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.
Greg rolled his neck, wincing at both the
protesting muscles and the icy water that slid down his collar. The crime scene
was the classic ‘rainy late night’ which was neither as exciting nor as
interesting as film noir made it seem.
The crime was ordinary, the lack of
evidence unimportant, given the free confession of the spurred loved – and Greg
had wet toes. He’d been meaning to replace his work shoes for ages, but
eventually the job had caught up with him. Now, the sad little digit wriggled
uncomfortably.
“Might I suggest something to ease your
way, Detective Inspector?”
Greg turned at the sound, grinning before
he saw Mycroft’s face. “Christ, yes. Save me from this.”
“Certainly,” Mycroft replied. He murmured a
few words to the DCI who’d been called in, then returned to take Greg by the
arm.
“Shall we?”
“You’re a keeper,” Greg told him as soon as
they made it into Mycroft’s flat. With a slight smile, Mycroft began stripping
Greg’s damp clothes from his chilled body. He was shivering, despite the warm
air. Mycroft’s hands were warm and businesslike, but Greg’s body was still
doing its best to respond.
“Bath?” Mycroft murmured, finally freeing
Greg’s toes from his wet socks.
“Mmmm,” Greg replied, as Mycroft kissed his
way back up to Greg’s face. Their kisses were soft, the quiet warmth embracing
them as the seconds ticked by. Finally, Mycroft turned, taking Greg by the hand
and leading him down the hall to their en suite. The bath had been filling
since before they arrived home – a luxury Greg would never scoff at given how
often the current situation occurred.
“Join me?” Greg asked, sinking into the
water. He watched as Mycroft removed his own clothes, one hand stroking lightly
over his own skin, echoing the swirling caress of the water. When Mycroft
joined him, their wet skin slid together beautifully. It was this which relaxed
Greg more than the warmth or quiet. The gentle slip of hands ghosting over
skin, soap aiding the smooth path. Bubble forming, the clear water turning
slowly opaque as the soap traced up and down both bodies. When Mycroft turned
over, reaching for Greg’s thighs, a matching grin spread over Greg’s face as he
nodded his head. The sensation of fingertips skating up his inner thighs was
unreal, the touch so light as to be mistaken for the water.
A Soft Smut Sunday offering. Well. Softish. Mildly kinky.
Greg bought it in person, in cash, trying desperately not to blush. He didn’t want Mycroft to see it on their credit card statement and make inquiries.
Wearing it, however, doesn’t make him blush at all. He feels amazing. It fits snugly, perfectly invisible under his suit jacket, and he has to stop himself from grinning about it over dinner, because Mycroft is excellent at sensing these things when he chooses to put his mind to it.
When they’re home they exchange gifts. Mycroft gives him a custom tailored leather jacket, soft and pliable and still smelling of oils. Greg has a suspicion it’s not a wholly altruistic gift, but he’s not going to begrudge Mycroft’s appreciation of himself in a good leather jacket. Hell, Greg appreciates the look too. He looks great in leather.
Greg gives him a set of leather-bound books on the Norman conquest- that’s the official gift, anyway. Just in case he doesn’t like the other one.. Mycroft is thrilled- he’s already cracking the cover and peeking at the first chapters, so Greg seizes his chance.
“I’m just gonna try it on, then, love.”
He hangs up his suit jacket and shirt, then decides to just do the full thing and get his trousers off as well, which leaves him down to black pants, the leather jacket, and… his new accessory. Striding back into the living room, he opens his arms. “So, what do you think?”
okay but mystrade au where Greg is a former soldier with ptsd and anger issues, to help him resocialize a friend finds him this job on a floriculture where the owner is this very mysterious quiet guy named Mycroft
everything’s fine, Greg does his work, they talk but not much, it’s only becoming a friendship until the day they get this big order and the client is such a whinny piece of sh** that Greg snaps while doing an arrangement alone and breaks things then freaks out because omg of course i’m getting fired
but Mycroft just enters the mess the place is, picks up some not very destroyed flowers and with his hands guides Greg’s in doing the damn lace and ruffles and holy shit now he whishes he was getting fired ‘cause falling in love is just so much worse
Mycroft was kneeling on the soft blanket of the hotel bed. In front of him was a that particular pile of pillows every hotel thinks their guests need, but land on the floor when it’s actually time to sleep. They came in different tones of brown and cream white, but Mycroft had long since stopped looking at them – couldn’t even concentrate on anything else in the room right now. Anything despite Greg, that was.
The thing with John in the warehouse was a test. If John had taken the money, Mycroft would have had him removed from Sherlock’s life immediately. He doesn’t want Sherlock in the hands of someone who’d spy on him for money, and he makes sure he gets his offer in first. He’s removed a number of people this way.
Mycroft was a Very Popular Young Man at Cambridge. He ended up with some deliciously filthy nickname, and couldn’t quite look his mother in the eye when he went home for Christmas.
He has the same breakfast everyday – wholegrain toast, a weighed amount of organic granola with yoghurt, and half a grapefruit.
He avoids desserts, chocolate and other sweet things, knowing it’s a slippery slope indeed. When he does indulge, he buys a very small number of extremely expensive liquor chocolates. He can only eat them when all the staff and Anthea have gone home, usually in his film room in the dark, watching something very sentimental. (With his cats.)
His hair naturally curls; he works hard to minimise the effect. Photos of him as a young man at Cambridge, when his hair was thickest, show almost floofy curls with a much redder shine.
When he retires, he plans to get into translating ancient poetry and deciphering old languages. He’s wanted to all his life, but he’s never permitted himself the time. (He first had this longing when he was eight, visiting The British Museum for the first time and seeing the Rosetta stone. He’s suppressed the interest for four decades now.)
As a younger man he was heavily involved in MI6, including covert work overseas. He had a few dangerous incidents over the years, but (his usual joke) ‘nothing worth adapting into a film’.
At a very low point, he paid for sex. Probably only once, and the experience was so unsettling and guilt-inducing that he blocked it from his mind. (This incident prompted a very long period of celibacy.)
Mycroft doesn’t do well in heat. The office is kept air-conditioned to the same chilly temperature year round, as is the car, and he tries to avoid situations where he’ll get overly warm.
He calls Sherlock because it’s the only way to get Sherlock to bloody respond to him. He’s actually completely comfortable with texting, especially with more personal or private communication.
When he and Greg start texting more casually, Greg is surprised that Mycroft often sends picture messages – things that amuse him, things he thinks Greg would appreciate, sometimes just shots of whatever he’s experiencing at the time. A half-finished coffee by a rainy window; crumpled bed-sheets in the half-light; one of his cats, upside down on the couch beside him asleep.
Mycroft is a very visual person. He knows it’s perhaps a little shallow, but he likes attractive partners. He’s usually so removed from ordinary people that the only way they can catch his eye is by physical attractiveness. As he reached his late thirties, he stopped noticing them so much – attractive people started just looking wearily young to him. (Then along came Greg.)
He’s a little uneasy with germs and hygiene. Essentially, he knows he can’t trust ordinary Londoners to perform even the basics of proper hand-washing. He tries not to think about it, but avoids public transport and public bathrooms like the plague.
He prefers silence to music. Sherlock learned to play the violin as a child, and Mycroft the piano – but his teacher was a vicious old woman who resented the family’s wealth. Mycroft developed something of a discomfort around music, especially the piano. (He becomes more comfortable with modern music due to Greg – who habitually puts a playlist on when they make love.)
His favourite colour is dark red, but he doesn’t wear it often because it brings out the warmth in his hair.
He’s got a custom-designed unbelievably posh built-in wardrobe covering a full wall, with tie-racks – concealed drawers for cufflinks – the works.
He’s very self-conscious of his freckles and keeps them covered at all times. (He was teased at school. His mother tried to reassure him that ‘everyone has a few blemishes’, which didn’t help.)
He’s quite strongly arachnophobic. Every summer, ahead of spider season in autumn, Anthea books a pest control team to ensure the house is properly treated. Greg discovers the phobia one night when a massive one suddenly rushes across the bed, and Mycroft nearly hits the ceiling. Greg deals with it. Mycroft tries not to find this heroically affecting.
His favourite restaurants in London are all French.
He suffers from migraines, especially if he drinks too much tea.
His parents were worried about the effect that fiction has on impressionable young minds, so he knows very few classic stories.
Greg introduces him to Game of Thrones, and he ends up secretly addicted. An online quiz on Greg’s phone reveals him as a Lannister through and through.
He ends up going to a country pub for lunch with Greg every Sunday.
He helps Greg quit smoking. (’Incentives’ are offered. Greg doesn’t even try to lie when he’s lapsed – he knows it won’t work.)
He starts swearing more in private when he’s involved with Greg, particularly ‘fuck’. This is how Sherlock figures out they’re together.