#fatcroft

“You did say that you wanted to be fitter. Well, here you are. Nothing better for you than taking the stairs”

“Nothing better? Allow me to redirect you to the elevator. Christ... Exercise shouldn’t have to mean savagery” 

Rowan laughed, “Savagery is it?”. She extracted a bandana from her back pocket and wiped Mycroft’s face even as hers was irritatingly sweat free. “This obsession with your weight is primitive in my opinion but I’m supporting you nonetheless. This is just the warm up Mycroft, if you want to quit now I won’t force you. It’s two more flights. Then you can have a good long stretch to catch your breath”

“I am not” he pulled himself over to the next handrail, “obsessed with my weight”

“No? Just vanity then” Rowan teased back. Even with her short legs she loped easily up the stairs. Mycroft had the feeling she knew the sight of her ass swaying up the stairs in front of him was what had gotten him up this far.

“I have... nothing to... be vain about... regarding my body...” he huffed, “This is a... selfless measure... I assure you...”

They came to the last landing before his office where, once again, Rowan steadied him for a breather. His legs and lungs burned from the exertion. Every scone from breakfast that morning beat against his stomach wanting to know exactly what the hell he thought he was doing. 

“A selfless measure? How’s that?”

Mycroft studied his running shoes, already red in the face from exertion now redder from the shame. “I- I well, I want you to erm... when we.. yknow” 

Rowan cupped his cheek and kissed Mycrofts forehead. “I sincerely hope you’re not trying to say that you’re losing weight on my account. You know I like you as you are”

“That’s just it” he latched on to the line of frustration, “I want to be better than just ‘like’ or ‘not minded’” he threw his hands up, irritated with the language of physicality and it’s awkward connotations. Rowan leaned him back against the smooth wall, forcing him to look at her on eye level before holding him by the chin to keep him from looking away.

“Mycroft, I will say this as many times as it takes to get it through your head: I love you, I want you, you are second to none, you are a goddamned gem not someone to be settled for. Do you understand?”

He nodded meekly, half taken aback and half (loathe though he was to admit it) aroused by the way she took charge of him as naturally as breathing. Her hands traced from his jaw, down his neck, shoulders, waist, before settling just above the curve of his hips. And here he had thought that the stairs had gotten his heart pounding.

“Good. And by the way, if you didn’t have the tummy control built into your suits, you’d be having a much easier time breathing”

“How did you-?”

“You’re not the only one here that’s good with deductions Mycroft” she winked, “Now go on”

“What? You want me to strip?”

“I always want you to strip, but in this case just to the waist will suffice. I want you to see the difference it makes on the last flight”

“And you just want to see me shirtless?”

“Would you like me to undress you personally?” she kissed his cheek, “do I need to repeat myself already?”

Mycroft gulped hard, “Is that an order Ms O’Connor?” he began undoing his tie, feigning a pout, reveling in the knowledge that he was in for it.

She slid her down the front of his pants to untuck his shirt and gave him a squeeze for good measure. “That’s Doctor O’Connor to you”.  Mycroft tried and failed to bite down on a moan. He quickly covered his mouth, vaguely aware that with each shirt button that can undone his stomach began to win its battle for expansion. When she finally got him down to just his tanktop she stopped, gave him a chaste kiss on the lips, “You can say no. You know that right? If you want me to stop just say so”

Incoherent from the litany of affections, it was all he could muster to lean down, return her a much less chaste, more desperate kiss, “I want it” 

Without further ceremony, the restrictive garment was removed and set aside. Mycroft felt immediately exposed. His soft, plump belly spilled free to muffin top over his too-tight waistband, the doughy chest, the jiggling potbelly all on display. Anxiety gripped him when he saw Rowan staring fixedly. Then, as though it were an autonomic response, he analyzed what he was seeing; dilated pupils, flushed cheeks, a just detectable increase in pulse. It struck him. “You prefer me... well, plump for lack of a better word” It wasn’t a question. “Why go to the trouble of helping me exercise”

Rowan dragged herself out of the lustful look long enough to offer a chagrined half smile, “You’ve caught me. I did tell you I prefer you as is. I go to the trouble because while I have my preferences I consider them secondary to your happiness”

“Are you telling me that I can satisfy you and never have to set foot on a treadmill again? Never subject myself to another diet?”

She smirked, “Mycroft Holmes, did you just get hard?”

“I feel as though I’ve won the lottery” he chuckled in disbelief. He wrapped his arms around her and nuzzled her neck before suggesting, somewhat shyly, “What do you say we go the rest of the way up to my office hm?”

Rowan lifted Mycroft with ease, then started carrying him princess style up the last set of stairs, “Sounds perfect darling, but I do still have one stretch to show you”

“And what’s that?”

She nipped his neck, “The one where I stretch you arms over your head”

hi you sent this on Christmas and it is now way past Christmas and this lil guy is def not good but I will singlehandedly revive fatlock and bring it to its former glory

~~~

It is generally accepted that one tends to pile on the pounds over the holidays. Between big feasts with family, receiving gifts of chocolates and delicious candies and sticking inside as much as possible to avoid the cold, it is impossible to stay thin. Mycroft Holmes especially found difficulty with this, as he had a doting husband who found any opportunity to feed him something sweet.

There’d be afternoons where Mycroft would get back to his office after four straight hours of meetings to find a neatly wrapped package on his desk, filled to the brim with decorated cookies and cakes. A note would accompany it, sloppy words declaring his love for Mycroft and signed with a ‘G’. Despite the sheer amount of treats shoved in the box, the elder Holmes would always manage to eat every crumb. No pastry was safe in the presence of Mycroft Holmes and Greg certainly knew that. The man definitely didn’t seem to mind it when his husband returned home from the office, suit looking a bit tighter than it did when he left in the morning.

Of course at home there were more treats waiting for him. It seemed everyday Gregory came home with a tin box full of cookies or chocolates, insisting that someone at the Yard had given it to him, even though they knew he wasn’t too big on sweets. Usually they’d sit together, then, and share the box after dinner with Mycroft eating the majority. His sweet tooth was insatiable and his dear husband had no issue feeding it.

Come January, every set of trousers he owned were snug or didn’t fit at all. His tailor, Sebastian, always had a very busy first week of the new year as he set out to make Mycroft a whole new wardrobe. His belly - where the weight went most - swallowed up more of his lap than it did in November. His cheeks fuller, double chin a bit more prominent. Even his arms would get softer, filling out the sleeves of his shirt more and more.