BBCSherlock ficlet: Mycroft/Umbrella (crack!)
This ficlet is for isilienelenihin who ships Mycroft/umbrellas.
Rated: crack. Safe for work.
Not safe for eating -- spew warning!
Mycroft sighed behind his desk. He preferred a cleanswept desk, dark gleaming wood, a classic green blotter, a choice fountain pen.
Instead, it had been a long, complicated day and more complications kept cropping out all over like his little brother's furious curls. Papers cluttered the desk, and his phone would not stop ringing with calls his secretary, brilliant as she was, wasn't qualified to field.
Mycroft's hand crept under the desk, he straightened his spine, and his eyes slipped close as he rolled his head slightly, loosening his neck. To the casual observer, he was simply immersing himself in a meditative moment.
Mycroft's fingers had another agenda. Long and dextrous, the fingers of his left hand slid sinuously down his trouser leg, edging toward the outer seam, the light, expensive wool catching pleasingly against the whorls of his fingers.
There. Ah, there. Mycroft breathed in through his nose and released the breath past his lips as he took it in hand, straight and true, long dark sheath, deep as midnight, sheltering, sure.
Just one smooth thrust of the tip into the carpet. It took his weight, of course, without complaint, giving back strength for strength.
The sweet name whispered like a mantra through Mycroft's mind, clearing, calming: Brolly. Brolly. Brolly.
Another deep breath and his eyes fluttered open.
His left hand relinquished its comfort and returned to the desktop, joining his right as he deftly prioritized the scattered papers.
The phone rang and borne up, Mycroft answered.
Rated: crack. Safe for work.
Not safe for eating -- spew warning!
Mycroft sighed behind his desk. He preferred a cleanswept desk, dark gleaming wood, a classic green blotter, a choice fountain pen.
Instead, it had been a long, complicated day and more complications kept cropping out all over like his little brother's furious curls. Papers cluttered the desk, and his phone would not stop ringing with calls his secretary, brilliant as she was, wasn't qualified to field.
Mycroft's hand crept under the desk, he straightened his spine, and his eyes slipped close as he rolled his head slightly, loosening his neck. To the casual observer, he was simply immersing himself in a meditative moment.
Mycroft's fingers had another agenda. Long and dextrous, the fingers of his left hand slid sinuously down his trouser leg, edging toward the outer seam, the light, expensive wool catching pleasingly against the whorls of his fingers.
There. Ah, there. Mycroft breathed in through his nose and released the breath past his lips as he took it in hand, straight and true, long dark sheath, deep as midnight, sheltering, sure.
Just one smooth thrust of the tip into the carpet. It took his weight, of course, without complaint, giving back strength for strength.
The sweet name whispered like a mantra through Mycroft's mind, clearing, calming: Brolly. Brolly. Brolly.
Another deep breath and his eyes fluttered open.
His left hand relinquished its comfort and returned to the desktop, joining his right as he deftly prioritized the scattered papers.
The phone rang and borne up, Mycroft answered.