me being jacks girlfriend and him paying his brother to make me squirt because jack can’t 🫢🫢🫢 so quinn eats me out until i squirt- WHO SAID THAT
꒰ ♡ warnings ♡ ꒱ > Somebody give this man 50 cans of monster. He's not used to not being able to do something. Throwing himself a pity party in his head. Blindfolded so you can't tell it's not him. Eating you out. Tongue fucking. Quinn guiding Jack's hands if that squirms you out.
It's not a situation he wants to be in— an ego hit he’s not fully prepared to deal with, to process. An inability to provide for you in a way you’ve begged him to be able to— the bricks in his wall of confidence being slowly chipped away with each request he can’t fill. An attack that he doesn’t fully realise until the wall starts to crumble under its own weight, the structure damaged.
He’s tried. With everything in him, every scrap of physical and mental effort channelled into getting you there. He’s spent hours decorating your skin with his mouth. Kisses building in pressure pathed up your legs, up to your thighs. Edging you, teasing you— yet never getting there. Never having enough to give you. His jaw crumbling under the pressing exhaustion. His fingers crumpling, aching with the strain of worship.
His brow furrowed in frustration when he’s too exhausted to do anything but rest against your thigh, too sedated with fatigue. Angry at himself. Frustrated at how he works you up in the quest and then can’t even finish the job— his fingers too numb to even reach for your cunt again. His neck aching without him even moving. No strength to hold you down, no strength to at least slowly bring you back down.
Heavy, breathy sighs washing over your thigh, his teeth sinking in your skin to stifle the sounds of frustration turning to upset. Another failure of a night. A tally chart forming in his head. Your fingers running through the soft tufts of hair on his head bringing him only slight comfort— he can’t stop it feeling like pity. Like you’re okay with him being ‘weak.’ Not being able to give you this.
He doesnt know how to fix it— another hard pill to swallow. There’s always a plan. Always something he can do, something he can train. But seemingly not for this. It’s just a failure of his body. Playing with the mouth guard hasn’t helped, pacing himself hasn’t helped. Your body resets too far if he pauses, he can’t get back to consuming you fast enough.
He can't stay stuck in this cycle with you for much longer. It’s been weeks and nothing’s improved, he hasn’t gotten any closer. He can't escape the brief wash of disappointment that flashes on your face before you can smother it. You don’t mean it in the way his head manipulates it— but it’s still there. The heavy pause before you reach for his hair, to press the pads of your fingers into his aching muscles.
He doesn’t know who to ask— he knows it's his only solution, but opening up about a stinging weakness is uncomfortable, yet something he’s willing to put himself through you. Working through the list with every name muttered against you, your touch an emotional crutch.
He could ask Nico. He trusts him, looks up to him. He’s always admired you, looked after you when he hasn’t been able to. Yet it’d be a self confession of inadequacy— he’d know he’s not good enough for you. He can’t have his captain thinking that of him. He’d just be adding to the pile of thoughts that keep him awake at night.
He could ask anyone else on the team, but that solid trust isn’t there. He doesn’t think he could stomach them having you like he has you. He doesn’t think he could hold back the anger and possession at seeing them between your thighs— not even as a consequence of you having what you want.
That leaves his brothers. The only option that doesn't make him feel like there’s a crushing weight against his chest. The only option that doesn’t manifest the taste of bile in his mouth. The only option he can stomach.
Luke is out— he knows he'd be enthusiastic about it when it gives him a chance to prove himself, gives him a chance to show him up. But he’s inexperienced, he doesn’t even think he’s ever slept with someone. He’s not even inviting the chance that Luke’ll beat him with nothing behind him.
Quinn. Quinn’s safe. He can give him the puppy dog eyes to butter him up. Far enough away from you both to not be a realistic threat to your relationship. Far enough that he wouldn’t have to see you together outside of the break. Brotherly bonding, head between your thighs.
He doesn’t want you to know, he wants you to only think of him. He needs to be the one who’s given you this— it’s not a lie, really. Just a bending of the truth. There’s no harm in you thinking it’s him. It’ll satisfy the craving for you, it’ll prove himself to you. Happy ever after.
He knows he’s doing the right thing for you when you trust him to take your sight from you— a blindfold to cover his deceit. A soft kiss pressed against your forehead before he sinks into the plan. A hand snaked down your thigh, joining his brother’s at your knee. You don’t question the touch, the two blending together, aided by the dulling of your senses.
Everything’s arranged— Jack’s hot breath on your clit followed by Quinn’s in a blink. He needs the touches, the warmth, blurred. There can’t be a difference, not when he’s on his own after this. He can’t add to the list of your cravings.
Quinn guides him, teaching him. Taking control of his hands to show him exactly the pressure he needs to control you, but not enough to exhaust his muscles. How you tense when his nails apply just the right amount of pain. How your thighs shake if the kisses are spaced out. How you buck towards his mouth if the pace is just right— taking even more pressure off his jaw. It’s a perfect demonstration, one that has you wailing in minutes.
He’s never thought about fucking you with his tongue until he sees Quinn smushed against your cunt on a mission. Until he sees how you whine with his nose abusing your clit. You’re getting off on his face, barely any effort needed. Pushing yourself up the rollercoaster.
A wave of relief washes over him when your hips fuck against Quinn’s face. You’re getting there. He’s providing for you, finally, in some twisted way. Falling more in love with you with every moan— he’s never seen you like this, from this angle. So focused on trying to help you, dragged away from your perfection. Even his name on your lips is a work of art. How they part on each syllable, broken with your pleasure. How pretty you look when you thrash, fighting against the pressure you've been begging for.
He wishes he could record you, lost in the pleasure— it’s too risky. You find the video and he’s found out. You won't look at him the same for lying and you’ll avoid Quinn, which means you’ll avoid spending the break with him.
He’s an inch from fucking up when it happens. Biting back the moan threatening to escape when you break, when you soak Quinn. It'd give everything away— you’re always hyper focused on his noises. You’d put one and one together. How he can’t be between your legs drinking you up and at your side, moaning, at the same time.
There’s a streak of jealously that burns hot through him at his brother being covered in you. Predictable, but irritating. It should be him, drowning in you. Not his brother. He can’t show it. He’s thankful, but he’s not stupid. He needs Quinn to brush past this, to not get any ideas. He knows how addictive you are under his tongue.
A monster that drags him into you the second Quinn comes up for air, his fingers pushing inside you as a way to reclaim you, to reassure himself. Ignoring the hit against his back, the quiet huff towards him in low level annoyance. He’ll thank him later. When he’s settled. When you’re asleep. When he’s chased away the feeling of Quinn’s tongue.
Thinking about how I would 1000% let Quinn baby trap me…😅
꒰ ♡ notes ♡ ꒱ > I'd pay good money to see him be so damn confused and blindsided lmao.
꒰ ♡ warnings ♡ ꒱ > dark fic content. dark!quinn. A tiny bit. You sabotage your own birth control. Condoms are clearly designed to have holes. Cycle tracking. You make him more smothering and give him a crown for it.
He would think he’s a genius— one with a foolproof master plan. Every detail planned out. Weeks spent detailing every scenario and consequence in his notes app. Your cycle tracked with an app. Your birth control swapped.
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.
sometimes i see clips of quinn rubbing his face and im just like ‘fuckkk his hands are massive’
around my throat, in my mouth, in me, anywhere please 🙏
꒰ ♡ warnings ♡ ꒱ > I haven't written anything in a while so it's a lil' scuffed but that's normal for me at this point. His hands are a crime. Fingers everywhere they can be.
He’d show his hands off at every opportunity— he’s slow when he dresses, his fingers playing with each button. He knows how you get off to him fingering them, manipulating them with his digits, letting the button slip through his touch just to extend the torture.
Every movement is a show with him. He doesn’t care if he’s late, if he’s slow. It’s all worth it to see your thighs clench together, your squirming in front of him. The way you whimper and cry, your teeth tearing into your lips, the soft whimpers of his name that leave your pretty mouth with every vein bulge.
He cooks more for you, insistent on you sitting down and watching the show from up close, parking your ass on the counter. Doesn’t want you to miss a single clench of his hands, his grip on the knife tighter than needed. His hands spreading your thighs to reach for something between them. Pretending he can’t find the things he needs, just to edge you.
His hands would fit perfectly around your throat, a fraction away from being panic inducing. His thumbs pushing up against your jaw, squeezing the sides of your throat just enough to drag his name out of your throat, a strangled plea for more.
He’d play with your mouth, invading your space with the pads of his fingers. Running them along your tongue, only pushing further if you repay him for his attention with a gag. Pushing at the insides of your cheeks, hooking his fingers to stretch your mouth open.
He’d map out a path down your body, a slow crawl of pleasure, of frustration. He’d creep across every inch, wrapping his hands around your limbs to truly drive the point home. His hand wrapping around your wrist, wrapping around the back of your knee, your shoulders, skimming the tips of your breasts. Trailing down your inner thighs, pressing against the delicate skin around your cunt. Sliding past your clit, his fingers teasing your hood. His hands around your ankles, a gentle yet insistent tug following.
His fingers inside would bring you close to blissful death, exploring like a man possessed. Stretching your hole open for his hungry gaze. Sliding in inch by inch, letting you feel every part of him. Dragging out slowly, pushing harshly in. His free hand pushing your body down to keep you trapped. He’d make you beg and pray for every thrust, for him to go deeper. Slowing down when you don’t give him what he wants.
haiii i’ve been thinking about quinn being completely obsessed with your soft, bare body next to him, covered in his marks, all sleepy the morning after a rough session. and for once, he just holds you. traces every part of your body, feels your plush hips and thighs under his hands, and draws you in as close as possible.
just. quinn snuggling his pretty mess of a girl 🥰
꒰ ♡ notes ♡ ꒱ > little bittle blurb. I put my fluffy hat on but said hat has rips and holes and is falling apart at the seams.
꒰ ♡ warnings ♡ ꒱ > tiny bit cum play? but also not really.
He’s a constricting vice of limbs, moulded to you. Every inch of his skin pressed against your bare body. Generating enough heat to make you burn if you were conscious. The contrast of the harsh purple marks and soft skin holding him in a trance state.
His head lowering to your upper arm, inhaling the scent of your skin. Reassuring himself that you’re not a figment of his imagination. His nose tracing a path up to your shoulder, burying himself in the space between your shoulder and neck.
A stretch of his arm to reach your leg, fingers kneading the muscles of your calves, your thighs. Thumbs indenting deep marks into your skin— calculating every inch of pressure to keep you asleep. A need to sooth the ache you’ll wake up with, a pain he wants to erase from the reminder.
Every impact against your skin, every nail scratch, every muscle shake from him driving into you, maps out a path— he’s aggressive with you, aggressive with the need to prove himself worthy to your body. A prize for his decisions in life. A devotion to your every need, every whim. Every grasp of your flesh a show of strength. A promise to you.
All contact feels like a drug slowly being absorbed through his skin, fanning the embers of the addiction. His lips hovering a hair strand away from your skin, the taste of you still permeating his mouth even with the distance. Too little control over his mouth and he’ll end up buried between your thighs, showering you with devotion in a more direct manner. His arms wrapping around you, exploring as if it’s his first time with you in his arms.
His legs entwined with yours— crowded around you in a different way each time he rouses from half sleep. His vision blurry, eyes trying to blink you further into his existence. Too nervous to rub them, not wanting to wake you up, not wanting to part with your body for a second.
His fingers avoiding your clit when he attempts to ‘clean’ you up— an excuse to play with your mess, his mess. Spreading across your thighs, fingers scissoring, spreading across your skin. Basking in the satisfaction. Resting his palm on the soft skin above, peace flowing through him by the connection to you.
The feel of you still scorching his fingers— how you give him control of your body, bending and breaking under his touch. The phantom heat of your cunt branding him, even hours after. The way you clenched around him, as if you were feeding your sin, gouging on the pleasure. The way he fits so perfectly inside you in every form. How you wrap your hand around him, guiding him in. Craving him, adoring him.
꒰ ♡ ask summary ♡ ꒱ > Quinn walking in on you touching yourself, wearing his jersey.
꒰ ♡ warnings ♡ ꒱ > Masturbation. Descriptions of him fucking you in said jersey. Jacking himself off. One paragraph long penetration.
Word count: 1268
The thick, sweat lined edges of the jersey attempting to stick to your thighs with every pass, offers no protection. The jolt of your hips, the slow grind against the air with every circle of your fingers against your clit, only exposing yourself.
Sleeves soaked from how they hang below the pads of your fingers, drenched in salty sin. The rough contact a building pleasurable high— the contrast unpredictable enough to be a shotgun blast of pleasure from even the lightest touch. The scrape of the threads against you. The urge to grind against your hand, as if it’s his face. As if it’s his hand between your warm, damp, thighs.
The rough feeling against your breasts— blinding, maddening, not enough. A brush that doesn’t replicate the intoxicating harshness of his touch. Doesn’t imprint your skin. You can’t perfectly replicate the way he showers your body with equal attention— your pace varying enough to be a hindrance rather than a slow drag into pleasure.
You miss the way he fucks you in it, the way he tears you apart at the seams. The way he lifts the jersey up your body just enough to frame him fucking into you. The way his eyes cloud over with a void. The building aggression with every slam, taking what you’ve marked as his, by adorning yourself in his personal name and number.
The more you miss him, the harder it is to submerge yourself in this torment. Every smothered noise, every body spasm, driving your eyes open in a cautious panic. The underwater sensation in your ears blinding your usual awareness. Eyes trained on the door to a distracting degree, the paranoia locking your orgasm in a sealed cage.
Your fingers can't replicate the heavy, burning, stretch of his cock inside you. Every curl failing to mimic how he forces his way through, pushing against every sensitive nerve. You can’t replicate the heavy thud of pleasure when he bottoms out inside you, the mind numbing peace of being filled by him, clenching around him to always invite more aggression.
His name is shaky on your lips. Pleas that break free from your head. Rambled nonsense joining with the jerky movements of your body. Throwing yourself against the air as if he’s there, holding you, restraining you, taking charge. The scent in the air dragging you further away from the incoming danger, the incoming audience.
The puddle under you is staining, every thrust into your cunt pushing more of your arousal out, setting the pure desperation of the scene up for the eyes that’ll be devoted to your body. A witness to the frustrated cries of an unreachable orgasm.
You don’t hear the creak of the door— the thud against the painted wall from the wood. The way he loses track of himself, the way his brain dies. The way his hockey gear crashes against the floor. The way his hand grips the door frame to keep himself from colliding with the floor— his body wanting to worship, to break down in awe.
The way he can’t focus— his eyes flicking around your skin at a headache inducing rate. Focused on the way your mouth parts go beg for him, the strings of saliva joining your lips, the way your voice struggles to form each syllable without cracking. The way you whine as if your sanity is as shattered as his feels.
The way he feels himself throb in his sweatpants at the way your body bends under your touch. The way your hips careen against the air, begging to be filled and ruined. The evidence of how wet you are painted against the muscles of your thighs— the ones that shake under his watch. The dance of pleasure raising hell. How you violently clash against the burning need to be pushed with a twinge of pain.
How your hips rise, only to slam back down on your own saturated fingers. Each cycle harder, craving the pain of him slamming against your cervix with deplorable intentions. Moulding your body around his cock.
The scent of his cologne in the air snaps something into place within your brain. A pause in the blur, in the constant, crashing waves of distraction. Combining just right with the flowing stream of paranoia. One push that finally snaps you out of your clouded awareness, your eyes shooting open. Your pleasure pausing in a way that almost pushes you over the edge— tears of frustration burning at your lash line.
There’s no excuses for the deplorable state of your body and mind. No excuse for the way your fingers drip, the strands stringing between the sides of each digit when you reach out for him. Real enough to not be a mirage conjured by your brain. Your heart racing in a panic. The heavy slams against your chest an awful replacement for the slams against the deepest parts of your cunt.
It's hard to merge the two emotional and physical highs— especially when he’s on his knees at the edge of the bed. His head pushing closer to the scene on your bed. His breathing harsh and uneven— his throat working overtime to process the saliva pooling in his mouth at the way your body’s served up for him. A starving man at the buffet— so distracted, leaving no room for the irritation that he’s supposed to feel towards you. You have rules, but the sin is persuasive, especially after road trips.
Hypnotised by the clenching of your cunt against the air, unhappy from being empty after your shock. The way your body begs for pleasure in front of him. The way his hand slides under the waistband of his clothing to grab at his cock, his eyes rising enough to meet yours in silence. The slightest quirk of his eyebrow, as if laying down a challenge. An exception to the rule. If you’ve dug yourself a hole, you might as well make it worth it.
Circling your fingers around your clenching opening— half an apology to your body, half a tighter grabbing of the shovel handle. His tongue sliding over the surface of his lips as the audible squelch— your arousal cooling down after the shock pause, only amplifying the sound.
The way you whine breaks him permanently. The close up shot of your fingers pushing through— the way your cunt opens up for the stretch. How eager your body is. Syncing up the twist around his head with the push of your fingers. The veins of his cock bulging and moving just as he imagines your body welcoming yours.
The way he waits for you to be cocooned in your sin again. The way he holds himself back even when you call for him. When you beg him to fuck you. When you insult your own ability to make yourself cum, comparing your will to his. When you beg for the heat of his cock to replace the lousy amount of heat built up from your cunt and friction. When you beg him to care of you with every crash against your cervix. How your hips grind against the air, begging to him to fill the gap with his body.
The way he waits for you to be right on the edge, before he’s crawling on top of you. The way you whimper pathetically at him, too exhausted and broken to do anything but accept him manhandling you, pushing your thighs against your chest. Unable to do anything but cry when he pushes his body weight against you, violently slamming all the way home without warning.
quinn or jack who tries inconspicuously to rub his dick at every opportunity against y/n cause he can't cum when jerking off or having sex, only by rubbing against y/n. he tries to keep it a secret from her, but at some point she notices that he is constantly pressing himself against her cause he isnt so inconspicuously as he thinks, so she offers him to fuck her
Im soo sorry but i love humiliating pity sex :(
꒰ ♡ notes ♡ ꒱ > The mental switchup when I'm writing this version of Jack and then a dom version is hilarious to me. I think Jack would be more pathetic about it, Quinn would be more engineered.
꒰ ♡ warnings ♡ ꒱ > he's a ball of insecurity and a pity generating factory. Jerking off. Porn with people who look similar to you. He's sleeping with everyone he can and no dice— dick no work without you. Going through 7 washloads a week because he keeps cumming when he's close to you. You're on a quest to give him a heart attack. There was probably a gentler way of doing him in, but bending over the kitchen counter bare is fine. He cries, you mock him, he can't last.
Jack thinks there's something wrong with him, something broken. He abstains from jerking off for weeks— there has to be a reason why he can’t get off without you. There has to be a reason why you’ve buried yourself so far deep into his brain. He's been able to get himself off before. Countless nights with his hand wrapped around himself. So something must be broken. There has to be something to save him from this hell. One that's almost dragging him to his knees before you, sobbing for help.
He’s driven to pain, trying to hold off from needing you. His grip tightened around his cock with every failed attempt. He goes for longer, thinking he can push through. He consumes any type of porn he can of anyone who even remotely looks like you. He records your voice, playing it back while he jerks off. Anything to try to mimic you. A good enough replicant.
His rotating door of bodies not helping him either— only fuelling his agony. Dragging his reputation through the fire. He can’t stop the cries of frustration when he’s buried deep inside someone, wrapped in warmth and still can’t cum. So scared that it’ll get back to you— they say something and he’s fucked. You’ll think he’s pathetic. You won’t touch him, ever.
It’s embarrassing. He hates it. Sometimes he hates you. It’s your fault. Then it’s his. He’s constantly hard around you. He can't even breathe in the faintest smell of your perfume before getting hard. He’s so fucked that even eating your cooking makes him hard.
He’s tried to get off in your bed, his head smothered by your pillow. He’s tried jerking off next to you when you’re asleep, biting his lip to the point of staining his chin with red to muffle his cries. It never works. None of it.
He’s not even fully aware of how he’s startled rubbing against you— his body taking charge, pushed to the point of shattering. Brushing past you to reach a high shelf in the kitchen— pausing for just long enough to press himself against you.
You bend over to check the oven? He just wants a better look, squeezing past your ass. You’re watching something together? He’s reaching over you for the remote, twisting his body enough to make contact with his dick. He’s so worked up that the slightest contact makes him cum. It makes him want to scream, to break down, to throw things around him in a tantrum. So easily brought to his knees with you. Having to work so hard to get any type of release. The key keeper to his sanity.
He thinks he’s keeping it quiet, but you hear the little whimpers. You see the way he freezes, covering himself with a blanket on the couch. You hear the hiccup in his throat. You’re not touch numb— you feel him hard against you. He’s never been the type for casual touching, seemingly wanting to be 10ft away from you at all times. Yet he's been getting in your space, squeezing past you when there’s room, hanging out with you alone, an inch away from your body.
Maybe it’s cruel— how you attack him. But he’s too skittish. His cheeks coloured red with every scrap of attention you shower him with. His nails scraping at the skin of his neck and cheek in embarrassment. His voice cracking and stuttering with every increasing inch of exposed skin— your shorts get higher each time he freaks out. It’s not blatant— but it’s enough to fill you with affection and pity for him. The cogs rotating in his brain a fun game. Yet not enough to make him snap. You know he’s desperate enough— you can almost smell it.
You escalate. Walking in on him when he’s jerking off— your eyes trained on his cock, a pause, then you leave. You wear his clothes. You wear his underwear. He thinks he’s finally lost it. He thinks he’s broken his brain so badly that he’s hallucinating, convinced there’s no way you would ever do anything like this. That’d you’d be too disgusted with him.
Until he’s faced with it. Faced with you. Your ass over the counter. You’re staring at him. Why are you staring at him? Do you know you’re doing this— of course you do, but why? His feet feel like heavy blocks of cement. Words failing him, violent coughs escaping him as if the words are making him choke. An invitation? A practical joke?
An invitation. Based on how you don’t flinch when his feet finally build up the courage to shuffle towards you, one cautious step at a time. It’s embarrassing how you hold eye contact with him. How you’re so determined to catch his eye. His name like honey on your tongue, an eyebrow raise as if this is normal, as if this isn’t some wet dream brought to life.
A shaky hand reached out towards your ass, met with a push back into his hand. The invitation truly signed and dated. He’s swift— the minute he’s sure. Too scared for you to take it back. If he gives you time to think about it, about him, you might run. You’ll second guess yourself. You’ll realise you can’t fuck him. That you want to fuck his brother, fuck anyone who isn’t him. He can’t. It’s torture.
This might be the killing blow. The sight of your cunt soaked for him, presented like the fleshlight he tries to fuck for release every night. All for him? He doesn’t understand. He’s put you on such a pedestal, he can’t fathom you being aroused around him. A panic alarm blaring in his head. Quick. He has to be quick; you’ll mock him if he’s quick. His brain doesn’t work. Hypnotised by you bare.
He doesn't process his hand dragging his cock free. He doesn’t process himself lining up with you. He doesn't process you drawing his tip in. He doesn’t process anything until he’s sliding balls deep inside you. His brain switching as if the hypnotist clicked their fingers. Realisation flickering across his face. A swear. Bent over you, panting against your shoulder. He freaks. An attempt to pull out foiled by his body— an inch back before he’s slamming back into your welcoming cunt. Magnetised in. Choking on your name. Apologising. Swearing he can control himself. Thanking you. Crying at the relief he hasn't experienced in months.
He begs you to keep still, yet you only clench around him. Affectionate bullying. His name drenched in sin, a mocking twist of the letters from your mouth.
It’s enough to make him cum. The acknowledgement that it's him inside you. Something he can't fight back. Too overwhelmed. Too built up. Stuck in you even as you laugh at him. As you reach to stroke his thigh as a comfort. A scared animal. His muscles convulsing under your touch. The exhaustion and relief a sedative combo.
What if Dark!Hughes bros had a girl with an oral fixation, she’s always sucking lollipops but one day she runs out and one of them lets her suck them off. And when another walks in they just go “she ran out of lollipops” with a smirk
꒰ ♡ notes ♡ ꒱ > I maaaaay have twisted it a little more. But the lollipop oral fixation is there, I just made them a little more jealous. Jack's taking rather than asking. Written at 4am, so please pretend you don't see any mistakes.
꒰ ♡ warnings ♡ ꒱ > dark fic behaviour. dark!hughes. a lollipop at unlikely times. Jealously over you being more open to a sweet than you are them. Drugging you with said sweet. Jack taking it on himself to 'cure' you, replacing your fixation with his cock without your permission. Quinn's not saving you.
They swear you were born with a lollipop in your mouth— your relentless attack on them with the sweet treat an abnormality to them. An obsession. A constant mouth adornment. No matter the situation, or your mood.
It’s surprising you don’t choke— even when you’re draped across their laps, cheek against a thigh, the sugary treat worshipped with your tongue. It should be enough to make you at least uncomfortable, but you’re never phased.
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.
I've recently learned there are vibrators that you can put in your panties that have a remote your boyfriend can use... How do you think Jack or Quinn would react to being able to use that on their girlfriend? 🥵
꒰ ♡ notes ♡ ꒱ > Opening lines I've used before 1000 times that I don't notice until it's time to post.
꒰ ♡ warnings ♡ ꒱ > They're bullies. Overstimulation. Edging. Public play. Pushing it further against you.
You think you’ve signed your own name on a death sentence— driven by maddening pleasure. A buzzing, a pulsing that refuses to quit. One you can’t escape from, even when it feels like your nerves have been scorched alive— they’re both assholes.
There’s too many free limbs working against you, too many to fight off. Caged in constantly by them, restricting you physically. Pinning you in the ever closing space between them. Every attempt at freeing yourself met with resistance— their hands sliding to pin the vibrator back in place with a heavy follow up swat to your skin, a telling off. A punishment for trying to save yourself. A punishment for trying to earn your body a second to breathe.
Each wave is worse. Each one bringing hiccuping sobs, your arms reaching out to grab at their skin, to beg for mercy. Only to be met with more pressure against the rumbling.
They just had to buy an expensive one, loaded with enough modes to keep the torture unpredictable. Jack mindlessly drawing circles and erratic lines on the app as if they’re both trying to make a point— it's not about overwhelming you with orgasms, building you up predictably. It’s about keeping you paranoid, keeping you on edge, playing with you. Driving home the point of you being trapped between them.
There’s no care set aside when they’re in public— if anything, they’re more enthusiastic. Jack, who’s usually quick to finish his meal, slows down. His fingers playing with the stem of the wine glass while Quinn takes over, his arm wrapped around your thigh to keep you open, under the table. Smirks hidden behind their usual behaviour. Quinn feeding you with his free hand, making you open up for the fork. Testing to see if you’ll break, if you’ll whimper, if you’ll free your moans when you do. If you’ll scream for them and make a scene.
The torture keeps up even late at night, stealing that relief from you. They face away from you in bed, isolating you in the seemingly never ending torment. Passing the controller between each other, refusing to turn to you even when your hips thrash up from the bed, when you try and mould yourself to one of their backs— affection as a weapon, a bargaining chip.
It's worse when they pay attention to you, when they let their eyes and limbs feast on your body. When they shower you with the affection you've desired— so quickly striking you with regret. Quinn’s content to separate the two as some form of empathy, he’ll drive into you until he’s cumming inside you, then he’ll pull up your underwear with the vibrator, sealing everything in place. Breaking you with the aftershocks of constant orgasms while you’re filled.
But Jack refuses. To the level where you’re begging him not to fuck you, to let Quinn have you instead. He plays with you— sometimes agreeing, only to reach around and hold the toy against you when you’re fucking his brother and can't physically or mentally fight back.
If he refuses to step aside, he’s a pleasure composer. A man firmly sat in the drivers seat, something that’ll never get challenged by his brother. A slow rhythm joined with a rapid vibration. Turned down if you get too close— turned up if you try and squirm yourself away from his cock, away from the burning vibration.
Sinking into you as far as he can reach, holding himself there, holding it against you. His forehead pressed against yours, turning the dial up until you lock yourself up in his eye contact bubble. Grinding his hips against you when you give in.
They play with you at every game they can convince you to attend, claiming that they play better with you there. Ideally, when one of them can be sitting next to you in the stands— to take away your chance to free yourself from the toy. Fucking with you in the locker room, using the whole intermission to build you up.
