This page is somewhere for me to keep all the amazing fanfics and art I see so I can revisit (especially since tumblr). Sometimes I post original stuff of mine, too. Not only Mystrade, but I liked the username.
Author: mystrade-lecroft
This page is simply somewhere for me to keep all the amazing fanfics and art I see so I can revisit (since tumblr might implode). Sometimes I post original stuff of mine, too. Not only Mystrade, but mostly.
Word Count: 2144 Rating: M (for later chapters) PG (for this chapter) Characters: D.I. Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes Pairing: Early Mystrade/ Mystrade beginnings
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“No, no, I said to send the files to—YEAH to ME not to Brie.” Greg Lestrade was on his mobile, pacing around his office at the New Scotland Yard, arguing with someone about some important papers he needed for a case. “Just—no, YOU call Brie and YOU tell him—oh for fu-…” He glared out of his window as the person on the other line argued that they were too busy to correct the error and that he would have to call Brie himself. He finally got done with the incompetence that he just shouted, “Fine, I will call him myself, bloody hell!” and hung up. He gripped his phone in his hand, controlling the urge to throw it through the window.
“Bad day?” a voice inquired from behind him. He turned to see his partner, Sally Donovan, standing in the doorway. She was leaning in the frame, arms crossed, with an expression of slight cockiness on her face. She has stated earlier that the guys down in evidence were all idiots and had offered to retrieved the files herself, but Lestrade, being the man he is, wouldn’t let her go out of her way to do that and said that it would be fine. Obviously, she was right; they were all morons.
“Could you call Brie and see if he’ll send me those files?” Lestrade asked. Donovan nodded and pulled the door shut behind her as she left.
Lestrade sighed and dropped into his chair, reaching for his mug. He drained the rest of his coffee and made a small noise of discontent, making a mental note to go get more soon. Rifling through the papers on his desk, he happened upon a small business card. His fingers bumped over the silver ‘M’. He and the elder Holmes brother had had a few meetings since he had received the card and they were making some good progress in the case. They stared ruling people out after keeping an eye on them for a while. All the rest are under discrete surveillance. The informant had started calling again, each day at 2:30pm on the dot, but it was just the same information that they had already received. They had tried getting a trace on the location of the caller but the signal was just bounced around the globe each time.
Lestrade stood and turned back to his window. It was a dreary day, even cloudier than usual. The rain had let up but the sky was still darkly overcast.
A rap on the door made the DI start slightly. “Thanks Donovan, I owe y-” he started to say but, upon turning around, found Mycroft Holmes standing there instead. “Oh, Mycroft,” Lestrade balked, surprised.
Word Count: 2992 Rating: M (for later chapters) Pg (for this one) Characters: D.I. Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes Pairing: Early Mystrade/ Mystrade beginnings
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The event was in full swing. The champagne was being passed around and the guests were all chatting happily. So why, then, did Mycroft feel annoyed? He strolled through the room, taking compliments with a stony smile, dropping it once when they weren’t looking. This was dreadfully boring.
Sitting down at a small table in a secluded corner of the room, he watched the crowd. There were friendly conversations, good-natured debates, hand shaking, and smiles. All so ordinary. All soboring. He sighed and took a sip of the red wine he held, contemplating whether or not to leave and go back to his office. He disliked social outings.
Based on this picture, however its origin has been lost in the process.
According to Greg and Mycroft,
Sunday mornings were the best time to have sex since it was the time when they
were least likely to be interrupted. Lazily embracing each other between the
sheets, kisses that lacked the usual undertone of hurry… Perhaps it was due to
their age that they preferred more comfortable and relaxed sex, though Mycroft had audibly disagreed when Greg had pointed it out.
Usually they remained in bed,
however this particular Sunday Mycroft had had an idea while Greg had taken the tray previously
containing their breakfast back the kitchen.
“Good morning, my love,” the ginger smiled and got out of bed
to give him a kiss.
"I think you’ve already
greeted me this morning, Mycroft.“
"Well, not quite all of
you.” With a smirk, Mycroft led him to sit down on the small stool in
front of the large windows.
"Really?“ Greg
chuckled. “On this chair… thing?”
The other tutted as he sunk to
his knees. “Indeed, Gregory, and it’s called an ottoman.”
"You may call it whatever
you like as long as you remain between my knees.“
Mycroft rolled his eyes but
Greg could see that he was enjoying himself, he had that spark in his eyes
which the policeman had come to associate with mischief.
"The light is much better
here, I can see you properly,” Mycroft explained and drew his hands along
the other’s bare thighs. They both slept naked and neither of them had bothered
to put any clothes on, hence making Mycroft’s already pale skin shine in the
sunlight.
His fingers followed the lines
of the muscles of Greg’s legs, from his calves and all the way up to his hips.
The shapes and contours were familiar to him both by sight and shape, yet he
took each opportunity he could to get
his hands on him.
"Isn’t that a little
painful, I mean, for your back?“ Greg inquired as he looked down at
Mycroft. The low seating put the ginger in an awkward angle and Mycroft was the
last person on earth who would draw any unnecessary discomfort onto himself.
He didn’t care, however, merely
rolling his eyes again. "It’s quite alright, Gregory, it will be worth the
trouble to make you squirm in this perfect light.”
Yes, Mycroft had always been
one for aesthetics, Greg pondered and recalled the first time he had been to
Mycroft’s flat and had found a large oil canvas picturing a naked young man by
a small waterfall, the sun reflected in both the water and on his wet skin. If
the picture was the reason he was going to receive a blowjob Greg certainly
wasn’t going to complain.
Mycroft’s tongue was as warm
and soft as always as it was wrapped around him, easing him into hardness. The
man’s tongue possessed an ability to challenge him as well, by applying
pressure to all those places where he was the most sensitive. It was on the
edge of being too much and kept him on the edge of his seat, this time quite
literally.
Some times he glanced up at him
with those innocent eyes and other times he kept them closed. The light made
his eyelashes seem almost white at those points.
The best part was that Greg
barely noticed how worked up he was getting, he was only aware of Mycroft’s
ministrations. His tongue was joined by his mouth and there was soon enough a
hand on his back to keep him in place. Just as Mycroft had wanted he was
squirming.
While Greg’s view was quite extraordinary, the other was quite
pleased as well. He could not only watch Greg getting worked up as he worked on
him, he could feel his muscles tense beneath his fingers, taste his evident
arousal and hear each his grunts. Within minutes he noted the familiar movement
of grabbing onto his own hair, a sign that Greg was getting close.
His neck had to work hard in
order to deal with the bobbing yet Mycroft remained on his stance on the matter
– it was definitively worth it. He knew Greg enjoyed himself and he got the
final proof of it when he emptied himself into his mouth.
Only after he had come down
from his climax Greg realised that he was panting but he didn’t get a chance to
catch his breath since Mycroft got up to kiss him.
"It’s my turn now,“
the ginger murmured.
"Yes, but we’ll have to
move to the bed,” Greg replied with a small grin. “My old, strained
back won’t be able to take it otherwise.”
No, but rather than suave, sophisticated Victor Trevor, have you all considered a clumsy goofball who catches Sherlock’s attention by turning up in the library with ripped jeans that most certainly weren’t ripped half an hour ago when Sherlock passed him in the hall?
Or who enchants Sherlock by spilling his (luckily cold) coffee in Sherlock’s lap, curses and turns the deepest shade of red imaginable.
Victor Trevor who gets so excited about things that he chatters away, unaware that he’s getting louder.
Victor Trevor who talks with his bloody hands. To the point that his friends tell him to sit on his hands just to see if he’s capable of still talking.
“You haven’t a hope in hell, Dan – I reckon half the faculty have tried to get with him.”
“Any successful?”
“The man’s taken, faithful to a fault. Romantic too, asked the other day about where he could get some decent flowers delivered. John recommended a rose specialist but Greg said that Sunflowers were more his dates thing.”
“Hello you horrible creature, come to piss on my carpet again?” He stood up from the sofa quickly and slammed the window shut before that damned furry menace got in again. The cat would descend from the new tenant’s rooms upstairs, down the ivy-covered trellis running down the outside of the building, and onto his window sill.
Now, Greg was not against cats, they were perfectly lovely for those who did like them, but this hellion beast disguised as a cat was testing his patience.
The first time it peed on the living room carpet he forgave it, grudgingly.
The second time there was no forgiveness.
The third resulted in the cat being put in the hall for it to make its merry way back upstairs.
The fourth time the cat was lucky it went out the door and not the window.
And Greg had no idea how it got in. He closed all windows before he left for work, and it would be sat in his home, meowing to be let out as if it were his fault the bloody thing was in there.
Mystrade-Lecroft 