For the love of God, Mycroft, just call it sex like everyone else.
AHAHAHAHAHA.
I work from home now. I COULD HAVE NAKED MEETINGS.
Headcanon accepted.
Which, me having naked meetings, or Mycroft calling sex ‘naked meetings’? 🙂
Both.
“Roane, the British government needs you,” Mycroft purred, as he oozed bonelessly across the coffee table, waving his umbrella like an oar across the carpet. “I’m calling a level-10 naked meeting.”
“Right, whatever, I’m busy being amazing,” Roane replied, wiping Nutella traces from her gloriously unfettered bosom with an impatient hand. She fixed her steely eye on the monitor and resumed typing important documents, each of which was more crucial than the last. Her business sombrero sat jauntily on her finely-chiseled skull. She gracefully gritted her perfect teeth in disciplined determination. Deadlines crumbled in the fiery onslaught that was Roane in her prime.
“Auaguauauahghgh,” Mycroft moaned, shoving his expensive three-piece suit and discount pants out the window to flutter gently down into the lake and float away into the the sunset. He presented himself like a sushi platter at a not-particularly-liked colleague’s baby shower. “Roane, Roane, Roane your boat, gently down the stream…. Marry me, marry me, marry me, marry me……”
“Will you get your scrotum off my furniture, please? God,” Roane sighed, exasperated, and strode purposefully off to get the Windex and her silver-plated shooing broom. Bloody English.
Naked meetings were one thing. This she did not need, on a fine Monday in September when the world’s possibilities stretched endless before her for the taking.
I LOVE EVERYONE IN THIS BAR
I can’t express how proud of you all I am.