#docmos

It's… It isn't the worst. It's definitely not the worst.

More comfortable than he expected it to be, even with as tight as he has it laced. Mostly black, which is a godsend.

But the glittery gold trim seems so fucking gaudy and… attention seeking. It makes his waist look tiny; not that he's massive without it, but his jacket does a far better job of hiding it than this. And the way it accentuates his chest is just… Maker, kill him now.

Corsets, are bullshit.

"Remind me why I'm stuck wearing this shit again?" he yells to the other side of the bathroom door. The side profile is actually worse somehow. It's muscle. He knows it's muscle. He's packed on a metric ton of the shit over the last several years, but that doesn't make the tight slacks or the juxtaposition of his rear with his midsection any less ridiculous. Somewhere in the back of his mind, 'Baby Got Back' is playing loud and clear. Fuck.

"Because the joint hires pretty boytoys and you're the only one who fits the bill!" Sanford yells back, a snicker from someone else following.

God, fuck, this is stupid.

Reluctantly and with 'bullshit' on his tongue, he steps out of the bathroom where the other three have been waiting for the better part of an hour. No one says anything, which means they're looking, which means they're seeing, and thinking. Deimos crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the closed door with a scowl.

"None of that, come here," Doc says, beckoning him forward and then circling around him, looking the outfit up and down. He fixes the dress shirt collar, then tugs at the corset itself. "Hank, adjust this for me. It needs to be tighter."

"Aw, c'mon!" Deimos protests as Hank moves behind him, heat rushing to his face as the laces are untied and then pulled hard, the corset now tight enough that breathing is just short of easy.

"You have to look the part, Deimos. You'd be fired on the spot if we left it as is," Doc tells him, and it sounds like bullshit but Deimos doesn't know enough about bougie rich asshole culture to argue.

Sanford is staring at him with something akin to a smirk and it has a low growl rumbling in his chest even as Hank's hands linger at his hips.

"What, a guy can't appreciate his buddy cleaning up nice?" Sanford teases as he stands, sauntering over to rest his hands just above Hank's.

"Har-dee-fucking-har, man. I'd sock you if I didn't think it'd rip this thing."

"You're being a baby. It looks good." Sanford's laugh is good-natured and his hands are warm, and it's the only thing protecting him at the moment.

"One second," Doc interjects, cupping Deimos's face and tilting it towards himself so he can rub gold powder into his cheeks with his thumbs.

It feels nice but he's certain it looks ridiculous, but his growl tapers off into a purr all the same.

"There's a good boy, now you look the part."

"Real pretty, ain't he, Hank?" Sanford says, leaning in to ghost lips over the side of Deimos's neck as Hank hums his agreement, hands sliding up to sit at his chest.

The corset suddenly feels smothering. So does the rest of the outfit, but that's besides the point. Deimos tips his head back to welcome the slow kisses that are dotted from the corner of his jaw down to his barely-exposed collarbone, leaning back into Hank as his eyes flutter shut. The outfit just might be worth it. Deimos is about ready to back out of the mission entirely and stay home when Sanford's hands drift down to his ass, Deimos startling with a yelp when those hands grope him hard. And then Doc is shooing Sanford and Hank away before readjusting the shirt collar again.

"After the mission," Doc tells them sternly, effectively pulling Deimos's mind back out of the gutter. "Christ, you're acting like you've never seen him dressed up before."

"Yeah, what he said," Deimos mocks, going to rub at his red face but Doc grabs his wrists to stop him.

"You'll smudge the makeup."

"My bad."

"You gotta make him dress up more often, Doc. He even shaved for once."

"Soft…"

Deimos swats at Hank's hand reaching for his face. "Yeah, yeah, go load the fucking car, why don't ya? Couple'a fuckin' animals."

Sanford makes a talking gesture at him with his hand and rolls his eyes, following Hank out towards the garage. "Whatever you say, fun-size."

He can't help but huff over the nickname, and as soon as the other two men are out of sight, it's Doc's turn to invade his space.

"You do look awfully nice," Doc says, running a finger down one of the pieces of gold trim at the center of his chest, Deimos swallowing hard. "Come back in one piece?"

"Uhuh…" is all that comes to mind, and then even that is gone when Doc leans down to kiss him gently, all the heat from earlier rushing back to his cheeks.

"I expect the corset to still be on when you get back, understood?" he says next, voice much deeper, dangerous, sending a shiver down his spine.

Deimos can only nod, mouth gone dry.

Doc lets him stew in it for a few more moments, and then he straightens up like nothing just happened. "Good boy. Go make me proud," he says, smacking Deimos's ass as he walks past.

"Uhuhyupwilldogottago—" Deimos stammers out, rushing out the door.