Chapter Text
Three times, on the last road trip before the Olympic break, Quinn almost asked Brock to let him kneel for him. Three. Quinn had been completely certain that he wouldn’t need to submit again until the Olympics, when he would have Jack to help. He usually went weeks, sometimes even months without trying to scene. And yet. Three times.
The first was in the locker room after a hard fought win over the Mammoth. Quinn never got the urge to kneel in the locker room. But that night, a flash of white hot jealousy overtook him at the sight of Boldy on his knees next to Brock’s stall, Brock’s fingers in Boldy’s hair, whispering soothing words into his ear. Quinn knew why Bolds needed it. He had taken a nasty hit early in the third from an enormous dominant, and Quinn had been on the ice, close enough to hear the vile things the dom had said to Boldy while he did it. He hadn’t caught it all, but ‘on your knees, you whiny little bitch’ was enough to get the idea. Quinn had heard variations on that theme from doms on the ice enough to know that most times you could shrug it off, but sometimes it ate at you.
So Quinn didn’t begrudge Boldy’s need, or even his choice of dominant, since he knew firsthand how comforting Brock could be. It was an incredibly stupid thing to be jealous over, Quinn had told himself firmly, because he didn't even want to kneel for Brock in the locker room with the whole team there. There were too many dominants. He wouldn't be able to handle it. But Quinn couldn’t stop looking at the two of them. He almost asked, after Boldy had gotten up and gone to shower, looking much steadier. He stopped himself, but the fact that he had even wanted to ask was confusing.
The second time was the next night. Quinn was laying in bed in his hotel room, unable to sleep, and he almost texted Brock. He pulled up their text thread and typed out ‘are you up still?’ before deleting it and dropping his phone. Brock had looked exhausted that night, and Quinn didn't think he should bother him. And it wasn't like he needed Brock. He wasn't shaky or unsettled or heading towards a drop.
It was just… he just couldn't stop picturing the way Brock had looked at him when he'd been on his knees in Brock’s apartment. Quinn had tried not to let himself dwell on anything that had happened that day, but tonight, he couldn’t manage to banish the image of Brock staring at him. There had been heat in his eyes, along with something that had looked like raw affection. And Brock had been getting hard, Quinn had seen it. Brock had been turned on by the sight of Quinn on his knees. And if Quinn hadn't been greedy, if he hadn't tried to take without asking, if he could have been patient and taken what he was given, like a good sub, maybe Brock would have allowed him to touch him, or… or maybe more than just touch. Quinn wanted to do so much more than touch. He wanted to see what Brock looked like when he came in Quinn’s mouth. He wanted to know if Brock would pull his hair, if he’d lose control, if his hips would thrust up into Quinn’s mouth… Next time, Quinn told himself. Next time he would be good, and maybe Brock would let him have more. Maybe he could earn it.
Frustrated with his inability to control his own thoughts, Quinn got out of bed and into the shower. He thought, maybe, a cold shower would dampen his stupid libido enough to go to sleep. But he couldn’t make himself turn the shower to cold any more than he could stop thinking about Brock. Quinn gave in and jerked himself off to the mental image of Brock looking down at him, pretending he could hear Brock’s voice telling him he had been good enough that he should come, too.
He was ashamed, afterwards. It felt like he’d taken a reward that he hadn’t earned, without asking. But at least his thoughts settled enough that he could sleep.
The third time was the closest Quinn came to actually asking Brock. It was after a game, when most of the team had gone out to a bar, but Quinn had gone to his hotel room. He had thought he needed the quiet and space, but once he was alone in his room, he wished he’d gone out with the guys, just to be close to them. He kept picturing sitting next to Brock in some dimly lit bar, occasionally letting their knees touch under the table, laughing at some story that one of the other guys was telling. He imagined Brock putting his hand on Quinn’s thigh under the table, and the way it would calm his jitteriness and keep him present. His mind kept supplying more stupid little fantasies, like Brock ordering a beer for him, some kind Brock wanted him to try, and Brock whispering ‘don’t go anywhere’ to Quinn when he went up to the bar, and Quinn obediently staying exactly where he was, only to be rewarded with Brock’s warm smile when he got back.
It took him a while - too long, probably - to realize he was craving subspace. It had nothing to do with the bar or the beer. He just wanted Brock to take control of him, so Quinn didn’t have to make any decisions or worry if he was doing the wrong thing.
He didn’t know why he was craving subspace. He could usually go much longer before he even felt a hint of need. And nothing had happened that should make Quinn need it more than usual. They’d pulled out a win in overtime, Quinn had played well, he hadn’t taken any particularly rough hits. But now that he realized what he wanted, he noticed other signs. A hollowness in his stomach, lack of hunger, thoughts going in circles. None of it was bad enough to pull him into subdrop. So he didn’t need Brock, or any other dominant. He just wanted. And he wasn’t used to wanting it so badly.
Quinn wanted to drop to his knees and let someone take him out of his own head. And he wanted it to be Brock.
Brock would probably say yes, if he asked. But Brock had gone out with the other guys, and Quinn didn’t want to text him and ask him to come back early. He didn’t want to bother Brock, who deserved to go have some fun. And he didn’t want to be a needy, clingy sub who got whiny when a dom wasn’t paying attention to them. He wasn’t pathetic.
Even though he knew Brock wouldn’t like it if he found out, Quinn let himself kneel by bed. This wasn’t a punishment, and he wasn’t dropping, he reasoned. He was just letting himself skim the surface of subspace. He’d done it a thousand times.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the bed, and let himself imagine a hand in his hair, a voice telling him that he was being good, like he always did. But of course, this time, he was thinking of Brock’s hand, Brock’s voice. He didn’t intend to, but his mind didn’t seem capable of imagining anything else. He pictured Brock’s face looking down at him, his eyes so big behind his glasses, that soft expression he’d worn when he’d told Quinn he was sweet. He wrapped a hand around his own wrist and gripped it tightly, imagining that it was Brock holding him, keeping him still. It wasn’t nearly as good as Brock’s actual hand on him, but it took the edge off. He could feel his thoughts slowing and calming the longer he stayed there.
After a while, he got back into bed, and noticed that there was an ache in his chest that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t bad enough to keep him from sleeping, though, and it seemed to have dissipated by the time he woke up.
By the end of the road trip, Quinn was almost relieved that the Olympics were coming up. He was excited, of course, and nervous, but now he was also hoping that spending time with Jack and so many of his old friends would help get him over this obsession with Brock. It couldn’t be healthy.
-
After the road trip, there was one more home game, and then everything became a whirlwind. Media obligations, and packing, and flights, and more media obligations, and jet lag, and meeting up with the rest of Team USA, and practices, and so many media obligations. It was exhausting. He felt like he never knew what to say in front of a camera, but he almost didn’t mind all the media this time. It was the Olympics. He’d dreamed of this as a kid. And it didn’t hurt that all the media, who loved a heartwarming family story, wanted him to do things with Jack, instead of alone. Quinn had always been more confident when he was with his brothers. Jack was so much more outgoing than Quinn was. He jumped in, all smiles, answering questions, and Quinn mostly just had to agree with him. So Quinn couldn’t complain.
Even in early practices with the team, things were already clicking. They had a good group, and they could all feel it. Quinn hadn’t allowed himself to think about the possibility of sharing the blue line with Brock in the Olympics, like he did in Minnesota, but he still felt a flash of disappointment when Coach Sully paired him with McAvoy. But that was stupid, because he needed space from Brock, to get over this attachment he seemed to have formed. So it was for the best. And besides, he and McAvoy were well matched, with McAvoy more of a bruiser while Quinn relied on his quick skating and dexterity.
So things were going well. It helped that Quinn already knew so many of the guys, and the ones he didn’t know, Jack knew from playing with them in Four Nations last year. It was so much easier to socialize when Jack was with him, anyway. Quinn always felt so awkward, especially around dominants, whereas Jack had this effortless charm that Quinn had always been jealous of. Jack never seemed to feel like he should apologize for taking up space like Quinn did. But at least when they were together, Jack was always so good about including him in conversations. On the ice, Quinn’s skill spoke for itself, but off the ice, Jack was making sure he wasn’t lost in the crowd.
Before long, Quinn was surprisingly comfortable with this team. It was probably stupid to let himself relax, though. He was one of only three subs that had been named to the Olympic team, along with Boldy and Dylan Larkin. He was used to being surrounded by doms, of course, but he knew that some of the doms on this team had some fairly old fashioned beliefs about submissives. He knew he needed to be careful. He couldn’t look like he was avoiding anyone because it would draw the wrong kind of attention, but at the same time, there were some doms on the team that he didn’t really want to be alone with. He didn’t think anyone would do anything to him - none of them wanted to risk their chances at a medal any more than he did. But he needed to be cautious, all the same.
Quinn was getting his gear on before practice, the last one before the team played its first game against Latvia. He was facing his stall, his back to the room, so he didn’t notice Brady Tkachuk coming up behind him until the dominant was leaning against the edge of his stall, grinning at him. “So they got you rooming with your brother, huh?” Brady said.
Quinn tried not to stiffen, even though his instinct was to freeze. He forced himself to breathe normally and finish strapping on his shin pads. “Yeah, I’m with Jack,” he said. He kept his eyes down and his voice soft, as inoffensive as he could make himself.
“I was kind of hoping they’d put us together,” Brady laughed. “Like old times.”
Quinn swallowed and nodded. He didn’t know who had decided the room assignments, but he’d been grateful to be put with his brother. He couldn’t say that to Brady, though. “Yeah, that would have been cool.”
“I probably should have said this right when we got here,” Brady said, his tone apologetic, “but if you need someone to put you under, you just gotta ask.” His grin turned sharp. “I’m pretty sure I remember what sends you down quick.”
Quinn felt cold, suddenly. He forced himself to keep moving, undoing and then retightening the straps on his gear. “Thank you, sir. But I’m alright,” he said quietly. He was careful to keep his voice down, so no one but Brady would hear. He couldn’t risk Brady perceiving this as a public rejection. “Jack can take care of me.”
“You’re scening with your brother?” Brady made a face like he’d smelled something unpleasant.
Quinn nodded. “He lets me kneel for him when I need it.”
“Come on, we both know you need more than kneeling to go down completely,” Brady said, leaning close, like it was a joke they were both in on. Quinn didn’t answer right away, and Brady’s eyes narrowed. “This isn't some juniors tournament, Quinn. If you play like shit because you haven’t gone under, I’m gonna be pissed.”
Quinn clenched his jaw to keep himself from snapping I know it’s the fucking Olympics or I can handle myself. “I’m okay, I promise,” he said instead. “Jack has it handled.” He knew that would work better with Brady.
Brady’s mouth flattened into a line. That wasn’t the answer he had wanted, Quinn could tell, but he couldn’t argue without insulting Jack’s capability as a dominant. “If you say so.” He pushed himself off Quinn’s stall so he wasn’t looming quite so close, but he didn’t move away. “There better not be any nonsense on the blue line tomorrow against Latvia.”
Quinn had to bite his tongue. Don’t fucking tell me how to do my job, you’re not a fucking defenseman, he thought, burning hot with resentment and humiliation. “No, sir,” he managed instead, head down and voice subdued, hoping that no one would notice or hear, and that it would be enough to appease Brady, so he would leave Quinn alone.
“I can’t do my job if you don’t do yours,” Brady continued. “You just get the puck to me, and I’ll put it in the net. We’re not going to have time for bullshit.”
“Yes, sir,” Quinn said quietly. Just agree, he thought dully. Always better to just agree.
Thankfully, that seemed to pacify Brady, and he wandered away to finish putting on his own gear. Quinn refused to let himself look around to check if anyone was watching. That would just draw attention. So he kept his head down, not looking at his teammates, got the rest of his gear on, and headed to the ice.
Just like always, the second his skates touched the ice, everything else fell away. He couldn’t carry the uneasiness that Brady’s conversation had left him with when there was no room in his head for anything but hockey. Everything else was messy, as usual, but actually playing hockey was still pure and perfect. Nothing beyond the boards even existed when he was on the ice. This was the Olympics, and Quinn skated like he was born to be here.
-
Of course, as soon as Quinn was back off the ice, the uncertainty came back. He was skittish in the locker room, glancing around to try to keep an eye on his surroundings, but not talking to anyone as he shucked his gear and showered and dressed. There was a tightness in his chest, like he couldn’t breathe as deeply as he wanted to, and a hollowness in his stomach. They had a team dinner in a few hours, but Quinn didn’t think he could make himself eat. He grabbed Jack on their way out of the practice rink, mumbling something about going back to their room with him. Jack agreed easily, which Quinn was thankful for.
“You good, man?” Jack asked when they were finally in the privacy of their room. “You seem tense.”
Quinn tugged a hand through his hair, just hard enough to send a zip of pain through his scalp, letting it ground him. “I’m okay, I just…” He looked away. “Can I… could you, maybe, um. Put me under?” He knew he shouldn’t be embarrassed to ask Jack for this. They’d done this hundreds of times. It was just that Quinn felt so much needier than he usually did. This physical ache for subspace wasn’t something he normally had to contend with. “Sorry, I know it’s sooner than I would normally need it, I just, um. I don’t know. I’m craving it more than usual.”
Jack’s expression softened from concern to understanding. “Don’t apologize for that, dude, it’s all good. You know I don’t mind.” He turned to sit on the edge of his bed and gestured for Quinn to get a pillow. Quinn did, setting it on the floor next to the bed, outside Jack’s left knee, then sank down onto it, facing Jack.
“Hands,” Jack said, holding out his own hands expectantly. Quinn didn’t hesitate, moving automatically as he lifted both hands to his brother. Jack pulled Quinn’s hands up onto his thigh, wrists pressed together, and wrapped one of his own hands around them in a tight, long-fingered grip.
The relief was immediate. Jack’s hand wasn’t big enough to fully encircle both of Quinn’s wrists, but that didn’t matter. He was strong enough that he could keep Quinn’s hands held against his own leg, firm enough that Quinn would actually have to try if he wanted to pull his hands away. Quinn felt himself sag as a sense of safety and peace washed over him. He didn’t have to worry about what to do, or what to say. Jack had him. Quinn was being held exactly where Jack wanted him, which meant he didn’t have to hold himself so carefully anymore.
“There you go, just like summers in Michigan,” Jack said calmly. He squeezed Quinn’s wrists lightly, and Quinn sighed and let himself tip forward to rest his forehead on the outside of Jack’s thigh. “Nothing you haven’t done a million times. Probably nicer in Michigan, though, with your actual kneeling pillow, the one by the couch in the basement. But still good, yeah?”
Quinn managed to nod, but he was already sinking into subspace. Words seemed too hard, so he didn’t bother to try to speak. Jack wouldn’t mind, he knew. Unlike most doms who Quinn had scened with, Jack never pushed him to answer when he was under. Like Brock. Brock didn’t push him to talk, either. Quinn sighed softly at the memory of Brock holding him and telling him he didn’t have to speak yet. It had felt so safe. Some part of Quinn, way in the back of his mind, reminded him that he probably shouldn’t be thinking about Brock so much. But it was so muffled by the soft cushion of subspace that Quinn ignored it completely.
Jack’s voice drifted above him, and Quinn was present enough to understand him, still, but none of it seemed worth focusing on. He was talking about training in Michigan in the summers, their parents’ house, friends he wanted to invite to train with them this year. He mentioned something about inviting a bunch of their teammates, just so they could annoy Luke by referring to the training camp as ‘the Olympians and Luke,’ which would have made Quinn laugh if he weren’t too busy floating.
Time lost any meaning to Quinn. Eventually, Jack pulled him off of his knees and onto Jack’s bed, where Jack rearranged him until they were laying comfortably with Jack’s arm around Quinn’s shoulders. Jack let him come up slowly, scrolling on his phone and letting Quinn drift, only to occasionally prod him and show him some funny post he’d come across. Gradually, the warm, gauzy haze of subspace faded, and Quinn’s vision could focus more easily on Jack’s phone when prompted.
“Back with me?” Jack asked quietly, once Quinn actually managed to chuckle at a gif Jack had shown him.
Quinn nodded, then, with a sigh, started to push himself to sit up. “How long was I under?”
Jack’s arm tightened around Quinn’s shoulders, not enough to actually restrain him, but enough to communicate that he didn’t want Quinn to move yet. Quinn relaxed and let himself be held still. There was no need to fight it. “Maybe twenty minutes,” Jack answered. “Twenty-five at most. Not too long. You don’t need to push yourself up any faster, either. We still have an hour before we need to head out to team dinner.”
Quinn let out a breath and closed his eyes. It felt so good to come up from subspace naturally, and he so rarely got to experience it, so he decided to let himself relax. He was mostly up, already, but there was still a sluggishness to his thoughts, a weight in his body like it would take genuine work to move at all, and a pervasive sense of peace, like there was no reason to try to move.
“Thanks,” he said softly, after a moment. “I needed that.”
“No problem,” Jack said easily. “You know it’s good for me, too, right? I mean, I don’t exactly have time to go pick up a sub at a bar or whatever during the Olympics. Putting you under keeps me even, too.”
Quinn knew that, of course, but hearing Jack say it made him feel better anyway. It helped that it wasn’t just Jack doing a favor for his needy, weak older brother. “I… I might need it more than I normally do,” Quinn admitted.
“Yeah?” Jack turned his head to look at Quinn, who didn’t meet his eyes. “What makes you think that? It’s fine, obviously, I’m just, you know, curious.”
Quinn shrugged. “I’ve been craving it more. I don’t know why. I usually can go weeks between.”
“You really should scene more often than that,” Jack said, without any particular insistence, because they’d had this argument enough times that he knew there wasn’t a point. “Especially during the season. I don’t even know any doms who can go as long as you between scenes, let alone subs.”
“I don’t usually need it,” Quinn said. “But… I don’t know, I’ve been getting sort of… achy, lately. Like I need it more.”
“Maybe just the stress of changing teams mid-season?”
“Could be.” Quinn wished he knew. Like everything else with his submissive nature, it was just as much of a mystery to him as it was to everyone else. He had never understood how other subs could just intuit what they needed. They always said it was just instinct, but Quinn’s instincts never were much help. Half the time he didn’t know what his instincts wanted him to do, and when he did figure it out, it didn’t help him stave off a drop during a scene, or find a dominant who could take care of him.
At least scening with Jack had helped. Quinn took stock of himself as he eventually climbed out of bed and got ready for dinner. The tightness in his chest was gone, and his muscles felt relaxed, like he’d spent half an hour stretching and limbering up. Sometimes he felt stiff after kneeling, but there wasn’t a hint of it. His hunger was back, too, rather than the hollow numbness in his stomach. It reminded him that he’d been too anxious to eat much of anything before practice. It was okay, he’d fix that at dinner. No harm done.
He and Jack met up with the team, ready to gorge themselves on real Italian pasta and carb load before their first game tomorrow. They ended up at one end of a long table with Brock and Matt across from them, along with LaCombe, who was a friend of Brock’s from his Gopher days, and Sanderson, who had played with Jack and Matt and Brock in the development program. It was easy to relax and laugh and participate in the conversation with them. Quinn felt like he was being insulated, like Jack and Brock and Matt were a barrier between him and anything that would make him nervous. He could still hear raucous voices from the other end of the table, and Brady’s sharp laugh cutting through the noise, but he was okay. He was more than okay. This was good. As good as it could get, he thought.