( the sick, erotic thrill of having quentin's tongue in his mouth like this, knowing he doesn't know whose hands he's allowing on him, is only a soft balm for the larger ache hollowing into his center. how can he not know, when danny's palm drops to his throat and squeezes, nooses tight beneath his jaw to angle him into slick-mouthed submission, licking a tendril of spit laced between their lips? how is it not obvious? these aren't just anyone's fucking hands, q.
but he's so sweet. but he's so hot for it. danny fucking bets — as he squeezes his throat one last sentimental time, skimming up to his skull to knot his hair between his knuckles, pull his neck taut, strangling tight — that he would've let him hit even in the fog. he should've fucked him in the castle. he should've fucked him the one time he cornered him alone in a classroom in springwood, right over a rickety desk, pounded his cunt raw and full to the rhythm of the sputtering generator just outside the window.
his friends would've come for him, most likely. they ain't coming for him now. it's just quentin and the ghost face, unmasked. )
No. ( voice like a knife's edge. he's not crying anymore, but his lashes are still full and dark, tears like grainy glitter on the ends. he stares down at quentin and presses his mouth to his mouth, softly. teeth in his throat. nose in his twitching collar. ) I need you to say it, Quentin.
( danny's a practiced magician at working one-handed. he pops quentin's fly, wrangles his trousers down his hips in the time it takes him to blink twice, cupping his hand under his ass and drawing his hips flush, to meet danny's hardening cock, weighed down in damp cotton. )
cw: violent fantasies wrt dub-con/non-con, potential dub-con going forward, nsfw
but he's so sweet. but he's so hot for it. danny fucking bets — as he squeezes his throat one last sentimental time, skimming up to his skull to knot his hair between his knuckles, pull his neck taut, strangling tight — that he would've let him hit even in the fog. he should've fucked him in the castle. he should've fucked him the one time he cornered him alone in a classroom in springwood, right over a rickety desk, pounded his cunt raw and full to the rhythm of the sputtering generator just outside the window.
his friends would've come for him, most likely. they ain't coming for him now. it's just quentin and the ghost face, unmasked. )
No. ( voice like a knife's edge. he's not crying anymore, but his lashes are still full and dark, tears like grainy glitter on the ends. he stares down at quentin and presses his mouth to his mouth, softly. teeth in his throat. nose in his twitching collar. ) I need you to say it, Quentin.
( danny's a practiced magician at working one-handed. he pops quentin's fly, wrangles his trousers down his hips in the time it takes him to blink twice, cupping his hand under his ass and drawing his hips flush, to meet danny's hardening cock, weighed down in damp cotton. )
You're never getting away from me.