We're in the middle of a string of dark!fics, probably followed by a string of non dark blurbs. I forget inbox order, but I'm pretty sure there's a couple coming up. If not, I'll make it happen anyway. Balance. -> 717 words, taglist.
Request -> Dark!Quinn with someone who's famous on their own. More famous than them. They have a public image, so it's not like they could keep them for themselves, without it being noticeable to fans.
Warnings -> dark!fic, dark!Quinn, talk of fans being vile to you, wants you to be isolated with him. You pull back and he sends you a thumbs down emoticon. Him sabotaging you to 'save' you.
Every inch of you is in secured fortress. Every Instagram post, every event, every person in your life, a shovel. Singularly devoted to deepening the trench around your body, widening the distance to even touch you. An unobtainable desire, coveted by too many invested eyes. Exposed from all angles, exposed to too many dangers.
He’s seen it, the risk you surround yourself with. Fingers trembling around the emotion-weared metal of his phone. Every comment about your body, every hateful line spat at you. Every appearance you make leading to more. It’s violent insanity to him. The concept of you putting yourself in the public eye, letting people consume you, a product on display.
It would be easier for him to breathe, if you at least cooperated with him. If you stayed in with him, safe at home. In your right place. The focus of your attention and demands purely directed at him. Locked in a cocoon until you ended this charade. Enough time for your fame to blow over, to leave you perfectly isolated. He'd be all you need, the only person you could rely on to still love you, to see you. You’d grow to resent the reporters, the glare of the cameras, the fans. The freedom of being on an isolated island with him.
His panic rises each time you pull away. His desire to lash out and blow up every inch of both your worlds to have you, climbing swiftly after each spike. They’re controlling and relentless— going as far as tracking your flights. Guessing who you’re seeing. Learning your habits. Fraying the edges of your mental health. Separating you both with an undying will. Lashing out like a violent animal at every detail of your personal life. Violating every scrap of privacy. Locking you in a cage away from him, welding the locks to the bars. Shielding you from him, while dragging you down into a toxic cesspool.
It's not confined to one situation, to one problem. He can’t even feed you. There’s nothing he can control, nothing he can monitor. The thought of someone poisoning you spikes his heart rate. The thought of someone crowding you when you eat. The thought of someone daring to look at you, to sit with you. You give in for one night? Your fans froth at the mouth, plotting up theories about why you weren’t somewhere they recognise. He takes you out? You’re swarmed by people who don’t deserve to witness you. People stealing time from him, proving just how far apart you are.
Slipping from his grasp despite his control, his obsession, scrambling for possession against your skin. The barbed wires digging into your flesh, ripping cuts down your skin with every fan interaction. Cautious to spend time with him, under the guise of trying to protect him from view. Placing yourself in even more situations, aiming to confuse, but ruining him. Lashing out with cruelty, waving the red flag directly in his eye line.
He doesn’t want to be upset with you. To push you. To set you on fire, so he can rebuild you from the ashes. Yet every picture of you in a club, the short hems of your dresses clinging to you in a physical manifestation of his greed, loosens a notch on that belt of control. Every gaze upon your skin. Every man draped over your body, waiting like a predator ready to snatch something that could never be theirs. A greed that tastes wrong in his mouth. Undeserved, unlike his.
A pain he turns away from his body, weaponising what you hurt him with. Praying on the ingrained fear of being abandoned, forgotten. Cancelling dates on you. Ignoring messages. Screaming into his pillow at night at the pain of a plan. A forced situation. Praying for forgiveness, planning for the future. You spend more time out. Slowly drowning in the attention, having no other outlet. He waits for the poison to kick in. For you to land yourself in a spot that you can’t get out of. To be seen with the wrong person. To crash. To realise what the obsessives will do when you overfeed them with attention. To cry out for him to save you. To beg him to take you away from every prying eye.
Well, I haven't fallen off the bike yet. From the same night as the first, so sense might not be present again. Brakes of the bike squeak a little. The test will come when I run out of pre-written stuff.
Request Summary:
Any of the dark!Hughes when you get miserably sick. For all their prepping and control, there's no cure for a lot of illnesses.
Warnings: dark!quinn, dark!fic, mention of controlling behaviour— food times, intake, etc, not letting you even use the bathroom alone, starving himself as punishment.
It’s possible that Quinn’s gone off the deep edge— with the way he hovers over you. His eyes rimmed with crimson, red streaks building their home across the surface of his eye, creeping closer to his blown pupil with every fragile, heavy second. He's inconsolable. His mask of normality non-existent. Inches away from your face, his knees crowding you on the bed. The increasing weight of him digging in disturbing the mattress, even more than his behaviour disturbs you.
Rows of medication take purchase on every solid surface around you, as if he believes that being trapped in a cage of comfort and chemicals will protect you. Warning leaflets scattered around your body like confetti, his hands twitching by reflex, as if they've memorised the action of flicking through, taught by his hours of desperation. The words blending together before him, health warnings dragging him further down into the spiral.
He’s clueless, afraid, and royally out of options. He thought he’d built you a castle. High above any danger, isolated from everyone and everything that isn’t him. Until you ache. Until the skin between your eyebrows furrows. Until your face contorts in pain. Until your coughs turn violent and destructive. The harsh sounds clawing their way out of your throat.
He's scared that you’re dying. His brain flipping from each end of the spectrum. He’d controlled everything. Your food intake. The food supplier. Organised meal times. Nutrition scales. Vitamins. Your own products, safe from his contamination. A drastic approach to your health, engineered to keep you safe. Only to have this happen. To be so wildly out of control. To be strapped and fully bound in a car seat, senses ripped away from him, rushing to the edge of a cliff at breakneck speeds.
He’s afraid to touch you, limiting himself to hovering. Afraid that a touch of his finger against your cheek will shatter you, splitting off pieces of your skin. He’s afraid that kissing you will make you bleed. Will contaminate you with everything he can't wash off. Hands scrubbing at his body in the shower like he’s soaked in a plague that he can’t see. A vulnerability in his defence. An opening he hasn't seen. An explanation he needs. A condition he can control.
He refuses to move you. To let you move. He’s not hung up on your embarrassments. Your claims that you need the bathroom— alone, without him— rejected. He has no boundaries. The idea that you have them, that you don’t want him, widening his eyes. His tremor building. The distress climbing. It's wrong for you to be without him. He doesn’t care if you stain the sheets. He doesn’t care if the smell around you builds with every missed shower. He cares that you’re under him. Safe. Pinned down by his gaze.
Every complaint fired at him is evidence of how vulnerable you are to him. How out of your usual state of mind you are. You would never want to be away from him normally, would never complain, so there has to be something wrong. A sickness hijacking your brain, reinforcing his sense of duty. His arms shaking under the pressure of keeping him upright, when his body gives up on him. His own needs neglected for the sake of his top priority. Muscles aching from the fight to keep his balance— close enough to feel your shaking breath against his face, far enough to shield you.
He deprives himself of food. If you can’t eat it, he doesn’t deserve it. He wasn't observant enough, lost in his body’s demands. Selfish. Unforgivable. Holding his body to ransom, lowering himself over the flames of punishment. Every chime of his phone ignored— something he’d paid more attention to than you, with how blind-sided he feels.
He mumbles nonsense, an unorganised stream of words and broken syllables leaving him during his watch. You don't think he sleeps. You don’t think he moves— his placement over you suspiciously similar with every slow blink of your eyes. Sleep providing fragile reprieve from him, stolen with every wake, every progression of his decline. The fear of being alone after his fall keeping you subdued. Storing whatever energy you can muster away, as if preparing for the aftermath. When he shuts down, the repercussions of a man driven over the edge.
A blurb post from me? In the year 2026? Who knows if this makes any sense. I wrote this sleep deprived and it's the first words I wrote after months. But you have to restart somewhere. If I answer a blurb ask, I'll do it privately. Not putting anyone on the big screen.
Summary:
Can I get a pathetically obsessed Quinn? Feelings can be reciprocated or not. Just a Q who's honestly kind of pitiful in the way he's gone for you, as opposed to the usually cool, calm, and controlled version.
Warnings: dark!quinn, dark!fic behaviours. Stalking. Generally a weirdo. Thoughts of stealing you away. Taking pictures of you without your consent. Watching you through your window.
There’s a fragility to him, evident in every pore of his skin. A burning itch embedded under his skin— his nerves tortured with a sharpened blade, scraping off layers of his sanity with each directed slice. The cuts flaring with every thought of you. A hunch in his shoulders, built by the way he can't escape you. Can’t bring his brain to move from you, to shift focus enough to bring him relief. The idea of not being devoted to you bringing a rage induced heat to the blade.
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.
Hey hey, I had an idea of dark!quinn slowly locking reader (again just friends) inside the apartment.
Like one day noticeing the windows don’t open anymore, and one day the door has a new fancy lock that only opens for quinn and he’s like “oh it must be malfunctioning or something”
You get the vibe
oh, he’d be so good at that too, knowing you trust him, knowing he’s so deeply embedded in your mind that his word is law in every sense.
that’s why it doesn’t strike you as odd that the windows are shut tight and can’t be opened; you trusted him when he said a hockey player’s life is complicated, and that even glancing out a window could be dangerous. I mean, it makes sense, you’ve seen him get harassed on the street; and he’s texted you when someone is following him or when he thinks someone is outside his home.
it doesn’t surprise you either when he asks you to sleep over more often, because you believe him when he says he’s stressed, full of the panic of living alone in a place like that. You’re even less surprised when he asks you to stay with him for a while. It breaks your heart to see how bad things have gotten, so you just agree, moving into his place the very next day, even though your friends and family advise against it.
you simply can’t leave him alone, not when you know what he goes through every day. You’d be a terrible friend if you did.
but of course, that’s because you don’t know his plan, or the twisted idea behind it all. You don’t realize how obsessed he is, or how desperately he yearns to have you all to himself.
he doesn’t want you going out or letting people see you. The mere risk of someone falling for you just by catching a glimpse of you is so unbearable that it makes him sick. He can’t stand it. So he lies, invents dangers where none exist, watches you closely, and tells stupid excuses just to make you feel sorry for him.
because maybe that’s the only way to keep you there.
and little by little, he begins to take over your life, making it almost inevitable that your attention focuses on him, that your world revolves around him. He is all you have within those four walls, where you can’t even get a signal anymore, and where the only door leading out opens solely for him.
and even though you question it at times, even though you say you miss your friends and family, you feel you can no longer tear yourself away from his side, from his life. You’ve reached the point where you suffer whenever he has away games, because you’ve grown so accustomed to being with him that you can’t bear the thought of not seeing him.
from something as small as staying the night to keep him company, every plan was created; this whole scheme to corrupt your mind, and that he knows he succeeded, that you can’t say no to him; you’ve become so addicted to his presence that no one would question what’s going on. Not his family, not his colleagues.
Thinking about the dark Hugheses catching their sweet stalker—the one been leaving them roses and cute yet alarming letters at their doorstep—on their bed, wearing nothing but their hoodie, grasping their worn shirt, breathing in their scent, moaning and whimpering as she fucked her wet pussy with her fingers.
(Separate and All Three (reader will be on their couch for this)) [noncon/dubcob tones, undiscussed cnc and free use 🤪]
(Separate)
Dark Quinn would lean against the door, his arms crossing, his lips twitching into a smirk at the sight of you so lost in your pleasure. He found it amusing that his cautious stalker didn't seem aware of his arrival, still continuing your desperate onslaught on your sopping wet pussy. His mouth watered at the sight of your arousal leaking aroung your fingers, dripping down your other hole, down to his silk bedsheets. His ears honed to your cries, to your little sobs of his name, to your mewls. He would wonder what he would do. Perhaps he should force that shirt you were smelling over your face, hold it there and fingerfuck you himself, and discover the spots that would make you scream and beg. Perhaps he should bring you close to your peak and take it away again and again. Perhaps he should just flip you over your stomach and spank you for being a naughty tease until your ass turned red and bruised. Perhaps he should just...snap a shackle around your ankle and keep you here like a pet who he could fuck and breed while you gave him all of your attention. Choices. Choices. He could do all of them and in any order so he would start with the shackle, successfully gaining your attention and your horror mixing with your realization as he unbuckled his belt. He would fuck you then. Rough and deep, exactly as how you were fingering your poor pussy.
Dark Jack would simply chuckle, enjoying the thrill of amusement and obsession wrapping and forming in his chest, his eyes turning crazed when you let out a tiny yelp, forcing your legs close, your cheeks shining a bright crimson, your body shaking with the need to bolt. He would mock how pathetic you were for staying, for masturbating on his bed like a slut, for leaving your gifts that he had thrown every single fucking time. He kept them all but he wanted to see you cry, to hear you say your sorry, to bargain your way out of a police report. All while he came closer and closer. All while he was snapping picture after picture All while he was planning exactly what he wanted to do. Then he would strike, grasping your legs, pulling you to the edge of the bed, spreading you wide. He would make you touch yourself again, spitting on your pussy to make you filthier. He would degrade you, tell you how much you had fucked up, and then when you came, he would praise you before urging you to touch yourself again, making you promise that you'd show up tomorrow and the day after the next so he could watch you get off, giving you a bait that he might fuck your pussy instead.
Dark Luke would watch you for a moment, drinking in your sheer desperation for him, not believing that he managed to catch you red handed in his room, then he would be silently prowling towards you, licking his lips at the sight of your fingers disappearing into your quivering pussy. He would take in your rhythm, your movements, and sounds while he reached the bed, his knees hitting the floor, his hands gripping your hips and dragging you to him, ignoring your surprise and your fight, forcing your hand off your pussy so he could feast. Luke was just a man. He had a willing pussy on his bed. Not just any pussy, the pussy that had been stalking him and now had been making a mess on his fresh sheets. It meant it was his to eat, his to fuck with anything he wanted to use. His tongue. His fingers. His cock. He got time and he didn't care if you try to pull away because he could feel your want. He could hear his name escaping your lips like a plea. He could see you cave into the pleasure he would make you addicted to until you could no longer breathe without him.
(All three)
Seeing you masturbate on their couch was an open invitation to be fucked, because what else woud it be? They would move in perfect symphony like different instruments playing the same piece for an orchestra. Luke would grab your hands, forcing them over your head, his touch bruising. Jack would grab one of your thighs and your throat, squeezing when you try to speak, muttering 'shut up' like a threat. Quinn would push the jacket—you chose his—up to reveal your tits, using the same hand to flatten your thigh on the couch, while he tugged his pants down.
"Such a needy pussy," he mocked as he slapped his length on your clit, before sinking inside you with a deep thrust. "So ready to be fucked, aren't you, little stalker?"
When you moaned while your eyes showed your alarm, Jack would coo, "Of course, we know the flowers were from you. We love them so much."
"Did you like the flowers we send to you too?" Luke would blurt out, his thumbs carressing your pulse in a steady rhythm while Quinn fucked into you so roughly that you were coming in no time. "We never got scared of your gifts but you get scared from ours. It is a bit...funny."
"So funny," Jack would chime.
The two would talk over you, both praising your gifts while mocking your attempts to grab their attentions. They overwhelmed you with it along with the cock rutting against your spot that had your back arching, your toes curling, your scream fighting through the firm hold around your throat. They wouldn't let you speak beyond your moans and screams. They wouldn't let you come rest from your high. Why should they? They wanted to show that they owned your body as they owned you mentally.
When Quinn finally came, his cum sitting inside your pussy, he would switch with Jack who would fuck you through your oversensitivity. Then Quinn and Luke would be the one mocking you next. The same went by when it was Luke's turn to fuck your sore pussy.
Turn after turn.
There was no rest for you even when you passed out from the exhaustion or from when your orgasm toppled over the last or from your obsession being reflected with theirs.
Request detail: pls make quinn hughes bleed, pleeeeease (also if i get one more thing: can the reader character in this one be a bit less meek and cutesy? but if not that's cool) (by @everlovingdolly )
Hello, yes, lovely. I shall give 😇 (NO PROOFREAD 🥲😫)
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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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dark (idc who) Hughes Brother x female reader, like give me stalker give me obsession give me morally gray yk?!
Watching You
pairing: dark!Quinn Hughes x female reader
description: Quinn has been watching you for months so when he finally decides to make his move, he breaks into your apartment to claim what he believes is already his - you.
The rain outside wasn't the kind that washed things clean, it was the kind that muddied everything, made the streets slick and gray. It matched the state of Quinn's mind perfectly.
He sat in the driver's seat of his Audi, the engine idling softly, the rain tapping a rhythmic tattoo against the tinted glass.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
He checked his watch. 2:14 AM. The stars had been obliterated by the storm, but Quinn didn't need the stars to see what he was looking for. He was looking at you.
Three stories up. Your bedroom window.
He adjusted the rearview mirror just an inch. A sliver of the room was visible. You were lying on your side, tangled in white sheets, your hair a dark halo against the pillow. He watched the slow rise and fall of your chest, mesmerized. He felt that familiar ache in his groin, the phantom sensation of being buried inside you.
God, look at you, his mind whispered, dark and twisted. So soft. So unspoiled. You have no idea how badly I need to ruin you.
He remembered the first time he saw you. It had been at a grocery store near his brother's place. You had been bent over, reaching for a jar of pickles, your skirt riding up just enough to show the curve of your thigh. He had wanted to walk over, grab you by the waist, and tell you that you belonged to him. Instead, he had watched you turn, and when your eyes met his, he had felt a jolt so sharp it had nearly made him drop his cart.
You smiled. Just a small, innocent thing. "Oh, sorry, you can have that."
That smile had been your first mistake. It had planted a seed in his chest that had been growing ever since. He started tracking you. Not in a scary, bad way, but in a way that was intensely intimate. He knew your commute. He knew which coffee shop you went to at 8:00 AM for your coffee. He knew you walked your dog at 6:30 PM through Stanley Park, even when it rained.
He knew you liked your coffee black. He knew you hummed while you cooked. He knew you were naive, a little bit clumsy and utterly helpless when it came to handling a man like him.
The lights in your bedroom clicked on and Quinn's breath hitched.
He watched as you sat up, rubbing your eyes, looking around the room like a confused deer. He loved the way your pupils dilated when you were tired and the way your lips pursed when you were thinking. He wanted to kiss those lips until they were swollen.
He glanced at his phone. 2:16 AM.
He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. Patience, Quinn.
He looked at his side mirror again, his eyes narrowing as he focused on your window. The storm was getting worse now, thunder rumbling in the distance. He wondered if you woke up because you were cold. He hated that that was even an opportunity. If you were his, you would never feel cold.
He reached into the passenger seat, pulling out the small gift he had bought earlier that day. A crystal pendant he'd seen in a boutique window. It was simple, elegant. Perfect for you. He wanted to see it against your skin. He alson wanted to know what it looked like when you were moaning his name.
You're so beautiful, the thought returned, possessive and demanding. I should have taken you that day at the grocery store. I should have dragged you to my car and made you mine right there in the parking lot.
He watched as you stood up and walked toward the window. Your hand rested on the glass as you looked out at the rain. He wondered what you were thinking about. Were you thinking about love? About how romantic the rain looks? About a normal guy who would take you on dates and hold your hand?
He reached out and pressed his hand against the window, mimicking your position. He watched you, his eyes boring into yours. You looked up, startled by the face reflected in the glass. And for a second, your eyes locked with his.
A smile touched your lips, a sleepy, confused smile.
Quinn felt a rush of blood to his groin. She knows. She feels it.
He pressed his forehead against the cool glass, his eyes never leaving yours. I'm coming for you, little dove.
The sound of the window sliding up made you jump, your heart hammering against your ribs. You turned around, expecting the draft from the open window to be the cause, but the latch was down.
The room was suddenly too small.
You walked to your bedroom door and opened it, stepping into the hallway. The lights were off in the rest of the apartment, but a soft glow emanated from the living room. You heard the sound of rain against the glass again, louder this time, and realized the patio door was open.
You crept into the living room, rubbing your eyes. Quinn was sitting on the edge of the sofa, his head in his hands, staring out at the rain.
"Quinn?" you called out softly.
He jumped, turning his head to look at you. His eyes were wide, dark, and filled with something that made your stomach drop. He didn't smile. He just stood up, his movements fluid and predatory.
"Did I wake you?" he asked, his voice rough and deep.
You shook your head, stepping closer. "I heard the rain. Is the patio door open?"
"It is," he said, taking a step toward you. He stopped when he was inches away, the scent of rain and pine filling your nose. You could feel the heat radiating off his body. "I thought you might be cold."
"I am a little," you admitted, wrapping your arms around yourself.
Quinn's eyes dropped to your chest, where your arms were hugging yourself. He let out a low, frustrated sound. "You shouldn't be cold. You should be warm."
He reached out, his hand cupping your cheek. His touch was firm, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip. You felt your knees weaken, the way he looked at you making you feel small.
"I came to see you," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "I've been watching you for a long time."
Your heart skipped a beat. "You have?"
"Every night," he said, leaning in. His breath hitched, his eyes darkening. "I watch you sleep. I watch you wake up. I watch you eat, I watch you work. I know everything about you."
You felt a flush rise to your cheeks. "You do?"
He moved closer, his hand sliding down to grip your hip. "You're so soft," he whispered, his fingers digging into your flesh. "So pretty."
"Quinn," you breathed, your hands coming up to rest on his chest. You could feel the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palm. "You're scaring me a little."
"Don't be scared, little dove. I would never hurt you," he growled, his lips brushing against your ear. "I want to own you. I want to see what you sound like when you come. I want to be the first thing you see every morning, and the last person you think of every night."
He pulled back, his eyes locking onto yours. "I just want you."
You felt a shiver run down your spine, but you didn't pull away. Instead, you nodded. "I think I want you too."
He groaned, a sound of pure need. He kissed you, a searing, aggressive kiss that took your breath away. His tongue demanded entry, his hands roaming over your body with a familiarity that terrified and excited you. He gripped the back of your neck, holding you in place as he plundered your mouth.
You could feel the hard length of him pressing against your thigh, a reminder of what he wanted. You reached up, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.
He broke the kiss, panting, his eyes dark with lust. He pushed you back toward the patio door, the cold glass against your back. He pressed his body against yours, his hands moving under your shirt. His fingers were cool against your heated skin, tracing the curve of your waist, dipping lower.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered, his lips trailing down your neck, sucking gently on the sensitive skin. He bit down, just enough to hurt, just enough to mark you.
He pulled your shirt up over your head, discarding it on the floor. He stared at you, his eyes raking over your body with undisguised hunger. He unhooked your bra, his hands cupping your breasts, his thumbs rubbing over your hardened nipples with agonizing slowness. You gasped, a sound of surrender that seemed to spur him on. His eyes never left your face, drinking in every expression of pleasure, every flicker of need.
"You're so responsive," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "It turns me on to see how much you like this."
He pushed you down onto the cold glass of the patio door, the chill seeping through your back but immediately warmed by his body pressing against you. He parted your legs, stepping between them, his knee nudging its way higher. His hands were everywhere, squeezing your hips, tracing the line of your spine, his nails occasionally digging in just enough to sting.
"I've thought about this," he confessed, his lips hovering near yours. "I've thought about just bending you over and watching myself disappear inside you."
"Quinn…" You whined his name, your hands fisting in his hair as he kissed a path down your neck.
"I want to hear you," he growled, biting down gently on the sensitive skin just above your collarbone. "I want to know what you sound like when I'm the only thing that matters. I want to know what you sound like when you're coming for me."
He moved lower, his mouth replacing his hands. He teased you, his lips and tongue grazing over the fabric of your panties, sending jolts of electricity straight to your core. You bucked your hips, trying to get more friction, but he held you down, his strong arms caging you in.
"Please, Quinn," you begged, your voice trembling.
"Patience," he whispered against your clothed sex. "I'm just getting started."
He pulled back, his eyes dark and intense. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties, his movements efficient and demanding. He didn't ask for permission. He simply stripped you of the last barrier between you.
His mouth moved instantly to your center. You cried out, your back arching off the glass as he devoured you. His tongue was skilled, relentless, finding every sensitive spot and driving you wild. He licked and sucked, his fingers joining in to stretch you open, curling precisely to hit that spot inside you that made your vision blur.
You were a mess of sensation, your head falling back against the glass. The world narrowed down to the feel of his mouth on you, the rough scratch of his stubble against your thighs, the sound of his groans of satisfaction as he ate you.
"You taste so good," he mumbled, pulling back just enough to look up at you. "So sweet. So perfect."
He stood up, stripping off his t-shirt and tossing it aside. He looked incredible, his muscles rippling in the dim light, his chest heaving. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a foil packet, tearing it open with his teeth.
"Get on your knees," he commanded, his voice rough with need.
You did as you were told, kneeling on the cool floor. He kicked his jeans down, his erection springing free, heavy and thick. He tapped his thumb against the side of the condom wrapper, waiting for you to comply. When you reached out, he guided your hand, wrapping it around him. You were surprised by the heat, the heavy weight of him in your palm.
"Good girl," he praised, his hand covering yours, helping you stroke him. "Show me how much you want it."
He groaned, his head falling back as you worked him. You looked up at him, his expression one of pure ecstasy mixed with obsession. He looked down at you, his eyes locking onto yours.
"Open your mouth," he ordered.
You obeyed, leaning forward to take him into your mouth. He was big, filling you up completely. You gagged slightly as he hit the back of your throat, but you didn't stop. You wanted to please him. You wanted to show him you could handle him.
He watched you, his eyes dark and hungry. He ran his fingers through your hair, holding you in place as he thrust into your mouth. He fucked your face with deep, hard strokes, his balls slapping against your chin.
"Gonna come," he gritted out, his body tensing.
He pulled out, his hand moving quickly as he finished himself off, spilling his seed over your hand and chest. He groaned, his shoulders dropping as he caught his breath.
"You did so good for me, my perfect girl," he whispered, looking at you with a reverence that made your heart swell.
He leaned down, kissing you, tasting himself on your lips. "I'm not done with you," he said, his voice dropping to a seductive purr. "I want to be inside you."
He helped you stand up, guiding you back toward the sofa. He sat down, pulling you onto his lap. He entered you easily, the stretch burning slightly as he filled you. He held you there for a moment, letting you adjust to his size.
Then, he began to move. His thrusts were hard and deep, hitting every spot that mattered. You cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders. You felt the wave building, higher and higher, until it crashed over you. You came again, your body clamping down on him, milking him dry.
He continued to thrust until he too reached his peak, his body going rigid. He spilled his seed, filling you, his grunts lost in the room.
He collapsed onto the sofa, pulling you close. You could feel his heart hammering against your ribs. He kissed your neck, his lips soft now. "I told you," he whispered against your skin. "I told you I was coming for you."
You ran your fingers through his hair, watching the rain continue to fall outside. "You did," you whispered back.
"I'm never letting you go," he murmured. "You're mine now."
Imagine just sleeping soundly then waking up to your pussy being pounded by the dark Hugheses— (super dark. somno. free use. cnc. oral. dvp hints.) (dropping this then logging back out. 🫡)
You would just woke up to the harsh roll of your pleasure peaking into an incredible high that your body tensed and bowed as your pussy clamped around a cock that pounded right at that spot that had you screaming a helpless plea. You could barely see their eyes looking down at you because your brain was still trapped in your dreams while you could feel the ache, the soreness, the pain of the unrelentless fucking that led you over another cliff when you haven't came down from your earlier high.
"Fuck," you cried out, trying to get away, failing as a bruising grip held your hips, as a rough hand wrapped around your throat, as a cock slapped your lips before invading your throat. "Hngg—"
You would be choking around the cock, tasting the salty pre-cum dribbling on your tonge then your throat, feeling yourself get used like you were nothing but a toy. You might as well be.
When you tried to push, hands would grip your already bruised wrists. When your mind tried to keep up, your clit was assaulted with a wand vibrating until you were seeing white from the intense pleasure doubling, tripling, quadrupling—
"Stop. Please," you pleaded when the thick and twitching cock slipped out of your lips, a trail of saliva connecting your swollen lips to its leaking tip. You stared up and saw an amused gaze looking down at you before your eyes rolled at the feel of the cock brushing against the deepest parts of you. "Fuck yes."
"Such a fucking whore," someone said as you came so hard that you were drenching the one who was fucking you. "Move."
The next thing you knew besides the pressure of your orgasm threatening to burn your entire existence was the cock being replaced by a greedy tongue, lapping and the juices you squirted, gulping at the cream that dripped down your ass, spitting into your pussy to make you filthier.
At one point, you'd be passing out.
You would be too lost in your pleasure that your consciousness was fading in and out. You would be too fucked as two cocks slapped at your face, taking turns into dipping into your slutty mouth, making you choke and sputter as your legs shook from another orgasm. Again. Again. And again.
At one point, you'd be woken up by another wave of an intense orgasm followed by cum painting overfucked pussy.
At one point, you were flipped to your knees two cocks stretched your cunt and another fucking into your throat.
At one point, you would be filled by so much cum that you doubt your birth control was enough.
