bakerstreet | Sometimes, you just need a MID-FUCK.

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Sometimes, you just need a MID-FUCK.

Are you tired of building up to the act? Do you sometimes wish for a chance to skip the conversation and go straight for the scenario you've always wanted to experience?

In that case, rejoice! This meme was made for you.

THE RULES:

Post with your character in the middle of having sex.
Any scenario and level of description is allowed!
Other characters reply as your character's partner in that fuck!
Keep going and finish the act.
Go for another round or have fun with cuddling and afterplay.
Have fun!

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( it's a big series of un(?)fortunate events that lead them here, and maybe it'll be something barry has the sense to worry and regret over when the sun finally sets and he goes home to take a shower because the scent of wells is still all over, inside him -- but he can't regret it quite yet, not right now, because right now it's hard to focus on anything other than how good it feels. harrison's ( or who he knows to be harrison ) wheelchair locked in spot while barry occupies his lap, takes the scant space between them to wrap around his own cock, too flushed and needy to ignore. he isn't exactly known for his selflessness or his discipline, but he tries at it -- to stretch the moment out, his lips tucked against harrison's, gasping with feline integrity between them, grinding back down against his cock in turn.

he hadn't meant for it to happen, is all. he's never considered wells in light apart from the professional or almost -- fatherly, though never enough to surpass the pedestal henry or joe sit on in barry's heart. it was a rush of emotions, as it always is with barry. a strike of lightning in the form of harrison's words that always manage to be exactly what barry needs to hear, and hit him exactly where it needs to in order to keep him going. running faster on the treadmill, chasing after the next impossible metahuman, using his speed and his heart and his mind to give central city the hero they need. it's appreciation he means to show him, a thank you for always being there, for always having my back, but instead of words it comes out as a kiss on the lips, the climb into his lap, the slow removal of clothing and a quiet understanding between them. i don't love you, but i do.

or at least that's what barry reads it as, looking his mentor and teacher and close, personal friend in the eyes as he sits down in his lap, the burning stretch of wells inside him making him cringe as he gets used to it, wiggling his hips slowly for easier thrusting -- legs that don't work mean that barry will have to do most of the work, but that's fine, it is, because it is about showing wells how important he is, how grateful barry is to have him around. or something like that. he'll think about it more thoroughly when his brain isn't fuzzy and hazed from being fucked, when his cheeks are less flushed and his lips less kiss-starved. for now, he lets himself enjoy it, rocking his hips slowly and slow and slower, painfully so for the flash, to get used to the size of wells -- of eobard. )

[ when eobard had invested in the chair he hadn’t given much initial thought as to whether or not there need be room for another on it. he realizes now, with a lapful of long-limbed speedster, acclimating his body through slow rolls of his hips to the deep relentless press of eobard’s dick inside him, that perhaps he miscalculated.

he has a hand, low and possessive, on the arched white curve of barry’s back. the other he uses to tip barry’s chin just so, an angle that accommodates their height difference and allows eobard to kiss him, to lick inside his mouth and taste the searing heat of his surrender. occasionally eobard submits to the impulse to sink his teeth in, watch the flush that runs hot over nearly every inch of barry’s naked skin rise to his bitten lips and shade them filthy red; and there are these sounds that leak out of barry’s throat when he does it, like he’s just been waiting for someone to take him apart all his life, and for barry allen eobard has always only ever been too happy to oblige.

hero worship is a timeless phenomenon. in the future he’s seen it: the countless accolades bestowed upon the flash for his acts of good and evil alike; the statue that mocks his detractors with its open hand and gold pedestal. in both lives eobard has seen his fair share of acclaim, but nothing like this: his most hated enemy seated on his lap, clumsy with want and inexperience. and eobard knows all too well about his inexperience, has watched him fumble his way through tryst after tryst, has already watched with dispassion the evolution of the body--but now, when it’s at his mercy, suddenly that inexperience is a godsend, because barry’s gracelessness and the sweet near-unyielding heat of him is devastating.

it’s will alone that forces eobard to stay still, to maintain the farce of his paralysis when his greatest and most damning impulse nearly succeeds in clawing its way to the fore. the impulse, even to eobard’s own surprise, isn’t to kill him where he sits. instead there’s this thought, terrible and delirium-inducing all at once, to shove him down onto the tile, ram his dick into that beautiful body and make him scream, make him bleed and beg all at once, make him come hot and endless onto the sterile s.t.a.r. labs tiles the way only eobard knows he can.

maybe there will be a time for that, even if eobard hasn’t made a space for it in his timetable just yet. for now, though, he slips his hand down between them, lets his knuckles brush rough over a pert nipple. and then he’s gently but undeniably batting barry’s hand aside, teasing a single deliberate finger up his erection, incapable of distraction even with barry’s ceaseless movement.

and then his finger brushes over the tip of barry’s dick, finds it wet. suddenly the mouth against barry’s jaw parts, and there’s a press of teeth, a grin, only slightly wolfish, only slightly tempered by the heat of eobard’s own hushed harsh breaths. ]

( he doesn't want to speak -- not to break whatever spell has fallen on them like two dogs in heat, to keep his lips raw and red-bitten while he strangles himself not to make a sound -- but he finds the desire to beg almost too great, to tell wells that the hand on his cock isn't nearly enough, that he needs more and more yet. greedy barry allen, the newspapers will write, asks for so much and gives so little -- protection for a city in payment for a firmer hand on his cock, something more than teasing, something not with feeling just -- faster, just faster, a tighter grip and up and down and up and

stuttering his hips, barry sinks down on harrison's dick, and rises and falls, and releases a mewling kind of sound that barry would describe as drowned cat-ish, but he's often too hard on himself. it's just a moan, guttural but high, pushed up to the heavens in exclamation before he moves his head down and pushes his mouth against harrison's neck, shushing himself but to no avail. there are too many things to focus on, too many sensations here and there and wells inside him and a hand on his painful erection and hard bites on his jaw, that he can't help but fall victim to pleasure, muffled but still present groans of agony bliss said into his neck. too slow, as always, barry up and down and swiveling his hips in tandem with the uptick of his breath, hot and heavy and without enough oxygen in the world, he pants and sweats and his body pleads, arched and contorted and ever needy -- he hasn't yet learned to be content for the good things he's given, is always grabbing hands at rusty strings and looking for better, greater, more.

which wells gives him, if not now than in other aspects, gives him courage and a fighting spirit and the temperance to continue on, even when his own inexperience comes up short. now not excluded -- it's not like he's ridden a lot of men, disabled to a wheelchair is a first, and his movements are unsure and without grace, as if he questions if each extrusion inside with hurt -- wells, mainly, but himself as well. he doesn't think it's a tender sentiment of his to not want it to hurt, it's just rightfulness as a human being, as a gesture for someone he cares about and respects above all others. he wants wells to be pleasured, to be the one who gives him that pleasure on an open platter on fine china, tilted up towards the god that is harrison wells, to barry. he loves him in an idolized fashion, a teacher and a role model, and there's a certain point accented as he swivels his hips, more roughly, as if to say you're not the only one who can teach here. )

Ha -- ( rrison, he doesn't let himself finish, instead forcing it into elongated moan, shutting his eyes tightly and feeling his body act on its own, vibrating against wells as he sinks and rises with a steady beat, time now passing by in extreme slow motion. slow is now excruciating -- for barry, at least, when his power is evoked time goes by too slowly -- he watches with vibrating irises as wells moves his hand beyond slow motion on barry's cockhead, watches precum bead and pool at his silt like he's salivating, thirsty for more touches, more sex, more anything. try as he might, his body won't cool down and only continues to vibrate, only shakes relentlessly on wells' cock and barry thinks he might cry, or split in two, or something, if he doesn't get what he wants.

he doesn't beg, though he releases a ) More. ( which may be needier than he anticipated, but it's all the same. it's an order and a question, wrapped up in one fun sized word. )

[ what would you think of yourself now, flash, eobard thinks. the man he’d known a lifetime ago was theoretically a good one. he had the foundations of smile lines at the corners of his mouth, a beautiful wife and a beautiful household, a sense of justice and rightness that eobard would have taken exceptional pains to deconstruct. what a surprise it is, that days of reckoning take many forms: single days that are secretly thousands, with him and the flash locked in combat through seconds that are simultaneously generations; a single night fifteen years ago with a knife slid into nora allen’s heart; a particle accelerator explosion; and now this, barry shaking like a leaf in his lap, his cock dripping wet between them, his entire body taut and waiting for release that only eobard can deliver.

this too must be victory: hard-earned, the end result of hard work and sweat. after all, who but eobard knows--now and in the future, for all the hours and hours of research people have dedicated to the scarlet speedster, all the wasted adoration and adulation--that the flash deep down wants this? wants to be fucked like this, wants a long hard cock to rearrange his insides, flushes and moans for it like a whore. eobard has been to the museum, read the papers, done the research independently, and none of them could have prepared him for the arch of barry’s body into his, the uneven grind of barry’s ass in his lap. the way barry’s mouth quivers open to moan what he thinks is eobard’s name, and then slides thinly into a moan, part pleasure, part beautiful deference. the sound itself is more than satisfactory, as is the underlying submission, but then as barry presses his face into eobard’s throat he’s blindsided for a fraction of a second with the fantasy of what his real name would sound like dripping filthy from barry allen’s lips. he’s stricken with how much he craves it, what he’d do to get it.

it’s another maybe in a pile of maybes. there’s no future eobard can see where it’s plausible. but he’s made and remade futures before, has meticulously constructed barry’s entire life in some ways. the fact of barry’s fever-hot skin underneath his searching hands is proof enough that anything is possible.

and then the slow helpless quiver of barry’s body transforms, slowly but ever so surely, into a steady tremor. it starts to pick up in pace and intensity and--oh, eobard thinks, barely has the capacity to think despite the constant turn of cogs and wheels in his meticulously organized mind, oh. the boy. he’s vibrating.

the harsh breaths that eobard has strenuously worked to reign in before they became moans suddenly slide themselves into new, uncharted territory: he actually trembles himself, to his own surprise, and his hand goes tight on barry’s back, fingers digging in hard into pale skin and tight muscle, a grip that suggests as much loss of control as much as it does utter possessiveness. and his mouth, traitorous now, falls open; he sprawls back slack against the chair and bites back a groan, an actual fucking groan, the only way he knows how: ]

More what, Barry. [ the thickness in his throat lends itself easily to a murmur. ] More of this? [ and that finger, too deliberate, rubs in rough against the slit, smears precome over his skin, coaxes more out all at once. the tremor of barry’s erection against his hand feels ludicrous, impossible. ] Always in such a hurry. [ and some gentle mockery too, all of it thin veneers over the slow drip of sweat down his throat, the aching hardness of his cock, the fact that when it comes to the flash all he knows how to do is want. ]

( if he had the sense to think, he might says wells is being mean or cruel with his actions -- but he's never known wells to be anything other than generous, and the rough, unhelpful pings on just the tip of his cock are teases, are rude jokes, but barry finds himself smiling about it anyway. harrison's voice is rugged and hot in his ears, sexual and so unlike the way he's used to hearing it -- he thinks he could come on the sound of it alone, like gravel but more satisfying. he's not sure how he'll handle the sound of him being in his ear from now on when on the job, but there are other times to reflect on it. namely, when he isn't being fucked out of his mind, when he can't feel wells reaching all the inner parts of him and tickling nests of nerves here and there -- barry is gasping, writhing, lithe and wanton, but his grin is still there, teeth pushed adoringly against harrison's neck like one would worship the skin of an apple, gentle until bruised. )

It's -- ( he shudders with a gasp, turning his face up to bite at wells' jaw. ) -- kinda what I'm known for.

( or what he will be known for, when the flash breaches the walls of central city and extends to other walks of the world and protects everyone and not just his citizens. with wells at his side, of course, being the guiding force he needs to hold his hand while he goes back -- runs fast enough, hard enough, chases the man in yellow enough to the day fifteen years ago where barry will be able to rewrite his own history, where barry will be the one in charge for once. not like now, where he's all but submitted to wells -- but that's different from the man in yellow, wells is someone he trusts, someone he lets inside all the small, secret parts of him, feels him infiltrate his inner walls and can only smile in response to it. he can't even bring himself to think about iris, as if to cover up how good he truly feels with a tortured, scarlet and needy cock leaking between their stomachs, because his thoughts are all central to the swollen man beneath him, the almost tangible electricity sparking between them.

leaning back, hands that had braced on the back of the wheelchair now go to harrison's knees so barry can swirl his hips, vibrations settled into a smaller thrum. his hair is all askew, lips parted for ( not quite so ) quiet moaning, his cheeks all flustered up from a pent up orgasm that wells denies him, that barry craves like nothing else. he swivels, rocks his hips and makes an awkward move that has wells slipping out. ) Ugh, shit. (and he quickly readjusts, kneeling back up on the chair ( hoping it doesn't break under their conjoined weight ) and sinks down on wells' cock all over again, sighing with eyes rolled back into his head.

after a second: )

N-no, by more I meant... more.

( still embarrassed to say grab my dick, with wells' cock buried down to the hilt inside of him. )

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