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camficdiner · 11 hours ago

Note

I am loving your writing! Can I please order: [1.2] [2.7 and 2.4] [3.6] [4.2] with an age gap older woman x younger man (6ish years). Like they meet rando with coffee and they hit it off and she just invites him to a wedding so she has a plus one?

☕️ Cam’s Fic Diner — Order 052

🍒 Thank you for order, angel. This one’s bold, elegant, a little older, and a lot unexpected.

💬 “You’re cute. Want to come to a wedding?”

✨ Description and prompts:

character: Quinn Hughes

prompt: Age gap (you’re 35+), coffee spill meet-cute, fake dating for your sister’s wedding

word count: ~1.9k

type: fluff,smut.

tropes: fake dating, accidental meet-cute, age gap, classy lawyer x young hockey player, bold woman energy

📦 Tips keep the diner open: ko-fi.com/camficdiner

—

You’re in heels too sharp for how fast you’re walking and running five minutes late for a client call when the universe, in all its chaotic glory, slams Quinn Hughes directly into your path.

Well, more accurately — you slam into him.

Coffee. Everywhere.

On his hoodie. Down the sleeve. On his jeans.

“Oh god,” you gasp, already grabbing napkins, reaching for his chest. “I am so sorry—shit, this is hot. Are you okay?”

He stares at you like you’ve just knocked him off balance — which, to be fair, you kind of did.

“I—yeah. Yeah, I’m good,” he says. Voice a little too soft for someone covered in oat milk latte.

You don’t clock who he is. Not yet.

All you see is a tall, broad, very pretty boy in a Canucks hoodie, blinking like you’ve short-circuited him.

He’s young. Definitely younger than you.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just keeps looking at you, lips parted, coffee cooling down on his chest.

“I’ll buy you another,” you say quickly. “And probably a dry-cleaning voucher.”

He finally huffs a breath of a laugh. “I don’t think that’s a thing.”

You raise an eyebrow. “It should be.”

—

You buy him another coffee. He offers to pay. You ignore him.

You find a table by the window while your phones buzz in your pockets — both of you avoiding the world for just a second.

“So,” he says, after his second sip. “Do you usually tackle strangers with caffeine, or am I just lucky?”

You smile. “Depends who you ask.”

He laughs. “What do you do?”

You sip your drink. “Lawyer. Defense.”

He nods slowly, like he didn’t expect that. “You look like one.”

You tilt your head. “That a compliment?”

He blushes. “Yeah. I mean. You’re dressed really nice. Expensive. Confident. I don’t know.”

You let the silence sit for a beat, then glance at your phone.

“My sister’s wedding is next week.”

His brows lift. “Okay.”

“I need a plus one.”

A pause.

“…Okay?”

You meet his eyes. “You’re cute. Can you be my plus one?”

He freezes — stunned, unsure if you’re joking.

“Wait, seriously?”

You nod. “Why not?”

He stares at you, cheeks pink. “You don’t even know me.”

“You drink oat milk. You didn’t yell when I ruined your hoodie. You laughed at my jokes. That’s more than most men manage.”

His mouth twitches.

You shrug. “Just pretend to be my date for the day. I’ll feed you. And you get to wear a suit.”

He grins now. “You really just ask strangers to weddings?”

“No. Just you.”

—

It starts when he shows up to your apartment, on time, in a suit that fits way too well for someone you met via spilled latte.

“You clean up nice,” you say, half teasing, half staring.

He adjusts his tie with a nervous smile. “You don’t look like you needed a date. You look like the bride.”

You roll your eyes. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

⸻

The car ride to the wedding is oddly calm. Quinn doesn’t speak much — just watches the road, nods along to your rants about the seating chart disaster and your cousin’s TikTok obsession.

When you arrive, he opens the door for you.

Carries the gift box.

Touches the small of your back when you walk through the hall.

Your mom’s the first to clock him.

“Oh. You brought someone.”

You smile, steady. “Mom, this is Quinn. Quinn, this is my mother, the scariest cross-examiner I know.”

Quinn offers his hand. “It’s a pleasure, ma’am.”

Your mom raises an eyebrow — and you see her eyes linger.

Quinn is young. It’s obvious. But he carries himself with such awkward grace that it softens the blow.

You mingle. You sip Prosecco. He leans in close to comment about the appetizers and smiles when you laugh too loud.

And then—

“Wait a minute.” Your sister, in full glam, stares. “Since when do you date hockey players?”

You choke. Quinn doesn’t even blink.

You turn slowly. “What?”

She waves her champagne flute. “Quinn Hughes. Captain of the Canucks? Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

You glance at Quinn.

He offers a small shrug and a smirk, clearly unbothered.

Your sister steps closer. “You know he’s, like, what, ten years younger?”

“six,” you correct on instinct.

Her eyes widen.

You clear your throat. “He’s my date.”

She hums. “And is this just… fake dating?”

You hesitate.

Quinn answers. “I’m her boyfriend.”

You whip around. He gives you a soft look — almost daring you to contradict him.

“Yeah,” you say. “He’s… my boyfriend.”

Your sister raises both brows but smiles. “Well. You always did have taste.”

⸻

The rest of the night is a blur.

People talk.

Some whisper.

Your aunt calls him your boy toy under her breath.

But Quinn never flinches. Never steps back.

He dances with you.

He holds your hand when no one’s looking.

He grabs your waist when they are.

At one point, while you’re refilling your glass at the bar, he leans in, mouth near your ear.

“You okay?”

You nod. “Are you?”

He shrugs. “I like pretending.”

You glance at him. “Pretending what?”

“That I’m yours.”

You stare.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t joke. Just waits for your response like it means something.

You feel your throat go tight.

“Quinn—”

He brushes your hand with his. “Let’s go back in. Your mom wants a picture.”

You nod.

But something shifts in your chest.

Because you’re starting to forget it’s fake.

And maybe… he is too.

-----

It’s after the cake. After the cousin’s drunk speech.

After Quinn’s hand brushed yours for the fiftieth time like he didn’t mean it — and you pretended not to feel it each time.

You close the door behind you in your hotel suite, drop your clutch on the armchair, and kick off your heels. You’re about to unzip your dress when—

“You looked beautiful tonight.”

You turn. Quinn’s there, right behind you.

You exhale. “You don’t have to keep pretending, Hughes. Wedding’s over.”

“I’m not pretending.”

You hold his stare. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t back down.

“You don’t have to mean it,” you say softer, more unsure. “I know this wasn’t real.”

“It was for me.”

Silence.

Then, a breathy laugh escapes you. “You’re twenty-seven.”

“So?” He steps closer.

“I’m thirty-three, Quinn.”

“Not when I look at you.”

Your back hits the wall.

He doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t have to.

“You think this is just because of the wedding?” he asks, voice low, mouth inches from yours. “Because I was in a suit?”

You don’t answer.

“You think I haven’t noticed you watching me? Every time I touched your back, your hand, your hip.”

You close your eyes. “Don’t.”

“I’m not just a boy.”

“You are,” you whisper. “You’re just a kid with a pretty face—”

His mouth crashes into yours.

It’s not a kiss — it’s possession. It’s all the slow burn and tight-lipped restraint from weeks of pretending, now torn apart.

And when he does touch you — hands sliding over your waist, up your sides, down your thighs — you forget every rule you ever set.

You moan into his mouth, and that’s when he pulls back just enough to smirk.

“Still think I’m a kid?”

You swallow. “You tell me.”

He drops to his knees.

⸻

Your dress is around your waist. Your thighs are spread on the bed. He’s between them, devouring you like he’s starving — like he’s been waiting months for this.

His tongue moves in slow, perfect circles, alternating with firm pressure and maddening flicks. And then? One long, deliberate suck on your clit.

“Quinn—” you gasp, head falling back. “F—fuck, where did you learn—”

He hums against you, sending vibrations through your core.

And then you feel it — the pressure building. The kind you haven’t felt in years.

“Wait—Quinn— I’m gonna—”

He holds you down.

You cry out as the release hits — hard, overwhelming, and soaking.

You blink in disbelief, staring at the wet patch under you.

“Did I—?”

He looks up, mouth glistening, eyes shining.

“Yeah,” he says, lips curling into a smirk. “You did.”

You’re breathless. “I haven’t—no one’s ever—”

He crawls up over you, slow and confident.

“Guess I’m not just a boy after all.”

⸻

When he’s inside you, it’s slow. Purposeful.

He’s deep — impossibly deep. His hands are on your hips, holding you in place while he thrusts with gentle strength, a rhythm that builds with every second.

“You feel so fucking good,” he whispers against your neck. “You were made for this.”

You bite your lip, overwhelmed.

He notices.

“Say it.”

You shake your head.

He thrusts deeper. “Say it.”

“You’re not just a boy,” you whisper, wrecked.

He kisses you — slow, sensual, tongue dragging against yours.

“Say you’re mine.”

You nod. “I’m yours.”

You wake up sore, satisfied, and tangled in bedsheets that still smell like him.

He’s behind you, bare chest warm against your back, arm slung low over your hips, hand lazily stroking your thigh like he’s trying to memorize the shape.

“You awake?” he murmurs, voice scratchy, low.

You hum. “Barely.”

Silence stretches. He kisses your shoulder.

“I don’t want to go back to pretending,” he says, quietly. “Not after this.”

You turn in his arms, searching his eyes. “You’re sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.”

You smile. “Then it’s real.”

A pause. Then, with a sleepy smirk—

“…Still want me to come to your sister’s wedding brunch?”

You laugh into his chest. “Only if you wear that suit again.”

He grins. “Only if you wear nothing under your dress.”

#camficdiner #qh43 #qhughes #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes #quinn hughes fanfiction #quinn hughes smut #qh43 x reader