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Date Night

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As far as the members of Quartet Fuckfest were concerned, it was a truth universally acknowledged that no foursome can survive without Date Night. No matter how mind-blowing and satisfying the entire symphony was when it played, it was necessary on occasion to break off into duets, to allow for variation and reconnection. It never hurt to tune up a relationship, and Date Night ensured harmony for the whole kinky orchestra.

Date Night had rules. Two partners per date. Partners alternated on a rota. No fixed day of the week or regularity due to complex diaries and work patterns. But dates to be arranged at least a fortnight in advance and only cancelled for reasons of the utmost importance - which a patient at death’s door definitely counted as, but which a crucial test on a decomposing head did not. Likewise, an international terrorist incident counted as valid, but working overtime to fill in blue forms was off the menu of acceptable excuses.

Each man took it in turns to choose what kind of date it would be. Most crucially of all, one request must be made by one partner per date, which must be fulfilled, or at least tried by the other. The request must be made using the phrase "I want...," to encourage honesty. The request must, of course, be consensually agreed upon and never go over anyone's pre-stated hard limits. Still, Date Night was often Experiment Night. Or Secret Fantasy night. Though, just as often, it was dinner and a missionary shag night, depending on mood and circumstance. 

Tonight was a Greg and John night, and both men were looking forward to a bit of quality time together which didn't involve work or day-to-day domestic stuff.

"Date night, Friday. You and me, love," said Greg, clearing away the last of the case notes they'd been archiving together at his Lambeth home.

"Yeah, 'bout time. What are the boys doing for theirs?"

Greg shrugged. "Mumbled something about indexing or cataloguing something or other at Myc's."

"Very suss. They'll be playing doctors and nurses," said John, narrowing his eyes and picturing Sherlock in a little nurse's hat. Or would it be Myc in the hat, and Sherlock with the stethoscope...?

Greg smiled as he watched his lover drifting off to his happy place.

"Nah. They'll be painting each other's bloody toe nails again, when they've got Rosie off to sleep. Face pack and pedicure night, if I know those two little flowers." 

Last time he had caught them at it, they'd denied all knowledge afterwards in a classic bit of Holmesian revisionist history. It had simply never happened, they agreed.

"So what do you fancy Friday?” asked John. “Usual rules."

"Yeah, my turn to ask, isn't it?"

"Yep. So, what do you want?" John wondered whether he'd be tied up and submitted to the ice cubes and candle wax again. 

The answer, when it came, rather surprised him.

"I want you in a netball skirt and a pair of gym knickers."

"You what?!"

Greg shrugged, entirely unapologetic. There was no bigger waste of time than being apologetic for things like that.

"Yeah. Dunno why. Just always fancied them. Your arse would look fantastic in a little navy netball skirt and a pair of big girl's panties."

John considered this last statement and wondered whether it was true. Only one way to find out, he supposed. 

"Full of surprises, aren't you? Do you want me a girl? I'm not doing make-up!" he said, quickly. He had nothing against it per se, but he really didn't think it suited him. Only Holmeses could pull off a bit of eyeliner and mascara, and he was absolutely certain he'd seen under-eye concealer and eyebrow shapers in Mycroft's dresser before, though it was all very deniable.

Greg was singularly unfussed about make-up, and about girls, really. He was fussed about his blokes, though, and he was fussed about dressing them up in dirty costumes so he could fuck them ragged.

"Don't mind either way. Just want you bent over in a little pleated thing and a tight pair of elasticated undies. Maybe a little vest and a bib. Sport socks and plimsolls. Reckon that makes me a perv?" asked Greg, equably.


John mentally rolled his eyes. Lestrade and his sock fetish.

"Cool," said Greg, barely looking up from his paperwork. 

"Want to be my P.E. teacher or something?" probed John, knowing his lover all too well. 

"Yeah, that could work. Or no roleplay at all. See how it goes. Just the outfit, really," said Greg, indifferently.

"Go on, then. But no telling any Holmeses." John could only imagine the teasing, and he shuddered.

"Not a word," promised Greg, zipping his lip with his finger.


When Date Night arrived, John was having second thoughts. And third thoughts, and fourth thoughts. Which is why he hadn't come out of the bathroom for twenty minutes since changing into the requested ensemble. 

"Get a move on, Watson, I wanna see it while I'm still young!" called Greg, pacing up and down outside.

John snorted. "Too late."

"Watch it, or I'll have to get rough with you."


"Yeah, but you have to leave the bathroom first, love."

John sighed and took one last look at himself in the mirror. Maybe it wasn't as silly as he thought.

He braced himself to exit. 

"Right, I'm coming out."

Greg giggled at the phrasing, unable to resist. "Not again! Was once not enough for you?!"

John removed his hand from the door handle.

"Don't you bloody laugh, I'm warning you! Or I'm taking it off and you can wank yourself to sleep."

Greg tutted impatiently. "Shut up moaning and get out here. Let's be having you."

He wanted his naughty netballer. 

John opened the door and stepped out in his thigh-skimming navy skirt, his red team bib with two large white letters on and white vest under it, and his long socks and gym shoes.

"Right. Here I am. See? Ridiculous."

Greg's face lit up in a roguish grin, eyes full of mischief and filthy promise. He looked his lover up and down with a leer, and practically chased him down the corridor to the bedroom.

"Phwoar, sexy legs, give us a cuddle!"

John squeaked and tried to avoid the groping hands, feeling somewhat immodest in his very short skirt and very tight knickers. He placed a defensive hand over his bum as he went.

"Oh, give over! You're laughing. I can see you're laughing. I'm taking it off."

Greg caught up with him in the bedroom, shut the door and swept John into his arms. "Ssh, darlin', don't kick up a fuss. Been on the netball team long, have you?" he said, still grinning and letting his voice drop to his best erotic growl.

"Fuck off!" said John, wiggling and suppressing a chuckle, not wanting to play ball just yet, so to speak. 

"Language. Naughty girl. What's the WA stand for, then?" asked Greg, reading the letters on the bib and stepping back to admire the full effect.

"Fuck's sake, naughty girl...," muttered John, indignantly, pulling his pants out of the crack of his arse where they'd ridden up. "Wing Attack. And I'll attack you if you keep saying things like that," he cautioned with a pointy finger.

Greg stepped in to his lover, and started fiddling with the hem of the skirt. "See, you know all about playing positions, dontcha? Now, let's have a little peek under..." Greg lifted the skirt up and bit his lip at the sight of John's cock outlined against the straining Lycra fabric. His eyes rolled back in pleasure.

"Ooh, Johnnygirl. Those are a bit raunchy." 

John put his hands on his hips, which felt a bit daft as he stood with his skirt lifted at the front. "You're taking the piss... Do you think so?" he finished, flattered despite his resolve not to be. 

Greg hummed appreciatively. 

"Ooh, yeah. Don't leave much to the imagination, do they? Sporty little strumpet, you are," he breathed, insinuating his hand between the bare thighs.

John slapped his hand away. "Greg, seriously, don't call me that!"

"Oh, don't be a killjoy. Bend over and show us your knickers. It's Date Night." 

John sighed and did as he was told. 

"All right. There. Happy?"

"You better believe it, babe," growled Greg. 

John felt burning eyes on his clothed arse and shivered slightly. His cocked twitched in the restricting underwear, and he suddenly became aware of feeling a bit sexy.

"If Sherlock and Mycroft catch us at this, we'll never hear the bloody end of it," he said, imagining the ghastly fallout of witticisms and immature giggling, even though he knew for a fact that a certain lippy young Holmes got off on wearing a pair of pink frilly knickers under his trousers whilst out on cases sometimes. And a certain older red-headed Holmes definitely had an as-yet undeclared suspender belt and stockings stashed somewhere in his wardrobe.

Greg ran his hand over John's broad back as he bent. 

"No, you'll be wearing that 24/7 if they do find out. Mycie'll go nuts for it. We'll never get you off his face."

John saw a vivid mental image of that and groaned.


"Yep. Lock'll want one. We could start a team. I'll put a goal up in the garden."

"Think you're funny, don't you, Lestrade?"

"Yep. Flip your skirt up for me. Up and over," said Greg, in a low, provoking tone.

John looked round balefully at him. "Dirty git."

Greg glared at him with mock sternness. "Do it, cheeky lass, or I'll put you over me knee and give you what for."

"For God's sake..." John rolled his eyes, but he knew such a thing was well within Greg's usual MO. He obligingly flipped the pleated fabric over his back to show off his best assets.

Greg moaned helplessly and palmed himself through his trousers. "Oooh, that's it..."

"Like that, do ya?" John sensed the tables turning as his partner hastily undid his flies and dropped his trousers.

"Yeah. Tight little bum in sensible navy knickers. Fuck me... Hold still." He placed a firm hand on John's lower back and released his cock from his pants with the other, rubbing it steadily up and down the crack of his lover's pert bum and across each rounded cheek.  "Ooh, lovely legs...," he crooned, running his hand down the backs of John's thighs.

John breathed a little faster and shook his head. "I'm sure this is wrong, you know."

"Ooh, so am I, love. Close your legs, I'm gonna put it...yeah, between your thighs..." 

"Whatever turns you on, mate." John clenched his legs tighter as Greg slotted himself in between his lightly haired thighs, grunting as he pushed, using John's hips to brace himself. 

"This bloody turns me on. Mmf. Now, pull your pants down just at the top. Just so I get a peek of your bumcheeks...," he instructed between little gasps of pleasure.

John complied, slowly drawing them down teasingly. "That enough?"

"Yep. Now slide them down a bit more...," prompted Greg. "Yeah. Bit more. Oh, Jesus, love, your arse. Just wanna sink my teeth into it," he groaned, his little thrusts getting more erratic and firm. John felt a bit jostled, but no less turned on.

"Hurry up, I'm getting a back ache. Ow!" he exclaimed at the stinging smack that was delivered to one unprotected cheek.

Greg's eyes were dilated with wolfish lust now. "None of your lip, missy. Let those little gym knickers fall to your ankles, and spread your legs further apart, so they stretch."

Greg stepped away as John straddled so the elastic waistband of his pants stretched taut between his feet.

"Like that?" he asked, blushing, glad his partner couldn't see his face from this position. Air kissed his open bumhole, and he heard Greg masturbating himself with a quick, jerky hand.

The back of his skirt slipped down to cover his modesty once more, but Greg was having none of it.

"Yeah. Push your skirt back up, bare that little bottom to me." 

John obeyed, face very hot now. "Funny feeling, having a hard-on under a skirt. New one on me," he said, distracting himself from his slight mortification. 

"Ooh, you're gonna get buggered so hard, you saucy netballing minx...," growled Greg, in full beast mode now, his cock hot and heavy in his hand. John was frustrated about being the observed object without so much as a slick hand or a probing finger to help him out in his horny and humiliated predicament.

"Are you gonna touch me, then, or just stare at it all night?! Ow! Greg, stop smacking me, that bloody hurt!"

"I said behave, didn't I? Now look back at me. Stay bending." Greg simply refused to give in to lip, and was long inured to ignoring it from all three of his mouthy lovers.

John huffed. 

"Fine." He glanced round with a furious look that ill-suited his position. Greg tutted in annoyance.

"Not with a bloody grumpy glare, thank you. Look back all wide-eyed and sorry, and, you know...," he said, suggestively, prompting John to give him what he wanted. 

"All impressed? Is that it? All 'ooh, Mr Lestrade, you're so big and my bum's so tight and my skirt’s all tiny’...," moaned John, with breathy sarcasm. 

"Yeah, that's the one. Suck your finger,” panted Greg, squeezing himself.

John unceremoniously plonked his forefinger in his mouth with bad grace. Greg flicked his arse with the back of his hand. "Like you mean it, dickhead."

"ThithisstupiddGweg!" John was irritated to hear himself whining, and wondered why he'd agreed to this nonsense in the first place.

Greg merely chuckled softly and moved forward to continue to rub his cock, sticky with precome, up and down John's cleft.

"Ooh, I like the lisp. Say something else. 'Ooh Gweg, you're thuch a howwible bathtard! Oh, thpank me’...," he mimicked in a high-pitched femme tone.

"Gweg! I mean, Greg! If I was Lock, I'd have kicked you in the shin and stormed off by now... Ooh...!"

Finally. Some friction. Greg's hand slipped round and began rubbing him while the very tip of his wet prick prodded at the centre of the bending netballer's exposed arsehole.

"Ssh, don't get cross, sweetcheeks. Let Greg cop a feel of you round the front. Ooh, blimey, she is a big girl..." 

John snapped and Greg winced. "Ow!" 

"Nope, you've had it, mate." He stood up and let his skirt fall back over his sadly unused bum. 

Gerg rubbed his shin. "John! Aw, John, it was just getting fun!" he protested as John sat on the bed with his arms folded.

"Piss off, you're not taking it seriously," he accused, stripping off his vest and bib.

"Come on, Johnny, don't be like that," pleaded Greg, dismayed to see the white knee socks being removed as well. 

John leant to the floor and picked up his discarded pants. 

"There, you can have those sensible knickers to toss off into. Not getting up my arse tonight," he decreed, and swept from the room in a very Sherlockian huff, taking the remains of his costume with him. 

"Oi, don't flounce off in your little netball skirt!" called Greg, suppressing a giggle underneath his disappointment. His erection had not wilted and he followed his flouncing boyfriend out to the spare room where he'd stashed his kit bag.

"Pervert!" accused John, wiggling out of the flimsy piece of pleated fabric and letting it fall.

"Prick-tease!" threw back Greg, playfully, waving his hard-on in his direction.  

"Bugger off, Lestrade. Date Night's over!" John turned his back and Greg could not help but admire the view. Watson in his natural state - firm-buttocked, muscular-shouldered, sturdy-legged - was far superior to a naughty netballer. 

"No, it isn't. I'm sorry, love, I take it all back, it was a stupid idea."

"You were...teasing me," pouted John, mostly for effect. 

"Yeah. Horrible sod, aren't I? Let me make it up to you, love? Mm? My big strong rugby lad," he coaxed, coming up behind him and stroking his shoulders gently.

"Can't get round me that easy,” lied John.

Greg kissed at his neck, speaking in a soft, persuasive voice. "Let me have another go at my special request. I want... I want to eat you out right here, and suck you off really deep, and then fuck you nice and slow and easy, until we're both all shagged out and stupid. How's that?"

John shivered. "Yeah, well... That sounds a bit more like it." 

"Oh, Johnnyboy. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to bend over again,” whispered Greg into his lover’s ear with a mucky chuckle.

John turned his head and grinned. "Whatever you want, mate. It's your Date Night, innit?"

John bent over the bed this time, lifting his hips in invitation. Greg grinned and bent himself to his partner's biteable backside, spreading the firm cheeks and breathing in the clean, masculine musk of him. He wetted his lips and press a firm, ardent smooch to the puckered opening.

John groaned lightly in the back of his throat, a helpless little noise, as he was lovingly rimmed. Greg licked and sucked, nibbled and nipped at the sensitive, tender skin, pushing his long, thick tongue inside him and wiggling it with brain-frying slowness. John opened his mouth and let out a continuous low moan as his whole body thrummed with taboo pleasure.

His arms reached out in front of him, grasping the bedclothes as Greg bit down hard on one arsecheek, shaking his head from side to side like a dog with a bone. John went limp and let himself be turned over onto his back. Greg looked hungrily up at him from his position at crotch level, half-on, half-off the bed. He licked his lips and, with a wicked glint, swallowed the quivering prick which jutted from his lover’s groin, taking it into his mouth in one go. He sucked with steady pressure and slow, languorous pulls, lavishing him with his full attention and best, tongue-twisting tricks. John raised his head and went cross-eyed as he watched himself being given such a sensuous, passionate blowjob. 

"Jesus Christ, I love it when you're feeling guilty... Aaah, ooh, Greg...!" 

Greg nodded in agreement and softly stroked at John's balls, loving their cool feel on his palm. He ran two fingers to the ridge of his perineum as he slurped away at his thick, blunt cock, and John hummed with satisfaction, a little note of desperation entering his voice.

Waves of near-climax rolled through him as Greg alternated slow and fast pumps of his head, but just as he got close, Greg pulled off, fumbled in the bedside drawer for the lube, and began slicking up John's hole, still damp and throbbing from his earlier oral ministrations. John did not take his eyes off him, marvelling at the man’s control and intensely romantic air. He'd gone from being lovingly teased, to being made love to, and he far preferred it. 

Greg beamed down at him with fire underlying the adoration. He said nothing, but raised John's legs onto his shoulders, then pressed two slippery fingers back into him, scissoring and massaging him from the inside. Then he lubed himself, running his hand the full length of his cock and squeezing out a few more drops of fluid from his slit for added wetness, before nudging the head against John's dilated hole.

As he was filled, John brought his hands up to Greg's nipples, flicking and twisting them, causing a zing of sensation to shoot through the older man's body and down into his groin. Greg panted roughly as he fell forwards into the pliant form beneath him, and John groaned as he bore down to take him completely in.

Greg delivered on his promise, fucking him slow and easy, but not exactly gently. His hips pushed forward rather than snapping and jerking, but every stroke was deep and deliberate and hard. John gasped with every thrust, rocking his hips up as he was ridden at a leisurely, measured pace. Greg pulled his partner's legs further up, gripping his ankles tightly, and re-angling his own hips. The adjusted position made John exclaim loudly as Greg laid siege to his prostate - until his cries became wails, mingling with Greg's deep grunts and low moans of satisfaction.

When Greg reached down to squeeze and stroke him in rhythm to his fucking, John lost it and threw his head back onto the mattress as he came, howling, over Greg's hand. Greg sped up once John's orgasm was upon him, and he thrust fully seated, barely pulling out at all, just nudging and pushing as hard as he could until he felt his partner clench and pulse around him. He tipped over the edge, screwing his eyes closed as he came deep inside that divine arse, shuddering and biting the inside of his cheek. John moaned along with him, riding out his aftershocks as he clutched at his lover's sweaty back.

They laughed together in low voices, snogging and running their hands through each other's hair in the afterglow. Greg rolled off and John whined as they lost contact. 

"Forgiven me, now?" coaxed Greg, grinning with mischievous charm. 

John's amused snort turned into a yawn. "Yeah. Course. Dirty sod. Don't mind doing it again really. The skirt and pants. Less of the mick-taking next time."

"Aw, love. You can always get your revenge when our next Date Night rolls around. Your turn to decide." 

John perked up, excitedly. "Oh, yeah! Ha. Well, I'll think of something. Might make you be my doggy for the day. It'd suit you."

Greg’s dark eyebrows hit his hairline. "You what?!"

"Yeah, collar and lead, nice little water bowl. Maybe one of those little rubber butt plugs with a tail on the end. Little ears on a hairband. Make you follow me round on all fours, fetch a ball. Lovely."

"You bloody wouldn't!"

John smirked with evil intent. "Bloody would. Got a few weeks to think on that, haven't you?" 

"Bastard Watson. Put him in a netball skirt and he becomes a sadist." 

"Good doggy...,” he replied, patting Greg’s head.

Greg harrumphed and sighed. "Well, as long as you don't take me to the vet to get me balls chopped off, I don't mind."

"Nah. I wouldn't shoot myself in the foot, would I? Not sure the lads would appreciate that one either. There'd be Holmes revenge."

Greg shuddered theatrically. "Nasty. One of the advantages of a quartet, innit? Always someone to leap to your rescue when one of you goes mad with power." 

John nodded, then leaned up on one elbow to look his partner in the eye.

"Quartet's definitely the absolute best. But I do like the duets in between."

Greg smiled warmly. "Me too, love. Now get in the shower, and I'll ring for a pizza."

John looked delighted. "The other advantage of the Watson-Lestrade duo. Illicit pizza. No Holmes disapproval or whining!"

"Mm. Illicit pizza. My favourite kind. Beer in the fridge an' all." 

"Oh, you beauty! God, I love Date Night with you."

"Me too, love. Not missing them a bit?" enquired Greg, knowingly.

John huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, always. But it's nice to do a bit of ordinary bloke stuff. Netball notwithstanding. Any night in with you is a good 'un. Love you, you know."

Greg raised a warning finger. "Oi, don't get soppy or I'll tell Myc."

"Pfft, Myc's the soppiest one!" giggled John.

"I know! Love you too. I know you don't need to hear it as much as some insecure little sods. But I do."

John kissed him and slapped at his arse to encourage him up.

"Come on, you soppy bastard. Illicit pizza with extra jalapenos, please." 

"Yep. Whatever you want, love."