bakerstreet | I like it risky

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I like it risky

Risky Rendezvous

HOW TO PLAY

Comment: info, preferences, prompts you like, desired roles, etc.
Reply: to others.
RNG: if you'd like. Otherwise, go nuts.

PROMPTS

petplay: All good pets need to be trained. Of course, they naturally want to please master or mistress, so taking to the leash and collar is in their blood. You may want to give them a helping hand, though, and keep those temptations like acting like a human out of their sights.

daddy/baby girl: Or something more gender neutral. Whatever the case, you love taking care of your little one and spoiling them...unless they need punished for being a brat. They may be too young, but you can't help yourself.

medical play: The doctor will see you now.

bondage: Whips and chains excite you. Ropes aren't too bad, either.

religious: Forgive me father, for I have sinned. And now, I'll have to confess it all.

let go: You've got all your shit together in life. In your private life, though, you like to let go and lose yourself - either by being rough and controlling someone else or being controlled.

student/teacher: Young teacher, the subject of school girl fantasies. You know the drill. Somebody's staying after class.

non-con: They say no, but you know they mean yes.

master/servant: Maid or butler uniform optional.

newlyweds: There's nothing like your wedding night.

cheating: Your cheatin' heart may or may not be in the right place.

robbery: Give up all your goods and give up something else, too.

incest: It's all relative.

crossdressing: Girls will be girls and boys will be girls.

police: Ready for a game of good cop, bad cop?

wanton: Oe of you has all the trappings of a slut, with all that ill-repute, and the other has to put them in their "place." Dirty talk, sexy clothing, toys, maybe even glory holes, oh my! The more perverse, the better.

strangers: You'd never do this with someone you just met! Good thing you've really known each other forever.

prostitution: All the naughtiness of an appointment between a prostitute and a John.

nurturing: We know all of you love a mother or father figure.

someone else: Usually, a lover calling out someone else's name is anathema, but now, it's apropos..

RUSSIAN ROULETTE

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[ slight f/m pref, but whatevs is fine. just no barchie, please.

voicetesting and canon watching, so be gentle. ]

"I can give you what you want," whispered Llyrath against Merrick's ear, lifting his glass of wine from around the other man's body so that Merrick could drink from it.

"If only you'd let me?"

A shudder rolled through the slim man's spine, a muscle standing out in his narrow jaw. He turned his head away from those hissing, whispering promises. He had been weak once before. He wouldn't be again.

"You're not...what I want." He whispered. "You're just...a mirror to it. An imitation."

"Neither of us can have what we want. Not openly, or fully," murmured Llyrath, letting the other man go. After a moment of staring at it, he drained his cup, and let it hang from his slack hand.

"Isn't this better than just the imagination?"

Merrick's jaw clenched even tighter. "I have more than just my imagination." But even to his own ears it sounded weak, more like an excuse than an assured fact. He looked at the demon's strange, dark features, and his chin raised. "He cares for me." He shared a look with Llyrath, a sharp spark, something that the two of them would both know and understand. That those mild words carried weight when it came to him.

"Oh, darling-- I know."

He smoothed his hand along Merrick's upper arm. Placating, gentle, and his posture was designed to appease-- smaller even than Merrick, face uptilted to him, appealing.

"He cares for us both in... his own way. One that's not quite enough, sometimes, for either of us. I don't mean to insinuate myself into that, or to take it from you. Just... to give us both something we crave, a little. When... I can't be close to him, sometimes I... want to be him. Even just sit quietly before a mirror to work. As if somehow that can bring me closer."

His smile was small and tight.

Merrick felt that hand one his arm like a brand. His eye squeezed shut, and he swayed in place, as if Llyrath's words had struck him, and in a way, they had. His tongue flicked out, and pressed against his lower lip, breath sucking in.

"I wish," He swallowed hard and tried again. "I understand." His eye fluttered open, "There's just some part of him that I can never touch." The light in his eye turned accusing for a moment. You're the part that I cannot touch. He was silent for a long, long moment.

You're weak.

"Let me see him."

Llyrath swallowed. Set his glass aside. Rolled his shoulders, straightened them.

Symon had always stood like that, some subtle marriage of military at-rest with the confident, easy straightness of an apex predator. A relaxed ease to him, a slight prowl to his stride. Hungry, hungry eyes one could mistake for many other things. A polite smile that showed only the pale tips of his teeth; it was so lovely, when he bared them in the grip of his passions.

The change rippled over Llyrath like a chameleon changing colors; clothes, body, height, breadth. His pale eyes gleamed, and his mouth formed a small, cutting smile. He tipped his head to the side a little, lifted his brows as if to ask, 'do you like it?'

Merrick watched Llyrath, rapt, as the demon slowly shifting, all the details coming in. And they were prefect. Merrick stepped closer, mesmerized, and now utterly unselfconcious. His long fingers pushed up Llyrath's cheek, feeling that fine scar the the corner of his mouth, the fine crow's feet that crinkled out from his eyes, blue, the exact shade of cornflower. His fingers slipped down from Llyrath's cheek, and went down to his shirt. Slowly, he began to unbutton it, the fine fabric easily slipping free from their fasteners. His hands smoothed the shirt open, exposing perfectly tanned, weathered skin. Gently his fingers traced over the thick whorl of scarring over his left shoulder, and his eye fluttered shut, guided by muscle memory. There wasn't a ridge out of place, but he wasn't surprised. It was Lyr's mark on Symon, after all.

He loves that damn scar. More than he loves me.

He looked at Lyr once more, his fingers spread over the scar. "It's perfect."

Llyrath let Merrick explore. Let his hands water without even a thoughtful hum. Let him pick apart the shirt, let him rub against the scar. But for that he parted his lips. Let his eyes fall briefly closed, savoring the sensation.

And then cracked his eyes open, watching Merrick as if he might be good to eat.

"Perfect?" he murmured, reaching for Symon's soft-voiced whisper.

"But you haven't checked everywhere."

Merrick shuddered, a visceral reaction of that whisper. His shoulders rolled back automatically, straightening, as if in parade's rest, his gaze flicking to Lyr for cues, for commands.

Thankfully, he was given one, and without missing a beat, he finished unbuttoning Llyrath's shirt, hand dropping down to the belt.

It was Symon's belt. Not a demon's trick, but it was Symon's, he recognized the notches on the buckle, on the length. His lips pursed for a moment, but he didn't comment.

He didn't want to break the illusion after all.

The buckle jangled as he undid it, fingers smoothing over the line of Llyrath's fly.

Llyrath leaned his hips forward a little, putting pressure on the other man's fingertips. But his eyes watched Merrick, as he imagined Symon would, testing, watching, weighing.

He didn't say anything. Only ran the tip of his tongue over his lips, very briefly.

Merrick's fingers didn't tremble as he slowly opened Llyrath's fly, peeling back the fabric. The curls nestling around Lyr's prick were several shades darker than the the hair on his head, matching the thick line of hair traveling up his belly.

Llyrath was already rock-hard, and the sight of it, made Merrick's own prick stir. His fingers wrapped around velvet-hot skin, stroking once, thumb rubbing underneath the sensitive crown. His smile widened as the movement coaxed a pearly drop of precum to bead from the slit. Just as it was supposed to.

His bright, grey eye flicked up to Symon, waiting for his next cue.

A soft sigh of satisfaction hissed passed Llyrath's parted lips. And when Merrick lifted his eyes, he tipped his chin and eyes down. Rocked the heft of his prick against Merrick's palm, which felt ravenously needful after that teasing contact.

Kneel.

His eyes glinted expectantly, and the fingers of his right hand twitched, ready to smooth up and through Merrick's hair.

Merrick sank down without a word. The ground was hard against his knees, but he knew the place, knew where he existed in it, understood it. He felt the fingers card through his hair, and sighed softly. He looked up, expectant at Symon, at Lyr, and gently, parted his lips.

"Just your tongue," whispered Llyrath, eyes bright in the high, hard planes of his face. "For now."

He didn't move a hand down to grip the base of his prick to guide it, but just shifted his hips and weight enough to slide the soft-skinned length of it lightly along the softness of Merrick's cheek. His hand knotted gently into Merrick's hand, tugging gently. Almost fondly.

"You're so very good."

There was no denying the pleasure that passed over Merrick's fine features, a spasm almost. But the praise elevated him, and he seemed to glow within, rapturous, and his hands spread over Lyr's hips, thumbs rubbing at the hollow there. He turned so he could nuzzle, first. He twitched a little; there was a distinct lack of scent. The warmth was there, but no musk, and when his tongue flicked out, he couldn't taste the familiar salt of skin. Instead, there was something else there, a strangeness, low and subtle, like licking the length of a steel blade.

I could be cut at any time.

His fingers carded slowly through Merrick's hair. He tugged here and there, faintly, to pull the slimmer man away from the work of his mouth, to make him strain for it, to watch the flit of his desire over his face.

"My good boy," he whispered, the words barely more than a breath exhaled over his still lips.

A whine curled from Merrick's lips when he was pulled back, and gently he strained against the grip, the pale line of his throat standing out. When he was allowed to pleasure Lyr again the whine morphed into purr.

"Please," He whispered, between soft licks, "Let me take you in all the way. I can I do it, I can please you, just let me."

"Show me," commanded Llyrath, tipping his chin up, relaxing his grip on Merrick's hair just a shade, as if to give him permission. His prick was aching and flushed a dark, rosy red, especially near its head, which glistened from the slick of Merrick's lip and the smear of its own precum.

Merrick needed no second command to do so. With the loosening of the grip he pushed forward, his already parted lips sliding slickly over Lyr's cock. The tone was perfect, that ring of command, underpinned with that tense lust. He was one of the few people who could do that to Symon, to break past that cool detachment, and make him want.

His head bobbed, pushing forward, the weight of Symon's cock against his tongue heavy and welcome.

Llyrath's eyes narrowed like a cat's, arch but obsessively, almost furiously interested, watching the slow slide of the ring of Merrick's lips past the glistening, darkly-flushed head of his prick and slowly down its shaft.

"Yes," he hissed, very softly. "More."

More, more, Merrick could always give more. Could, would, reach deep into the well of himself and bring forth more to feast upon. There was a soft, wet click only audible to his ears, as he relaxed the back of his throat, let the crown of Symon's cock, slip in, nestled inside him. His lashes were a dark curve against his cheek, and his chin tipped but a little, aiding the slow slide of the cock down his throat. His eye fluttered open again as he felt the thrust of Symon's hips, and he looked up, looked up at his captain, memorizing the fierce fire in his eyes, the fire that flared there, the fire that Merrick was sure would consume from the inside out.

Because of the demon-

Merrick paused, the ground seeming to shift under his knees, his mind reworking itself. He looked up at Lyr, breathing hard through his nose, re-orientating himself. Not Symon, not his captain, but a simulacrum. The very best he could get, perhaps, but still, at the end of the day, Llyrath was just an imitation.

What am I an imitation of then? He knew what he was for Symon; strangely, enough, a mirror image of Llyrath. Or rather, what Lyr could have been, a perfect, competent lieutenant, unwavering, unquestioning. A means for Symon to slake that unqunechable need to be be in control.

But what did he give Lyr?

Llyrath fought not to hitch his breath, to begin pumping and slowly working at himself the way he would with a subordinate. Business and mana and nothing else. He tried to see Merrick in double-vision, through his own lense and that of Symon's perception.

You can't give him too much, must leave him wanting, school him, teach him, command him, whispered Symon's voice in his mind.

Give him more, what he wants, make his eyes light up, make him come harder than he ever has, give him his dreams, his dreams, the things he thinks he'll never have, countered his own.

He ran his tongue along the tines of his teeth, swallowing thickly. Let Merrick feel and hear the sound of his breath hitching as he slid his mouth more than halfway down his prick. Sucked in a breath meant to be shallow and let it fill him, chest rising, almost meeting the faint lightheadedness that feeling his aching prick so warmly and tightly enfolded gave him.

Leaned his hips towards that wet, sucking heat just a little, to press Merrick's lips around the uttermost hilt of him. A soft sound kindled in his throat, too brief to be a proper growl, possessive, raw, wanting.

His hand slowly clenched in Merrick's hair. Clenched so hard it went white-knuckled, and his nearly-closed eyes gleamed almost white-hot.

Mine.

The pain rippled through his scalp, a deep seated ache that stoked the flames of his arousal. It urged him one, and he pushed deeper, the thoughts flying out of his head once more. As much as the grip would allow him, he worked his mouth over the shaft between his lips. His fingers played with the other man's soft sack, gently fondling at him as his tongue curled along the length of him, playing along the throbbing vein at the underneath. He lost himself in this, giving pleasure, worshiping Lyr, this idol to his wants, spit slicking his lips and slowly dripping down his chin.

Llyrath's breath quickly went ragged, formed into quick pants, and he felt the slick of Merrick's spit swiftly coating his chin, the more he worked at his shaft. And dark gods, the delicious heat, the way he opened his throat and forced more, more over himself, the faint fluttering, throbbing flexing of the fine muscles of his throat...

He'd be panting in seconds, not minutes, and rocked his hips a little to press himself into the other man's throat. He tipped his head back and groaned, full-throated, to the roof of the tent, his fingers sifting again through Merrick's hair, before curling on a fistful along the back of his head, helping rock him closer, deeper.

Merrick's hands curve over Symon's hips, over the half-bared swell of his ass and tighten, his fingers dimpling into flesh. He managed a moan around the hard, pulsing prick in his mouth, eye fluttering shut, the slim line of his throat working as he swallowed the other man down.

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I like it risky

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