It's what he needs to allow his control, so carefully guarded and so dearly held to be released. It's like floodgates, and he can't even bring himself to be as refined as he should. The fantasies would wake him up in the middle of the night, his darling younger brother spread out for him as though he actually wanted it, and he would immediately throw such horrible thoughts aside as soon as consciousness claimed him once again. He doesn't hesitate anymore, and despite however gentle he could be, there's a renewed desire that rears it's ugly head as he's finally given permission to do whatever he wishes.
The darkest fantasies are discarded, of course. He's in no shape to be harmed in any way, and all the shape to be slid against, Mycroft using the momentary lapse in judgement to swap their positions and pin him down, and he's breathing slowly through his nose as he guides him down, down down. Down to the floor in Sherlock's kitchen - for a moment he rescinds and grabs the younger Holmes brother, yanking him to his room in a matter of moments.
There are so many fantasies he wants to carry through, and none of them occurred on a floor littered with mouse bones and remnants of experiments and the slight scent of sweat and cocaine permeating through the air. Instead he practically tosses Sherlock to the bed, pinning his shoulders down and kissing him for everything that he's worth. And god, is he worth so much. His dear, precious little brother. He's practically a prize to be won, something to be coveted and cherished and loved all over, and it's harder than ever for him not to simply tear him apart. He wants to rip skin with his teeth, tear imperfections into that perfectly smooth skin, slide his lips over trackmarks to cover them with bruises and hickeys to where Sherlock will never touch a needle again.
The man has restraint, however, and pleases himself for the moment with lips against lips, somehow not able to stop kissing him for even a moment. The fact that this has been allowed is all that runs through his mind, and he nearly fears that if he lifts away, there would be a change of heart. Sherlock might sober. But there's something in him that still wants for so much from the man, and his lips tangle over the detective's, sighing against him as he fumbles. His suit is complex, so he takes instead to pulling apart Sherlock's clothing, unbuttoning and shifting, desperate for bare skin beneath his fingertips.
"You'll make me angry if you're lying." He murmurs against his neck as he sucks out a bruise - just one, just to remind him, and he's whispering against his ear as he shifts the shirt out from under Sherlock. His own blazer is tossed atop of it, and he's sitting up on his haunches to start unbuttoning it. "I really do hate when you lie."
no subject
It's what he needs to allow his control, so carefully guarded and so dearly held to be released. It's like floodgates, and he can't even bring himself to be as refined as he should. The fantasies would wake him up in the middle of the night, his darling younger brother spread out for him as though he actually wanted it, and he would immediately throw such horrible thoughts aside as soon as consciousness claimed him once again. He doesn't hesitate anymore, and despite however gentle he could be, there's a renewed desire that rears it's ugly head as he's finally given permission to do whatever he wishes.
The darkest fantasies are discarded, of course. He's in no shape to be harmed in any way, and all the shape to be slid against, Mycroft using the momentary lapse in judgement to swap their positions and pin him down, and he's breathing slowly through his nose as he guides him down, down down. Down to the floor in Sherlock's kitchen - for a moment he rescinds and grabs the younger Holmes brother, yanking him to his room in a matter of moments.
There are so many fantasies he wants to carry through, and none of them occurred on a floor littered with mouse bones and remnants of experiments and the slight scent of sweat and cocaine permeating through the air. Instead he practically tosses Sherlock to the bed, pinning his shoulders down and kissing him for everything that he's worth. And god, is he worth so much. His dear, precious little brother. He's practically a prize to be won, something to be coveted and cherished and loved all over, and it's harder than ever for him not to simply tear him apart. He wants to rip skin with his teeth, tear imperfections into that perfectly smooth skin, slide his lips over trackmarks to cover them with bruises and hickeys to where Sherlock will never touch a needle again.
The man has restraint, however, and pleases himself for the moment with lips against lips, somehow not able to stop kissing him for even a moment. The fact that this has been allowed is all that runs through his mind, and he nearly fears that if he lifts away, there would be a change of heart. Sherlock might sober. But there's something in him that still wants for so much from the man, and his lips tangle over the detective's, sighing against him as he fumbles. His suit is complex, so he takes instead to pulling apart Sherlock's clothing, unbuttoning and shifting, desperate for bare skin beneath his fingertips.
"You'll make me angry if you're lying." He murmurs against his neck as he sucks out a bruise - just one, just to remind him, and he's whispering against his ear as he shifts the shirt out from under Sherlock. His own blazer is tossed atop of it, and he's sitting up on his haunches to start unbuttoning it. "I really do hate when you lie."