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“Good afternoon, sir. I hope you’re enjoying your flight so far. Can I get you a drink?”
Mycroft bites back the sigh and sharp remark he wants to make. No need to take it out on the air hostess. Flight attendant, he reminds himself, given it’s just the attendant, the pilot and co-pilot in the cockpit and Mycroft on the private jet. “No, thank you,” he says politely, even as he keeps his eyes closed trying to clamp down on the itchy feeling creeping through his body and mind. He’s only been on the plane for ten minutes and he’s already regretting it.
“Are you quite certain? Compliments from the cabin crew.”
“You are the cabin crew,” Mycroft remarks snidely.
“Are you sure I can’t tempt you with something, Mr Holmes?” the attendant is so close he can small her perfume – Estee Lauder he pulls from his memory. It’s just one of those things he’s picked up along the way – women’s perfume not really being his area of expertise.
Mycroft opens his eyes to tell the obviously deluded woman he’s not interested and order her away but as soon as his vision adjusts, his jaw drops. “Sherlock,” he finally gasps, eyes round as he takes the sight in.
His brother – lover – clad in burgundy and white. From the burgundy silk scarf around his long neck, a double-breasted jacket that gives the impression of a bust, nipped waist and hips over a simple white silk camisole and the skirt; that looks incredibly indecent on his six foot stature and from which an expanse of stocking-clad legs extended all the way down to the pretty, and surely non-regulation, matching burgundy high heels. Capping the ensemble off are the pure white gloves that float in front of his vision.
He takes the glass Sherlock offers and downs it. Fuck.
Sherlock leans close and when he speaks, it’s a breathy whisper directly into Mycroft’s ear and he can’t stop the resulting shiver. “Do you like?”
“How did you get on the plane?” He asks, curiosity and a need to stall as his brain re-engages.
“Well when you told me you just had to interrupt our evening’s merriments because you just had to go to Brussels, I thought why should I suffer because you’re an arse who doesn’t know how to say no even when it’s your birthday?”
“So you’re here to make me suffer?”
“Only for the next forty minutes give or take,” Sherlock replies impishly as he falls across Mycroft’s lap, curling an arm around Mycroft’s neck.
“And the actual air hostess?”
“Flight attendant,” Sherlock corrects. “Enjoying a last-minute trip to … some party hotspot somewhere.”
Mycroft nips the ear that hovers so temptingly in front of him. “Air hostess is more alluring.”
“Kinky.”
“From the one who’s dressed as an air hostess?”
“Well we all have our quirks,” Sherlock replies as he squirms in Mycroft’s lap. “And it is a tradition of ours. Seemed appropriate.”
He moans. How could he not. Mycroft wraps his hands around Sherlock, petting his waist, ‘hips’ and rounded arse. “And I so do enjoy your dressing up fetish.”
Sherlock pulls him in for a kiss, Mycroft readily obliging. They start as little kisses but rapidly become debauched. Hot, wet and messy and when Mycroft pulls back for some much-needed air, he realises Sherlock is wearing make-up when he notices the lipstick smudges from their kisses. His groin twitches as the image of scarlet lips stretched around his cock flashes in his mind.
So when Sherlock chooses that moment to lift himself off Mycroft, he has to bite back the whine. Flushes when his brother throws him a look that makes it clear he knows exactly what Mycroft was thinking. “Seat belt sign is switched off,” he says with a teasing smile. “Why don’t you make yourself more comfortable on the sofa, Mr Holmes?”
Mycroft unclips the belt as he watches the affected sway of Sherlock’s hips, walking in high heels like he was born to wear them, until he disappears behind the curtain separating the cockpit from the cabin. He slips off his jacket as he settles onto the small cream leather sofa, twisting his torso just a little to keep an eye on Sherlock’s imminent return.
He’s not disappointed.
Sherlock’s face and mouth look pristine again – quite unlike his own he presumes – make-up refreshed. Mycroft can’t stop drinking in the image of his brother as he stops in front of him.
“Mr Holmes.”
Mycroft looks up at Sherlock enquiringly. His expression turns a little wary when he sees that Sherlock has a seat belt in his hands. “Sher-“
Sherlock doesn’t let him finish, leaning over him and placing a gloved finger on his lips. “Now, Mr Holmes,” his brother continues in a breathy, higher-pitched affected tone of voice. “I need your full attention while I demonstrate some of the safety features for your flight today.
“When the seat belt light is on, you must fasten your seat belt,” Sherlock says, pulling the seat belt strap firmly against Mycroft’s crotch. “Make sure you lock the buckle before pulling tight.”
Mycroft hisses as the length of belt fabric rubs against his trouser-covered half-hard cock as Sherlock demonstrates his instructions.
“Normally we would suggest you keep your seat belt fastened as we may experience turbulence,” Sherlock continues.
Turbulence. Mycroft almost scoffs. He’s quite certain he won’t notice any turbulence on the flight. Certainly not once he has Sherlock bouncing on his cock.
“In the event of an emergency, please assume the bracing position,” his brother continues, turning on his heels and facing away from Mycroft. Although it does give him a perfect view of Sherlock’s lush arse. It’s almost indecent clad in the dark red fabric.
He doesn’t enjoy the view for long because suddenly Sherlock shifts and sits on top of Mycroft, driving the air from his lungs in surprise. “Christ,” he swears as Sherlock wriggles in his lap.
Sherlock makes a shushing noise and Mycroft doesn’t say anything, but his quickening, heavy breaths speak more than words. “This is the bracing position, Mr Holmes.” His brother leans forwards, his gloves hands weave into his dark curls, until his forearms rest against his thighs.
Mycroft is, for all his brilliance, still only just a man. There’s only so much teasing he can withstand. With a low, aborted growl, he wraps his hands around Sherlock and thrusts up, grinding against his brother’s beautiful body. Sherlock obliges and pushes back, seeking more friction.
It’s not enough. Mycroft slides his hands down the burgundy skirt until it turns to stockings before curling his fingers and pulling at the fabric. It bunches and snags until Sherlock lifts his hips; in seconds Mycroft has the skirt bunched up at his brother’s waist and his lower body exposed.
Mycroft teases the scalloped edge of Sherlock’s hold-ups before running his fingertips up the short distance to Sherlock’s hard cock. His fingers trace a meandering path as he listens to his brother’s delightfully breathy sighs and hums. He trails a set of kisses up the side of Sherlock’s neck.
“Dear god, Sherlock,” he growls into his brother’s ear. “You’re gorgeous. I want you like this. Can I?” His brother twists in his seat and pulls away from Mycroft’s touch. It takes everything he has not to pull Sherlock back.
“God, yes but not just yet,” Sherlock replies. “I want to do something first.”
“What-,“ Mycroft starts to ask but the question becomes immediately irrelevant when Sherlock sinks to the floor between his spread legs. “Oh.”
He watches, transfixed as white gloved fingers snap at his braces, deftly unzip his trousers, pulling them to the floor before stroking his cock. Mycroft is already hard and leaking and he thrusts into the grip until Sherlock’s hands press down on his hips. Mycroft catches Sherlock’s gaze, maintains it as his brother swallows him.
Mycroft realises the reality of Sherlock’s painted lips around his cock, sinking, taking him in, is far better than anything this mind can conjure. The cabin fills with the wet sounds of Sherlock’s mouth and throat fucking his cock, of Mycroft’s barely restrained groans and muttered curses.
It really was a lost cause, Mycroft realises, as he comes, pulling out just at the end to leave a light trail down Sherlock’s chin. He’d been beaten before he’d walked into the plane. With a self-satisfied, lazy smile he watches as Sherlock cleans himself up and tucks Mycroft back in before pulling himself up and settling himself into the seat next to him. If he’s honest, not that he could remotely get it up before the plane lands in Brussels, Mycroft is a little disappointed he couldn’t indulge in the image of Sherlock, sitting astride him.
He doesn’t react when he feels Sherlock lean into his personal space, whispering directly into his ear. “Don’t pout, Mycroft.”
“I’m not doing anything with my mouth.”
“I notice,” Sherlock remarks and Mycroft merely shoots him one of his looks. “Pouting, again, Mycroft.”
Mycroft tries but he can’t help but roll his eyes, although he’s sure there’s a hint of affection he can’t quite hide. But when Sherlock takes hold of his right hand, tangles his fingers with his own, Mycroft raises his eyebrow at his brother. “What’s that for?”
“To stop you sulking. I promise, you can have your wicked way with me once we check into your hotel,” Sherlock vows. “It is, after all, your birthday, Mycroft.”
Sherlock always did enjoy the challenge of making each birthday memorable, he reminds himself as his mind engages. The wall, those high heels and his sinful lips on his to start with, Mycroft decides as the pilot’s voice sounds over the intercom. “We’re beginning to make our descent to Brussels Airport so please can you sit down and fasten your seatbelts…”