bakerstreet | Mid and fuck makes mid-fuck

Skip to Main Content

Entry tags:

Mid and fuck makes 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! Here are some optional prompts, if you want 'em.
Keep going and finish the act.
Go for another round or have fun with cuddling and afterplay.
Have fun!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Can't believe I let you turn me away from nightmare alien fuckery to this downright conventional happy ending bullshit. Scandalo.]

[There's a reason this closet is the one he picked for their brief escapade, found while snooping boredly around an overstated gala they'd been required to attend. Real fur - exotic - not the only mildly-convincing synthetics favoured in the current fashions of high society. The proprietors shouldn't have that, not after it was banned in a well-intentioned but ultimately worthless attempt to pay lip service to the idea that life should have an inherent value. It's an extra gift for his employer, the man who's built his career around knowing his friends and rivals have naughty little secrets to exploit. But it's also not the first thing on their minds at the moment.

His right hand hasn't left his lover's cock since the door closed, at first cradling him with the same firm insistence as the kiss that took his lips before the pressure melted into teasing strokes while his other hand worked down the buttons of his formal jacket and the shirt underneath. Gloved fingertips dipped beneath his waistband as the shirt was untucked and pulled aside, only to dance away again, knuckles grazing affectionately at his length beneath the crisp line of his trousers - a playful promise that he won't at any point forget why they've come here.

But then the hands are gone, and it's his body being used to cage the other against the plush furs at the back of the closet, kisses trailing indulgently along his jaw and down his warm neck until another sound altogether cuts through the darkness.

The coarse hiss of a blade tearing through something expensive, the supple fabric of a skirt or dress whose owner is less important to Deimos than the momentary pleasure of playing this game with his high-strung companion. He knows the reprimand is coming, silences it prematurely with a sly kiss and the pull of teeth at his lip while his hands work quickly to bind the wrists and pull them up over one of the sturdy hooks protruding from the wall. So convenient. So pretty, his sultry Earthborn aristocrat disheveled and strung up for the taking amidst so many other illicit treasures.

The fighter makes a mischievous show of letting the thin sliver of light trickling in glint off the knife in his hand, drawing the cool flat of the blade harmlessly over the skin of his captive's collar...edge tipping suggestively over the curve of bone in a display that's in appearance so much more threatening than they both know it ever truly is.

Because that's been a part of their arrangement from the very beginning, the first time they came together: the simple agreement that if it comes down to it, if they're caught, Deimos is allowed to be thrown to the wolves to make sure Phobos's reputation stays pristine.]

[You can alien fuck Phobos next time, pinky swear.]

[He knew it was coming, was expecting this all night. This moment, the perfect moment to steal away, to melt into the crowd, and then to touch and taste and moan, frantically, half-dressed and wanting more.

He knew it would come. It always happens on evenings like this, on evenings where he is scheduled to talk about Project Thebes, its dismantlement, the disservice the fighter and navigator system has done to a generation of young men. He feels the weight of his gaze on his back, and it's different somehow and suddenly his hands are on him and it's that night on the Sleipnir all over again, heated and desperate and inexorable.

He doesn't resist, he never resists. Not since they met again on the transport ship. The last thing he sees before being engulfed in darkness is the glint in Deimos's gray eyes. He doesn't see anything, but he feels... something soft against his cheek... fabric wrapped against his wrists... fingers grazing the front of his trousers... lips, hot and wet against his...

And then it all ends, too soon.]

Don't be precious. I have twenty minutes before they come looking for me.

[Twenty minutes before he stands on that stage and talks of officers matching and swapping young soldiers like perverse matchmakers, of inmates pressured to join the military and to have sex with their partners using any means possible, of feelings -young lives- being weaponized as part of the war effort...

About how Project Thebes fucked up a whole generation.
About how he found out. How he escaped.
While his wife claps from the front row, blonde and lovely and supportive.

Deimos's knife glints and he feels the cold metal of the blade right above his collar, feels it all the way down to his groin. The blunt edge drags against his skin and he throws his head back, exposing more of the pale skin of his throat, painfully aroused.

Maybe he didn't escape after all.]

Fuck me.

[Don't be precious, Phobos says, as if his protest has ever done anything but fuel Deimos's playful rebellion when no one's watching. He behaves so well under the scrutiny of Earth's public eye - cleaned up nicely and committed to the role of just another disaffected soldier turned stoic bodyguard, of pretending to be another victim broken by the war effort and not from growing up among the unwanted cast-off on the colonies of Mars. Moments like this, hidden away with his clever, silver-tongued partner writhing hotly under his touch...they're his reward.

He throws his head back and Deimos wants nothing more than to bite, to sink his teeth in as he fucks into him and mark that pale, pretty flesh as his. But that's against the rules. Phobos - Jules - is married now, to a pretty and faithful wife who deserves better than to have been sold off to a man whose image is a blatant lie. He can't be marked in any way that might give hint to his infidelity. To the fact that, for all his sharp words denouncing the system that created it, it's his former fighter that still stands at his flank, watchful, protective - who still crawls into his bed on lonely nights to prove why they still refer to each other in private by the names they were assigned. Phobos and Deimos - dreadful, symmetric, immutable. They'll have time for that later.

For now, Deimos consoles himself with placing another kiss to the vulnerable arch of his neck, this one softer and sickeningly sweet with longing because it's the only way he can trust himself to move on. He twirls his knife on his fingertip, letting it snap closed and fall easily into his sleeve while he begins to kiss down the exposed line of his lover's torso.

Slow, practically chaste kisses at odds with the speed with which his hands divest his lower body of every article of clothing that might get in the way of Deimos's plans for it. Five minutes to clean up and put themselves back together as if this never happened is a generous estimate, more than they'll need. The rest belongs to Deimos, and he knows exactly what to do with each piece of it. Knows Phobos didn't come prepared for him - he rarely does, talks a lot but in practice prefers to set the concepts of efficiency and expediency aside in favour of having it all lavished upon him by a partner who's willing to do the work themselves. Lucky that Deimos is always willing, even eager, to serve.

He doesn't dispense entirely with the innocent act, even as his butterfly kisses find their way up the shaft of his cock, cradled against his cheek by the sleek palm of his glove until he's worked his way to the tip and...there it is, his mark, the one that they agreed on. Silly that he lets it satisfy him so easily. The last of his sweet kisses is broken by the sly curl of his tongue over the piercing to tug once, possessively, before he begins to take Phobos into his mouth.]

[Deimos leans in and Phobos's pulse quickens at the warm breath on his throat. He bites back a moan, expecting, hoping for, a flash of pain that will not come. He can't help himself, can't help but feel disappointed by the soft tender kiss, the sort of fond kiss his wife gives him when she finds the kids asleep with him, on the large antique sofa near the massive stone hearth of the great room. It seems almost wrong here, in a coat closet, with the stray who followed him home from the cold nothingness of space.

They've talked about this very issue at length, of course, anticipated every aspect of their trysts, reducing it to some sort of carefully bargained transaction between them. They agreed that they couldn't take any chances of being discovered -for his family, for his career, for the military reforms he was championing.

They agreed they couldn't leave a single mark.

Sometimes he wishes they hadn't.

But Deimos continues his inexorable path downwards, until he's on his knees in front of him, and Phobos can't look away, his eyes having finally adjusted to the darkness of the closet: among the arousal, the need, there is pride, pride at having tamed the skittish wild thing that was assigned to him all those years ago. Something akin to man's pride at turning the fiercely independent wolf into a loyal dog.

He growls:]

Take off your gloves...

[Before he can continue, Deimos acts, his tongue curling around the piercing he got for him and his breath catches in his throat. He's moaning before Deimos even takes him in his mouth, his tongue impossibly wet and warm on the underside of his dick. It's all he can do not to move.]

[He knows the way Phobos looks at him, like a pet, a tool, a plaything, and he doesn't mind. In a way that's what he is, and he's proud of it - he has only to be there to share in the lavish wealth his partner has always known; he lives with them, wears clothes they paid for, has a place at their table drinking their wine when he wants it because Phobos married a woman too kind to let the man - a friend - her husband trusts with his personal protection ever think he isn't cherished by the family. To be a possession is so much more than he was before.

It doesn't matter that he's a secret. He's loyal.

Loyalty and obedience, however... two different things. They don't always overlap. Deimos has heard the command, of course, but he ignores it in favour of letting his mouth sink down on Phobos's cock, fully, until its complete length is seated firmly in his throat and he stops, suppressing a shudder. Savouring the way his muscles beg to clench around the intrusion while his hands caress Phobos's thighs in long, smooth strokes to answer those pretty moans - prepared to hold him down if he has to: not yet. He's halfway tempted to test his lover's patience, to see how much desire he can milk from him with slow, purposeful contractions before he breaks and fucks him, violently. But that would mean testing his own patience as well, and he wants too much right now to play that game.

Instead he grips Phobos's thighs briefly and draws back, sucking indulgently as his gaze - hazy with lust - flicks up.]

[Of course Deimos doesn't listen. He never does. No, that's not true, he never does in private. In public, he's perfect: always a step behind, always obedient, ever the faithful dog. But behind closed doors, he bares his fangs, he challenges him. Behind closed doors, Phobos lets Deimos lead, and he knows the dog won't bite.

Metaphorically or not.They have rules about that.

Deimos takes him in his mouth and it's just like the first time, wet and warm and exhilarating, something he never knew he needed until the moment Deimos's lips first wrapped around his cock on the transport ship all those years ago. To think of all the time wasted during the war, each huddled on their bunks pretending to ignore the other, each intent on every exhale on every rustle of military- issued sheets if it came from the other, when they could have been touching each other instead.

A loud moan escapes Phobos as he feels the lightest scrape of teeth against his dick, as Deimos's tongue, insistent, presses against the underside of his shaft... as Deimos takes him in his entirety, as if it was the simplest, more natural act in the world, and then looks up at him, gray eyes...

Phobos's breath catches in his throat. Other than that one careless admission on his part, the drunken "I was so hung up on you back then" that started it all, they've done their best not to give this a name. Affair, quick fuck, relationship, none of the words fit: too taudry, too reductive, too mundane.

But the gray eyes that are focused on nothing but him, like he's the only thing that matters in the universe... they make him feel wanted more than any words ever could.

And there's nothing Phobos ever wanted more than to be wanted.

Eyes wide, hips bucking of their own accord, he moans the name that he alone uses now: ]

Deimos...

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only