#anyways Quinn Hughes

[ruinix]

Quinn Hughes. I like him. Thanks for coming to my rambles.

See, how sad-looking-victorian boy he is? Yeah and I wanna fuck him. Yes, that's how he looks. Quinn Hughes.

From getty (Johnnie Izquierdo) (Vancouver Canucks @ Nashville Predators, Jan 29, 2025)

[capquinn]

I really want fries as a finishing the week treat but it’s so cold out and I’m too lazy to get them. But I was thinking about Quinn and pregnant reader in that situation. Quinn would give her that 🫤 look and sigh after she’s been going on and on about her pregnancy craving and no matter the weather or time of night he always goes out to get it or find the closest thing to it. He’s such a softie and drops everything to do anything for her

It starts off innocently enough — just a passing comment as you're cooking dinner.

You’re standing at the stove, stirring a pot of soup, when you spot the empty pickle jar on the counter. The sight of it stops you mid-stir, an ache blooming in your chest that you hadn’t even realised was there. The sharp tang of vinegar was just a memory now, thanks to Quinn, who had polished off the last one earlier. You stared at the jar for a long moment, then inhaled deeply as if to steel yourself, catching the faint scent of peanut butter still lingering in the air from his afternoon snack.

“We’re out of pickles,” you announce, the words coming out sharper than you’d intended.

Quinn doesn’t even look up from where he’s leaning against the counter, scrolling through his phone.

“We’re going grocery shopping tomorrow,” he replies casually, like it’s no big deal. “We’ll grab some more then.”

You nod, swallowing down the disappointment. Of course, it’s fine. Quinn already does so much for you — too much, honestly. He doesn’t complain when you wake him up in the middle of the night to rub your back, doesn’t bat an eye when you cry over commercials. The least you can do is manage a craving for one night.

But by the time the soup bowls are empty and the dishes are drying in the rack, the craving is no longer something you can brush aside. It’s no longer just pickles. It’s pickles and peanut butter. Crunchy peanut butter, specifically, the kind you already have in the pantry. And the thought of it — salty and tangy and just a little sweet — is like a loop stuck in your brain. You can feel it growing, blooming into an obsession you can’t shake no matter how hard you try.

So you finally bring it up as you’re both clearing the table.

“You know, pickles and peanut butter would taste so good right now,” you say, hoping maybe speaking it out loud will get it out of your system.

Quinn pauses, plate in hand, and gives you a skeptical glance. “Pickles and peanut butter? Together?”

You nod, setting down the glasses you’ve just picked up from the table. “Yeah. Like, on the same spoon. Or maybe a pickle dipped in peanut butter,” you add, tilting your head thoughtfully.

He squints at you like you’ve just suggested something completely alien. “You don’t even like pickles.”

“I know,” you say, exasperated, “but it’s a pregnancy craving. I can’t explain it.”

Quinn smirks, a playful glint in his eye. “So, the baby’s got you craving… that?”

“Apparently,” you say with a shrug, trying to sound casual, though you can feel the craving getting worse now that you’ve spoken it into existence.

It comes up again later as you sit cross-legged on the couch, scrolling mindlessly on your phone while Quinn flips through TV channels.

“Pickles and peanut butter,” you murmur under your breath, almost to yourself and from the corner of your eye, you catch Quinn’s side-eye, his brow quirking as he lowers the remote slightly.

“You’re still thinking about that?” he asks, his voice laced with amusement, though there’s a hint of skepticism, like maybe he’s hoping this craving had run its course.

You glance up, shrugging as you bite your lip.

“Yeah,” you admit, and then, add quickly, “but it’s fine. I can wait until tomorrow.”

Quinn’s gaze lingers on you for a beat, and you can feel the weight of it. He’s studying you, half waiting for you to crack and half trying to decide if he needs to intervene now or risk hearing about pickles and peanut butter in his sleep.

“You sure?” he says finally, his tone light, but there’s something else beneath it — like he knows you’re holding back.

“Positive,” you say, nodding firmly.

And for a while, you convince yourself that it's true. That you're completely, utterly and positively sure that you can wait until tomorrow.

So you curl up under the blanket with Quinn, his arm draped loosely over your shoulders, his fingers lazily tracing patterns on your arm — a quiet, familiar rhythm that usually soothes you without fail. The TV hums softly in the background, and his chest rises and falls against your side, steady and warm. It should be enough.

But it’s not.

The thought of that perfect salty-sweet combination gnaws at you, persistent and unrelenting. You try to distract yourself, to focus on the show Quinn seems semi-invested in, but every passing second feels like the craving is growing claws, digging deeper into your resolve.

You take a deep breath, glancing up at him. His profile is soft in the glow of the TV, his expression relaxed, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he absently strokes your shoulder. He’s content, comfortable. You almost feel bad for what you’re about to do.

Almost.

“Before I say something,” you start, your voice tentative, measured, the prelude to what you know is a plea, “just remember that I’m carrying your baby.”

Quinn doesn’t even blink. His lips quirk into a small smile, his thumb pausing mid-circle on your arm.

“Our baby,” he corrects gently, his tone warm, teasing, like he knows exactly where this is going. Of course he knows. He always knows.

You hesitate for a beat, building up your courage before blurting, “I’m really, really craving pickles and peanut butter.”

His head falls back against the couch, a low groan rumbling from his chest as he drags a hand down his face.

“Baby,” he says, his voice full of mock exasperation, “it’s pouring outside. You said it could wait until tomorrow.”

“I thought it could,” you insist, sitting up straighter, as if that’ll help your case. “But I’ve been thinking about it since dinner, Quinn. I don’t think I can sleep until I have it.”

He looks at you, his brows furrowing just enough to show he’s debating his options, though you both know there’s only one.

“I wouldn’t ask unless I was desperate,” you tack on, your tone earnest as if that might tip the scales further in your favor.

Quinn exhales a long, dramatic sigh, one that would almost sound convincing if not for the way his lips twitch at the edges, betraying the affection underneath. There’s no real frustration in him — just the soft resignation of someone entirely smitten, hopelessly incapable of saying no.

“You haven’t even asked me anything yet,” he points out, tilting his head as he meets your gaze, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a flicker of amusement he’s trying not to show.

It’s infuriatingly endearing.

“Will you please go get pickles?” you ask, your tone so sweet, so endearingly earnest, that he doesn’t stand a chance.

That gets him.

His lips twitch, fighting off a grin, as he pushes himself to his feet, stretching with a dramatic groan.

“The things I do for you,” he mutters under his breath, the corners of his mouth betraying the tease.

He disappears down the hall, and you hear the faint shuffle of a jacket being pulled off a hook, the jangle of keys being found. When he returns, he’s already slipping his arms into the sleeves, his shoulders settling with the kind of resigned acceptance that says he knows this is his life now — and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

He moves toward the door, stooping to pull on his sneakers, the drizzle outside faintly tapping against the windows. Just as he’s tying the laces, he glances back over his shoulder, one brow quirking in that playful, knowing way that makes your heart squeeze.

“Anything else while I’m out?” he asks, his tone warm and teasing, like he’s already resorted to a grocery list. “Ice cream? Chocolate syrup? A gallon of peanut butter to get us through the next week?”

You laugh, shaking your head as you peek over the back of the couch.

“Just the pickles. And maybe… the good kind?” You ask innocently, like maybe you’re asking for too much at this late hour.

Quinn groans, a sound full of exaggerated exasperation, but the grin tugging at his lips gives him away.

“The good kind,” he repeats, his tone dripping with mock seriousness, like the words themselves are some great inconvenience. “I’ll see what I can do.”

But there’s no hiding the fondness in his eyes as he steps closer, moving behind the sofa. He plants his hands on the cushions, leaning over until his face is just above yours. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin with a quiet kind of devotion. Then, he presses a kiss to your temple, lingering just long enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the steady comfort of his presence.

“You owe me for this,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to that warm, teasing tone that makes your heart flip.

You tilt your head toward him, grinning as you meet his gaze, your affection spilling over. “I’m giving you a baby, Quinn.”

He exhales a dramatic sigh, rolling his eyes like he’s indulging some monumental injustice. But the way his lips twitch, the faint curve of a smile tugging at the corners, gives him away.

“Yeah, you are,” he murmurs, almost like he’s talking to himself, his thumb brushing along your cheek in a gesture so instinctive, so achingly gentle, it makes your chest tighten.

There’s a flicker in his eyes of pure adoration that doesn’t even try to hide. It’s the kind of look that says a thousand things he never could — about how much he loves you, how much this life you’re building together means to him, how he’d cross any distance, brave any storm, just to see you smile.

And then he huffs, a soft sound somewhere between affection and surrender, before leaning down further, his breath warm against your skin. His lips brush against yours, soft and deliberate, the kind of kiss that’s all tenderness and quiet longing. It lingers, unhurried, his hand cupping your cheek as if to keep you right there, as though this moment is his anchor before he steps out into the cold.

“Be right back.”

[puckinghischier]

i’m having soft quinn thoughts today and i have to shout them from the rooftops so everyone else can suffer with me.

but i absolutely cannot stop thinking about how quinn would always want to spend time with you, but feel guilty for how occupied he is during the season. every second of downtime he has is spent watching game film in your living room, studying tactics and plays. not that you ever complain. you’re content simply being in the same room as him, not taking for granted any amount of time you can be in his presence.

quinn’s attention is always half on you, no matter how hard he tries to focus. he steals more glances at you than he cares to admit, worried that one day you’ll get sick of sitting in silence while hockey occupies the space between you. but you never do. you keep yourself busy scrolling through your phone or reading the most recent book he bought you, never uttering a complaint. he’s tuned in to every fidget or movement you make, not wanting you to remove your always cold feet from under his warm legs to occupy yourself with something—or rather someone—better.

it surprises him that you never do. you never utter a word, not wanting to disrupt his work. every so often he’ll catch you looking back at him during one of his ‘quick’ glances, absorbing the warm smile you give him. sometimes you’ll quietly ask him if he wants anything from the kitchen when you stand to go fill up your water cup, but seem content to simply sit there with him as he mumbles to himself, jotting down notes as he watches.

tonight, he can’t help but notice—during his million and one glances at you—that your eyes are glued to the tv. your phone is laying, locked, in your lap, eyes following the puck as it’s shuffled across both screens from player to player. your body’s subtle reactions to the game aren’t lost on him either. the twitch of your foot anytime someone shoots the puck, the raise of your brow when a player on either team scores, the hitch in your breath anytime the two teams start to fight.

you can feel his eyes on you more than usual tonight, his (not so) subtle glances lingering longer than normal. you turn your head to meet his gaze, brows furrowed and a puzzled look on his face.

“what?” you whisper, flitting your eyes between his own and the tv, not wanting to miss any important moments.

“are you watching the game?” he looks at you like you have three heads.

you giggle in response, amused at his expression and surprised tone of his voice. “yeah, kinda. don’t really know what’s happening, though, if i’m honest.”

there was never a home game of quinn’s you missed. you went to support him every time you could, and loved seeing him in his element. but you can’t even pretend to understand the sport past each player wanting to get the puck into the opposing net. you didn’t understand the positions, the penalties, or anything surrounding the ins and outs of professional hockey. you never watched it growing up, and probably still wouldn’t watch it if you weren’t dating the captain of your new city’s team.

you had moved to vancouver for work, and knew nothing of the prominent hockey culture before you arrived. the sports presence buzzed all around you as you figured out the ins and outs of your new home, but it had no place in your daily routine. that is, until you hit it off with this insanely attractive stranger that seemed to frequent the same coffee shop as you. you accidentally cut him in line one day, offering to pay for his coffee to make up for it, but he paid for yours instead. a ‘pay it forward’ war was started between the two of you until he was stood waiting at the door with your usual order one morning, requesting more than just a name and the fact you drank a large, vanilla iced coffee with chocolate syrup lining the cup every morning.

when he realized you were likely the only person in the city he now calls home that doesn’t know who he is, it only piqued his interest in the pretty coffee shop stranger further. the morning meetings at the shop turned into an exchange of numbers, which developed into him meeting you for lunch on your break when he was in town, that then escalated into dinner dates and spontaneous outings, and now it’s found its permanence in you moving in with him a few months ago.

you were…indifferent, when he revealed to you who he was and what all his career entailed, uttering out a simple “oh! that’s cool! makes sense why you’re always at the gym, now” later explaining that you thought he was just really into fitness and maybe worked as a personal trainer or some equivalent. when he first invited you to games he tried to tell you a little bit about the rules, but assumed you’d catch on as you watched (hopefully) more and more of his sport. you always told him how much you enjoyed watching him in his element, but never asked many questions past if the other team was supposed to be good or not. he assumed you understood enough to keep up, knowing how intelligent and observant you are, but he tried to refrain from talking about work too much with you. when he’s with you, he wants to be present with you, not hockey.

which is why he feels so guilty at times like this, watching film while you’re sitting next to him. it feels like you’re two people who happen to be in the same room, completely in your own worlds. until tonight.

“you…never watch the games with me. you always have a book or something,” he reaches over to pause the game, still a little shocked.

you shrug at him. “didn’t feel like reading tonight. not really anything new on my socials, either. so i figured i’d just watch with you for once.”

“and you weren’t gonna say anything?”

this earns a real laugh out of you, not understanding why this is such a big shock for him. it’s not like you’ve ever told him you don’t like hockey. you just have never really cared to watch it if isn’t the one playing. but you’ve been wanting to learn more about it recently, tired of not being able to participate in the games like the other women do when they’re watching their husband or boyfriend play.

“why would i? you’re trying to work, i’m just trying to learn a little bit,” you reply, the hint of a laugh on each word as you say it.

quinn just blinks at you, trying not to get his hopes up at your expression, not knowing just how far you want to go with your quest for knowledge.

“since when do you want to learn about hockey? why now?” he questions, trying not to sound accusatory or snarky, but genuinely curious as to what you’ll answer.

“i’ve always wanted to learn, ever since that first game i went to, but you don’t seem to like to talk about it outside of the rink, so i don’t really ask much. me and google have become very good friends as of late,” you shrug out another answer for him. “plus, when you’re watching games at night like this, i don’t want to keep talking and asking a million questions while you’re trying to work, so i force myself not to watch to keep from distracting you.”

quinn sits a little straighter, now worried he’s made it seem like hockey is this forbidden subject between the two of you.

“sweetheart, i don’t like talking about hockey outside of the rink because i don’t ever want you to think that’s all we ever talk about, not because we can’t talk about it,” he tries to defend himself, even though there’s no accusation. “if you want to learn about the game, please, ask me questions. i- god, i’d love nothing more than to teach you about it. i hate sitting here in silence every night i’m home, worried you’re going to eventually get pissed at me because all i do during the season is watch old games.”

you grin at his slight panic, endeared by how worried he was about your feelings this whole time, appreciating his intention with the unspoken rule.

“q, i never asked about it because i didn’t want you to be upset because i kept bringing up work when you’re away from it all,” your smile only grows at the fact you were both worried about upsetting the other for no reason at all.

the slight tension in his shoulders fades at your words, relieved that you’re not upset or feel like he made it seem like you had no place in that part of his life.

“alright, well, fire away, then,” he gives you the floor, pressing play so the players on the tv screens move once again, now glancing at you every few seconds to catch any looks of confusion or interest in any particular play or action.

the rest of the night is spent playing and pausing the game over and over again, question after question flying out of your mouth. anything from why the faceoff is from a certain spot on the ice to what a particular penalty looks like is spoken the second the thought enters your brain. quinn takes his time explaining every answer to you, even rewinding and pulling up other examples to make sure you understand what he’s telling you.

at the end of the night he realizes just how much more he caught of the game while answering your questions. there’s several times you picked up on things he never has before. like why one player seems to always place his stick so close to another player’s skates while he’s chasing him. or why a certain goalie seems to lean left everytime instead of right, no matter where the puck is coming from.

he’s been able to add several tells about players in his notes, ready to take them to practice the next morning and change his game to accommodate his opponents habits. and when they win their game a few days later, thanks to your observations during the impromptu hockey 101 class in your living room, he revels in the fact that even though you know so little about his sport and his job, you ended up being one of the biggest parts of their success.

from then on, the nights of sitting in silence while he studies film are nonexistent. every time he brings work home with him, you’re right there next to him, enthralled in whatever opponent’s game they’re facing that week. he loves that you’re so observant, paying attention to the smallest of details someone who’s been playing for years becomes blind to. and he really loves turning you into a bottomless pit of hockey information, seeing how you absorb each ‘lesson’ from day to day.

when they break through their slump, a big part of that accredited to your nights spent questioning quinn, and he sees you start really participating in his games, he can’t help but fall that much deeper in love with you. watching you scream and complain about bad calls with the rest of the fans in rogers arena, and reading your texts to him about your thoughts on his away games you watch on tv, swells his heart in a way he never thought to be possible.

plus, he always knew it was only a matter of time before you fell victim to the hockey atmosphere of the city. no one can really resist the pull of vancouver hockey, especially not when it’s captain has anything to do with it.

[applechirps]

fanart i drew of qhughes dying in a glue trap

[celbrini]

[QUINN] after the game against the jets 14.01.2025

[unparalleledbore]

POV: you (captain lexapro) and the gang in fuckass sunglasses ready to ROCK

(they are in the most unserious glasses known to man and your glasses can’t even hide your eyebags)

[three-headed-monster]

brandt: *face wash*

quinn: *TACKLE*

[korshrimpski]

ice hockey as random screenshots [part 2]

[mikkolas]

my mind is a beautiful place full of love | last post :)

[pemguims]

so here we go again, i know how this one ends (hem of her dress - first aid kit)

[ruinix]

There there it's okay huggy 😢

(New York Islanders @ Vancouver Canucks, November 14, 2024)

[capquinn]

Attagirl | Q. Hughes

summary: this table is the perfect height for frantic can’t-wait-another-second table sex... pairing: quinn hughes x reader content: MDNI 18+ only smut, p in v, unprotected sex, dirty talk word count: 2k ↪masterlist

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.

[puckinghischier]

for everyone asking about the almost huggy fight, thanks to dear nonnie it has been found 😌

maybe it was overkill to call it an almost fight but any crumbs i can find of angry quinn i’m RUNNING with them bc if he’s not standing back observing, the binoculars are out !!

he DID participate in some shoving, though, so in my book, this counts for something, idc 🙂‍↕️

[tojisun]

the fluffy hair and the sad puppy eyes- i really didnt stand a chance

[whirlpool-blogs]

Q: Who do you think will score the first goal tonight? Jack: I’m gonna say… I’m gonna go: Matthew Tkachuk, or Jake Guentzel.

[noried]

wet cat sketch 😊