collecting up some fanfic stuff
From Tumblr. Somehow I am always so paranoid that if I post something to Tumblr and Tumblr only it might accidentally somehow vanish someday, and putting those same things on LJ is much more permanent??? lol my brain. Anywhoozle, we have:
- two PG-rated Kurt/Blaine drabbles
- two R-or-higher-rated things written in second person; one is specifically SUPPOSED to be Darren/"you," the other is Darren or Blaine/the person of your choosing which could be "you" if you want I guess haha
- Ginny giving Harry a blowjob (!!!)
self-insert/Darren, rated R for 'really fucking creepy'
Your shoulder hurts. That's because someone keeps slamming into it. Your eyes hurt because the lights are inconsistent and sometimes they pulse and sometimes they blare and sometimes they black out entirely. And your heart hurts, but it's this shitty good kind of sting and pain because you're here among the thrashing of this crowd like you've been dying to be from the bottom of your guts for as long as you can remember. Because you don't remember what things were before you were in love with him.
The lights get a grip on themselves and so do you, finally. You think it might be safe to get out your camera and take some pictures at last without it dropping and smashing underfoot. But then he takes the stage and your arms don't work right anymore, you couldn't snap a pic if you tried. You just focus, or don't focus, or whatever it is your eyes are doing as his eyes glow hazel and suck you into a trance. And when it's not his eyes it's his voice, crooning, growling, shouting, how can one man sing the sounds of seven men? Or it's the way his lips curve around the words, words like needlessly unkind and so very apropos and fuck the rights, or it's the way his hands jangle against strings and keys chording out his soul into the nasty thick humid greasy push of the open air. You're so close to the stage you can count the veins, and trace them with your eyes as they roll and shift under his sweatslicked skin, trail up to the white of his T-shirt soaking through and getting stuck in oh so many places that you'd touch and touch again if only you could reach, if only he'd let you reach him.
Your shoulder still hurts and your feet hurt soon too. That's because people keep stomping on them because he is so stunning-stellar that he whips them into a frenzy. The whole mob is screaming along at his encouragement and your mouth faintly echoes out the syllables he's asked for but the sound doesn't come because you've been so blindsided. And how even is that when all you've been able to do is stare and look and see? It's madness. He drives you all to madness.
So the mad mob carries you once the show is over, once your heart is beating so fast that it makes it hard to breathe and you can see him up there heaving from the workout too and you wonder if maybe you're pounding in sync, the mad mob swells through the venue still chanting his name deathly loud from the stage to the place where he might finally be brought down to your level, and then it's smiles (more lips) and sweet breathless laughter (more voice) and signing autographs on anything that will stand still for the marker (more hands, more pulsingblood veins). There are too many pieces of your brain that haven't fallen realigned yet though so you fall to the back of them some and people come and go, and come and go until it's mostly just going. You are one of the last. You stutter, then hate your mind for thinking the word 'stutter.' You tell him, for no knowable reason, how much your shoulder hurts.
'Yeah,' he says, and smiles and it seems completely incomprehensible that he would be smiling at you. 'I think I saw you, actually, right there at the front. You were getting jostled pretty hard.' You can't remember what he's signing of yours. Your bag, you think.
'I guess,' you force out.
'This venue's bad about stuff like that. The acoustics rock though.' He's done and he hands it back to you, but then suddenly he isn't done handing it back to you. Your pulse flickers hard and bassheavy through your ears because his fingertips are catching against yours and he's not making any move to stop it from happening. And it may actually be him that's doing it.
'Wait,' he says and something has changed in his voice, another strain of it still, more tones and timbres that you somehow haven't heard yet all night even after you listened to like fifteen or sixteen songs' worth. He pauses long enough that it makes you look back up from your hands to his eyes and oh that was a mistake. 'I did see you in the audience. I'd - I'd be looking at you and then realize it, and I'd have to make myself stop.'
'You are kidding me,' your brain makes your mouth say as it gets ahead of you.
'I wouldn't kid something like this,' he tells you. And because it is him you believe it. His hand twists more firmly into yours and then keeps twisting, slides up across your wrist where your treacherous pulse still trembles hard and fast like twenty hummingbirds because his skin on your skin is more alive than just two human beings can possibly be. And also so impossible that you're sure it's not anything at all. And that a dumb human like you is bullshit.
Yet he uses it to tug you closer in to himself and you fit there, somehow, like the lid onto a bottle as he presses more and more of his drippingsweat self against you right up until it's his lips, and they fall soft but ever-harder against your own and the noise you make comes from your nose and your throat and it's loud and embarrassment and dark, black want. You let it keep happening and then somehow work up the moxy to make it happen, to nudge back just enough that his mouth falls broadly and desperately open and you slip inside of it, and you slip all the way inside all of him, with the heel of his hand digging hard at the small of your back and your feet shuffling stupid against his because it's hard to do this standing up in the middle of a concrete floor. And because your feet hurt.
When you can't breathe enough anymore and you have to stop, you ask him, 'But why me?'
And he tells you. 'Because I - when I looked out there, at all of you, at all of them, I saw you, and you were - the only one, who wasn't going crazy and screaming my name.' And he's right, you know, he knows too, that you couldn't make yourself do it because while everyone else was frenzied and desperate you were pale, catatonic, with the hurt of your heart.
He leans a fraction closer until his cheekbone scrapes your temple, leaving a snail's path of his glistening sweat behind on his way to whisper in your ear. 'I think I want to make you scream for me, too.'
Your knees literally collapse. You get trapped in a miserably awkward half-kneel for all of two seconds before his hands are hooking down to hoist you up, and you're nearly floored again by the ease of his strength, the power corded into his muscles that strain and stretch against his white tee just like, somehow, you always thought they would. You have to keep leaning on him and that erotic surprising force as he guides you/drags you/somethings you to a place where there is no one else. Where the lights have stopped hurting your eyes at last.
Well but there's someone else. 'Hey, um, get out,' he hisses to the bassist from the band who's the last straggler still hovering in the talent room backstage besides him, and the way he's almost hostile with it as his guitar-coarse sweating palm tightens against yours is so hot that you're worried you may die before you even get to the good part. You suddenly realize that there is a good part you might be getting to and the thud of that in the crack of your heart and the pit of your gut pushes a little noise out past your semi-slack lips, a squeak or a whisper that flickers right past the bassist on his way out of the room. When the two of you are alone he slams the door shut and then dear sweet christ slams you into it.
'Sorry this has to be so quick,' he says, rolls his face in a slowfrantic caress in the hollow of your neck and shoulder.
'How are you even apologizing for this,' you blab, 'for any part of this at all, because I should be the one apologizing or thanking you or - ' You have to shut up because his tongue is in your mouth now, slick and practicedly deft and so quick to unravel you that you might scream. You do cry, it turns out. That's because your heart still hurts, stinging shitty and wonderful at the amount of fucking impossible this is that you are here and now and he is here and now kissing you like he's won medals for it. Somehow you had no idea his mouth could be like this, a disconnect that's missing from his hands which are of course playing across your ribcage like you're actually the instrument and he controls the sounds that pour and pour out of you around the tight seal of your opened lips on each other which in essence he really does, but that is there in that you somehow never processed that his mouth that can sing with the voices of seven men and laugh and smile and quirk and whistle out Italian, an honest-to-shit Romance language, could also wring you to pieces if he applied it correctly. Like there would ever be an incorrect way. And to his credit he doesn't even chuckle soft and sweet and say don't cry, doesn't smile at you and sweep away your tears. He lets the salt hang in as a garnish to the flavor of him, deep inside and against you, over and over again.
You draw his lip between your own and suck your teeth against the stubble and try to pretend that you're an active participant in this even though it's hard. He lets you, thumbs still skimming the ridges of your sides through your shirt and knee slotted between your own against the door you're rattling on its hinges, evershifting in ways that are slight but unpredictable. It's his tongue furious on yours full-on and he devours you, curling his head toward where your fingernails tease through his hair even as he hooks his mouth around in ways there aren't words for. Hot and full of saliva and flawless. His hips are nocked against yours too now and you let it happen, feeling him harder and harder in his perfect boyfit jeans and that makes you scream anew even with your tailbone bruising sore as your shoulder and feet and shadow-scraped lips where it thumps into the wooden door. His mouth coaxes down away from yours and your desperate inadequate noises eke out into the air of the dim place as he tastes your throat, the dip into your shoulder and collarbones and the sliver of you available for the taking at the collar of your shirt. Wet there with sweat but not nearly as sweaty as he is, of course. When that's been exhausted he drops further to kneel to ruck up the bottom instead and nose at your bellybutton and then the crisp-cutting edge between skin and waistband.
'I think this is - what I really want,' he admits, laughing a little at himself and at you and at nothing at all really but just to laugh, because he does it dark and deliberate and you thrill hard, harder, and nearly collapse again. 'Is this okay?'
Somewhere between wiping the stupid tear tracks from your cheeks and figuring out what breathing is again you manage to let him know that it's so beyond okay as to be terrifying.
The button and zip of your fly fall apart in his perfect-thick hands easy like turning the page in a book, and together with your thumbs hooked and his fingers eager and digging they slide far enough off along with your underwear, too. You're embarrassed to a normal degree, then even more when you look down at yourself and remind your overwhelmed brain who is there to look back. It's not like this happens often in real circumstances. Happening like this, with this, is even more incomprehensible. Now you're mortified. But he looks like he just won another free wish from the genie after his first three were up.
'Hey now,' he warns you, quirks his eyebrow in a way he must fully understand the sex-magic of, 'remember what I said about my ultimate goal here.' And then he wastes no further time and buries right in, further, more of you under his tongue than you thought was possible, and that mouth full and thick and wet and oh, please, oh, with the bristles of his angelsharp jaw and cheekbones scrubbing the tender inside spaces of the vee of your thighs and it drips with it, sucking out the perfect pleasure straight into his impossible mouth, and he hums and it vibrates the whole of you and your brain spins hard and harder as he sucks up hard and harder and you remember - suddenly with his thumbs at the backs of your knees you remember -
'Darren,' you choke on a sob, 'Darren,' you scream -
He laughs straight through every cell of your skin and noses even closer.
///
///
inspired by basically the sentiment "how is this fandom looking at Darren's arms and not immediately going 'breathplay'" so take that however you like
"Sshhh," he says, with the sweetest most genuine smile stretching his features wide and bright and open. God, you think, that's what makes you ache for it the most, is that honesty, the ease with which he's still just a perfect gentleman even as he follows up his instructions to be quiet with a sturdy, callused hand clamping itself straight over your mouth, your nose, rendering your compliance moot; the way his eyes still sparkle so charming and lovely and you have to cut so deep below the surface to see the murky depths of something sinister beyond.
You're already going a little lightheaded as he braces his weight a little more against your face, locks his elbow, a thick strong column of rolling muscle and sweat-drenched skin that you can look down lengthways and see every powerful shift, every protruding vein and tendon in stark relief. All you could smell would be him, if you could inhale, if you could get even a scrap of reprieve from his tight grip against you, unrelenting, so strong goddamn you can see all of it, and somehow even the thick thrusting of him inside of you, the lock and pivot of your hips in tandem as he pushes deep and deeper, not even that is as erotic as the way the black spots pool behind your eyes as you gaze up and up at him, his sweating exertion-strained face falling (gasping, panting, hissing out fuck oh my god fuck) nearly falling out of focus when you've got the lean heavy power of his thick-corded arm bulging toward you instead.
You feel your ears pop. You feel his thumb tighten and spasm against your cheek, right by the corner of your mouth, as his grip goes spasmodic and the muscles of him twitch and flex even harder because you know he's close. You know it will bruise there, or you think so at least. It's hard to be a good gauge of these things when you're nearly crying with how exquisite this is, his thrusts going erratic, your own release getting closer and closer and his bicep swelling impossibly thicker and you just
need
to brea--
He releases his grip so suddenly that as the huge gulp of air you were holding whooshes out of you, the freedom is bright and clear and piercing enough that your orgasm follows right with it, everything bursting from you at once, and as he rides you through it you pant and gulp and sob and nearly miss his own, his hips jabbing sharp and stalling out against you, his hands curled into the sheets on either side of your head where he holds himself upright braced against those impossible whipcord arms.
He laughs to himself a little, when he's finished, and it's so wide and bright and open, even now, goddamn. He droops to kiss you, right where the bruise at the edge of your lip is going to be, his limbs all falling loose, a marionette with cut strings.
You breathe in, and out.
///
///
post-Christmas Special sadschmoop
Kurt takes one last moment to admire himself in his on-screen getup - really, it's delightful, and its one and only drawback is that it's monochromatic - before breezing to the dressing room and letting himself return to the world of technicolor. He clears off the makeup, moisturizes, touches up his hair. He's buttoning up his coat when a pair of arms circles around him from behind and makes him first flinch, then laugh.
"Hello bachelor number two," he says, smirking at Blaine in the dressing room mirror. Blaine's actually kept the bowtie with the Christmas trees and he looks delightfully gaudy.
"Hello, holiday roommate," says Blaine, his breath warm near Kurt's ear, but the tone of his voice belies their joking nature just enough and Kurt sags, a little, to hear it. He was hoping they'd both just brush this off.
He turns in Blaine's arms to face him. "I wanted to say it," says Kurt, looking as straight into Blaine's warm eyes as he can with their faces so close together.
Blaine doesn't even need to ask. "I know," he says, and sighs softly, letting go of Kurt to pull away and simply hold his hand as they walk back out to catch up with the others. "But this was so fun to pretend, wasn't it? Even if we had to...pretend."
Kurt looks up at their fake house, with their fake stairs and their fake fireplace and their very real piano and tree. And he steps back up into it, one last sentimental time, and thinks about pretending.
(Their real tree will be much more secular, he thinks, and much nicer.)
When he comes back to himself he finds Blaine seated at the piano bench, plinking through some vague tunes until he lights on something. "Here we are, as in olden days," he sings softly, "happy golden days of yore."
Kurt sits next to him, and joins him. "Faithful friends who are dear to us gather near to us once more." He smiles, and Blaine smiles with him.
"Through the years, we all will be together, if the fates allow..." Blaine trails off just slightly, his rhythm on the keys going just slightly slower. He stops looking at the piano and starts looking expressly at Kurt, and his eyes are soft and bright and just about everything. Kurt has to blink and clear his throat.
"Until then," he sings, "we'll have to muddle through...somehow...." He holds the note for as long as his voice will let him and then it just stops. Blaine has stopped playing, and they're both a little sideways on the bench, turned to each other, trying not to think about the lie they've just been forced to tell on television. Trying not to think about how the rest of it, playing host and sharing a space and whirling around each other with perfect timing, had been as easy as breathing.
"Judy Garland," says Kurt, as if that explains everything.
Blaine leans through the scant few inches between them and kisses him, the palm of his hand coarse and warm where it comes to cup around Kurt's neck. And Kurt hums against him, and tries not to sway sideways and jangle the piano keys, and cups his own had tight around the curve of Blaine's leg just above his knee, sucks on Blaine's lower lip and relishes in the beauty of how absolutely real he is.
Dreams of the day when none of it, absolutely none of it, will be pretend.
///
///
marrieds!!
They make it to their glistening top-notch hotel in Paris and the first thing Blaine does is fall flat on his back across the big plush mattress and sigh at the ceiling. Kurt laughs at him, just a little, but oh, it seems so inviting, and so he sits at the bed's edge to slip off his shoes. His feet hurt from wearing them through airports and customs all day, shoes that probably aren't meant to be walked in so heavily but he'll be damned if they don't look fabulous doing it, and he tugs the laces loose until he can slide them to the floor and then pivots, just a little, and falls onto his back at Blaine's side, hip to hip, breathing out a sigh of his own. And then they just breathe, sharing each other's air, syncing to each other's heartbeats. And Kurt stares up at the high, impeccably tasteful ceiling, a smooth glossy color just barely too pink to be called eggshell, and waits for Blaine to say it. Because he knows Blaine is going to say it.
"So this is our honeymoon." (It doesn't take long.)
Kurt smiles and just hums a little in response.
Blaine tucks his head over, nestling it against Kurt's shoulder, radiating his constant warmth into Kurt's muscles until he relaxes impossibly further. Kurt retaliates by flexing out his sore toes in their socks a couple of times and then hooking his foot over onto Blaine's, still in his trendy (yet comfortable, damn him) sneakers, intertwining them even more. Out the window Kurt can hear Paris. Right beside him he can hear, faintly, Blaine's heartbeat.
After a few more soft, soundless, motionless moments, Blaine nudges his hand against Kurt's between them and tugs until both of them have their arms reaching straight up toward the eggshell-pink above. Kurt shifts the focus of his gaze to Blaine's fingers against his, actually feels the shift, like the movement of a camera. In the air Blaine threads himself through Kurt over and over and over again, the movements of his hand slow and deliberate, dreamlike. He caresses down around the ball of Kurt's thumb, dips to his wrist and traces back over to his pinky only to follow the lines of his palm (your heartline) back across to his index finger. He skims all the way up it to Kurt's short-clipped nails and then back down into the swoop between there and his middle finger, which he circles and circles over and over again, nudging the writer's callus of his own middle finger against the place where Kurt's would be, if he were left-handed. And then slows even more, and reverently tiptoes over to his ring finger. And the ring.
That's where he stops. Kurt's breath absolutely catches as Blaine grabs onto Kurt's wedding ring and just doesn''t let go, just holds him there, and Kurt knows if he could camera-shift his focus back down to Blaine's face at this angle he would see the same impossible smile from the day he first gave Kurt this ring, that stupid face Kurt can't believe he's capable of making that radiates hope and wonder and bare-stripped honesty and love, love most of all, straight out of his sparkling eyes. It's ridiculous; it hurts.
Kurt rolls his hand in Blaine's grip and tangles their fingers together, holding him and gripping hard. He tugs it back down so he can press a kiss to the back of Blaine's hand just under his knuckles and then drops them both to his chest right over his heart.
Blaine rolls on top of him and kisses him hard and wet and everything on the mouth.
So this is their honeymoon.
///
///
this is what happens when you try to talk shit about Harry/Ginny (by insinuating that Ginny is slutty and that's a bad thing) and I am around to see it
"Oh my - holy - fuck, Ginny," Harry hisses, trying his hardest not to just heave his hips up off the mattress and into her soft, generous mouth where she's sinking further and further down over him, her cheeks hollowing out as she noses deeper in. She's so good at this, perfect at this, his cock rolling against her slick lips and all the way back into her throat like it's nothing and yet like he's on fire at the same time, the sting so sweet and hot that every other sensation of it lights up sharp and noticeable too - the spot on her thumb where she nicked herself in Herbology scraping on the thin skin across his hipbones where she's holding him down, stark contrast of the coarse healing cut and her impossibly smooth cool hands. The dig of the button at the cuff of her school shirt into his hip just below, the only thing she's still wearing other than the gold-colored lace bra it's hanging open around. Her long, thick red hair, shining in the afternoon sunlight through the tower window where it falls in heavy waves over his thighs. It's like every piece of her is enchanted to make sure he can't possibly forget who this is, touching him soft but too-firm, sighing out high and hungry little noises around him, sucking his cock for England: this is Ginny Weasley, even with his eyes screwed shut as her tongue traces slick and deliberate up the lines of veins on the underside of his shaft. Who else could it possibly be.
"Mmmmm," she moans brightly, and it vibrates all up through him, like the tingle of spellwork twisted erotically on its side. She plunges as deep as she can go, swallows once or twice hard until Harry is seeing stars and losing his ability to breathe from the tight, wet, obscene friction against him, and then pulls off entirely with a soft thick sound, letting her lips suck a sloppy line down the side of his cock and further to his balls, licking and sucking messy there too just a couple of times before returning.
"Ginny," he gasps, his eyes falling back to her, so utterly incapable of looking away.
"Mm-hmm," she says, nodding a little, winking at him, Ginny fucking winks from where her head is buried between his legs and he tries not to clench his thighs around her and just hold her there and that is very, very hard to do. He settles for shooting his hand out to rest at the back of her head, as light as he can manage in her warm glossy hair, and she massages her thumbs harder into his hipbones and turns her mouth even more sloppy-wet against him. His erection's slick and absolutely filthy with her saliva and his own fluid, her lips in a similar state that nearly has him coming right then as soon as he notices it - Harry feels like he's been aching-hard for hours and he just wants to come, his whole cock throbbing with it, his hips still twitching in her hands trying to get her mouth back on him in a more substantial way so he can dip down into that impossible heat and just stay there forever. His fingers spasm in her hair and she laughs just a little, more with her eyes than her mouth, and finally finally rolls the inside of her lower lip all the way up to the head of his cock and then sinks back down over it, sucking slow and sweet and tight for just a moment on its own before beginning her descent again. Harry's not small, but Ginny takes all of him, her lips sliding easy in the slick that's there, muscles in her throat rippling around the head of his cock as he gets as far in as he can go and it's insane and her grip slackens, just a little, just enough on his hips that he hitches up and up and up and he's so hard and her mouth is so, so good - and he comes, trying to shout but he's choking, gurgling out "Ginny, Ginny" into the sex-thick air of the dorm as she swallows him down.
He's half-soft and well on his way to orgasm-boneless when she pulls off again, this time with a much dirtier pop than before, and shifts her hands from his hips to the bed on either side, knees pushing up from the floor and shooting her naked body up and over him much, much faster than he's expecting in the muddy haze she's left him in. Before he knows it her thighs are straddled across his collarbone, her fingers sinking deep into the mess of his hair and her own hair spilling around them like a curtain. The sharp smell of her sex hits him full in the face and he wonders vaguely if he can get hard again this fast, wouldn't put it past his overworked cock to try.
"My turn?" she whispers, and he wraps his hands broad and grabby around her ass. Yes. Definitely.
- two PG-rated Kurt/Blaine drabbles
- two R-or-higher-rated things written in second person; one is specifically SUPPOSED to be Darren/"you," the other is Darren or Blaine/the person of your choosing which could be "you" if you want I guess haha
- Ginny giving Harry a blowjob (!!!)
self-insert/Darren, rated R for 'really fucking creepy'
Your shoulder hurts. That's because someone keeps slamming into it. Your eyes hurt because the lights are inconsistent and sometimes they pulse and sometimes they blare and sometimes they black out entirely. And your heart hurts, but it's this shitty good kind of sting and pain because you're here among the thrashing of this crowd like you've been dying to be from the bottom of your guts for as long as you can remember. Because you don't remember what things were before you were in love with him.
The lights get a grip on themselves and so do you, finally. You think it might be safe to get out your camera and take some pictures at last without it dropping and smashing underfoot. But then he takes the stage and your arms don't work right anymore, you couldn't snap a pic if you tried. You just focus, or don't focus, or whatever it is your eyes are doing as his eyes glow hazel and suck you into a trance. And when it's not his eyes it's his voice, crooning, growling, shouting, how can one man sing the sounds of seven men? Or it's the way his lips curve around the words, words like needlessly unkind and so very apropos and fuck the rights, or it's the way his hands jangle against strings and keys chording out his soul into the nasty thick humid greasy push of the open air. You're so close to the stage you can count the veins, and trace them with your eyes as they roll and shift under his sweatslicked skin, trail up to the white of his T-shirt soaking through and getting stuck in oh so many places that you'd touch and touch again if only you could reach, if only he'd let you reach him.
Your shoulder still hurts and your feet hurt soon too. That's because people keep stomping on them because he is so stunning-stellar that he whips them into a frenzy. The whole mob is screaming along at his encouragement and your mouth faintly echoes out the syllables he's asked for but the sound doesn't come because you've been so blindsided. And how even is that when all you've been able to do is stare and look and see? It's madness. He drives you all to madness.
So the mad mob carries you once the show is over, once your heart is beating so fast that it makes it hard to breathe and you can see him up there heaving from the workout too and you wonder if maybe you're pounding in sync, the mad mob swells through the venue still chanting his name deathly loud from the stage to the place where he might finally be brought down to your level, and then it's smiles (more lips) and sweet breathless laughter (more voice) and signing autographs on anything that will stand still for the marker (more hands, more pulsingblood veins). There are too many pieces of your brain that haven't fallen realigned yet though so you fall to the back of them some and people come and go, and come and go until it's mostly just going. You are one of the last. You stutter, then hate your mind for thinking the word 'stutter.' You tell him, for no knowable reason, how much your shoulder hurts.
'Yeah,' he says, and smiles and it seems completely incomprehensible that he would be smiling at you. 'I think I saw you, actually, right there at the front. You were getting jostled pretty hard.' You can't remember what he's signing of yours. Your bag, you think.
'I guess,' you force out.
'This venue's bad about stuff like that. The acoustics rock though.' He's done and he hands it back to you, but then suddenly he isn't done handing it back to you. Your pulse flickers hard and bassheavy through your ears because his fingertips are catching against yours and he's not making any move to stop it from happening. And it may actually be him that's doing it.
'Wait,' he says and something has changed in his voice, another strain of it still, more tones and timbres that you somehow haven't heard yet all night even after you listened to like fifteen or sixteen songs' worth. He pauses long enough that it makes you look back up from your hands to his eyes and oh that was a mistake. 'I did see you in the audience. I'd - I'd be looking at you and then realize it, and I'd have to make myself stop.'
'You are kidding me,' your brain makes your mouth say as it gets ahead of you.
'I wouldn't kid something like this,' he tells you. And because it is him you believe it. His hand twists more firmly into yours and then keeps twisting, slides up across your wrist where your treacherous pulse still trembles hard and fast like twenty hummingbirds because his skin on your skin is more alive than just two human beings can possibly be. And also so impossible that you're sure it's not anything at all. And that a dumb human like you is bullshit.
Yet he uses it to tug you closer in to himself and you fit there, somehow, like the lid onto a bottle as he presses more and more of his drippingsweat self against you right up until it's his lips, and they fall soft but ever-harder against your own and the noise you make comes from your nose and your throat and it's loud and embarrassment and dark, black want. You let it keep happening and then somehow work up the moxy to make it happen, to nudge back just enough that his mouth falls broadly and desperately open and you slip inside of it, and you slip all the way inside all of him, with the heel of his hand digging hard at the small of your back and your feet shuffling stupid against his because it's hard to do this standing up in the middle of a concrete floor. And because your feet hurt.
When you can't breathe enough anymore and you have to stop, you ask him, 'But why me?'
And he tells you. 'Because I - when I looked out there, at all of you, at all of them, I saw you, and you were - the only one, who wasn't going crazy and screaming my name.' And he's right, you know, he knows too, that you couldn't make yourself do it because while everyone else was frenzied and desperate you were pale, catatonic, with the hurt of your heart.
He leans a fraction closer until his cheekbone scrapes your temple, leaving a snail's path of his glistening sweat behind on his way to whisper in your ear. 'I think I want to make you scream for me, too.'
Your knees literally collapse. You get trapped in a miserably awkward half-kneel for all of two seconds before his hands are hooking down to hoist you up, and you're nearly floored again by the ease of his strength, the power corded into his muscles that strain and stretch against his white tee just like, somehow, you always thought they would. You have to keep leaning on him and that erotic surprising force as he guides you/drags you/somethings you to a place where there is no one else. Where the lights have stopped hurting your eyes at last.
Well but there's someone else. 'Hey, um, get out,' he hisses to the bassist from the band who's the last straggler still hovering in the talent room backstage besides him, and the way he's almost hostile with it as his guitar-coarse sweating palm tightens against yours is so hot that you're worried you may die before you even get to the good part. You suddenly realize that there is a good part you might be getting to and the thud of that in the crack of your heart and the pit of your gut pushes a little noise out past your semi-slack lips, a squeak or a whisper that flickers right past the bassist on his way out of the room. When the two of you are alone he slams the door shut and then dear sweet christ slams you into it.
'Sorry this has to be so quick,' he says, rolls his face in a slowfrantic caress in the hollow of your neck and shoulder.
'How are you even apologizing for this,' you blab, 'for any part of this at all, because I should be the one apologizing or thanking you or - ' You have to shut up because his tongue is in your mouth now, slick and practicedly deft and so quick to unravel you that you might scream. You do cry, it turns out. That's because your heart still hurts, stinging shitty and wonderful at the amount of fucking impossible this is that you are here and now and he is here and now kissing you like he's won medals for it. Somehow you had no idea his mouth could be like this, a disconnect that's missing from his hands which are of course playing across your ribcage like you're actually the instrument and he controls the sounds that pour and pour out of you around the tight seal of your opened lips on each other which in essence he really does, but that is there in that you somehow never processed that his mouth that can sing with the voices of seven men and laugh and smile and quirk and whistle out Italian, an honest-to-shit Romance language, could also wring you to pieces if he applied it correctly. Like there would ever be an incorrect way. And to his credit he doesn't even chuckle soft and sweet and say don't cry, doesn't smile at you and sweep away your tears. He lets the salt hang in as a garnish to the flavor of him, deep inside and against you, over and over again.
You draw his lip between your own and suck your teeth against the stubble and try to pretend that you're an active participant in this even though it's hard. He lets you, thumbs still skimming the ridges of your sides through your shirt and knee slotted between your own against the door you're rattling on its hinges, evershifting in ways that are slight but unpredictable. It's his tongue furious on yours full-on and he devours you, curling his head toward where your fingernails tease through his hair even as he hooks his mouth around in ways there aren't words for. Hot and full of saliva and flawless. His hips are nocked against yours too now and you let it happen, feeling him harder and harder in his perfect boyfit jeans and that makes you scream anew even with your tailbone bruising sore as your shoulder and feet and shadow-scraped lips where it thumps into the wooden door. His mouth coaxes down away from yours and your desperate inadequate noises eke out into the air of the dim place as he tastes your throat, the dip into your shoulder and collarbones and the sliver of you available for the taking at the collar of your shirt. Wet there with sweat but not nearly as sweaty as he is, of course. When that's been exhausted he drops further to kneel to ruck up the bottom instead and nose at your bellybutton and then the crisp-cutting edge between skin and waistband.
'I think this is - what I really want,' he admits, laughing a little at himself and at you and at nothing at all really but just to laugh, because he does it dark and deliberate and you thrill hard, harder, and nearly collapse again. 'Is this okay?'
Somewhere between wiping the stupid tear tracks from your cheeks and figuring out what breathing is again you manage to let him know that it's so beyond okay as to be terrifying.
The button and zip of your fly fall apart in his perfect-thick hands easy like turning the page in a book, and together with your thumbs hooked and his fingers eager and digging they slide far enough off along with your underwear, too. You're embarrassed to a normal degree, then even more when you look down at yourself and remind your overwhelmed brain who is there to look back. It's not like this happens often in real circumstances. Happening like this, with this, is even more incomprehensible. Now you're mortified. But he looks like he just won another free wish from the genie after his first three were up.
'Hey now,' he warns you, quirks his eyebrow in a way he must fully understand the sex-magic of, 'remember what I said about my ultimate goal here.' And then he wastes no further time and buries right in, further, more of you under his tongue than you thought was possible, and that mouth full and thick and wet and oh, please, oh, with the bristles of his angelsharp jaw and cheekbones scrubbing the tender inside spaces of the vee of your thighs and it drips with it, sucking out the perfect pleasure straight into his impossible mouth, and he hums and it vibrates the whole of you and your brain spins hard and harder as he sucks up hard and harder and you remember - suddenly with his thumbs at the backs of your knees you remember -
'Darren,' you choke on a sob, 'Darren,' you scream -
He laughs straight through every cell of your skin and noses even closer.
///
///
inspired by basically the sentiment "how is this fandom looking at Darren's arms and not immediately going 'breathplay'" so take that however you like
"Sshhh," he says, with the sweetest most genuine smile stretching his features wide and bright and open. God, you think, that's what makes you ache for it the most, is that honesty, the ease with which he's still just a perfect gentleman even as he follows up his instructions to be quiet with a sturdy, callused hand clamping itself straight over your mouth, your nose, rendering your compliance moot; the way his eyes still sparkle so charming and lovely and you have to cut so deep below the surface to see the murky depths of something sinister beyond.
You're already going a little lightheaded as he braces his weight a little more against your face, locks his elbow, a thick strong column of rolling muscle and sweat-drenched skin that you can look down lengthways and see every powerful shift, every protruding vein and tendon in stark relief. All you could smell would be him, if you could inhale, if you could get even a scrap of reprieve from his tight grip against you, unrelenting, so strong goddamn you can see all of it, and somehow even the thick thrusting of him inside of you, the lock and pivot of your hips in tandem as he pushes deep and deeper, not even that is as erotic as the way the black spots pool behind your eyes as you gaze up and up at him, his sweating exertion-strained face falling (gasping, panting, hissing out fuck oh my god fuck) nearly falling out of focus when you've got the lean heavy power of his thick-corded arm bulging toward you instead.
You feel your ears pop. You feel his thumb tighten and spasm against your cheek, right by the corner of your mouth, as his grip goes spasmodic and the muscles of him twitch and flex even harder because you know he's close. You know it will bruise there, or you think so at least. It's hard to be a good gauge of these things when you're nearly crying with how exquisite this is, his thrusts going erratic, your own release getting closer and closer and his bicep swelling impossibly thicker and you just
need
to brea--
He releases his grip so suddenly that as the huge gulp of air you were holding whooshes out of you, the freedom is bright and clear and piercing enough that your orgasm follows right with it, everything bursting from you at once, and as he rides you through it you pant and gulp and sob and nearly miss his own, his hips jabbing sharp and stalling out against you, his hands curled into the sheets on either side of your head where he holds himself upright braced against those impossible whipcord arms.
He laughs to himself a little, when he's finished, and it's so wide and bright and open, even now, goddamn. He droops to kiss you, right where the bruise at the edge of your lip is going to be, his limbs all falling loose, a marionette with cut strings.
You breathe in, and out.
///
///
post-Christmas Special sadschmoop
Kurt takes one last moment to admire himself in his on-screen getup - really, it's delightful, and its one and only drawback is that it's monochromatic - before breezing to the dressing room and letting himself return to the world of technicolor. He clears off the makeup, moisturizes, touches up his hair. He's buttoning up his coat when a pair of arms circles around him from behind and makes him first flinch, then laugh.
"Hello bachelor number two," he says, smirking at Blaine in the dressing room mirror. Blaine's actually kept the bowtie with the Christmas trees and he looks delightfully gaudy.
"Hello, holiday roommate," says Blaine, his breath warm near Kurt's ear, but the tone of his voice belies their joking nature just enough and Kurt sags, a little, to hear it. He was hoping they'd both just brush this off.
He turns in Blaine's arms to face him. "I wanted to say it," says Kurt, looking as straight into Blaine's warm eyes as he can with their faces so close together.
Blaine doesn't even need to ask. "I know," he says, and sighs softly, letting go of Kurt to pull away and simply hold his hand as they walk back out to catch up with the others. "But this was so fun to pretend, wasn't it? Even if we had to...pretend."
Kurt looks up at their fake house, with their fake stairs and their fake fireplace and their very real piano and tree. And he steps back up into it, one last sentimental time, and thinks about pretending.
(Their real tree will be much more secular, he thinks, and much nicer.)
When he comes back to himself he finds Blaine seated at the piano bench, plinking through some vague tunes until he lights on something. "Here we are, as in olden days," he sings softly, "happy golden days of yore."
Kurt sits next to him, and joins him. "Faithful friends who are dear to us gather near to us once more." He smiles, and Blaine smiles with him.
"Through the years, we all will be together, if the fates allow..." Blaine trails off just slightly, his rhythm on the keys going just slightly slower. He stops looking at the piano and starts looking expressly at Kurt, and his eyes are soft and bright and just about everything. Kurt has to blink and clear his throat.
"Until then," he sings, "we'll have to muddle through...somehow...." He holds the note for as long as his voice will let him and then it just stops. Blaine has stopped playing, and they're both a little sideways on the bench, turned to each other, trying not to think about the lie they've just been forced to tell on television. Trying not to think about how the rest of it, playing host and sharing a space and whirling around each other with perfect timing, had been as easy as breathing.
"Judy Garland," says Kurt, as if that explains everything.
Blaine leans through the scant few inches between them and kisses him, the palm of his hand coarse and warm where it comes to cup around Kurt's neck. And Kurt hums against him, and tries not to sway sideways and jangle the piano keys, and cups his own had tight around the curve of Blaine's leg just above his knee, sucks on Blaine's lower lip and relishes in the beauty of how absolutely real he is.
Dreams of the day when none of it, absolutely none of it, will be pretend.
///
///
marrieds!!
They make it to their glistening top-notch hotel in Paris and the first thing Blaine does is fall flat on his back across the big plush mattress and sigh at the ceiling. Kurt laughs at him, just a little, but oh, it seems so inviting, and so he sits at the bed's edge to slip off his shoes. His feet hurt from wearing them through airports and customs all day, shoes that probably aren't meant to be walked in so heavily but he'll be damned if they don't look fabulous doing it, and he tugs the laces loose until he can slide them to the floor and then pivots, just a little, and falls onto his back at Blaine's side, hip to hip, breathing out a sigh of his own. And then they just breathe, sharing each other's air, syncing to each other's heartbeats. And Kurt stares up at the high, impeccably tasteful ceiling, a smooth glossy color just barely too pink to be called eggshell, and waits for Blaine to say it. Because he knows Blaine is going to say it.
"So this is our honeymoon." (It doesn't take long.)
Kurt smiles and just hums a little in response.
Blaine tucks his head over, nestling it against Kurt's shoulder, radiating his constant warmth into Kurt's muscles until he relaxes impossibly further. Kurt retaliates by flexing out his sore toes in their socks a couple of times and then hooking his foot over onto Blaine's, still in his trendy (yet comfortable, damn him) sneakers, intertwining them even more. Out the window Kurt can hear Paris. Right beside him he can hear, faintly, Blaine's heartbeat.
After a few more soft, soundless, motionless moments, Blaine nudges his hand against Kurt's between them and tugs until both of them have their arms reaching straight up toward the eggshell-pink above. Kurt shifts the focus of his gaze to Blaine's fingers against his, actually feels the shift, like the movement of a camera. In the air Blaine threads himself through Kurt over and over and over again, the movements of his hand slow and deliberate, dreamlike. He caresses down around the ball of Kurt's thumb, dips to his wrist and traces back over to his pinky only to follow the lines of his palm (your heartline) back across to his index finger. He skims all the way up it to Kurt's short-clipped nails and then back down into the swoop between there and his middle finger, which he circles and circles over and over again, nudging the writer's callus of his own middle finger against the place where Kurt's would be, if he were left-handed. And then slows even more, and reverently tiptoes over to his ring finger. And the ring.
That's where he stops. Kurt's breath absolutely catches as Blaine grabs onto Kurt's wedding ring and just doesn''t let go, just holds him there, and Kurt knows if he could camera-shift his focus back down to Blaine's face at this angle he would see the same impossible smile from the day he first gave Kurt this ring, that stupid face Kurt can't believe he's capable of making that radiates hope and wonder and bare-stripped honesty and love, love most of all, straight out of his sparkling eyes. It's ridiculous; it hurts.
Kurt rolls his hand in Blaine's grip and tangles their fingers together, holding him and gripping hard. He tugs it back down so he can press a kiss to the back of Blaine's hand just under his knuckles and then drops them both to his chest right over his heart.
Blaine rolls on top of him and kisses him hard and wet and everything on the mouth.
So this is their honeymoon.
///
///
this is what happens when you try to talk shit about Harry/Ginny (by insinuating that Ginny is slutty and that's a bad thing) and I am around to see it
"Oh my - holy - fuck, Ginny," Harry hisses, trying his hardest not to just heave his hips up off the mattress and into her soft, generous mouth where she's sinking further and further down over him, her cheeks hollowing out as she noses deeper in. She's so good at this, perfect at this, his cock rolling against her slick lips and all the way back into her throat like it's nothing and yet like he's on fire at the same time, the sting so sweet and hot that every other sensation of it lights up sharp and noticeable too - the spot on her thumb where she nicked herself in Herbology scraping on the thin skin across his hipbones where she's holding him down, stark contrast of the coarse healing cut and her impossibly smooth cool hands. The dig of the button at the cuff of her school shirt into his hip just below, the only thing she's still wearing other than the gold-colored lace bra it's hanging open around. Her long, thick red hair, shining in the afternoon sunlight through the tower window where it falls in heavy waves over his thighs. It's like every piece of her is enchanted to make sure he can't possibly forget who this is, touching him soft but too-firm, sighing out high and hungry little noises around him, sucking his cock for England: this is Ginny Weasley, even with his eyes screwed shut as her tongue traces slick and deliberate up the lines of veins on the underside of his shaft. Who else could it possibly be.
"Mmmmm," she moans brightly, and it vibrates all up through him, like the tingle of spellwork twisted erotically on its side. She plunges as deep as she can go, swallows once or twice hard until Harry is seeing stars and losing his ability to breathe from the tight, wet, obscene friction against him, and then pulls off entirely with a soft thick sound, letting her lips suck a sloppy line down the side of his cock and further to his balls, licking and sucking messy there too just a couple of times before returning.
"Ginny," he gasps, his eyes falling back to her, so utterly incapable of looking away.
"Mm-hmm," she says, nodding a little, winking at him, Ginny fucking winks from where her head is buried between his legs and he tries not to clench his thighs around her and just hold her there and that is very, very hard to do. He settles for shooting his hand out to rest at the back of her head, as light as he can manage in her warm glossy hair, and she massages her thumbs harder into his hipbones and turns her mouth even more sloppy-wet against him. His erection's slick and absolutely filthy with her saliva and his own fluid, her lips in a similar state that nearly has him coming right then as soon as he notices it - Harry feels like he's been aching-hard for hours and he just wants to come, his whole cock throbbing with it, his hips still twitching in her hands trying to get her mouth back on him in a more substantial way so he can dip down into that impossible heat and just stay there forever. His fingers spasm in her hair and she laughs just a little, more with her eyes than her mouth, and finally finally rolls the inside of her lower lip all the way up to the head of his cock and then sinks back down over it, sucking slow and sweet and tight for just a moment on its own before beginning her descent again. Harry's not small, but Ginny takes all of him, her lips sliding easy in the slick that's there, muscles in her throat rippling around the head of his cock as he gets as far in as he can go and it's insane and her grip slackens, just a little, just enough on his hips that he hitches up and up and up and he's so hard and her mouth is so, so good - and he comes, trying to shout but he's choking, gurgling out "Ginny, Ginny" into the sex-thick air of the dorm as she swallows him down.
He's half-soft and well on his way to orgasm-boneless when she pulls off again, this time with a much dirtier pop than before, and shifts her hands from his hips to the bed on either side, knees pushing up from the floor and shooting her naked body up and over him much, much faster than he's expecting in the muddy haze she's left him in. Before he knows it her thighs are straddled across his collarbone, her fingers sinking deep into the mess of his hair and her own hair spilling around them like a curtain. The sharp smell of her sex hits him full in the face and he wonders vaguely if he can get hard again this fast, wouldn't put it past his overworked cock to try.
"My turn?" she whispers, and he wraps his hands broad and grabby around her ass. Yes. Definitely.