Shorts 'n' Scraps

Shorts, vignettes, character sketches, and other too-small works, half-finished thoughts, and trinkets that never quite made it elsewhere but have nowhere else to go. Dated where applicable but in no particular order. All works are fictional.

Works may contain graphic violence, adult situations, incest (both consensual and nonconsensual), questionable consent, sexual abuse, underage content, and offensive or upsetting language.

Viewer discretion is advised. This is an adult site, after all.



short | nathan/tiefer

Nathan was staying with Agnes at her parents’ house—separate rooms, of course—to help her dad repair the roof of the shed. Since Tiefer had the day off, Nathan dragged him along. They’d managed to patch it up and were supposed to be cleaning up for lunch.

Instead, Tiefer presses Nathan against the door of the spare bedroom, smearing dirt and grime as he clutches at his throat. He kisses him hard, tugs at his collar and then at the rest of the buttons down his front, impatient, and Nathan lets him. He fists his hands in Tiefer’s ratty t-shirt and kisses him back (for once) and doesn’t pull away, doesn’t complain when Tiefer’s hands go lower and lower, nails clacking against his belt as he struggles to pull it off. All the while they swallow each other’s whimpers and moans in wet, dirty kisses that grow sloppier by the second, like they’re nothing more than two teenage boys again touching pricks in a shared bathroom stall after school.

Nathan helps him with his pants and if Tiefer is surprised he doesn’t say anything, just kisses him harder and more urgently than before as they press their cocks together, rutting against flesh and dirt-covered denim, and they both know they’ll need to shower after this, should be showering now; yet neither man pulls away. Instead Tiefer bucks his hips, one hand back at Nathan’s neck, the other between their legs, and Nathan arches his back, spreads his legs, holds onto Tiefer as if, for once (forever), he’s the one who needs the kisses, the rutting, the constant contact, not Tiefer, never Tiefer.

And when Nathan comes, he comes with Tiefer’s lips—chapped and bitten down from worry, from kissing—against his, with Tiefer’s body—underfed because the man cannot, will not, take care of himself—pressed to his, with Tiefer’s hands—clawing, desperate—entwined with his, and a voice, Agnes’ voice, his girlfriend’s voice, calling from the kitchen downstairs: “Nate! Emilein! Lunch’s ready!”

They pull apart though their pulling was more his pushing Tiefer away, away from him, away from this life he had just waiting for him (downstairs with a warm meal and a woman—a woman—who didn’t obsess over him and a family that got along and didn’t pull knives or broken bottles on one another.) He shouts back, “Just a second!” and scrambles to get dressed, to look presentable. He never looks Tiefer in the eyes though he manages a quick apology on his way out, though whether it’s for leaving Tiefer there or leading him on in the first place, he never says and never will.

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character study | tiefer

He had tried to erase himself. He had tried to bottle up the emotions, tried to bury the secrets. He had tried to wash the dirt out of his mouth and scrub the stains away. He had tried to cut over the scars with some of his own so that no one would know they were hers.

That he had been hers.

Nathan had always been there, though. Nathan had been there when the bottle overflowed and the dead crawled out of their graves. Nathan had been there when he was shoved back into the dirt and when the stains didn’t come out all the way. Nathan had been there to bandage up his cuts and not ask—even though he knew, he knew—where he had gotten them, not make him come up with some sad excuse for why these were fresh and new and not hers.

Though Nathan was with her now.

His wife did not bother Tiefer. No, no, Agnes was his friend. Agnes was sweet and Agnes was fair and Agnes was hard-working and sharp and everything Nathan had always dreamed of in a wife, in a partner. Tiefer had presided over their wedding and baptized their firstborn. Tiefer had also overseen the funeral, had held Agnes whose eyes were red from crying and whose stomach was swollen with child, had prayed over his friend’s—his love’s—body. Yes, Nathan was with her now.

Now there was no one to wipe up the spill or beat back the bodies. There was no one to wipe away the dirt or bleach away the stains. There was no one to clean the bandages when the old disintegrated away, leaving gaping wounds open to fester and bleed and eat him alive. There was no one to keep him from erasing himself, whiting out and rubbing away any and every bit of him until there was nothing less. Nothing but her, her burning words and lingering touch and nasty, thorny hold on his heart.

Tiefer soon discovered that blood wouldn’t erase his wounds, those open sores that spilled pus and belched blood and ate away at him, but at least it covered them up.

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In her heart


character study | annemarie

Somewhere in her heart, Annemarie supposed, she’d feel love, at least once. The sort of love that boyfriends and girlfriends and lovers and couples had. The sort of love her mama always told her she’d find. One day. When she was older, that is.

She was older now. 

She was older and the bastard walked out. She was older and her mother was dead. She was older and her kid-brother was all that remained. There was no love to be found in dead-beats, corpses, or frightened boys—no matter how hard she tried with the last.

She was older and watched men walk in and out of her life. She was older and could only name a handful. She was older and ended more ‘loves’ than she began. There was no love hiding in one-night stands, in on-again, off-again beaux, in repeated breakups—though damn did she try to keep some of them around long after everything but their bodies died.

She was older now and nothing had changed.

Annemarie glanced over at her brother who was sleeping soundly beside her. He was a bit sickly, sure, but he was pretty to look at and skilled with his hands. She loved that so she should love him. He was her brother; she was supposed to love him. She tried and she tried but—besides the small spark of desire deep in her gut that always came with the promise of easy, pliant sex—she felt nothing.

Somewhere in her heart, she supposed, she’d find love, but she always wound up alone in the smoke and shadows.

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When Tiefer Kissed Him


short | tiefer/jehan

When Tiefer kissed him, Jehan knew that the priest loved him because people who were in love kissed—especially like this, the way his mommy and daddy used to do.

When Tiefer slid a hand between his legs, Jehan knew that he loved him because it made him feel nice and warm and sometimes funny (but that was okay because Tiefer loved him—his parrain always said he loved him.)

When Tiefer pressed a finger inside of him, Jehan knew that he loved him still despite the discomfort that, like the priest had told him, just comes with wanting to be so close.

When Tiefer pressed him into the mattress and made his insides warm and wet, Jehan was sure that he loved him because his mommy and daddy had done something similar to make him and his brother and they loved each other.

When Tiefer raked the knife down across his back, Jehan told himself that Tiefer loved him because sometimes love hurt. (Didn’t it?)

But when Tiefer let his daddy’s name slip out one day while he was making him warm and wet and gross inside, Jehan knew that Tiefer didn’t love him, Tiefer just admitted he didn’t love him, Tiefer loved someone else if he was thinking about his (dead, rotting, buried) daddy while they did that.

When Tiefer let Nathan’s name slip out, he went still and pulled away quickly, realizing that Jehan heard him, that Jehan knew.

The next time Tiefer kissed him, he did so not because people who were in love kissed but because little boys who listened didn’t have to pay the price.

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The First Time


short | tiefer siblings

nonexplicit but very underage

The first time, she leads him into her bedroom under promises of dinner tonight and threats of the rod.

The first time, he assumes he must have upset her because she’s reaching for his belt and tugging at his pants—how she’d deal with him as a child, bending him over her knee for his wrongdoings.

The first time, he is confused by the way she slowly ghosts her hands along his hips, tugging him close, and reaches out to touch and stroke between the front of his legs as opposed to smacking the backside, as he was accustomed.

The first time, her hands are as soft as her lips and her nails as biting as her words.

The first time, he tries not to cry because he’s ten and he’s a big boy and she’s just a girl, why should he be afraid of a girl; but she’s hurting him with her hands gripping him too tight on the hips, and she feels weird when she sits down on him and puts him in her—right where it’s slippery and hot and wet—and does things he’s only heard some of the older kids talk about when teachers couldn’t hear. He’s pretty good at not crying, despite how disgusting it is because he never really liked girls like that, especially not girls who were his sister.

The first time, he comes quickly, which disappoints his sister to no end, so she grabs his hand and forces him to touch her; when that fails, it is his mouth that winds up making her shriek and toss her head and fall to pieces.

The first time, he’s thankful she cannot see his face from where it is buried between her legs—otherwise, his sister would have seen tears.

The first time, Emilein realizes how much of a monster Annemarie really is.

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vignette | tiefer/jehan

Tiefer rarely felt shame anymore, and honestly he sometimes wondered if he ever felt it in the first place.

(He had a dim memory of his sister walking in on him, as polite company would say, alone and sure it was embarrassing but with her, with their history, it was hard to have felt proper shame. He also had an even dimmer memory of Nathan finding him, beaten, half naked and worse, in the dirt but God he’d done everything to forget that, shame or not.)

But there were times – times like right now, with the room stinking of cigarettes and booze and blood masking the stench of sex, with his godson lying naked and shaking beside him, his hand in his and his eyes bright with tears and his pink mouth in one breath thanking his godfather for stopping and in the next apologizing for whatever it was he had done wrong (whatever it was that Tiefer had arbitrarily decided was displeasing) that was worth being split open, sliced open – there were indeed times Tiefer felt shame like bile clawing at the back of his throat, weighing in his chest, and he had to pull his hand away, look away, tell Jehan to just go clean himself up – quickly, before the shame boiled into anger and he’d have to exorcise it – and help himself to another cigarette to calm his nerves while his godson obeyed.

He’d tried very hard to not feel shame any more. Freaks – no, monsters weren’t supposed to feel those sorts of things. And yet he felt shame for a moment, for what he’d done.

The sound of the shower running carried muffled through the walls. Tiefer sighed, smoke pouring from his lips, cigarette dangling from his fingertips. He’d just have to work harder to get rid of those feelings.

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Murky Water


vignette | tiefer&nathan

They sat out on the wharf after swimming in the muddy bayou, stripped down to nothing and dripping in water that smelled of fish guts. Emilein had his head on Nathan’s shoulder, his light hair darkened by mud. His fingers linked through Nathan’s. He smiled, content.

Then Nathan moved and he almost pouted—until his lips were pressed against the other boy’s, warm and wet and tasting of muddy water and sand and a bit of tobacco from the cigarette he’d given Nathan an hour ago, and he drank it in, loving and living in that one moment. And when Nathan pulled away for air, for awkward apologies, for regret, he did not pout, still content. For now, at least.

“I love you,” he said, resting his head on Nathan’s shoulder again, nuzzling against his neck.

Nathan just held him close, the murky water swirling beneath them.

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short | tiefer&nathan

Nathan sat at the head of the kitchen table. Against the door leanedd Tiefer, arms crossed. Two bottles of beer stood between them, one completely empty. Nathan was still drinking his in an effort to deaden the shock of another failed seduction by his best friend.

“C’mon, Em, we were kids. It didn’t mean nothin’.”

“Really?” Tiefer scoffed. “What exactly didn’t mean nothin’?”

“You know what I mean,” Nathan said. “What we did. Together. Don’t fuckin’ make me spell it out.”

Tiefer stared at him. “Nothin’  back then meant a thing to you?”

“Nothin’ we did.” He took a drink to calm himself. “We were just two horny boys without girls.”

“You mean you were.”

Nathan sighed. “Whatever, Em, it’s all the same.” He ran a hand through his hair, tugging slightly. “Okay fine, you were without a boy. My point still–”

“Oh no, Nathan, I had a boy”–Tiefer uncrossed his arms, his hands balled into fists at his side–“but apparently I was just nothin’ to him.”


“Nothin’ we did matters to you, Nate? What about all those times we went fishin’ together or sat up at night pretendin’ we’d do something fan-fuckin’-tastic with our lives? Or when you’d take care of me after Anne? Was that nothin’?”

“Em, calm down, Jehan’s asleep in the other room–”

“Was your first goddamn kiss nothin’?”

“Shut the fuck up, Emilein!” Nathan slammed his beer on the table. The bottle shattered. “I did not say that you’re nothin’ to me so just shut up and forget it, okay?”

Tiefer stared at the broken glass before returning his gaze to Nathan. “That’s just the thing, Nate: I can’t forget. Can’t forget, can’t stop wantin’. But shit, if you wanna forget? Fine. Pretend I’m nothin’.”

“Em, I just–”

“If what I’ve done is nothin’, what does that make me, huh? Don’t worry, though, Nathan.” He smiled sweetly, though it hardly reached his eyes. “I’ve gone my whole life bein’ nothin’. Been treated like a rag-doll for people to beat and beat off to, nothin’ more. Why expect any better from you?”

Tiefer slammed the door behind him when he left before Nathan could form an apology from where he sat at his kitchen table of beer and broken glass.

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vignette | tiefer/nathan

The first time they tug their shirts off and pull at each others’ belts, desperate and horny and all awkward fumbling. Emilein’s a little bit better, but then again, he’s had practice—Nathan’s not stupid, he knows you don’t just get marks there from fighting in the schoolyard. Still, neither boy manages to disentangle himself from his pants before they fall onto Nathan’s bed, kissing painfully and rutting against each other like animals, anxious and needy and thirteen and foolish.

Nathan comes first, surprised, and for a moment Emilein thinks he doesn’t even know what happened, doesn’t even realize, but he doesn’t care, not now that he can kiss Nathan and press against him, the front of his pants sticky and warm, and when they’re both spent and exhausted, Nathan kisses him, soft and sweet, the heady smell of sex hanging in the air.

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Whatever you want


short | nathan/tiefer

As soon as Tiefer wrapped his arms around his neck, Nathan knew he’d wind up sprawled on the bed as he is now with Tiefer on top of him, kissing him, pressing a knee between his thighs and forcing (requesting because Tiefer didn’t force Nathan and Nathan would never let him) his legs wide open. He just never knew he could moan like that.


Tiefer pulls away for breath. Both their lips are red and bitten and Nathan can feel the other’s nails digging into his shoulders but he doesn’t care because he’s kissing Tiefer again and Tiefer’s kissing back and pressing against him and God Nathan can feel him hard and aching against him but the pure need in his small whimper of “Can I?” still catches him off guard.


“Y-yeah, Em. Whatever you want.”


And Tiefer smiles, genuine, for once, before stripping Nathan of his shirt (“Plaid again? Really?” “Oh shut up, all you wear is black anyway.” “Least it ain’t plaid.”) and belt and tugging his pants down. He moves down the bed, bowing low to kiss the tip of his cock through his underwear. Nathan bites his lip as Tiefer slowly pulls down his briefs and licks, long and slow and so fucking warm, along the exposed length.




Kissing the tip, Tiefer smiles, lips still pressed against the head, and catches Nathan’s eye. “Careful, cher. You’re gonna gimme a complex.”


“One more won’t matter, huh?”


He laughs, breath warm (Nathan squirms.) He takes him in his mouth, careful of his teeth, and Nathan almost comes then, but Tiefer pulls away (the tease) before it gets too much and instead undoes his own belt and pants and pushes them and his underwear down just enough before crawling over Nathan again. He spits in his hand and slicks up his cock and presses it against Nathan’s before kissing him, hungry and biting and with bucking hips because neither of them want to wait, especially not him (he’s been waiting too damn long) and especially not now that they’re together, kissing and biting and moaning and rutting against each other like the animals they are (the animal Tiefer is and Nathan’s just getting dragged down with him and loving every second of it.)


They come together, too fast and too hard and Nathan’s panting and Tiefer has his face buried in the crook of Nathan’s neck and breathing just as heavily. They stay like that, too sticky and warm for too too long; Tiefer falls asleep against Nathan as he combs his fingers through his hair.

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character study | nathan

Most of the time, when Nathan was alone, he thought of women. Beautiful women, gorgeous women, straight-outta-the-movies women. Women with hips, women with breasts, women with curves, damn it! And that’d get him going, get his belt pulled lose and his fly undone—yet the more he thought, the more he imagined, the more his hand moved and his toes curled and his lips bruised from where he bit down to keep from moaning out loud, the less curvaceous the women got until he was in the twenties, ten years before he was ever born, with flapper girls with flatter chests and slender hips, more boys than girls, practically some fae creature in-between, and—if he is lucky—it is those thoughts that cause him to spill onto his fingers, sticky and wet and too, too soon.

No wonder, he thinks later, that he can’t help but look at Agnes with her petite body and slender figure and want to carry her off to bed whenever he sees her.

He never mentions, though, those times his thoughts stray too, too far, past pin-up girls and boyish flappers, past faerie-lithe women with too-tiny breasts and nothing to speak of for hips. Those times he thinks of a boy with a delicate body and feminine features, too-full lips and wide, ruddy eyes framed by pale hair, entirely made of silk and glass—those times he comes fast and hard and unable to keep silent, imagination gracing him with phantom lips and ghostly touches against fevered skin.

He never mentions that those touches were once incredibly, regrettably, real.

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vignette | tiefer family, tiefer/jehan

“No” would be a lot easier to say if her daddy wasn’t so much bigger and if his hands weren’t so much stronger and if the bender he’d gone on hadn’t almost eroded whatever shreds of a conscience he had left and if, when he snaked his hand between her legs while grunting whiskey-stained filth in her ear, it didn’t feel so good.

“No” would be a lot easier to say if his sister didn’t sink talon-sharp nails chipped in blood paint into his arm, his cheeks, his hips every time he pulled away and if she didn’t threaten to tell everyone he beat and abused and raped her (and they’d all believe it even if he was a faggot too because any excuse to be rid of a freak) and if, in the quiet of the sweatsick mornings after, she didn’t hold his touch starved body close, didn’t pet his hair, didn’t tell him as gently as her hoarse voice could (the way that sisters – that mothers – should) that she loved him.

“No” would be a lot easier to say if his parrain wasn’t so much bigger and if his hands weren’t so much stronger and if his words were not all at once as sharp as the knife his parrain often pressed threateningly under the soft of his throat or pushed into the ever-scarred flesh of his back and yet sweeter than sugar, full of promises that things would go back to the way they were and all too believable lies of love.

“No” would be a lot easier to say if he could just stop loving him.

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vignette | tiefer siblings

implied afterlife AU

His sister sank down on him, her skirts rustling against his stomach and hips. She’d gagged him with wadded up panties and tied his hands above his head so she could cup her breasts that filled her palms and slide her hands down bony ribs and flat stomach and jagged hips under skirts to press and rub her clit as she rocked back and forth. He groaned underneath her, angry and anguished and awfully aroused (after all, she’d trained him well), and tried to buck her off — fruitless, of course, as she simply tossed her head and rolled her hips, hair snaking over her shoulders like tawny weeds. At least her skirts covered the act so he wouldn’t have to see her riding his cock with lips split wide and pink around him, wet and slick like an oozing wound, though she was happy to narrate how big he was and how wonderful it felt and what a pity he didn’t like girls (it obviously didn’t matter — his sister always, always got her way) but that was okay because she came anyway, louder than all the demons wailing in hell. She slumped over, breathing heavy, shoulders shaking, and tentatively reached out to pluck her panties from his mouth before sliding off him, still wet, her own fluids leaking down her legs. He called her a whore and she smiled so sweet and left him there with his hands bound up and cock still hard (just like she’d wanted. She’d trained him so well.)

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short | tiefer, jehan

“If you’re so fuckin’ miserable then here.”

The knife hit the bed with a dull, soft thump, not far from where Jehan was huddled by the headboard, knees up to his chest, sobbing.

“Fuckin’ slit your damn throat, boy, if you think you got it so fuckin’ bad,” Tiefer said, pausing to light up a cigarette from where he leaned against the door frame to the bathroom. He took a drag, slowly breathing out the smoke, his eyes bright as the cigarette’s lit end. “Or your wrists. Go down, not across.”


“You’re miserable, ain’t you? Go on, go, kill your fuckin’ self!” He’d cried all afternoon – Tiefer didn’t even put it in or pull out his knife, it was only oral, it was only between his thighs, the brat had no gratitude – and even while Tiefer cleaned up in the shower, he could still hear Jehan cry. Fourteen and crying like a child. Tiefer never cried that badly when he was Jehan’s age. “If your life is so fuckin’ miserable and so goddamn awful, you little self absorbed ungrateful bitch, then end it.”

The knife still lay on the bed.

Tiefer scowled. “Should fuckin’ give you something to cry about – you know how many people would have killed to have even a fraction of the life you got? You know what I’d have done–” Tiefer stopped, catching himself. He preferred opening new wounds on Jehan’s pretty flesh than reopening his own. “You barely gotta make a single damn sacrifice – fuck, I even let you cum every fucking time – but nah, you’d rather sit here an’ cry like a fuckin’ faggot bitch!”

Jehan flinched, and Tiefer looked as if his words were repeated and not his own, an expression of disgust on his face that no longer seemed directed at Jehan whose body was still shaking from trying to keep quiet, to keep from crying, even long after Tiefer quieted down, his attention focused now on the rest of his cigarette.

The knife remained untouched.

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Most Would Think


vignette | tiefer/jehan

Most would think, if they knew, that the worst of it all would have been the knife in his back, cutting deep as if trying to excise an unseen infection of rotted pus and bile; or the too brutal exposure, being treated more like a dog than a boy while playing a man’s role; or maybe even those cruel moments afterward when, trying to clean the stink of sex and stain of blood from his flesh, he found his head forced under the bathwater and held down all for a moment of sadistic pleasure (and because, as he realized much later, his beloved abuser would rather he had drowned and not his father.) Most would think, after all, that torture and cruelty and the basest, rawest violation was an incomparably hellish wound unto itself that perhaps even death could not rival.

Jehan could understand that most would think so.

But those times (those many, many times) that Tiefer promised him candies or plied him with sweet alcohol or, so often (so fucking often), kind and gentle words that told him that he was special and that he was beautiful and that he was wanted – so wanted (and couldn’t he feel it?) – spoken in the soft rasp he had grown up hearing, grown up trusting, until Jehan gave himself up?

(And he did give himself, he knows he gave himself, he let it happen, he stripped his own clothes off, he laid on that bed time and again, he said “I love you”, he even fucking came, god he gave himself, he gave him everything.)

Those times remained the worst, an inflammation of shame and disturbed longing boiling under his skin, piercing his betrayed heart day after day, long after the physical cuts scarred over.

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The Worst Part


vignette | tiefer/jehan

The worst part about their relationship, whatever you wanted to call it – rape, love, something mangled and rotting in between – was that, no matter how hard he tried to forget it or bury it or deny it outright, Jehan missed the weight of Tiefer’s hands on his hips as he held him close; the warmth of Tiefer’s breath at the nape of his neck as he took him like a chained dog; but most of all, the drunken sweetness of Tiefer’s “I love you, p'tit” that filled Jehan’s too-broken heart when all was said and done and they were curled in twisted sheets that sometimes were dotted with blood if Jehan had been disobedient or merely a disappointment.

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vignette | tiefer/jehan

The first time is supposed to hurt the most and maybe that was true – he’d tried to pull away when he realized what was happening was more than kissing, than touching, than lips and teeth and tongue, he knew when he was still sore days later that he was spared greater pain only because damage to his growing body would invite unwanted attention – but when he stripped off his clothes without being asked and instead asked between soft kisses for his parrain to please hold him, please fuck him, please help him cum, Jehan felt something break that decades later still rubbed raw even after the scabs scarred up.

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short | tiefer/jehan


Jehan’s protest met the stifling weight of Tiefer’s right hand, the delicate fingers pressing sharply into Jehan’s flushed, tear-streaked cheeks as a silent warning to behave.

(Tiefer’s left hand remained firmly between Jehan’s thighs, fingers reaching farther back still, forcing the young man open.)

“Shh, p'tit, ’s alright…” The response was low and heavy, lust clinging to each sound like the cigarette smoke on his dishevelled cassock. “You’re gonna be a good boy for me an’ you’re gonna quit crying, yeah? You don’t wanna upset me, huh, baby?”

He had come by after mass to watch over his godson whose mother and brother were out of town. They were in Jehan’s bedroom. They didn’t need to shut the door. Jehan’s muffled whimpers carried out to the hall – not that it mattered.

Tiefer’s grip tightened. “I asked a question, you little bastard.”

Jehan quickly shook his head with a muffled, desperate “no Parrain sorry Parrain!” (or at least it sounded enough like that to placate Tiefer who released his grip with a nasty grin and gave Jehan a kiss that was far from chaste.)

“Good boy, p'tit…now how ‘bout you apologize properly on y'hands and knees for upsetting me, hm?”

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short | anne's beaus/tiefer, tiefer/nathan

anon prompt: nathan stumbles on tiefer being gangraped by anne's boyfriends; tiefer sees

Tiefer buries it for weeks after (because Nathan says nothing, acts like nothing happened) until finally he rounds on him as they walk home from school, shoving him down into the grass and straddling him, pocket knife out and at Nathan’s throat, and absolute rage in his voice when he asks, “Did you fuck yourself after? Wanna know what it feels like, to be passed around an’ ripped apart?” And Nathan tries to play dumb because he didn’t mean to see that and he didn’t know Tiefer saw him, he didn’t like it, but Tiefer makes a noise like a kicked dog before punching Nathan hard, bruising his chest, and Nathan would hit back if it weren’t for that knife (if it weren’t for his guilt) but he lets Tiefer yell and scream and threaten and hit and only stops when Tiefer goes for his belt (because Tiefer is livid and Nathan knows but he’s a human being, damn it) and Tiefer stops and snarls at Nathan, bony fingers digging against the flesh of his stomach, “I needed you.”

And Nathan is so used to Tiefer whining how badly he needs him, he wants him, when he just wants a blow job or a kiss or a touch that it takes Tiefer pulling back, pulling away, sitting now in the grass and dirt and curling in on himself before Nathan realizes what Tiefer actually said. And he sits up and he reaches out and he softly says, “Emi,” only to be pushed away, met with, “Fuck you! I needed you and you left! You didn’t even try to help!” And it’s tears now, real tears and raw need and Nathan is useless, again, while Tiefer cries it out for what feels like forever before wiping his eyes and staring dead at Nathan with the question that Nathan hates the answer to: “why didn’t you help me?”

(They both know the answer: Nathan doesn’t want to wind up like him.)

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In Hora Mortis Nostrae


short | tiefer

Tiefer slipped the rosary above his head and let it fall about his neck, the small beads cool against his skin. The centerpiece bearing the Virgin rested against his breastbone while the crucifix nudged his flesh where bony ribs ended and soft innards began. He lay back on his bed, fingers gently prodding the blood-red beads. He wore nothing but that. Alone in his room, he saw no reason to get dressed. Especially not now.

“Ave Maria, gratia plena…” 

The words slipped from his lips in staggered whispers as he wrapped his right hand about the rosary, tightening it to his throat. 

“Dominvs tecvm benedicta tv…”

A small pause for breath. He smirked. His other hand slid between his legs, wrapping about himself tightly until it hurt. 

“In mvlieribvs et benedictvs frvctvs ventris ti—tvi…Iesus.” 

His Latin fumbled just slightly as he moved his fingers, nails catching against sensitive flesh. 

“S-sancta Maria...”

His throat burned trying to force words out, his lungs filled with glass, yet he kept his hand wrapped about the rosary as he bucked his hips.

“Mn…Mater Dei...”

The beads, cool as they were, cut into his throat, the chain constricting his breathing until his whispers were barely audible, mere puffs of air. 

“Ora pro nobis pecatorribvs—ngh!—nvnc et…et…” 

Both hands were at work, hurting and tugging and pushing him closer and closer to the edge—of death, of orgasm, of both, he did not care.

“In hora…mortis nostra…ae…ah—”  The rosary was too tight, cutting any cry of pleasure or pain or desperation dead in his throat. His lungs, damaged as they already were, couldn’t spare another breath, and his vision was nothing but white-hot stars exploding behind his eyelids until his arching body stepped back from the brink—his hands were loose, the rosary came untwined—and fell back against the sheets. 

He lay there, ribcage expanding rapidly, lungs clamoring for air until he swore he would burst. The pain was ebbing though his throat was very sore and red where the beads had pressed hard against him. Reaching up with both hands, he slowly removed the rosary from his neck. He held it gently before him and watched as some of the filth from his left hand soiled the face of the Virgin on the centerpiece bead. Silently signing himself, he pressed the bead to his lips, kissing the Virgin and letting any trace of his sin smear his own skin rather than the image of her skin.


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vignette | tiefer/jehan

“You’re so beautiful.”

It was repeated over and over, an inescapable litany unto infinity, whispered against his skin and sweat with each thrust, but when Jehan turned is head, a feeble attempt to bury his face in the crook of his arm, he found his jaw in a vice grip and his head jerked up to meet his godfather’s gaze.

“No, p'tit… I want you here.”

“You have me here,” Jehan whined, “please, parrain–”

Tiefer squeezed harder, fingers bruising Jehan’s jaw. “I want to watch you enjoy this, baby boy.” He sneered before letting Jehan go, leaning down to kiss him quick, harsh. “You’re so beautiful when you cum just from my cock like the little slut you are… I ain’t gonna miss that, Jehan.”

Jehan’s response was only a choked sob that became a moan as his godfather fucked him until he came, being called beautiful all the way.

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sour and rotten (maybe)


vignette | tiefer/jehan

Tiefer lazily makes love to Jehan (because it’s gentle, because Jehan didn’t say no, because Jehan in fact asked for his hands there and him between his thighs and not inside and he listened, he often listened when Jehan was nicer than a ‘no’ and when he was sober, because it’s the lie they have to tell in their hearts to keep from despair) on a hot, rainy afternoon and Jehan thinks that maybe, maybe…

Maybe he could let this be his life, maybe it wouldn’t be bad to be Tiefer’s forever, maybe he would have a long life (as his), maybe he still loved him, maybe things could go back the way they were before…

But as he’s in the bathroom afterwards, letting Tiefer wash him off as he sits in the tub, blissed out, he feels Tiefer’s fingers against the scars on his back, the scars he left there on days that weren’t as sweet and full of maybes, on days he said no and no and no, on days when he just didn’t do things the way Tiefer wanted (on days when he didn’t do anything at all), on days when whatever ate at Tiefer ripped it’s way out to eat at him too…

And suddenly those maybes vanish, replaced by something sour and rotten in his gut.

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cold comfort


lore | Émile/tiefer

 émile definitely showed up on annemarie and emilein’s doorstep a number of times because “hey, baby, your mom around? oh….oh i’m sorry. hey. uh. listen, yeah, i uh i know y’all must be grievin’ an’ all but i kinda need a place to crash an’ also uh maybe some money, you can loan me some can’t you, baby?” and of course annemarie would tell him to fuck off and he’d call her a bitch and probably slap her and tell her he’s her father and she should respect him and he has every damn right to be there and besides it’s only for a night or two and annemarie has a crying toddler to take care of and doesn’t wanna deal with him so she lets him in and while émile is true to his word and only stays a night or two, of course he makes a habit of crashing  there and asking for money and sleeping with his daughter (because he’s horny and she’s horny and she’s grown so much, though that never totally stopped him before, and honestly she never does say no and she always did sleep better if someone fucked her into the mattress so why not daddy dearest) and occasionally doing something nice like buying some more booze but usually just being a gross fucking leech 

but there’s definitely enough space sometimes between visits – because god only knows what kinda trouble émile arceneaux gets into and who he’s on the run from now – that at some point tiefer’s a teenager and still really delicate looking and so much like his mother that when émile next comes around looking for a place to crash, some cash to steal, a hole to fuck, he has to look twice and be absolutely sure that that’s not his dead lover and, well, you know, if he were to get super fucking wasted and accidentally go into tiefer’s room (which, in émile’s defense, used to be annemarie’s room when she was growing up so obviously it’s not his fault he was just confused) and maybe feel tiefer up a bit thinking he’s anne (and then thinking he’s carina and god émile did miss her, the crazy dopey broad) you can’t really blame him can you, poor bastard

(you can blame him, you should blame him, but émile’ll swear up and down that you shouldn’t blame his sorry ass)

until of course he feels a very flat chest and a very noticeable bulge and oh, right, that’s a guy – and then oh right that’s the little faggot oh fuck – and he recoils like hell and shouts at tiefer because what the fuck boy why didn’t you fucking tell me god I bet you fucking liked it didn’t you you fucking faggot freak!

and émile goes cursing back to the couch or maybe even to his daughter to go prove he’s a real man and tiefer’s left sitting there, insulted yet thankful that at least it wasn’t one of annemarie’s boyfriends (they never stopped) and kind of confused because dads weren’t supposed to do that… but then again émile really wasn’t much more than a stranger, an occasional visit, far from anything resembling a dad

(it’s a cold comfort, at least, because he is hard and he did like being touched and some of the things émile did – calling him baby, petting his hair, kissing his neck – felt like what he guessed being loved felt like and if he could pretend it wasn’t his dad – it was a stranger, his dad always was a stranger, he wasn’t a real father – maybe it’d make him feel less like a freak)

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vignette | tiefer

“You’re afraid of turning into your sister, aren’t you?”

Tiefer had buried his face in Nathan’s pillow, the slump of his shoulders admitting defeat. He’d been too rough–and Nathan noticed. Nathan snapped at him. And he fell apart, apologizing and pleading and cursing himself, but Nathan shushed him, calmed him, forgave him. So there they’d lain in Nathan’s bed, two boys, and Nathan had asked him and the broken boy couldn’t possibly deny him because he was afraid of become Annemarie–of hurting Nathan the way she hurt him.

Now though Tiefer isn’t the one with his face buried in a pillow. He’s grown, he’s fearless (because what do the damned have to fear?), he’s powerful.

He’s not a scared, broken boy anymore–no, it’s someone else’s turn to play that part.

Because now, his worst fear’s come true.

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AU | vignette | annemarie/jehan

in which annemarie is also a ghost (or perhaps Afterlife AU)


The rest of Jehan’s protest was suffocated by the ferocity of her soft lips against his, the heat of her mouth swallowing his words. He cringed as she clambered on top of him and straddled his hips, her red lace panties doing very little to hide her body or its warmth. Her nails raked down his arms, leaving angry red marks in their wake. When she pulled away, her teeth caught his lip and she bit down, hard.

His yelp was still muffled by her lips which spread into a nasty little smirk against his. When she pulled back, he could see the dark red of his blood against the red of her lipstick before she licked it up with a flash of pink.

She gave him a flash of pointed teeth before pouncing on him and pushing him back against the bed, forcing him into another wild kiss.

Annemarie Tiefer was an outright beast, fangs and all.

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short | crossover | adam/jehan

prompted from tumblr

 jehan’s always nervous, always waiting for the other fucking shoe to drop, especially where other people are concerned, and yeah sure it was nice, adam didn’t say anything about the nasty scars all down his back, adam was as gentle as you can be when you’ve both had a few drinks (because jehan needed a couple, jehan had needed a couple the second he saw Adam but he definitely needed it if he was gonna get through the evening without freaking out because he’d done his best to forget the last time he’d had sex and that had been more than two decades ago), and it was all a lot more pleasant than jehan had kind of mentally steeled himself to think it’d turn out but

but he’d had enough times sleeping with tiefer (and it was sleeping with, wasn’t it, it wasn’t rape, because tiefer was gentle those times – much different than the times he held him down and made him hurt, those were rapes, the nice times weren’t so bad, right? – and tiefer almost seemed to care for him like jehan imagined lovers do so it was sleeping with, obviously, he was just making a big deal out of nothing like the ungrateful brat he always was) where afterwards, it was like a switch was flipped and maybe he wasn’t good enough that time or maybe tiefer was just in a mood but it always ended in tears so jehan knew, he just knew, that it would only be a matter of time – a few minutes maybe – before adam decided he wasn’t good enough or decided he really was a piece of shit and deserved to be treated like it (or maybe adam had moods like tiefer did; he sure smoked like tiefer did) and jehan had tried to prepare himself for that possibility – and it had definitely made coming harder which gave adam even more reason to want nothing to do with him, to hit him if he wanted to – but god it had felt so nice and he’d thought he was done feeling that way ever since he was eighteen…

but then adam rolls over in bed and kisses him, a little sloppily, a little hungover, and tells him he’s a good boy and asks him if he’s okay, if he was okay, if he wanted adam to go get him some coffee later (’or now, though if we’re being honest i’d much rather blow you and then get you coffee but whatever you want, babe’), and all the while he’s petting his hair and looking at him like he was a fucking gift and jehan’s a little terrified because that’s….that’s not how this goes, that’s never how this goes, no one usually cares, and his concern is a bit noticeable in his face and body language and adam is quick to kiss him and ask what’s wrong and say they can just lie there, if he wants, it’s okay, just sleep, they can figure it out later, and jehan suddenly hopes there’s a next time (and maybe that adam does follow through with his promise for coffee….after a blow job, of course.)

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