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Gentle is not a word that Mycroft has ever associated with sex.


Quick and fast would be words better suited.


Secret, clandestine, carefully organised one night stands that aimed for relief, but often came with shame.


Rarer the older he became.



But here, lying in the bed of Gregory Lestrade, gentle is the word that’s amplified.
There’s others now too that have sidled in overnight; love, adoration, warmth.


It’s not that they weren’t there before, but they’re louder now; it’s harder trying to keep them inside.


Mycroft has never been romanced before, if that is what it’s called.
Then, like a lighthouse to Mycroft’s weathered ship, Greg had guided him home.

When he found himself falling, Greg was there to catch him.

Home is Greg.


It’s taken them years upon years to get this far: Trust built, fears shared that led way to a friendship that was turned on its head with a New Year’s kiss.

They had chosen to spend the night with each other, comfortable enough with each other rather than at a party of some form.

Mycroft hadn’t expected it. He had longed for it of course, countless nights passed with fantasies of what Greg could do to him to keep him company.

Mycroft’s eidetic memory had served him well.

But it was nothing like the real thing.

Greg’s lips were soft, warm, safe.

Mycroft felt lost and found at the same time.


It started from there: dates, dinners, lunches, spending evenings with each other.

Spending weekends together.


Mycroft listens to the birds singing in the eaves outside Greg’s bedroom window, light finds its way into the small room under the curtains.

Sex with Greg had been everything.

A deliberate slowness, Greg’s lips followed his fingers as he traced and tasted Mycroft’s skin.


“Wanna count every freckle you have, kiss every one of them, darlin’.”


Though always a man of his word, Mycroft had never expected Greg to actually execute his plan.

Last night Greg did.


Mycroft had never been grateful for the freckles until then.


Greg had mapped his body, slowly, gently. Had voiced his thoughts about how much he loved Mycroft’s body, a definite first for Mycroft.


Mycroft had wanted to do the same to Greg, map every inch of the other man’s body, commit it to memory.


Through the kisses and touches, their murmurs and promises, Mycroft had learnt that he would have all the time in the world to do that.

Greg would not be leaving, this was not a one-time experience.

Anything but.


Greg had held him, kissed him through it.


Mycroft had felt full, loved.


It had felt right to look up into those gorgeous chocolate eyes fixed on him, to dig his fingers into Greg’s shoulders, to seek out Greg’s lips.

His legs wrapped around Greg’s waist, keeping him close, begging for more, begging for all of him.

He was giving all of himself to Greg too.

Giving his heart.


Now, Greg’s body is warm against him, arm resting across Mycroft’s stomach, his head resting on Mycroft’s chest.

Greg’s sleeping breaths ghosting across his bare skin have made the hairs on Mycroft’s body stand, has given him a familiar ache, sent his heart thumping.


Slowly, gently, he runs his fingers through Greg’s silver hair.

Greg shifts against him, his arm tightens around Mycroft’s waist.

Mycroft’s surprised and embarrassed at the audible gasp that escapes him when he feels Greg’s erection press against his thigh. His own getting harder to ignore, not helped by the memories of last night that play in his mind.


Greg startles at the noise, body tensing against Mycroft as he wakes. 

There’s a few seconds of silence as Greg comes to, then a rumbling chuckle that sets a fire through Mycroft’s blood.

“Mornin’ darlin’.” His voice is rough with sleep and Mycroft wonders how he’s lived so long without this man, wonders how he’ll ever be able to wake up alone again.

“Gregory, love.” Mycroft whispers, kissing Greg’s forehead.


Greg moves so he can face Mycroft and Mycroft whimpers at the temporary loss of Greg’s warmth. “Mhm, gorgeous, Myc.”

Mycroft is the one searching out Greg’s mouth with a hint of desperation.

Greg hums into the kiss, warm hands trailing Mycroft’s body. Greg’s hand disappears under the duvet, and Mycroft can feel him smile into the kiss as he strokes Mycroft.


Mycroft mirrors Greg, moaning as he wraps his hand around Greg’s cock.

“My turn.” Mycroft breathes against Greg’s lips, “Every inch of you.”

“Christ, yes.” Greg gasps as Mycroft rolls him onto his back. “Please.”


Mycroft begins with his mouth, trailing his lips across Greg’s skin, fingers soothing as he explores the other man’s body.

He needs Greg to feel the words he’s too afraid to say right now, feel it in his touches, in his kisses.

Slow and gentle, savouring every second.


This is everything.