nix

Your gaze runs down every inch of his body, igniting him in flames hotter than the alcohol he consumes. Your thigh is also warm and it both tortures and comforts him as it presses against his. Your kisses linger on his cheek, making shivers streak down his spine.

Your presence is all he can focus on. It’s not the loud and boisterous conversations between his teammates and friends—basically a team dinner turned hangout or whatever—in this bar. It’s not the new round of drinks being placed on the table. It’s all you.

"Are you drunk, Quinny?" You ask, placing a shot in front of him.

Quinn shakes his head, inhaling sharply, because his head suddenly spins. No, is he actually drunk? He tries to count the shot glasses that he emptied, frowning when he loses count, when one turns to two then suddenly back to one. Oh, he realizes that he is drunk.

"Yeah," he replies, his voice breaking, his eyes turning half-lidded, his lips twitching in a pathetic grin.

His hand trails over the table, his fingers grazing the table, tracing over the rim of the glass, while he wishes that he is touching you. He homes in the pretty yet playful expression on face and in your stare that trails to his hand while you bite onto your red-stained lower lip. When you finally look back up, he holds the shot, casually testing his dexterity by swirling the filled glass. The liquid sloshes over, dripping onto his palm, his wrist, his elbow. He doesn’t give a shit.

"I guess I am drunk." He smirks, bringing up the glass like he's toasting to you. "How about you?"

"So druuunk," you giggle. Your eyes light up when he drinks the shot. Your shaky hand grabs the glass from him, lightly bumping your forehead to his, brushing your nose together. "Now, you're going to be more drunk, silly."

"You gave it to me," he whispers, getting lost in your beautiful eyes. They always mesmerize him. He savors the feeling of your hands grabbing his cheeks, your thumb softly grazing his cheek before they trace his jaw, your nails scratching his skin and almost making his eyes roll upwards. "We're not going to drive home."

"Definitely not," you agree. "Kiss me?"

Quinn really shouldn’t, because he knows that his resolve—of not pouncing you right then and there—will grow weaker if he does. However, he still kisses you, because…you ask. He has always been so weak. He will do anything that you tell him even if he’s tired or drunk or surrounded by his friends.

It’s only supposed to be a tame kiss. A little peck won’t hurt anyone. But the moment he feels your lips part for him, he decides that he doesn’t actually care about the others. 

He pulls you by your waist, deepening the kiss, slipping his tongue into your parting lips, sighing when your tongue meets his. He can taste all the shots and cocktails that you've drank. Oh, fuck, is it possible to get more drank from a kiss? Because he is. He is so fucking drunk on you, and he is totally fucked.

When his thumb subtly caresses the underside of your tits over your dress, you pull away, your hand pressing against his shoulder. "Okay, calm down, Captain."

He groans, almost whining when you push his hand to his lap.

You can't just call him that. How can you expect him to stay sane? His drunk mind can barely keep him from spiraling after you calls him ‘Quinny’ over and over again. Then you decide to hit him with ‘captain’ in front of his team? Really? Are you insane? Are you serious? Do you want him to die?

His cheeks burn when someone jokes about him getting wrapped around your finger—he is. His ears ring but he still hears your proud and airy giggle that echoes in his short-circuiting brain. His hands turn clammy and shaky as he fists and unfurls them on his lap. His breaths are getting shallow but also, somehow, deep. His cock twitches and aches in his pants. He’s gone.

He desperately controls his urges that are downright feral that even intoxication can’t stave off.

He barely keeps a façade that he’s still present. He's absently nodding at whatever's being talked about. He can no longer understand anything that’s going on, but he really, really wants to hold you again, so he dares. He slips his arm around you again, securing his hand on your hip, sighing when you melt into his touch. That relaxes and grounds him.

He snatches two shots from the tray. He immediately drinks and almost chokes on one because you suddenly snatch the other, your tits rubbing onto his arm, your throat working as you gulp down the drink.

"Stop drinking. Please," Quinn begs in a grumble.

He knows that he won't survive you. Not with the mirth sparking in your eyes. Not when you wink at him. Not with your hand flattening over his thigh, dangerously rubbing up and down. Yes, there is no way that he'll survive. He knows this.

He knows you.

He knows all the drunken versions of you.The signals you’re giving out are exposing your devious plan of fucking him dry. He gulps. He shouldn’t have kissed you, because now, he wants more. So much more.

"I can still drink," you declare, “You can’t stop me.” You huff, giving his thigh a squeeze. Without losing his gaze, you take another one, bringing it up, its rim touching your lip. It effectively seduces him even more. “Okay?"

“Okay,” he concedes, shifting on his seat, tugging his shirt over his problem which is a mistake because you’re now fully aware of it. “My Love.”

Quinn doesn't know what to do. His fogged-up brain tries to come up with a solution. If he recalls correctly, he still has Uber, so should he book one right now? However, just one look at you, he realizes that you are still having fun and clearly don’t want to go home yet. This is a problem. He wants to go, because he can’t touch you with everybody staring or joking about it. He wants to keep you for himself now as if he isn’t already scooting much closer to you.

His eyes burn from his frustration because after minutes of dwelling and thinking of something, he is not getting anything beyond dragging you out of this bar. He shakes his head, gulping again. Fuck, his throat feels so dry.

He reaches for a glass of water. He jumps when you stretch with your hands over your head then they come around him, hugging him like a koala. You grin, settling your cheek against his arm, murmuring his name repeatedly.

You’re calling on him so lovingly that his soul melts.

"I love you," he murmurs, leaning to kiss your eyebrow.

“I love you too,” you giggle.

"Here. Drink some water." He doesn't let you protest, making you drink almost half of the glass. "Good job, my Love."

"Thanks." You scrunch your nose, giving him a tight squeeze. "You should drink too."

Quinn does, finishing the rest. He swallows a chuckle when you also tell him 'good job'. He sighs after you press a sloppy kiss on his shoulder, leaving his shirt slightly wet, but he doesn’t mind, because he is more mesmerized by the look on your face. You’re so at ease but the heat in your eyes still burns.

Wow, you're really pretty.

"I know." You blush.

Did he say that out loud? Oh, well…he's only telling the truth. You are so beautiful. You look like a princess in your white dress. Its color perfectly complements your complexion like it’s solely exists for you. He also likes the skirt, remembering how you spun around to show it off earlier. It drapes on your legs so wonderfully, shifting when you cross and uncross your legs.  It's just...wonderful. You’re wonderful.

"Do you—"

"Need to go to the restroom." You cut him off, abruptly standing up. You grab your purse, scooting over him to get out of the booth, your ass grazing his hard-on.

It takes all of him not to grab your hips and grind you against him. His instincts are telling him to do just that, but the logical side of him is fighting over the feral haze in his mind. He doesn’t know how he manages not to. He grabs your hand, barely holding onto your fingers, his lips parting when your gazes meet. His breath catches, his words getting stuck on his tongue. He feels helpless—

Your grin turns into a beautiful and amazing smirk that is coupled with that pointed look. At that moment, when you finally slip out of his loose grip and are heading towards the direction of the restroom with your hips swishing with your steps, he remembers the specific agreement—not just an agreement, his pinky finger can still feel yours. A promise. For every time, when you both leave for drinks, whether it's one glass or two or several, a promise that will hold no matter how inhibited you two are.

"I'll be down, if you are, Quinny," you said so innocently, fully knowing that he is always ready for anything that you want.

Quinn is down.

He doesn't say anything. He only stands up and races after you. He catches up to you in time as you round the corner. He sees that there is no queue at all, so he grabs your waist.

"Someone is horny," you laugh—as if you already know that he’ll come after you—at the same time as he demands, "We better hurry, my Love."

His urgency only delights you, making you erupt in more giggles, not fighting against his desperate tugging. Once you two are in the restroom, for some reason, his mind clears in a second. He tells you to check the cubicles while he hurries to set out the ‘out of order’ sign, locking the door. He pauses because his head violently spins again despite the floral scent wafting in the air. He’s really, really drunk. His hand slams on the door, calibrating himself, controlling his breath. He helplessly stares at you to anchor him.

You are slightly wobbling on your feet. You raise your hands to your chest, your arms crossing into an ‘X’. You’re still grinning and laughing. He squints, striding towards you with the wall as support. You back away for every he takes, taking your hands behind you. It’s not long until your back hits the counter, your hand gripping it, your eyes still shining like beautiful stars. 

"Why are you laughing?" He cages you with his arms, leaning so close that your breaths mix. He grumbles, "Stop laughing."

How can you laugh when he's unstable on his feet, when his cock is aching so fucking much in his pants, when he simply wants to make true of his promise?

You shouldn’t laugh.

“Okay,” you breathe, nodding, “I’ll stop.” You give him a light peck on his lips. Your arms come around his shoulder, taking off his hat, your fingers slipping through his hair, your nails scraping his scalp. “You good?”

He shudders, shaking his head. “I need you.”

He lifts you to sit over the counter, bridging the slightest distance between you, almost whining when you try to move away, sighing when your lips finally touch. He smiles, feeling at ease, kissing you slowly and languidly, his hands smoothing over the curve of your lower back. A shiver runs down his spine when you fit so perfectly in his arms. His need only builds even more when your back arches, pressing your chest against his, and when your legs spread to make space for him, squeezing them around him. He savors your every touch, every warm sigh, every tiny moan.

It's all so fucking adorable.

"Hi," he greets you just because. He licks the last bits of your gloss from your lips, groaning when the stain remains. As your hand travels down his shoulder to his chest, pressing right over his pounding heart, he declares so quickly that the words mix into one, "I'mdownareyoudown?"

"You know I am, Quinny." You hum, your hand trailing down and down, resting over his aching cock, making him wish his pants are already off. You kiss the corner of his lips, avoiding his attempt to kiss you again, trailing your kisses to his jaw and his neck. "You smell so good."

You easily unbutton his pants, tugging his zipper down, grabbing his leaking cock over his briefs. You work his length, jerking him off, gripping him firmly to make him groan and hiss and leak even more.

He is soaking his wet briefs with pre-cum. His hand slams onto the counter, his body shaking, his body erupting in goosebumps, when you dare a lingering lick along his neck. Oh. No. That feels fucking amazing.

"It's your perfume," Quinn hisses, his hips rolling to meet your jerks.

"What did I tell you about using my stuff, handsome?" You tut, shaking your head, nipping at his skin. "I bought you perfume that I want you to use."

"I just want to smell you on me," he confesses.

“You always want to do that, don’t you?” You smirk.

Your demeanor shows him that you are not as drunk as him, that you are totally in full control when he is extremely pathetic on you, that you have him in chokehold just by looking at him. Your expression is enough to remind him of the times he refused to wipe your cum off his cock, off his lips, off his fucking thighs, or even his abdomen, and he wants that. He needs it. He will die if he—

“Why don’t you have more of me on you right now?” You taunt.

That’s Quinn’s last straw. He has enough of your teasing that he snaps. He is pushing your skirts up, choking at the sight of your soaked and lacey panties, and tugging his briefs down while slipping your panties to the side. He slides his length along your slit, panting from the feel of your arousal coating all of him. He swears that he can feel your clit throb over his own twitching. Then he slams his cock into your quivering pussy. So perfect. So ready. So fucking wet.

“Fuck,” you both groan, your heads tipping up for brief second, clinging onto each other.

His brain gets more and more fogged up, darkness splotching the edges of his vision, his breaths turning shallower, his chest squeezing. He is getting overwhelmed with pleasure, with desperation to feel more, with emotions that keep building deep inside his core.

Then Quinn fucks you lazily then roughly then back. Admittedly, his thrusts are messy and clumsy from being drunk and excessively horny. He can’t control himself. There’s no way he can. All he can do is to hold back from coming prematurely. No. He doesn’t want to. He can’t. Not yet.

He gasps when your hand slips under his shirt, your nails scratching their way to his chest, teasing his nipple, while your other hand pushes into his briefs to grip his ass.

“Harder, Quinn. Don’t slow down,” you beg. “Please, my Love.”

You shouldn’t call him that. You shouldn’t. Not right now. His heart thunders against his ribcage as your words and your moans echo in his ears. He grabs your nape and kiss you, panting and whimpering against your lips, while your pussy flutters around his length. Fuck, what the fuck? He doesn’t know how to process this. He feels…he feels—

“Quinn,”you call, your voice clearing up the haze in his head, but not by much. “Quinny.”

He rolls his hips, thrusting in the perfect angle to hit that spot which has you screaming on his tongue and your pussy shaking. Quinn forces himself to concentrate on your reactions, keeping his rhythm when you let out this specific breathy moan. When a tear escapes your eye, dripping down your cheek, mixing with your sweat. He licks it up and up. He presses a gentle kiss on your eyelid.

He mutters that, “Everything will be okay,” in broken and soft voice, contrasting his rough and deep thrusts. You don’t seem to mind though. He doesn’t too.

He grits his teeth, containing his release which is getting harder and harder, especially when you tweak his nipple, pressing your thumb on it, then you trail that hand to his back, scratching his back. Up and fucking down.

The pain from it mixes with the pain from your nails digging into ass cheek while you urge and coax him to fuck you more and more. He really is losing his mind. You always affect him this way. Drunk or not. Having sex or not. You have him in the palm of your hand, and he will gladly stay in it.

“Do it harder,” he taunts—begs—greedily licking your lips. He purposefully kisses your cheeks, your chin, and your nose, avoiding where you want to be kissed the most, daring to pull slightly back when you chase after him, because it’s his turn not to let you kiss him back. He smiles when you sob, your eyes shining from frustration. “Sink those pretty nails into my skin, my Love. Then I’ll kiss you.”

“You’re so mean.” Your voice breaks, almost cracking his resolve, until you smirk. “So sick.” Then you do what he asked, and his eyes roll up. “You like that?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t even stutter. When he sees your lips parting to tease him more, he grinds into your core, putting pressure on clit, making you writhe. He throws right back, “You like that?”

For a moment, both of you stare at each other, sweat dripping from your brows, panting increasingly ragged, pupils swallowing your irises, feeling each other’s desires impossibly grow. Quinn brings up his hand, his knuckles grazing your cheek, his thumb pressing over your lips.

He loves your warmth.

He kisses you so much sloppier, sliding his tongue in, dominating yours. He’s using your spit and your taste to replace anything else. You taste so good. So delectable. So fucking amazing.

He needs more.

More.

And so much more.

But then you let go of him, breaking him into pieces. A pathetic and downright pitiful whine bubbles up his throat. He almost cries, because you can’t let go. No. He can’t—

His protests die when your hand slips under his shirt, your nails scraping up his back, joining the other.

“Don’t do that again.” His rough hands grip your hips, pulling you forwards, almost dragging you off the edge. He takes pleasure on how easily he can move you, how you clench around him with your hands and your pussy, like you’re afraid to fall. As if he will let you.

His hips roughly slam into yours, taking himself deeper in your sweet pussy, ignoring his pants sliding down his legs, uncaring with how sweaty he is getting. As your nails streak down his back, as your lips sloppily press on his neck, as your tongue licks up his fucking sweat, as he dares to tug your straps down so he can access your tits, nothing else matters.

Not even the sounds of knocking.

You two are going to get caught but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t have anything in him to care.

You try to tell him to be quieter when you are barely holding back your moans, when the lewd sounds of skin slapping and your pussy squelching echo louder and louder for his frantic and deep thrusts. It’s hopeless. Both of you are always loud, and once your neighbors send out a noise complaint that he had to improve the soundproofing. You two are fucked.

Quinn simply hums, pressing his eyes close, feeling a drop of sweat—maybe it’s a tear, he doesn’t know—slide down his cheek. He listens to your noises, then he messily kisses you, swallowing and inhaling both of your moans. He isn’t that successful though.

Nonetheless, the knocking stops, but he doesn’t stop pounding into you. It’s not like he can. With the way your pussy shakes and trembles and squeezes, he knows that you’re so close.

“Don’t hold back. Show me how good I’m making you feel,” he pants against your lips, holding you so tightly while you writhe against him. While shivers wreck his whole body as his pleasure curls like a coil getting compressed and loaded with force, he pleads, “Please give it to me, my Love.”

“Quinn,” you pant, frowning but smiling, your hair sticking to your temple but for Quinn, it looks like a crown. “Need you to come with me, my Love.”

“I’ll be there. I promise,” Quinn reassures, his hips snapping forward. He gulps. “I’m already there.” With his voice dropping another octave, he repeats, “Give it to me.”

You do. You give him everything by letting go. Your pussy flutters and shakes around his cock, pushing him off the cliff of his own release. Your nails dig into his flesh. Your light and breathy moan spill out of your pretty lips while your nails dig into his back. The pulses of your wet pussy milk him of everything that he can give.

He gasps, trying his best to ride both of your release. He lets out a feeble whimper as his pleasure only increases and increases. His body trembles. His hands twitch as he hold and smoothen and grip your waist, your hips, and your legs. He doesn’t know where to touch you. He needs to touch you everywhere but he only has two fucking hands. It’s. Not. Enough.

He sobs, wanting to rip off his shirt, his pants, and his briefs, because they’re in his way. He needs the sensation of your sweat-slicked body against his body, of your loud and strong heart pounding until his own synchronize in the same beat, of your warmth seeping right onto his skin from all possible contact.

Quinn breaks. A haze dampens all of him. He grips the back of your thigh, lifting it, fucking into you over the ache stabbing from his lower abdomen to his cock from overstimulation. He can’t stop. When your hips messily meet his thrusts, it pushes him further into the haze. He wants more. He wants more. He—

It’s too much.

Why can’t he stop?

He doesn’t like this. Why is he not—

“Quinn.” You cup his cheek, your fingers massaging onto his scalp, your thumb rubbing on his cheek. “You’re okay.”

Just like that the haze releases him from its grasp. He realizes that he is no longer inside you, and that the god-awful rut that has taken over him is gone. He caves into your touch. You save him.

Like you always do. You know how much he trust you. You know his limits, when to stop him after pleasure overtakes his senses, and how to pull him out of anything that traps him. You know when he needs your help. You know him. It’s an honor to be known by you.

"Hi there, handsome." You smile, pressing your foreheads together. Your gentleness reminds him of the rays of the sun when it rises and falls, of the snowflakes that keeps their crystalline structures after it fell from the skies, of the serene atmosphere after a whole night of snowing, of the crackling of wood under flames.

“Sorry,” he hurriedly say, “I shouldn’t—"

“Uh-uh.” You shake your head. “I said hi.”

Quinn gulps, noticing how parched he is. “Hi.”

“There we go.” You look satisfied—smug, if he must say.

You pat his chest, finally instructing him to clean up. You are humming, taking wipes from your bag, handing him some, using one to clean yourself. You ignore him when he tries to help so he helplessly stares and leans against the wall. The effects of his orgasm and the slight drop from losing control has him very loopy. He marvels how quickly you refresh your make up.

“You should clean up, Quinny, so we can go home.” Your words makes him jump.

Home.

He wants to go home.

He quickly swipes the wipe over his cock, tugging his underwear up. He takes a deep breath before he dares to pull up his pants, almost losing his balance. He runs his hands through his hair then he helps you down from the counter, catching you when you almost fall.

“You’re drunk,” he comments.

“I am.” You giggle. “Can we walk home?”

He nods, instantly agreeing. He snatches his cap from the counter and puts it on you. He pulls the brim down, chuckling when you huff, to cover that freshly fucked look—it remains despite your effort—that you have. No one else is allowed to see it.

It’s only for him.

˚｡⋆ ❀ ˖ Bonus: Your POV ˖ ❀ ⋆｡˚

When you wake up, the first thing that you notice is not the pounding in your head but how tightly Quinn is cuddling you with your legs intertwined.

He looks adorable. He is slightly snoring and occasionally lets out incoherent grumbles before his hold tightens even further. Strands of his hair falls over his temple, the waves looking shiny under the few rays of morning sun hitting them. His beard is longer than the scruff he had yesterday. He looks so handsome. His lips that are usually dry are soft and moisturized and looking kissable—all thanks to the lip mask that you make him put on.

You shake away the need to kiss him. Even if you two agreed to wake each other up by little pecks and smooches, it’ll wake him. Your Quinny deserve to sleep in after how much you ravaged each other last night.

Last night is such an amazing night.

You can still feel everything. Like how hard he ate your pussy out every time he came after sobering up from the walk and showering. Like the lazy make out session as soon as he crawled up from your throbbing heat, tasting the mix of you two. Like his bruising and desperate hold on your skin. Like the kisses that he pressed on your face, on your body, and on the beginnings of bruises, whispering his apologies and also his praises for taking him so fucking well. That should’ve signaled the end of your night, but his aftercare turned you on. You—easily, so easily—convinced him for one more round. It’s all amazing.

Quinn’s eyes flutter open, revealing those uniquely colored irises. They always shift colors depending on his clothes, the weather, or the lights. They’re beautiful. They’re like the skies outside the city. Pure and clear. Ever-changing.

“Good morning, my Love.” He scoots even closer. He winced, hiding under your shadow.

“Good morning, my Love,” you echo, grinning when his cheeks flush red. He always blush when you call him your Love even though you’ve even calling him that since he first used it on you. “How’s your head?”

“Hurts,” he sighs, planting a kiss on your forehead, making your heart lurch out of your chest. “You hungry?”

“Not really,” you lie. Your stomach immediately exposes you, so it’s your turn to hold him down. You know that he wants to make breakfast immediately, but you need more time with him. You bargain, “Five more minutes?”

He blinks, his eyes roaming all over your face.

“Five…more…” he barely echoes as his breath catches. “…minutes.”

The thing about Quinn is how obvious and deep his love is.

It’s not just the sex which is a mesh between fucking and making love.

It’s his shaky inhale, his pupils expanding those light-colored irises, his desperate staring, his rapid blinks from time to time so the tears won’t fall but they sometimes do.

It’s the meals that he prepares as if he knows what you’re craving for the day and the snacks that you make and that he enjoys.

It’s the flowers that he occasionally sends wherever you are, varying from fresh bouquets of your favorite flower to crocheted flowery items to a clumsy drawing of it on a sticky note.

It’s the letters with his messy handwriting. Whether it’s about some errands that he may miss because he’s busy or simple reminders like your scheduled appointments, he always ends them with his ‘I love you’ and a heart written into two strokes.

It’s his efforts to make you happy, and you love being happy with him.

He’s so perfectly sweet.

You love him so much.

Good night!! 🏃🏻‍♀️🏃🏻‍♀️🏃🏻‍♀️

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“Quinn, get off me!” You grumble, trying to slip out of his hold, but Quinn is still stronger than you. “This is holding me against my will! Kidnapping! Hostage taking!”

Quinn bursts out laughing. Fuck, you’re so silly sometimes. It’s never a dull moment with you, even when you are suddenly on a different wavelength. No, not even, especially. Quinn holds you closer, hand resting over your middle, pulling you closer against his chest.

Soon, your laughter follows—a beautiful mix of giggles and chuckles. Your sound makes him warm all over. When you crane your head so your lips graze his cheek, your hand  entwining with his, the other holding his jaw, Quinn almost forgets why he was holding you in the first place. You trickster.

“You’re distracting me,” he growls softly in your ear. Your little squeak makes him chuckle as he nips at your nape, your shoulders, your jaw. “You can’t get out of this.”

“Quinn,” you whine, “we just had sex. I’m sensitive! Plus I’ve already sat on your face earlier.”

“Sat,” he scoffs. “Sure.”

“Is that attitude?” You twist around so quickly, beautiful eyes narrowing, lips pouting, hair still very much disheveled from your earlier rounds, your nail scratching over his chest. “Don’t scoff at me, Quintin.”

Quintin. His first name. Fuck, it sounds so good.

Quinn sighs, pulling you closer, hooking your thigh over his hip. “Sorry.”

You both groan when his cock graze your pussy lips. Quinn’s member rousing. Yours quivering, leaking with your arousal and his cum. Oh, right. He filled you up so good, didn’t he? Quinn presses against your pussy, feels your entrance pulse, sees your hooded eyes.

“Again? I’m tired,” you whine, protesting but it’s you who reaches his cock to press it against your hole. “I’m so full, Q.”

Are you? You’ve already wasted a lot of his cum. Already so spent for the day. Quinn knows that. He fucking knows that. Despite wanting to pound into you, to fuck you until the next morning—and the through the whole day—he needs to hold back.

That’s why he fucking needs you to sit on his face. Right now.

“Then why is your pussy begging for more?” Quinn asks, eyes hooded, watching every shuddering breaths that escapes your lips. “But I know. You’re busy tomo—”

“Quinn, shut up.” You grab his cheeks and kiss him so sloppily. “I’m so sore, Quinny,” you whine when his tip teases your entrance.

You keep protesting, but it’s you who pushes your hips, chasing after his dick, seeking more and more.

“Sit on my face, my love.” Quinn whispers. His words echo in his ears. Does it with yours? Does his voice rattle your soul as much as yours with his?

“But…” You still hesitate.

You’re rarely hesitant. But when you are, you are. Like he will be turned off by you. Like he will care about your filled up pussy. Like he will suddenly be disgusted with you when he could very much lick the ground you walk on, kiss the pebbles of sweat on your body. Oh, he got you. Silly girl. Just breathe and you already have him hard and begging for a fuck.

“Trust me,” Quinn pleads, pressing his forehead against yours. His nose touches yours. He can see the little fear in your eyes, the doubt, before it dissipates into lust. “There we go.”

He gives you a small peck on your blushing cheek. “And, my Love, when I say sit on my face, I don’t mean hover.”

The wanton moan that escapes your lips is Quinn’s last straw. He could just fuck you. It would be too easy. Just one thrust and he’ll be inside your pussy. Just one kiss and he’ll have you begging for it—sore or not. But he doesn’t. Not when you finally agree.

Quinn helps you over him. His hands glide and grip your skin. He can feel your shivers and trembles as you kneel over his face, legs beautifully parted for him to see your flushed pussy, too used and fucked.

“Quinn,” you whimper, hands planting on the headboard.

He mutters your name like a prayer and when you lower your pussy to his face, he knows his Goddess—you—answered.

He gives your clit a small kiss, tongue flatting over your trembling slit. The way you squeal and say it made his heart flutter faster and faster in his chest. You taste divine. His cum combines with yours. Salty, musky, and somehow sweet.

This is what he fucking wants. He needed—still needs—this for so long. To be able to savor what he has done to you. To know how perfect your pussy would be with his fucking cum that he has never dared to taste before.

Fuck.

Oh, his love of his life. So perfect, so delectable, so fucking divine.

He's so happy that you’re not hovering. So happy that you finally listened. So happy that you’re grinding your pussy against his lips, using his nose to your clit, letting him hear every moan, groan, and whimper that escapes you. So happy to feel your weight on him.

He grips your thighs securing to him as he slips his tongue in your pussy, tasting more of you and him.

More.

Quinn thinks he should have done this earlier. Should have filled you with more cum and not let you argue and waste a single droplet. Should have feasted on you, stained and dirtied by him. Fuck. He needs more.

For every gulp and lick, your pussy tightens around his tongue, squeezing out his cum and your addicting arousal. Quinn can feel your thighs quiver, your pathetic attempt to escape him.

Oh, you can’t.

He won’t have it.

 He needs you to come. He needs to feel you rob him of air as he does when he wrapped his fingers round your neck as he fucked into you.

He needs this.

Fuck. He’s so hard.

Maybe he can convince you for another round—rounds—of him buried deep in your pussy. Maybe he can persuade you not to attend the appointments you got tomorrow. Maybe he can just fuck you, clean you with his tongue, then fuck you again. Again. And fucking again.

Because this is not enough.

God, he’s so selfish. So fucking selfish.

He needs more and more of everything you can give him. His life is yours. Forever.

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Quinn gritted his teeth, a hybrid of a groan and a growl rumbling out of his throat. His eye momentarily rolled up before fluttering close then open to meet your gaze. His body tensed at the sharp pain that followed the unforgiving slice of your knife across his skin below his left collarbone. He didn’t need to confirm that the cut was deeper than your first cuts which were mere scratches that you’d press to make him bleed. No. This one immediately dripped, his warm blood trickling out of the cut.

It hurt.

It hurt so fucking good.

His cock twitched, dripping with pre-cum underneath his stained boxers. The pain was sharp, yet it melted into an intoxicating blend of pleasure. His body was burning as if he would spontaneously combust. He was fucking addicted to this amount of pain, to this amount of pleasure, to this amount of insanity.

He yearned for more. A deeper slice. A heavier drip of his blood. A high higher than he had ever fucking felt. It didn't matter if he might need stitches. It didn't matter if it would leave a scar. It didn’t matter if there was an odd chance that he would somehow bleedout from this laceration. It didn't fucking matter because he was craving more. He needed more. And more you gave.

The cold metal nicked him almost in the same place, causing him to gasp, to tug against the metal cuffs that secured his wrists to the headboard, to sob out a plea that you answered with a devilish grin. He helplessly rutted his hips upwards, meeting your lazy grinds, wishing desperately that he could feel your bare pussy around his cock instead of the friction of his pre-cum soaked boxers. This wasn't fucking fair.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

He wanted to kiss you. He wanted to touch you. He wanted to carve up your perfect body the exact way you did with his as if it would make your bodies reflections of your shared darkness. He wanted you to bleed onto his bloody skin, your bloods mixing on each other's skin. He wanted to coat his cock with that mixture then he would sink into your quivering heat, painting your walls with the fluid that keeps you both alive and his cum. He wanted it all.

Quinn gritted his teeth, his whole being rattling, as you carved into his skin, swirling and pushing the sharp edge into his flesh. His blood dripped and dripped. Down his chest, down over his sensitive nipple that was still aching from your intense sucks and bites, down to his tensing abdomen, down to his waistband.

Off. He wanted his boxers off. They were in the way. His blood would've reached his cock. You would've been grinding along his length, smearing his blood on your pussy. Fuck his life.

"My Love," he panted, sounding like a whine. His watercolored eyes blurred yet zoned into your amusement. He groaned when your fingers traced over your masterpieces, sending shivers of pain to wreck his body. "F-fuck."

His eyes stung with involuntary tears. His cock painfully twitched once more, bagging to be fucked more than the torture of dryhumping. His mind that was turning with plans he was meticulously weaving turned blank and fogged over.

Fucking plans. His plan went to off the rails. He was supposed to be in charge tonight. He was supposed to strip you naked and secure you to the bedframe with the usual fleece-lined leather cuffs. He was supposed to eat you out until your pussy was swollen and ready for the smooth handle of the knife that he specifically had forged to its exact measurement and shape that would be perfect to fuck you with. He was supposed to bite into your flesh until he left you with bitemarks and bruises on your skin.That was the plan.

It didn't happen because you coaxed him into his position, kissing him so softly then roughly then back, effectively consuming his senses while you gripped his hands to your neck. The next thing he knew was you pushing his hands back and the sound of metal cuffs locking. Then you cut off his shirt, tugged off his pants, snatched the knife that he was hiding. You halted his protests by mounting him, grinding on him. You peppered him with kisses everywhere. Soft and innocent. Greedy and filthy. Then you started using his knife on him, effectively overturning his plans with yours.

Quinn had no complaints—other than to get rid of the boxers, fuck you, and fill you with so much cum that you'd complain about it during clean up—because he fucking loved it when you take what you wanted with him. He loved to be used by you. He loved to hurt for you. He'd do anything.

Literally anything.

Even if anything meant dying of blood loss when you eventually cut him too much. He wouldn't mind. His life was yours.

"My Love," he called again, trying to sit up from the headboard. ignoring the soreness on his wrists. "Please."

"Hmm." You hummed. Your hips stopped, lifting from his cock, robbing him of his pleasure. You shook your head, your other hand flattening on his left chest, pushing him back. When he stopped moving, you brought the bloodied knife to your lips, kissing its face, leaving his blood on your lips as you put it down against his skin again.

You were ethereal like his very own Goddess of both Life and Death. You excude confidence as you dragged the knife over his skin, leaving a streak of red down his sternum. While on top of him, you looked up at him through your lashes, the spark of darkness and mischief turning into a feign innocence. You blinked, smiling so sweetly that Quinn swore he could taste its saccharine lie.

"Please what, Quinny? Do you want me to stop?"

"Never," the word slipped out in a hurry. His tone was tight and laced with panic. His heart twisted, tumbling with his spiral. "Please don't stop. Give me more. You can keep me like this. Cut me up. Make me bleed. Mark me up. Just let me fuck your pussy. I need to be inside you. I. Need. You."

You discarded the knife on the bed, not caring a single bit about the mess. Your hands hooked over his nape, pulling him for a searing kiss, lips parted for his tongue, but Quinn dared to lick across your lips first, taking his essense on your lips, feeling the ghost of your smile.

He groaned, the copper taste entwining with your taste. He felt your nails sink into his nape, heat stabbing through his cock. His breaths came short and shaky as he met the fervor of your kiss while he held off his orgasm. He hoped to anything fucking holy that he could still tamped it down.

"I need you too," you replied, dragging your nails from his nape to his chest, to his waistband, prying off his boxers to free his raging problem. "Oh, Quinn, you poor thing."

You giggled, your hand wrapping around his cock, your thumb pressing on his slit, making his eyes roll upwards. You were going to kill him. Figuratively. No. Literally—

"Fuck," he stuttered, writhing underneath you as you swiftly took all of him inside your wet pussy. The feel of your warmth hugging him got him choking on his spit. His body tensed as he came. "No, no—fuck no," he whined, shaking his head, his hips rolling to ride his own orgasm. "I'm sorry. I'm fucking sorry. I tried—"

"Yes, yes. Fuck yes," you moaned, lifting up his throbbing length only to slid back down. You leaned down, your tongue lapping over his wounds, pushing him further and further as his peak dragged, spilling more cum inside you. "Fuck. Yes. Quinny."

Curses danced from his lips when he finally stopped coming and you continued to fuck him even as his cock softened, working his overly sensitized member so deliberately until he painfully hardened once more. Black spots darkened his vision as he met your thrusts. His ears rang as he heard a click of the cuffs unlocking. His mouth felt dry as he immediately gripped your hips in a bruising hold.

Quinn pushed through the pain. From oversensitivity. From his sore and probably blistered wrists. From the cuts that you continued to lick and prodded with your thumb. From his balls tightening with another load of cum ready. From the freedom that he must pretend that he didn't have yet.

He acted pliant, receiving everything you gave. He reciprocated every thrust and grind, every kiss and sighs, every moan and groan. He called out your name with tears strreaming down his face. He listened to how your body reacted, feeling the same fluttering of your walls until you came. He smiled in awe at the sight of your back arching, your neck looking so pretty and unmarked, yoour lips parted in your silent scream.

You were so pretty when you came, so beautiful when your pussy clamped down on his cock, so incredible when you panted and finally met his eyes, so cute when you squealed after he flipped your positions.

Quinn grasped the knife, perfectly gripping it and holding it to your neck, right against your thundering pulse, its blade nicking your skin, drawing the smallest amount of blood compared to his blood dripping from his skin.

Your eyes widened while your pussy clenched. "Quinn—"

He thrust into you, reaching your deepest depths, smirking when your eyes rolled up and your hands slamming onto his chest. He grinded his hips, torturing your sensitive spot with his cock and your clit with his pelvis.

"I'm gonna breed you while I cut you, my Love." He grinned, pressing the knife harder on your neck, chasing after you when you tried to move away. He knew you weren't afraid. He could see your trust and your desire. Then he slid the blade down as he slowed down his thrusts, still driving into you deeply. He traced over your collarbone. "Scream for me."

You did when he cut through your skin exactly where your first deep cut on him.

You were so loud when he fucked you through the pain that you came for him.

You were so singing your screams so beautifully that he couldn't help but grab your throat and kissed you while you rolled into another peak over and over again.

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