely spent, he’ll still find the strength to keep going if that’s what you’re craving. And the best part? He enjoys every second of it, pushing his limits not just for himself, but to make sure you feel utterly fulfilled.

T - Toys (does he own toys? does he use them on him or yourself?)

Luke doesn’t have any toys of his own, but he’s far from shy when it comes to using the ones you have. In fact, he’s pretty comfortable with the idea of adding an extra layer of pleasure to your time together, especially when it involves the vibrator you keep stashed away. Some guys might feel a bit intimidated by it, but not Luke. He’s confident enough in his own abilities to know that a toy isn’t competition—it’s a tool for bringing you even more pleasure, and that’s something he’s always down for.

When he reaches for the vibrator, it’s usually in those moments when he’s already deep inside you, fully immersed in the heat of the moment. He loves the idea of amplifying your pleasure, of pushing you to new heights while his body moves against yours. The way your moans get louder when he presses the toy against your clit, the way your body trembles with the added stimulation, makes him feel like he’s got you completely in his control, overwhelming your senses in the best possible way.

It’s not just about the toy itself—it’s about what it does to you. He loves seeing your reactions, the way your body responds to both him and the vibrator working in tandem, sending you spiraling into a level of pleasure that’s almost too much to handle. And when he’s thrusting inside you, feeling your body tighten and clench around him while the vibrations take over, it only pushes him closer to the edge, knowing that he’s giving you everything you need and more.

He’ll often tease you with it, pressing the vibrator against you gently at first, letting you get used to the sensation before ramping up the intensity. His eyes are locked on you, watching the way your face contorts with pleasure, listening to the way your breathing gets faster, and he’ll time his movements perfectly, syncing the rhythm of his thrusts with the pulses of the toy until you’re completely lost in the sensation.

U - Unfair (how much he likes to tease)

Luke wants to be a tease—he really does. In his head, he loves the idea of making you squirm, drawing things out until you’re practically begging for more. He’ll start off strong, laying the groundwork with light touches, whispered promises, and a smirk that tells you he’s about to make you work for it. Maybe it’s his fingers ghosting over your skin without fully committing, or the way he hovers just close enough to drive you crazy, letting the anticipation build as he plays with your patience.

In those moments, he wants to see you unravel, to hear you plead for him to stop teasing and finally give you what you want. He knows he could get you worked up with just a few lingering touches, keeping you right on the edge for as long as he wants, if only he could follow through.

But here’s the problem: Luke’s teasing game is usually short-lived. Because as soon as you look up at him with those sweet, wide eyes, batting your lashes just enough to make his heart melt, the teasing is over. He becomes like silly putty in your hands—completely malleable, ready to give in to your every desire. All it takes is one look, one pout, or a soft “please,” and suddenly, all his teasing plans go out the window.

He can’t resist you. The way you look up at him, a mix of innocence and desire, makes him weak. He finds himself caving almost immediately, his resolve crumbling under the weight of how much he wants to make you happy. Whatever control he thought he had evaporates, and in that moment, he’ll do anything you ask. Whether it’s going faster, touching you just right, or abandoning the teasing altogether to give you exactly what you need, Luke is putty in your hands.

V - Volume (how loud is he? what sounds does he make? etc.)

You never thought you’d find yourself so turned on by the sound of a man moaning—until Luke came along and changed that entirely. He makes no effort to hold back, always letting you hear exactly how much pleasure he’s feeling, and it’s one of the sexiest things about being with him. Unless you two are sneaking around at the lake house, where he has to be quieter, Luke is unapologetically vocal. And when you’re alone in your apartment, it’s like music to your ears.

He’s raw and unfiltered when it comes to expressing himself in bed. Every deep moan, every throaty groan that escapes his lips is a reflection of just how much he’s enjoying himself—and knowing you’re the one making him feel that way? That drives you insane. Luke doesn’t hold back either; you hear everything. When he’s thrusting into you, the air thick with heat and lust, his voice cuts through with low curses, raspy moans, and more than a few breathless exclamations of just how good it feels to be inside you.

But the thing that really does it for you? The whimpers. God, those whimpers. They’re rare, reserved for those moments when he’s close—when you’ve got him right on the edge, and he’s losing control. Hearing Luke whimper in pure desperation, his voice shaky and broken with pleasure, sends shivers down your spine every single time. It’s the ultimate display of vulnerability, of how deeply you’ve affected him. His body trembles, his grip tightens, and his voice falters as he lets out those soft, breathless whimpers that make your heart race.

There’s something so undeniably sexy about knowing that Luke is completely lost in the moment, vocalizing his desire without hesitation. It’s not just about hearing his pleasure—it’s about feeling it, as if his sounds wrap around you and amplify your own arousal.

W - Wildcard (a random headcannon.) 

Too lazy to think of anything for this I apologize lol.

X - X-Ray (let's see what's going on under those clothes.)

Luke’s cock is nothing short of gorgeous. It’s the kind that genuinely makes your mouth water every time you lay eyes on it. You’re not one to focus too much on exact measurements, but if you had to guess, you’d say he’s around four to five inches when he’s soft—although you’ve never bothered to actually measure, because that would be weird obviously.

And let’s talk about the girth—it’s thick. The kind of thickness that makes every inch of him feel like it’s stretching you in all the right ways, filling you completely with every thrust. There’s something about the weight of him in your hand, the way your fingers just about close around his shaft when you stroke him. He’s got the kind of cock that feels amazing to hold, even better to ride, and absolutely intoxicating when he’s deep inside you.

The sight of him, fully hard, is enough to make your heart race. Thick and veined, with a smooth, flushed head that glistens just a little with precum when he’s really worked up. It’s the kind of sight that makes you want to drop to your knees immediately, every time. You can’t help but feel a rush of arousal whenever he pulls down his pants, because you know what’s coming next, and you’re already hungry for it.

Y - Yearning (how is his sex drive?)

He’d call it average, and you’d agree—it's not all that he thinks about, nor is it something that fades into the background. It’s balanced, like him. He’s never one to let desire cloud his mind too much, or take precedence over the more meaningful parts of your relationship.

Z - ZZZ (how quickly he falls asleep afterwards.)

Sure, his stamina during sex is impressive—but once the final wave of ecstasy crashes over you both, he’s like a switch flipping. All that passion and effort catch up to him in an instant, leaving him adorably drained.

He’s still sweet and attentive in the aftermath, though, making sure you're cleaned up and comfortable first. You barely have to pull him to lie down before he’s draped across you like a contented cat, his head resting on your chest as though it belongs there. He’s clingy in these moments, his arms slipping around your waist or his fingers curling gently into your side, anchoring himself to you. His breathing slows as your fingers thread through his hair, and the soft rise and fall of your chest beneath him lulls him toward sleep.

You can tell when it’s coming—the way his body goes heavier and his light snores hum into existence. It doesn’t take long; ten, maybe fifteen minutes at most, before he’s out cold, his features completely relaxed.

[honeyslibrary]

Early Morning | Quinn Hughes

Pairing; Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Fluff, established relationship, not sure what else only edited once.

Summary; The morning after the Winnipeg loss. Kinda cringe, kinda domestic.

Word Count; 2.5k

Author’s note; He looked so defeated in postgame media 😭 someone give him a big hug!! There isn’t really a premise to this fic, it’s just fluffy and I need that, personally. Inbox is open for requests, and any thoughts + reblogs are appreciated. Love you all. -Honey

Upon waking, the first thing you notice is the unfamiliar weight beside you. Still tangled in a fog of sleep, you roll over, expecting to find the usual emptiness. Instead, your arm brushes against something solid and warm—a hard lump beneath the covers. Blinking against the soft rays of sunlight filtering through the half-drawn curtains, you squint your eyes and focus.

Quinn is there. He’s sprawled out on his stomach, mouth slightly parted, emitting soft snores with every exhale. His chest, bare, rises and falls in a steady rhythm. A small, dried patch of drool sits at the corner of his mouth, and despite his tousled brown hair, you can still make out the faint red imprint on his forehead from his helmet—the telltale sign of his previous game. The messy sheets barely cover his lower half, leaving most of the covers bunched up beneath him, as though he’d fought for dominance over the bed in his sleep.

You sigh softly, rolling back onto your side, rubbing the heels of your palms against your eyes to wipe away the last remnants of sleep. The night before blurs in your memory—work had been exhausting, and by the time you’d collapsed into bed, you’d barely had the energy to think, let alone stay awake long enough to wait for Quinn to call. Last you heard, he was still in Winnipeg for the last away game of the roadtrip. And yet, here he is now, stretched out beside you, having returned home sometime in the middle of the night. You hadn't even heard the jangle of his keys in the door, much less felt the weight of him slipping into bed.

As you lie there, your eyes trace the outline of his body, the soft curve of his back, the way the morning light plays against his skin. You and Quinn had been dating for a little over two months now, and in all that time, he'd never once shown up in the middle of the night unannounced, not even after a home game—let alone after getting off a late flight from an away game. It was unlike him, the type who usually kept to his routines, always texting you first to make sure it was okay to come by. A spontaneous visit, especially after a road trip, was out of character, and it made your mind race with curiosity.

Reaching over to the bedside table, you fumble for your phone, its cold surface a sharp contrast to the warm cocoon of blankets. The screen blinks to life, and your heart skips a beat when you notice the unread message from Quinn. Swiping it open, you squint at the time stamp—12:03 AM, well after you’d slipped into unconsciousness.

I tried calling you but you must be asleep.

You feel a twinge of guilt as you scan the message. He had tried to message you, but you’d been out cold, blissfully unaware of both his texts and the game itself. A sigh escapes your lips. You'd barely made it through dinner, let alone the start of the game. Work had drained you, the kind of exhaustion that made staying awake for anything else a battle you couldn’t win.

Now, scrolling through your notifications, you can’t help but wince when you see the final score. The Canucks had lost, and badly—a brutal 6-1 blowout in Winnipeg. Your chest tightens, imagining how deflated Quinn must’ve felt stepping off that plane, dragging his gear behind him, shoulders slumped in defeat. The last thing he’d need after a night like that was silence from you, but that’s exactly what he got.

You drop your phone back on the nightstand, letting it land with a dull thud, before running a hand through your hair. You can picture it now: Quinn sitting on the bus, staring at his phone screen, waiting for a reply that never came, while the disappointment of the loss gnawed at him. He must have needed you, needed the comfort of something familiar, something steady to ground him after the sting of defeat. And you weren’t there to answer.

A small pang of regret settles in your chest, but as you glance at him lying peacefully beside you, your guilt softens into something warmer, something more understanding. He came to you. After the long flight, after the frustration of the game, after all of it—he came to you. Without asking for permission, without caring if it broke some unspoken routine, he just needed to be here, in your bed, in the one place where he could let his guard down.

Groaning softly, you stretch out your legs and arms, feeling the delicious pull of tight muscles loosening after a night of deep sleep. The sheets slip away from your body, and for a moment, you just lie there, savoring the lazy comfort of the morning—the warmth of the bed, the quiet of the room, and the weight of Quinn still sound asleep beside you. Even though you know he could probably sleep through a hurricane, you still move carefully, slipping out of bed inch by inch to avoid disturbing him.

The cold air nips at your skin the moment you leave the cozy embrace of the blankets, sending a small shiver through you. Your feet make a soft thud as they hit the hardwood floor, the contrast between the cold surface and your warm skin causing you to flinch slightly. You tread quietly across the room, mindful of each creak in the floorboards. As you walk down the hallway, the soft patter of your footsteps echoes faintly.

You push the bathroom door open gently, catching your reflection in the mirror. Your hair, tangled from sleep, falls in wild waves around your face, and you reach up to corral it into a loose, low bun. Turning on the faucet, the water sputters for a second before it flows smoothly, cool against your fingers. You splash it on your face, the shock of cold water clearing the last remnants of sleep from your mind. Droplets cling to your skin, rolling down your cheeks as you reach for a towel and press it to your face, savoring the softness of the fabric against your freshly washed skin.

You grab your toothbrush, the soft bristles brushing against your teeth as you lean against the sink. For a few minutes, the world is nothing but the sound of water swirling down the drain and the fresh taste of mint spreading across your tongue.

Lost in your thought, you’re startled when you feel a presence beside you. You jump slightly, your heart skipping a beat as you glance to your left and find Quinn standing there, his eyes still heavy with sleep, hair even messier than before. You hadn’t heard him get up; just moments ago, he’d been dead to the world, sprawled out in bed, the very image of peaceful slumber.

He leans in silently and presses a soft kiss to the back of your head, his lips soft against your scalp, sending a gentle shiver down your spine. The gesture is so simple, yet so intimate—a silent "good morning" You feel the brief weight of his hand resting on your shoulder as he steadies himself, before he steps away toward the toilet.

Without a word, Quinn drops his boxers, the fabric pooling around his ankles. He goes about his business, yawning as he stands there, the faint sound of the stream hitting the water filling the small bathroom. You’re used to this by now, the easy lack of pretense that has formed between the two of you, the understanding that neither of you needs to tiptoe around each other’s presence.

For a moment, you watch him, his shoulder to you, his posture relaxed. There’s something about this, about the way he moves through your space so naturally now, that fills you with a quiet sense of contentment—a reminder of how easy things have become between you two.

Turning back to the sink, you spit out the last bit of toothpaste, watching the foam swirl down the drain. You rinse your mouth and place the toothbrush back in its holder. As Quinn moves toward the sink, you step aside, your shoulders brushing briefly as you give him space. "Do you want coffee?" you ask.

He nods. "Sure, thanks." You return his nod with a small nod of your own before slipping out of the bathroom, leaving him to finish up.

Entering the kitchen, you move toward the coffee maker automatically, your body working on autopilot as you open the cabinet and pull out two mugs—his favorite, a chipped ceramic one from some team event, and yours, a simple white one with a faint coffee stain inside from countless mornings like this.

You fill the coffee filter with grounds, the sharp, earthy scent of fresh coffee filling the air as you tap the spoon against the edge of the basket. Once the machine is set, you press the start button, listening to the low hum as it begins to brew, the first few drops of coffee hitting the pot with a faint hiss.

Leaning back against the island, you cross your arms, letting out a small breath as the room fills with the comforting sound of the brewing coffee. The rich aroma slowly overtakes the air, curling around you like an old, familiar friend. You close your eyes for a second, savoring it, feeling the subtle shift in energy as the house starts to wake up.

Your fingers absentmindedly trace the edge of the countertop, cool and smooth beneath your skin, as you glance out the window at the pale morning sky. The world outside is still, a soft gray lingering just before the sun fully rises. Behind you, you hear the faint creak of a floorboard. You know Quinn is moving around, probably padding through the hallway toward you.

He enters the kitchen quietly, his bare feet padding softly across the floor. His movements are slow, unhurried, like he's still shaking off the last remnants of sleep—or maybe it’s the weight of the previous night’s loss still clinging to him. You look up as he approaches, and there’s something in his expression—tired, but warm—that makes your heart soften.

Without a word, he opens his arms, and you find yourself stepping into his embrace almost instinctively, like it's the most natural thing in the world. The space between you disappears, and the familiar comfort of his body presses against yours, grounding you both in the moment. His arms fold around you firmly, his hands splaying across your back as if to hold you closer, to keep the world out for just a few more precious seconds.

You let out a quiet breath, melting into him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against your cheek. His chin comes to rest lightly on top of your head, the weight of it comforting in its simplicity, and his hands begin to move in slow, soothing circles along your back. The motion is calming, like he’s trying to let you know—without words—that everything is fine, that he’s here and that’s enough for now.

For a moment, neither of you says anything, the hum of the coffee maker filling the space between you.

"I'm sorry about the game," you murmur against his chest, your voice barely above a whisper. The words slip out before you can stop them, a quiet expression of the worry you’ve been holding onto since you saw the score this morning. You feel the sigh that escapes him more than you hear it, his chest rising and falling beneath you in a subtle gesture of frustration mixed with resignation.

“Don’t apologize,” he says, his voice rough from sleep, but there’s no edge to it—just the quiet exhaustion of someone who’s used to the ups and downs. His hands keep moving against your back, slow and reassuring, as if to say it’s not your burden to carry. You nod into his chest, accepting his words but still feeling that faint tug of empathy in your heart.

A few beats of silence pass, and you feel his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek. You don’t want to push, but you need to ask. “Are you okay?” The words are tentative, cautious, as if you’re feeling out the depth of his mood.

This time, it takes him longer to respond. His hands pause for a moment, as if he's considering what to say, weighing his answer. “Just tired,” he says eventually, his voice low, the kind of tired that goes beyond needing sleep. There’s a heaviness in the way he says it, and you know it’s not just about the game—it’s the travel, the constant pressure, the physical and emotional toll of it all.

You close your eyes, sinking further into his embrace, letting the quiet stretch between you again. There’s no need to fill the silence; the simple act of being here, together, feels like enough. His chin shifts slightly against your head, and you can feel the warmth of his breath in your neck as he exhales slowly, as if just holding you helps ease some of the weight he’s been carrying.

The coffee pot gurgles softly in the background, signaling it's done, but neither of you moves to break the moment. You stay there, wrapped in each other, his arms still holding you close.

"Do you wanna stay in bed today?" you ask. You tilt your head back to look up at him, your cheek still resting lightly against his chest. His eyes are half-closed, his arms still wrapped loosely around you, and for a moment, it seems like he’s too caught in thought to respond. You wait, giving him the space to absorb the question, watching the way his expression softens as your words sink in.

"We can order food," you continue, your voice gentle and inviting. "Watch movies, whatever you want."

The offer lingers in the air, a way to hit pause on the outside world, to create a small, safe bubble just for the two of you. No obligations, no demands—just the simple pleasure of doing nothing, together. You know he needs it. After the brutal loss, the long flight, and the constant pressure, a day of stillness sounds like the perfect antidote.

He finally nods, exhaling a deep breath. His response is little more than a murmur, almost swallowed by the closeness between you. “Yes, please.”

"Okay, we'll stay in bed. No rush, no plans. Just us." " you whisper, your voice soft and reassuring. "Breakfast first?"

“Coffee first,” he says with a faint smile, his voice still barely above a whisper but more present now, a hint of his usual self creeping back in. “Then breakfast. Then movies.”