How can I resist such a request on a Gatiss Wednesday? Let’s see what prettiness I can find… *cracks knuckles* Only some of these gifs are mine, and a few photos snuck in as well because of pretty and reasons.
And special mention to every photo of Mark ever taken with an open collar and the little framed V of chestiss that peaks through. ❤
ok after this I am totally dead. I took one day off due to a damn plumber and a water leaking in my bathroom and in the meantime ….everything happened. Erotic Rupert licking his lips, @mottlemoth doing amazing writings, @tuliaart drawing a perfect Myc bum for the joy of everybody, @redgreyandpurple publishing sexy things written in grocery lists…. and now Mark exposing all his torso gingerness, even with silly blond hairs and ….. faked tits???? Ok, here it is past 11 p.m., I think I just short-circuited and I am going to bed…..
dear DOC BLU or BLU DOC good night….
Today was such an amazing day for Mystrade. I am in awe of the writers of this fandom! I hope more people will see the great fun to be had in Mystrade and begin to contribute their own works!
Mycroft’s face remains impassive as he hangs up his jacket and quickly, clinically, removes the rest of his clothing, not allowing himself to shed his public persona along with his suit. It’s not until he runs his hands over the holdall that a slight hitch in his breath betrays the tension he feels. The bag is made of cheap black nylon, unlike his usual luggage, and the tag is labelled “Sovay” in a bland, unnoticeable font. Inside is everything he needs for the night ahead.
As he dresses himself, he is surprised by the thrill the garments give him. A pair of flashy designer trunks, exposed by the low ride of the jeans on his narrow hips. A T-shirt which feels indecently tight, but which is thankfully soon concealed beneath a navy hoodie. He looks in the mirror as he pulls up the hood, trying out different angles to work out how best to conceal his face and the flash of auburn in his hair that streetlights always reveal. But he feels only a fastidious distaste when it comes to lacing the worn trainers. He avoids thinking about their previous owner, or about how Anthea obtained them, or what she thinks about his instruction to provide them.
He slips his gloves in his pocket and is almost ready to leave. Only one item remains in the bag, and he is efficient as he takes out the pistol, checks it, and stows it away next to the gloves.
He lights up a cigarette as he waits on the street corner, checking for a fourth time that the CCTV cameras all around have been incapacitated. A message on his phone alerts him to Greg’s approach, and he flicks the stub to the ground, slips on his gloves and pulls up his hood before taking a deep breath and reaching into his pocket. He must be certain. Trust has never come easily to Mycroft, and this way, he can be sure.
Greg is walking slowly, the weight of the day sitting heavily on his shoulders as he turns the corner towards the flat, but a small smile twitches in the corner of his mouth as he spies the lights at Mycroft’s windows and his footsteps speed up just a fraction. He is completely unaware of Mycroft’s presence until he feels the cold, hard press of metal against his bare neck and hears a rough voice mutter, “Into the alley, now! Hands up against the wall and don’t move or I’ll shoot.”
Greg exhales slowly, and does as he is told, hands and forehead pressed against the cold brick.
“Do you know who this is?” asks Mycroft, his voice lower and rougher than usual. Greg nods, once. “Yeah”.
“Do you know what I’m here for tonight?”
“Yeah.”
Mycroft runs his hand gently down the back of Greg’s neck, pressing a little harder with the pistol. He moves in closer and whispers “And should I continue?”
Greg shivers, and grins, briefly. “Fuck, yeah.”
Mycroft’s face relaxes, and his lips ghost against the top of the silver hair as he allows himself the momentary pleasure of inhaling the warm, familiar scent. Then he takes a step back and his voice becomes cold once more.
Never had Sherlock listened to anything so full of interest and wonder. His brother and his friend engaged! Delighting, however, as Sherlock sincerely did in the prospect of the connection, he could not quite bring himself to believe it.
“My dear Irene,” said he, “I would love nothing better than to call you sister. But can this be so? Did not you tell me yourself that you prefer the company of ladies?”
Irene coloured, but laughed this off with studied unconcern. “Oh, as to that, one says all manner of foolish things in idle conversation. It signifies nothing. No, my dearest Sherlock, your brother is so like your own, sweet self, that I quite dote on him.”
Sherlock could not help saying, in frank disbelief, “Mycroft? Like me?”
“Oh, yes. Well, excepting in age and looks, disposition and manner. But in all other respects the resemblance is striking.”
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