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.
If ever a people deserved tasering, it’s the Holmeses.
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This is a fantastic read! It is told from a genderswapped Lestrade’s POV and starts off with Lestrade tasering Mycroft after an introductory kidnapping (such a great beginning). Normally I don’t read either Mystrade or genderswapped fics, but this one is just wonderful- I started reading it and couldn’t stop. Lestrade is so in character, and her relationship with Mycroft is well-written. I really recommend this one, it’s a great story!
GREGORY: I’d like to dress as sexy clowns. MYCROFT: *eyeroll* No he would not. GREGORY: No I would not. MYCROFT: He would like to explore edging, but for some reason known only to him, he’s afraid to bring it up. GREGORY: Edging, like knives? *frown* No I don’t. MYCROFT: No, edging, as in I bring you to the edge of orgasm over and over, denying you relief, past begging, past awareness of time and space, so much pleasure and frustration that you’re drunk with it, until the idea of me backing you away from release one more time is almost too much to bear. GREGORY: Oh. *clears throat* That. MYCROFT: Yes? GREGORY:
GREGORY: Hydroelectric power. MYCROFT: Stop. GREGORY: Solar cells. MYCROFT: Gregory. GREGORY: A potato. MYCROFT: I’ve been sincere all day. You could at least continue to make an effort. GREGORY: If you’re feeling so sincere, you should tell them. MYCROFT: Foot rubs. My mouth on the back of your neck. The sounds of my arousal. Utter relaxation, without having anywhere to go. My voice, low in my throat. Slow, deep kisses that shake with intent. Need. GREGORY: …Yeah, those… *clears throat* Those do it. MYCROFT: I know.
A (slightly late) Greg calendar as I am very annoyed at his single appearance in the official Sherlock calendar. Including quotes from Constantinople Falls and Human Remains as a little reminder to Greg that he is loved and he should not be sad 🙂
@camillo1978 asked for Mycroft wearing something of Greg’s for the ‘Nonsexual acts of intimacy’, and I’m always a sucker for fluffy Mystrade. Did this as a warm up for my writing session today. Enjoy. 🙂
The sunlight peeking between the curtains was the first clue for Greg that he had overslept. It was winter, which meant that he was usually up with, if not before, the sun. Even on the days when he did not have work, he was an early riser. He rolled onto his side, cracked an eye open, and curled himself around an errant pillow.
“Good morning.” Mycroft’s voice came from somewhere by the end of the bed. Greg levered himself up, holding himself up with one arm. Mycroft was standing in the doorway, a mug in his hands and a soft smile on his face. “Apologies. You were asleep, or I would have offered you coffee.”
Greg shook his head, gesturing Mycroft over. He stole the mug from the other man’s hand, taking a swig of the coffee and wrinkling his nose as he swallowed. “No sugar,” he complained, handing the mug back.
“Well, it is my coffee,” Mycroft told him. “You require a new cafetiere.”
“You break it or something?” Greg asked. He waited for Mycroft to put the mug down on the bedside table before catching hold of his hand and pulling him back into bed.
“The mesh is beginning to corrode,” Mycroft corrected. “I suspect grounds have been left in it for an extended period of time.”
“Don’t leave it while I go to work, got it,” Greg said. “Is this mine?” He plucked at the hem of the t-shirt that Mycroft was wearing. It was large, faded to a grey-blue from navy by years of washing. Greg thought it had probably once had a logo of some sort on the front, though he could not have said what it had been.
“I was cold,” Mycroft told him. “There did not seem much use to putting my suit on.” Mycroft staying the night had not exactly been planned, so he had not had his usual overnight bag. Greg had considered suggesting that Mycroft leave a change of clothes at his, but if the alternative was Mycroft in his old shirts – well, Greg knew his preference.
“Good call,” Greg said. “I like it.”
There was something intimate, he thought, to seeing Mycroft in his shirt. Something about the comfort that it spoke of, and the way it softened the lines of Mycroft’s body, usually kept sharp and angular by the cut of his suits.
“Stay for breakfast?” Greg asked, slipping his hand under the hem of the shirt and using his grip on Mycroft’s hip to tug him closer.
Mycroft moved easily, lying down and curling into Greg’s side. “I would like nothing more.”
Mystrade-Lecroft 