Sherlock, The Blind Banker 

Bristol paper, with Staedtler pencils, from different hardnesses, and a sakura electric eraser. Photographed each step of the process with the help of markers and a tripod. This beautiful edit by nixxie-fic is used as reference.

After seeing lunadax posting her beautiful artwork with some photos of the process I got intrigued and started wondering how it would look as a gif. I tried to gif one of her earlier ventures, but the pics were far too uneven to give a good result, and besides, I wanted to have a collaboration of sorts. So I womanned up, asked her, and she was gracious enough to agree to work with me on this little project, and she produced a stunning piece for me to work with! 

I’m in awe of you, lunadax, I truly am! Thank you! *hugs*

We’re quite satisfied with the result. It’s giffed in CS4, each frame aligned, cropped, adjusted for size and set at a 2s delay. 

anonymous asked:

Nix or Nixxy with xe/xym pronouns ? :0

Nix is great because xe is super nice. Nixxy wants to know if you can cover xyr shift on Monday. Nix made that xemself and it took a wile, so please be careful. Nixxy can’t make it tomorrow but you can come to xem.

A Three Patch Problem

A little bit of Sherstrade for the fabulous nixxie-fic.  Happy birthday sweetheart!!

Greg fiddled with his mobile, glancing down at the screen and tugging his bottom lip with his teeth.  He was concerned.  He was tempted to text Mycroft. It had been a while, and Sherlock had been doing such a good job, but it really felt like tonight could be a danger night.  

Glancing up from under his eyelashes, he watched as Sherlock paced back and forth with a tight, furious expression on his face.  They were at Greg’s (thank christ, because Sherlock’s flat was a bloody health hazard), and even though they had just wrapped up a case, Sherlock was already bored and stir crazy in a way that was concerning.

“Hey,” Greg sighed, pocketing his mobile and walking over to where the younger man was.  He reached out, hesitating before placing an arm on his shoulder.  Still too thin.  Greg worried about that, too.

“What,” Sherlock snapped, spinning.  Greg was unfazed, and he just offered the man a small smile.

“Take a deep breath, yeah?” he suggested, squeezing Sherlock’s shoulder affectionately. “You did good today.  We got ‘im.”

“It was hardly a six, I can’t believe I let you waste my time with it.”

“Mmhmm,” Greg snorted. “C’mon.  Sit down for a moment.  Please?”

It was only after Greg sat and practically tugged Sherlock down next to him that the consulting detective (at least that’s what he’d taken to calling himself) finally started to settle.  After a moment, Greg risked wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s waist.  He couldn’t quite tell you what kind of relationship they had, though they were intimate with one another.  Greg could say without a doubt that he felt love for the man.  Care, concern.  Everything that came in a partnership.  Sometimes he knew Sherlock felt the same.  Other times he wasn’t so sure.

Sherlock was still and quiet, apart from the occasional twitching and shifting.  He couldn’t keep still.

“Craving?” Greg asked after a moment, glancing at him.

“Yes,” Sherlock sighed.  The look in his eyes was distant.  Greg shifted closer and pressed a kiss to his temple, pleased when Sherlock let him.

“You’ll be alright,” he whispered against his pale skin.  Sherlock sighed, muscles becoming slightly less tense.

They sat in silence for a good fifteen minutes, Greg waiting patiently for the moment Sherlock would either pull away, turn closer, or demand something.  No matter what, he would meet it in kind.  Because, god help him, he was in love with the genius.

“Greg?” Sherlock finally asked.  Greg smiled softly at the use of his first name - a rare thing still.


“Give me your nicotine patches.”

Greg chuckled and nodded, standing.  He brushed some jet black curls off Sherlock’s forehead before heading into his bathroom and pulling out the box he kept in his cabinet.  He returned, handing it out, where Sherlock snatched the box and proceeded to pull out three patches and slap them on his arm.  Greg raised his eyebrows.

“What?” Sherlock huffed, dropping the box. “It’s a three-patch problem.”

Greg just shook his head and smiled gently.  It was certainly better than the alternative.

A Force of Nature- Mystrade Thursday

Where I take liberties about natural disasters. No towns were harmed in the making of this short fic.

For nixxie-fic on her birthday (albeit a bit late)

Gregory knew something was bothering Mycroft.  He could see it in the lines in his face and his posture.  He also knew that whatever it was- was probably above his paygrade and security clearance.   He sighed inwardly as he watched as Mycroft cut up his meal up into smaller and smaller pieces and push it around his plate, never really eating any.

Finally, Gregory tired of the charade and stood up and picked up both their plates and carried them through to the kitchen.  He scraped the remains of their dinner into the bin and loaded the dishes into the dishwasher.  He gave the counters a cursory wipe, and headed back out to where Mycroft was still sitting, unmoving.

Mycroft looked up as Gregory entered the room and the inspector couldn’t help but notice how exhausted Mycroft looked.  

“Take me to bed, Gregory,” Mycroft said quietly

Gregory tried not to let the surprise show on his face.  He merely nodded and reached for Mycroft’s hand.  As they went up the stairs to their bedroom, he thought how this used to bother him; from the not talking to Mycroft’s need to lose himself in the physicality of their relations when he had a trying day.  But now he understood that Mycroft needed it; their coupling allowed him to reboot and either see whatever the problem was in a new light, or finally blissed him out enough to where he could get some much-needed rest.   He loved Mycroft with all his heart and he knew above all else that Mycroft loved him.  So if sometimes Mycroft needed to lose himself in their lovemaking, he would do all that he could to help.

When they got to the bedroom, Gregory gently removed Mycroft’s clothing, starting with his cufflinks and working all the way down to his socks.  Mycroft never spoke, but occasionally his breath would catch when Gregory would stop to kiss his collarbone, lick a spot on the inside of his thigh, or whisper a touch down his side.  

Finally, Mycroft was naked, and he climbed into their bed, wanting; the evidence of his need and arousal, long and hard against his stomach.  Gregory quickly undressed and joined him, kissing him punishingly on the mouth, licking his lips and the inside of his mouth, tasting Earl Grey tea and the hint of scotch.  Mycroft shuddered under the touch and wrapped his arms around Gregory’s neck, deepening the kiss, as if were trying to swallow him whole.

They could feel each other’s hard lengths, and Mycroft had already left a small damp patch on Gregory’s thigh as he pushed into it, seeking friction.  Gregory wrapped a large hand around Mycroft’s rock hard cock and stroked, spreading pre-come all over his length.

Mycroft moaned and the sound went right to Gregory’s already hard member.  

“Nnng.  What do you want, love?” Gregory whispered in between kisses.

“You.  Inside me.  Now.”  Mycroft gasped out, as Gregory’s hand moved faster.
Pausing a moment, Gregory reached over for the lube, spreading a generous amount over his fingers.  He gently began to work his lover open, taking care, but working as quick as he dared.  He crooked a finger, hitting the small bundle of nerves and Mycroft gasped out his name.  Gregory smiled, and placed a kiss on his lover’s now damp forehead.

Mycroft continued to moan and writhe in pleasure under Gregory’s tender ministrations until he could take it no more.   “Please, Gregory,” he whispered.

Gregory didn’t need to be told twice as he slipped inside Mycroft, slowly at first, but then built up to a frenetic pace.  He moaned and murmured endearments, not even certain what he was saying, as he drove inside his lover again and again.  

Mycroft hands roamed, touching Gregory’s tanned skin.  Finally, he let one hand rest in his silver hair, and his other slipped down toward his aching, needy cock.  Gregory saw this, and quickly pushed his hand away, resuming his fast, even strokes over Mycroft’s cock.  

Mycroft went very, very still before he came hard all over Gregory’s hand and his stomach, spurts of white streaking them both.   Gregory moaned again.  “That was beautiful.  You’re beautiful,” he whispered, as he chased his own orgasm, heat pooling heavy inside him before he was granted release.

After a few minutes that were needed to breath normally again, Gregory slowly extricated himself and looked up at Mycroft.  He was lying against the pillows, hair mussed, an arm thrown across his face.   Giving him a fond smile, Gregory got out of bed and carefully padded to the ensuite.  He splashed his face with water and wet a flannel, which he brought into Mycroft.

Gregory froze when he looked down at his lover.  Mycroft’s eyes were damp and there were tear tracks on his cheeks.  “Oh, love,” Gregory whispered.  He tenderly wiped away the tears with the soft cloth and then wiped away the remnants of their lovemaking from Mycroft’s stomach.  He quickly returned the flannel to the ensuite and then slipped back into bed next to his lover.

Mycroft immediately curled up and burrowed into Gregory’s arms, almost like he was trying to get inside his skin.   Gregory pressed a kiss into Mycroft’s soft hair.   He wanted to tell Mycroft that whatever it was that it was ok; that he loved him and that was all that mattered.  Instead, he said nothing, and just held Mycroft to him, stroking his back, until the younger man was fast asleep.  Gregory stayed awake a long time after, watching the rise and fall of Mycroft’s chest.

When Gregory woke the next morning, he was alone.

Gregory waited up until midnight, but Mycroft never came home.    When he woke the next morning, the space beside him was cold.

Gregory scanned the papers for the second day in a row looking for some hint of something that might have Mycroft’s “signature” on it.  The closest he came to finding anything was the story of how an early warning system failed in alerting a town of an impending volcanic eruption, leading to a loss of life.

Late that evening, Mycroft came home.  Gregory looked up from his novel to see him swaying from exhaustion in the doorway.  He looked shattered, his suit rumpled and he had startling dark circles under his eyes.  

Gregory put down his book and crossed the room, pulling Mycroft into his arms.  The younger man sagged against him, nearly asleep on his feet.  Gregory kissed him on the top of his head and then led him slowly, carefully upstairs.

Gregory quickly undressed his lover and got him into a pair of pyjamas and then under the duvet, where he joined him moments later.  He gathered Mycroft to him, frowning at the tenseness of his lover’s body and he sighed heavily.

“It wasn’t your fault, Mycroft,” he murmured against his ear.  “It’s like trying to control the weather.  Or Sherlock,” he said with rumbling chuckle.  “You can’t control a force of nature.”

Gregory felt the moment that Mycroft forgave himself; he took a heaving, shuddering breath, and his entire body relaxed into Gregory’s warm, strong arms.  “Thank you,” Mycroft whispered just before he fell into an exhausted slumber.