Work Text:
Greg Lestrade had barely waited until Sally had pulled up behind the patrol car to get out, slamming the passenger door a little too hard.
“Sir!” Sally glared at his back as he strode towards the police tape.
“Sorry, just, was hoping to get home at a decent hour today.”
“Oh yeah, Friday night is date night, isn’t it.” Sally teased.
“What?” Greg turned, suddenly looking at Sally, a little shocked. He hadn’t told anyone, he and Mycroft had felt it best that they keep things quiet for Sherlock’s sake. Neither wanted to break the sanctity of their secret yet.
“I’m a detective, don’t think I didn’t notice the extra effort you’re putting in every Friday, fancy aftershave, your best suits, and you check the time about every five minutes from lunch until clocking off.”
“Very good,” Greg said sarcastically. He almost told her she sounded like Sherlock, but he doesn’t fancy pissing her off that much. It wouldn’t help in getting him away from the scene any quicker either.
“And you hardly ever come for Friday drinks anymore.” She gave him a pointed look.
“Come on, let’s see if we can get this over and done with.” He muttered.
Sally grinned at the lack of denial, following the inspector under the plastic police tape.
Mycroft rubbed the bridge of his nose as he settled in his desk chair. He took a moment to collect himself.
It had been an arduous afternoon with a number of difficult meetings and Mycroft had barely managed to circumvent a headache. Luckily, Anthea being the excellent assistant she is, knew when to bring in tea.
He’d drunk a fair amount, but it had worked well in putting off the dehydration headache that had started to develop in the first meeting. He opened his laptop and begun responding to the most pressing emails that had arrived whilst he had been away from his desk.
When he finally closed the email application, it had been just over an hour. His body ached from the enforced stillness of a day trying to portray a sense of power and composure. He wanted to go home, or more specifically, to his weekly supper date with Greg.
He pulled out his phone to request his driver, and saw a message. It had been sent ten minutes ago.
[17:09] sorry gorgeous, called to scene. Not sure how long I’ll be but I’ll try and update you xxx
With a sigh, he decided to carry on working, until he’d had an update.
It was now about ten to seven in the evening, another message had yet to come. Mycroft opened the surveillance software on his laptop, pulling up another tab to check the Mets database. In under 3 minutes he was watching a grainy image of Greg, stood talking to a uniformed officer at the mouth of an alleyway. The address suggested to Mycroft an approximate ETA of 10 minutes. He alerted his driver, and asked him to text when he was outside.
By the time he had tidied away and engaged the necessary security systems, his driver had arrived.
He thought about using the toilet but the thought didn’t linger long, he would prefer to wait. He instead pulled on his warm, winter coat and felt the familiar flickers of arousal, building like the beginnings of a fire, kindling catching light and starting to spread.
He wasn’t so desperate that he didn’t have control, he could certainly wait a while, as he knew he might have to. Crime scene work had its own timeline. He let himself enjoy the pressure he could feel as he was whisked through the ever crowded London streets.
Greg’s phone bleeped an alert.
[19:20] I’m here. M xxx
Greg rubbed his forehead in confusion, he’d not updated Mycroft since that earlier text. Mycroft usually collected Greg just around the corner from NSY most Fridays now but it seemed odd he’d gone to pick him up without checking Greg was ready.
[19:22] sorry gorgeous, not back at the yard yet :( xxx
The reply was almost instant.
[19:22] I know. M xxx
Greg’s brow furrowed and he looked around, squinting through the fine mist of rain as he stepped away from the police tent covering the entrance to the alley.
There at the end of the street, just beyond the police cordon is a black car. He makes his way over and as he draws close the back door opens and a beautifully suited man gets out, opening an umbrella to shield himself from the November drizzle.
“Good evening, Gregory.” He says in his usual, cultured tone.
“Mycroft, I’m so sorry, I meant to text again. It’s a nasty one, taking a bit of time.” Greg steps close so that he is mostly shielded by the umbrella too and can see his lover's face.
“Ah no matter, only I had hoped you’d be ready soon. I’m-“ he coughs and lowers his tone, “in need of relieving myself, quite soon.”
“Oh yeah? Didn’t you learn to go to the toilet before setting off from somewhere? You regretting not going for a piss now?” Greg teases, noticing that Mycroft seems almost theatrical in his explanation of his predicament.
Mycroft’s lips make a thin line. Greg sniggers. He loves this, loves teasing this beautiful, charming sweet man in so many ways, but their shared penchant for piss is perhaps his favourite.
“Gregory, please do not draw my attention to my-“ he gulps performatively “bladder”. He shifts from foot to foot, discreetly enough that any of the coppers that might be looking for Lestrade would not know he was talking to a man desperate for a wee. Greg wonders how desperate he really is.
“Why? How long has it been since you emptied it?”
“Mid afternoon. I’ve had a number of cups of tea since then too.” Mycroft lets a little look of panic cross his features.
“Ouch, bet you're quite uncomfortable. You going to head off and find a toilet then? Don’t want to piss yourself in public do you?” Greg winks at him cheekily, as a genuine little blush fills Mycroft’s face.
It does also give Mycroft an idea. He takes a number of seconds to calculate the impact of his idea and deeming them satisfactory, he relaxes.
Greg watches Mycroft's face, seeing a flicker of something familiar.
Oh god. He isn’t?
Greg’s eyes snap down to the other man’s crotch. His long coat covers him to the knee but visible just below is a spreading dark stain down the right leg. The floor is wet from rain but as Greg watches, he can see the piss running off the hem of the trousers and starting to puddle on the floor.
“Mycroft!” Greg moans quietly as he watches
“I’m sorry Gregory, I couldn’t hold it,” Mycroft’s tone holds little remorse, his eyes glinting with mischief. To anyone at a distance he looked his cold, aloof self. “I’m wetting myself.”
Greg tears his eyes from the expanding puddle underneath Mycroft and meets his eyes.
“Fuck Mycroft,” Greg breathes out, “I’m so bloody hard, cruel thing to do to a man while he’s at work you know.”
“But it was an accident…” Mycroft has a look of performative innocence that makes Greg want to be rough, his cock twitches and he lets out a little growl.
“Don’t you lie to me, young man, or you’ll be getting a smack when I get home.”
“I swear I tried to hold it,”
Greg’s looking at the puddle again, which has grown considerably, so too has the wet stain on Mycroft’s trouser leg. Mycroft’s hand flexes in his coat pocket and it pulls his coat open slightly and Greg can see his piss soaked thigh.
“Go and wait in the car, I’ll get things finished here then I’m taking you home.” Greg’s commanding tone has Mycroft shivering. His eyes are dark and intense, they hold Mycroft’s gaze for a moment, asking a silent question. Mycroft gives an imperceptible nod, he wants to play.
He knows he’s in trouble, albeit a pretence on both men’s parts, and he feels his cock strain against wet fabric. He walks to the car, feeling his wet thigh rub against his mostly dry leg, spreading his wee. The fabric is starting to feel cool and clammy on his skin and he feels an itch of vulnerability along with the mischief of such a naughty act.
He sits in the back of the sleek black car, his coat protecting the seat as he lets himself dribble the last remnants of pee into his pants, closing his eyes at the sense of relief he feels in emptying completely.
Greg isn’t particularly quick, it’s going on half an hour before the door opens and he’s sliding himself in.
Mycroft leans over, hoping for a kiss but Greg pushes on his chest and raises his eyebrows.
“We’d best be getting home,” Greg’s tone is disapproving and Mycroft feels his stomach flip, it’s almost too much already, Greg’s too good at playing his part.
Mycroft presses a shaky finger to the car's intercom button and manages to effect a casual tone as he says, “home please, Elliot.”
Greg turns to look through his own window as the car pulls away, then after a minute pulls out his phone and begins checking emails.
Mycroft sits there, wet, hard and a little unsure what to do with himself. He feels control of the situation slipping further from him and his body sucks in an anxious double breath, almost like a sob, but he doesn’t think he’s about to cry.
To the Inspector’s credit, his eyes find Mycroft’s immediately, filled with concern. He seems to wrestle with something before merely raising his eyebrows at him and returning his gaze to his phone.
Mycroft wants to touch himself, but he realises with a shiver, he’s scared. He knows he’s not permitted any sexual relief yet, he’s in trouble, and the thought of Greg’s fury (however false) is enough to keep his hands still on the seat beside him, even as his cock throbs out a bead of precum.
He fights to keep the moan suppressed and ends up with a distressed little noise in the back of his throat and swallows thickly.
“I hope you’re thinking very carefully about your behaviour,” Greg’s tone is dark, reprimanding and he doesn’t even look at Mycroft.
Mycroft can only nod, his throat feels too dry, too tight to speak.
They sit in silence as they drive through the glittering streets of London, Mycroft can’t stand the sensory noise of lights and movement and shuts his eyes. He grounds himself by cataloging the aftermath of his faked accident. His boxer shorts feel wet all across the front and cling heavily to his skin, the crease of his thighs feel slick and wet too. His leg feels weighed down as the fabric clings and stretches over it and where the trousers are looser on his calf, he can feel the cold of air cooling his clammy skin. His sock is also wet, soaked down into his shoe. He’s pulled his coat open and away from the mess and he’s hopeful that his wee stayed mainly on his front, keeping the coat he was sitting in relatively unscathed.
Mycroft lets himself relive the act now, the way he’d purposely relaxed the muscles and willed the piss to travel down his cock and spill out. The way he’d resisted the urge to stop the flow as he took in the public location. The way he’d tried to wee quickly so that it might splash slightly as it puddled. The way he’d watched Greg’s face hungrily as the man had stared down at the expanding puddle, enjoying the shock and arousal on Greg’s face. The gentle telling off for getting him hard at work and then…
Mycroft’s heart began to race as he pictured the way Greg had threatened to smack him for saying it was an accident. It had for a split second made Mycroft panic, but this was what he needed. He needed control ripped from him, dignity stripped along with his soiled clothing and to be bare and vulnerable before the man who made him feel safe.
Mycroft opened his eyes to peer at Greg and had to blink at the wetness collecting in them. Greg didn’t appear to notice. Mycroft closed his eyes again and turned to lean against the door of the car.
As they pull up in front of Mycroft’s beautiful white London townhouse, Mycroft opens his eyes and sits up. They climb from the car and Greg strides purposefully to the door, Mycroft following and pulling his keys from his pocket.
It takes a few minutes to manage the security system and Greg remains silent throughout. The departure from his usual comforting chatter makes Mycroft tense. They hang up coats and toe off shoes and Greg tuts as Mycroft awkwardly inspects both for damage.
“Bathroom.”
Mycroft shivers and ascends the stairs, Greg following behind him.
“Clothes off,” Greg barks as they enter the bathroom, standing arms crossed and glaring at Mycroft.
Mycroft removes his jacket, waistcoat and shirt first, draping them over the edge of the bath. Then he pulls off his socks, dropping them to the floor. He removes his belt from his trousers and then peels them down, stepping out of them and then pushing his soaked boxer shorts down and off too. He awkwardly bundles them into the laundry basket and then turns to look at Greg, an embarrassed flush heating his cheeks and chest.
Greg moves to the toilet, sitting on the closed lid.
“Hands and knees.” Greg gestures to the floor in front of him. Mycroft complies, his clammy thighs feeling sticky as he walks over. His cock is hard but he ignores it and settles on hands and knees before his lover.
His hands touch the soft fluffy bath mat and he allows himself the temporary comfort of it, distracting from the cold tone his knees are pressed into.
“What have you got to say for yourself then?”
Mycroft mumbles, head hanging between his shoulders.
“What was that?” Greg asks, tugging at Mycroft’s curls to pull his head up.
“Sorry,” Mycroft repeats, a little breathless.
“Mmm, and why do you need to be sorry?”
“I-, I wet myself.”
Smack. The noise echoes in the tiled room. Mycroft flinches at the sting.
“No, that’s not why, is it?” Greg almost whispers, leaning close, his voice makes Mycroft shudder. “Try again.”
“I lied, I- wet o-on purpose.”
Smack. Mycroft jolts forward a little.
“Yes, and?”
“I made you hard,” Mycroft exhales shakily, bracing for the next stinging hit.
Smack.
“At wwwork.”
Smack. Smack. Greg's hand lands sharp and heavy, each contact in a slightly different place, leaving a large area of red skin across Mycroft’s buttocks.
“Now I need to make sure you won’t make that mistake again in a hurry, don’t I?”
Mycroft merely whimpers in response as Greg lifts his hand higher. Each smack stings more and more, with no other sounds but the ringing slap of skin on skin, and two sets of laboured breathing.
Mycroft’s hands slip and he drops clumsily to his elbows, Greg falters for a second, giving Mycroft a chance to utter their safe word. When Mycroft stays quiet, Greg gives another few smacks and Mycroft feels tears he didn’t know were collecting, spill onto the bath mat.
Greg stops and Mycroft can hear him undoing his belt and trousers so he starts to lift himself but Greg pushes him down by his shoulders.
“Stay.”
Mycroft can hear the rustle of fabric and then the sound of Greg stroking himself. He’s moving his hand quickly, Mycroft can picture the tight focused grip Greg must have; he wants to come, wants relief. Mycroft’s own cock strains against his stomach as he stays kneeling.
Greg’s breaths start to shallow and he moans gently, little noises with each stroke of his cock. He’s close. He keeps stroking, Mycroft keeping still where he’s been told to stay, listening to the man take his pleasure above him.
“Nnhh fuck, fuck!”
Mycroft jumps as the warm spurt of come paints his buttocks, the next hitting his lower back. More splashes onto his bum and he groans, wanton and embarrassed in equal measure.
Mycroft gasps as Greg’s hand smacks him wetly, splashing in the cum.
“You’re a mess, clean yourself up.” Greg grunts out, moving to the sink to wash his own hands.
Mycroft stays still for a moment, shaking. His head is fuzzy with the pain and pleasure filling it, his muscles aching and knees tingling from the position he’s in, his arse stinging and raw. Greg leaves the bathroom and Mycroft makes his way shakily to his feet and stumbles into the shower.
He washes Greg’s come and his own piss from his body with a soft loofah, trying to relax under the hot spray. He hears movement in the bathroom but the steam has fogged the shower screen so he sees only the blurry figure of Greg and a few moments later he’s gone.
When he turns off the shower and steps out, he sees what Greg was doing. There on the counter was a set of soft, bushed cotton pyjamas and on top of them, a pull up.
Mycroft’s face burns with pleasure. He knows its purpose in the role play is to humiliate, he knows he could refuse it, see what punishment that brought about. He wants it though, the safety and security. He feels vulnerable, soft, in need of protection. And he needs Greg.
He dries hastily, slipping the pull up quickly up his legs, trying to position his hard cock inside the soft padding. He pulls on his pyjamas then and walks quietly out of the bathroom and across the hall.
As he nudges open his bedroom door, the soft warm light from the lamp comforts him. He sees Greg, sat on what was swiftly becoming ‘his side’ of the bed, the duvet nestled around his hips. He’s reading his paperback (the one he keeps here for when he sleeps over) but glances up from it as soon as Mycroft crosses the threshold.
Mycroft falters, suddenly, feeling like he’s imposing.
“Are you getting in?” Greg says in a soft voice, hastily dropping his book to his lap and turning back the covers on Mycroft’s side of the bed.
Mycroft pads over gently and slides his long legs in beside Greg, he shimmies down under the covers and quickly tucks himself under Greg’s arm and burrows his face into the soft T-shirt covering Greg’s chest.
“Hey,” he drops a kiss to Mycroft’s head, “you alright?” Mycroft nods into Greg’s chest.
“Look at me, sunshine.”
Mycroft tilts his head, looking up at Greg. He melts at the concern in the soft, brown eyes. He knows that Greg wasn’t actually reading, knows he’s trying to hide his worry that he pushed Mycroft too far. Mycroft surges up and catches his lips, kissing Greg desperately and wrapping his arms around his shoulders.
He moves his hips then, rutting against Greg’s thigh needily. He feels a chuckle rumble through Greg’s chest.
“Okay, gorgeous, okay,” Greg chuckles again, easing Mycroft onto his back and throwing his leg over to straddle Mycroft’s knees.
As he tugs down his pyjama bottoms, Mycroft lifts his arms to cover his face, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment and arousal as his pull up is exposed.
“Good boy.” Greg says sweetly, pressing a kiss to the skin just above the stretchy waistband of the pull up, then easing it down with his fingers.
Greg only pulls it far enough to expose Mycroft’s cock and his balls, leaving his legs restricted. Greg then takes him in hand, teasing strokes just to the tip at first before he smooths his hand down using a little of the precum he’s collected at the top. Mycroft has been at least half hard for the last two hours, edged slowly through his wetting and his spanking and he suddenly feels the desperate pulse as his orgasm starts to near.
Greg continues with his hand but drops his head to suck occasionally at the tip of Mycroft’s leaking cock. He then starts to sink lower and Mycroft begins to moan at each slip into his gorgeous mouth.
As Greg takes as much of Mycroft as he can manage and buries his nose into tight auburn curls, his hand moves to his sack and massages gently, occasionally dipping a finger to rub at his perineum.
Mycroft’s moans are louder now, panted out as he bucks his hips into Greg’s face, desperately chasing his release. Greg’s tongue swirls around his cock and his balls tighten.
“Greg, m’c-“ he can’t even get the words out before it overtakes him and he comes hard down Greg’s throat, trembling beneath Greg’s hands which are now soothingly rubbing Mycroft’s hips.
Mycroft knows Greg had choked a bit as he drank him down, but he seems to have been able to recover quickly as he’s now licking Mycroft clean. A final suck to the sensitive tip makes Mycroft squirm and then Greg is pulling his pull up back up and adjusting him inside it so he won't leak, before tugging the pyjama bottoms up over it.
“All sorted sweetheart,” Greg pats Mycroft’s side and then moves over to settle himself down into bed, “time for some sleep now, angel.”
Mycroft pulls himself back up to rest his head on the pillow and Greg reaches to put his book back and turn off the lamp before pulling Mycroft into an embrace. Mycroft inhales Greg’s scent from where his nose presses into Greg’s neck and he melts against him as they adjust to get comfy.
It’s only now that Mycroft feels it. He’s not desperate but he feels that lovely, tingly pressure of pee in his bladder. He steadies his breathing and then relaxes, weeing into his pull up as he holds onto Greg. He can’t help but rub his legs together as he finishes, wanting to feel the bulk pressing and rubbing against him.
“D’you just wet yourself?” Greg asks sleepily.
Mycroft tenses. Holds his breath.
“I wanted the pull up to be wet” he whispers nervously into the darkness, his earlier vulnerability returning.
“S’alright sweetheart, s’why I got it out for you. You sleep now darlin’, I’ll change you in the mornin’.”
Mycroft relaxes against the beautiful man below him and another trickle of wee wets his pull up.
And when Mycroft’s thumb finds its way to his mouth, Greg doesn’t say a word.