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https://archiveofourown.org/works/29418075
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
My contribution to Mystrade’s Soft Smut Sunday.
Not sure how “write a little soft smut” turned into “write something 3x as long as your other work”, but it did. This is my first E-rated story, which makes me a little nervous to be honest, and constructive criticism will be welcomed if you choose to leave it. Hope you enjoy!
Soft Smut Sunday: Surprise
A Soft Smut Sunday for a_n, who won my work in the Rupert Graves Birthday Auction 2020.
Surprise
It's Greg's birthday, and he's made a specific request... https://archiveofourown.org/works/28962756
Champagne... [mystrade ficlet]
Gregory is quite clearly in the mood to spoil. He has obeyed Mycroft's request to produce neither presents, mawkish cards, nor sickly cake stuffed full of food colouring and candles, but he arrives at the restaurant in a brand new shirt and wearing aftershave. He's let his silvering stubble grow for a few days, presumably well aware by now of the effect it has on Mycroft. Before they've even ordered any wine, he makes it clear that he'll be handling the bill. "Not for your birthday," he says, his black eyes glittering in the candlelight. "Because it's my turn."
Later that evening, the same dark gaze looks up at Mycroft from his lap, the same wicked look of intent within them. Gregory is now even more appealing with his hair tousled out of order, his cheeks flushed and the collar of his burgundy shirt flipped up at the back.
"Never?" he says, swirling the glass in his hand. The bubbles within the champagne flash like diamonds in the low light of Mycroft's lounge.
(Read more on AO3.)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Sherlock (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Lestrade Characters: Mycroft Holmes, Greg Lestrade, Anthea (Sherlock) Summary: Mycroft returns from America just as Greg closes the biggest case of his career.
Knowing he's exhausted, Mycroft is determined to look after his husband.
Hello! Here’s my offering for this week’s #SoftSmutSunday. @softsmutsunday‘s prompt for this week was the word ‘watch’ and this is the result that my brain came up with.
Enjoy <3
It’s Tuesday 9th June ❤️ Your soft and smutty prompt for this week is watch.
If you’re feeling inspired, join us for Soft Smut Sunday! Every week we celebrate fanfiction and art which is soft in feel with a focus on sex or touching. The next date is Sunday 14th June 2020 and everyone’s welcome to get involved. Share something new, reblog something you’re proud of, or recommend an old favourite by another creator. All pairings and all fandoms are invited.
Don’t forget to tag us @softsmutsunday for a reblog. You can also add your works to the AO3 collection. Stories don’t have to be new to be included, so long as they’re soft and they’re smutty.
See you Sunday! x
Expectations
A short Geraskier ficlet about Hands, for the @softsmutsunday prompt this week!
(soft smut, M-level content)
Geralt’s hands really weren’t what Jaskier had expected. He’d expected rough skin covering an even rougher, unforgiving grip; raw power and hardened callouses from long years travelling and countless battles wielding that massive sword.
Not that Jaskier would have minded that. He’d lost himself to fantasy many a time simply watching Geralt’s hands while the witcher sharpened his sword or cleaned his armour, imagining, longingly, how they would feel on him instead; those big hands pinning his wrists easily to a bed or a wall, strong fingers tight on his hips and his cock, pushing roughly inside him and making him howl and beg for more.
What he’d gotten instead, the first time he felt those hands on him, was so much… softer than he had expected. Powerful, yes, and strong; but with surprisingly smooth skin and an almost delicate touch. Gentle, careful fingers stroking softly through his hair and dancing agonizingly lightly over his cock, until he was reduced to a shivering, mewling mess of sensation under the witcher’s coaxing hands.
In hindsight, when he was capable of thought again and lazily tracing his fingertips over the beautiful hands that had played him as well he had ever played his own lute, Jaskier realized he really should have known. With a witcher’s quick healing, callouses wouldn’t last. And the way Geralt always tried to protect him, shield him from even the most minor of injuries… Jaskier suspected Geralt was afraid he might break if he wasn’t handled with the same gentle care he had seen the hulking witcher use with the tiny, delicate flowers he collected for his potions.
Some other time, Jaskier would have to make sure Geralt knew he could handle— and most definitely wanted to handle— much rougher treatment than any flower could. But for now, with Geralt toying idly with his hair, nuzzling at his neck and making the most unbelievably contented, soft little noises he’d ever heard from the witcher… Jaskier thought he’d never been so happy to have been wrong about something before.
---
Jaskier’s hands really weren’t what Geralt had expected. He’d expected soft touches from nimble, dextrous fingers; light and quick from years of making them dance and fly over the strings of his lute.
Not that Geralt would have minded that. He’d gotten dangerously distracted more than once in the evenings after they made camp, watching Jaskier’s hands coax the softest sounds he had ever heard from the strings of his lute; unable to stop himself imagining how those hands would feel trailing over his body instead, that graceful touch ghosting across his skin and teasing his cock with gentle caresses until he went blissfully mad with the need for more.
What he’d gotten instead, the first time he felt those hands on him, was so much more… intense than he had expected. Graceful, yes, but with a surprising amount of power in that firm grip. Strong fingers that dug into his back and gripped his shoulders hard enough to leave bruises, even on him; rough callouses that somehow only increased the pleasure of Jaskier’s confident, sure touch on his cock until he was reduced to a gasping, shuddering mess under the bard’s skillful hands.
In hindsight, when he was capable of thought again and watching Jaskier idly tracing intricate patterns over his palms with the fingers that had gotten him writhing and moaning embarrassingly quickly, Geralt realized he really should have known. With the amount of time Jaskier spent practicing his songs, those callouses would never disappear. And the way he had seen Jaskier play for hours on end without showing any signs of tiring… Geralt suspected the slender bard’s hands were stronger than those of many men who wielded a sword for a living.
Some other time, Geralt would have to actually tell Jaskier how good his gentle touches felt too— like when he carefully worked the tangles out of Geralt’s hair for him or fussed over even his most minor wounds— but for now, with the bard humming contentedly to himself while those strong fingers lazily massaged out deep knots of tension he hadn’t even known were in his hands and arms… Geralt thought he’d never been so happy to have been wrong about something before.
Soft Smut Sunday
My story, 'Aftershocks' is a rated M Mystrade. First time, after-care, cuddling, massage.
Dedicated to @mottlemoth and @paialovespie for suggesting this particular subject and for being so enthusiastic to bring back #SoftSmutSunday and gifted to @hoomhum for being the sweetest beta.
Soft Smut Sunday Anderlock Fic
Title: Be gentle
Rating: Mature
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock, Anderson
Pairing : Anderlock
Notes: My first Anderlock and attempt to the soft smut sunday challenge. Word: "gentle"
--------------------
Summary:
After days without news of Sherlock, Anderson ends up receiving a text from him, urging him to come to his flat. Anderson rushes to Sherlock's place, hoping for a very pleasant reunion under the covers. Unfortunately for him, Sherlock has something else in mind.
---------------------
When the first blow landed on his lower back, he wanted to scream at the top of his lungs. The pain was so intense that it burned him from the inside. Fortunately for the neighbours, he managed to remain silent. For once, Philip Anderson felt extraordinarily brave.
The second smack hit him hard between his shoulder blades. The impact was even more acute than the first one. Breathless and hopeless, he clung to the chair, wrapping it in his arms, as if the piece of furniture was a heartwarming Teddy Bear.
He had to remain strong in the face of adversity.
Teeth clenched, eyes burning with pain, he put his cheek on the chair, waiting for the next strike. The wood was so cold against his skin. It felt good. Behind him, his torturer clicked his tongue, thwarted. The strap of leather fell gently over the back of his head.
“Sit up straighter,” the voice ordered firmly.
Philip let out a grunt of discontent. He was feeling so much better in this position. Wasn’t that obvious? The end of the riding whip then pressed his cheek. Philip's sensitive nose absent-mindedly picked up the typical smell of blood.
His blood.
His entire body began to shake with a tremor.
Despite the situation, Philip Anderson wasn't frightened.
Valiantly, he sat ''properly'' down on the chair, his back straight, his hands squeezing the chair bars. He didn't want to disappoint his tormentor. He breathed deeply to relax, wondering where he was going to be hit. Maybe in the back?
He didn’t have to wait a very long time. The characteristic whistle of the riding crop broke the silence and Philip felt his skin split under the force of the blow. This time, he uttered a cry of pure agony, and he leapt out of the chair.
“Damn it! Can’t you take it easy?! Be gentle?” He asked, a hand pressed against his bruised flank. He whistled, writhing in pain. “Ow!” Touching the wound was a very bad idea, but he couldn’t help it. The carmine liquid stained his fingers.
“No,” came the laconic answer. “I have to respect all the parameters of the experiment perfectly.”
“You know, when you asked me to come here for a little experiment, I didn’t have that in mind.” Philip wanted to turn around, but the whip prevented him from doing so, by teasing the lower part of his back. Then, the leather hit his shoulder, and it wasn’t gentle. “Sherlock!”
“We're not done yet,” the consulting detective said. “I'm willing to give you a break, but only because I have to take pictures of your injuries.”
“You're too kind, Sir.” Philip complained, turning his head slightly to see the other man in action. Sherlock placed the leather whip on the living room table to grab a photomacrographic scale in his left hand and his phone in the other. He approached him, his blue eyes professionally watching him. He beckoned him to sit down. Philip sighed and dropped himself on the chair. Despite all these years, Philip was still struggling to decipher the emotions on his face. “Are you gonna ask me what I had in mind?”
“No.” Another very succinct answer.
Philip groaned and he turned his head to stare at the wall in front of him. He was really upset by Sherlock’s attitude. He hadn’t seen him all week and he would have expected a little more enthusiasm from the detective. Sherlock was still working on another of his complex cases, but he had refrained from telling him until today.
Not like John Watson, who had to know every detail of the case.
It was hurtful. Very hurtful.
Philip would like them to communicate more.
Sometimes he had the awful feeling that Sherlock didn't trust him.
“I know exactly what you had in mind,” the detective forced himself to say, after a couple of minutes. Philip hadn't expressed interest in a more elaborate answer and Sherlock didn’t like to be ignored.
“I don’t think so,” Philip retorted, colder than he would have liked. However, the throbbing pain in his upper body, combined with Sherlock’s distant attitude, had overcome his usual gentleness.
“You thought I invited you to share a pleasant moment in my company,” the sleuth whispered in his ear. Philip immediately tensed. He hadn't realised that Sherlock was so close to him. “Sex,” Sherlock purred in his ear, proud of himself.
Needless to say, Sherlock was right.
“Whose fault is that?” Philip asked, moving away from his very warm lips. He was still terribly angry with him. “You sent me a text to order me to come immediately to your flat. Naively, I thought you wanted to ... you know...”
“I know,” Sherlock assured him. “You were wrong.”
“I had noticed, Mister genius,” mumbled Philip between his clamped jaws.
Philip Anderson was... frustrated.
Upon arriving at Sherlock's place, he had been over the moon. He thought he was finally going to spend some time alone with the consulting detective.
It all started so wonderfully.
Sherlock had urged him to take his clothes off. Philip hadn't hesitated for a second. He had stripped naked with a certain eagerness, before approaching the detective to rip off his so indecently tight purple shirt (of sex).
Unfortunately, Sherlock had stopped him firmly, by grabbing his wrists.
His disappointment had only been short-lived.
Sherlock had instructed him to sit astride a chair so he could whip him.
Whip him ?
Philip knew Sherlock was special in every way, but ... BDSM? Seriously?
Of course, Philip wasn't against testing new things. New practices. Especially with Sherlock.
However, the surprise had quickly been replaced by bitterness.
Sherlock just needed a human guinea pig to verify a point from his current case. He wanted to study the healing processes of a leather whip on the skin. Similar to the marks found on a dead man, who had been discovered in the Thames. The body had had multiple lacerations on the back.
Sherlock and his eternal sidekick, John-Always-Bonded-with-Sherlock-Watson, had managed to follow the man's trail back to a very private club in the heart of London. Posing as rich customers, in search of thrilling sensations, they had entered the place and they had questioned the 'Favourite' of the man in question.
She had assured them he hadn't died at the club.
However, the man was an addict to such practices. He needed his weekly 'dose' of pain to withstand the pressure of his work. Sherlock was certain the woman was the culprit, but Lestrade wanted solid proof.
While Lestrade was checking her alibi, Sherlock had opted for a more 'scientific' approach.
Philip Anderson was a very lucky person.
“Why didn't you ask John?” Philip asked, grumpy. The doctor was spending more time with Sherlock than him. When did John Watson work? Besides, was the man really a doctor?!
“You don't like John.” Sherlock remarked, with a strange tone in his voice. Could that be surprise? Disappointment? Sadness? “Yet John is a remarkable person.” Remarkable?
R-e-m-a-r-k-a-b-l-e?!
“He certainly has better things to do than to accompany you everywhere, like a little dog.” Philip did his best to remain calm. Oh, he didn’t hate John. Not really. He was just...
“John and I have a unique alchemy that optimises my thinking process. This has always been the case. This will always be the case. There's no way this would change over time.” Sherlock’s honest answer didn't help him relax.
An ... an alchemy?!
Better and better!
Philip tensed up on his chair, more and more upset.
“What’s wrong with you?” Sherlock naively asked, when he noticed that something was bothering Philip.
“Nothing. Everything is fine. We're doing great.” Philip muttered and he clenched his fists. He absolutely didn't want to talk about it. He wasn't sure that Sherlock would understand it. Emotions weren't his area of expertise. Far from it.
Yes, Philip Anderson was jealous of John Watson.
Sherlock was still spending far too much time in the company of the doctor. The two men shared so many things. They investigated together. They had fun together. They ate together. They talked about everything and nothing. John even had an assigned seat in Sherlock’s lounge! And Sherlock was also taking care of little Rosie, John Watson’s daughter.
What about Philip?
The poor man was entitled to the last remaining crumbs.
The two lovers rarely saw each other. Only when Sherlock had time.
If Philip wanted information about Sherlock, he had to read the posts that John was writing on his blog or to check Sherlock's tweets.
Unlike John, Philip couldn't leave his office in a heartbeat. He couldn't come running at him when Sherlock asked him, and leave everything behind.
Was that why Sherlock never sent him a text? So as not to bother him?
No, it was ridiculous. Nothing could ever stop Sherlock. He didn't care about embarrassing people in the middle of their work. Sherlock didn't think of him. The truth was... even more painful than the lacerations on his skin.
Philip would love to investigate with Sherlock.
To accompany him.
To be with him.
To do ‘normal’ things.
To have dinner in a restaurant.
To go to the movies.
But no!
Instead, Philip was his giant guinea pig.
Was Sherlock ashamed of him?
“You’re jealous,” Sherlock finally understood. Philip shook his head. He didn’t want to admit it. “If Mycroft says it, it’s the truth. Pure and simple.”
Philip almost choked when he heard the Holmes brothers' eldest name in Sherlock’s mouth. He turned around just in time to see Sherlock put his phone in the pocket of his trousers.
OH MY GOD!
HE HAD SOUGHT THE ADVICE OF HIS BIG BROTHER!
WONDERFUL!
“This obvious jealousy for John is stupid,” Sherlock assured him and he reached out to him. Very gently, he ran his fingers through Philip’s hair, in the vain hope of reassuring him. Philip scoffed, his shoulders hunched, and he turned his head to the other side.
Did he honestly think he could coax him like this?
“Our alchemy is different from the one I'm sharing with John. Is he jealous of you? No. He isn't. He knows what his function is, by my side. He is my blogger. My conscience. My...”
“Sherlock.” Philip didn’t want to hear Sherlock anymore. He felt awfully... weary.
“I will clean your wounds,” Sherlock warned and he removed his hand. “The experiment is over.” The sleuth seemed to be even more disappointed for his experiment than for the unfortunate Philip.
Or was all of this in his head?
Philip’s new job was exhausting and far from London.
The former member of the Metropolitan Police's forensics team had ceased to be considered an expert by numerous institutes. His resignation, following his severe depression, caused by Sherlock's (fake) suicide, had seriously tarnished his image.
Oh, of course, he had received a very tempting offer from a private forensic medicine institute. The offer was TOO PERFECT for him. Philip had declined this strange opportunity. He was certain that the job offer had come from Mycroft Holmes, who had wanted to please his beloved little brother.
Philip just wanted to be accepted for his competencies and not because he was Sherlock Holmes's lover. He had his pride.
His professional situation hadn't facilitated their relationship.
Perhaps it would have been better to accept his kind offer... ?
Philip heard Sherlock walk away and quickly return to his side. He put a first aid kit on the pedestal table, next to the chair, and he opened it.
Long pale fingers grabbed a compress to wipe the blood.
Philip decided to remain silent and distant.
“Does it hurt?” Sherlock asked, concerned. Philip knew he was concerned because his voice was softer and warmer than usual.
“Hmm...”
This was Philip's only answer.
Sherlock sighed.
“I am...” Sherlock began, but he stopped before saying the word 'sorry'. Apologising wasn't in his DNA. Instead, he gently blew on the gash that was streaking his shoulder.
“Hmm...”
This time, Philip shivered and closed his eyes.
Sherlock couldn't say he was sorry.
However, he knew perfectly how to demonstrate he was sorry with his actions.
For a cerebral, Sherlock was very... manual.
Two large hands landed delicately on his deltoid, carefully avoiding the cut on his right shoulder. Philip breathed deeply, relaxing almost instantaneously, under the sudden contact.
He felt... appeased.
His anger disappeared strangely, as if by magic, followed closely by his sickly jealousy. The rational part in him knew Sherlock was right. The alchemy they both shared was very different from the one he shared with his blogger.
It was excessively...
Physical.
Carnal.
Although he was certain that he was Sherlock’s exclusive sexual partner, Philip was suffering from a serious lack of self-esteem. For him, it was impossible to dispose of his constant anxiety. Sometimes he thought he was dreaming. This couldn't be the reality. He couldn't be Sherlock Holmes's lover.
And yet, as soon as Sherlock laid his hands on him, Philip felt reassured. Safe. He felt... considered. Loved. It was strange because Sherlock had never pronounced a single “I love you.” Or even a simple “I like you.”
Neither had Philip.
He feared the detective’s reaction.
Oh yeah, he felt really stupid.
The hands slowly slipped along his bare arms and teeth began to bite the sensitive skin of his neck. Philip felt his body flared up with this simple contact. He let out a moan of appreciation. It had now been over a week since he and Sherlock had been intimate.
Just like the dead man from the Thames, Philip was addicted to something.
Addicted to someone.
He was addicted to Sherlock Holmes.
He had been obsessed with him for years.
And even now, he was still an obsession.
If Sherlock were a God, Philip would be his first disciple.
“Hmm...”
Philip tilted his head to the right, offering his neck as a sacrifice, to his deity. Teeth scraped his jaw before closing around a specific point. Voracious lips replaced them to make the skin blush. Philip uttered another moan, without concern for the neighbours.
Soon his body was pressed against the chair, forcing him to spread his thighs further. Sherlock sat behind him, his torso painfully snuggled against his back. Unlike Philip, who was completely naked, Sherlock was still wearing all his clothes. The sensation was unpleasant.
For a couple of seconds.
The former Scotland Yard employee could now feel something particularly awake against his buttocks. Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him, like an anaconda on the verge of suffocating his prey.
Philip hoped he would be soon swallowed by him.
“Do you still want me to take it easy?! Do you want me to be gentle?” The detective asked, and he licked the bruise he had just made on his neck. Philip shook his head vigorously, his eyes closed. "Are you sure?" Sherlock insisted with his deep baritone voice.
“Sherlock, take me hard,” Philip implored in a weak voice. He already felt he was losing his mind. Sherlock’s hands started to wander on his chest. “Sher-...” Philip began to gasp, waiting for the final blow, which would finish him off. A fingernail scratched an eager nipple and Philip completely snapped. “Oh yes! Here and now! On this chair! This is what I want! Hard! Not gentle!”
“As you wish,” Sherlock whispered in his ear and he obeyed scrupulously the least of his lover’s requests.
If there was one man in the world who could submit Sherlock Holmes to his will, it was Philip Anderson.
Not Mycroft Holmes.
Not John Watson.
Shame he didn't realise that.
Philip Anderson could ask him so many things.
Philip Anderson could ask for everything.
Everything.
And have everything.
But for now, Philip Anderson was just asking Sherlock Holmes to be...
Here for him.
And Sherlock was here for him.
Only for him.
A very gentle thought.
