The fact that Sherlock is kissing him is something that causes him to freeze entirely.
Out of all the outcomes that could have been suggested, this was one that was on the very low end of probability. Sherlock was his virginal little brother, his little innocent young thing that didn't know a thing about sex, who was overwhelmed by the very notion of a woman hurting men for money. Sherlock was the untouchable in his life, the thing he swore to protect against depravation despite his own horrible, horrible degeneracy that he had kept hidden so well until now.
He knows fully well that Sherlock is intelligent. More keen than he would first appear, and most on first appearance find him to be overwhelmingly intelligent. There's lips pressing against his, a hot breath against his face and the bag that had been clenched with a grip like an iron vice had been all but forgotten. Instead, his mind is being blown, overblown by the very idea that Sherlock had his lips pressed against him.
There's a challenge, of course, but Mycroft has always seen it as an impossibility, as a complete and utter factor in life that was never meant to be. Therefore he had never tried to conquer such a challenge, seeing his feelings for his younger brother as a desire only for him to be safe and kept happy and comfortable to the best of Mycroft's ability, considering the lack of himself in his brother's life for so long. He knows that this is something that he wants, and knows simultaneously that this is something he could, and can never have.
That doesn't stop his lips from returning the kiss. That doesn't stop him from grabbing his younger brother hard, hands cupping his face, tangling into dark curls that are reminiscent of their mother (Mycroft is the unfortunate splitting image of his father) and he kisses him furiously, so angry, so upset that the younger man would dangle this in front of him only to inevitably take this away. He's shoving him away and gripping his hair, a hair's breadth away, breathing against him, drinking him in. It's all he can do not to shove him bodily up against the wall and take and take and take.
Instead, as he always does, he restrains himself.
"Why are you doing this?" It's hissed, and it's more emotional than he means it to be, less controlled than he is normally. He's restraining himself with everything he has and there's even the very slightest hint of tears that prick at his eyes. "Sherlock. We can't." He's high, and that's the reason why he's doing this. He's entirely blown out of his mind, there's absolutely no reason for this otherwise, other than to prove a point in his drug-addled haze.
no subject
Out of all the outcomes that could have been suggested, this was one that was on the very low end of probability. Sherlock was his virginal little brother, his little innocent young thing that didn't know a thing about sex, who was overwhelmed by the very notion of a woman hurting men for money. Sherlock was the untouchable in his life, the thing he swore to protect against depravation despite his own horrible, horrible degeneracy that he had kept hidden so well until now.
He knows fully well that Sherlock is intelligent. More keen than he would first appear, and most on first appearance find him to be overwhelmingly intelligent. There's lips pressing against his, a hot breath against his face and the bag that had been clenched with a grip like an iron vice had been all but forgotten. Instead, his mind is being blown, overblown by the very idea that Sherlock had his lips pressed against him.
There's a challenge, of course, but Mycroft has always seen it as an impossibility, as a complete and utter factor in life that was never meant to be. Therefore he had never tried to conquer such a challenge, seeing his feelings for his younger brother as a desire only for him to be safe and kept happy and comfortable to the best of Mycroft's ability, considering the lack of himself in his brother's life for so long. He knows that this is something that he wants, and knows simultaneously that this is something he could, and can never have.
That doesn't stop his lips from returning the kiss. That doesn't stop him from grabbing his younger brother hard, hands cupping his face, tangling into dark curls that are reminiscent of their mother (Mycroft is the unfortunate splitting image of his father) and he kisses him furiously, so angry, so upset that the younger man would dangle this in front of him only to inevitably take this away. He's shoving him away and gripping his hair, a hair's breadth away, breathing against him, drinking him in. It's all he can do not to shove him bodily up against the wall and take and take and take.
Instead, as he always does, he restrains himself.
"Why are you doing this?" It's hissed, and it's more emotional than he means it to be, less controlled than he is normally. He's restraining himself with everything he has and there's even the very slightest hint of tears that prick at his eyes. "Sherlock. We can't." He's high, and that's the reason why he's doing this. He's entirely blown out of his mind, there's absolutely no reason for this otherwise, other than to prove a point in his drug-addled haze.