John moans at the feeling of Sherlock spreading him, pushing his tail up and out of the way to expose his entrance. He knows it must be flushed pink already, from Sherlock’s too-gentle probing and playing, but now his pants are off and he’s on his belly in bed, rocking his hips to try and find some relief as Sherlock observes him leisurely.
Finally, finally, he feels the brush of Sherlock’s hair against his bare arse, warm breath ghosting over where he is obscenely exposed, and Sherlock’s broad thumb pressing where he is oh-so-sensitive – at the underside of his tail, at the base, where fur becomes flesh. The first touch of Sherlock’s tongue to his hole makes him cry out, groaning unabashedly at the hot-slick-wet sensation.
He’s eaten out with the precision and focus he’s come to know, with Sherlock; little kitten licks and deep thrusts of his tongue that keeps John wriggling backwards to meet every stroke. Sherlock reaches up and tugs at one sandy ear, reminding John to keep still as best he can, but John knows he can’t help it – under Sherlock’s expert tongue, he’s wanton and wet in a way only the detective can make him.
*MAKING BUNNYNOISESACROSSTHETABLEFROMJILL*fjkfdkhfdjkfdeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeehnnnnnnnn
Dear god, I think I’m dying.
