mickume/alt_pantheon · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 0 50.8k
"Come sit with me, Mikey," he leaned back on the bed, sheet falling slightly to expose his hips, "We’ll talk."
Mycroft shuffled over with that instinctual submission all souls had for demons and sat on the edge of the mattress, legs crossed awkwardly. He still moved as if he was used to it hurting, combined with the same careful elegance he’d had as long as Sherlock could remember.
"I am sorry to see you here Sherlock but you seem to be doing well for yourself."
"I had to stay busy somehow."
"And your connection to Lucifer?"
Sherlock’s smirk got bigger as he propped himself on one elbow. "We’re companions, for want of a better term."
"You sleep together."
"Occasionally."
"Do you have an emotional attachment?"
Sherlock laughed, well aware how Mycroft stiffened at the glorious low sound. "Jim doesn’t exactly do fidelity or trust. We are fond of each other, that’s all."
Mycroft clenched his hands on his knees and nodded stiffly. Sherlock saw the flicker of jealousy swirl out of him in a green mist, almost obscured by the accompanying anger. Mycroft still wanted to protect his brother from the monsters that lived under the bed.
"I don’t suppose you know if Mummy or Father are..."
Sherlock snorted. "Oh he’s here. But Mummy at least made it upstairs."
Mycroft nodded again. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see his father, especially if he was being punished, but it was nice to have the option.
"Though of course they’re not really our parents anymore."
He frowned at Sherlock. "What do you mean?"
"They’re just souls. They retain their memories and feelings for people they knew but they don’t exist in any kind of flesh and DNA way."
"I’m corporeal."
"Yes but your body’s gone. This version of you remembers being brothers but technically we’re not related. Everyone’s alone down here."
That thought sent Mycroft into a spiral of soft sadness, contemplation and – to Sherlock’s amusement – a tiny flicker in that hovering lust. He decided to test Jim’s theory.
Sherlock scooted forward until he could run his nails across the back of Mycroft’s head, talons extended but still gentle. Mycroft wriggled away.
"What are you doing?"
"Making up for lost time. We’ve been awfully distant these last forty years, Mikey."
"You were dead."
"Unfortunate, but some things can’t be helped."
He leaned in and swept his tongue up Mycroft’s neck. He jerked away, scrambling to his feet.
"Sherlock, what in God’s name-"
"Blasphemy, Mycroft!"
"What is this?" he demanded.
"It’s what you want," Sherlock rested back on his hands, "What you’ve wanted for a long time."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don’t bother lying, Mikey. I can smell it all over you."
"Whatever you may believe about our physical forms, in my thoughts we are still brothers."
"So!" Mycroft snapped, "So that means something, Sherlock!"
He waved a hand at the tent walls. "Have you forgotten where we are, Mycroft? Nothing is off-limits down here. We don’t play by your proper rules and codes of conduct."
"Why are you doing this?" he said sadly, "Is this part of my punishment?"
"It’s your ticket to freedom actually. And besides, who says I don’t see the appeal?"
He stood and sauntered towards Mycroft, the sheet falling away in a mocking parody of that day at Buckingham Palace. Mycroft tried to step back but there was only the unmoving canvas behind him. Sherlock gripped his wrist gently, nose hovering by Mycroft’s neck.
"If you had a heartbeat it would be skyrocketing now. I can smell your fear and your longing – I can see them written over you. You want this, Mycroft. Take it."
He looked at the other man with a desperate grimace, praying Sherlock would go away and leave him alone. He might be damned but he wasn’t a fiend. He couldn’t take advantage of his little brother, even if he was a demon.
"What is my alternative?"
"Your alternative?" Sherlock raised a brow, looking a tad offended.
"Lucifer mentioned something about the Eighth Level."
"Oh you don’t want to take that road, Mikey. Eighth is Wrath. That’s where all the traditional torture and savagery happens. Hot pokers and whips and lava, that sort of thing. It’s infinite agony."
Mycroft shuddered but eased away from Sherlock as much as possible. "Send me there."
Sherlock laughed. "You’d rather spend the rest of existence in pain and torment than admit you want something that used to be taboo? That’s so like you, Mycroft."
"Send me to the Eighth Level. I...I couldn’t bear to..."
"Shh," Sherlock tilted his head, "Maybe you need some encouragement, hmm?"
He pressed their lips together and Mycroft stiffened, letting out a small gasp. Sherlock ran his nails along his brother’s waistcoat buttons, making the thread snap until it hung open. He bit Mycroft’s lower lip with his blunt teeth and the elder Holmes shoved at his chest.
"Sherlock, stop this."
"Because we are – were – brothers."
"And now you’re a ruined soul and I’m a demon. Nothing could make the current situation worse."
But Mycroft shook his head and leaned away. Sherlock rolled his eyes and slid a hand down Mycroft’s middle, over the soft curve of his belly and down to his crotch. He pressed his cheek against the other man’s and hummed, low and lilting, putting all his desire into the tune. The response was slow at first, Mycroft’s hands clutching at his shoulders ineffectually until the song kicked in. They both groaned as his flesh swelled under Sherlock’s hand, arousal straining against his pants. Sherlock didn’t stop humming as he lazily undid Mycroft’s suspenders and opened his pants, the soul almost pressing into his hand now.
"Kiss me, Mycroft," Sherlock whispered, "You don’t belong to them anymore."
He was breathing hard as if fighting back tears, but his body had other ideas, still chasing the friction from Sherlock’s hand. Mycroft stared into his eyes for a long moment before closing the distance between them so enthusiastically their teeth clashed, Sherlock’s canines slicing his lip. The demon revelled in the lust spiralling around them, the pure sin flowing from Mycroft’s mouth to his as their tongues met. It was a better high than any drug, and he laughed low and sinister in his delight.
Mycroft pushed him back towards the bed, falling onto the naked demon. He pinched at Sherlock’s hips, forcing their lower halves together hard and frantic.
"Do you want me, Mikey?"
"Yes, yes god yes."
"I don’t give a shit."
His hands drew Mycroft out of his trousers and positioned him at Sherlock’s entrance. He looked down with concern and the younger Holmes shushed him.
"You can’t hurt me unless I want you to."
"Do it, Mikey. Take me."
He pushed forward with a groan, eyes clamped shut as he breached Sherlock, hands fisted in the sheets by his outstretched wings. Sherlock waited until he was all the way in before squeezing his muscles, shocking Mycroft’s eyes open. As soon as their gazes met the soul gasped, looking like a man on fire. The black that surrounded him intensified until his canines extended – just a little. Sherlock smiled.
"There’s the demon. Fuck me, Mikey. Let’s see if we can get your wings by the end of the day."

"Come sit with me, Mikey," he leaned back on the bed, sheet falling slightly to expose his hips, "We’ll talk."

Mycroft shuffled over with that instinctual submission all souls had for demons and sat on the edge of the mattress, legs crossed awkwardly. He still moved as if he was used to it hurting, combined with the same careful elegance he’d had as long as Sherlock could remember.

"I am sorry to see you here Sherlock but you seem to be doing well for yourself."

"I had to stay busy somehow."

"And your connection to Lucifer?"

Sherlock’s smirk got bigger as he propped himself on one elbow. "We’re companions, for want of a better term."

"You sleep together."

"Occasionally."

"Do you have an emotional attachment?"

Sherlock laughed, well aware how Mycroft stiffened at the glorious low sound. "Jim doesn’t exactly do fidelity or trust. We are fond of each other, that’s all."

Mycroft clenched his hands on his knees and nodded stiffly. Sherlock saw the flicker of jealousy swirl out of him in a green mist, almost obscured by the accompanying anger. Mycroft still wanted to protect his brother from the monsters that lived under the bed.

"I don’t suppose you know if Mummy or Father are..."

Sherlock snorted. "Oh he’s here. But Mummy at least made it upstairs."

Mycroft nodded again. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see his father, especially if he was being punished, but it was nice to have the option.

"Though of course they’re not really our parents anymore."

He frowned at Sherlock. "What do you mean?"

"They’re just souls. They retain their memories and feelings for people they knew but they don’t exist in any kind of flesh and DNA way."

"I’m corporeal."

"Yes but your body’s gone. This version of you remembers being brothers but technically we’re not related. Everyone’s alone down here."

That thought sent Mycroft into a spiral of soft sadness, contemplation and – to Sherlock’s amusement – a tiny flicker in that hovering lust. He decided to test Jim’s theory.

Sherlock scooted forward until he could run his nails across the back of Mycroft’s head, talons extended but still gentle. Mycroft wriggled away.

"What are you doing?"

"Making up for lost time. We’ve been awfully distant these last forty years, Mikey."

"You were dead."

"Unfortunate, but some things can’t be helped."

He leaned in and swept his tongue up Mycroft’s neck. He jerked away, scrambling to his feet.

"Sherlock, what in God’s name-"

"Blasphemy, Mycroft!"

"What is this?" he demanded.

"It’s what you want," Sherlock rested back on his hands, "What you’ve wanted for a long time."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don’t bother lying, Mikey. I can smell it all over you."

"Whatever you may believe about our physical forms, in my thoughts we are still brothers."

"So!" Mycroft snapped, "So that means something, Sherlock!"

He waved a hand at the tent walls. "Have you forgotten where we are, Mycroft? Nothing is off-limits down here. We don’t play by your proper rules and codes of conduct."

"Why are you doing this?" he said sadly, "Is this part of my punishment?"

"It’s your ticket to freedom actually. And besides, who says I don’t see the appeal?"

He stood and sauntered towards Mycroft, the sheet falling away in a mocking parody of that day at Buckingham Palace. Mycroft tried to step back but there was only the unmoving canvas behind him. Sherlock gripped his wrist gently, nose hovering by Mycroft’s neck.

"If you had a heartbeat it would be skyrocketing now. I can smell your fear and your longing – I can see them written over you. You want this, Mycroft. Take it."

He looked at the other man with a desperate grimace, praying Sherlock would go away and leave him alone. He might be damned but he wasn’t a fiend. He couldn’t take advantage of his little brother, even if he was a demon.

"What is my alternative?"

"Your alternative?" Sherlock raised a brow, looking a tad offended.

"Lucifer mentioned something about the Eighth Level."

"Oh you don’t want to take that road, Mikey. Eighth is Wrath. That’s where all the traditional torture and savagery happens. Hot pokers and whips and lava, that sort of thing. It’s infinite agony."

Mycroft shuddered but eased away from Sherlock as much as possible. "Send me there."

Sherlock laughed. "You’d rather spend the rest of existence in pain and torment than admit you want something that used to be taboo? That’s so like you, Mycroft."

"Send me to the Eighth Level. I...I couldn’t bear to..."

"Shh," Sherlock tilted his head, "Maybe you need some encouragement, hmm?"

He pressed their lips together and Mycroft stiffened, letting out a small gasp. Sherlock ran his nails along his brother’s waistcoat buttons, making the thread snap until it hung open. He bit Mycroft’s lower lip with his blunt teeth and the elder Holmes shoved at his chest.

"Sherlock, stop this."

"Because we are – were – brothers."

"And now you’re a ruined soul and I’m a demon. Nothing could make the current situation worse."

But Mycroft shook his head and leaned away. Sherlock rolled his eyes and slid a hand down Mycroft’s middle, over the soft curve of his belly and down to his crotch. He pressed his cheek against the other man’s and hummed, low and lilting, putting all his desire into the tune. The response was slow at first, Mycroft’s hands clutching at his shoulders ineffectually until the song kicked in. They both groaned as his flesh swelled under Sherlock’s hand, arousal straining against his pants. Sherlock didn’t stop humming as he lazily undid Mycroft’s suspenders and opened his pants, the soul almost pressing into his hand now.

"Kiss me, Mycroft," Sherlock whispered, "You don’t belong to them anymore."

He was breathing hard as if fighting back tears, but his body had other ideas, still chasing the friction from Sherlock’s hand. Mycroft stared into his eyes for a long moment before closing the distance between them so enthusiastically their teeth clashed, Sherlock’s canines slicing his lip. The demon revelled in the lust spiralling around them, the pure sin flowing from Mycroft’s mouth to his as their tongues met. It was a better high than any drug, and he laughed low and sinister in his delight.

Mycroft pushed him back towards the bed, falling onto the naked demon. He pinched at Sherlock’s hips, forcing their lower halves together hard and frantic.

"Do you want me, Mikey?"

"Yes, yes god yes."

"I don’t give a shit."

His hands drew Mycroft out of his trousers and positioned him at Sherlock’s entrance. He looked down with concern and the younger Holmes shushed him.

"You can’t hurt me unless I want you to."

"Do it, Mikey. Take me."

He pushed forward with a groan, eyes clamped shut as he breached Sherlock, hands fisted in the sheets by his outstretched wings. Sherlock waited until he was all the way in before squeezing his muscles, shocking Mycroft’s eyes open. As soon as their gazes met the soul gasped, looking like a man on fire. The black that surrounded him intensified until his canines extended – just a little. Sherlock smiled.

"There’s the demon. Fuck me, Mikey. Let’s see if we can get your wings by the end of the day."