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The lacing of boots, now that was easy, that John could do with his eyes closed, using his teeth. But corsetry? Sheer witchery! Bracing one leg against the bed posts they didn't have while Sherlock gasped and pleaded, "tighter," almost made him feel guilty. Almost. Yet that silhouette, all tiny waist and beckoning arse was appeasement aplenty. Trust those damned Victorians to never make anything easy.
John winced in sympathy. “Look love, this can’t be healthy.”
Sherlock inhaled sharply. “Nonsense, people have been wearing corsets for centuries!” He tilted an en-ruffled arse invitingly.
John swallowed, suppressing the urge to climb on board then and there and rut himself silly. He spread his knees against the edge of the bed, perhaps a little wider than necessary and hauled on the laces until he found himself groin deep in corseted detective. It was pointless to pretend this wasn’t having an effect on his anatomy.
His lover arched his spine and pressed back encouragingly, voice pitched perfectly. “Tighter, if you’re going to mount me.”
Damned if John could refuse Sherlock when he was dripping in come fuck me.
One last tug and the edges cleaved neatly.
The air stilled around the slow drag of a zipper, the rustle of denim pushed low on eager hips and the sweet slide of tongue into proffered booty.
