Latest Posts by rienextdoor - Page 2

reckoner, take me with you

quinn hughes + reckoner by radiohead

so luke is gonna have quinn and jack cheering him on during playoffs

that’s their baby 😭

Canucks @ Stars | April 8, 2025

I think the best gift I can offer myself is acceptance. Or maybe it's forgiveness. Or maybe it's trusting in my own mind. Or maybe it's all of that, and everything I haven't figured out yet too.

sometimes the only closure you will get is knowing that everything you did was done earnestly and out of love

hollering at this so i can ignore the fact that they lost again 😭

why did miller... pin luke to the boards... and try to drag him down after... for no reason. the puck wasn't on luke??

More controversially young girlfriend x sidney please I beg 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻 my fave thing on tumblr rn

Sidney was a lot of things.

Disciplined. Respected. A goddamn adult man with a fully formed brain and a career built on structure.

And yet.

Yet, when it came to you?

He had nothing. No defenses, no strategy, no self-preservation instincts. Nothing except the overwhelming, all-consuming, slightly humiliating urge to make you happy.

And it wasn’t just that you were gorgeous—though, obviously, that was a problem in itself. You had this effortless, natural beauty that made his head spin, sure. But it went so much deeper than that.

It was the way you looked at him. With amusement, with curiosity, with something warm and open and unfiltered. Like he was just Sid—not Sidney Crosby, not the face of a franchise, not a legacy—just your Sid.

It was the way you laughed—loud, unrestrained, with your whole damn body. You were playful, always ready with a joke, always willing to poke at him, never afraid to give him shit when he needed it.

And it was the way you felt beside him, your energy all light and easy, like you could take anything serious and make it a little less heavy.

You made him feel young in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with age.

Not young in the reckless, careless way of twenty-something athletes who had too much money and not enough foresight. No, you made him feel young in a way that was alive. In a way that reminded him that life wasn’t just training schedules and game film and calculated, responsible decisions.

And that was the real reason he couldn’t say no to you.

Because the world saw you as his young, spoiled girlfriend, the girl with the wide eyes and the expensive bags, the one they thought had him wrapped around her finger with a pretty pout and a bat of her lashes.

And, okay—fine. You did have him wrapped around your finger.

But not just because you were pretty.

Because you made him happy.

And Sidney, for all his discipline, for all his control—Sidney liked being happy.

Which was why, despite knowing better, despite all logic and self-restraint, he found himself in the same situation over and over again.

Like right now.

"You are not pouting at me right now," he said, watching you with a raised brow.

You blinked up at him, so falsely innocent it was insulting. "Pouting?" you echoed. "Me?"

Sid gave you a look. "Yes. You. The pout. The eyes. The whole act you’re putting on."

You gasped dramatically. "Are you saying my feelings aren’t genuine?"

"I’m saying," he exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose, "that we both know exactly how this ends, and you are still going through the motions like I have even a fraction of a spine when it comes to you."

Your lips twitched, and he knew—knew—you were thriving off this.

"So," you said sweetly, stepping closer, tilting your head up at him, "*what I’m hearing is… you’re gonna get me the bag?"

Sid sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. "God, I’m a fool."

"You’re a very generous fool," you corrected, standing on your toes to press a quick, teasing kiss to the corner of his mouth. "My favorite kind."

Sid muttered something about being so whipped it was embarrassing as he pulled out his phone, already texting his assistant to make the purchase happen.

And then, before he even hit send—

"Wait!" you gasped, grabbing his wrist. "Oh my God!"

He stilled, immediately on alert, brow furrowing. "What? What happened?"

You placed a hand over your chest, eyes wide and serious. "I think I just realized—"

Sid’s heart actually skipped a beat. "What? What is it?"

You squeezed his wrist. "I might need the matching wallet, too."

Sid groaned, head tilting back as you cackled. "I hate you."

"Liar," you grinned, nuzzling into his chest. "You love me."

And—yeah. Yeah, he did. Like a damn fool.

And Sidney wasn’t proud of how easily he folded for you. But in his defense, you made it really, really hard to say no.

So, of course, despite all his grumbling, despite rolling his eyes and pretending to put up a fight, the second you started up with that sweet, pleading voice and those ridiculously big, unfairly pretty eyes—he caved. Like he always did.

Which was why, less than a day after your little performance, a sleek black shopping bag from Chanel was sitting on the kitchen counter, filled with the bag you wanted (and the matching wallet, because he was so far gone it was pathetic).

And the second you saw it?

"Oh my God," you gasped, dropping your phone onto the couch as you all but floated toward the counter, eyes shining like you just saw heaven itself. "Baby, no way—"

Sidney, already leaning against the counter with a lazy smirk, shrugged. "You really didn’t think I was gonna get it?"

You turned to him, clutching the bag to your chest dramatically. "I hoped," you sighed, "I dreamed—"

Sid chuckled, shaking his head. "Unreal."

But before he could get another word in, you were launching yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck, peppering his face with quick, giddy kisses.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," you murmured between kisses, your happiness so damn pure that Sidney actually felt something in his chest clench.

This was the part he could never prepare for.

Yeah, he liked spoiling you. Liked making you happy. But the way you reacted? The way you never took it for granted, the way you always lit up, always made it feel like the best thing in the world? That was what got him.

You pulled back slightly, your nose brushing his, voice softer now. "I love you."

And just like that, he knew.

Knew he’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.

But, of course, he couldn’t let you off that easy.

"Wow," he hummed, lips twitching. "Now you love me?"

You narrowed your eyes. "Shut up."

Sid laughed, his grip tightening around your waist. "You weren’t saying that when you were trying to manipulate me yesterday—"

"Manipulate?" you repeated, scandalized.

"—with your little pout and those fake sad eyes—"

"FAKE?!"

"—and now that you’ve got your bag, it’s all ‘I love you’—"

"Sidney Crosby, you take that back this instant," you demanded, poking his chest.

"Mmm, I don’t know," he mused, enjoying this way too much now. "Maybe I should return it. Can you even appreciate something if you got it through emotional deception?"

Your jaw dropped.

"You are so dramatic," you muttered, pulling away, clutching your bag tighter like you thought he’d actually take it from you.

Sid grinned, tilting his head. "You gonna pout again?"

You glared. "You are the worst."

"And yet," he smirked, leaning down, voice dropping to a low murmur against your lips, "you love me."

You exhaled sharply, your resolve cracking. "Unfortunately."

Sid chuckled, pressing a kiss to your forehead before wrapping an arm around your shoulders, guiding you toward the couch. "C’mon, princess. Let’s see what other trouble you can get me into."

And just like that, the cycle would start all over again.

done healing my inner child. next up is my inner teen. her highness demands a sword.

ᴄᴀᴘᴛᴀɪɴ ǫ(ᴜɪᴄᴋɪᴇ)

[3.8k] Pairing | Quinn Hughes x afab!reader Summary | Tedious events paired with his beloved dolled up just release that dog in him Warnings | 18+ smut, semi-public sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), swearing, minor ass slapping, gagging (panties), making out, mild derogation kink (slut) Authors Note | This is dedicated to all the Quinn girlies who follow me - spare me I haven’t written Q in a while. I am planning to write Jack too, I swear <3 and I really hate how this font screws up the ‘Q’. This is a work of fiction, please remember that my dudes

The moment he saw the ‘Q’ embroidered on her evening gown, she had him on a leash. She had him grinning and tracing his fingers over the letter cleverly stitched on the hip, perfectly positioned where Quinn loved to place his hand. He wasn’t the kind of guy to brag about anything, but there were occasions when he thrived in showing her off to people, out of pride and with the swell in his heart. 

Y/n’s eyes flickered from one businessman to the other and then back to Quinn. She’d never seen either of these men before and she’d attended a reasonable number of Quinn’s important Canucks events. Yet, she remained tucked into his side, his arm wrapped around her waist and hand securely on her hip, his thumb rubbing over the embroidered ‘Q’ that settled there for him. Whatever the other men were saying drowned out in her ears, the only voice that mattered was Quinn’s and how soothing it was to get lost in, letting it pick her up and sweep her away while the boring conversation in which she’d heard hundreds of times droned on. She knew she shouldn’t think that, but at least she was an honest woman, able to recite word for word Quinn’s answers and what they truly meant. 

His hand tightened on her hip, gripped, and what started as soothing over the embroidery turned to his whole hand running up and down her waist, eyes struggling to maintain on the men in front and not wander down to her cleavage. She looked far too divine in the dress, too sexy for an event, the dress complimented her in every form possible and the moment she stepped out in it, his stomach flipped, and his body surged with warm, adrenaline. Heart eyes, drooling. How was he supposed to keep his cool when his girlfriend looked stunning, how was he supposed to keep his hands to himself when she’d claimed him in the fabric, silently bragging to everyone who she was, showing the lengths she’d go for him?

She tapped his shoulder, and he leaned down slightly, her breath hot against his neck as she murmured, “You seem busy, Captain. I’m getting a drink.”

With a coy smirk across her pretty lips, she turned and walked away with swaying hips, her touch lingering on his chest and all he could do was wet his lips and watch her leave. Heat flushed through him and to his face, tie suddenly too tight and he tugged at it, playing it off as just normal suit warmness when the businessmen piped up again with their chuckling. When she wasn’t with him, he realised how heads over heels he was for her, an emptiness by his side and there she was, leaning over the bar, without him when she could be giving him that siren look she had, luring him into her waters where she’d be unbuttoning his shirt, tugging it over his shoulders and running her lips slowly down his neck, leaving languid kisses over his skin just how he liked. 

“Excuse me, guys.” Quinn smiled politely, the gentlemen raised their glasses slightly and continued to chat amongst each other. The eldest Hughes strode, confidently, desperately, in y/n’s shadow, as if her perfume took him by the hand and led him right back to her at the bar. His hand smoothed over the small of her back, lips grazing her cheek until he mumbled in her ear, “What exactly are you playing at? Captain? Seriously?”

She turned her head to face him, noses bumping from how close he’d leant down to conceal his words. Cocking a brow, she smirked slightly, “What are you talking about, Captain? You saying you’re upset that I lured you away like this? Do you not like my company?”

“Darling, you know I’d rather ditch this joint and be with you. But keep that ‘Captain’ shit until we get home, you swore you’d behave.” His voice was gruff, and stern, as if he was almost scolding her, trying to tame the wildfire she could be yet the only effect it had was to fuel her, his attitude going straight to her pussy.

His eyebrows knitted, but he wasn’t truly angry. Tempted, heat rose up his neck and spread over his back, his suit becoming too warm to cope and he felt his cheeks fluster. Her honey-coated voice was relentless in her game of torment, their height difference perfect at that moment, the bar stool she sat on letting Quinn tower over her and it was so easy for him to grab her jaw and kiss her hard, the ecstatic tingles in his chest and stomach attempting to use him like a puppet and give in. He didn’t. He shoved his free hand into his pocket, steadying a firm gaze on her glimmering eyes.

“I thought you liked it when I used your title?” she rubbed her foot along his calf, eyes flickering down to his crotch and hooked her finger around his belt loop, ensuring her knuckle brushed against his semi-hard dick, “And you seem to be enjoying it right now.”

The straining was painful, throbbing, slacks doing him enough justice but the more she pressed her breasts together, the more his insatiable, selfish greed pinned him in a chokehold. He licked his lips, hand gliding from her lower back up her spine until his fingers took her by the chin, his thumb running across her lips and he tilted her head up. The way his gaze burned into her eyes unleashed a desire between them both, a mutual aching. Quinn would never admit such a secret out loud, but getting caught balls deep didn’t sound all that bad, the endless comments of being walked like y/n’s dog would turn into people knowing how much of a whore she was for him, how she begged for him to let her cum, to throw her around. Yet, she was too pretty for anyone else to see her how he gets to, her fucked out face with jaw hung open and eyes rolled back was for him and him only, something only he got to think about. 

She rose from the stool, pushing the drink aside and smoothed her palms over his chest, feeling it fall deeply, like he was trying to keep his composure, with excitement bubbling in her stomach. Sliding her hands down his stomach slowly, fingertips leaving little tingles spurting through his body in their wake, her arms wound around his waist, their bodies meeting chest to chest. Quinn swallowed hard at the doe-like eyes she flashed, pressing into him with that enticing gaze that deemed him a sap, and got her whatever she wanted. His cock twitched when she wet her lips, only imagining how warm her mouth felt around him while on her knees, hair and makeup ruined by lewd choking of his cock pumping down her throat and he couldn’t take it. 

“Stop it.” he grumbled, bringing her chin between his fingers and leaning down, placing a slow kiss on her lips, his free hand finding her hip exactly where the ‘Q’ sat as if waiting for him. Loud chatting dimmed and only their heartbeats thumped in their ears, his tongue swiping across her bottom lip before he pulled away, noses millimetres apart as his voice seemed to drop. “You’re killing me, the dress, the embroidery and the title, y/n I am struggling not to bend you over this bar and fuck you sore.”

She bit her lip, eyes flickering between his and his lips, clit throbbing with desire. “Too bad you’ll have to wait then; I think there’s a few donors here who want to talk with you-”

Y/n stepped back, arms leaving his waist and he craved their presence instantly, that empty, cold feeling returning and all he felt was a raging urge to throw her onto the bar. She turned and began to walk away, eyes locking with his but if there was one thing Quinn had learnt, it was that he needed to think less and do more, let his body move on its own and give in to his needs, no matter how filthy or desperate they were. He gripped her wrist, abruptly yanking her back into his chest, hands roaming along her waist, breath fanning in her ear, hot on her neck and for those few seconds, he didn’t care if people were watching him. 

“-C’mon, pretty girl. Just quickly, in the bathroom, I’m dying here. You can tease me all you want, darling, but the second I ignore you; you’re begging for my cock like the little slut you are. So, you’re either gonna use your words and tell me what you want, or we can both stick around unsatisfied.” His words oozed with an enticing demand, a roughness that pooled heat into her underwear and goosebumps stood on end. 

Turning her head slightly, enough for their eyes to meet, she smirked playfully, “I want you to come find me in the bathroom and show me just how insane I make you.” 

He’d zoned out at her words for so long that she'd already disappeared into the bathrooms by the time he’d snapped back to the present, his tongue poking into his cheek and exhaling. He knew she had a chokehold on him, the moment he saw the dress, but he wasn’t the strongest soldier, clearly. And he certainly wasn’t right then and there because his feet took him away, power walking after her with a face of thunder - brows furrowed with a burning in his eyes, weaving through guests and shoving past Thatcher and Brock, who stifled laughter.

Y/n didn’t have to wait long before he came barging into the bathroom, locking the door behind him and pushing her against the sink, towering over so close she felt the heat radiate off his body. His hands landed on either side of her, encasing her without a word leaving her stomach to flip in excitement and lips to pull up.

“Is this what you wanted? To be fucked? Such a slut, aren’t you? Couldn’t wait until we got home.” He kissed the spot just under her ear, his voice raspy and low, the perfect spell of seduction he knew worked on her every time. Another kiss just below her jaw, long as if imprinting his presence onto her, reminding her of who she was riling up to kill time and exhausted from all the serious hockey talk she’d endured. She needed a boost, and maybe he did too.

Tilting her head to the side, she granted him more space, hand tangling in his hair, tainting the way it was perfectly styled for the event as his lips pressed warm and wet kisses down her neck. He hummed deliberately, vibrations sparking her sweet spots and electric sensations channelled through her nerves, arousal pooling into her underwear. She took her bottom lip between her teeth, pelvis rolling into his. Quinn wearing suits was one slice of heaven alone, and she knew how badly it played with her heartstrings, carnally. She knew that they wouldn’t last at the event, they never did, one way or another they would disappear off into a bathroom and one way or another they’d sneak out flushed with something skewed about them. He just had that brooding sexiness to him, and she fell for it every time.

Releasing a whispered mewl, she tugged his face away from her neck, “Your little slut, though, Q. I think you want to bend me over and fuck me with your organisation outside. I think you enjoy it. Don’t you enjoy seeing my pretty dresses, Captain?”

“C’mere, I’ll show you how they drive me fucking insane.” His lips collided with hers urgently, hands soothing up and down her back and the rhythm of tongues lapping fuelling the drive and desire in which their stomachs flipped with rousing tingles.

In one vigorous movement, Quinn’s palms gripped her hips and spun her around to face the mirror. He pulled her ass into his dick, one hand moving to lay flat between her shoulder blades and bending her over the counter. She gasped, hands slamming onto the marble and catching his glare in the reflection, that fiery glare boring into her while his stiff cock nudged into her, arousal blooming up her chest, but she craved nothing but him. For a moment she thought he’d kiss her, but he leant over her body, hands gliding up her sides and fingers hooking under the straps of her dress, lips grazing over her ear.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he murmured, sliding the straps over her shoulders, pulling them down so her breasts spilt out. She breathed in sharply when his palms cupped them, squeezing before taking her nipples between his thumbs and pointer fingers, rolling them while watching her face contort in lewd mannerisms. Her jaw fell open, tilting her head back into his shoulder as he toyed and smirked, her clit throbbing and she pushed her ass back into him. “You’re gonna have to be quiet now, pretty girl. We don’t want someone hearing how well I take care of you.”

He released her right breast and slid his hand up to her throat, her skin smooth like silk and her perfume almost sedating him into a state of euphoria alone; she wore her most expensive, seducing fragrance, the vanilla and cedarwood of Yves Saint Laurant’s Black Opium. Wrapping his sturdy fingers around her throat, he pulled her back into his chest roughly, y/n yelping at the sudden action but with his left thumb still rolling over her nipple, the sexual stimulation embracing her coaxed her into enjoying it. 

“You’re so pretty when you beg for me, you know that? How hot it is when you throw yourself at me? What it does to me?” he continued.

She turned her head to face him, only to catch his eyes boring into hers and whispered, “Show me, Captain.”

Without indication, Quinn captured her lips into an alluringly tenacious kiss, tongue darting into her mouth and silencing her squeaks in a passionate movement. She moaned, his hands gliding down the natural curves of her chest down to her waist, grabbing the fabric between his fingers and bunching the dress up to her waist, cock twitching in his slacks painfully. 

He bent her back over the counter, one hand now gripping her hip while the other soothed over the globe of her ass, caressing in circles and nudging her legs further apart with his knee. He wet his lips, eyes taking in the view of her entirety. From the lacy panties to her breasts and finally, to her face, half-lidded eyes and lips where her lipstick was smeared. Quinn unbuckled his belt, gaze locking onto hers in the reflection and she watched his every movement, from his belt clinking open to his hand pulling his cock out. He gave himself two pumps before pulling her panties aside and running the tip through her folds, tipping his head back and exhaling at how he slipped in her arousal and relished the little whines she released. 

“Stop teasing, Quinn.” She pushed herself back, encouraging him to fuck her already, sneaking her fingers to her clit and circling over the bundle of nerves. “Fuck me, Q, please. I need you so bad.”

“I know, darling. You’re soaked and all I did was kiss you.” He cooed, pushing inside her cunt slowly, watching her eyes flutter close and mouth waver open, body feeling light as ecstasy washed over her the deeper he slid in. “That’s it, pretty girl, rub your clit f’me, doesn’t that feel good?”

Y/n weakly nodded, whining when his cock bottomed out inside her, walls stretching around him and the raw nature of him being buried inside with every vein kissing her walls sending hot flushes up her back, sweat prickling. His thrusting started slow, sensual, deliberate. Hips rolling and watching his cock disappear in and out of her, y/n biting down on her lip to keep her high-pitched moans from echoing beyond the bathroom door. Quinn’s lips pulled upwards as his pace increased, his grip on her hips tightening with every harsh thrust.  

He glanced in the reflection, trying to find a breathing pattern in which he could fuck her senseless without panting like a dog, only for his gaze to fixate on the state of his girlfriend in front of him. She was a Goddess of beauty, lips faltering open with sharp moans tumbling out her throat with every thrust into her, getting louder and more vulgar when he became rougher, slamming into her at a brutal pace. He could watch her squirm and whimper all day if he could. He released his hand from her hip, leaning over her body and taking her breast into his palm, fingers playing with her pebbled nipple. 

“Sshh, you like that, hm?” his lips grazed the shell of her ear, beard tickling over her skin, plunging his cock into her mercilessly as her walls squeezed around him, wet skin slapping and bouncing off the walls as y/n’s breathy chanting of his name threatened to slip by the door to passing guests. Not that it irritated him, no, he adored hearing her lose her mind over him, hearing his name in her voice. What bothered him was everyone else hearing how she preached with wanton moans, they were noises only for him unless otherwise and in that moment, knowing his cock was hitting every angle with insatiable greed was for him only.

He pulled out abruptly, y/n turning her body awkwardly in surprise but whining at the loss of warmth, disappointed. 

“Off,” his fingers hooked around the waistband of her panties, slipping down her legs and letting her step out of them. She watched him the best she could from her bent-over position, a whole new wave of excitement crashing over her with cold air brushing over her sopping folds and she continued her slow massaging on her clit. Quinn stood behind her again, hand gripping her jaw and stuffing her damp underwear into her mouth, “I said you had to be quiet, y/n. Come on, you’re doing so well for me.”

Lining himself back up, Quinn pushed in again, this time hard, pelvis meeting her backside instantly with how easily he slid in through the slick. He wrapped his hand around her waist, drawing the other back and giving her ass a firm slap before starting his thrusting again, no build-up, no adjusting, just desperate driving into her pussy, fuelled by the way her wanton moans muffled against her underwear. She dug her nails into the countertop, breasts jolting as he guided her along his cock with her eyes rolling back, the pit of her stomach twisting like a coil. His pace dissolved from desperate and rhythmic, controlled and deliberate to animalistic and sloppy, driven by the knot in his stomach tightening as he watched the way he buried himself inside her. Every thought in her head jumbled, her mind dizzying and it was like the heavens were calling her, feeling her legs become weak and wobbly in her heels, sweat trickling down her spine, or maybe it was Quinn’s dripping off his face, it didn’t matter. What mattered was trying to keep herself from collapsing in his hold.

“Oh, God, fuck-” she whined, yet muffled from the clothing in her mouth, the taste of her own arousal painting her tastebuds. 

He hooked his hand around her thigh, hoisting it to rest on the counter and he sank into her cunt deeper, throwing his head back and groaning at his cock being clenched tighter, warmer, dragging his veins along her walls again and feeling nothing but pure bliss blossom into his stomach as he plunged with vigour, “Feel better now? Yeah, s’what I thought, so greedy.”

Y/n’s chest rumbled with a deep moan, her head dropping as her pussy pulsed, the knot in her stomach pulling tighter and tighter with every rut.

“You look all sweet and cute, but I know how much of a filthy fucking mind you have.” He groaned, husky and low, fixing his eyes back onto the reflection. His lips parted, in his world, all sounds muting, and he was just watching her face contort and hair fall over her eyes. 

White noise encased her ears, eyes rolling back as her vision blurred and she sang an elongated moan, mouth falling open. Her legs trembled and she was sure the only reason she was still standing was because Quinn was holding her up while he fucked her. The pressure in the pit of her stomach became light, orgasm rippling through her and coating his dick in white, ring forming at his base and he grinned, his thrusting brutal and sloppy.

“That’s my girl,” he cooed, letting his walls crumble and the knot he’d been holding tight snap completely, using her cunt to bring himself to his pleasure, releasing ropes of cum into her and watching it leak down her leg. 

Panting, he leant over her, placing a gentle kiss on her cheek and nudging her mouth to part more, pulling her underwear out and dropping it onto the counter. They stood there, airy giggles between pants, the high winding down as he trailed kisses over her shoulders while pulling out, tucking himself back into his slacks. 

“Fuck, Q, that was so hot.” She stood up straight, Quinn’s posture following her as she pulled the straps of her dress over her shoulders and re-adjusted her breasts. Fucked out and dishevelled was a new kind of sexy on him, paired with his smile, she resisted the urge to pounce on him all over again, turning to face him. “I take it you like the dress?”

“I love the woman wearing it more.” He said, voice deep and husky, tugging her dress down her hips. “Let’s go.”

She kissed his lips sweetly, just a peck while soothing her hands over his chest, “You go ahead, I need to pee and fix my makeup.”

Nodding, he fixed his hair and suit, straightening his jacket and tie. In the corner of the countertop, her underwear sat tangled up and his eyes glazed with mischief, that glint that came with a small smirk. He slid the garments into his pocket and took his leave, strolling out the hallway with a grin smeared across his - mildly flushed - face, soothing the lace fabric between his fingers. Thatcher leant against the wall just outside the hall, Brock stifling a laugh and nudging Thatcher’s elbow.

“What’cha got there, Huggy?” Thatcher asked, gesturing his head down to Quinn’s hand moving in his pocket. 

Quinn swallowed with a dry throat, “Huh? Oh, uh, handkerchief…yeah.” 

Giggling like schoolgirls, the two watched him powerwalk towards the bar. They looked at each other, raising their eyebrows as if reading each other’s mind. They’d been to many events with their Captain before and it sparked many bets between them, JT and Petey. 

“Did you add it to the tally chart?” Thatcher took a sip of his drink.

Brock mirrored, eyes still watching Quinn order two drinks, “Did it as soon as he stormed past. Good ol’ Huggy Dog.” 

nhl wags | @bunbunbl0gs For @stayg-0ld (To be added to taglists, just comment or ask via ‘pass me the puck!’) [Masterlist] [Requests CLOSED]

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the devils vs. rangers game is 12:30am for me, and canucks vs ducks is at 4am 😃

Google, how do you cope after you experience canucks hockey...google? Hello??

missing them extra hard today :(

I’m simultaneously the most obsessive most detached girl in the world

may the rest of this year be softer

A story in four parts.

Shelter | Q. Hughes

summary: with another baby on the way, quinn is doing everything he can to stay afloat — caught between bug’s meltdowns and the emotional waves of a second pregnancy, he's trying to hold his family together. request: yes (sort of...) pairing: quinn hughes x reader content: dad!quinn, pregnant!reader, angst, hurt/comfort, bug cries, reader cries, he cries, everybody cries. word count: 7k ↪ main masterlist | dad!quinn masterlist

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Quinn feels like he’s walking a very thin line.

No — scratch that. He feels like he’s standing in the middle of a storm, caught between two colliding weather fronts, completely powerless against the way they crash into each other. There’s no predicting when it will hit, no safe place to take cover, no strategy to outrun it.

Because it’s never just you. And it’s never just Bug. It’s the both of you, moods shifting like the tide, always feeding into each other, never directed at one another but somehow always crashing straight into him.

And some days? Some days, it’s manageable.

Like today.

When he walks into the living room and finds you on the couch, arms crossed, a deep, dramatic sigh falling from your lips, staring blankly at the wall like it personally wronged you. Just minutes ago, he’d heard you laughing over something silly on TV — bright, loud laughter that made him think today might be one of the easier days. But now? Now you’re quiet again, moody and withdrawn, and the change is so swift he feels like he missed something critical.

"You okay?" he asks, careful, like he’s stepping around a landmine.

"Fine," you reply clipped.

He exhales, tilting his head.

"You sure?"

You don’t answer immediately, just sigh again, heavier this time, shifting like even sitting is exhausting.

"I’m just… tired."

Quinn waits, giving you space to say more, but you don’t. Just stare at the ceiling like it holds all the answers, hands resting on the curve of your bump, absently rubbing in slow, mindless circles like your mind is somewhere far away, somewhere he can’t quite reach.

"Did something happen?" he tries again, gentler this time.

Your head shifts in a faint shake, lips pressed tight as if the words are there but you don’t have the energy to form them.

"No. Nothing. I just…" You trail off with another sigh, irritation flickering behind your eyes. "Forget it."

And he recognises it then — the way you start to pull inward, the subtle shift in your tone, the way your sentences taper off, unfinished. He feels it in his chest, the first quiet gust of wind signalling the storm that’s just starting to build.

He barely has time to process it before, across the room, Bug — who had been happily colouring only seconds ago — lets out a huff, flopping onto her stomach.

Quinn watches as she sprawls out, face smushed against the floor, limbs star fished, exhaling another deep, woe-is-me sigh.

He fights the urge to laugh, because God, you really are the same.

"You okay, Buggy?" he asks, already bracing himself.

She peeks up at him with one eye, just barely, like the sheer force of her emotions is physically weighing her down.

"No."

A storm is imminent. He can feel it.

Quinn inhales slowly. "Wanna tell me why?"

Bug turns her head to the side, cheek squished against the rug, and gives him the saddest little shake of her head.

"No."

Quinn flicks his gaze back to you. You’re staring at Bug like she just spoke your soul into existence.

"You don’t know why either, do you?" he asks, lips twitching just slightly.

You meet his eyes, brows furrowing.

"I don’t wanna talk about it," you mumble.

Quinn presses his lips together, nods once. Okay.

Sometimes, the only way to get through a storm is to wait it out. Quinn knows that some tempers can’t be soothed with logic, some moods can’t be unraveled with words. Some storms, like this one, don’t need him to fight against them. They just need him to stand in the middle of it and let it rage.

So he doesn’t ask again. Doesn’t try to pry an answer out of either of you. Doesn’t try to fix it, even though every instinct in his body tells him he should. Instead, he does the only thing he can do.

He moves.

Crosses the room, drops onto the couch beside you with a quiet oof, and stretches an arm across the back, fingers grazing your shoulder. He doesn’t pull, doesn’t press, doesn’t try to force the storm to settle. Just makes room. Just waits.

You sigh, slow and heavy, but you shift, curling into him, cheek pressing against his chest, body melting into his warmth like the eye of the storm finally found its way to you. His arm drops, wrapping around you, rubbing slow, absent circles against your arm.

Then he looks at Bug. She’s still on the floor, cheek smushed against the rug, eyes peeking up at him, waiting.

He pats the cushion beside him.

“C’mere, Buggy.”

She sniffs, pushing herself up onto wobbly little arms, dragging herself over like she’s trudging through the worst day of her life. Quinn watches as she climbs up, tucking herself into his other side, curling in small and warm, sighing just like you had.

And just like that, the storm settles.

No thunder. No more crashing waves. Just quiet, the kind that lingers in the air after the worst of it has passed. The kind that feels a little fragile, like it could roll back in with the right gust of wind, but for now, in this moment, there is peace.

Bug sniffles again. “I was sad, daddy.”

Quinn presses a kiss to the top of her head, his voice quiet, steady.

“That’s okay, Bugs. Some days are just like that.”

You let out a small, tired laugh against his chest, and it’s not much, but it’s enough.

Because sometimes, you don’t need to outrun the storm.

You just need to wait it out together.

But other days? It’s chaos.

It’s stepping into the whirlwind the second he wakes up — Bug already teetering on the edge of a meltdown before breakfast, hair tangled and pyjamas half on, her voice pitching high because you poured the cereal in the wrong bowl. Again.

You’re standing at the counter, unmoved, hand clenched around a spoon, your jaw tight and eyes glazed like you’ve already lived an entire day before the clock reaches seven o'clock.

“I told you,” Bug sobs, pushing the offending bowl away from her, “I want the pink one.”

“I know,” you mutter, fatigued. “But the pink one’s in the dishwasher, baby.”

And that’s it. That’s all it takes.

She wails again, louder and sharper, face scrunching as tears roll hot down her cheeks and Quinn barely has time to step in, swooping her up before she hurls the spoon across the room.

It’s Quinn, caught in the middle. Again. It’s the only place he seems to exist lately. Wedged between tantrums and tension, between Bug’s tears and your silence, between holding it all up and watching it all fall apart anyway.

It’s watching Bug melt down in his arms, her tiny body wracked with sobs, while over his shoulder, you stand by the counter, wiping at your eyes, trying not to let him see you falling apart, too.

It’s the exhaustion weighing on his shoulders, the constant push and pull, the feeling that no matter how fast he moves, no matter how hard he tries, he’s always one step behind.

It’s knowing he has to be the steady one — has to be patient with Bug, has to be gentle with you, has to keep everything from tipping over. It’s feeling like every time he soothes one storm, another is already rolling in, relentless, giving him no time to breathe before he’s pulled under again.

And then, just when he thinks he has a handle on it —

It’s Bug sobbing before preschool, her little arms locked tight around his body, shaking as she begs him "please don’t go, daddy. I won’t see you when I get home."

And that’s not like her.

Bug has always been so good about goodbyes, so easy about his road trips, her little voice always chirping “see you soon, daddy! Win lots!” without a second thought. But today? Today, she’s wrecked. And so are you.

You’re standing by the door, rubbing your belly, looking just as lost as she does, eyes misty, voice barely above a whisper as you murmur, "I don’t know what’s wrong. She never does this."

Quinn exhales, slow and tight, arms still wrapped around Bug’s tiny frame, his chest rising and falling just a little too fast. His grip is firm, steady, but inside, he feels anything but. His pulse is hammering, heartbeat drumming against his ribs like a warning, like he’s already bracing for impact.

“Yeah… I know.” He doesn’t know what else to say. Doesn’t have an answer that will make this easier.

“Maybe she’s just having a rough morning.” But the way you say it — it’s not convincing, not even to yourself.

Quinn’s jaw tightens. His shoulders feel like they’re carrying a weight he can’t shake, like every second is stretching longer, heavier, pressing in on all sides.

“Maybe.” But he doesn’t believe it either.

Because it’s not just Bug. It’s you, too.

You, looking at him like you need him to fix it, like you need some kind of reassurance that this is just a phase, that this is just passing rain, that this isn’t something bigger. And he wants to. He wants to promise you that. But the words catch in his throat, swallowed by the weight of it all. Because it’s been weeks of this — Bug clinging, unraveling, her emotions rolling in like crashing waves. And you, right there beside her, all fraying nerves and overwhelmed tears, feeding off each other, amplifying the storm.

Quinn takes a breath, exhales through his nose, and turns back to Bug.

"Bug, baby, you’ll have so much fun at school," he tries, smoothing a hand over her hair, pushing damp strands away from her tear-streaked face. "You love preschool, remember?"

"Not today!" she wails, curling into his chest, fingers fisting his hoodie like she’s trying to anchor herself to him. "I wanna stay with you."

And God, that one hits hard.

Because Quinn wants to stay. Wants to pick her up and tuck her into his side and tell her "okay, Bug, you can stay with me today." Wants to call the team, push his flight back a few more hours, push the world aside for just a little longer.

But he can’t.

And you know he can’t, but you need something from him, too. You’re still standing by the door, trying to steady yourself, trying to be the strong one even though your eyes are glassy, even though you look seconds away from breaking down yourself.

The pressure is building. He feels it in the silence stretching between you, in the weight of Bug pressing against his chest, in the way your fingers rub absently at the curve of your belly, steadying yourself, like you’re waiting for him to do the same.

He wants to be there for both of you, wants to hold Bug tighter, press a kiss to your forehead, tell you "it’s okay. You’ve got this. She’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. We’ll be fine." But it’s too much at once. The wind is howling, the waves are rising, and he feels stretched thin trying to brace himself against the force of it all.

But he knows you need him to go. You need him to walk out before you start crying, before it turns into a full meltdown that none of you will come back from. You need him to rip off the bandaid before Bug convinces herself he’s staying, before she starts believing that if she holds on just a little tighter, just a little longer, he won’t leave at all.

So he sighs, pressing a lingering kiss to Bug’s temple before gently, carefully, peeling her off of him.

"I love you, Bugs. I’ll be back soon soon, okay?"

She doesn’t answer. Just hiccups, wiping her face on her sleeve, sniffling as you pull her into your arms.

And then your eyes meet his over the top of her head, full of something raw and helpless, like you don’t know what to do with all the emotion swirling in the room. Like you’re begging him for an answer, for reassurance, for something.

And God, leaving you like this hurts.

It’s not an easy exit, and it’s not clean. He has to pry himself away from it, has to force himself out the door, has to resist the pull of turning around and staying just a little longer.

Because it doesn't stop at Bug. Leaving her is always hard, but leaving you — like this, lost and overwhelmed, feeling it all so deeply — cuts deeper every time.

Because lately, it’s you who worries him most.

You, so off-kilter, so unlike yourself, so overwhelmed by everything that’s changing. And it’s not like when you were pregnant with Bug — back then, it was just you and him, just the two of you navigating the unknown together with late-night name lists and soft hands over your belly when she kicked. The days were slower. There was room to breathe. But now? Now there’s Bug and her big emotions to balance — her meltdowns, her sudden clinginess, the way she seems to unravel right alongside you — and you’re drowning in it.

You’ve been unraveling for weeks, worn thin by exhaustion, by hormones that send you swinging from teary to irritable to brittle in a breath. They crash into you like waves you don't see coming. One minute you’re fine, steady on your feet, the next you’re barely holding it together, blinking back tears at the sink while Bug wails over something small, something that shouldn’t matter.

And Quinn — Quinn is just trying to keep up. Trying to be your anchor, trying to be steady, but still, somehow, always a step behind, caught between your storm and Bug’s, trying to soothe one without making the other worse.

And maybe that’s the hardest part.

The fact that Quinn can’t fix it, and it’s tearing him apart.

He can’t figure out what you need. How to make this easier for you. How to take even a fraction of the weight off your shoulders when you won’t let him shoulder it with you.

Because you don’t tell him. Not like you used to.

You let the silence stretch, let the weight of it settle between you instead of reaching for him, instead of saying "this is hard, I need you, I don’t know how to do this." And Quinn would give anything to hear that. To hear something. Because he’s trying so hard but he doesn’t know what to do when you won’t let him in.

And the space between you keeps growing, widening like the tide pulling back before the crash. Conversations have turned clipped, exhaustion settling in too deep for either of you to bridge the space.

He reaches for you in bed, fingertips skimming your back, but you turn away, not because you don’t want him, but because you don’t even know where to begin. He doesn’t say anything. Just stills behind you. Leaves his hand hovering there for a beat too long before slowly withdrawing, settling back into the sheets like maybe if he doesn’t move too much, the space between you won’t feel so wide.

So the pressure keeps mounting, thickening the air, pressing down on Quinn from all sides. He’s drowning in it, desperate to fix it, to ease the weight crushing both of you, to be the one who steadies the ship before it all capsizes.

And then, the lightning strike.

The morning when you snap.

When he reaches past you for a coffee mug, presses a sleepy kiss to your temple, murmurs a soft "g’morning, baby," and you recoil, the sharpness in your voice splitting the air like a crack of thunder.

"Quinn, can you just—"

It’s too sharp, too sudden, too much for something so simple.

His hand pauses on the cabinet.

You inhale sharply, eyes squeezing shut like you already regret it, like you already hate yourself for it, but it’s too late. It’s already hanging heavy in the air, thick and suffocating.

He exhales slowly. Measured. Careful. Like he’s trying to track a storm without a radar, trying to trace the spark that lit the fuse but the truth is, he has no idea what just happened.

"What?" he asks, trying so hard to keep his voice neutral. "What did I do?"

"Nothing," you mumble, voice tight. "You didn’t — just forget it."

He can’t forget it, and he also knows better than to push when you’re like this, wound tight, brittle around the edges, balancing on the precipice of frustration and exhaustion and something you haven’t quite named yet. You’re a live wire in bare hands.

But, still, the response grates. Not because you’re upset — he can handle that. Not the weariness in your eyes — he knows it well.

It’s the silence that follows. The wall that goes up. The way you don’t let him in. The way you won’t let him shoulder even the smallest fraction of whatever’s sitting so heavy on you.

He exhales slowly, steadying himself, trying to meet you where you are.

"Baby," he tries again, softer this time.

You stand there, tense, fingers tightening around the fabric of your shirt, staring somewhere past him like if you don’t acknowledge the moment, maybe it won’t settle between you like all the others have lately. Like another weight added to the pile.

And maybe that’s what gets to him the most.

Not the sharpness in your voice, not even the exhaustion clinging to your features — understands all of that. But this. The distance. The way you don’t talk to him like you used to, don’t let him in, don’t give him anything to work with. It’s like watching a door slowly close, inch by inch, and he’s still standing on the other side, waiting, hoping, reaching for someone who used to reach back.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “Can you just talk to me?”

It comes out rougher than he means it to, frustration bleeding through the exhaustion, through the endless cycle of tiptoeing around this, around you. Around the way things have been unraveling, thread by thread, while he’s been trying so damn hard to keep the house from splitting at the seams.

And for a second, the silence that follows feels deafening.

Like thunder, rolling in just after the strike.

You press your lips together, your breath coming a little too fast, a little too uneven, and for a second, he thinks — maybe. Maybe this is where the storm breaks. Maybe this is where you finally let it all out, finally let him in.

But then, finally, barely above a whisper, "I don’t wanna fight."

And it’s not a fight. Not yet. But the air is thick with something unresolved, the kind of tension that settles heavy in the walls, in the space between you, in the quiet that should be comfortable but isn’t.

Quinn stands there in the middle of the kitchen, hands braced on the counter, chest tight, heart hammering.

Because this isn’t new. It’s never just one thing — it’s every moment that’s been pushed aside with a quiet “not now,” every heavy breath exchanged across the dinner table, every look that lingers too long but says nothing at all. It’s the soft sighs, the brittle “I’m fine,” the way everything keeps getting postponed — later, tomorrow, when there’s time.

Only there’s never time. Just distance. Just silence dressed as survival.

But it doesn’t stay like this. Not for much longer.

Because Quinn’s never been the kind of man to let storms rage unchecked. Never been the type to let the space between you stretch too wide, to let things fester and rot in the silence.

Except this time, he did.

This time, he let it build for weeks. Figured you needed space. Figured, like always, you’d come to him when you were ready. He didn’t want to push, didn’t want to risk being one more weight pressing down on you — afraid that if he reached too soon, too hard, you’d only pull further away.

So he waited.

And waited.

But you haven’t come.

And this storm? It hasn’t passed.

It’s lingered. A low-pressure system that settled over your home like a weight. It crept in quietly, in the stillness after long days, in the hush of the night when Bug’s cries echoed down the hall and neither of you moved fast enough. It’s soaked into everything, in the silence between you, in the quiet way you move around each other like you’re trying not to stir the air, like even a whisper might trigger the downpour.

It’s in the sighs you don’t explain, in the moments where his hand reaches for yours and only grazes your sleeve. In the way your shoulders curve inward like you’re trying to weather it alone. It’s there in the space between what you need and what he can’t seem to figure out how to give — lightning just waiting for a place to strike.

And Quinn is trying. He really is. He's trying to be steady. Trying to hold the line. He tells himself it’s just a phase, just exhaustion, just the weight of everything pressing down. That you need space. That you’ll come to him, like you always have, when the fog lifts and the words come easier.

Because sometimes, that’s what you needed. Back then, when it was just the two of you, when emotions swelled and you needed room to breathe, to process, to untangle yourself from whatever had you feeling off-kilter, space was good. A quiet moment alone, time to let the frustration settle, to come back to each other with clear heads and soft apologies — it worked. It made sense.

But it’s different now.

Now, space feels like distance, and distance feels like a crack waiting to split wide open. Now, there’s Bug and her big emotions. Now, there’s you, carrying another baby, carrying the weight of change, carrying all the moments he’s missing when he’s away. Now, when you pull away, it doesn’t feel like breathing room — it feels like a warning sign.

And every day that passes without addressing it, every night spent in silence, every conversation left unfinished, makes it feel less like weather and more like climate.

So tonight, when he hears the creak of your footsteps down the hall, hears the soft click of the bedroom door closing, he doesn’t wait. Doesn’t tell himself you need more time. Doesn’t lie to himself about the sky clearing.

He follows.

Quietly, carefully, he pads down the hall and pushes the door open, stepping into the thick of it, into the eye of the storm. He settles carefully onto the mattress beside you, leaving space — giving you space to speak, to move closer, to do anything.

But you don’t.

You just stare at your hands in your lap, fingers curling into the fabric of your shorts, and Quinn watches the way your shoulders rise and fall, notices the tension gathering like you’re bracing for something.

He exhales softly, rubbing a tired hand along his jaw.

"I'm trying," he murmurs, finally breaking the silence.

Your gaze flicks up, lips parting slightly, your chest tightening.

"I swear, I am," he says, quieter now. "I know Bug has been a lot, and your hormones, and the stress, and I know you’re just trying to get through it." His voice wavers for the first time, breath catching slightly as he drags a hand down his face, fingers gripping at his knee when they settle in his lap. "But I need you to talk to me. I don’t know how to help if you won’t let me in. If you keep pretending you’re fine when you’re not."

His voice isn’t sharp. It's not angry. It's just... tired. Not in the way he always is after road trips, after back-to-backs, after late nights followed by early morning skates — but in that bone-deep, heavy way that comes from holding too much for too long.

"I just—" He exhales sharply, tilting his head back against the headboard, dragging a shaky breath into his lungs. "I feel like I don’t know how to make this easier, how to fix it. I don’t know what to do anymore. How to help you, how to help Bug."

Your throat tightens, guilt pressing hard against your ribs.

"Quinn—"

"It’s killing me." His voice breaks over the words, and your heart clenches, because Quinn doesn’t break. Not like this. "I feel like I’m watching you fall apart, watching Bug fall apart, and I can’t—”

He stops abruptly, pressing the heels of his palms over his eyes, shoulders curling inward, like if he doesn’t he’ll completely unravel. His breath is heavy, chest rising and falling too fast, and then you hear it — a sound you’ve rarely heard from him, quiet and choked, a sob he can’t quite swallow down.

"I feel like I'm failing you both."

It slips out before he can stop it, before he can soften it into something easier to hear, and as soon as it’s in the air, it lingers — sharp, cutting. And God, you feel it. Feel it settle deep in your chest, feel the way it steals the breath from your lungs.

Because he’s never said something like that before. Not like this. Not with tears streaking silently down his cheeks, eyes squeezed shut as if he’s ashamed of it. Not in a voice that sounds like it’s been scraped raw, like the words cost him something just to say.

Quinn’s never been one to unravel. He’s quiet by nature, steady in the way he moves through the world. He carries things inward, processes slowly. He’s always been careful with his words, measured with his emotions — not cold, never that, but composed. Grounded. He doesn’t let things boil over. Doesn’t let them spill.

And this? It isn’t something he does. Not because he’s trying to be strong, but because he’s always been wired to endure. To hold it together. To keep going, even when it hurts.

Your hand moves on instinct, settling against his knee, desperate to ground him, to pull him back before he sinks too deep.

"Quinn," Your voice wavers and you barely get his name out before the weight of it all crashes over you.

His shoulders rise and fall with another sharp inhale, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t look at you. Just keeps pressing his palms into his eyes like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will, fighting to regain control, fighting to hold onto whatever strength he thinks he still needs to have.

And that — that — is what undoes you.

"Baby, hey," you whisper, barely above a breath. "Look at me."

For a moment, you think he won’t. That he can’t. That if he does, if he meets your gaze, if he lets you see all of it, he might actually break.

But then, slowly, he drops his hands.

And when he looks at you, really looks at you — your heart shatters.

His eyes are glassy, jaw tight, lashes damp with tears, his expression so raw it knocks the breath right out of you. He swallows hard, shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it, but there’s no taking it back now. No shoving it back down.

He’s unraveling, and you can see it. See the way he’s been holding too much, how it’s been slowly crushing him, how he’s been trying so hard to keep everything together while you’ve been falling apart. See the way it’s eating at him. The guilt, the helplessness, the constant push and pull of trying to keep up with you and Bug while barely keeping himself above water.

And God, it wrecks you.

You shift without thinking, curling into his side, arms wrapping around his middle, pressing your cheek to his shoulder like you’re trying to hold him together with your whole body. And for a moment, he doesn’t move. Just sits there, stiff, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to fall apart, not sure if he should.

But then he exhales, shaky and broken, and his arms come around you. He pulls you closer, pulls you into his lap, like if he holds you tight enough, close enough, maybe the ground won’t feel like it’s giving way beneath him.

His face finds your shoulder, burying into the curve of your neck, and his whole body shudders with the force of the breath he lets out.

"You could never fail me," you whisper, voice barely holding steady. Your fingers slide into his hair, slow and gentle, nails brushing lightly along his scalp, trying to soothe, trying to settle.

Then your hands slide down to cradle his face, thumbs brushing along the sharp line of his jaw, coaxing him to lift his head and look at you. For a second, he resists — eyes squeeze shut again like he’s bracing himself, like he’s afraid of what he’ll see in your face. But when they open, you make sure you make sure he finds only calm. Only love.

"I mean it," you whisper. "You’ve never let us down. Not once. Not me, not Bug. You are everything we need, Quinn."

A sharp breath rushes out of him, like he’s been holding it in for weeks.

You press your lips to his temple, slow and aching, like an apology wrapped in affection. I’m sorry you ever felt that way. Sorry for the silence, for the way you shut him out, for every time he reached for you and found nothing to hold onto.

You linger there, breathing him in, hoping it says what you haven’t found the words for. That you’re still here. That you never meant to leave him standing in the storm alone. That you love him, more than you’ve said lately.

And maybe he hears it. Maybe he feels it in the way you hold him now, tighter than you have in weeks. Because his hands tighten too, curling into your back, tethering himself to you. And when he exhales, it’s steadier. Softer. A little less like the weight of everything is his to carry alone.

"It’s just… different this time," he murmurs after a moment, voice rough at the edges like he’s been trying to make sense of it for weeks but still hasn’t found the words. "It wasn’t like this with Bug. You weren’t—" He stops himself, jaw tightening. "I don’t mean—"

"I know," you whisper.

Because you do. He’s not blaming you. He’s not making this your fault. He’s just trying to make sense of it the same way you are.

“I don’t mean that in a bad way,” he adds quickly, tone softening immediately. “I just… I don’t know. You were still tired and emotional, sure, but we were —” He trails off, mouth twisting like the memory stings a little. “Happier, I think.”

You don’t say anything. Just nuzzle closer, biting your bottom lip. Guilt pressing in.

“We used to fall asleep on the couch talking about names. You’d make me drop everything when Bug kicked just to feel her. And now —” He breaks off, voice tightening. He swallows hard. “And now I walk through the door, I don’t know what version of you I'm coming home to. I don’t know if I should talk or keep quiet. I don’t even know if you want me here sometimes."

The words sting, and not because they’re unfair. But because they’re true.

You inch closer, guilt already starting to burn at your chest. Your nose finds the scruff of his cheek, breath catching as you press into him, barely touching but needing to be closer.

“I always want you here.”

He exhales, a shaky breath against your ear.

“It doesn’t feel like it,” he murmurs, voice brittle and splintering at the edges.

And the silence that follows is brutal — thick and sharp, like standing in the wreckage of something you didn’t mean to break.

His thumb moves in slow, steady circles against your back, like he’s trying to settle a tempest he can’t see but knows is there.

And all you can do is lean in, pressing a kiss to his jaw, eyes shut tight — like maybe, just maybe, if you hold him close enough, he’ll feel everything you have yet to say out loud.

Your voice comes out small, barely more than a whisper. “I know I haven’t been easy, and I'm—”

"You don’t have to be," he cuts in, gently but firmly, the words spilling out before you can finish. "I just need you to let me in," he murmurs, voice low, unwavering.

His arms tighten around you, solid and warm, like he’s trying to anchor you to him, trying to keep the distance from creeping back in.

"I don’t care if you’re mad, or sad, or exhausted, or don’t even know what you’re feeling. I can handle all of it — I want to handle all of it. To be in it with you. But don’t—" his breath catches, and he presses his forehead to your temple, exhaling slow. "Don’t shut me out. Don’t act like I’m just another thing to manage. Like I’m something else making this harder."

His words land heavy, settling in the space that’s grown too wide these past few weeks. And maybe that’s what stings the most — how much truth there is in them.

You close your eyes, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, because he’s right. That's exactly what you have been doing.

You have shut him out. You’ve held him at arm’s length, convincing yourself it was easier this way. Because some days, it was simpler to let the distance sit between you, easier to let the weight of it build instead of unpacking it, to let the storm build rather than admit how much you’re struggling beneath it.

"I’m sorry," you whisper, voice small, uneven, barely holding together at the seams.

Quinn shakes his head instantly, shifting beneath you, like the words sting more than they should.

"That’s not—" he exhales sharply, pressing his palm against his forehead, shaking his head before wrapping his arms more securely around you. "That’s not what I want, baby. You don't have to apologise."

His chest rises and falls against yours, breath warm against your hair. His voice is quieter when he speaks again, rough at the edges like it’s been sitting heavy in his throat for too long.

"I just needed to say it out loud," he murmurs. "To you. That this is a lot. And that I'm... I’m struggling too."

Hearing it like this, quiet and raw, knocks the air from your lungs.

And now the guilt crashes over you like a rogue wave, pulling you under before you have time to brace for it. It presses heavy, suffocating, settling in the spaces between all the ways you let the silence stretch too far, let the exhaustion dictate your words, where you let the distance grow instead of reaching for him.

Because God, you’ve felt alone these past few weeks — adrift, overwhelmed, buried under exhaustion and the hormones you can't control, and Bug’s big emotions — but you never stopped to think that maybe he has too. That maybe, while you’ve been sinking, he’s been out in the storm, fighting to keep you all afloat, barely keeping his own head above water.

And now, hearing him admit it — hearing him tell you just how worn thin he really is — makes everything you overlooked painfully clear. You knew, in some distant way, that Quinn was tired. But you hadn’t let yourself see it fully. You hadn’t noticed how carefully he'd wrapped himself in quiet; how the calm he wore wasn't peace, but exhaustion. How close he'd come to breaking, waiting quietly for you to see it.

The ache triples, guilt sharp and bitter as your fingers twist into his shirt before you can stop them, gripping tight like an anchor, like you can hold him here, hold him up, the way he’s been trying to do for you.

Your throat tightens as you whisper, "I should’ve seen it."

Quinn shakes his head immediately, his arms flexing around you, one hand splaying wide against the small of your back, the other slipping up to cradle the back of your head. His thumb brushes slow, soothing strokes against your hair like he’s trying to keep the wind from howling, steadying the sails before the storm hits. This is him trying to keep you from turning inward, from spiralling into blame.

"Baby," he exhales, tipping his forehead against yours. "Don’t."

But how can you not?

How can you, when you feel his breath shake against your skin? When he’s been carrying all of this alone, when you’ve been so wrapped up in your own unraveling that you never saw him fraying too? When it finally hits you that every sleepless night, every tantrum soothed, every moment spent steadying you and Bug, he was never steady himself?

You can’t help it. Because now, the guilt is a storm of its own, building too fast, too heavy to hold back.

Quinn feels it before he even sees it.

The shift. The way your breath catches, stutters, like the wind just changed direction, gathering force. The way your shoulders tense, then tremble, like the weight of the storm pressing against you is too much to hold back.

And he knows.

Knows the way your body reacts before the downpour. Knows the way your fingers tighten their grip — on fabric, on him, on anything solid — when you’re trying to hold yourself together. Knows the way your chest rises too fast, the way your throat works through a swallow that doesn’t quite make it past the lump sitting heavy there.

Knows the warning signs.

Because he’s seen your storms before. He’s weathered them, stood at the eye of them, braced against them, held you through them. And now, as the first crack of thunder rolls through your body — a tiny, barely there inhale that catches in your throat — he knows another one is coming.

And he doesn’t want that for you.

"Baby," he whispers again and and it’s not more a pet name — it’s a plea. It's a a quiet, desperate thing, frayed at the edges. Please don’t go there. Please don’t blame yourself. Please don’t break because of me.

His forehead stays pressed to yours, hands tightening around you.

But you just squeeze your eyes shut, pressing yourself closer, and that’s when he really feels it. The tiny shake of your shoulders, the uneven rise and fall of your chest, the way your body curls inward, instinctively seeking shelter.

Your voice comes out ragged. "I should've known. I was so wrapped up in myself that I didn't—"

"I know," he murmurs softly, cutting through your words. And it’s not a dig, not an accusation, just fact. Just something true between you.

And that hurts worse.

Because you never saw it clearly enough. Because he never told you. Because you never asked. Because you’ve both been drowning in separate storms, hands outstretched, but never quite finding each other.

His hand slips lower, sliding over your back, pulling you in until there’s nothing left between you but warmth and the quiet understanding that you’re in this together. That you should’ve been in this together all along.

"What do you need?" His voice is softer now, lips brushing against your hair, the question almost hesitant — like he’s afraid you’ll shut him out again.

You shake your head, barely a movement, barely enough to count, but it’s there.

"Just you."

And God, that nearly knocks him over.

Because he can do that.

He can be that.

He can be yours. He is yours.

He presses a lingering kiss to your temple, then another to your cheek, and a final one just beneath your jaw, his breath warm against your skin. His fingers slip beneath the hem of your hoodie, pressing firm and steady against your skin, like he’s making a promise without saying a word.

When your next breath shudders through you, breaking against his collarbone, Quinn just holds on tighter.

"I’ve got you," he murmurs.

You don’t say anything, just hold onto him, letting the quiet settle between you, letting the steady rhythm of his breathing pull you back, slow and measured, like waves finally lapping at the shore instead of crashing against it. Like the first stillness after days of wind.

And then, before the weight of everything can creep back in, Quinn exhales, deep and slow, his chest rising and falling in sync with yours.

"We’re okay," he murmurs, pressing his lips to your hair, the warmth of his breath sinking into your skin. "We’re gonna be okay."

And for the first time in weeks, you believe him.

Then he shifts, nose nudging at your neck as he tucks himself in closer, like he’s been aching for this, for you. His arms tighten, drawing you in like he’s gathering something precious, something fragile that he almost lost. You feel it in the way his body softens against yours, shoulders finally beginning to uncoil.

Then, his breath evens out, slower, like he’s finally letting himself rest, and it feels like something cracking open and being put back together all in the same moment. Like all the weight you've both been carrying is finally lifting, piece by piece, no longer just his and no longer just yours to bear.

Like after weeks of drifting in separate storms, you’ve finally found your way back to the same shore, the waves settling, the worst of it behind you.

nhl + ribs - lorde

you still have so many years to meet so many people you never knew you could love so much

still thinking about how mack and will excitedly counted down to say each others names for who their emergency contacts would be, and how the rest of the team proceeded to say it’d essentially be anybody but them.

ミ★ 𝘭𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵 ★彡

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

group chat texts pt1 pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt6 pt7 pt8 first day at the lake house

shake it off, babe

a lake house christmas

You know how to love someone, but you don't know how to believe that someone loves you, and that is your tragedy.

inktopuck masterlist !

quinn hughes:

juno | social media au

jack hughes:

miss honey | social media au

luke hughes:

the secret of us | social media au

oh it's that serious

happy hughesbowl day to those who celebrate 🥳

iris by goo goo dolls really is insane though. I'd give up forever to touch you? you're the closest to heaven I'll ever be? all I can breathe is your life? and I don't want the world to see me cause I don't think they'd understand? when everything's meant to be broken I just want you to know who I am? does anyone hear me.