['Quinn is straining against you already and trying to relax, and even though BDSM isn't your favorite thing, sometimes Quinn is unbelievably sexy handcuffed to the WASPiest bed frame you've ever seen, wearing only a see-through red thong.' faberry kinky sex & some fluff.]
lover, i smashed my glass slipper to build a stained glass window (for every wall inside my chest)
.
sometimes you need someone so beautiful, they make you feel like you've been flung against a wall.
—my history professor
…
You don't do this very often.
Mostly because you don't really understand—you'll never really understand—but you know it's important to Quinn. Even though that seems weirder sometimes. The first time she'd sat on your bed quietly, hands clasped, all blonde hair and prim posture, wearing a big Yale t-shirt and a red lace thong, the summer after her senior year. "I, um, well—we don't have to but—I really, really like BDSM on occasion."
You remember blinking a few times, stunned, and then holding back strange, nervous laughter. But over the next few weeks you went through specifics with her, and you made sure, multiple, multiple times, to establish safe words.
Over the next four years you've never gotten much more comfortable, because Quinn has so many scars and you really just want to hold her, but sometimes she fucks you, and sometimes you want her to fuck you. But usually you save BDSM for very, very special occasions.
Like tonight, because Quinn's just defended her thesis, and you'd already had successful-defense thesis sex just after lunch, and then you'd gone and walked around Central Park. Quinn couldn't stop smiling, this brilliant grin above the messy gray March snow. She probably has the sharpest jaw you've seen on a woman, although Frannie is a close second, and today her cheeks are tinged pink and her lips are rosy because she keeps glancing at you with her bottom lip between her teeth.
Currently she's out grabbing your dry-cleaning for the morning, which you take opportunity of to go through her—your—"toy drawer," as Quinn calls it.
You're still on the floor by her nightstand when you hear her unlock the door.
"I picked up your favorite Ethiopian food while I was out," Quinn shouts, and you stand up quickly because she's spilled before, and you know you're right because she's trying to balance her Burberry coat, your Dior slacks, and a bag of takeout in one arm while she puts her keys in the bowl by the front door.
"Baby," you say, quickly grabbing the bag of food from her. Her hair is falling messily from her short attempt at a ponytail, bangs perpetually in her eyes.
You start laughing despite yourself, and she lifts a brow at you sternly before she quirks a smile.
And then, before you can even realize what you're doing, you've managed to set the food on the tiny table by the door & then you've knocked your coats and slacks and dresses to the floor and you've pinned Quinn to the wall. You suck a hickey on her neck while she moans, and she doesn't even skip a beat before she lets you lift her sweater over her head.
She moves to unzip your pants, but you grab her hands, and she looks at you confusedly, and you take a few deep breaths before you say, "Quinn Fabray, you cannot undress me without permission."
Her eyes widen and it seems like her pupils seem to blow all the way over her irises for a moment, and she says, "Yeah?" breathlessly.
You try not to laugh but then you do momentarily, and you say, "Yeah, baby. Got your word?"
Quinn nods so eagerly you kiss her gently and then you take handcuffs from your back pocket. You swear her eyes roll back in her head so much you're scared for a second, and you lead her silently to the bedroom.
"I'd prefer if you were silent" you tell her, and Quinn nods seriously.
You start biting her collarbone, and you can tell she tries not to make any noise, but then you move your hands from her hips to ghost along her stomach, and she moans into your mouth.
You push her pack from you. "I told you not to make noise."
She swallows.
"Take off your bra." You make sure to make your voice as biting as possible.
She unclasps her red see-through bra quickly—it's funny, because Quinn has moved from American Apparel to La Perla for the most part in terms of lingerie, but you know this is her 'lucky' bra, because it's been good for, now, three defenses.
"You're such a slut," you say, and you really don't particularly like yourself for it, but Quinn arches despite herself and you rest in the fact that she's enjoying things immensely.
She stands in front of you in leggings and—you know—a matching see-through red thong, small, perfect breasts, so much pale skin, completely disheveled hair.
"Get on the bed," you say, "on your back."
She scrambles as quickly as she can.
You take one of your simple, silver pairs of handcuffs and put one around her left wrist, then connect it securely to the white wrought-iron bed frame, which Quinn had purchased from Anthropologie for, what you guess, is specifically this reason.
"Fucking whore," you whisper, and then you drag your hands down her skin and tug her leggings down her legs.
She closes her eyes and for a moment you're worried, but then she opens them and wheezes slightly and you know she's just trying not to make any noise.
You palm through her soaking thong and then stretch her other arm across the bed and handcuff it to the frame. Quinn is straining against you already and trying to relax, and even though BDSM isn't your favorite thing, sometimes Quinn is unbelievably sexy handcuffed to the WASPiest bed frame you've ever seen, wearing only a see-through red thong.
You take your time kissing her breasts, pinching her nipples with your fingers. She breathes intensely, ribs contracting and expanding frantically, and you tell her that she's dirty, filthy, that no one could ever want someone like her.
But the entire time you say those things you kiss her scars as gently as you possibly can, and you pause multiple times to glance up and make sure she's still okay. Her face is entirely flushed and her lips are pressed shut, jaw clenching. You trace the tattoo on her ribcage below two thoracatomy scars, and when she arches her back, you make sure to make sure to press your fingers against scars there too.
And then you ghost your tongue over the wetness on her underwear.
She groans lowly, and you almost don't bother to say anything, but instead you sit up and stand from the bed.
Quinn seems at a loss as to what to do because her hips are rocking against air now, and she has a doctorate from Columbia but she's absolutely bewildered right now.
You start taking your clothes off so, so slowly, and you say, "Keep your fucking hips still, Quinn. Impatient slut."
She tries to stay still and you take your clothes off a bit more quickly for her benefit, although she doesn't seem to notice so much.
When you have nothing on anymore, you climb back on top of her, and she breathes harshly out of her nose.
You drag your fingers down her stomach, and you take your time because Quinn has this beautiful line down the middle of her abs from a vast amount of yoga.
And then you tug on the waistband of her panties and tug them down her legs. Her hips lift inches off the bed and you smile to yourself for a moment.
You lick along her length once, and she moans, but your mouth is otherwise occupied so you don't say anything. She's ready to come in about a minute, and you feel her straining so hard against the handcuffs because the bed frame rocks. You tease her briefly and she groans before she can stop herself, but you really just want to make her happy, so you resume sucking on her clit and add another finger.
She comes hard and silently and full of absolute, beautiful straining muscles, sweat on her skin. You let her ride it out and she even coughs a few times and tries to catch her breath.
You've had sex three times today, and this is Quinn's eighth orgasm; she slumps against the bed, and you immediately crawl to unlock the handcuffs. Her wrists are bright red and bruised and almost welted, and you kiss them gently and then quickly lay on your back.
She understands, and she puts her head on your chest, and she rests her wrist on your stomach. "Thank you, baby," she says softly.
You smile into her hair. "You earned it, Quinn Fabray. Smartass."
She laughs quietly, kisses just above your heart. "I have never been as proud of anything as I am to be with you," she says softly.
You feel yourself blush. "Quinn,"you say.
She smiles into your skin.
"I'm just—so in love with you."
"I'm a bit in love with you too, so it's all good, bro."
You roll your eyes and kiss the top of her head, and you run your fingers so lightly over all of her scars while she falls asleep, and you fall asleep soon after.
In the morning you wake up and Quinn is still asleep next to you. You look at her wrists and they're turning purple against her pale skin. You frown and make a mental note to make sure she allows you to put bruise cream on them later. You kiss her forehead and scratch her scalp, and she stirs.
"Hey baby," she mumbles.
"Good morning, sweetheart." You smile at her sleepy expression and the way her eyes are always far more green in the morning against your white sheets. She tugs you against her and you lace your fingers, rub your thumb gently over the welt on her wrist.
She brushes aside her hair and kisses the back of your neck sweetly.
"What does it take for a girl to get some coffee around here?" she mumbles.
You laugh, and you stay in bed a bit longer before you climb out and slip into a Columbia t-shirt and say, "Repping the doctorate," while Quinn laughs and climbs out of bed more tenderly. She comes up behind you in the kitchen and puts her arms around you.
"I love you," she says.
You smile and continue to scramble egg substitute. "I love you too."
Quinn toasts bagels and makes coffee in the French press, and you sing and old Lorde song and poke her side with a serious expression until she joins in. After breakfast is ready you load everything on a tray and carry it back to bed. You hear Quinn coughing in the hall before she comes into the bedroom with the coffee.
You arch a brow at her while spreading cream cheese and she shakes her head. "Fine," she says. "I'll go to the doctor Monday."
You nod wisely and she sits down, gives you a sweet kiss, and swipes her bagel. It's become your tradition now, to have Saturday breakfast in bed together. Quinn works on manuscripts and you read whichever book she suggests.
But today you can't look away from her, and she eats her bagel over a 400 page manuscript for a new production, and you reach out and hold her hand.
She looks up quickly. "Is everything okay?"
You nod. "I just wanted to hold your hand."
Quinn's face is soft, and she kisses your shoulder gently before continuing on with her breakfast.
You smile, and you catch sight of a pair of handcuffs still hanging off the bed frame and laugh a little, kiss the top of her hand, and drink your coffee.