onlyquinns

[onlyquinns]

RUFF RUFF LET ME AT HIMMMM

MDNI 18+

Just had a thought about Quinn loving to surprise you with videos of him jerking off while he’s away on roadies.

Of course, his hand doesn’t even come close to the overwhelming sensation of your mouth. He always makes sure to tell you that. The videos Quinn sends you, usually start off slow, him panning the camera down to show how much his dick twitches just from him speaking your name. Then his hand reaches slowly down, grabbing onto his cock and moving in that sweet slow rhythm, trying to mimic the way you tease him. Quinn’s hips moving involuntarily as it increases in speed - his tip is a beautiful shade of red, profusely leaking. You can hear Quinn’s moans turning into sharpened intake of breath when his thumb brushes over his slit, mimicking the way you do it. It really is a mouthwatering sight watching his hips moving and tip leaking; you can only imagine how he has his head thrown back, eyes closed and his mouth slightly parted. But your favorite part of the videos? It’s the ending…it’s that one singular sentence that Quinn knows will have you calling him right away.

“My cock misses that pretty little mouth of yours..”

[onlyquinns]

AHHH THIS WAS SOO CUTE AND :((

you again? | quinn hughes

quinn hughes x fem!reader

After a disastrous first date, you and Quinn Hughes think you’ll never see each other again—until he shows up in your office… as your newest therapy client.

recs are open + prompt list

beachy’s masterlist🐚

You agree to the date because your friend swears he’s normal.

“You’d like him,” she says. “He’s low-key. Dry humor. No red flags. And he’s hot. But like… tired hot.”

“Tired hot?”

“You’ll see.”

The app profile is vague. One picture—blurry, probably a cropped group photo. Bio says:

Hockey. Golf. Mostly quiet. Good at Mario Kart.

You message him because the Mario Kart line makes you laugh. He replies ten minutes later.

Only if you pick Yoshi. Anyone else is a war crime.

You meet him at a little place you like—a bar with decent food and mercifully low lighting. He’s ten minutes late, and when he walks in, he looks…

You squint.

He looks like he got hit by a truck, reversed over, and then forced to do media availability. His hoodie is slightly damp. His eyes are red-rimmed. He has the audacity to sniffle.

“Hi,” he says, voice rough. “Quinn.”

You blink. “You’re sick.”

“I’m not contagious.”

“Right.”

“I took DayQuil.”

“...Okay.”

You both sit.

It goes downhill immediately.

You ask normal questions. He answers in fragments.

“So, are you from around here originally?”

“Michigan. But I live here now.”

“What brought you to Vancouver?”

“Hockey.”

You sip your drink. “Right. Of course.”

He nods, sniffling.

“You play professionally?” you ask, just to clarify.

He glances at you. “Yeah. Canucks.”

“Oh. I don’t really follow hockey.”

“That’s fine.”

Silence.

You try again. “So besides that... what do you do for fun?”

He shrugs. “Not much. Golf in the offseason.”

You wait.

That’s it. That’s the whole sentence.

He reaches for his water and knocks over the salt shaker.

You press your lips together. “You know, we could reschedule.”

“I’m already here.”

“You’re clearly not feeling great.”

“I didn’t want to be a flake.”

“That’s very noble of you,” you say flatly, and he huffs a quiet breath that might be a laugh.

You spend the next ten minutes trying to scrape a conversation out of someone who answers like he’s being cross-examined in court.

Eventually, you set your fork down.

“This isn’t working, is it?”

He looks up, startled. “What?”

“This. Us. The date. It’s not going well.”

He opens his mouth. Pauses. Then nods. “No. I guess not.”

You sigh. “Okay. I’m gonna go.”

“I’ll get the check.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“I feel bad. You came out.”

You glance at him, and for a moment—just a second—you feel sorry for him. The hoodie. The puffy eyes. The way he keeps rubbing the side of his neck like he’s thinking hard about something he’ll never say.

But then he adds: “You ask questions like you’re a therapist or something.”

You raise your eyebrows. “I am a therapist.”

His face does a weird thing—like his brain short circuits and he reboots mid-sentence. “Oh. Shit. That makes sense.”

You stare at him. “Good night, Quinn.”

Two weeks later, your receptionist pokes her head into your office.

“New intake just arrived. Quinn H., 2:30 p.m.”

You freeze.

“No,” you say automatically.

She tilts her head. “No?”

“No,” you repeat, pulling up the intake form. “That can’t be right.”

You read the form. Referral: E. Pettersson Presenting concern: Work-related stress. Generalized anxiety. Difficulty with emotional processing. Client: Quinn Hughes.

You close your laptop and stare at the wall.

A minute later, there’s a knock on your door.

You don’t look up when you say, “Come in.”

You do look up when he says: “Are you serious?”

He’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed, looking like someone just told him he has to retake the SATs.

You stare back. “I could say the same thing.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Petey said you were good.”

You sit straighter. “Elias sent you to me?”

“Yeah. He’s worried about me or whatever.”

“I mean… fair.”

He glances up. “You gonna refer me out?”

You pause. “Do you want me to?”

“I don’t know.”

“I can’t treat someone I’ve had a personal relationship with.”

Quinn snorts. “We went on one date and hated each other.”

You nod. “True. Still personal.”

He looks at the wall. Then back at you. “I just— I don’t really want to start over.”

You sigh. “You could’ve led with that.”

“Not really my style.”

You hesitate. Think. One session. One session won’t kill you.

“Alright,” you say. “Let’s try. One session.”

He sits, awkward in the chair, like it might bite him. “So what now?”

You fold your hands in your lap. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

He talks more than you expected. Not easily—but once he gets going, it’s like he can’t stop. He talks about pressure. About expectations. About how he gets stuck in his own head. About never feeling good enough even when he is good enough. About how sometimes he feels invisible, and sometimes he wishes he was.

You say very little. You let the silence do its work.

At the end of the session, he stands slowly, almost reluctant.

“That wasn’t terrible,” he says.

You give him a bland look. “High praise.”

He huffs a laugh. “You’re still kind of annoying.”

You smile sweetly. “And you’re still emotionally repressed.”

Quinn pauses at the door.

“Hey,” he says. “I didn’t mean that thing I said. On the date. About you analyzing everything.”

You shrug. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.” He shifts on his feet. “You were just trying to be nice. I was... sick. And stressed. And kind of a dick.”

You nod once. “Apology accepted.”

He clears his throat. “So, uh. See you next week?”

You smile. “Same time.”

Quinn’s slumped in your office chair, head tilted back, arms crossed. He's staring at the ceiling like he’s trying to count how many ways he’s trapped in his own head.

“I don’t get it,” he mutters. “Why is it still like this? I’ve done what you said—I've tried journaling, I’ve been getting sleep, I even stopped reading Reddit.”

You blink. “Wow. That one must’ve hurt.”

He gives you a weak smirk. “Little bit.”

You nod slowly. “Alright. You want to try something different?”

He looks at you. “Different how?”

“Out-of-office different.”

Quinn squints. “Like... a field trip?”

“Not officially,” you say. “But yeah. Come with me. I want you to try something.”

Fifteen minutes later, you’re standing outside a strip mall building with blacked-out windows and a fluorescent sign that says: “Rage Room.”

Quinn looks at the door. Then back at you. “You’re kidding.”

You don’t blink. “Nope.”

“You want me to hit stuff?”

“I want you to let go of things without overthinking them.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is this even—like—allowed?”

“Ethically? Not ideal,” you admit. “But you said you didn’t want to start over. So you get me. And I say you need to get out of your own head before you spiral into another three-day silent shame cycle.”

He huffs a breath. “You’re weird.”

You smile. “You’re avoidant.”

The rage room smells like old rubber and drywall. A speaker’s blasting 2000s emo music at an almost disrespectful volume. A wall of bats, crowbars, and sledgehammers hangs like a weapons rack in a zombie movie.

Quinn’s in a beat-up hoodie and safety goggles, staring at a pile of breakables like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

You hand him a metal pipe. “Start small. Smash something.”

He hesitates. “Like what?”

You gesture to the row of ceramic mugs lined up on a folding table. “Pick your least favorite and commit a crime.”

He gives you a look. “You get weirder every week.”

“You get quieter.”

He walks up to the table, lifts the pipe, and smashes a mug with one clean, decisive swing.

It shatters like a tiny explosion. Glass skitters everywhere.

You wait.

“…Okay,” he mutters. “That was kind of satisfying.”

You grin. “There it is.”

Twenty minutes later, Quinn has completely entered his rage era.

He’s sweating, muttering under his breath between swings. You only catch bits and pieces—some unholy mix of “fucking power play,” “media bullshit,” and “Jack gets away with this stuff.”

He’s wrecked three keyboards, a set of old plates, and a plastic printer you brought from home that’s been jamming since April.

And finally, finally, when he stops—breathing heavy, shoulders tense—he leans back against the wall and lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a groan and a laugh.

You pass him a bottle of water. He takes it, still catching his breath.

“That helped more than I want to admit,” he says.

You sit next to him, cross-legged on the padded floor. “Then why don’t you want to admit it?”

He shrugs. “It’s dumb.”

You tilt your head. “It’s not. It's physical release. Unfiltered emotion. No expectations. You don’t have to explain yourself.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then he says, “I think that’s the part I’m bad at. Not being explainable.”

You blink. That’s… unexpectedly honest.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I’m not loud. Or charismatic. I don’t want to be interviewed. I don’t want to sell myself. I just want to be good at what I do.” He pauses. “But everyone’s always trying to tell a story about me.”

You nod slowly. “So you feel like you’re not allowed to write your own.”

He glances at you. “Yeah. Exactly.”

You let the silence settle between you for a second.

Then, gently, you ask, “So what story would you write?”

He snorts. “You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Turn one good moment into a pop quiz.”

You smile. “I call it ‘holding space.’ You call it ‘being a pain in the ass.’”

“Both can be true,” he mumbles.

You nudge his arm. “Come on. Try.”

He sighs. Looks down at the dented metal bat in his hands.

“I think…” he starts, slowly, “...I’d write that I’m trying. Even if it doesn’t look like it. Even if I fuck it up. I’m still trying.”

You look at him for a long second. “That’s a good story.”

He shrugs, glancing away. “No one wants to hear that one.”

“I do.”

It’s out before you can stop it.

He blinks. His face shifts—something between surprised and soft.

You clear your throat. “Professionally speaking.”

“Right,” he says quickly. “Obviously.”

Another beat of silence.

“…But seriously,” he says, “this was good.”

You nod. “Next time we do yoga.”

He groans. “No thanks. That feels like a Jack thing.”

You grin. “Exactly.”

You walk out together. It’s raining lightly, just misty enough to make your clothes cling.

He stops at his car, hesitating before opening the door.

Then: “Hey.”

You turn.

“Thank you.”

You nod. “You’re welcome.”

Quinn’s quiet for a second. Then, very softly, “I don’t think I hated our first date as much as I acted like I did.”

Your breath catches.

You try to play it cool. “Because of me? Or the DayQuil?”

He laughs—low, real. “A little of both.”

“Noted.”

He opens his door.

“You’re still not allowed to flirt with your therapist,” you call after him.

“I know,” he says. But he smiles anyway.

Quinn stops coming to your sessions after the rage room.

At first, it’s just a reschedule.

“Practice ran late.”

Then a last-minute cancellation. “Bit of a travel day mess. Can we push to next week?”

Then nothing.

You try not to take it personally.

You’re a professional. You have to be. You remind yourself of this while reading over your clinical notes, chewing your pen cap like it might bite back.

Still, you can’t help but notice the shift.

He’s not just skipping therapy. He’s avoiding you.

Which—fine. It makes sense. The line got blurry. He opened up, got comfortable, probably caught himself too late. That happens sometimes.

But what bugs you isn’t that he stopped coming.

It’s that he didn’t say goodbye.

Three weeks pass.

You try to forget about him, but then Jack Hughes goes viral for doing donuts in a golf cart, and it’s all over your For You page.

Quinn’s in the background of the video, arms crossed, trying not to smile, and your stomach flips like you swallowed a rock.

You set your phone down and say—out loud, to your empty apartment— “Get a grip.”

It’s nearly 7 p.m. on a rainy Thursday when you hear a knock on your office door.

You glance at the clock. You don’t have anyone booked this late.

You open it slowly, cautiously.

Quinn’s standing there in a baseball cap and a hoodie like he thinks he’s undercover. His expression is unreadable.

“Hey,” he says.

You stare at him. “Are you lost?”

He huffs a soft laugh. “Kinda.”

You lean against the doorframe. “You’ve missed three sessions.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t even email.”

“I know,” he says again.

You pause. “You okay?”

He looks down. “Not really.”

You step back. “Come in.”

He doesn’t sit on the couch. He hovers, fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie like he’s not sure he should be here.

You let the silence stretch until it starts to fray.

Finally, he says, “I think you should refer me out.”

Your heart sinks.

“Oh,” you say, trying to sound neutral. “Okay. That’s fair. If you think someone else would be a better fit—”

“I don’t,” he cuts in. “You’re—you’re a good fit. That’s the problem.”

You blink. “Sorry?”

He drags a hand down his face. “I liked talking to you. Too much.”

You stare at him.

His voice gets quieter. “And then after the rage room… it didn’t feel like therapy anymore.”

You try to steady yourself. “We’ve kept clear boundaries—”

“I know,” he says quickly. “You’ve been... great. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But you did?”

“No, I just—” he stops, frustrated. “I couldn’t keep pretending it didn’t feel like something else.”

Something thick swells in your chest.

He finally meets your eyes. “I couldn’t come back in here and keep pretending I didn’t want to see you outside of this room.”

You don’t say anything. You can’t.

“Look,” he continues, his voice shaking slightly, “I don’t want to mess this up, and I don’t want to put you in a weird spot, but I— I want to try again. I want to go on a real date. With you. No DayQuil. No pretending it didn’t happen. Just... you and me.”

You let out a slow breath. “You understand the rules, right?”

He nods. “Six months. After termination.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You looked it up?”

He shrugs. “I looked a lot of things up.”

You stare at him. You think about your ethics board. You think about your job. You think about the way he looked in that rage room—focused, present, real—and the way his laugh got stuck in your throat after he thanked you. The way your fingers itched to reach for him and didn’t.

And you think: maybe it’s okay to want something, too.

You exhale. “Alright.”

Quinn blinks. “Wait—really?”

“I’ll refer you out. To someone I trust. And if you still want to try... after the required time... I’ll consider it.”

His eyes flicker with something bright. “You’ll consider it?”

You smirk. “You have to earn your second date.”

He grins, small and honest. “Fair.”

He stands to go.

At the door, he pauses. Looks over his shoulder.

“Hey,” he says softly. “For what it’s worth... I think I got better. Not fixed. But better. Because of you.”

Your throat tightens. “Thank you.”

Quinn nods once. “See you when I’m legally allowed to flirt with you.”

“Countdown starts now.”

[onlyquinns]

I AM SO AHH upset that the oilers lost i hate florida

but damn now the season is like actually over and i’m lowk fucked

[onlyquinns]

youve done it again!! as it was hit so hard, the transitions were seamless, their relationship seemed so raw and forgiving despite everything, i mean my god!! you're an insane writer

AWW THANK YOUU :(( this is soo sweet of you to say!! that fic had been in the works for a LOOONG time so im super glad you like it!!

[onlyquinns]

i’m being rocked in a recliner and am forced to listen to brain rot by my bfs younger brother sos

[onlyquinns]

oh fuck yes

enough said.

[onlyquinns]

AS IT WAS, q. hughes

pairing: ex childhood friend!quinn hughes x fem!reader

wc: 6.6k

cw: SMUT MDNI, swearing, mentions of blood and injury, underage usage of marijuana and alcohol, the reader self sabotages A LOT, trevor is kind of a slut in this ngl 😭

synopsis: you’re childhood friends with the hughes, particularly close to quinn, until you accidentally say things you didn’t mean. left reminiscing, you’re faced with your ex-best friend years later and forced to admit how devastatingly stupid you’d been after the meddling of his two friends.

2017

growing up, your summers were always the same. sticky, brightly colored popsicles, long bike rides with the neighborhood kids, trips to the soup kitchen with your mom, swimming at the pool, and stick-and-pucks with your dad out in the road—that was all you knew, what you looked forward to. but the summer you turned twelve, things changed.

the hughes family moved in across the street from you and your parents, filling the brick house with ruckus and laughter—and, most importantly, the hughes brothers.

the three of them were like fireworks, exploding across their driveway and in the road every morning just to play street hockey. it didn’t take long before the three boys were running up to your front door and asking for you, asking for the girl with the silly chipped front tooth whose dad coached the 18u hockey team.

you loved the attention, loved the thrill you got from being able to play hockey with kids your age in the neighborhood because other parents always refused to let you shoot pucks at their kids—a safety hazard for their brains and teeth, whatever that meant. but with quinn, jack, and luke, anything that happened in the big league games was fair game in all forms of hockey the four of you played—street, roller, ice, whatever.

you always knew hockey was a team sport—practically had that notion engraved into your head from an early age. but hockey with the hughes was more than that, more than just the practiced good sportsmanship and friendly pats to their helmets after a goal. it’d become sacred—the sole thing that drew them in to you and you to them, and the sole thing that’d formed your relationships with them.

but formation never came by itself; it always came hand in hand with alteration, with change.

the driveway and streets are blanketed in snow, covering every inch of dead grass and pavement. quinn and jack shoot pucks in their driveway, laughing and talking about going to the odr by themselves. you sit on the steps of their front porch, watching their form and taking notes like how your dad does for your team. it’s easy to get lost in their movements, in how easily they maneuver their sticks back to send the puck flying through the air.

“wanna go skating?” quinn asks, and you look up from your notepad to find him grinning. something in your heart stutters at the sight of him, eyes only on you and car keys dangling from his hand.

at the age of eighteen, quinn had already gotten his drivers and boating license. he’d tried alcohol and weed—even if he’d never admit it. he’d dated and kissed girls.

and he’d become the only boy you’d stupidly gone and fallen in love with.

you chew on your bottom lip. “i don’t know, i don’t really want to right now.”

jack groans dramatically and shoots a puck into the back of the little net they’ve set up. he’s teasing, playing the role of younger brother, but that doesn’t stop quinn from glaring at him, eyes sharp in a way only an older sibling can manage. jack shuts his mouth instantly. your heart soars.

“c’mon,” quinn says, stopping in front of you. his breath fogs in the cold air, puffing from his mouth and wafting away into the crystalline sky. it brings back memories of a shared joint between the two of you, passed back and forth between warm fingers on your eighteenth birthday nearly a month ago. “i’m gonna’ be leaving for college soon and we haven’t skated together all season, please?”

and you’re too weak to argue, because you’d rather skate with the two of them than think about losing quinn—your quinn—to another university. or to another girl who watches him play hockey, with or without a silly notepad.

the odr is the same as it was when you were younger; the paint on the boards are peeling, revealing worn wood, and there's the same old wrecked goal net at the end of the rink. you breathe in deeply, the little hairs in your nose tingling with frost and dulling your senses with the bite of winter.

quinn takes the time to pull your gear bag out for you, putting it by the bench near the rink. he wipes the snow off with his gloved hand, ensuring you don’t have to do it yourself. then, he and jack are on the ice in an instant, lacing their skates in record time. you don’t join them as quickly, taking your time to slide out of jim’s old truck and walk over to get your skates on.

your body aches as you sit and bend over to pull your skates on, lingering reminders of early morning practices with your high school team and the ruthless drills your dad had you do to ensure a spot on a college hockey team. the stretch of kinesiology tape your mom had painstakingly put on you that afternoon pulls at your biceps under your shirt, the stern reminder to keep yourself from overworking your body—to keep yourself from scratching to rest of your last season.

the laces on your skates bite into your calloused fingers, long roughed over from years of tying your own skates. you move through the motions mindlessly, everything on autopilot up until you finally join the two boys on the ice.

it’s just an easy stick and puck situation—just sticks, gloves, and pucks—but after nearly an hour of shooting, the boys convince you to play rougher, to start checking and pushing each other. and who are you to disagree?

quinn laughs easily as he scoops the puck from you, tearing down the ice as he goes from one side of the rink to the other. jack blocks him off when he gets too close to the boards, taking the puck into his own area and sending quinn into the boards. you try to keep up, skating toward jack in the hopes of cutting him off just to take the puck for yourself.

you’re nearly there, reaching out with your own stick to knock his away, when quinn comes barreling into you from your side. it happens too quick for you to even adjust yourself or even think.

one of your blades catches in the ice, digging deeper than normal, and you fly sideways. you land on your shoulder, stick clattering away from you and your head slamming painfully into the ice before bouncing off. the boys stop immediately, game forgotten and laughter gone.

you cry out in pain, curling in on yourself as your head fills with fire. there’s a sharp, throbbing pain somewhere that you can’t place and the ice beneath your ear feels sticky.

“holy fuck,” jack yells as he stops in front of you. you look up at him through teary eyes, hands clutching at your head. “holy fuck, holy fuck—i’m… i’m gonna’ call mom. okay?”

you’re barely listening to him as he rambles, too busy trying to keep your eyes from slipping shut. quinn lands on his knees next to you, hands pulling at your own to assess the damage.

“i’m so sorry,” he tells you as you cry out and try to kick him away. “i’m so, so sorry.”

by the time jack returns by your side, your mom and ellen’s car come racing down the street and into the parking lot. your dad is immediately there, taking you in his arms like when you were just an infant as you cry and scream in pain. ellen ushers her boys into the truck, tells them to go home as she gets in her own car and follows your family to the hospital.

they tell you that you need stitches, that your memory is still intact, that you’ll have some bad bruising, but you’re alive.

the stitches burn like fire and make you clench your teeth, make your vision bright white. your mom holds your hand the entire time, kisses your bruised knuckles and demands you wear a helmet from now on, even for stick and puck. ellen watches from the corner, apologizing like crazy as if it were her fault but your parents tell her it’s okay—that you’re okay. and you tell her you are because it’s hockey, for fuck’s sake, you can take a fall.

when you get home, quinn and jack wait on the doorstep. they hold flowers and balloons in their hands, cheeks and nose windburned from standing outside for who knows how long. ellen scolds them, argues with jim for letting them stand there, but quinn argues that he’s eighteen—he’s an adult by law, he claims.

you crack a smile at that.

by the time you’re fully healed, the season is over and you’ve missed out on scouts and your senior year. your dad is wrecked and your mom is pleased. you’re mad.

it’s the end of the school year and you and quinn are graduated, free from your years of high school classes and drama—now shackled to impending years of university or college.

or the nhl.

you and quinn sit side by side atop the hood of jim’s truck, a can of beer you’d stolen from your dad’s stash between the two of you. you lean back on your elbows and look up at the sky, eyes drawn to the dim clouds that litter across the expanse of dark blue.

quinn looks at you, traces the soft line of your jaw with his eyes. he’s enamored with the peacefulness in your expression, savors it because he knows he’s about to destroy you like he did months ago.

“i’m committed,” he tells you. “to umich.”

you swallow thickly, nodding as he tells you how a scout saw his last game and talked to his coach. you barely listen, filled with a rage that you can’t even describe. your hands shake next to you and tears burn the backs of your eyes as quinn talks and talks—about his future in the nhl and how he hopes he gets drafted soon.

“so, that’s it?” you whisper, voice weak and hoarse.

you’re mad. mad at the injury that you sustained months ago, that made it so your mom and dad argued until they agreed to pull you—to talk with your coach and bench you. you’re mad at quinn for being so rough that night at the odr, knowing that you were tired and didn’t want to skate in the first place.

you’re mad at yourself for being mad at quinn because it’s not his fault at all. you’re just mad.

“you ruined my senior year,” you say, turning to look at quinn with tears in your eyes and rage shaking your fists. “i missed the scouts, i didn’t get sought out by some cool university, and you’re just… leaving? after what you did?”

quinn winces, body locking up at your words. you don’t mean it—you don’t blame him at all—but you’re angry and upset and… you’re losing him.

“i didn’t mean to, you know that,” he murmurs, eyes downcast, unable to look at you crying. “if i could go back and just do something different, i would. i fought so hard against your parents; i told them that you could keep playing—“

“clearly not hard enough,” you bite back.

you hop off the hood of the truck and walk toward your own car. quinn doesn’t call for you; instead, he watches you walk away and get in your beater vehicle and scream as loud as you can.

2025

the summer sun beats down on your back, heating your bare skin as you swish your legs back and forth in the cold lake water. you grip tightly onto the dock that you sit on, head tilted to the side.

across the lake, you can make out four tiny figures—what you assume are young kids—playing street hockey. your heart sinks at the sight, a reminder of your youth spent with three boys obsessed with hockey coming to mind. you shake it away—it’s been too long for you to dwell on your past, on what could’ve been if you hadn’t let one accident and one fight keep you from achieving a goal long forgotten.

instead, you pull your legs from the crystal clear water and make your way back to your family lake house. as you walk along the lakeside, a cluster of boys catches your attention. they’re loud, split up between standing by a nice boat and inside of a truck bed. laughter fills the air as you walk closer to them, fully intending to breeze past them to get back home.

as you walk, one of them catches a glimpse of you—eyes you up and down in your tight bikini top and ridiculously short jean shorts. he lets out a low whistle, one that has you whipping your head toward the group and glaring so viciously whatever stupid comment he was about to make disappears from his mouth.

what you don’t expect, however, is to see quinn hughes standing by the boy who blatantly disrespected you.

he looks different and not just because he’s standing topless and in board shorts. his hair is longer, curlier, and crops across his face in delicate waves. his jaw is sharper, far more defined than when the two of you were eighteen and still losing baby fat. he looks exactly how he does on your television screen back home, where you watched him and his brothers get drafted into the nhl.

where you watched him climb the ranks as the rookie to the captain, while you spent your time trying to forget everything hockey that was drilled into your brain.

he stares at you, eyes locked on yours in a weird staring contest sort of way. his eyes drop down your body and then back up to your face, his face giving away none of his thoughts.

“hi,” you say, unsure of what else you can say—not after the last thing you said to him when the two of you were eighteen. “nice day for a boat ride, huh?”

it’s a silly question because you know it is and they do too, that’s why they have the boat out, but you double down and wait—wait for quinn and his friends to agree or maybe for quinn to ignore you flat out. but instead, he shrugs a little and pats the side of his boat.

“yeah,” he says, voice deeper than you last remembered it. “boys and i are gonna go wakeboarding. wanna join?”

the question surprises you and you think it surprises quinn too, judging by his awkward chuckle and his telltale crooked smile that barely reaches his eyes. screw it, you think, because the day’s been full of surprises, so why not add to it.

you nod, “yeah,” you tell quinn, response loud enough for everyone to hear but your eyes only on your childhood friend. “sounds like fun.”

and, admittedly, it is.

it’s nice out on the lake, wind blowing through your hair and the sun melting over your skin. the water splashes over the sides as quinn jerks the boat left and right, his friend, cole, screaming and howling with laughter as he tries to stay upright on the board.

you tuck your face into your face, cheeks heated from the sun, and droopy gaze drawn to the setting sun. a beer is situated between your thighs, condensation from the can leaving splotchy water marks on your jean shorts and the soft skin of your inner thighs. quinn’s other friend, trevor, watches as gentle droplets slip down the curve of your thigh, and you act like you don’t see him staring—because you’re not after his attention, anyway.

you tilt your face away from the horizon, brought back to reality by the sound of cole’s body hitting water with a loud yelp. you smile into your palm as the boys around you laugh and chirp cole as he climbs into the boat, shaking soppy hair like a giant dog.

“as if you could do better,” he retorts as quinn teases his inability to last long—a joke you know has an underlying meaning to it.

before he can retort, trevor pipes in. he’s smirking, mischief dancing in his bright eyes. you think he’s handsome, if it weren’t for the quiet understanding that he was your average hotshot hockey dude who messed with girls like they were pucks that he could shoot away from him at mach speed.

“why don’t we ask her?” he says, waving toward you in your jean shorts and baby blue bikini. “bet she could attest to huggy’s ability to last long.”

your beer can crashes in between your legs, slipping past your fingers and spilling itself over your thighs and the terracotta-colored leather seats. your body is stricken with horror at the implication, at the sheer idea that someone you’ve just met could assume something like that, even though you’d thought about it plenty of times as a teenager—but that’s beside the point.

your now empty can of beer rolls around the deck floor, bumping against one end of the boat before rolling back between your sandal-clad feet. cole, the only one who doesn’t stand or sit looking either proud or horrified, rushes to help you wipe up the foamy amber liquid. he settles his strong body between your knees without thinking, pressing his towel to the ground and snatching up the can. you can feel his hair brushing against the insides of your thighs, suddenly hyper aware of your position.

quinn is, too.

he moves without thinking, snatching up another towel in a tight fist and making his way over to you. your head snaps upward, watching as he gets closer, body illuminated by the setting sun and unfairly attractive in his stupid american flag-themed swim trunks. he moves cole out of the way, lightly smacking at his shoulder so he’ll get up, and grabs you by the bicep.

you reek of cheap beer and embarrassment at the way he handles you, pulling you into his side so he can wipe up your seat for you before letting you go.

“are you wearing anything under your shorts?” quinn asks, leaning over the side of the boat to dunk his beer-damp towel into the cold lake water. he braces himself with his free arm, the muscles in his biceps and chest flexing and taut.

you silently pray that the water with magically come up and suck you in, like the ocean in moana. “yeah, uh,” you start, glancing over at trevor, whose smirk is wider than ever, “why?”

quinn pulls back from the boat’s edge holding the wet towel, little droplets splattering to the deck at his feet in drops of varying size. he looks at you with amusement, a look you thought you’d never see again but had dreamt of for years.

“should take your shorts off then, yeah?” he teases, offering you the towel in his hand. “unless you wanna smell like beer on the way back to the dock.” his lips quirk into a smile, awkward and unsure of himself but trying his hardest to be as close to normal as possible. not that anything was normal now.

you let out a breathy laugh, knowing quinn’s right. memories of rebellious teenage years flood your mind—moments of you and quinn sharing beers and drunkenly spilling them on each other, how you’d dissolve into tears at the smell and how he’d always kept a change of clothes for you on him.

you don’t expect that last bit now as you slip the button of your jeans free, fingers pulling at the worn zipper. quinn, ever the gentleman, turns his face away, finding the boat’s railing more interesting than ever. you watch as his free hand runs along the surface, fingers peaking to pick at something. you drop your shorts and he tilts his head even further away.

trevor whistles again, sharp and downright jeering despite it meaning to be appreciative. quinn’s head is immediately on a swivel, turning to trevor with a withering look—one that clearly reads that he needs to knock it off, or else. your heart squeezes in your chest at his protectiveness, reminded of how he’d been when you’d gone through puberty and catcalled by boys grades above you.

he turns to you and tries his hardest to keep his eyes on your face, to stay level with your eyes rather than your bare chest and tummy and—

“wanna go for a swim?” he blurts, squeezing his left hand in minuscule, discrete motions to keep blood from rushing to his crotch like he’s some dorky teen boy.

the giggle that leaves your mouth has his head swimming, greedily storing the sound of it away in case after this the two of you go back to being strangers. cole and trevor are already whooping at the suggestion and jumping in, sending a shower of ice-cold water up into the air and on your smooth skin. quinn gulps as he waits for your response, adam’s apple bobbing thickly at the sight of water droplets sliding down your neck and between your tits.

you say something that he doesn’t hear, followed by a breathtaking smile and another giggle—another sound that he stashes away in the part of his brain dedicated to you. you surge forward and grab quinn’s hand, pulling him from his own thoughts and into the water. you’re unsure where the bravery even came from, why you’re suddenly so comfortable with him even though you’re the reason he’s not longer part of your life, but you hope it’ll last a little longer as the two of you surface.

and for a second, it’s like you’re both eighteen again. but maybe it’s a trick of the heart, instead.

‎ ୨୧

the fire pit in front of you crackles loudly, spewing tendrils of smoke and ash into the evening sky. you’re curled up on a sun lounger, legs pressed to your chest and arms coiled tightly around them. you’re wearing an old hoodie quinn gave you, one that he claimed belonged to one of his brother’s, but you’d seen through the bluff. you’d seen the hoodie years ago, remembered exactly where you were when ellen had wrote ‘q. hughes’ on the inside of it.

you don’t know why you’re here, sitting in the backyard of quinn’s lake house. one moment you were swimming with your childhood ex-best friend, carefree of the messy past the two of you shared, and the next you were blindly agreeing to come over. to implement yourself back into his world even more.

trevor and cole sit on the other side of the pit, laughing and chatting nonstop. trevor’s interest in you is long gone, put to rest alongside the setting sun, but he still looks at you with a weird glimmer—something you recognize as being bad.

you watch through the climbing flames as the two of them get up from their seats, pushing and shoving each others shoulders like young boys who’ve dared each other something dumb. eventually, trevor rounds the firepit and makes his way to you, his body taking up the sun lounger next to you. he leans back into the plastic slats, casual and comfortable in his position.

“so, how do you know quinn?” he asks, looking at you meaningfully. orange light flickers across his cheeks.

you glance at trevor, face unreadable, and then glance at quinn. he stands on the back porch, diligently working old charcoal off of the grill for the barbecue he’d told you about planning.

“we used to be friends,” you murmur softly, almost too quiet that the crackling of the fire eats it away. you press your cheek into your knee, fully looking at quinn as he tries to start the grill so he can run a whole onion over the grate. “childhood friends, actually.” you fight back a smile. “he and his brothers were the only kids allowed to play hockey in the neighborhood. the others weren’t allowed to because they thought i’d knock their teeth loose, or something.”

trevor sputters in his seat, propping himself up in strong arms. “you play hockey?” he asks loudly, so loud that he draws the attention of cole and quinn onto your curled up form.

you see quinn wince, an involuntary twitch of his body at the mention of you and hockey in one sentence.

your slight smile slips away, and you purse your lips. “yeah,” you say gravelly, “i used to.”

the past-tense of the verb has trevor sinking back into his lounger, “oh.” his excitement is gone, interest in your history with the sport fading from his face.

you nod and sigh, pushing yourself upward. you excuse yourself, claim you need a drink, and follow cole’s advice to head inside for the fridge. you move sluggishly through the backyard, eyes drawn to your feet. quinn watches you move, his plan to clean the grill thrown out the window. instead, he quietly slides the back door open for you and follows you inside.

as you reach for the fridge handle, he comes up behind you, chest lightly brushing against your back. you hold your breath, feelings that you thought you’d tamped down resurfacing—as if they haven’t already after the day you’ve had with him and his friends.

“here,” he whispers, breath curling into your hair and lips so close to your ear that you can feel the heat radiating, the scent of bonfire thick in your nose, “let me.”

quinn’s hand automatically gravitates to a beer you like, fingers curling around the can in a way that causes nostalgia to tug at your ribs. he hesitates for a second, then grabs another one, his long fingers twisting to accommodate for two cans instead of one.

the two of you stand-by-side next to each other in the dark kitchen, sipping from cold beers. the taste of it floods your mouth, drawing stupid childhood memories from the corners of your mind. you swallow them down alongside the beer, throat thick. quinn coughs into the darkness, knuckles tight against the edge of the kitchen counters as he leans backward into them.

“why’d you quit?” quinn asks in a momentary lapse of his own self. you don’t respond immediately, scared to voice the truth. he crushes his empty beer can and tosses it into the kitchen trash bin. “was it really because of what happened when we were eighteen, or was it something else?”

you’d asked yourself that question for years—you always knew it wasn’t actually because of one injury. you always knew hockey was a rough sport—that’s why you were so obsessed with it when you were a kid—but now you were using that one incident as an excuse. you didn’t quit because you’d taken a tumble on the ice, didn’t quit because your mom forced you out of it. you’d quit because you were too caught up in battling the sport for quinn’s attention—because you’d lost to it.

but could you admit that to him, to the boy you’d harbored feelings for since the beginning of time?

“i… don’t know,” you say instead, eyes dropping to look at your beer.

quinn’s jaw ticks in the dark, and the dam in his brain breaks down. “i called in a shit ton of favors,” he says into the dark. “i had my coach at umich ask all of his hockey buddies if they’d heard of you, if you’d somehow ended up one a team’s roster.”

your heart thuds loudly in your ears at the admission, at how after you’d walked out of his world—a world filled with care, a career in hockey, a love for you—he’d tried so desperately to keep you from drifting further away.

“i thought that you might’ve ended up in sports management like your dad, y’know.” quinn turns to look at you, hazel eyes sad as they take in your form. “like, maybe you’d kept that… that spirit after the fall and turned it to helping other players.”

you shake your head. “i couldn’t,” you say thickly, thinking about how your dad had sat you down and asked what you wanted to do in college if you couldn’t play hockey—how you told him you didn’t know, that you felt lost. “i lost it when you left for college.”

“jack and luke tried—“

“i wasn’t in love with jack or luke!” you cry out, turning your teary-eyed gaze to quinn. your lip wobbles. “i didn’t feel like i needed their attention on me every single second! it didn’t matter if i came second to hockey to them because i…” quinn looks at you with wide eyes, mouth agape, and you realize you’ve fucked up. you push off the kitchen counter and place your beer on the marbling. “i need to go,” you say hurriedly, attempting to walk away.

quinn grabs your wrist, fingers firm but not painful. he spins you around until you’re facing him and then positions himself so you’re against the counter, boxing you in between the counter and his string arms. he presses his lips to yours, tasting of beer and summer fruit. a hand slides from the counter and finds your hip, squeezing through the thick cotton of the hoodie you’re wearing. you kiss back, eyes sliding closed and lips slotting so perfectly against his.

it’s not like what you’d expected—there aren’t any showy fireworks in your brain or silly butterflies in your belly. you feel safe, comfortable, as he holds you and pours every unsaid thing into the kiss.

your hands slide around quinn’s neck and he tilts his head to deepen the kiss. he kisses like he’s got all of the time in the world, like he has things to say and make up for, and when his tongue presses to your bottom lip…

you let out an airy sound, something between a sigh and a moan. quinn groans at the sound and the kiss suddenly becomes desperate, messy. his tongue pushes against yours and his teeth graze your lip, stinging in the best way possible. his arms wrap around your waist and he hoists you up, urging your legs to wrap around him.

quinn doesn’t break the kiss until you’re seated on the counter, thighs pressed to cold marble and his body slotted between your legs. his lips smear hot kisses along your jaw, brushing and nipping near your ear before dragging down your neck. he sucks marks into your soft skin, lathing over them with his tongue and leaving a gentle kiss as he moves on. his hands push the hem of your hoodie up, warm palms roaming your bare skin.

“quinn,” you whimper, scared that trevor or cole might walk in and catch the two of you. “we shouldn’t—“

he’s kneeling between your dangling legs, your bare calves hooked over his shoulders and his arms desperately trying to pull your body down more so he can reach you where you need him most. his lips are kiss-swollen and his eyes are filled with determination, and rounded with something you think might be love.

“i’ve waited years to hear you say that, and i doubt those two will try to walk in here after making that stupid sex joke earlier.” quinn squeezes your leg, tilting his chin into the bend of your knee to brush a little kiss to your skin, “but if you want to stop, i will. i don’t want you just for sex. i’ve been so in love with you for years and i couldn’t live with myself after what i did to you.”

you suck your bottom lip in between your teeth, fingers bracing your body against the counter. quinn looks up at you again and your hips twitch lower off the counter, drawing your core closer to his face. he smiles as you nod, and you settle your thighs by his ears, your lower back held upward by his strong hands.

“fuck,” he breathes, sucking dark marks into your inner thighs. you let out a breathy moan, arms trembling already. quinn peeks up at your face, savoring the way your eyes are half-lidded and your teeth are clamped down on your lip. “you’re so perfect, so beautiful…” he praises softly, nuzzling his nose against your clothed clit. “always been.”

your breath stutters in your throat as he presses his tongue flat against your bikini bottoms. the sight of your childhood crush and best friend between your legs is obscene, fucking sinful.

“quinn…” your voice nearly gives out as quinn pulls your bottoms to the side, hot tongue pressing kitten licks to the bundle of nerves.

quinn groans and takes your clit into his mouth, sucking it past his lips and circling it with his tongue. without thinking, you raise a hand to your mouth and clamp it over your lips. quinn quickly adjusts, embracing more of your weight down on him without letting up on his ministrations.

his tongue licks stripes down your cunt, the tip of it pressing into you just briefly. you moan into your palm and chase after the sensation, hips flush against quinn’s lips and chin. he chuckles and you feel every breath of it.

“lemme take my time, sweet girl,” he whispers, kissing your weeping entrance. “i’ll make you feel good, i promise.” you nod into your hand, eyes rolling into the back of your head as quinn continues to eat you out.

his tongue dips into you finally and his nose presses insistently against your clit, rubbing into the swollen bud as he tongue fucks you. your hips grind against his mouth, drawing you closer and closer until you come undone around his tongue with a muffled sigh and a squeeze of your thighs around his head.

quinn grins and pulls away, chin shiny in the dim light with your slick. he slowly slides you back onto the counter, hand drawing up your inner thigh and pressing lightly against your fluttering cunt. quinn pries your hand away from your mouth with his other hand and presses a sloppy kiss to your lips, swallowing every sound that comes from your mouth as he kisses you and presses two of his thick fingers into your walls.

“taste so good,” he whispers as he pulls away from the kiss. he curl his fingers and you let out a gasp, hand squeezing his fingers. “and so sensitive.”

quinn pulls his fingers from your cunt and presses them to his tongue, groaning around the digits as he licks them clean. you watch, captivated, jaw slightly dropped and your hips shifting in search of more friction.

“god,” he moans, pressing his obvious boner into you. “could taste you all night, baby, but i can save that for another time,” he says, voice rough and filled with amusement as you try to press your hips to his with a little pout.

the front of his swim trunks are stained from where he’s leaked through, a patch of fabric darker than the rest of the shorts. you paw weakly at the waistband, impatient and eager for his attention. quinn smirks and draws down his trunks just enough to free his dick, letting it curve up into his abdomen. precum beads at the tip of it, leaking from the slit, and you lick your lips at the sight.

“please,” you beg, looking up at his dark eyes as he fists his cock, spreading pre down the length of it. “please fuck me, q, i need it so bad—have wanted it since forever.”

quinn rubs the head of it through your holds, letting it catch against your clit for a second. “i know, baby,” he murmurs gently. he lines himself up with your entrance and you watch with rapt attention, waiting for him to sink into you.

when he finally pushes into you, agonizing inch by inch, you let out a breathy sigh—like having him in you has you feeling complete. you’re unsure why, but you babble incoherent thank you’s, reveling in the way he fits perfectly within your warm walls.

quinn sets a gentle pace, rocking into you as he holds you flush against his chest. he moans into the junction of your neck and shoulder, one hand slipped under your hoodie to pull your bikini up to grope at your tits.

“feel so good,” he moans into your skin, pace quickening and his fingers tweaking your nipple between calloused fingertips. “take me so well; fuckin’ made for me.” the sensual sound of skin on skin fills the kitchen, your ears ringing as you take in the sound of every lewd squelch.

you nod, lips parted in a moan. your orgasm creeps up on you, building faster than before. “nngh..! q, ‘m gonna cum!” you cry out and he groans. he ruts into you, dick hitting every sensitive point as if he’s mapped your body out perfectly.

“i know, baby, just let go for me. need to feel it like this, please,” he begs, and you unravel at his words. your lips fall in a silent scream and your thighs tremble against his hips.

quinn lets out a choked moan as your walls squeeze and clamp down on him, causing his hips to stutter momentarily as he fucks you through your high. he’s about to ask where you want him to finish when you suddenly lock your ankles around his back, tugging him closer.

“in me, please!” you whimper, eyes shut tight. “want you to cum in me, q; want you to fill me up.”

his hips falter again as he spills into you, gasping and moaning through it as white coats your insides. quinn doesn’t stop; instead, he fucks deeper into you for a moment as you whine and whimper, body sensitive and spent. he stains your walls with him—claiming you now that he’s got you back.

“s’too much,” you mumble, pressing your forehead to his sternum.

quinn chuckles and slowly pulls out, both of your gazes on the area the two of you connect. after pulling up his shirts, quinn takes no time to finger his cum back into you, fingers pressing his seed deep into your cunt. when he’s satisfied, he draws his fingers out and you let him press them into your mouth, tongue circling the pads. he pulls them from your mouth with a pop!

his gaze softens as he looks at you, body still slotted between your knees. quinn runs a hand through your sweat-damp hair, fingers likely scratching at your scalp as if he’s trying to map something out. when you realize, you take his wrist into your hand and bring it to your mouth to brush a tender kiss to the inside of it.

“i don’t blame you for what happened back then,” you say softly. “i was selfish and ignorant, and i didn’t want you to leave me behind.” you look up at quinn and your heart pangs at the sight of guilt in his pretty eyes. “if i could take back every awful thing i said that night, i would. it was never your fault, quinn.”

he tucks his face back into your shoulder and holds you flush against his chest. you hold him close, palms splayed across the expanse of his back. quinn’s body shudders with a relieved sob, a choked sound muffled into your skin and hot tears dampening your hoodie. you don’t let go as he sobs, holding tighter instead.

“it’s not your fault, q,” you repeat into his thick curls. “i love you, and i’ll do everything to remind you—to make things better. i promise.”

[onlyquinns]

OFF SEASON, q. hughes

pairing: quinn hughes x fem!reader

cw: mention of drinking, creepy guy tryna hit on reader, fighting, some light swearing

you jump up and down in the club, dancing wildly with your girl friends. quinn watches you from afar, talking with some of his buddies and nursing a beer. it’s finally the off season, meaning he’s got more time to spend with you, but he’s still iffy on the alcohol, only pretending to sip from the lukewarm beverage so that you can chug it down later.

he’s mid sentence when your movement catches his eye. you’re leaning into your friend, shouting something over the loud ear-ringing music to one of your friends. guys loitering around ogle at you and your friends, staring at the short hemlines of your dresses and your deep cut necklines. quinn glowers, prepared to throw hands in the event someone tries anything—with you and your friends.

you prance away to get yourself a drink, tossing long hair over your shoulder. you don’t make your way to quinn, instead choosing to go to the other end of the bar—the closest to you and your friends—and order a drink. quinn apologizes to his friend for a second, calling over the bartender to let him know that the pretty girl at the end is paid for and to let you in on his tab.

quinn’s about ready to jump back into his conversation with his friend, turning in his barstool to set his attention on whoever’s talking, but freezes mid-turn. within the second he’d stopped watching you, some bald-headed man had made himself comfortable next to you, leaning too close into you and talking with a jeering smile.

“uh, excuse me,” quinn grunts, siding off his seat.

he sets the beer can down on the table, fingers slamming the bottom of it a bit too hard onto the wood, making foamy liquid splash upward. quinn shrugs off his coat, draping it over the worn leather of the stool, and finally starts making his way over to you.

he shrugs past drunk patrons and dancing adults, muttering apologies as he goes. from the corner of his eye he can see your friends still in the middle of the dance floor, huddled together and wildly waving their arms and swaying their hips. they’re too into their dancing to even notice that you’re uncomfortable, set back from returning to them by an uninvited guest.

“c’mon, just let me buy you a drink,” the guy says in your face, eyes drawn to your cleavage. you cover yourself up with your hands, glossy bottom lip wobbling. “i won’t hurt’cha, sweetheart.”

quinn glares at the guy as he approaches you, taking you in his arms and pushing you behind him. “she’s already got someone to buy her drinks,” he grumbles, brows pinched together and his cool crumbling quickly.

the guy laughs, “c’mon, man,” he says, breath reeking of cheap beer and bad intentions. he stumbles as he leans against the bar. “i’m sure we could share.” he raises his eyebrows at quinn, smirking with drunken confidence.

without thinking, quinn swings. he slams his fist into the dude’s jaw, all of his weight training coming to his aid and causing the guy to hit the sticky club floor. he looks up at quinn with terrified eyes, but he doesn’t back down, alcohol clouding his mind and making him spew bullshit at your boyfriend.

“what, that all you got?” he taunts, grasping at chair legs to pull himself up.

quinn tries to jump on him but you grab his bicep, pulling him away. quinn spits at the man cowering on the floor, vision red as you pull him away.

“better think twice before messing with my girl—any girl, for that matter,” he growls, turning in your hold afterward to wrap a secure and protective arm around your waist.

you pass by your friends and whisper your goodbyes, body trembling as quinn holds you. they barely hear you, but let you leave at the sight of your smeared makeup and your wobbly knees with the promise that they’ll text you later to ask what happened.

“are you okay?” quinn asks when the two of you exit the club.

the smell of cigarette smoke lingers in the air outside, mixing with the scent of sweat and alcohol on your skin. you cringe, feeling dirty.

“i’m okay,” you murmur as quinn guides you to his car. “thank you, q.” you wrap your arms around his center and hold him, rubbing your face into his shirt.

quinn hugs you back, uncaring of your makeup smearing onto his shirt. “of course,” he says, lightly backing you up against the car. he pulls away from the hug first and smiles down at you, hand coming up to trace your jaw and cheek bone. “as long as you’re safe, i’m happy.”

your hands wrap around his neck and tug his head down for a kiss, slotting your lips to quinn’s perfectly. he hums against your mouth, savoring the taste of your cherry lipgloss and the one or two drinks in your system. he settles his arms around your hips and pulls you closer, kissing you in the summer night like he’s got all of the time in the world—because for now he does. it’s the off season.

[onlyquinns]

i think my boyfriend just started sleep walking/talking?? he just sat up and said “wait a minute i’m a” and then told me he couldn’t find his clothes 🧍🏻

[onlyquinns]

the pain of collision would be infinitely better than this orbit we're in [qh.43]

pairing: quinn hughes x reader

nickname: star

word count: 10.2k

summary: After years of friendship with Quinn Hughes, what might be your final summer spent in the lake house community prompts a serious re-evaluation of your relationship... for both of you.

warnings: nerding out, nosy brothers, vague mentions of parental divorce (but no major angst) and the slightest miscommunication angst possible. apologies for any scientific inaccuracies; i am not an astronomy major

general timeline: summer 2024

For almost as long as you’ve known of their existence, you have been in love with two things: outer space, and Quinn Hughes. 

Astronomy came first. You were five years old and your older sibling was making you watch some movie about a treasure hunt or something on a roadtrip when someone said that the stars wouldn’t allow some action or another. A word you didn’t know, but you knew what the stars were. That was enough to catch your attention. 

“The stars can make people do things?” you asked, wide-eyed. 

“Sure,” your sibling had shrugged, eyes on the screen. 

“Dad?” you questioned further, because your dad was the smartest person in the world. “Can they?” 

His eyes found yours in the rearview mirror, crinkled like he was smiling. “Good question, kiddo. Some people used to believe that the position of the stars could influence the outcomes of certain actions.” 

“Do you think that?” 

“Of course not-” your mom had started replying for him, but he just winked at you in the mirror. 

“I don’t know, baby. Sometimes it seems like the stars align, and sometimes they just don’t.” 

The more distanced your parents became from each other emotionally, the closer you got to your father. He took you to museums, taught you basic constellations and let you sit in as he lectured about math at the University of Michigan. “My bright little star,” he would call you as he introduced you to the class, looking at you like you were the center of his universe. 

Your older sibling clung to your mom, choosing to move with her to Seattle when your parents finally made the decision to separate. 

“We’ll still be a family, little star,” your mom explained while she was packing up the kitchen. “Just… a family that’s far apart for a little while.”

“And you can call us whenever you want!” your sibling piped up, ruffling your hair. 

So maybe the actual parting wasn’t too bad. At least, not until you had to watch your mother remove the glow-in-the-dark stars that you and your dad had so lovingly arranged into the family zodiac constellations. 

By the time the divorce became official and finalized, you were pretty okay with the familial split. There wasn’t really any ill will, just some fundamental differences in personalities and goals that had emerged with time. Your parents were even kind of friendly again. And they both agreed that the stars just hadn’t aligned right for them. 

It only made sense that you would attend UMich, since your dad was up for tenure soon and they had such a great aerospace engineering program. What didn’t make sense was how quickly you became distracted by a certain hockey player. 

One of your friends had followed her hockey-playing boyfriend to college, and it ended up meaning that your entire friend group had to start attending their games with her. Which turned into her boyfriend’s teammates interrupting your study sessions. And then the two groups finding each other at parties. The ease with which everyone meshed together seemed almost practiced, if you didn’t know any better. Or maybe fated was a better word for it.

There was one presence on the hockey team that drew you in more than the others – quiet, steady, calming. Quinn just had a sort of gravity to him that no one else did. 

“Why up there?” he asked one cold night out on a frat house porch. “Why not study something, I dunno-” His free hand moved around wildly, gesturing to anything and everything in your proximity. “-down here?”

“Why hockey?” you replied teasingly, swirling some disgusting punch concoction around in your plastic cup before shrugging. “Sometimes the stars just align, and sometimes they don’t.” 

He had shot you a weird look, but bit back any comment and nodded like he got it. And you knew he did. 

His girlfriend was nice too, but you didn’t connect with her on the same level. He was the one that you ended up talking to in the corner while others were doing keg stands, the one that you told about missing your older sibling, the one that always asked about the latest news in the astronomical world. 

You couldn’t help the crush that developed. It was almost as natural as your dreams of space, as your connection with your dad. Just something that felt right. Not that you would chase it while he had a girlfriend, of course. You just let it be, existing somewhere in the distant stretches of your universe like a passing comet. Even Quinn’s gravitational pull didn’t have to bring that little fantasy crashing to the ground. 

Maybe his move to Vancouver to play hockey would have. Maybe, if it hadn’t just ended his relationship. Something about it made your heart leap – how he decided to soften the blow for her, but held on to you. 

When he came back that summer, you invited him to your dad’s new girlfriend’s lake house to spend a day with you and some of your local friends. You told him all about how wonderful the community was, how private it felt and how easy it was to see the stars from out on the lake. He agreed, however hesitantly. 

“So, how do you know my little Star?” you heard your dad answer the door from the living room. 

“Dad, don’t scare my friends off!” you called, emerging to find Quinn mid-handshake with him. Your father’s girlfriend Danica stood off to one side, suppressing a smile at the interaction. “This is Quinn. One of the hockey guys, remember? The one who plays for Vancouver. Quinn, this is my dad and our lovely host Danica.”

“Ooh, Canada,” your dad said enthusiastically. “What’s that like?”

And you groaned again, linking your arm through your friend’s to lead him into the living room and hoping that he didn’t catch the wink your father sent your way. 

“So. Your dad’s friendly,” he noted when both of you had sat down, one corner of his lips raised. There was something in the way he looked at you, in the way he made you feel like it was an inside joke even though it was just an observation. Something that had been there for a long time. 

But you swallowed the feeling and nodded, going off on some tangent about how your dad would make friends with a chalkboard if only he were given the opportunity. Quinn laughed. The conversation moved on with him using your dad’s nickname for you. Your mind kept wandering back to that look of his. 

Even as Quinn settled into his life as a professional hockey player, your friendship remained. Calls and texts kept you connected over the distance and through time zones. 

You graduated. Your dad moved in with Danica full-time. His younger brother started playing in the NHL too, and they bought a lake house together on the same lake as your stepmom’s place. And Quinn’s path started crossing yours again every summer. 

“Star, I need you to come to this party,” he near-begged over the phone a few days before the Fourth of July one year. “Please. It’s going to preserve my sanity.”

“Preserve your sanity, huh?” you raised an eyebrow even though he couldn’t see it. He sucked in a deep breath, maybe in excitement, but then you hesitated. “I don’t know, Quinn. I don’t think Leo would be a huge fan of that.”

He took a second to respond. “Leo?”

“Yeah. That guy I was seeing? He… kind of asked me to go steady with him,” you said, hating the way your heart panged as you told him. 

“Oh,” he’d replied simply. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

In the end, you had gone to the party and had a wonderful time. A friend of Quinn’s little brother had saluted you randomly when you walked in. It was weird, but still fun. The resulting fight with your boyfriend had even felt worth it for a few months. 

Then, as the winter chill began to set in, you got into a post-graduate program where you could live with your mom for a while. He’d been even more upset about that. So he faded away, just like Quinn’s college girlfriend. And the two of you stayed friends. Just friends. 

~~~

“What do you mean you’re not really gonna be here next summer?” Quinn asks, pacing the kitchen. The little outburst distracts Luke from his bowl of cereal. His little brother watches him run his hands through his freshly-cut hair, then lean on the counter to look out the window. 

Nothing he does feels right, so he changes positions again, back resting against the countertop now. 

“I mean I’ll be spending most of it moving in with my mom, Quinn,” your voice comes through the phone into his ear, so soft and sweet. “I’ll get, like, a month to wrap things up here, but…” You trail off. 

He knows what you’re not saying: he might be busy with the playoffs. And unless he’s playing Detroit, you’re not gonna be able to make those games. 

“We’ll just make the most of this summer, then,” he decides, avoiding Luke’s expectant gaze. “Hang out whenever we can and all that.” He’s quiet for a moment before adding, “Got better at wakeboarding, you know. Gotta see it.” 

Your little laugh is reassuring. “I guess I do. You guys still have that same boat?”

He nods before remembering that you can’t see him. “We do. Are you still gonna make me take you out in the middle of the night so you can talk about rare planet sightings?”

“Of course,” you say, and it sounds reassuring. “It’s practically a tradition at this point, right?” 

Quinn hangs up much happier than he started the call, and his little brother just shoots him a look that says it all. He shakes his head, making Luke roll his eyes dramatically. 

“Don’t,” he protests softly, “Luke, you know it can’t be like that.” To which Luke mumbles something in a clearly snarky tone into his cereal bowl, and his oldest brother just ignores him, mind drifting to all the plans he has to make to properly enjoy what might be his last summer with you. 

~~~

Knocking on the front door of the Hughes boys’ lake house causes a flurry of excitement that you can even hear from outside. People scramble around inside like a startled group of cats. And when the door finally opens, it’s not who you expect at all. 

“Hi,” the guy says, leaning against the door. “I don’t think we’ve really met ‘cause you weren’t single last summer. My name’s Tre-”

He gets shoved aside mid-sentence. Quinn pulls you into a hug, whispering something in your ear that sounds a lot like “ignore him,” before steering you toward the back of the house. His hand stays in place on your back like an anchor. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice even though he’s looking away. 

“Happy to be here,” you respond, looking around to see how their place has changed since last summer. “Have to replace anything from the fighting yet?”

Quinn sighs, finally stopping and turning to face you. He shakes his head, but he’s grinning. “You know how last summer, we thought that making them confess to each other would fix everything?” You nod. “Yeah. Well, to put it in as few words as possible: we may have made it worse, and I’m kinda dreading their arrival.”

You giggle, and his expression turns from exasperation to a smile. “Your little gang here are quite the matchmakers, huh?”

“We’ll have to see about that, Star. They might just be nosy and lucky,” he says, making sure to raise his voice so the others can hear. Someone shouts an indignant “hey!” from a room or two over, which makes you laugh again. 

His eyes are sparkly. You’re being reminded of it now, as he smiles at you because you’re in on the joke and they’ve got this matching twinkle in them, but really they’ve always sparkled. You just weren’t always sure it was for you. There’s little reason to doubt it now. 

Jack ruins the moment by making his entrance from the kitchen. You don’t miss how his gaze flickers from Quinn to you, then back. Then he grins. 

“Hey, Star,” he says, words coming easily. You know he’s high energy, but he puts on this laid-back façade with his older brother’s friends. Must be trying to look cool. At least, that’s what Quinn thinks. “Know where you’re going for that program yet?”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “You know about my school applications?”

“Of course I’ve heard about it.” 

“UWash. In Seattle,” you answer finally, feeling yourself swell with something warm and proud. Quinn talks about you to his family. Your dad’s been asking about him since they met, but he’s talking about you. 

If you weren’t experiencing the flutters actively, you’d say you were past the age of getting butterflies. 

And Jack is opening his mouth to say something else, a glimmer in his eyes that’s much more mischievous than Quinn’s, but his older brother is already dragging you out to the deck, commenting, “That’s enough of him,” as if it’s final. 

Later that night, everyone’s coming back in from the lake for a bonfire. Trevor in particular is fascinated with your tales of college-age Quinn, though you know they knew each other at the time. Even if it wasn’t quite as well as they do now. You’re talking about how you were trying to teach your dad the rules of hockey at the one UMich game he attended when your friend makes an excuse to pull you off to the side. 

“Gonna make me blush by making me sound like that, Star,” he mumbles after asking you to come grab something inside with him. You reach for the basement door, but he gets to it instead. “Ladies first.” 

“Like what?” you ask, genuinely confused. “I was just talking about how you were playing that day.” 

He shakes his head. His hair’s shorter than it was at the end of the season. Neater. Still usually hidden under a hat. “Like a team hero or something.” 

“Aren’t you?” you question. Simply. Casually. Both of you know the narrative surrounding him as the Canucks’ captain, and both of you know that it’s always been there, just waiting to be seen. The way he looks at you after you ask makes you feel incredibly seen yourself, even in the dark. You hope that he feels the same way. 

When he still doesn’t answer, you add, “You are to me, anyway.” 

“You’ve always thought so highly of me,” Quinn finally says, running a hand through his hair. He turns away, pacing a few steps before coming back to you. “Have you ever doubted that what you see in me… that guy… is real?”

You frown. He’s always been hard on himself, but this kind of feeling lingering so prominently in the summer is unusual. So you take his face in your hands softly, forcing him to look at you. His eyes are wide. His face is flushed. But you hold firm, making sure he’s really looking at you. That he’ll hear what you’re going to say. 

“No, Quinn, I have never even considered that. Because I know you.” And you leave it at that. 

A couple of quiet days go by. Work, if only a temporary job until you move to finish school, keeps you busy. And you assume that all of the guests at the Hughes house are doing the same for Quinn. 

But he shows up at your dad and Danica’s place early one morning, probably as soon as the other few guys at the lake house this summer have pulled the boat away from the dock. You pause your work and leave your laptop on the couch to let him in, because you were lucky enough to get a five minute warning. 

“I know it’s early,” he says, a rare emotion imbued into his voice, “but I brought donuts to make up for it.” 

“Well, you know I can’t refuse that,” you say, taking the box from him with a smile. Despite your warmth, he remains a little… shy? Sheepish? Scared? You can’t really read it. So you just ask. “Is everything okay, Quinn?”

Spinning on his heel, he glances at the door like he’s considering running away. “No, yeah. Just…” he trails off, taking a deep breath. “Have you heard about that planet thing that’s happening on Monday?”

“The parade!” you beam. Your friend grins back at you like it’s automatic, more muscle memory than anything at this point. But one eyebrow raises as your words register and he repeats them back to you slowly. You explain as you take your seat, “Since there’s going to be so many in the lineup, they’re calling it a whole parade instead of just a planetary alignment. It’s going to be so cool.” Another second goes by before you realize that he’s the one who brought it up. “You care about planet parades?”

Quinn smiles again, softly, as he leans over from his spot on the couch to nudge your shoulder with his. “Of course I do. You care about it.” 

A comfortable silence falls as the two of you settle into what has become an old routine: working on your own things in the same place. He’s reviewing play, you think, and you’re finishing up the coordination for some event or another at work. Nothing too important. 

Then he speaks again. “If you’re not, uh, already doing something for it, would you maybe want to take the boat out to see the planet parade?” Over his tablet, his eyes are on you as he awaits your answer. 

You lean over, smiling ear-to-ear. “I’ll bring my travel scope.” 

He smiles back at you, big and beautiful, and you can’t help the twinge of regret that astronomical events can’t actually make an influence on whatever’s happening down on the ground. Because you know exactly what you’d wish for if they would only allow it. 

With the promise made, the two of you let the rest of the day pass you by together until Quinn gets a call from one of his brothers asking where he is. His path crosses Danica’s on his way out, and she walks in with a knowing grin. 

“It’s nice that you two are still close,” she comments from the kitchen, setting her purse down on a counter. 

You hum in agreement. 

“Has he asked you out yet, though?” is her first question, and there’s a hopeful edge to her voice that cuts you maybe a little deeper than it should. 

“Danica-” you start, whipping around to face her properly. She raises her hands defensively as you continue, “I only broke up with Leo-”

“Four months ago, after dating for less than eight months. And you never felt as strongly for him as you do Quinn,” she points out. “He just asked first.” You sigh, but there’s no real accusation in her tone. Only facts. As she heads back to change, she leaves you with one final thought. 

“You two are good for each other, Star. And you’ll be even better as a couple, if one of you just takes that leap.” 

Her voice fades as she closes the bedroom door behind her. Still, it echoes around your head for what feels like days. 

On the morning of the planet parade, you’re awake hours before you need to be. But you’re too excited to sleep. It feels almost exactly how Christmas did when you were a kid, except today you get the presents super early and then you get to sneak back into somebody else’s house to eat breakfast and be lazy all day. 

You can’t text Quinn too early, because you know how much hockey players love their sleep. You can only wait so long, though. 

“I don’t understand how you’re fully awake this early,” he texts back at 4:09 am. Having called him in the earliest hours of his day before, you know exactly how it would sound in his gravelly morning voice. And even that image doesn’t distract you enough. 

“IT’S PLANET PARADE DAY!!!” you reply, making sure to add your own little parade of astronomical emojis at the end of the text for emphasis. 

Then you finally get out of bed to start getting ready, because you’re supposed to be over at his place by 4:45 to get the boat out in time. You pre-packed a lot of what you’re bringing last night: your travel-size telescope, cans of some knockoff coffee brand to ensure you are completely awake for this, a few bags of snacks, and an extra pair of binoculars. Just in case. 

You tiptoe out of the house. You keep quiet until you’ve made it into your car and fully shut the door. Then you squeal, because your excitement has been building for days now and you need to let it out somehow. 

Quinn is waiting outside when you pull up. A set of keys jumps from one hand to the other as he jerks his head to indicate where you should park in the driveway full of other cars. He’s opened your door and started digging in the backseat for your bag even before you’ve come to a full stop. 

“Hey,” you whisper, tugging at his sleeve to get his attention. 

“Yeah?” he starts to ask, but you’ve already thrown your arms around him, burying your face in the softness of his hoodie. His come up to rub your back. You mumble something into the fabric. He looks down, trying to hear you better. “Star?”

When you look up, your breath catches. If you didn’t know better, you’d say his does too. 

“Star?” he prompts again. “Are you alright?”

“Thank you for doing this with me,” you blurt. “I’m really so excited.” 

His laugh is as soft as his touch. “I can tell. You ready to get the boat out, then?” You nod, letting him go to help carry your stuff out. He holds up the keys in one hand. “I was moving the cars around so that the other guys have room to get theirs out while we’re gone, but lemme go grab the boat keys and I’ll meet you on the dock.”

You nod, a fluttering rising in your stomach. Nothing you can do will tamp it down, so you watch him go before you start making your way around to the back of the house. 

A few minutes pass before Quinn emerges through the patio door. He still has your bag, but there’s another big lump under one arm and a cooler in his other hand. When you see he’s having trouble closing the door, you don’t even think about it. You rush over to take some of it from him. 

“Quinn,” you say, pulling what you now see are folded blankets from him, “Let me carry something.”

“Star, you have to know my mom raised me better than that-” he starts to protest. His voice dies out when you finally manage to get the blankets away from him. 

He looks away from your pout as you speak. “And my parents raised me to be a polite guest. And you’re doing something really, really nice for me. So I’m helping as much as I can, even if I have to fight you a little bit for it.”

Even though he huffs, you catch him smiling to himself as he locks the door behind him and leads you down to where the boat is docked. 

The two of you get the boat out on the water in no time. You know your way around by now, even in the dark. Quinn comments on how much more helpful you are than most of his brothers’ friends, but otherwise you two are content to work quietly until you’re in the middle of the lake. While he drives, you watch the boat’s wake interrupt the stars reflecting over the water. 

“I really can’t thank you enough for this, Quinn,” you repeat, turning back to the driver’s seat once you’ve stopped. “I know you hate being up too early.”

He shrugs good-naturedly. “‘s never too early for you.” 

“Thanks,” you say once more, though it doesn’t feel like nearly enough to be an appropriate response to what he just said. Even if he didn’t mean it like that. 

Someone left a speaker on the boat from the other day, and Quinn makes use of it. Neither of you want to get too loud, of course, but it has to be hard for anyone to hear you all the way out here. One song on his playlist surprises you. 

“Didn’t I introduce you to this?” you question. You’re not positive, but you’re pretty sure you did. 

“Sophomore year, right before winter break,” he answers, nodding. “You told me it reminded you of summer.” He’s right on the money. This song has always made it feel like summer, whether it was icy or hot outside your car as you sang along. Quinn pulls you from your thoughts by adding, “I didn’t get it at first, but… I guess I really came around to it when I listened to it after coming back from Vancouver.” 

You want to say something in response, continue the conversation in some way, but he points to the east. “Isn’t that one of your planets?”

Gasping, you scramble over to his side to follow where he’s pointing with your eyes. Then you squint. 

“I think that’s Jupiter… and Mercury!” you announce, heading back to your bag to set up the telescope. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

Despite facing away from him and the planets, you hear Quinn’s awe-filled “yeah.” So you’re a bit surprised when you spin back around, telescope in hand, only to make eye contact with him. He smiles sheepishly. 

“Didn’t wanna see it if you weren’t,” he defends himself quietly. You aren’t sure if you believe him. 

The only two planets that you really need the telescope for are Uranus and Neptune, which you point out to Quinn while he’s looking through. He doesn’t giggle, doesn’t even blink at the name of the former. Back in college, most of his friends did. Even some of yours. But he only had to listen to you once to know how highly you thought of anything and everything astronomical, so he refrained. 

It’s meant the world to you ever since. And made you love the planet that much more. 

Though you have nothing against the sun, its arrival on the horizon quickly overpowers the more distant planets. Quinn notices your growing sadness as they disappear. He leans over with a conspiratorial grin, nudging your shoulder to direct your gaze over to the sunrise. 

“I know it’s a little more ordinary than the planet parade, but it’s still pretty, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” you say, having to clear your throat and try again. “Yeah. Thank you again for bringing me out here to see this, Quinn. It means a lot.”

He pauses the process of getting back into the driver’s seat to bring you both home. “Of course, Star. It was cool for me too, but we can do this whenever you want.”

You’re allowed to help bring everything in when you get back, including Jack’s forgotten speaker, and just like at your parents’ place the other day, both of you settle comfortably on the couch. But your lack of sleep catches up with you. Before you know it, you find yourself drifting off next to Quinn while some show he likes plays out quietly in front of you. 

Light fills the room as you start to wake to the sound of murmurs. Your pillow rises and falls rhythmically – you stiffen as you remember that pillows don’t do that. It’s someone’s chest or shoulder or something. A comforting weight on your shoulder, which you now realize is someone’s hand, moves down to rub your arm reassuringly. 

“Hey,” Quinn whispers when you open your eyes, his own crinkling at the corners a little bit as he tries not to smile. “Did we wake you?” 

Pushing back from him as you sit up, you squint at the other figures in the room. You make out Luke and Trevor on the other couch, and Jack on the floor. Their positions motivate you to move faster. Heat rises in your face. 

“I’m so sorry,” you say, just loud enough for the other boys to hear. “I didn’t mean to take up all the room on your couch.”

Jack shrugs, completely unconcerned with you stealing what definitely would have been his spot. “It’s no big deal, Star. Quinny here said you were probably up at three or something crazy anyway.” He pauses, a slow smile spreading across his face. “How was planet-watching?”

As you get into the details of it – from which planets were visible to how rare of an event it is for six of them to be visible in such a way – you feel Quinn pulling his arm back to his side from where it was wrapped around you while you slept. You stutter over your words for a second, imagining him being that protective over you, even with people he trusts as much as his brothers and their closest friends. Jack pretends not to notice you re-starting your sentence. 

Quinn excuses himself a little while later to go grab some food for the two of you. Which ends up being food for everyone, “since he’s already going out.” He tries to ask if you want to ride along, but Trevor interrupts to volunteer enthusiastically, claiming that Quinn always says he needs to help out more anyway. 

Your friend sighs as he turns to his younger brothers. “Don’t scare her away, please. We’ll be back in maybe ten minutes.” His voice sounds again from the front of the house as the door opens. “And make sure you treat her like a guest!”

The door shuts. Jack moves up onto the couch with Luke, and when they both look at you, you refrain from gulping. 

“So…,” Jack starts, obviously wanting something. “You may not have known this, but Trevor’s had kind of a crush on you for a couple of summers.” You feel your brows furrowing before you can stop them. He pays no mind. “We thought last year’s party on the fourth would be a good chance for the two of you to get to know each other a little better, but Quinn told us you had a boyfriend. What happened with that?” 

Luke sighs at his brother’s indiscretion. He rubs at his temples for a moment, but eventually looks back up at you. And you realize you have to tell them something. 

Trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, you say, “He didn’t want to worry about distance when I got into my new program and decided to move in with my mom for a little bit.”

“In Seattle, right?” Luke asks, and you nod. You didn’t realize that even he knew about it. “That’s not too far from Quinn. Maybe you wouldn’t just have to see him in the summertime, then.” 

“It’s a lot closer than Detroit, that’s for sure,” you agree. 

“You think you’ll like it up there?” 

Jack’s question surprises you. You blink. “Well, it’s a great school, and my mom and my sibling are already up in that area…,” you trail off, running out of reasons as to why you picked that program over any others. Well, reasons that you can confess to, at least. 

“And so is Quinn,” Jack finishes for you, grinning. 

The blush from earlier had gone away with the conversation about food, but now it’s creeping back up to your face. You aren’t sure where this conversation is going, and you don’t know what you have to say to the the boys for it to stop. So you agree and hope for the best. 

“Well, yeah.” 

Luke, noticing your increasing unease, takes the lead from his brother. Thankfully. “Are you going for your doctorate up there, or just your masters?” 

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Jack pouts. He makes the expression exactly how Quinn does, and something about the familiarity of it reassures you even though Quinn himself isn’t here to. 

“I actually have my masters degree already. But the goal has always been to get my doctorate,” you start explaining to the boys. “Insane as it might sound, I’m aiming for NASA or somewhere similar. Just anywhere that I can conduct research into outer space and its effects on what we’re doing down here, from tides to farming to behavior.”

“Really? There can be that big of an impact?” 

“Well, you know, that’s how astrology started. And astrology is almost as old as civilization itself, you know? People have been studying and trying to interpret the stars for a long, long time,” you say, trying not to gush from their sudden interest in your interest. To your delight, they both even have the manners to look kind of invested. “It’s not just a potential factor for dating compatibility – constellations have been used to track seasons so ancient Mesopotamian farmers knew what they could plant and when. Sailors use them to identify what hemisphere of the world we’re in. There’s stardust in our blood, guys. So much of what we have on Earth came from a star one way or another. It’s just…” You let yourself trail off. 

“Crazy,” Luke breathes out, finishing your sentence. 

Starting to wind down from your little rant, you nod. “Yeah. Crazy.” 

“How long have you been into this stuff, Star?” Jack asks, adding, “You seem really passionate about it.” 

“Since I was…,” you pause, wracking your brain for the correct age. “Five, I think?”

“Wow.” 

If the quiet falling over the room is any indication, the boys are impressed with your knowledge. Or your passion, you aren’t really sure. Either way, you almost jump out of your skin when a hand lands on your shoulder. 

“Haven’t I been telling you guys for years?” you hear Quinn from behind you, voice full of pride. “Smartest person I’ve ever met.” 

Jack’s teasing grin is directed over your shoulder to his older brother. His grip on you tightens ever-so-slightly as if he’s nervous for whatever the middle child is going to say next. 

“Why has she hung out with the likes of you for so long, then?”

Trevor’s laugh erupts from somewhere behind you, and Quinn’s thumb rubs over your shoulder a couple of times. Jack’s eyebrows raising is the only indication you get before your friend is chasing his little brother out of the room. 

A couple weeks later, you bound into the Hughes lake house with a few boxes of donuts in your arms. The sun has only been up for a couple of hours, which means Jack and Luke aren’t up at all. Quinn is, though. He’s been waiting for you. 

“Good morning, Quinn!” you exclaim as quietly as you can. 

“Morning, Star,” he greets you over a mug when you make it into the kitchen. You hug him carefully, sliding the donuts onto the counter on your way in. 

“Happy Summer Solstice!” The words are said into his chest and maybe a little bit into his cup of coffee, but he hears them nonetheless, chuckling and echoing them back to you. You let him go to gesture at the donuts. The one arm he wrapped around you stays put. “I brought food as a ‘thank you’ for enjoying all the daylight hours with me. I know it’s not on your diet, but…” 

He finishes your sentence with a response. “The guys’ll love it. Probably gonna finish those boxes before the light’s gone.” 

“How many are here right now?” you ask, pulling away fully from the hug and taking a step back. He lets his arm fall without complaint. Still, you catch the line forming between his brows. 

“I don’t know, all of Luke’s college buddies. I think maybe four, five?” 

Your friend tries to sound casual, but your eyes widen anyway. “I didn’t bring enough for that many hockey players to eat, Quinn!” you whisper-shout. He tries to stop you, but you’re already starting to make your way back to the front door, talking to yourself all the while. “Oh my gosh, I should’ve asked first. I need to go back for more donuts. I’m so sorry, I’ll be back!”

“No.”

This gets your attention. Keys in hand, you spin around to make eye contact with him. “No?”

He shakes his head for emphasis. “No. You’re not obligated to feed four extra college-age boys because you wanted to do something nice for my brothers and I to include us in your celebration. We’ll make it work with what we have, and if anybody wants more then they can handle it themselves.”

Your body relaxes at his words, and you know he notices. He beckons you back towards him. 

“C’mon, Star, let’s get outside and celebrate the longest day of the year properly until all the bums in my house wake up to get out on the boat with us and celebrate more.” He puts his mug in the sink and slings an arm over your shoulder as he says it, leading you outside. 

After the solstice, summer seems to speed up. You’re worried that it will slip away from you and Quinn entirely, but you’re reassured in the fact that within another year or so, you’ll live much closer to each other. And he’s spending more time with you this summer, anyway. One on one. Your dad and Danica have a lot to say about that. 

“Asking you to hang out solo again?” your dad tries to read Quinn’s text over your shoulder at the breakfast table. 

“Are you sure you’re not going on dates?” Danica pipes up from opposite you, newspaper in one hand and coffee in the other like a 1950s father. She kind of sounds like one, too. Her tone is almost strict even though you know she would never try to parent you. 

Sighing exaggeratedly like a teenager, you turn your phone off and place it facedown on the table as if Quinn’s texts are something you don’t actually want to see. Your dad and stepmom exchange a look. As soon as his plate is safely on the table between you and his girlfriend, your father leans over to talk to you.

“If it’s approval you’re worried about, I’m sure your mother and sibling could grow to like him,” he offers, patting your hand. 

“It’s not that, Dad. I know they’d love him. I’m just… not exactly sure where we stand,” you explain, picking your phone back up as soon as it buzzes. The notification isn’t even a text – it’s some store app trying to sell you on a deal. 

Danica folds the newspaper, placing it delicately in front of the empty chair. “Has he invited you to that big party they’re throwing tonight?” 

They get their answer in the way your eyes dart from your phone to the door, as if you’re itching to go already. Still, they wait for you to speak. “Well, yeah, but I didn’t know if we were doing anything here-”

“You know we’re not doing anything here, Star. We’re boring old people,” your stepmom waves you off (even though she’s a few years younger than your dad). “Go. See him. Look cute. And have fun.” 

So you pick up your phone and reassure Quinn once more that you’ll absolutely be at their place tonight because there’s nowhere you’d rather be. And you try to ignore the looks that you receive as you get up from the breakfast table to scavenge your closet for a new, festive, party-appropriate outfit. 

The reputations of the Hughes’ cousin, nicknamed Sunshine, and Jack’s friend Matt have preceded them. You’ve never gotten the chance to learn her real name since everyone just uses the nickname. For the longest time, you were convinced it actually was her name, and you thought that was just the coolest thing. 

Anyway. You know who they are, and you’ve kind of met them in passing before. But this summer, they’re a couple, and Quinn is reporting that their competitive nature has only grown, if that was even possible. 

When you come over in mid-July for a game night, the garage door is unlocked for you. There are raised voices coming from the kitchen. Trevor is the only one around, so you raise an eyebrow at him. 

“Ignore them,” he says simply. “Arguing is their love language.” 

You nod and continue on into the house. Quinn finds you only moments later, a smile appearing on his face at the sight of you. It’s only dampened by the apologetic furrow of his brows. He pulls you into a quick hug before tilting his head toward the kitchen. 

“Ready to get trash-talked into dust?” he teases gently, nudging you with his elbow so you know that he’s absolutely just kidding. “There’s this new card game Sunshine wants us to play, and apparently it’s a partner thing.” 

Before you can even react too much, he leans in closer to you, lowering his voice. “Don’t worry. I already told everybody else I’m off limits. We got this.” 

So you squeeze his arm in thanks and let him bring you to the source of the noise. Matt and Sunshine are washing and drying the dishes, respectively. But she’s tilted over the sink to tell him how his technique is wrong. The smile is as evident on her face as it is in his voice. Trevor may have been right – this really is their love language. 

“Guys,” Quinn raises his voice so they can hear him. Both heads whip around like two kids caught on an iPad after bedtime. “You remember my friend Star?”

“Hi,” Sunshine says quietly, lifting one sudsy hand for a small wave. She and her boyfriend look a bit embarrassed at being caught by an outsider, so in hopes of making her feel better you wave back. It makes him smile. You catch his eyes lingering on her, but you think Quinn smiles beside you, too. 

“You’re the card game experts?” you ask, making her perk up. 

She makes quick work of drying her hands, taking on a proud tone as she announces, “Reigning Scum queen, at your service,” in a slightly repressed Southern accent. “Actual scum, over there.” And she indicates her boyfriend with her thumb, making you giggle. He frowns, sticking his tongue out at her behind her back. 

They’re cute together, but you can maybe understand why Quinn and his younger brothers would consider this worse than last summer. 

“Just let us finish up in here, and we’ll meet everybody in the formal dining room for the game. We’re gonna need all the chairs on separate sides,” she tells your friend before heading back to her boyfriend, who appears to be a man of few words around strangers. He shoots you a polite nod before Quinn is taking you by the arm to show you the formal dining room. 

He conveys the orders to Jack and another one of his friends as they appear in the threshold from the living room. Jack excuses himself to go grab the deck of cards, but his friend is distracted by his phone. He looks pretty happy with it, too, so you move to grab a chair yourself. 

“Cole,” Quinn gets his attention, “would you mind moving that other chair so Star doesn’t have to?” 

The young man does as asked, not without finishing his typing. He finally looks up from his phone with the same kind of easy grin that his friend often wears. 

“Sorry about that,” he says as he picks up the chair and maneuvers it around you. “Was just texting someone back.” At his words, your friend shoots him a knowing grin. He keeps talking. “You must be Quinn’s genius astronaut friend. It’s really nice to meet you.” Cole tips an imaginary hat your way, making you giggle before dipping your head in response. 

“Just your average postgrad student, but thank you. I’m flattered,” you correct him. 

He shrugs in response as Quinn straightens the chair he moved at the other end of the table. “You’ve done more college than anyone else here. Makes you a genius compared to us, for sure.” 

There’s not much you can do in response besides accept the compliment. Jack returns, bringing almost everyone else in the house with him. Sunshine and Matt deliberately sit across from each other, exchanging conspiratorial grins. Then she remembers everybody else in the room. 

“If y’all have already picked a partner,” she explains, raising her voice above the residual chatter between Jack and Trevor, “then take a seat across from ‘em and we’ll explain the rest later.” 

So you pick your way through the room to sit down across from Quinn, ignoring the chaos around you. It only makes sense that as his guest, you’d be his partner in the game. But something about being reminded that he made a deal of it just sets butterflies loose in your stomach. 

The remaining four figure out their pairs pretty quickly, all things considered, and Sunshine launches into the rules with a dramatic flair. The point of the game is to try and get four of a kind but keep it hidden so you can signal to your partner. For each correct call made by your partner, you get a letter from the name. It sounds simple enough. You and Quinn have known each other for long enough that you should be able to communicate pretty well. 

You’re reminded at the start of the game that pretty much everyone else here has known each other just as long. 

Matt suggests a trial round before the real start of the game, just so everyone can get into the rhythm of it. He and Sunshine take the round, but you’re the one to figure out that Jack and Cole’s signal is raising their eyebrows. 

“Oh, come on! Already?” Jack complains when his cousin informs him that he and his partner have to change their signal. His older brother grins at you proudly. 

You and Quinn end up getting K-E-M in the first three official rounds. Everyone else has to change their signal at least once. Matt’s dumbfounded. Sunshine is quietly impressed. And Trevor and Luke do not appreciate no longer being allowed to tap their fingers on the table. 

In the fourth round, Jack is intensely focused on his cards. So you’ve deduced what it means by the second time Cole clears his throat. 

“Kemps!” you call excitedly, sighs seemingly echoing around the table. “Cole?” 

He reveals his four of a kind, tossing them back on the table to get up and discuss changing the signal with Jack. 

“I’ve gotta ask, Star,” Sunshine says as she re-shuffles. “How do you pick up on everyone else’s signals so fast?”

You shrug, handing her your cards to throw into the mix. “I don’t know, I guess I’ve gotten used to studying stuff. Or I’m just really, really lucky.” 

Play resumes more intensely than before. Trevor and Luke figured out Matt and Sunshine’s signal a couple of rounds ago, but that’s the only thing they’ve had going for them throughout the entire game. They lose focus during the mad grab for the upward-facing cards, you’ve noticed. You don’t.

When you grab the Ace of Diamonds to complete your set, you keep shuffling your cards and frowning, but don’t reach for the up-cards. Quinn glances at you. Your eyes flick up to the ceiling, then back down. 

“Kemps!” he says, leaning back in his chair calmly, like he knows you’ve got the game in the bag. 

“Star got it. She did the looking up thing that they do,” Luke clarifies, just before you drop your set onto the table. 

His cousin nods once. “Congrats again, guys. Now go change your signal.” 

Most of the other pairs have just been meeting on the far side of living room so nobody else hears the discussion, but Quinn takes it to the next level. He ushers you back into the kitchen and offers you a drink as you chat. But first, he holds his fist up. 

“We make a good team,” he says, lips quirking up in a half-smile, “so cheers to us.” 

“Except for getting caught doing the signal,” you point out. “What are we gonna do about that?” 

A moment passes as he thinks it over. “What about-” and he contorts his face goofily, crossing his eyes and doing something with his mouth that you’re already convinced you can’t do. But the expression gets you to laugh, and his face relaxes into a smile at the sound. 

You could get distracted by his laughter any day – luckily, an idea strikes you.

“How about-” you lean in to whisper it in his ear. He blinks a couple of times, but agrees. 

The sixth round doesn’t even give you a chance to use the signal. The Scum king and queen take it again, immediately getting comfortable in their victory. 

But you get an extremely lucky hand, and then the final 3 pops up in the first set of up-cards. You look up at Quinn from beneath your lashes, biting your lip as lightly and quickly as you can. He freezes for a second. Panic rises within you, even though it’s just a game. And as you re-open your mouth to take your bottom lip in between your teeth again, your partner answers the call. 

“Kemps!” he shouts over the noise from the other end of the table. “Star and I win.” 

You flash your cards to the rest of the table just to prove it, and Trevor groans. 

“I can’t take any more of this,” he complains. “Between these two-” He gestures first between you and Quinn, then Sunshine and Matt. “-and you two, the rest of us don’t stand a chance. I’d rather get beaten fair and square by chance in pool or something. But dibs on keeping Lukey here as my teammate.” 

Everyone files out of the room, chatter igniting amongst them. Sunshine stays for just a minute to gather the cards. Then she’s gone too, and only you and Quinn remain. You open your mouth, but he beats you to the punch. 

“Stay teammates for pool?” he asks, smiling like he doesn’t have any problem with the events of tonight. Like he’s not reading into that pause between when you bit your lip and when he called Kemps. 

If he’s not, you guess you have no reason to. So you grin back at him, accept his outstretched hand to get up, and follow him downstairs to get crushed in pool by his little brothers and their friends.

 

Mercury is hanging over you in the sky when you ask Quinn if he wants to watch the upcoming meteor shower with you, adding quickly that you don’t have to watch it from the boat. But you think it would be cool to see the “shooting stars” both in the sky and on the water, if it’s still enough. 

“Just us out there?” he asks, looking over at you from his own lounge chair.

“If you want it to be,” you reply, a little confused. “Does someone else want to come?”

He huffs something out between a snort and an actual laugh. It sounds bitter. “You should probably ask Trevor. He’s practically been begging me to have you over more.” When you look over at him, he won’t make eye contact. 

So you reach out, tapping him on the leg to ensure you have his attention. “Quinn.” He still refuses to look at you. “Quinn.” Finally, he turns, a familiar pout on his face. You have to try not to giggle. “Quinn, it can be just us. You’re a good astronomical observation partner. My favorite, even.” 

“Really?” His pout dissolves into a smile. “Even over your dad?”

“Just don’t tell him,” you say, holding a finger up to your lips.

Your old friend mimes zipping his lips and throwing away a key. This time, you don’t hold back your chuckle. The meteor shower is still a little over a week away, but suddenly you find yourself looking forward to it that much more. 

Quinn makes the plans for the day of the meteor shower. He keeps promising you that it’s going to be special, and you don’t have the heart to tell him that the astronomical event itself… isn’t really all that special. 

He gets takeout from your favorite place, even though it’s definitely not a short drive from the lake. It gets eaten before you make it down to the boat, but he prepared for this – he has a bag of your favorite snacks too. It really does make the night feel special. It makes you feel special. 

Down at the dock as the sun is setting, the two of you release the boat from its restraints, whispering and giggling all the while. 

“Hurry, before any of the guys see us and try to join!” your old friend tells you, grabbing your hand to help you board safely. (Apparently, some unnamed people recently confessed to some near-incidents of falling off the boat last summer, and Quinn doesn’t want the same to happen to you.)

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” you whisper-yell, giggling. 

You make it onto the boat without a problem. Quinn starts it and pulls away from the dock maybe a little faster than is necessary, but you won’t say a word. This being just between you and your beloved friend of so many years isn’t really an issue in your mind.

There’s hardly any talking as he directs the boat out to the middle of the lake. Dusk takes over the sky above. Silence reigns as the meteors start gaining visibility against the darkness above, only broken by the occasional crunching of a snack or hiss of an opened drink. It’s beautiful. You sneak a few glances at Quinn before he leaves the driver’s seat to join you on the back bench. 

A particularly bright streak shoots across the sky. Then, he speaks. 

“I know they’re just falling rocks and not actual shooting stars, but can you still make wishes on meteors?” Quinn asks. 

You giggle a little, but shrug. “If you want to, I guess.” He shifts, laying back and resting his head on your lap. One of your hands finds its way into his hair. His eyes close, though you aren’t sure whether that’s from contentment or he’s actually making the wish. 

When they open again, you can see the meteor shower in them. 

“Wow,” you say under your breath. Then you realize he can hear you, and you correct yourself. Your gaze returns to the actual sky. “What did you wish for?”

“It won’t come true if I tell you, right?” 

Sighing, you pull your hand back. “You know, I thought we were a little closer than that, Quinn-” 

He grabs your hand and returns it to his head. The pouty frown on his face says volumes, but you want to hear him say it. If it’s what you’re thinking it is – what you’re hoping it is – you need to hear him say it. More than anything. 

“I wished for a change.” 

This isn’t what you thought you’d hear. It especially isn’t what you were hoping for. You freeze despite yourself. 

“A change?” Quinn only hums in response. “A change how?” He still doesn’t respond. Your heart starts racing in a bad way. Although you’re starting to think you might not be ready to hear the answer, you prompt again. “Quinn?”

He sits up slowly, careful to not knock heads with you. Another meteor falls somewhere off to your right, and it lights up his eyes when he turns to look at you. He takes your hand again, just holding onto it this time. 

“Star…,” he trails off, taking a deep breath. “I don’t think I can wait for a meteor to fix this.” Your heart drops into your stomach at his words. “I love you. I’ve loved you since we met in college, and I knew even then that it was kinda crappy since I was with someone else, but I was too selfish to give you up even after I left. And that was probably one of the best choices I’ve ever made.” 

And maybe you’d have something to say to that, but he goes on. “Every day you’re in my life, you fill it with wonder. You encourage me to learn, to grow, to push myself in ways that no one else does. I can’t thank you enough for that. I… I haven’t really been able to get a read on how you feel, if I’m honest, but I just needed you to know that this is how I feel.”

“Quinn,” is all you can get out, your chest is so full of emotion instead of air. He looks at you, right at you, as if he can read every feeling on your face. Still he waits for you to say it. 

But you can’t get the words out. So you lean in, your gaze falling from his eyes to his lips. You make sure to check his eyes once more for some semblance of permission before you finally kiss him, sliding one hand into his hair, holding him tight. You’ve wanted this for so long – there’s no way you can let him go now. 

He reciprocates eagerly, reaching around to pull you closer by the waist. Maybe in another situation this would be rushed. Maybe you’d be trying to make up for lost time. But here, now, under the falling stars, you both take your time. This kiss is slow, but passionate. 

And when you eventually pull away for air, Quinn looks at you like you’ve just become the center of his universe. Or maybe you always have been, but neither of you realized it. 

“I love you too, if that wasn’t clear,” you say, closing your eyes and resting your forehead against his. “Always have. My world’s practically revolved around you since we were college freshmen.” 

The half-chuckle, half-sigh he breathes out is warm on your lips. 

“Thank goodness,” he murmurs. “I’d be worried if you didn’t love me, after a kiss like that.” 

Only a couple weeks later, you and Quinn are back out on the boat under the cover of darkness. This time, though, Jack and Luke tag along, wearing their swim trunks like they plan on going swimming even in the dead of night. Jack snuck his speaker back onto the boat, and it plays some kind of soft, vibey music while the four of you wait. 

“When are these things supposed to show up again?” Luke asks grumpily, slouching in the driver’s seat. You toss a bag of chips at him from your spot on the bench with Quinn. 

“Any minute now, hangry-pants.” 

Almost as if summoned by your words, the first meteor makes itself known. Others follow in quick succession. Jack and Luke ooh and aah over the “stars,” and this time you’re mostly sure that it’s not them trying to be polite at all: they’re actually pretty impressed. Their older brother’s arm, already draped over your shoulders, squeezes yours gently. 

When you look over at him, he’s already grinning. He brings you in closer to press a short kiss to your temple, then looks back over at the boys. 

“Didn’t you say you were gonna go midnight swimming?” he questions, furrowing his brows at Jack, who glances at Luke. 

They make quick work of getting into the water after Quinn’s reminder, leaving their shirts, shoes and phones on the seats. You can hear the splashing and yelling, but it’s difficult to see them amongst the dark reflected in the lake. 

“C’mere,” Quinn helps you stand, messing with something on Jack’s phone before pulling you into his arms. 

“What’s up?” you try to ask. You cut yourself off when you hear what’s started playing – your song, the one that always sounded like summer to you and eventually Quinn. “Quinn…”

He picks up one of your hands, directing the other one to his shoulder. “More than summer, more than anything, this song always made me think of you when I heard it. So I just want to appreciate it here with you now, while we still have a little bit of summertime left.”

“I love you,” you blurt. 

“I love you too, Star,” he whispers as the two of you sway to the music, undoubtedly off-beat. 

Still, it’s perfect. Surrounded by Quinn and falling stars, you can’t imagine anything better than this. Until the boat starts rocking as his brothers climb aboard, anyway.

[onlyquinns]

bet hed be the best camp counselor

These are so summer camp boyfriend!nico. I'm claiming that fic now. Dibs. I will be working on it very shortly.

[onlyquinns]

drinking ice water and its melted to the point where it all tastes like fridge ice

[onlyquinns]

agreed but THIS is just... and the cap... somethings purring

How does he always look like a boyfriend?

[onlyquinns]

his lips are so POUTYYYYYY ugh kith kith

I have 3 courses on technical drawing and only draw hockey men

and I still refuse to use a ruler when drawing perspective

[onlyquinns]

fs did minecraft roleplay smp or whatever

your new pfp looks like they’d (emphasis on they) make a bomb latte at starbucks

happy pride tho i love the gays

THEY cooked ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜🩵🩷🤍🤎🖤

[onlyquinns]

the black on black is such a good look on him

How does he always look like a boyfriend?

[onlyquinns]

Hi!!! Could you write a Quinn x Popstar fic? Like it’s her first time going to one of Quinn’s game or meeting the family? (Hughes bowl???)

you walk between the rows of bleachers in roger's arena, hair down to cover your face, and your friend trailing after you. you're holding a beer, dark red nails curling around the aluminum can in a way that looks borderline sinful. before you can get even see the seat number, you're suddenly bombarded with an enthusiastic welcome.

"oh, my gosh! hi, hon!" mrs. hughes--ellen--greets. you look up at her with a warm smile, remembering that quinn said he'd got you seats next to his parents.

ellen wraps you into a tight hug, pressing you to her chest with more love than you should be given by someone you've just met. you hold her back, inhaling her shampoo and gentle perfume and feeling like everything's right in the world.

when she pulls back, she keeps you at arm's length and takes you in. her eyes aren't scrutinizing or judgmental as she sweeps over your form, filled only with care and something like admiration. she introduces you to jim, quinn's dad, and you introduce her to your friend. conversation flows way too smoothly; the four of you talk nonstop, never leaving a silence empty, even though comfort rests in it.

when it's finally time for the game, the scoreboard timer countin gdown to a few seconds, ellen turns to the ice. her hand rests over your's, squeezing as the announcer calls out her boys' names: jack, luke, and--finally--quinn.

he looks ethereal on ice, hair tucked under his helmet and his face glowing with a smile. he goes through all the pictures so easily, reveling in his role as captain and as an older brother getting to play with his younger siblings—even if he's playing against them.

your friend squeals next to you as the game starts, waving the smallest new jersey devils flag you've ever seen. you laugh at her antics, elbowing her teasingly for rooting for the other team.

when the first period ends, the devils winning thus far, the arena suddenly fills with loud cheers--louder than when the buzzer went off. your friend shakes your arm and points, drawing your attention to the jumbotron as the announcer says your name.

"looks like we've got a rockstar in the house!" he says, earning more cheers and applause. you wave at the camera, ruby red lips curling into a gorgeous smile. you adjust the collar of your leather jacket, making a little enamel '43' pin suddenly visible in the thick fabric. "and it looks like pop idol, y/n, is cheering for our captain; canucks fans lets make some noise!"

you giggle behind your palm as the arena suddenly doubles in volume, your face disappearing from the big screen. ellen chuckles next to you, pulling you into a warm side hug.

"ugh, so proud of you," she says as she lets go.

your face warms at her words and you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, smiling bashfully. "thank you, but you should be proud of your boys--they're incredible."

ellen smiles and turns back to the ice, players getting ready for the second period. "oh, i am."

after the game, you wait in the parking garage for quinn. you're leaning up against the passenger side of his car, phone in hand as you scroll through twitter, when he finally turns the corner. quinn's exhausted face morphs into a warm smile at the sight of you, large hands reaching up to pull his hair free from the dark beanie on his head, and long fingers brushing through the thick locks.

"hi," he murmurs softly as he approaches. his smile doesn't falter as he settles warm palms over your hips, beanie still between his fingers.

quinn leans forward and your eyes flutter shut, uncaring of paparazzi in the moment. you feel the rush of air as he lets out an airy chuckle before slotting his lips over yours, humming softly at the taste of your fruity lip gloss. before you can tilt your head to deepen the kiss, quinn slides his lips off of yours and you hear the car door behind you click open. he's got one hand on your hip, squeezing and protective, and the other holding the door open behind you.

"continue this at home?" he asks softly, all sour thoughts of the game gone just for now. he's got all the time in the world to mull over what-ifs and poor plays, but time with you is rare due to messy work schedules.

you nod and let him help you into his dark porsche. "of course, baby," you say, and quinn shuts the door after you.