Wash The Echoes Out
Warnings: Lots of breathplay, bottoming from the top, dominant bottom, I really don’t remember what else shhh just read it
Summary: Kurt and Blaine try breathplay for the first time
someone who knows how to ride.
Warnings: D/s (god, when is that not one of my warnings), unprotected sex, hair-pulling, really mild breathplay and comeplay.
Summary: “You could just fuck me,” says Louis almost conversationally. He’s moving at a leisurely sort of pace, just gently rocking back and forth now, tiny movements that drive Harry mad. “Could just grab hold of me, make me bounce on your dick like you want. But you’re not gonna do that, are you?” (~3,000 words)
A/N: Just a little PWP because it’s been a while since I’ve written anything. :) Title from ‘Pony’ from Ginuwine.
215 Word Drabble: Breathplay
Kurt likes the feel of Blaine’s throat under his hands, likes the tension and strength beneath his palms as Blaine swallows and makes harsh, little pants. Blaine tries to catch his breath, tries to draw a deep, long drag of air, but Kurt doesn’t move his hands from around Blaine’s throat because they’re both really hot for it like this
Instead, Kurt thrusts his hips forward as he presses Blaine’s neck down into the mattress, picking up the rhythm he’d dropped briefly to lean forward and reposition his hands on Blaine’s throat. Blaine whines— or at least, his throat works in the approximation of a whine, the tendons straining against Kurt’s hands— and tries to get Kurt deeper, but Kurt pushes in slowly, dragging, teasing until he’s seated fully inside of him.
Blaine bucks, then, and Kurt’s hands slip from his neck as Blaine’s body keens. He draws a deep, quick breath, his entire chest expanding with his lungs, but he quickly grabs Kurt by the wrists and forces Kurt’s hands back around his neck. There’ll be bruises in the morning, certainly, but Blaine won’t care about them then— doesn’t care about them now— as Kurt’s cock drags across his prostate and he can only keen quietly on the stuttering exhale of breath.
Press; A Smutty CrissColfer fic
word count: 960
summary: chris and darren steal a few minutes together.
a/n: all my imagination. i felt like popping this out so i did. kind of threw the ending together - will likely write a second part to this.
Chris hooked a leg over Darren’s hip, drawing their bodies even closer together. They pressed tightly together from chest to hips, rocking against each other as Darren nuzzled Chris’ neck. They had to keep quiet, hidden behind equipment on set as they were.
Darren pushed Kurt’s shirt down Chris’ shoulder, exposing pale skin to his hungry lips. “Chris,” he murmured before latching on to a point easily hidden under Kurt’s clothes. He nipped and sucked and drew breathy whimpers and moans from the man he pressed to the wall with his chest and hips.
I wrap my hands around your neck so tight with love, love.
(( I was listening to this song and all I thought was wincest breath play. It’s my first time writing it, but idk. Wanted to share it. Apologies in advance if it sucks. xo))
“Dean,” Sam breathes in a broken sort of whimper, back arching as his brother moves slowly within him. Dean isn’t usually this tender, but the trials have really been taking their toll on him, and plus the whole being through hell again thing, Dean is being almost uncharacteristically gentle. Sam wraps his long legs around Dean’s waist, digging his heels in as pleasure uncoils itself and snakes its way around every nerve ending in his body. “Dean.” He rocks his hips down onto his brother’s cock, huffing out little breathy sounds of praise.
Above him, Dean runs his fingers down every scar, every mark. His touch sends caresses of fire through him, even through the hardened skin. But for some reason, it’s not enough. Sam knows what he needs; is almost too afraid to ask. He needs to feel owned and protected by his big brother. His life seems to be in everyone’s hands but their own, and that needs to change. He needs Dean to hold the difference between Sam’s life and death in his hands and he needs to feel loved even in the midst of it.
Dean’s strokes deep inside him drag against his sweet spot deliciously and he arches his back, pressing his chest flush against Dean’s, a low keening sound slipping from his lips. “That’s it, Sammy,” he hears Dean murmur, voice barely a whisper, just sitting slightly on their soft groans. Dean’s fingers skitter across Sam’s neck and his hips jerk on their own accord, smearing both their stomachs with clear, sticky precome. His breath hitches, and there’s a faint roaring in his ears. This is what he needs.
Of course, his brother gets it. His brother almost always gets it. He looks down at him, green eyes dark with lust but shimmering with something else. “Gonna give you what you need, Sammy,” Dean growls, leaning to bite firmly on Sam’s pulse point, causing the younger brother to cry out Dean’s name and clench tightly around Dean’s cock, pulling a low, rough groan out of the other brother.
Dean pulls up, starts fucking into Sam faster, harder, deeper, but still tender and Sam isn’t sure how Dean does it. His brother’s hand snake up his torso, tweaking his nipples, until his thumbs come to rest in the hollow of Sam’s throat. He inhales deeply, nods at his brother, and almost melts when feels Dean’s strong, capable hands tighten around his neck. This is what he needs.
His brother is still moving into him with quick, brutal but gentle strokes, even as his hands close around his throat completely. Sam’s body is already reacting to the restriction of oxygen. He fights against it slightly but relaxing into it, thrusting his hips down onto his brother’s cock, and raising his hands to dig his nails into Dean’s back. “That’s it, Sammy. So good, so fucking good for me,” he hears his brother say, but he sounds far away and all Sam can concentrate on is how good his brother feels, hot and throbbing inside him. Dean’s thumbs press into the hollow of his throat, effectively cutting off his air supply and he’s cork-screwing his hips and Sam can’t last much longer.
Dean pushes his thumbs up, squeezing his fingers around the column of Sam’s neck hard and Sam almost chokes with how good it feels; that’s when Dean pulls his hands away. That first rush of oxygen almost hurts and it’s what brings him over the edge, his orgasm hitting him with almost painful force. He calls out Dean’s name in a raw voice as his whole body shudders and tightens around Dean and that wrings the orgasm out of his brother and he’s coming, hot and throbbing and deep, inside Sam.
Sam gasps for air, reveling in the burn of his throat, glorying in the fact that there are going to be marks tomorrow and Dean would have caused them, out of pure love for Sam. Dean pulls out slowly, and Sam whimpers at the loss. “You okay?” Dean asks, touching the steadily purpling marks on Sam’s neck. “Haven’t wanted that in a while.”
He pulls his brother in for a long kiss, the kind of kiss that says all the things you can’t. “I’m fine,” he replies. “Never better. Come sleep.”
They arrange themselves in such a way that Dean’s hand is resting on Sam’s neck. And due to the way Dean sleeps, said hand will tighten sporadically at various intervals. It’s dangerous, but they’ve tempted fate a thousand times already. As they fall asleep, Sam knows his life right now is literally still in Dean’s hands. And he’s never felt safer.