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in addition to my last post, feel free to grab me on kik at holmes.couture (don’t forget the dot in the middle) to rp also. like i said, i rp as sherlock, usually modern ACD or my own adaptation (info here), but i’m totally open to working with your bbc muses. main ships are holmescest & seblock (moran/holmes) but i’m flexible
Looking for Holmescest RPs
Hey guys! I write Sherlock and I’m looking for someone who’s into writing Mycroft for some Holmescest rps since omegle is down. You can email me at [email protected] if you’re interested, and we can talk plot! Up for anything from plotless smut to long-term au stories.
some mylock from last night http://logs.omegle.com/fd8612c5408fecc4
Weary Bones
Awww, stranger had to go, but no matter! This was a very angsty and so good rp. It’s not long at all and should we continue, I’ll likely update it!
Stranger: [tw: torture. Established relationship] Mycroft climbed wearily out of the taxi, letting himself silently into his apartment. Looking around in the darkness, he spotted a half-full cup of his favourite tea on the coffee table. Sherlock was here, then. In spite of everything, Mycroft smiled. He had been hoping to see his brother. It had been very nearly twelve months since he had left England on a simple diplomatic visit, but things had got out of hand and what should have lasted a few weeks had kept him away for a year, confined and unable to contact home. Toeing off his shoes, he draped his jacket over the back of the sofa and padded into his bedroom, breath catching at the vision of Sherlock asleep in his sheets, body curled almost pitifully around Mycroft’s pillow. Crossing the room quickly, Mycroft gently extracted the pillow and took its place, wrapping his aching arms around his little brother.
You: Sleep had always been a hard time coming from the moment Mycroft had disappeared. Anthea would tell him nothing, nor would anyone he threatened. He'd done favours for Irene Adler, nipping at her heels in order to get information that merely sent him on goose chases. It had been a miserable year and it was obvious that it had worn down the detective. He'd very nearly given up, ready to admit to their parents that Mycroft wasn't on an extended trip, that he was too busy to visit them. The lie was getting harder and Sherlock could no longer hope in it himself. He found himself staying at his brother's far more often, using it as a crutch and comfort. The bed had stopped smelling of the man and was beginning to smell like him now, and even his brother's pillow lost its scent. It didn't stop him from using it, from curling around it as if he could protect the man himself. Sleep had struggled to come to him and was easily broken. So once Mycroft wrapped around him, taking his rightful place, Sherlock opened his eyes and clung to the older Holmes with a broken rasp of his brother's name on his tongue. "Mycroft."
Over & Out
Ugh. I love this way too much. Guilty fragile Sherlock is my favorite. Thank you very much stranger!
You: Please come home. SH
Stranger: No. -MH
I've Never Known
I adored this rp, so much so that I pushed off sleeping so I could continue. Utter agony, but I'll muscle on. You were a delight, stranger! Truly. <3
Stranger: Where are you? You've worried your doctor. MH
You: Leave me be. SH
Holmescest anyone?
Things were different with Sherlock when he was still a child.
There were long summer days they would spend together outside in the garden, Sherlock running around until he was so tired that he would just fall next to Mycroft, head resting on his lap but mind always working and mouth never shutting. There were cold December evenings when Sherlock would curl up on the floor next to Mycroft’s feet and skim through his books while his brother was studying or reading. There were weekend mornings when Mycroft and Sherlock woke up in the older’s bed, Sherlock’s curls tickling Mycroft’s neck when the boy was hugging up close like a puppy looking for caresses and affection. There were trips to London and holiday breakfasts on the patio and piano lessons working Sherlock up because he hated it when Mycroft was better at something. But then, at eighteen, Mycroft went to Oxford and Sherlock was left alone.
Mycroft knew this was going to be disturbing for both of them, had known it long before once, in the dead of night, Sherlock opened the creaking door and slid under the covers, waking him up to ask about what would happen when he left in October. And, though, gathering him close, he reassured the boy that nothing would change between them, it only broke his heart more, confirming him in his resolution to shut off his feelings for Sherlock as soon as possible to protect himself from getting hurt even further. Right as he left, he stopped calling, writing and visiting family house. Didn’t see Sherlock for three months at first and only talked to him twice, and when he came back, the boy didn’t want to speak to him at all. Mycroft decided it was better for both of them.
As for someone so intelligent, it was quite surprising that it took him whole eight years to realise what he had done. To realise that he had let his little sweet brother down and that, in the course of years, the emotional, vulnerable boy had turned into a cold young man full of nonchalant grace, who had some problems with drugs and cigarettes and didn’t want to have much in common with Mycroft — it wasn’t a wonder. And only when Sherlock turned up high, loud and regretful at Mummy’s Christmas party, his face pale and sweaty, eyes flickering and hair dishevelled, and Mycroft needed to escort him almost unconscious to his old room, did he fully understand. Now, in the early morning after this utter embarrassment, he eventually pulled himself together enough to loudly knock at this door he had been avoiding and have a talk with Sherlock, a real talk, the first in years. Parents were still asleep and probably so was his little brother but it had been long since Mycroft went so carelessly to sleep for the last time or slept longer than four or five hours.
Please message me if you want to try it out! :)
Anyone?
[AU: July 1914. They’re aristocracy. Sherlock is gay and hiding it. Mycroft is studying at Oxford. Father is working for the government.]
Summer this year was unusually hot and sunny, apparently having abandoned typical English weather for good. Sherlock, back from Eton for holidays, could spend all his days outside, either swimming in the pool, or, at times, just looking up at the light blue sky without one little puff across it, or in the beautiful garden at the back of the mansion lying in a deckchair and reading a book. Those were usually the ones he didn’t have to hide from his father. The others were left for lonely nights in his room, away from nosey mother and overly inquisitive eyes—‘The Communist Manifesto’, ‘The Origin of Species’, Freud’s or ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’—since sometimes even Mycroft didn’t seem to be trustworthy enough to show him what his little brother was delving into at the moment, with deep blushes on his cheeks—‘The Sins of the Cities of the Plain’ or ‘Teleny, or The Reverse of the Medal’.
Mycroft, though, often accompanied him in the evening for an hour or two when the day got a bit cooler and sun wouldn’t burn his pale skin (as it had already burnt the back of Sherlock’s legs after he had carelessly fallen asleep). But this time it wasn’t holidays like always—there was too much uneasiness in the world to ignore it. Even here in the country where the reality could be easily forgotten and Sherlock could just lock himself up in the world of books and his own thoughts and ideas, pretending nothing was happening, this spread fear was visible in their father’s features if he happened to be home and sometimes in Mycroft’s looks as well, reminding Sherlock of the knowledge he’d rather throw out of his mind for ever. And Mycroft’s, for that matter.
“You’re thinking again,” he mumbled now, propping himself up on the edge of the pool, head rested on his forearms and wet curls sticking to his forehead. The last sunbeams evoked golden reflexes on the surface of warm water, slightly stirred from Sherlock’s movements. Mycroft was lying close enough to reach out and touch him yet the boy did not. “You’re always thinking about such grim things.”
