They tried it with handcuffs.
Of all the things they do, have done, will do, the only thing both seem disinclined to is bondage.
Not that they haven’t tried.
Before the handcuffs there was one of Sherlock’s belts, playfully wrapped round John’s wrists. Sherlock didn’t like it even as he did it, John didn’t care so long as Sherlock’s fingers went…oh god yes.
After the belt but before the cuffs there was that thing with the pillow case, but Sherlock’s arms were too long, and John kept asking if blood was reaching his fingers and everyone lost their erection and to hell with it, never mind.
Then Sherlock pickpocketed Lestrade’s handcuffs that one night and maybe third time’s the charm and the thing was they wanted it to be and that was why they kept trying but they weren’t getting it right and—
"It’s okay, love."
Sherlock mashed his face into the pillow as if his softening cock was John’s fault. “Give me my phone.”
John reached for the mobile, was about to…he dropped the damned device onto the bed and instead pushed his face under Sherlock’s arm and licked.
"Stop it," said the aggrieved man, "I’m not in the mood." But he lifted his arm a little and huffed out a quick breath.
John huffed back and licked some more. He kept at it, slowly, methodically, his breath hot and wet, hot and wet, until Sherlock was hot and the mattress he eventually humped to completion was wet.
Well bondage might not be their thing, but apparently armpits were.
It goes without saying that for the next few weeks a whole festival of tongues, toes, and cocks found their way in there.
They were good weeks.
Previous: Sometimes They Hurry | Next: John Hides Them
Don’t you love it when artwork tells a story? Apparently Urbanbloodlust’s elegant art told this silly-sweet one to me.