Kenny 𝜗𝜚

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📞 - 𝓦𝓱𝓸 𝓲𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼? . . . ₊˚꩜ 𝒦ℯ𝓃𝓃𝓎 ✮˚₊ -

I’m Kennedy, But you can call me Kenny or Kenna.

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♪ 𝄞 | ❝ 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲ノ𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐦 ❞

♪ 𝄞 | I like hockey 🧍‍♂️

♪ 𝄞| I like the Minnesota Wild, Tampa bay lightning, New Jersey devils and the San Jose sharks.

♪ 𝄞| You can spam, Yap or ask. 💋

♪ 𝄞| I often call people lovely, Lovies but if your a moot I will can you “‘Sweets’”

♪ 𝄞| i write randoms, mainly the Hughes…

♪ 𝄞| I call Luke (Hughes) “‘Moose’”, Quinn (Hughes) “‘Bear’” and Jack (Hughes) “‘Koala’”.

♪ 𝄞| I have anons on, But feel free to just yap without anon if comfortable.

♪ 𝄞| This account is basically only active when I’m writing it about to post…

ᥫ᭡| kennyxkhaos is my other account, For reposts, Randoms.

© 2026 Kenny. All rights reserved. I do not authorize all and any of my works to be used, copied, plagiarized, reposted, and/or modified on any platform. Do not claim my content and/or do not use it in AI.

◛⑅·˚ ༘ I in fact didn't just write the base...

a\n: Finally decided to write kinda of a part two? Might actually be a part two to "'Date Night'". We will just count it as part two.

TW/CW; Husband!Luke, Wife!Reader, Pregnancy, Lovesick!Luke, Tease!Luke

C\C: 6470 W\C: 1123

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The ride home had been a symphony of shifting moods. Luke had handled your garlic bread meltdown with the kind of practiced, saintly patience that usually suggested he was suppressing a laugh. He knew better than to poke the bear—at least, while the bear was hungry. But now, back in the sanctuary of your living room, the "garlic bread tragedy" had softened into a funny memory, eclipsed by the sheer physical weight of carrying Peanut. As he eased your jacket off your shoulders, he did it with a reverence that made you feel less like a "moody pregnant lady" and more like something fragile and precious. The couch was the ultimate destination—the Promised Land. When you finally sank into the cushions, the relief was so sharp it was almost a physical ache.

Luke didn't even wait for you to ask. He dropped to his knees on the rug—a man on a mission. The way he unlaced your shoes and massaged the arches of your feet for a lingering second before setting the footwear aside was his silent apology for the restaurant's kitchen staff. He flopped down beside you, the cushions sighing under his weight, and pulled a soft throw over both of you. The Peanuts Movie flickered onto the screen—a choice clearly made for the pun of it—but the colorful animation stood no chance against the real-life drama happening under your maternity shirt.

Luke’s attention span for Charlie Brown lasted exactly until he felt the first rhythmic thump against his side. Peanut was doing gymnastics tonight, seemingly determined to find out what lay beyond your ribcage. Then came the smirk—the one that signaled Luke was transitioning from "Doting Husband" to "Professional Menace."

For months, he’d played the role of the Baby Bodyguard. If you so much as pressed a finger too firmly against your own skin to find a heartbeat or a limb, he’d hover like a nervous hen. "Hey, watch it," he’d murmur, “Don’t poke my daughter. She’s napping.” Yet, here he was. His large hand splayed across the curve of your stomach, waiting. The moment a distinct kick sent a ripple across your skin, his finger moved with lightning speed. Flick. "Luke!" you gasped, half-laughing and half-exasperated. "You are literally bullying someone who hasn't even been born yet." You giggled softly. "I'm not bullying," he countered, his eyes bright with mischief as he tracked the next movement. Flick. "I'm establishing a rapport. It’s a call-and-response. She starts it, I finish it."

You tried to swat his hands away, but it was like trying to stop the tide. He was "Moose" for a reason—solid, immovable, and stubbornly playful. Every time Peanut landed a blow to your ribs, Luke was there with a gentle, tactile retort, giggling like he’d discovered a new language. When you finally caught his wrists to stop the madness, he used the leverage to pull himself up. He leaned over, his face inches from yours, radiating that warmth that always managed to melt your annoyance. He kissed you—a slow, lingering distraction of a kiss that tasted like the peppermint he’d grabbed on the way out of the restaurant. It was a perfect distraction. Except, even as his lips stayed pressed to yours and his eyes fluttered shut, you felt it. A sharp thud from Peanut near your hip, followed immediately by the rhythmic, unmistakable sensation of Luke’s middle finger snapping against your skin.

He didn't even break the kiss. He just kept flicking the baby, a lopsided grin forming against your mouth.

"You are a menace," you whispered, though your voice lacked any real bite. You slumped back against the sofa cushions, defeated by his stubbornness. "A hypocrite and a menace. If I so much as breathe too hard on my stomach, you act like I’m shaking a Polaroid picture, but here you are, playing tag with her." Luke finally pulled his hand away, but only to prop his head up on his elbow so he could look down at the mountain of your belly with a look of pure, unadulterated adoration. The "Moose" persona softened into something much quieter. "It’s different," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low register he saved for late nights. "You poke to see where she is. I’m just... letting her know I’m here. It’s a secret handshake. Right, Peanut?"

As if on cue, a massive, slow roll moved across your abdomen—the kind of movement that made you feel like you were hosting a very active bowling ball. Luke’s eyes widened, and for a second, the flicking stopped. He just laid his entire palm flat against the spot, his breath hitching. The playful mischief evaporated, replaced by the heavy, sweet reality of the situation. The movie was a colorful blur of noise in the background, forgotten. In the quiet of the living room, the only thing that mattered was the heat of his hand through your shirt. "She’s strong tonight," he noted, his thumb tracing a slow circle over the curve of your skin. "Must have been the garlic bread she didn't get to eat. She’s protesting the service."

"She’s protesting her father’s lack of boundaries," you countered, though you reached out and tangled your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against the side of your bump. "Hey. Listen to me," he whispered directly to your skin, his voice vibrating against you. "Mom is being a buzzkill. Don't listen to her. Keep kicking. I’ve got all night." You couldn't help it. You reached down and gave his ear a firm, playful tug. "If she keeps me up all night because you’ve spent the last hour overstimulating her, you are the one getting up to make the 3:00 AM toast. No exceptions."

Luke chuckled, the sound muffled against your stomach. He shifted, crawling further up the couch until he could tuck his large frame into the small space behind you, spooning you into the cushions. He wrapped one heavy arm over your waist, his hand returning to its favorite resting place. "Deal," he murmured into your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck. "I'll make the toast. I'll even put garlic on it if that'll make you feel better." For a few minutes, there was peace. The credits of the movie began to roll, casting blue and white light across the darkened room. You started to drift, your eyes getting heavy as the "moody" energy of the evening finally drained away. Then, you felt it. A tiny, sharp jab right against your belly button.

Luke froze behind you. You felt his chest hitch as he suppressed a giggle. Slowly, tentatively, you felt his finger reach around and—flick.

"Luke!"

"She started it!"

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◛⑅·˚ ༘ I shouldn't be allowed to write, But here. Finally got an idea. :)

Basically date night while pregnant.

TW/CW; Husband!Luke, Wife!Reader, Pregnancy, Lovesick!Luke

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The light stayed red for what felt like forever, but Luke didn't seem to mind the wait. Usually, he was the guy weaving through traffic, always in a rush to get home or get to the rink, but tonight he was just... still. He shifted his weight in the drivers seat, his big frame taking up way more space than the car probably intended, and he just kept staring at you. It was that look that always made your stomach do backflips—the one where he looks at you like you're the only person in the world who matters.

"What?" you finally asked, looking up from your phone with a little smirk. "Is there something on my face?"

He didn't answer right away. He just reached out, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw before his hand drifted down to rest back on your bump. His palm was so warm, even through the fabric of that tight dress. "Nothin'," he mumbled, his voice sounding a little bit raspy. "Just thinkin' about how lucky I am. You look insane tonight. Like, I dont even know if I can handle taking you into a public restaurant without wanting to turn the car around." You felt yourself blush, which was annoying because you'd been married to this man for three years, but he still knew exactly how to get a reaction out of you. "Luke, the reservation," you reminded him, though your heart wasnt really in it.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he sighed, finally pulling away as the light turned green. He drove one-handed, the other hand staying firmly planted on your belly. He started doing that thing where he talks to the baby in a low voice, almost a whisper, so quiet you could barely hear him over the hum of the tires. "You hear that, kid? Your moms being bossy again. But she looks too good for me to argue." He turned the car down a side street you didnt recognize, away from the loud neon signs of the city center. It was quieter here, lined with old oak trees and dim streetlamps. He eventually pulled up in front of this tiny, ivy-covered bistro that looked like it belonged in a movie. It was tucked away, private, and honestly looked way too fancy for a guy who spent most of his life in a sweaty locker room.

He parked the car but didnt kill the engine right away. He just sat there for a second, looking at his hand on your stomach. "Twenty weeks," he said, mostly to himself. "Halfway there. Sometimes it doesnt feel real until I'm sitting here with you like this. No fans, no coaches, just us." He leaned over the center console then, his shoulder brushing yours as he tucked a stray hair behind your ear. His eyes were dark, full of that "pitiful" lovesick look you mentioned, but there was a flicker of something else there too—a protectivness that had only grown since you'd seen that first positive test.

"I know I’m a sap," he whispered, his breath warm against your cheek. "But I realy am obsessed with you. And this." He patted your bump gently before leaning in to kiss you, a slow, deep breath of a kiss that made you forget all about being hungry. When he finally pulled back, he had that dopey, lopsided grin again. "Right. Food. Before you get hangry and start eating the upholstery." He hopped out of the car, practically jogging around to the passanger side to open your door like the total gentleman he pretended not to be.

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It's 21:44 (9;44) and I shouldn't be allowed to write at this time.

TW/CW; Soft!Jack, Husband!Jack, Sweet!Jack, Wife!Reader

◛⑅·˚ ༘ ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʜᴏᴡ ᴛᴏ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ᴀ ꜰɪᴄ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴡᴏ ꜱᴏ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪꜱ ʏᴇᴛ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ.

Charcter count; 4557 Word count: 804

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The fluorescent lights of the diner buzzed overhead, a sharp contrast to the soft, hazy nostalgia of the morning. As you sat across from Londyn, watching her pick at a stack of blueberry pancakes, you couldn't help but see the echoes of the five-year-old girl with the paint-stained shirt. Back then, you had used scratchy paper towels to scrub away the primary blue pigment; today, the stains were internal—a messy breakup that had left her feeling frayed and discarded.

But then there was Jack.

Jack, who had gone from a quiet, hyper-focused kid in the USNTDP to a man who wore the pressure of the NHL like a comfortable sweater. He sat beside you, his large hand resting naturally on the back of your chair, occasionally chiming in with a joke just to see Londyn’s lips twitch into a genuine smile. He hadn’t just "allowed" her to come along; he had made it feel like she was the missing piece of the day. When Jack pulled the truck into the gravel lot of a local florist and boutique, you assumed he was just grabbing a last-minute card or perhaps a coffee for the road.

“I’ll be back. Sit tight,” he murmured, leaning over to press a lingering kiss to your temple. The scent of his cologne—something clean, like cedar and cold air—trailed behind him as he stepped out. The truck grew quiet, the hum of the heater the only sound until Londyn let out a long, shaky breath. "You really scored, you know that?" she whispered, leaning her head against the window. "He’s the only guy I know who wouldn't be annoyed that his 'anniversary-eve' date was hijacked by a crying best friend."

You laughed, reaching over the console to squeeze her hand. "He loves you too, Lon. We’re a package deal. He knew that when he proposed." For twenty minutes, the two of you fell back into your oldest rhythm. You gossiped about people from high school, speculated on whether Luke would ever settle down, and laughed until your sides ached over a shared memory of a failed science project. For a moment, the heavy cloud of her heartbreak seemed to thin out, letting a little light back in.

The click of the door lock signaled Jack’s return. He was slightly out of breath, fending off the crisp morning air as he tossed a few small shopping bags onto the floorboards. But it was what he held in his arms that stopped the conversation dead. He wasn't just holding a bouquet. He was holding two distinct, carefully wrapped arrangements. He turned in his seat, his expression softening as he looked at the two most important women in his life. First, he handed you a cluster of your favorites—the flowers he’d been buying you since you were teenagers, the ones that meant home.

Then, with a gentle, almost shy shrug, he reached into the back. "I remember you saying these were the only things that made your apartment feel alive," Jack said, handing a vibrant, fragrant bouquet of lilies and eucalyptus to Londyn. Londyn froze, her fingers hovering over the petals. The silence in the car stretched out, thick with a kind of kindness that is rare and quiet.

“Jack,” she breathed, her voice cracking. “You didn’t have to do that. Today is supposed to be about you and Bug.” Jack just shook his head, shifting the truck into gear. “It’s not much, Lon. It’s the bare minimum. Everyone deserves to feel like someone’s looking out for them, especially today.” As Londyn began that half-sob, half-laugh—the "crying-laughing" that only happens when someone feels truly seen—you leaned back into your seat, clutching your own flowers.

Your heart didn't just flutter; it tightened with a profound sense of security. You watched Jack’s profile—the set of his jaw, the way he kept his eyes on the rearview mirror to make sure Londyn was okay, the way he didn't look for praise or a "thank you." He just did it because that’s who he was. In the world of professional sports, people often talked about Jack’s "stats" or his "clutch plays." But sitting there in the passenger seat, watching him heal your best friend’s heart just because he could, you knew his best stats weren't on the ice. They were right here, in the small, intentional ways he loved the people you loved.

You hadn't just married a star athlete or a high school sweetheart. You had married a man who knew that love wasn't a limited resource—it was something that grew the more you gave it away. "Ready for the mall?" Jack asked, catching your eye and winking. You leaned over and kissed his cheek, the scent of the flowers filling the cab. "Ready," you whispered, knowing with absolute certainty that you had chosen the right one.

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◛⑅·˚ ༘ I wrote this on the nineteenth and am finally posting it five days later…

TW/CW; Soft!Luke, Injured reader, Fiance!Luke, Kiss, Clumsy!Luke, (Slight) swearing.

◛⑅·˚ ༘ My nickname for Luke is "'Moose'" so that is featured in this :)

Charcter count; 3512 Word count: 613

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If you had asked your high-school self where you’d be in five years, "engaged to your brother’s best friend’s younger brother" wouldn't have even been on the radar. It sounded like a tongue-twister, or maybe a fever dream. But looking back, the pieces fit together effortlessly.

Your brother’s best friend, Quinn, and his younger brother, Luke, had always been fixtures in your life. There was no "stay away from my sister" drama; instead, you were simply part of the pack. Group hangouts were better when you were there, and Luke, in particular, made sure of it. He was the one sliding a heavy hoodie over your shoulders when the evening chill set in or giving up his seat so you didn't have to stand. What started as a comfortable friendship shifted into solo hangouts, then awkward pining, and finally, a relationship that the whole group championed.

When Luke got drafted to the New Jersey Devils, the looming threat of long distance felt like a heavy cloud—until he asked you to come with him. At sixteen, it was a whirlwind of parental permissions and weekend check-ins, but four years of shared morning coffees and New Jersey winters later, he knelt down on your anniversary.

Now, the wedding planning was in full swing—or it was, until a flight of stairs and a badly mangled right shoulder brought everything to a screeching halt.

The injury didn't just stop the guest-list editing; it made basic hygiene a mission. That was how you found yourself leaning back against the guestroom tub, a towel draped carefully over your injured shoulder. Luke, ever the caregiver, was returning the favor from when you’d done the same for him during his own recovery.

He stood over you, his hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his expression one of intense, adorable concentration. He was massaging the shampoo into your scalp with a focus so deep his tongue poked out slightly at the corner of his mouth.

Luke glanced down, his eyes softening as they met yours. The look on his face was one of pure, unadulterated adoration. “Hi, baby,” he murmured, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips before he leaned down to steal a quick, soapy kiss.

He straightened up, grabbing the shower head to rinse. “Hi, Moose,” you hummed, closing your eyes as he carefully shielded your face from the spray with his free hand.

The tenderness lasted until he reached for the conditioner. As his arm extended, his sleeve slid down, dipping directly into the stream of water and your wet hair. A dark, damp patch spread instantly across the fabric.

“Shi—” Luke caught himself, setting the bottle down with a clatter. He grabbed the hem of his hoodie to yank it off, but in his haste, the fabric snagged on his head. He stumbled backward, sightless and tangled, nearly tripping over the plush bathmat.

The sight of your professional athlete fiancé losing a fight with his own sweatshirt sent you into fits of laughter. By the time he emerged, face flushed and curls a chaotic mess, you were breathless. He threw a sheepish grin your way, tossing the soggy garment toward the sink.

By the time your hair was rinsed and towel-dried, your face was red from laughing, and your eyes were misty. He tucked you into bed with a gentleness that made your heart ache, the scent of your shared shampoo lingering on his skin. As you drifted off, you listened to the low, rhythmic rumble of his voice as he recounted stories from the day. You couldn't remember the details of the stories, but you fell asleep certain of one thing: you were deeply, truly loved.

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No idea what this would be tagged(?) as, So... I'm just gonna label it as fluff.... First fic, Be warned. Thank you @ruinix for being the tester :)

Tw/CW: Fluff, Husband!Quinny, Wife!Reader, Kisses, Sweet!Quinny

Charcter count; 3,259 Word count: 604

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The history between them went all the way back to kindergarten, which felt like a lifetime ago. Quinn had been this quiet kid, just trying to walk past to sit by himself, but they ended up tripping and he somehow caught them with all that toddler strength he had. It was the start of everything. Even though he barely spoke a word back then, they just got each other. It was that silent kind of friendship where no words were really needed to know what the other was thinking.

Then came the move. Being apart for six years was rough, but moving back to Michigan felt like fate. Quinn found them again almost immediately and didnt even waste time—he finally confessed all those hidden feelings he’d been holding onto. Dating turned into moving to Vancouver together after he got drafted, which then turned into an engagement and finally a wedding. He never posted much about her on social media, though. He was always a bit private like that, honestly just enjoying keeping her all to himself away from the fans and the noise.

The trade to the Minnesota Wild after seven seasons with the Canucks was a total shock to the system. It happened so fast. They had to pack up their entire life, but thank god for Ellen. She was there helping with every single box, being the absolute best mom and mother-in-law anyone could ask for. Moving to Minnesota felt weird at first, living in a cozy little home in a city they knew nothing about, but the team was great. They took Quinn under their wing right away.

The first game was a whirlwind. Not only did the Wild win, but Quinn scored his first point that very same night. The whole team wanted to celebrate at this super fancy restaurant, and Quinn wouldn't dream of going without her—he was so proud to finally introduce his wife to everyone.

They both got incredibly dressed up for the night, but of course, it had to snow. The ground was covered in that thick, slick Minnesota powder. As they stepped out, Quinn being Quinn, he wouldnt let her take a single step toward the car without help. He was out there using his foot to kick and clear a little path in the snow, making sure she wouldnt slip. He knew she was wearing those nice heels and he didnt want her pretty outfit gettin ruined or for her to hurt herself if she fell. He was always lookin out for her like that, ever since he caught her in that kindergarten classroom.

As you finally reached Quinn's truck, the snow crunching under your feet, he beat you to the handle with that usual grin of his. He opened the door for you, but just as you started to climb inside, he reached out and wrapped his arms firmly around your waist, pulling you back against him.

The air was a bit chilly, but his touch was warm as he leaned down and gently kissed you. It wasn't just a quick peck—it was the kind of kiss that made it obviouse how completly smitten he was with you. He honestly looked like he was in a daze, and he didnt care who saw.

Team dinner was supposed to start in twenty minutes, but in his mind, the guys could wait. Quinn was way too busy enjoying his wife's kiss, savoring the moment even though he was the one who started it. He seemed totally content to just stay there in the driveway forever if it meant holding you for a few more seconds.

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