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capquinn · 2 days ago

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mdni 18+ content

don’t @ me but this table is the perfect height for frantic can’t-wait-another-second table sex

Like, imagine being bent over the edge, the table bracing you just right, and Quinn’s hands are firmly gripping your hips — or maybe your ass, because he’s losing it, his head tipped back because he’s trying to hold on to some semblance of control but failing miserably. His fingers dig in with just enough pressure to leave faint marks, and every snap of his hips is rough and desperate, like he’s chasing relief as much as he’s giving it.

You can hear his heavy breaths, those low groans he tries to stifle but absolutely can’t, because the angle is just that good. His forehead might press to your shoulder or your back for a moment, muttering all these breathless little praises, low and hoarse, because Quinn Hughes might be a quiet guy normally, but here? Oh no, he’s anything but.

"You feel so good, baby," he murmurs, his voice cracking slightly with the effort of holding himself together.

And just when you think he might slow down, might let you catch your breath, he straightens back up, his grip tightening on your hips as he pulls you even harder against him, the table creaking beneath you both. Each snap of his hips is harder, more desperate, his voice raw now, barely more than a rasp, spilling praises and murmurs between gasps.

"Just like that, baby… so perfect."

His rhythm stutters for just a moment as he groans low, his hands sliding up your sides, gripping just below your ribs to pull you even closer. He leans forward again, his lips brushing over your shoulder, leaving messy kisses in between murmuring your name like a prayer.

But then, with a shaky inhale, he straightens up, his hands dragging back down to your hips as he tries to steady himself to keep from completely unraveling.

And that's when you glance back, just for a second, your cheek flat against the table, and catch sight of him. His hair is a mess, sticking to his damp forehead, and he’s looking down at you with this half-lidded, almost dazed expression, lips parted like he’s trying to catch his breath.

But then, just as your eyes meet, his lips twitch into a smirk. It’s small at first, but it grows, and suddenly it’s unmistakable. He tries to hide it, dragging his shoulder up to his mouth, rubbing it there like he’s trying to cover his own reaction, but it’s completely useless. That grin is still there, playful and self-assured.

"What're you smiling at?" you manage to mumble, though your voice is shaky, wrecked, the edge of the table digging into your hips with every push of his.

"You," he replies, voice low and teasing, his hands tightening their grip on your hips as he leans down, breath hot against your shoulder, just before his teeth nip at your skin. "You look so fucking good right now."

And with that, any hope you had of catching your breath is gone, because Quinn isn’t slowing down — if anything, that smirk only reignites him, his rhythm rougher now, more deliberate, like he’s determined to leave you just as undone as he feels. The table creaks under the force of it, matching the uneven sounds of his breathing and your quiet, broken gasps.

Then, his hands shift. One leaves your waist, sliding up your arm before grabbing your wrist and guiding it behind your back. The motion is fluid, firm but not harsh, and when he pins your arm there, his grip tightens just enough to make your pulse quicken. His other hand stays locked on your hip, holding you steady against the unrelenting pace, his fingers pressing hard enough to leave an imprint you’ll feel tomorrow.

You try to twist, to glance back at him, but the pressure of his grip and the overwhelming force of his movements keep you rooted in place. And then he’s leaning closer again, his lips brushing your shoulder before dragging up to your ear.

"Wish you could see yourself right now, baby." His voice is ragged, every word dripping with a mix of awe and raw intensity that sends shivers racing down your spine. "You’d see how fucking beautiful you look."

The table rocks harder under the force of him, each sharp thrust dragging you forward and slamming you back against his hips, leaving no room for thought, no space for anything but the raw, unforgiving rhythm. It’s overwhelming. The bruising grip of his hands on your skin. The slick, obscene sound of skin meeting skin. His ragged breaths and the broken moans he’s pulling from you with every movement.

His voice cuts through the haze, low and wrecked, a string of curses and half-formed praises tumbling from his lips.

"Fuck," he groans, his voice thick with desperation, each word sending shivers racing down your spine. "You feel so—" His rhythm stutters again for a moment, hips faltering before he pushes harder, his grip on you tightening. "So fucking perfect, baby. Made for this."

His forehead presses to your shoulder again, his breath hot and heavy against your skin, and for a moment, he just stays like that — so close you can feel the tremor in his muscles, the way his control teeters on the edge with every thrust. He tightens his grip on your arm, his fingers flexing like he’s holding on to you, to the moment, to the feeling of you.

"You’re driving me fucking insane," he groans, the words tumbling out as though he can’t stop them, his teeth grazing your shoulder before leaving a kiss just below the marks he’s already left. "Can’t get enough of you."

Your body arches instinctively, every nerve igniting as his pace stutters for just a moment before picking up again — harder, sharper, like he’s chasing a high he can’t quite reach.

"Attagirl," he mutters, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. It’s there, just enough to make your stomach flip, and then his grip on your pinned arm tightens slightly, bracing you even firmer against his steady pace.

And when you glance back again, daring to meet his gaze despite the haze clouding your thoughts, he’s still watching you. His pupils are blown, his damp hair sticking to his skin and curling at the edges, his chest heaving as he keeps up the rough, desperate rhythm. That damn smirk is there, lingering on his lips, softer now but no less confident, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

The tension coils tighter and tighter, every thrust pushing you closer to the edge until it feels like you’re balancing on the precipice, your whole body wound so tightly you might snap. Quinn’s pace is relentless now, hips slamming against you with bruising force, his grip on your arm firm enough to hold you steady but still trembling with the effort of holding himself back.

"You’re so close," he mutters, voice low and wrecked, the smirk on his lips softening into something almost reverent as he watches the way your body reacts to him. "Can feel it, baby. Let go for me."

And then he shifts, his hand sliding down from your waist to press firmly against the curve of your hip, his other hand moving to rest against your lower abdomen. The added pressure sends a jolt of electricity through your body, amplifying every sensation until it’s almost too much. The sharp, deliberate thrusts push you closer to the edge, his touch grounding you while setting you alight at the same time.

"Right there," he groans, his voice raw and unsteady, the pressure of his hand against your abdomen making every movement more intense, more precise. "You feel that? Right there — feels good, huh?"

Your knees nearly buckle, the intensity stealing the breath from your lungs as you grip the edge of the table for dear life. The added weight of his hand presses you down just enough to sharpen the angle, to make every thrust hit deeper, harder, leaving you gasping his name over and over and over again.

"That’s it," he mutters, his hand tightening on your hip. "I’ve got you."

The combination of his words, the firm hold of his hands, and the deep, steady pace is enough to send you careening over the edge, your release crashing through you in waves so powerful your whole body trembles. His grip on your arm and abdomen holds you steady as you unravel, his own rhythm faltering as he chases his high, groaning your name as he lets himself fall with you.

His forehead drops to your shoulder as his rhythm falters, a low, guttural groan ripping from his chest as his release overtakes him. The sound is desperate, almost a whine, his breath hitching as his body tightens for a split second before shuddering, and his grip on your skin tightens, his fingers digging into as he spills into you, his movements slowing but still deep and deliberate, drawing out every last wave of his orgasm.

For a moment, his weight rests heavily against you, his chest rising and falling against your back as he lets the overwhelming sensation take him. He presses his lips to your shoulder, the kiss lingering there as his breath fans over your skin, hot and uneven. From there, his mouth moves slowly, trailing soft, deliberate kisses up the curve of your neck, each one leaving a spark in its wake. His lips find that sensitive spot just below your jaw, lingering for a moment longer as his nose brushes against your skin, drawing a quiet gasp from you. Finally, he tilts your chin gently with his hand, angling your face toward him. His lips meet yours in a kiss that’s deep and unhurried, a stark contrast to the urgency of moments ago. It’s reverent, his hand sliding up your side to rest on your ribs, holding you close as his other hand loosens its grip on your wrist, finally freeing you.

As he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath still hot and ragged, mingling with your own. His hand trails down your arm, brushing lightly over your skin before his fingers tangle with yours, grounding both of you in the quiet intimacy that now lingers between you.

You both stay like that for a moment, the room heavy with the scent of sweat and the fading intensity of what just unfolded. Slowly, he straightens, his hands steady on your waist as he helps you up from the table, the wood cool against your flushed skin as you shift away. Your legs tremble slightly, and his grip tightens instinctively, his touch an assurance.

The adrenaline gives way to something softer. He steps closer, wrapping his arms fully around you, pulling you into his chest. His chin rests on the top of your head, and you feel the weight of his exhale against your hair, like he’s finally allowing himself to let go of whatever had been pent up inside him.

"You okay?" he murmurs softly, his voice low but steady, the words vibrating against your temple.

You nod against him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

"Yeah," you whisper, a small smile tugging at your lips. "More than okay."

His hands splay against your back, holding you tighter, his lips pressing another lingering kiss to your hairline. The silence stretches between you, comfortable now, filled with the kind of closeness that doesn’t need words. And when he finally pulls back, his hands linger at your sides, his thumb brushing absently over your skin as he looks down at you, his gaze warm and soft.

And just like that, you both breathe.

#'attagirl' does insane things to me #ANYWAY #enjoy <3 #capquinn's writing #quinn hughes #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes smut #mdni

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