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.
@lmirandashere it is, lovely! Sorry for having to re-upload, but I’ve searched everything I can think of on my blog and can’t find the bloody thing…
Warning: this ficlet is NSFW under the cut! Even though there is enthusiastic consent on both sides, Greg is drunk, so if that’s something that is likely to trigger you, please avoid.
Mycroft does not find out about the party until it is happening. The one and only downside of never talking to your housemates, he thinks. I could have vacated the premises until this festival of raucous drunkenness had passed.
Doubtless the house will be unlivable for the next week.
He puts his noise-cancelling earphones firmly on and works for as long as possible – an essay due the following week for his political participation module. By two in the morning, however, he’s starving, and the increasingly loud thump of the bass from downstairs has given him a tight, angry headache.
Nothing on Earth would persuade me to go down there, he thinks crossly. Best to get to sleep, and hope that this headache passes by morning. He shuts his laptop with an angry snap.
He tries, and fails, to sleep. He can hear someone – or rather, two someones – next door in Hannah’s room. There is a lot of drunkenly exaggerated moaning, and – is it possible to die from giggling during sex? He wishes this unlikely fate on the girl, whoever she is, and presses his pillow over his ears.
He doesn’t have time to react when his door ricochets open, slamming back against the wall. There’s a dull thud that sounds like a kick, the door closes again, and a heavy body thumps down onto the mattress next to him with a huge, beery sigh of relief.
“Jesus Christ, I’m pissed,” mumbles someone, from behind their own hands. “Fuckin’ell. C’n hardly walk straight. Quiet in ’ere though. Jus’ need a minute of – quiet…”
The voice is strongly-accented Estuary English, and Mycroft realises with a jolt of adrenaline that the boy who’s stumbled into his bed is Lestrade, from the Social Problems module he’s been auditing alongside his own scheduled lectures.
Oh, fuck.
Improbably beautiful Gregory Lestrade – no, Greg. He’d told the lecturer to call him Greg during the first register. Mycroft squeezes his eyes closed, trying not to think about the boy’s cut-glass jaw or lively, mischievous brown eyes.
Thursday night. Mycroft is in his socks, sitting on the grey-blue Ikea sofa in Greg’s flat, holding a mug of Yorkshire Tea in both hands as he quietly watches Gregory ironing his work shirts. The soft hiss of the steam is soothing, even when it’s sharp. It doesn’t distract from the television. They’re watching an old episode of Fawlty Towers – Mycroft had seen it before, but it didn’t seem to be funny until Gregory.
Little ever did.
Mycroft’s superiors have expressed some concern over him spending so much time in an unmonitored flat. They’d prefer Mycroft to spend his evenings in his registered residence, where his security is better accounted for. It would be more convenient, they’ve said.
In this moment, watching his lover quietly iron, hearing Gregory chuckle under his breath at the television, Mycroft knows there is no safer place on the planet.
Greg loves how their
relationship affects him physically.
It’s not the shortness of breath when he sees
Mycroft dressed in his best tuxedo, nor the speeding up of his heart when
fingers brush his as they pass the wine at dinner. It’s not even in the increased stamina
he notices when he chases down a pickpocket who didn’t check that his mark wasn’t
a detective inspector.
It’s in the soreness of his abs after Mycroft
holds him on the edge of an orgasm, easing him closer and letting it fade, over
and over until he tips over the edge, muscles clenched and vision whited out.
It’s how his glutes ache after he fucks
Mycroft hard over the table, angling to avoid his prostate, drawing it out
until Mycroft screams his name.
It’s absolutely the roughness of his throat
after Mycroft presses him against the wall of their private lift, pushing him
down and fucking his mouth until he almost chokes on cock and come.
Greg loves how their relationship affects him
physically.
imagine a dating app which notifies you if someone’s swiped right on your profile, even if you haven’t already swiped on them
imagine sherlock stealing mycroft’s phone and installing the app on it, uploading a profile for him. he gets the phone out of mycroft’s coat and back in without him noticing. (rosie is a great help in that regard. it’s so much easier to pickpocket mycroft these days.)
imagine greg, on a friday night, being wound up by his colleagues in the pub about his permanently single status; them pushing him to install the app. his new constable’s just got engaged to a lass he met through it. it sounds like a stupid idea to greg
–
how can you know if you want to go out with them when all you’re looking at is a picture?
–
but he’s a good enough sport to let them push him into installing it. he can just delete it later anyway
imagine a case that takes sherlock and john out of london, and mycroft’s worried for his brother, so greg finds himself haring off after them. he has no idea mycroft’s there too
even if it’s ridiculous (and the local police aren’t best pleased to have a met detective rocking up on their patch), the hotel greg’s been booked into is gorgeous. he hasn’t slept this well in months. he has a run every morning and starts taking long, relaxing baths.
he finishes a book, for the first time in months.
one night he’s sitting in the bar
–
john and sherlock have buggered off somewhere (probably to do something horribly dangerous) and greg’s savouring the last of his glass of whisky before bed
it’s idle curiosity. he opens the app. he plays with the settings. he wonders what his colleagues would say if they knew he’d checked the third box (‘anyone’,
instead of ‘women’, or ‘men’) after ‘looking for’.
the photos cycle, endlessly, and you just swipe
–
left or right, no or yes. it’s hypnotic after a while, and the strangeness of it (the basic nastiness of a yes or a no based on looks alone) fades away
–
left, left, right, left, hesitate
–
left, right, right, left, left, left, right
–
fuck.
oh, fuck.
that last one was…that was mycroft.
fuck.
cold realisation runs down greg’s spine.
it’s nothing, though, to the bone-deep shock of adrenaline when he looks up
–
eyes wide, hand tugging at his hair
–
and sees mycroft holmes, legs crossed in an armchair next to the crackling log fire
“Wow, this coffee is good. Since when does NSY provide actual coffee? We sure didn’t have this in Fraud.” Sergeant Lewis, the newest member of the homicide team, took another sip and closed her eyes blissfully.
“Don’t get too used to it–it only happens when we have a case that drags on for over a week and the boss starts banging his head on his desk. Just wait until we have a case that drags on for two weeks–last time there was catered Italian food for all of us pulling an all-nighter. It was seriously the best lasagne I’ve ever had in my life. Seriously, I have dreams about this lasagne.” It was Sergeant McAnally’s turn to adopt a blissful expression. “And it’s just our division, anyhow.”
“Ah, that explains why the lads from vice keep trying to sneak into our break room. So does the DI bring this stuff in?”
“No…we reap the benefits because some insanely posh rich bloke decided that,” Sergeant McAnnally nodded her head at the open office door of Detective Inspector Lestrade and gave a pause for Lewis to take in the full picture. Lestrade was wearing a suit that had been freshly pressed on Monday morning (it was now just past one on Wednesday), and it had suffered several indignities from a spiteful meatball sub at lunch. His eyes were rather bloodshot with lost sleep, and the bags under his eyes would have been charged an extra fee at the airport. The papers and photos and discarded coffee cups were covering every surface of his desk, and a pile of folders on the edge were in imminent danger of collapsing onto the floor. He had been running his hands through his hair, rather greasy after not having had time to shower that morning, every three minutes, so it was now standing up at strange angles and spikes. Scrubby silver stubble and an extremely itchy looking spider bite on his chin from searching a dusty attic for evidence the night before added to his scruffy appearance.
“DONOVAN!” He roared. “Tell the fucking bastards on forensics that if they don’t get that report to me in the next fifteen minutes they’ll be pissing out of their fucking ears for a week!”
Sergeant Lewis nearly dropped her coffee. “Oh, dear.”
“That,” McAnnally continued, “was what he wanted as a trophy wife. Or, well, trophy husband, in this case.”
“Well, um…there’s no accounting for taste?”
“Eh, maybe, but he cleans up well. You should have seen him in the tailored suit, no doubt chosen by the posh husband, he showed up in to the Christmas do last year. The words ‘silver fox’ were bandied about.”
“Well, maybe I can imagine it if I squint…”
McAnally grinned. “We’ll make a believer out of you. I’ve got pictures on my phone. Maybe don’t mention the photos to him, though?”
“He doesn’t like having his photo taken?”
“Nah, it’s not that, he’s a complete ham after a beer or two. It’s just, well, we needed to document the full effect of the suit…” She scrolled a moment and checked to make sure no one could see over their shoulders before holding the phone up.
Lewis peered at it a moment before it registered exactly what she was seeing. “Oh…OH. Um, well, yes, that is one of the better arses I’ve seen in a while.”
“Mmmhmmm…and look at this angle…”
“MCANALLY! LEWIS! THAT BETTER BE A NEW LEAD YOU’RE CHECKING ON THAT PHONE! GET ME THE CREDIT CARD STATEMENTS!”
McAnnally hastily stuffed the phone back into her pocket. “Yes, sir! Right away!” She zoomed off, and after a moment of freezing like a deer in headlights in front of the raging Lestrade leaning out of his office door, Lewis scuttled after her.
“You read my file.” The fingers in his hair stilled for a moment, but only a moment, resuming their carefully paced drag through sweat-slick strands quickly enough that he might have missed the pause at all, if he had not been on such high alert.
“I didn’t need to.” Soft with reassurance and understanding, and oh how Greg wished he could bottle that feeling, those words, and keep it safe in his breast pocket for the days where pills and distractions simply weren’t enough. “Tell me Gregory; what do you need?”
“This.” He replied, without needing to think, gulping down lungfulls of air as he tried desperately to ground himself. “Just this, for a bit longer.” Holding on to his living, breathing lifeline, Greg buried his face into Mycroft’s stomach, the soft fabric of his grey waistcoat contrasting against the too-solid buttons which pressed almost painfully into his cheek and forehead. “Please.” The plea was somewhat late and decidedly muffled, yet Mycroft did not seem to mind, one arm wrapping around Greg’s back to hold him secure against that reassuring warmth.
“For as long as you need.” The methodical drag of his fingers continued without further interruption, until Greg’s fluttering heart rate eased and his breathing slowed to match, the last few dregs of panic finally fleeing his system.
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?”
Mystrade-Lecroft 