brock faber has to be touching or hugging quinn at all times or else he gets depressed (is it normal to basically drape yourself across the back of your d-partner in a hug?)
i just realized. brock rarely if ever gets the hat/special stupid item the team chooses for whatever reason. he’s just always so steady and does everything consistently great idk that he gets that recognition much as like the forwards do. which isn’t to say they don’t deserve it or that it’s even that meaningful a thing cause it’s just a silly hat but just a fact. he doesn’t get it much. i don’t think HE cares at all he’s happy for everyone to get it and celebrate time TO BE CLEAR.
but i think why i love that puck moment from quinn to brock is that it really does acknowledge how much brock was doing this playoffs like. at times he was the best player on the ice for the team, constantly trying to pull them forward, both sides of the ice, always brought 100% of his game and never anything else. he had a “i have arrived” playoffs and year.
and for quinn, his partner and someone he admires so much, to give him that recognition. did end up feeling like a true sense of i see you, you’re amazing, as your partner im going with you because i am with you on the ice 100% of the time and want to tell you to your face how amazing you are for us and for me. and smile so wide and be sincere about it. brock will never ever hype himself up ever (and he does need a therapist) so as a big fan of his it was just. gratifying. especially from someone like quinn who was also arguably the best player for us in the entire playoffs.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Men’s Hockey RPF
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Brock Faber/Quinn Hughes
Characters: Brock Faber, Quinn Hughes
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - BDSM, brock is a soft dom, Dom Brock Faber, Sub Quinn Hughes, poor communication, everything is quite PG, for now at least, Hurt/Comfort, Sort Of
Series: Part 1 of Holding My Breath For You
Summary:
It’s midnight, and Quinn is outside Brock’s door, halfway into subdrop. What else is Brock supposed to do?
it's actually so deeply depressing that in quinn and faber's final game, faber pulled 32 minutes and quinn 30.5 minutes... while boldy was third highest with 22:55. they deserved better support, they should not need to be on the ice that much to support this fucking team, and god knows they're burnt the fuck out now. i hope they recover over the summer and can rebuild
6.9k || size kink
yes this gifset gave me psychological damage. obviously.
Brock is a lot.
Quinn’s known it for years — the rookie starting to break into the shift length record times, a partner for Luke in WJC, a teammate for Jack in the USNDTP. Known it, known him, to an extent. A fucking horse: pulling the double-shifts, ignoring the subs, wracking up his TOI. Quinn's always got his eye on those kinds of guys, wondering if they have what it takes to uphold it.
Brock's upheld it, of course. Through Quinn's time in Vancouver and his arrival in Minnesota.
And Quinn learns that he continues to be a lot in the locker room. Barking and hollering, the loudest voice in the room some days, where having more volume than one of the Folignos is a testament and a half. A lot in the tunnel, bumping shoulders and fists with guys, getting them hyped up, giving them his energy when they're lacking in it.
He's a lot on the ice, too. Circling around the boards, circling around Quinn, circling back on a guy with the same sort of speed that he uses on a breakaway when they shove too hard at a teammate. Quinn can handle himself, but Brock gets there first most times, handling it for him instead. He's learned sometimes it's better to let him: the other guy gets the memo a whole lot quicker.
A lot, because he's always there. Right where Quinn needs him to be. In the locker room, calming to match Quinn's mood when he needs to know they're on the same wavelength. In the tunnel, holding out his fist, promising him energy if that's what he requires. On the ice, right where Quinn needs him most when he needs a guy to match his demands on the speed and the shift lengths, right there when he passes, right there when Quinn doesn't need him but wants him.
He learns it: no matter who he's with, or where, Brock is an overwhelming force. Usually in the best way, the exact way that every guy on the team needs.
Sometimes, on Quinn's self-implosive, destructive days, Brock is a lot in a way that Quinn isn't equipped to handle. He can't match up to his partner—not because Fabes is too much, but because Quinn is not enough.
So, overall, Quinn knows that Brock Faber, Minnesota's number 7 defenceman, is a lot.
And not like he needed the reminder, but Brock was definitely a lot twenty minutes ago when Quinn first pushed him back against his door. When he slipped a hand under Brock's shirt and placed it against his hip, keeping him pinned back. Quinn wanted to hide how breathless he'd gotten — having to strangle down some kind of stupid moan just from kissing, subtly catching his breath as he pressed wet kisses to Brock's jaw — only for Brock to jerk up against him, grabbing Quinn's waist, and something way too fucking strangled and horny in the back of his mind remembered, Oh, fuck. He is so much bigger.
It wasn't the same feeling he gets before he's splayed out on the ice from a guy managing to bulldoze him. It's also never a thought he's ever had with a hookup. But, as it turns out, the thought is absolutely just a direct fucking injection into his dick.
All of that, though, is minuscule compared to this moment. Brock has never been as much as he is right now, lying on Quinn's bed. Lying under Quinn.
For a hysterical moment, Quinn thinks That fucking shirt needs to come back. Right now. It's somewhere across the other side of the room. Brock had flung it with a little too much force and it'd knocked something over, but the humour of it barely lasted a second before Quinn's stupid, mindless dick-for-a-brain went Oh, I actually need to fuck him right now.
It was barely a minute before Quinn had pushed him towards the bed, and his desperation to kiss Brock would almost have been embarrassing if it wasn't for the fact that Brock seemed just as into it. He'd gone willingly, easily, folding in all the places that Quinn touched him.
And Quinn's a guy all about hindsight. Hours spent shooting at the net to sharpen his shot for the next season. Laying down the groundwork weeks in advance before he brings up something to his parents. It's failed him now, though. Because he failed to consider what the situation would lead to a mere minute later, after he's pushed Brock down onto the bed and has made him lie back.
The shirt on Brock had been a problem, but Brock dealt with that. The use of it as a projectile had been a problem because Brock's sheepish laugh when something clattered to the floor had certainly been a problem, but he dealt with that by swallowing Brock's lips until he felt like he was bursting. The shirt is still a fucking problem even across the room, because the lack of it is absolutely a problem, because it's now put a whole new problem in front of him—under him. On his fucking bed, splayed out, entirely fucking unaware of the issue it's causing.
Brock's fucking built. Quinn knows this, because it's just one of the many things that's categorised under "Brock Faber's list of being a lot." He's a lot of a guy.
Quinn's reminded of it every single day, and he's reminded that Brock is a whole fucking lot of a guy—especially next to Quinn. Press conference photos and media videos and shots on the ice. Taller, broader. Most guys are, when they're next to him, but Quinn's never let himself think of his dad's voice when he sees it. Because Brock's his partner, and they're a good size for each other, they're built for what they need to achieve out there together.
But it really is something else right now, sitting on Brock's stomach with a hand splayed on his chest. There's a small strain in Quinn's thighs—there always is, tightness that he can never get rid of—but it's a familiar feeling of when he starts trying to lightly stretch himself out before a game. Just the faintest amount of effort, a string that he feels every single woven thread of.
And it's not like Quinn hasn't touched Brock before. He's even touched his chest plenty, though typically in the same sort of chest-pat fashion that most guys feel at one point or another during a game. It really, really, should not be rocking him right now to see the sight of his hand on Brock's bare chest.
And yet. And yet. His fingers curl, pressing down into skin. His hand looks even fucking smaller, now. And Brock's entire chest, his shoulders, his arms—
A whole fucking lot of a guy.
Quinn exhales, and when his entire body shudders, he knows Brock can feel it. He curls his fingers into a fist and leans over, pressing a kiss to Brock's jaw, a mouthy, messy kind of thing that he knows will make Brock's head spin.
He can't be the only one falling apart, here. And Brock won't have any need to say Yeah, obviously, when Quinn points out something stupid—and very, very obvious—like how big Brock's shoulders are. Not like Brock would reply to him like that; he's polite to a fault. But sometimes, sometimes, he lets himself gloat when he knows that he can close out with a win.
And Quinn saying something stupid like You are very big is the exact same as giving a guy a winning hand. Fucking clean sweep with the pot full of all of his own chips. It's especially damning if he says it to someone like Brock, who knows how to look beyond the surface of such a ridiculous statement and see all the scrappy, desperate pieces of Quinn.
Brock's hands come up to rest on Quinn's hips. Quinn is busy trying to look like he is very much in control as he kisses his way down Brock's neck in a line as straight as he can make it, like this is some sort of sobriety field test. Like Quinn isn't just cataloguing the feeling of Brock's palm, and how much of Quinn's skin that Brock's fingers can cover, and thinking I need those hands everywhere, I need those fingers. Like he doesn't almost pull another muscle trying to keep his hips still as he thinks about how much of his dick Brock would be able to take in his hand.
Mindful with his touch, Brock's hold is only a light grip. Quinn needs a little more than that. He traces back up to a spot under Brock's jaw that pulled a hitch of his breath earlier and presses his tongue to it, an apology in advance before he pulls his lips back and grazes his teeth.
He draws the reaction he wants: Brock's hands tighten, the warm expanse of his hands pressing into Quinn's hips. Fuck, Quinn's hindsight is truly in the sewer. Maybe he should have thought about this for a single fucking moment, before biting at that spot that made Brock grip him for dear life, because now Quinn's the one who kind of needs something tethering him to reality. All he can feel is Brock's fingers, slipped under his shirt and onto skin. Quinn wants those hands to trail down, he wants them to curl more around his hips, he wants them on his stomach, over the curve of his ass, he wants—
His teeth press in slightly too hard. Brock sucks in a sharp breath, and Quinn apologises with the flat of his tongue again. He can't muster an actual Sorry on his lips—he thinks his voice might fucking croak, like he's 14 and trying to act cool and mature in front of the older, bigger guys in the team. Just fucking embarrassing for everyone to witness and listen to, most of all Quinn.
Now that he's not distracting Brock as much with his wet kisses, having paused as he tries to smooth an apology silently into Brock's smarting skin, Brock takes the chance to grip the bottom of Quinn's shirt and tug. He doesn't say anything either, but he doesn't need to. Quinn sits up, giving him an easier time with it—and to his own surprise, he doesn't hesitate to do so.
It's something always in the back of his mind in the locker room, comparing himself to the size of the other guys, well aware that he's got the muscles he needs but not nearly the same build the other guys have. He lost a lot a fair bit of what he did have during playoffs, while Brock somehow managed to keep most of his weight, and he became well aware of that difference by the end of it. But shame is stripped back in hockey, and if you don't remove your clothes as easily as you put them on, you're not going to make it far.
Still. Still, the thought and the consideration are there, typically, most of the time. Like if Quinn had any sense to hesitate, he would. Because he knows he's not as big as he probably needs to be, as he should be, as the rest of the guys are.
Yet as Brock reaches for his shirt, Quinn just makes it easier for him to take it off. Something else that's filled up whatever common sense and hindsight left behind when they went out the window.
"Don't knock over anything," Quinn says. He's a moment too late; Brock has already paused like he's expecting Quinn to take control of getting his own shirt off, and there's a flicker of hesitation with the unexpected change of plan.
"Right," Brock replies, a little breathless. He cracks a grin as he seems to settle, the certainty coming back as he tightens his grip on Quinn's shirt and tugs it up. "Promise."
He pulls it up, and Quinn helps him when he gets near his armpits by shrugging his arms out of it, but Brock's grip doesn't waver. He makes sure the shirt is in his hand by the time it's pulled up through Quinn's hair, and he grins at Quinn as he sets it down all too delicately towards the side of the bed. Quinn gives him a flat look for that.
"I can fold it," Brock offers. He sounds earnest about it, even though Quinn's nearly certain he's being cheeky. He decides to reply to that by smoothing his hands down Brock's chest, down towards his stomach, and right as Brock's spine starts to arch an inch, he smooths his palms down to the sides and traces them back up to his shoulders. Slowly, he runs his hands down Brock's shoulders, then his arms. Like he's in a damn trance, unable to think anything but Jesus fucking Christ. Caveman fucking brain. Brock has big shoulders, big chest, big arms. Lots of muscle. Lots of guy. Quinn doesn't even realise where his hands have traced until he's got them pressed down to Brock's wrists, circling around them and thinking more stupid shit like Wow, big wrists, if he does this to me he's going to be able to encircle a lot fucking more of my wrist than this, isn't he? He only comes back somewhat to earth as he hears Brock's shaky, "No folding. Got it."
Quinn hums. He presses his weight down into Brock, just because he can, just because it's fun to hear Brock's next hitched breath. Fun to feel it as he folds himself down so that he can press more kisses to Brock's neck, considering marking him up with the bruise of his lips. Brock goes willingly, tilting his neck, letting Quinn take as much of it as he wants.
His hands have settled back on his hips. A little tighter than they'd first been placed there before, but not that same grip he'd been chasing. He makes sure to fix that quickly enough, and this time, Brock's fingers are more of a warning as they dig in, but Quinn takes no heed. He shifts his weight back, settling further down on Brock's hips until he right over Brock's dick. Brock hisses and tilts his head back, digging down into the mattress.
"Fuck, Quinn," Brock exhales.
"Yeah?" Maybe he's a little heedy with the power of this. Brock's a lot of muscle, and his grip is tight and strong on Quinn's hips, and he could easily turn the tides of this situation. If he wanted to, he could probably flip Quinn right over. And sure, Quinn could fight back, and he'd probably get in a good couple of kicks and probably kick Brock right off him. But Quinn could also just—let him. If he wanted to. He could let Brock be the one to pin his wrists down, and let Brock be the one pressing down into him. Quinn wouldn't have anywhere to go—Brock would probably block out the whole fucking rest of the world with his shoulders and chest in Quinn's vision.
But Brock's staying right where he is, letting Quinn overpower him.
"Yeah," Brock says, somehow even more breathy now. "Yeah, fuck. Are you—do you—"
"Yeah," Quinn hums. He lets his weight sink down a little more, grinding back against Brock for a heavy second.
Brock's tilted his head back up, but it musn't be enough, as the weight of his hand on Quinn's hip disappears for a second as he throws an arm out for a pillow. He gets it bunched under his head, and like there's some kind of countdown racing against him, his fingers are right back on Quinn's hips without a moment to waste.
His gaze is sharp as he looks at Quinn, like he's trying to memorise the sight. Quinn thinks he misses the glasses—sometimes it's easier to pretend like Brock's stare isn't so weighted when it's through the layers of glass. It also makes Brock look a little more... less like he could flip Quinn at any second. He's not sure how he feels about the thought of Brock doing that with his glasses, but his dick twitches in his pants, so. That's probably saying something. Then again, at this point, Quinn's brain is so dunked that he could probably twitch at anything right now.
His hips move backwards again, and this time, Brock's hands help to guide him back. His hands start to move, around and cupping Quinn's ass, and he thinks they could do it just like this, easily. Keep their pants on and rut together like they're messy teenagers. It'd probably be worth the effort of the clean-up with their pants, even. But those kinds of things are more for the desperate, rushed kind of nights. Quinn's certainly getting fucking desperate, but they have time. And Quinn's got just enough wit about him left to take that blessing while he's got it.
He slows down their grinding, and after a few moments to get his breath back, he folds forward again. It takes him another few moments to get the strength to shift his weight entirely to one side, lifting his leg and moving up from over Brock so he can reach for the bedside table with toppling over. Brock is watching him silently, and when he realises what Quinn's reaching for, Quinn manages to catch the quick dart of his tongue that wets the middle of his bottom lip. His lips curl as he draws his tongue back in, and Quinn has to resist the urge to forgo the search for the lube and condom just to kiss Brock again.
"Pants," Quinn says, because he'd reach for Brock's himself, but he's still trying to grapple for a single condom wrapper tucked somewhere in his drawer.
Brock is quick to shred them off, though stops himself from kicking them and sending them halfway across the room at the last second. He's grinning at Quinn as he reaches down and starts to fold them over, and Quinn retaliates by throwing the condom at him once he's got his fingers on it. Brock catches it deftly, then puts it aside. He gestures for Quinn to come closer, and Quinn puts down the lube on the sheets and gets back within Brock's reach.
Hindsight, again. Brock's got no pants on. And Quinn, again, really does well and truly know, he swears, that Brock is built in all areas. He's got one of the bigger dicks in the team for sure, one of the very first few facts Quinn ever managed to stow away about his new partner after arriving in Minnesota. But seeing it now, thinking about the size of him...
Quinn's careful to keep his expression in control. His dick doesn't listen nearly as fucking well, because the second that Brock reaches for a belt-loop on his pants, he almost fucking whines with the feeling of his dick against his pants. He needs them off, Christ. Brock seems like he's about to help with that, but then his hand just cups over Quinn's dick instead.
He's now the one starting to fold where he's touched. Brock gets up on his elbow, looking at Quinn as he palms Quinn's dick, slipping under his pants but over his underwear.
"Fabes," he tries, because it's really kind of embarrassing how quickly he's folding, but Brock's still all smiles as he calmly puts on a bit more pressure. He'd been right—Brock's nearly got his whole damn dick in his hand already.
"Yeah?" Brock asks, all too earnestly. Genuine, like he'd give so easily give whatever Quinn asked of him. And Quinn wants to ask it, he does, but his tongue is not going to fucking work. And his voice will definitely do some embarrassing croaking shit. He's not going to ask it. Brock gives it anyway. He leans over and kisses the corner of Quinn's mouth, an apology of his own, before he lets some of his weight start to guide Quinn down into the mattress.
"This okay?" Brock asks, once Quinn's the one on his back and Brock's the one above. He's still on his side, propped up by his elbow, looking over Quinn.
"Just—" Quinn bites out. Brock waits for a moment, but Quinn's got nothing else he can say. He just arches his back slightly, trying to take off some of the edge by putting pressure against Brock's hand, hoping he gets the memo. He does, of course. Brock kisses him again as he palms his dick for a few more seconds, then gives Quinn a moment to breathe as he slips his hand out and starts to push down at the top of his pants. Quinn's now the one to kick them off, and Brock breathily laughs when they land with a thwump on the floor.
"So much for—"
Quinn cuts him off by grabbing the back of his head and pulling him down for a kiss. Brock melts into it quickly, and he's half-splayed over Quinn as they pull back from each other. Quinn's loosened his grip on Brock's hair, threading through the curls as Brock kisses his jaw.
"How do you want to do this?" Brock asks, and Quinn can hear his hand searching across the bed for the lube. He manages to find it, and he props himself up again as he waits. Quinn considers his answer, hands running down Brock's back until he's back at his arms. He gets distracted for a few moments. If he has to see Brock's arms during this whole thing, he's going to be blowing his load so much earlier than he'd like. But.
He takes a few more seconds to appreciate Brock's arms, squeezing at the muscle in a self-indulgent moment before he sits up. Brock leans back, giving him space. Lets Quinn push at him again until he's back on top, straddling himself over Brock's hips.
"Do you want to—?" Brock holds up the lube in offer. Quinn reaches for it, and Brock tightens his grip, making a noise that Quinn understands quickly enough. He holds out his hand, and Brock squeezes a liberal amount on his fingers. He's about to make a comment about it, but it dies in his throat as Brock mutters, somewhat dazed, "Yeah. Show me."
Quinn reaches behind himself, not entirely convinced of his decision, because this is the kind of thing that's really only felt good when someone else does it. But Brock's expression is enough to make Quinn have to try and steady his breathing, reminding himself to take it slow. He traces around his rim, and Brock's hands come back up to his hips, resting a bit lower, fingers pressing into his ass.
He slowly presses his first finger in, just the tip of it, and his entire stomach clenches. It's more because of Brock than it is about the feeling. It's the way Brock's eyes blow out, the way his tongue darts out again, mouth remaining open like he wants to say something but can't quite manage it. He breathes through it, and Brock's hands move a little, brushing over his pinky. Quinn jolts at that, and Brock seems to like the sort of reaction he gets, as he gets more daring and lowers his hands down further into Quinn's cheeks, kneading slightly, pulling them apart slightly.
"There you go," Brock mutters as Quinn sinks the rest of his finger in. He's hard as fuck, desperate to touch himself, but he's not so sure he'll be able to balance if he lifts his other arm from Brock's chest. And the fact is, with this sight below him, he's really not sure he won't be able to give in to the feeling of just chasing his own pleasure. Hindsight, already established: kaput. Quinn's got none of it. The goal is to get Brock inside of him, but if he loses sight of that, he's never getting there. And he really wants to get there.
Subtly, Brock's starting to rock him back again. Back on his fingers, where his second is slowly starting to slip in, but also right near the tip of Brock's hard dick. Quinn's eyes flick to the condom, and Brock has enough sense with him to reach for it again. Quinn rocks back on two fingers, trying to get used to the stretch, trying to relax into it. Brock's big—he needs a bit more patience than he usually affords himself.
It's a bit of a blind juggling act for Brock trying to get the condom on, but he manages to do it without displacing Quinn. Quinn's dumbass brain is alight with the thought of That's because his arms can reach a whole lot fucking further around, actually. Because he's big. Which is, objectively, wrong—Quinn's got a better range of movement when it comes down to it, but there's really no helping his stupid, horny brain right now. It's running ahead with the reminder that Brock's a built guy.
He's about to slip his third finger in when Brock's hands return again to his ass. He runs his hands over Quinn's skin, then cups his hand right over Quinn's own. Lightly at first, going with the motion of Quinn's fingers slipping in and out. He reaches out for the lube again and brings his other hand back, pouring some into it, before resting it back over Quinn's.
"Can I—"
"Yeah," Quinn says, with way too much relief, because it's just so much fucking better when it's someone else. Brock grins and his fingers are right there as Quinn pulls his own back, two slipping in. It's already more—more of a stretch, more filling, just. More. Quinn's entire body folds down with it as Brock's fingers sink in, and Brock's other hand catches him around the back and keeps him down with an easy pin. He'd lift his arm the moment that Quinn might resist, but Quinn lets himself sink down into it. He focuses on the splay of his hand on Brock's chest, on running his hand over Brock's muscles of his arms, moving and straining as Brock stretches him out.
His third finger hesitates, and it's not until Quinn pushes his hips back for it that Brock huffs in an amused laugh and finally lets it sink in. Quinn has to bite down—only realising belatedly that he's got Brock's shoulder in his mouth. He soothes it over with a kiss, then realises he's also dug his fingers into the meat of Brock's arm, so he slowly unsticks his grip there too.
"Okay?" Brock asks, fingers going still, so deep and just—a lot.
Quinn's brain is kind of melting through his ears, but, yeah, sure. Okay. He makes a noise that might resemble something like that. Enough for Brock to hum and slowly pull his fingers back, then sink them back in again. Repeats it until Quinn starts to grind on the feeling—back on it, down onto Brock. He's jolted from his movements as Brock's fingers curl, and he's not quite able to smother the moan as his entire body lights up.
"Fuck," he groans out, hearing himself somewhere through his ears ringing and the echoing sound of Brock's pleased rumble of something akin to rumble. Quinn's not too sure—he might just be feeling that last one, as Brock's chest shakes with each breath. Quinn's kind of just feeling almost everything of Brock, really.
"That alright?" Brock asks, still checking in, but his fingers curl again and Quinn's next groan is an even more wretched thing pulled from his chest.
"Fuck," he says, sharp and all too fucking much. "Fuck, fuck, don't—"
Brock turns his head and kisses the skin that he can. Mostly the top of Quinn's head, traces on his forehead. He's not at all sorry for his actions. He is definitely going to do it again, but Quinn's alight with all too much already.
"Just—" He bites off, fingers digging into Brock's arm again. Brock waits him out, and Quinn gets enough sense to reach back behind himself. Brock is a little more hesitant to withdraw his fingers and give Quinn the reins now—not taking power from Quinn, necessarily, but not quite able to give up the limit he's got. Quinn's always had an eye out for Brock's more selfish tendencies: very few and far between. Most of them only come out around Quinn. Like right now.
But Quinn's not trying to take over. He reaches for Brock's dick, and when Brock realises it, he slips his fingers out.
"Yeah?" Brock asks, taking himself in his grip. Quinn responds by sinking his hips back. He doesn't manage to catch the tip of Brock's dick, and it slides up between his cheeks instead, but Brock quickly steadies him with a hand on his waist and slowly guides his dick to Quinn's hole. Quinn props himself back up, hand on Brock's chest, as he sits up and lets himself sink down on it slowly. Brock's breathing almost through his teeth, clenched breaths that he's straining to pull in, breathless words slipping in between it all. "Yeah, yeah, that's good, that's—yeah. Like that. Just like that. Slow. There you go, fuck—"
It's a lot. Of course it's a lot. Quinn's own breaths are shallow as he slowly fills up. His thighs are definitely straining in protest as he sinks down, and he tries to tell himself he's got this, he's absolutely got this. It's just like training, it's just like stretching, just like the game that he knows so well. He knows what to do, he's just gotta trust in his muscles, he's just gotta trust that he can get through this, that the reward is worth the effort.
His hips finally sink down, and he's damn near breathless at the end of it. His head dips down, hair in front of his eyes, as he breathes. Fuck. Fuck.
Brock's running his hands down his thighs, like he's trying to soothe the ache that he knows is there. Then his hand comes to Quinn's hip, then down, grabbing at Quinn's dick.
"You good?" Brock checks in. Quinn grunts at him. It's all he can manage. Brock runs his thumb over Quinn's tip, then loosely wraps his fist around Quinn's length and gives a couple of tugs. Quinn lets the sensation try and fill him up instead, taking away some of his focus on the feeling of Brock's dick inside of him.
Fuck. He's just—yeah. He's a fucking lot. Kind of impossible to ignore.
But slowly, he gets used to it, starts to relax, starts to be able to breathe properly again. He lifts himself just an inch or so, then sinks back down. Tests it out, lets himself get used to it again, before he rises some more and sinks back down. Still a lot, but it's getting manageable.
"Ah, shit—" Brock bites off. His hand has gone slack on Quinn's dick, but he doesn't mind—it's really too much trying to battle both sensations right now. When Brock realises, he goes to tighten his hold again, but Quinn looks up through his hair and shakes his head.
"No, just. Let me," Quinn manages, and Brock nods after a moment of consideration before he lets his hand circle around Quinn's hip instead.
Quinn's got the kind of leg muscles and certainly the kind of stamina to go on the ice for over thirty minutes a game. He can go for a while here too, but not nearly the same length of time. The strain of his muscles is getting more pronounced with every lift, and each rise and fall is starting to feel like an entire shift. Brock's hands start to guide him back, helping him out, but he's clearly fighting a battle with his own control and barely keeping hold of it. His grunts send bolts of heat through Quinn's stomach, enough to give him the energy to keep fighting through the strain of his thighs until they start to noticeably shake.
He gives himself a break, hips flush to Brock's own, and Brock's fingers curl into his hips. He's breathing heavily, fighting back a hair-trigger of keeping control.
"You can..." Quinn tries to offer. Weakly bounces to make his point.
Brock's hands run over his hips, then over his ass. Quinn has to fight back his own moan as he feels that large sensation of heat over his skin. Then, when his hands come to circle back around his hips, he keeps Quinn still while he thrusts up.
They both moan in tandem, and Quinn looks to see Brock's expression. He's focused, eyes fixated on where their hips meet, watching every time he snaps back into Quinn. Quinn's moved forwards as Brock starts to dig his heels into the mattress, knees coming up, and it's messy and uncontrolled and he slips out and makes a frustrated sound, and then, in the same rush of air, desperate, Brock's saying, "Can I? Can I—please, fuck—"
Quinn's not entirely sure what he's agreeing to, but he knows that he trusts whatever it's going to be, so he nods and before he can even get out a Yeah, Brock's got them flipped over.
It's almost as fucking fast as someone crashing into him on the ice. He blinks, dazed. When the fuck.
"Like this," Brock's saying, right there against his ear. "If—Can I—"
Quinn manages to get a measly, "Yeah," out this time. He's got his legs around Brock's waist, and he keeps them there as Brock starts to thrust, and—
Jesus, yeah. He's kind of everything in Quinn's view.
Brock's got his head down again, watching as he slips in and out of Quinn, the pace getting faster as he starts to get lost in the feeling of it. But he lifts his head again, and Quinn realises he's got his hands trailing across the expanse of Brock's back.
Also realises, stupidly, he's been saying shit like Fuck, Fabes. Yeah. You're so— yeah. Like that. Fuck, you're so big. You're so—yeah. Fuck.
It's ringing in his ears now, which are burning a bright fire. He's never really said all that much during sex; the words are as much of a surprise to him as they seem to be to Brock, who's looking at him with wide eyes.
"Holy shit," Brock says.
"Don't," Quinn grumbles, turning his head to try and give himself an out, but Brock ducks his head down and kisses the corner of Quinn's lips.
"No, fuck, that's so—" he's saying, rushed and eager. "Like, no. Fuck. That's. So you like—"
"Don't," Quinn tries to say again, but it's half as strong and even less believable now.
Brock kisses him again. He's still fucking inside of Quinn, like he wasn't just in the middle of something before letting himself get derailed by Quinn's runaway mouth. Slowly, Brock drops down to his elbows. He's studying Quinn so intently that it's really kind of unnerving. He hasn't felt this kind of stare in a while—and never really in this context with Brock, either. Quinn's hands start to lower, settling until they're back down on the sheets.
Brock's stare shifts to his hands. Cautiously, but with that hint of confidence he tends to carry, he says, "So if I—"
So if he takes Quinn's wrist and puts it above his head, and he sinks his weight down, Quinn's dick fucking leaks. That's what. And his traitorous mouth lets some kind of ridiculous moan slip out, some sort of sound he wasn't even sure he could make.
"Holy shit," Brock breathes out again.
Quinn goes to twist his wrist, but Brock instinctively tightens his hold, and Quinn goes boneless. Immediately. Just sinks right into it, letting Brock know that he's more than welcome to keep doing that. A response where his body has not consolidated his mind on the matter, but it's not like he's got much of one left anyway.
Fuck it, he thinks. Easier to think it as he feels Brock's own hips jerk, the way that his eyes are so blown out. His tongue darts out at his lips again.
Slowly, slowly, Quinn starts to let his other arm do what it so desperately wants to do. Which is slide right up there as well, under Brock's grip. Brock easily accepts it, keeping both of Quinn's wrists pinned down.
"Fuck," one of them says. Maybe both of them.
Thankfully, mercifully, Brock starts to rock back into him. Quinn tests his weight, trying to lift his hands half-heartedly, and Brock pushes them right back down into the mattress with a strength that makes Quinn's mouth go dry. Brock's pace picks back up quickly into those faster, more eager ruts—rocking into Quinn in a rhythm that he falls right into. The mattress feels like it shifts under them. Quinn's pretty sure his entire bed is going to have shifted an inch or two by the end of this.
He can tell Brock's getting closer as his grip gets tighter, and his thrusts get more and more erratic. Quinn digs his legs into Brock's sides in encouragement, and Brock's grunts fill his ears, and his—everything continues to take up Quinn's view. It's—a lot. A whole fucking lot.
"I'm—" Brock grits out.
"Yeah," Quinn encourages, "yeah, come on. That's it, so good, fuck, you feel so good, Fabes, fuck."
It doesn't take long for Brock to spill into the condom, his thrusts turning jerky and losing momentum as he rides it out. His grip on Quinn's wrist gets almost unbearably tight, then slackens so fast that it sends Quinn's head spinning. He barely has a moment before he feels Brock's hands around his dick.
"That's it, that's—" Brock's hoarse voice is cut off as Quinn's legs tighten around him as he tries to pull out. Brock makes a strangled sort of noise. "Fuck. Christ, you might kill me."
Quinn lets his legs slacken when he realises Brock is gritting his way through the oversensitivity, even though it makes some kind of whine escape from his own throat. He's mortified by it, but Brock quickly licks into his mouth with a desperation like he's the one currently an inch away from the cliff. Quinn spills over with it all, and Brock jerks him through it, uncaring for the mess that's ended up on both of their stomachs.
The high is so high that he is somewhere up in the goddamn clouds—not falling from the cliff, but suddenly torpedoed up from it. His ears ring on the comedown, his tongue heavy and strange in his mouth as he starts to fall back down to earth. Everything is still a whole lot. A whole lot of too much.
He feels Brock rolling off him. Blinks as he sees the ceiling above him now. His ears are still ringing, but he can hear Brock shuffling around as he peels off the condom and ties it off. It seems to take him a few moments to get to his feet, though, swinging his knees over the side of the bed with an accompanying groan that he makes when he's sometimes overdone it on a shift.
Quinn definitely gets that. It feels like that right now. He's not sure he has much muscle in his legs left at this rate. He manages to turn his head, though, watching as Brock leans forward and decides to make the small throw from the edge of the bed. He thankfully makes it—Quinn would definitely be giving him shit if he didn't.
Brock looks back over his shoulder, an easy smile starting to lift the corner of his lips.
"Hey," Brock says. His hair is all over the place, curls an absolute mess, and there's probably still come on his stomach. They're both a mess.
"Hey," Quinn manages to say back. He gestures to the other bedside, right where Brock's close to sitting. "Wipes are in there."
Brock reaches in and pulls them out. He uses one across his own stomach, tosses it in the trash, then pulls out another wipe. Quinn expects to take it, but Brock just pulls himself back across the bed and wipes at Quinn's stomach himself. He's a little more gentle with the cleanup around his ass, at least, but Quinn still shivers with each sensation. He's usually not so worn out or sensitive, but Brock is—well. Brock.
The cleanup gets done for the most part, enough for them to just silently agree it's all they can do right now. A shower can come later. Much fucking later, at this stage.
Brock lies himself back down on the bed, not at all hesitant in the aftermath of it all. Quinn, miraculously, thankfully, doesn't feel any trace of awkwardness about it either. Of course they fall right into line here too, circling back around each other.
"So, that was..." Brock trails off.
"A lot," Quinn fills in for him.
Brock hums. "Yeah. It was kind of great."
Quinn looks back up at the ceiling. Brock's breaths fill the air.
He knows he doesn't have to say it, that Brock understands it anyway, but.
"Yeah," he says. "It was."
Brock reaches out for him. Pulls him closer. It's a lot, it always is when Quinn lets any kind of admission like that into the world—but it's just Brock, too.
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