#dark!quinn

For Quinn that arrangement had initially been fine. Hell, it was practically every NHL player's dream to meet a girl who ALSO wanted to keep sex casual. But you were pretty special. Quinn wouldn’t necessarily describe himself as a yearner, but that all changed when he started falling for you.

A witty crack you’d make during one of the late night bonfire circles. The way you’d rip into Jack when he did something dumb. That cute little knowing smile you gave Quinn when you two passed each other while dishing out the takeout. He had it bad.

But-

“I don’t do relationships.”

Is what you’d said that first time many nights ago. And he wasn’t so happy with this arrangement anymore. He didn’t want you sneaking back to your own bed in the mornings. He didn’t want his teammates trying to hook him up with random girls anymore. He didn’t want the world believing he was single.

He wanted to have you. To hold you. To tell you how much he loved you because if there was one thing that Quinn Hughes was sure of; it’s that he loved you. 

The problem about being thrust into stardom at such a young age was that you never really had the time to grow up. Playing in the biggest stadiums in the country, beautiful women at your feet, thousands chanting your name, and millions of dollars in your back pocket? It got to Quinn’s head. Of course it did. It wasn’t necessarily that he believed he was above consequences, he just didn’t think that what he was doing was all that wrong. How could he be so bad when he had all these people enabling him?

So what if he was currently sitting in the hotel bathroom, poking holes into the condom packet while you waited for him in the bed, blissfully unaware? He could give you everything. You’d never want for something out of reach. You’d have a beautiful home, a beautiful family, a loving husband. That was every girl's dream.

While you had nothing against abortion, Quinn knew that you were not the type who would be able to abort. You’d wanna keep the baby.

So, no. He felt no guilt as he pushed into your tight heat, the damaged rubber wrapped around his hard cock.

You gasped in his ear, your hands scratching sweet little lines down his strong back. 

Shudders of pleasure wracked through you as his dick brushed against your sweet spot.

“That’s it, beautiful,” Quinn breathed. He stared down at you, eyes hooded and mouth parted. 

You were everything. You were perfect. You were so, so tight.

Quinn loved you. He never wanted to lose you. And after tonight? You would be his. Forever.

So, no. He felt no guilt as his hot cum erupted from his tip and coated your quivering walls. Not even when he pushed his fingers in after pulling out, clogging you up as you laid shivering and panting, completely ignorant. 

You’re the one who planted the seeds in his brain— your legs locking around his ass, holding him hostage inside you. Clenching around him as if you’re trying to convince his dick. Moaning praise into his skin. Making him feel big, making him feel in control.

You’re the one who swapped your pills first— you know he wouldn’t realise, wouldn’t have examined the actual pills, wouldn’t have had reason to.

If you weren’t in on it, it'd be laughable— he’s too obvious. His gaze locked on your mouth every time you take one. A gulp of slight panic that he can’t hide— so nervous that you’ll think something’s wrong with the taste, the texture.

So much of his focus dialled on you, obvious to the checkmate danger lurking at every corner. You’ve planned this. He’s just playing into you, unknowingly sacrificing his pawns to slaughter.

He doesn’t check his condoms. A rookie error. Even after catching you riffling through them, he’d never suspect you. Thinking you’re just keeping him stocked up, looking after him in a way that only solidifies his own plan. The thought of your confusion and planned panic an aphrodisiac.

He doesn’t know you’re editing his own notes— taking advantage of the sheer exhaustion crashing over him to make him doubt what he’s written himself. He doesn't think anything of your smile stretching wider with every confused shake of his head, so convinced that you’re just love drunk on him. Innocent. Wouldn’t suspect that you’d ever even touch his phone.

You drop hints around him— anything to help his little pet project. Helping him track your own cycle with information drops— natural enough to let him believe that he’s being observant. Symptoms, warning signs. You send him research articles under the guise of loving how supportive and caring he is. Showering him with praise and affection to drag him down with you.

You stop drinking, making a song and dance of it. A double pin plan— you need to be safe for the baby, plus it drives his concern for you up. His smothering escalating. Spending more time with you, tracking you more. Watching over you. Playing house. Practice for how he’ll look after you when the plan comes together— a test.

You manipulate his search history, his recommended adverts. He wouldn't find any suspicion with them being replaced with baby clothes ads, parenting tips, and birth control failure research. He’d just think he’s being given the golden ticket to a perfect excuse for you, when you’re locked to him.

Luke’s brother won’t stop staring at you.

You habitually strum your fingertips against the plastic cup his brother passed to you twenty minutes ago. The drink is warm and untouched, and you regret not asking for a beer instead.

Luke’s been stretched thin all night between pleasing you and pleasing his friends. You told him you wouldn’t mind if he spent time with them instead but guilt flushed his cheeks and made promises he couldn’t keep spill from his mouth.

You close your eyes and loose out a deep breath. The porch is slightly damp from the humid summer air, and you ignore how it makes your shorts stick to your skin. You’re sure if you were to turn around, you’d find his brother’s attention has not left you.

You shouldn’t have come tonight. You should’ve offered meeting up for lunch, something more within the boundaries your friendship with Luke was constrained by.

Somehow, he had found out you were back in town visiting family and texted you. Subtlety has never been one of Luke’s strengths and five texts later, you picked up on the hurt underlining the playful tone he was trying for.

Your easy acceptance of his offer to come to a party at his place—his brothers’ place to be technical—seemed to settle whatever stifling emotions lingered in him at your unintentional deception. His smile had been one of relief when you showed up, softening the rigidness of his jaw that had accumulated the longer you strayed from your projected estimated arrival time. He had pulled you into a hug, bending down so he could bury his face in your neck before letting you go to introduce you to some of his friends.

That had been an hour ago.

He tried to stick by your side as long as possible but eventually he was pulled away by a too excited friend. The guilt that wrecked his expression felt too severe for the situation at hand and an odd sense of relief filled you when he was out of sight.

You don’t know why you accepted the invite considering Luke is the only one you know here. Perhaps you’re weak to his pouting or perhaps staying at home the past week has made you stir-crazy. You have another six days before you’re expected back at work, and you’re determined to make the most of it.

Glancing over your shoulder, you wonder if biding your time until it’s socially acceptable to leave this party would be considered making the most of your trip home.

The kitchen has a few stragglers but for the most part, it’s been cleared out. There’s no sign of his brother and your tense shoulders relax a fraction. Surprisingly, you are the only one in the backyard, though, you suppose the sticky air might have something to do with that.

“You didn’t like the drink?”

Said drink sloshes over your fingers as you flinch. Blood rushes to your head and it takes a moment for you to find where the voice has come from.

He’s standing by the patio door, seltzer in hand. He takes careful steps towards you as if not to spook you.

“You didn’t like it?” he repeats, nodding towards the drink.

You look down at it, the cup now half what it once was. The space between your fingers grows tacky, and you try to rub the feeling away.

“Not really my taste,” you say apologetically.

You wipe your hands against your thighs and stand up. The light from the kitchen is dim, casting shadows on the hollows of his cheeks. He’s got the same tired look Luke tends to default to and the likeness is jarring for a moment.

“I’m Quinn,” he introduces, holding out his hand.

You give him your name, shaking his hand once before dropping it. His scrutiny is more disarming up close, and you take a step back.

“Lukey’s friend,” he says, feigning surprise. Your smile strains at the act. As if he hasn’t known exactly who you are since the moment Luke called out to you. “College, right? I think we were in the same year.”

That’s news to you.

“Huh, I would’ve never guessed that,” you say. You rack your brain for what Luke studied when he was playing. “Sports Management?”

He nods, eyeing you with vague approval. “Good memory.”

The compliment sounds like a stand-in for something he’d rather say, something less flattering if you are go to by the entertained smirk beginning to pull at the corners of his bitten mouth.

“Well, it was nice to meet you,” you say, slightly uncomfortable. “I’m going to go find Luke and say bye.”

Before you can step around him, Quinn steps into your space.

“It’s still early,” he says, pushing back his hair. “Stay a little longer.”

When you don’t look convinced, he adds, “I mean, Luke was so excited about you being here. Talked all of our ears off about it.”

He keeps getting closer, leading you to the far side of the patio. The kitchen is no longer in your line of vision.

“Did he now?” you ask faintly.

Trepidation works its way through the sea of your burgeoning confusion, tainting the waters until your confusion morphs into an oily unease that has you swallowing thickly the longer Quinn looks at you. He’s set his drink down, the empty clang of it making you flinch.

“He didn’t mention how pretty you are,” Quinn says thoughtfully. And then he laughs, shaking his head. He works his jaw, exasperation making it stiff. “Maybe he wanted to keep it a secret.”

His tone is light, borderline tender as if sharing an inside joke.

It freezes the breath in your lungs.

“I think I should go,” you say, voice tight.

Fear trickles into your bloodstream at a steady pace when he nods, barely moving to the side to let you pass. Your shoulder brushes against him and a sigh of relief begins to escape you until his arm hooks around you and he turns you back to him.

He kisses you.

Your mouth opens and you don’t find out whether your instinct is to bite down or yell at him for Quinn’s tongue slips in. The hand on the small of your back presses you forward firmly as he cups your jaw harshly to slot your mouths against each other better.

He isn’t deterred by your lack of response, kissing you deeper and wetter with a throaty groan. He tastes sweet, the artificial taste of black cherry cloying on your tongue.

His hand starts to wander, greedily touching everything he can. When the searing heat of his palm lays over the soft skin of your chest, your teeth snap down. The worried skin of his bottom lips splits under the pressure and the salty tang of his blood replaces the sickly sweet taste of seltzer.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you gasp, spitting out the blood.

There’s a raw edge to your distress. When you wipe your hand across your mouth and look down, there’s an already drying streak of red on your skin.

Quinn licks his bleeding lip, using his thumb to wipe away the pink mix of spit and blood dripping down the edge of his mouth.

“I wanted to see what all the fuss was about,” he shrugs.

You can’t even begin to assign meaning to what he’s said when Luke appears. His cheeks are red from the alcohol and his eyes hazy with something else, but he’s put his attention solely on you with concentrated effort. And more specifically on your mouth.

You can practically see the wheels turning in his head at the evidence smeared on both you and his brother.

“I told you,” Quinn says, amused. “She’d go for anyone s’long as they were a player.”

Luke bites his cheek. “You’re such a piece of shit, man. I saw you.”

Quinn doesn’t have the decency to look guilty. He holds his hands up, laughing. Luke, on the other hand, has the shame to look away when your eyes round out in betrayal at the realization he stood there while his brother kissed you.

“You can’t blame me, Lukey,” he hums. “I just wanted a taste.”

“Are you serious?” Luke snaps, voice growing more nasally.

He’s whiny, you realize with horror. The anger eating away the buzz in his blood has nothing to do with what Quinn’s done to you: it’s about what Quinn’s taken from him.

You shift your weight, peering into the darkness of their backyard. At some point, you’d eventually loop back to the front right?

Quinn doesn’t let you get far as soon as he notices how your body twists. He reaches out an arm and wraps it around your waist, dragging you to him. Once he’s secured you against him, he brings that same arm up so he can hold your jaw.

His fingers dig into your cheeks until the pressure against your teeth forces you to open your mouth to alleviate the soreness beginning to accumulate under his touch.

Luke swallows thickly, eyes darting to the ‘o’ of your lips. He follows the line of your throat as you gulp.

Quinn kisses the back of your ear before dropping his chin on your shoulder.

“Come on, Lukey. Don’t you want a taste too?”

They’ve seen you in the damn shower with the signature white stick tucked in the corner of your mouth. They’ve watched you get off with one still in place— they’re not beyond asking if it’s turning into a sexual fetish in their head.

Your obsession is hard to swallow. They think you’re more focused on the sugar than them. You get nervous if they even try to watch you run circles against your clit, yet you want a lollipop there. The jealousy might be pathetic— but that’s a trait they’re perfectly happy to brand themselves with.

They attack your stash. The count lowering with each passing day— enough to keep you unaware, it’s not like you track your overconsumption. They fill the void with fingers searching and prodding around your mouth. Until you start seeking the digits out under your own free will.

They rest their hands on their lap— the sight of you mouthing at their shorts, their underwear, making them more content. Yet you still seek out the lollipops. It's not enough for your brain, fingers not enough to replace the constant physical and mental fixation.

So they push it further. Instead of losing one a night, you lose three. Newly delivered boxes go missing. They nudge you enough to make you drop one. Your building frustration a part of a developed game plan. They can deal with the attitude spikes, can keep you fairly mellow by rolling your lollipops in crushed up sedation dressed as sourness— easy to convince you that you'd ordered wrong in desperation.

It doesn’t give you a free pass to act as a brat however. They’re fine with you having this fixation, but everything happens under their control, their guidance. You can’t have a reliance on something that isn’t them. It breeds an idea of freedom, of something existing outside of them. It has to be controlled.

Your freak out only confirms the need for a heavier hand. The hand tapping starting. The leg bouncing. The nervous nibbling of your fingers. The whines and huffs. It’s extra irritating to Jack— you’re more often on his lap, closer to his fingers. Yet you’re pushing his away when he tries to replace the stolen snack. Complaining about him. Driving him up the damn wall.

This is why it’s a problem. A threat. One he’ll solve. Quinn will take too long— you’re behaving better for him, not totally tuned out from the consequences. Luke is still a chicken. He’ll crack and get you more just to be showered in your love. He’d puff out his chest with pride at being the favourite.

He overdoses you on the spiked leftover lollipops. He burns through your supply at a rapid pace. You think he’s caving— that your temper tantrum paid off. He watches you zone out, watches how you lack the strength to bat his hands away from your mouth with each roll of your tongue around the treat.

He volunteers to take you to bed— fake concern coating his words. His nails sinking into the skin of your thigh to ward off the smirk threatening to mark itself on his face. Dazed mumbles the only sign of protest at his sudden lift.

He’s doing you a favour too, even if it might take a few days of medicine for it to really sink in. You were the one pawing at his cock. You were the one with his fingers in your mouth— he felt you lap at the digits.

The way he lays you down on your bed, the calm before the storm. A theatre act, with the way he uses your sleepy hands to drag the waistband of his boxers down. It’s part of the lesson. When your head settles, you’ll remember every part you played in it. There’ll be no blaming him. No childish follow ups.

You’re even opening your mouth for him— the gap widening with every released inch of his cock. Your tongue inching out of your mouth as if you’re expecting a replacement lollipop. Might as well be signing your name on the permission slip.

A slide down your throat— the brutal intrusion enough to make you gag— chased up with his hand around your throat. He can’t have any early lesson interruptions. The taste of him a change from the sweet snack. Cutting off more air than what you’ve learned to adapt to. His pre-cum mixing with your saliva, drowning your throat. Your fixation satisfied with the clenching of your cheeks around him, the swallowing. Your tongue unknowingly recreating your past moves on his veins.

He doesn't care when the door opens— it's only a matter of time before Quinn investigates everything to do with you. He knows how much it burrows and festers under his skin when someone else is alone with you, the jealous monster. The only indication from Jack that he’s noticed is a small smirk, a barely there lift of his mouth, his weight pressing his cock down further to make your sedated body twitch. An attack against Quinn. A dismissal. He doesn’t need a guide to give you your medicine. He’s perfectly capable of moulding your oral fixation himself.

He’s tried to be good. Fighting the grip of the teeth of the clamp caged around his brain. A constant force dragging his vision back to you, a self imposed torture. The urge to stain your existence with his own, countered by the pure thought of his poison corroding you. A crippling sense of self destruction driven in further with every blinding gleam of joy filling your eyes, with the freedoms you enjoy. The taste of the sweet syrup hitting your tongue when you pick up your usual coffee order. The way he’s stalked the awe in your eyes when you’re circled with nature.

Things he would take from you, unwillingly, if he gave into the urge to steal you from your life. To surround you with his sin. To drown you in the river of greed. To rewrite your healthy brain into a monstrosity like his.

His back pressing against the side of his bed in the dark. His fingernails digging into the fragile skin of his arms, his knees, his jaw. Tears welling up, cradled by his lashes. Kept in place as a reminder, refusing to spare him of the relief that would come from them staining his cheeks. His head falling between his knees, clamping himself in place with a suffocating strength. Photos of you scattered around the floor, walls, every inch of his space. A madness that brings him to scream, to express the feelings in the only way that can't hurt you.

His teeth hurt without you. His gums burn. Every part of himself lashing out against his brain. A punishment for not giving in. An urge to have his mouth on your skin, a balm that'd smooth the torturous, bone deep ache.

He punishes himself swiftly for every breach of control. Every violating picture taken of you while you’re free in life— driven by the perfection of every strand of hair on your head, every feeling he’s never experienced crossing your face. A goddess reincarnated. An altar he would shatter every one of his bones just to breathe near.

He orders your favourite drink. Whipping his feelings in a rejection of the endorphin rush when you’re confused when it’s handed to you by the barista. He's causing you distress. It’s his fault. The vision of the rim of the cup pressed against your lips, added to pile of self disgust of photo paper.

He paid for your groceries once. Distressed at the thought of you having to provide for yourself. At the thought of someone as perfect as you, having to pay just to keep yourself healthy. A furrow in his eyebrows at the thought of the world not giving you everything for free, not seeing the cult level worship he truly believes you’re owed by the world for blessing it with your body.

A rage retrained against his own head when you’re alarmed at the action. The scattering of fear and rejection clouding your eyes. A dagger stabbed into every vein under his skin. A reminder of how fragile you are, a reminder that he’s scum for slipping. A fast acting toxin in your world.

To share the same bed as you would be alike to taking a hammer to your altar. Being in your space would be a sacrilege. Stepping a single foot over your doorway is a privilege he would never deserve— even if every inch of him craves you. Craves to feel the touch of your skin resting against his when you're vulnerable. Craves to feel the air of your exhales against him, kissing him with your grace.

The window pane is a shield from him. A shackle around his wrists, a sedative in his blood stream. The sight of you sprawled over the soft sheets a work of art. Raised and lowered around you to frame you for his eyes. His face inching closer and closer to the pane with every shift of your limbs. His breathing unregulated, misting the glass. Mouth salivating obscenely at the exposure of your flesh. His restraint cracking and crumbling under the hydraulic crushing pressure.

Your safe space deteriorating second by second. Corroding from a twisted obsession.