Believe Me, I Loved You
mature | tiefer siblings
Besides Émile’s, only one other name was forbidden in their tiny, broken home: that of the sole man who ever truly loved Annemarie Tiefer. And the funny thing was, she loved him back.
(Emilein cannot even remember his name, even when he loved him too—and not the way he ‘loved’ her other beaus, no, because this one was genuinely kind and good and didn’t raise his fist or undo his belt—for whenever he dared mention that man, Annemarie was sure to beat Emilein until he saw black.)
He’d been tall and tan, sandy-haired and bright-eyed, and he had a genial quietness about him that fit, unnaturally at home, with Annemarie’s constant, slurred babble. He’d sit quietly as she went on and on, the two of them together on the couch or in bed, his arm around her, her head on his chest—and unlike the other men, he listened rather than simply tuned her out. Unlike the other men, he made love. Even when it was hard and fast and rough and she left nail-marks on his shoulders and he pressed bruises into her skin, he made love to her, loved her. He was sweet to her, a gentleman drifter. He treated her like a lady—more than that, he treated her like a human being. She, in turn, seemed to become more human.
(The man had come into his room one afternoon and sat on his bed—and Emilein had shrunk back, defeated, resigned, because it was only a matter of time, it always was, because her lovers always came to him, always spat on him or hit him or fucked him, only a question of when rather than if, but god it was so soon, this new guy’d been there less than a week—and said he’d seen the bruises and noticed the way Annemarie talked to him. He’d wanted Em to know she did love him, she just lost her temper sometimes, and Emilein had wanted to tear apart the man’s little fantasy of Annemarie the temperamental older sister and show him the reality of Annemarie the monster who looked the other way; but then the man smiled and told him, “If you need to talk, I’m here,” and then left, without hitting, without fucking. Emilein had been too shocked to say anything: the man had even treated him like a human. It was a first.)
He’d cooked for them, all three of them, whenever he was around for mealtimes. He made decent gumbo and more-than-decent fried fish. When money was tight—and it always was—he could stretch whatever leftovers or scraps were on hand to feed them and feed them well. The house often smelled of food and spices with him around, and sometimes Annemarie even helped him cook. Once, they all sat down and had dinner together like they were some sort of family. Annemarie didn’t badmouth her brother once. The man said grace.
(Emilein would have given anything to have him as his family, his brother, his foster-father.)
He’d left after only a few months.
(He’d found them together—Emilein pinned down beneath Annemarie as she rode out her orgasm, the stink of sex heavy in the air, clothes strewn about, everything plain as it always should have been—and walked out the door. “I can’t do this,” he’d said. “I can’t just overlook this.” Annemarie chased after him, fumbling for an excuse, spewing lies, crying rape, but she could not hope to take it back. He did not yell, even as she sobbed and screamed and shrieked and stumbled out into the dark behind him, the front door wide open, spilling light over her half-dressed body; he only stopped and held her at a distance, large hands firm and warm and still so lovingly gentle upon her shoulders. “Oh, Annemarie,” he said, “believe me: I loved you.” He left her standing in the hot night air and Emilein huddled against the doorframe, shaken and small—though in that moment, his sister looked even smaller than he.)
She never spoke of him after he left. She’d been vicious in her silence, demanding the same from Emilein. She refused to talk about him with the few friends she had, pretending he’d never even existed. As far as she was able, Annemarie blotted the man she loved—the man who’d left them—from her mind and that of everyone around her.
(Emilein cannot remember his name and wonders if, were his sister alive, she could.)
Though his name was banned, memories of him still lingered. They haunted Annemarie even as her blood stopped and her belly swelled, and they surrounded her even as she lay dying in a pool of her own blood.
(Emilein ‘d been there. He’d watched. He’d laughed. He’d knelt down beside her and gripped her shoulders as she trembled on the floor, begging and pleading and gasping for help, for life. “Oh, Annemarie,” he sneered, “believe me: I loved you.” He left her lying in her blood, shaking and small and sobbing now, heavy sobs that shook her until she stilled, limp and lifeless and unloved.)
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Ever Since His Daddy Died
teen | tiefer/jehan
Ever since his daddy died, his mama’s face was never the same. Sure, her cheeks were still rosy, her eyes were still blue and mostly unlined, and her lips were still ruby-red #9 from the drug-store up the road, but Jehan could see something behind her always-wet eyes and in the time it took for her to smile nowadays and the way she stared out over the bayou, glaring the water down as if it hid a miserable, loathsome monster that took her husband away.
He didn’t like it.
His parrain, though, looked as he always did: gruff but delicate and so so tired. And Jehan flocked to him. Wherever Tiefer was (and his mama was not), Jehan was quick to be also. Jehan clung to him because he didn’t see the same look his mama had staring down at him from behind Tiefer’s glasses. Tiefer was his parrain and his parrain never changed. Tiefer was still the same after Jehan’s daddy died. Tiefer wasn’t upset like his mama was. Tiefer didn’t sleep on a tear-stained pillow or damn the bayou or turn his head because, like everyone said, Jehan looks so much like his father.
As for Tiefer? He kept his eyes dry, his expression calm, his smile light despite being so incredibly tired, letting his world slowly crumble rather than burn to ash and dust as Agnes had done.
Yet Tiefer’s world still crumbled, and as it fell brick by brick, he cut Jehan’s world (and body and soul) to bloody pieces until one afternoon once he’s put his knife away and cleaned the blood and semen from their bodies, once Jehan seems to have fallen asleep, exhausted from the abuse (Tiefer had been especially vicious that day), whatever was left of the life he once knew disintegrated into nothing. Nathan was dead. Nathan was gone. Nathan wasn’t his any more. (He never had been, says a voice suspiciously like his sister’s, but he doesn’t even have it in him to even be angry anymore.) The memories come flooding back and, since Jehan’s still and silent, he allows himself to cry, broken and loathing and so fucking tired…
Jehan shifts. Tiefer wipes his eyes and Jehan just crawls into his lap, skinny arms curling around Tiefer’s neck, both comforting and terrified, but he’s seen that look behind Tiefer’s eyes and in the way he never smiled any more and how he stared blankly at a monster it seemed only he could see. He’s seen it on his mama and now he’s seen it on his parrain, and even though his entire body hurts, Jehan’s been seeing it on his mama for so so long now that he doesn’t want to see it here.
Because if he sees it here, that means Tiefer, who moments ago had held him down and pushed inside and sliced him open, can still feel, that Tiefer’s still human; but Jehan’s back is bleeding and his muscles burn and it’s not fair – he’s supposed to be the hurt one, not Tiefer.
So he buries his face against his parrain’s chest, avoiding a face that had never been the same ever since his daddy died.
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mature | tiefer/other male character
Emilein burrowed his face in the sheets, his balled up fists tangled in the sheets clamping down against his ears to try to block out everything about the man above him, but he couldn’t block out the feeling of the too big cock filling his insides, stretching him wide. Annemarie’s latest beau had gotten tired of her loose cunt, apparently, and came looking for the little fag who couldn’t keep his legs shut, as he knew some of her past lovers referred to him. He never really turned them down—he knew better than to say no, knew better than to get them upset—but he never wanted this either, to be forced head down into the sheets with his legs spread too wide and body pushed over the edge.
“You’re so pretty.”
He felt a hand run through his hair and he had to repress an embarrassing whimper. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had called him pretty. Girly, sure, he’d heard that a lot, but girly meant weak, not pretty. Nathan was the last person to call him pretty. Sure, he’d been cracking jokes, but Emilein knew he meant it, Nathan always meant what he said, and Nathan had meant it when he’d called him pretty and oh God did it hurt to hear that from this disgusting bastard. But…if he pretended this was Nathan above him, Nathan with his hands gripping his hips too tight, Nathan breathing heavily in his ear as he moved, faster and faster, his hips bucking hard inside of him—
“An’ so tight.”
Nathan would never say that, not with such a filthy, mocking little hum to his voice. But maybe, maybe after a few nights with him, his own filthy tongue would’ve brushed off on Nathan and then he’d be the one whispering all sorts of filth in his ear, he’d be the one bucking faster and faster, he’d be the one spilling inside of him with a shudder and a groan, not this latest fuck-toy of his sister’s.
“What a pretty boy…” Another hand through his hair as he was forced to look at him. “Don’t you want to come for me, pretty?”
And Emilein did. Emilein came with a small, pained whimper at the older man’s hand, but he didn’t do it for him. He did it for Nathan who he just knew would never want him now.
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explicit | Émile/Carina
Carina was at the stove stirring a pot of red beans when the screen door slammed shut. She turned to see her lover tugging off his fishing boots coated in mud and leaving them by the screen door.
“Ah, Émile, I didn’t expect you home—”
“Save it, Cara,” he grunted as he straightened up and walked over to her before grabbing her by the waist and tugging her against him. “It’s been a long fuckin’ day.”
“I imagine so.”
He kissed her, his hands heavy on her hips, before pulling away and bringing her with him towards their room. Carina didn’t protest except to worry about watching the stove.
Émile simply shouted for Annemarie to make sure the house didn’t burn down before slamming the bedroom door behind them.
She was sprawled, naked, on the bed. Émile had wasted no time in stripping her, popping off one of the buttons on her dress (she had apologized with averted eyes) in his hurry, as he kissed along her jaw and throat and collar bones once he’d gotten that stupid dress off. He would have simply torn it off her, but he knew how much she liked the color—light blue, like her eyes. Just like he knew how much she liked what he had planned.
“Spread your legs,” he ordered, his hand resting on her lower belly, fingers splayed towards her navel. His thumb rested even lower and made her comply even faster than his tone of voice. “Good girlie.” He snickered and moved his hand to hold her legs apart as he kneeled down at the foot of the bed. Underneath his fingers, her muscles were taut. He kissed her, just once, and he felt her body spasm beneath him as she sucked in a breath.
He smirked and kissed her again. Her muscles twitched again beneath his hands. “Damn, I know you’re sensitive, baby, but shit, I ain’t done nothin’ yet. You’re so wound up…”
Her reply was a whimper of German and mumbling, neither of which he could understand. But by the way her eyes were screwed tight and her fingers were gripped in the bedsheets.
“Have you been thinkin’ ‘bout this all day?” he asked, ignoring the rest of her and kissing the inside of her thigh. “Hmm?”
She nodded, biting her lip.
“Sorry, Cara, I didn’t catch that.” His eyes were on her face. “Was you thinkin’ ‘bout me fuckin’ your wet cunt wit’ my tongue all day long? That why you’re so sensitive?”
He kissed her again, farther down her leg, and she whined. “Carina, you know we don’t speak that here,” he teased though there was an edge of warning to his voice. “Now, I’ll ask you again.” He brought his hand closer, letting his fingers graze against pinkened flesh. “Tu veux que je te baise?”
“Avec ma langue?”
He could hear the question in her voice. She didn’t understand what he was saying exactly and they both knew it. For all she knew, she could have agreed to letting him take her anally. But she trusted him—for whatever reason, she trusted him—and he enjoyed that trust too much to take excessive advantage of it, for the moment. So he kissed her a third time between her legs, letting his tongue trail against pink lips. He kissed and licked and spread her with his fingers while his tongue trailed slow and heavy against her, deliberately teasing and tasting.
She moaned, her breathing heavy. “Ah, Ém…Émile, please don’t…”
“Mmm, don’t what?” he asked, breath warm against her skin.
“T-tease me like that.”
“Tease you?” he asked with a smirk before kissing her lightly.
“Nein, nein, no, you know vhat I mean.”
Her accent was heavier and he could have sworn he heard her curse in German, but he didn’t pay it any mind. The noises she was making combined with her scent and her taste already made him wish he had stripped off his jeans and drawers the same time he was tugging off her dress.
“I do, chère.” He slid a finger inside of her as he kissed her clit, letting his tongue circle and swirl and tease her while he stretched her. Her fingers tangled in his sandy hair and her hips canted up to meet his lips, all the while her own lips let out moans and whispered, whimpered mantras of his name mixed with a language he didn’t care to know. They continued this way for a short time until—
Émile looked up at Carina, his eyes on her heaving chest and her flushed face. “Yes?” he asked, his breath tickling her.
“Come…come here,” she panted, tugging on his collar. He obliged. She pulled him down on top of her, kissing him hungrily, tasting herself, as she pulled him flush against her. His clothes rubbed against her body and she moaned against his lips. “A-ah…I vant you,” she said slowly, her accent very thick now, her voice heavy with lust. “I vant you to fuck me, Émile.”
Kissing her again, he quickly pulled off his belt and let it drop onto the bed, followed by his pants and drawers which were rucked down to his ankles and kicked off. He didn’t bother with his shirt, too distracted as he was. He kneeled between her legs and pressed the head of his cock against her. “Nice an’ wet, baby, jus’ perfect…” He slowly pushed in, his hands coming to rest on the swell of her hips as he sunk deep inside her. He squeezed hard, hard enough to bruise her pale flesh, but she didn’t seem to mind. She never showed it, anyway.
She only pulled him closer with a moan and a whispered “I love you” against his chest.
They lay tangled together in the sheets. Carina had a few more bruises along her hips and on her throat. She didn’t say anything, though, and Émile wasn’t about to beg forgiveness when he hadn’t even needed to ask permission. Instead, he nuzzled against her cheek, kissing her.
“Mm, tha’ tickles,” she mumbled against his cheek, rough with stubble.
“Tough,” he grunted, holding her closer. “I like kissin’ you.”
Carina smiled, easing into his arms. They were silent for a bit. “Hey, Émile,” she said, breaking the peace, “I meant what I said.”
“When we…together…” She turned to look at him. “I…I love you. I do. I really do, Émile.”
Émile simply nodded—what Carina took as a wordless “I love you too”—before kissing her again and dozing off with her in his arms.
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mature | nathan/tiefer
Nathan had driven up to New Orleans to visit Tiefer that weekend, and the first place they hit was Bourbon. That was also the last place they hit considering, as they stumbled back to Nathan’s hotel room, neither could really stay upright for too long. That was how they both wound up on Nathan’s bed, Tiefer sprawled on top of him, his white alb from seminary all wrinkled.
“They gon’ yell at you for getting’ your dress all messed up?”
Tiefer sat up enough to swat at the other’s head. He missed and wound up falling over against the crook of his neck. Nathan just laughed at him. “ ‘S not a dress, fuckface. It’s a fuckin’ alb.”
Nathan shrugged. “Looks like a dress.”
“Yeah well…you look like a fuckface.”
“Aw, c’mon, don’ be like tha’…” Lifting the other some so that he could see his face, Nathan grinned. “What if I said it was a pretty dress. Like…like you were pretty like a, uh, a princess or somethin’.”
Tiefer’s cheeks were pink. “I’m not a princess,” he huffed, though his annoyance was ebbed by the alcohol and the fact that Nathan called him pretty. “I don’ look like no princess.”
“But you’re…uh…you’re fair. Like whasserface, the one wit’ the apple.”
“Thanks, Nate.” Tiefer rolled his eyes. “Mm, an’ what, ‘stead of a wicked queen I jus’ got a wicked sister?”
“Well nothin’ good happened to neither of ‘em, now did it? Naw. ‘Cause you, you a princesses, yeah, ‘cause like I said. You’re fair,” Nathan reached out, clumsily pushing the other’s bangs from his eyes. “An’ skinny.” Though Tiefer wasn’t as small and scrawny as he used to be, he was still rather slender. “An’ wearin’ a dress. Like a princess.”
Tiefer was silent for a moment. “So…if I’m a princess…” He swallowed hard before leaning in closer. “ ’S that make you ma prince?” Nathan had saved him in more ways than one when they were children, though he never had given him what he truly wanted. This was a last shot for a knight in shining armor, even if the armor was made of beer bottles.
“Mm…princesses do need princes.” He was still smiling, the drunk.
“Then,” Tiefer began as he moved to straddle Nathan’s hips, “we need to have a happily ever after, yeah?”
When Tiefer kissed him, Nathan didn’t push him away.
Nathan kissed him and pulled him up against his bare body, his hands sliding down his back and rucking up the alb. Tiefer moaned into the kiss, rocking his hips slightly.
“Like tha’, princess?”
“Hnng, you’re so fuckin’ charmin’—ah, fuck!” Tiefer wrapped his arms around Nathan’s neck to pull himself up some as Nathan grabbed his ass and pushed him forward, their erections pressing against each other. “Goddammit, Nate,” he hissed. “God, yes…”
Nathan simply tugged at the alb, pulling it up over Tiefer’s head so that he was completely bare except for the little golden chain around his neck from which a small crucifix hung, falling against his chest as the clothing was removed. Silently, Nathan let his hands fall against Tiefer’s sides, kissing him on the cheek.
“Mm, Nate, I got some lube…in my alb, jus’…”
“You jus’ carry that around wit’ ya?”
Tiefer grinned, rolling his hips and earning a shaky groan from the other. “Only sometimes.”
Nathan paused, looking him over. “W-well do we need it?” He asked and pressed his hands firmer on Tiefer’s ribs, gently holding him still. “I mean, it’s just…we’re not…I wasn’t gonna…”
“You weren’t gonna fuck me, huh.” He let go of the other’s neck and shoved his hands away. “You was jus’ pretendin’ ‘cause…’cause you’re drunk an’ horny an’ so’m I an’…” He bit his lip and slid off his lap. “Hn, some fuckin’ prince charmin’ you turned out to be, huh?”
“No, Nate!” Tiefer rounded on him. “No, I’m not gonna fuckin’ wait. I’ve been waitin’ all my fuckin’ life for you…for you to…” His voice sat trapped in his throat. “Why?”
“Why won’t you? Jus’ once?” He paused. “When we ain’t so pissed outta our minds? When we’re actually sober?” His voice trailed off into a hoarse whimper and he could feel his eyes watering. “When you actually fuckin’ mean it?”
Nathan got up from the bed and slowly wrapped his arms around the other’s waist. “Em, you’re my friend.”
“Then why can’t you—”
“Because you’re my friend,” he repeated. “An’ I love you. But I can’t, Em. I’m not like you.”
Tiefer scowled and pushed at Nathan’s hands. “Friends don’t fuckin’ do this, Nate. Friends don’t pretend like that.”
“I thought tha’s what ya wanted.”
“Of course I want this!” He sighed and slumped against him. “I want this, I want you, I want everythin’.”
“I can’t give you everythin’,” Nathan said and kissed him on the temple. “I can’t an’ you know it. But I can at least give ya this, huh? Won’t this do?” He paused. “You’re not even supposed to do this anymore. You’re gonna be a priest.”
“Thought you said I was a princess,” Tiefer huffed.
“Yeah, princess of pains in the ass.”
“You’re an ass.”
“C’mon.” He pulled away and gently tugged Tiefer by the wrist. “Lay down wit’ me?” In response was a noncommittal grunt and a pointed glare. “Don’t be like that. Please? …Like when we were kids?”
At that, Tiefer followed obediently, curling up beside Nathan on the small bed. Their limbs were intertwined, the two of them simply lying beside each other, fingers gently sliding along the other’s body, eventually winding up between the other’s legs. Just like when they were kids.
“I love you,” Tiefer mumbled into the pillow afterwards as they simply laid there.
Nathan opened his eyes, smiling some. “Mmm. Me too.”
They fell asleep like that on Nathan’s bed, Tiefer sprawled on top of him, his white alb from seminary all wrinkled on the floor below.
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explicit | jehan/tiefer
from back when Jehan had a secret woman
Jehan was shaking, his whole body rigid. The back of his hand stung from where he’d struck the white-haired priest who leaned against the wall.
“Shut up,” he repeated, his voice breaking some. He sounded like a boy—felt like a boy—but he’d never hit Tiefer when he was a boy (not but once) and never told Tiefer to shut up. Tiefer would have beat him, then, because Tiefer was so big and he was so small. Now, even though he was only a foot or so smaller than the man before him, even though he’d had enough strength in his small frame to force him into the wall, he still shook like a boy.
And Tiefer noticed.
“Aw, po’ petit,” Tiefer sneered, pulling away from the wall, his hand on his cheek. The backhand had not hurt, though it certainly took him by surprise. “I’m only tellin’ the truth, cher.”
“Bullshit. All you ever do is lie and cheat and manipulate.”
“An’ I could say the same for you. You lyin’ to everyone you see, includin’ God, you cheatin’ on your Bride,” he glanced at the crucifix on the wall, “and manipulatin’ a po’ little girlie into your bed every night.”
“You Judas.” Tiefer lowered his hand and slowly approached Jehan. “You’ve betrayed every single thing you’re supposed to stand for ‘cause of some broad. Lookit you, Jehan, what a good boy you’ve been. Bet ya mama’d be proud if she knew.”
Jehan stepped back, pulling away from the other priest. “I don’t want to hear it anymore, Tiefer.”
“An’ your brother, what if he knew?” Tiefer cornered him against the wall of the rectory. “What if he knew that perfect big brother Jehan, can’t do no wrong Jehan, mama’s favorite baby Jehan…what if he knew you what you got up to every single night?”
“Shut up, Tiefer, I mean it!”
“Oh, you frightenin’, yeah. Really, baby, you are.” He sneered, pressing close. Jehan was shaking against him, his face scrunched up in anger and disgust. “Hm, I wonder whatcher daddy’d say. Bet he’d be real proud to know the only son he ever got to know was no better than an adulterer an’ a whore.”
“Shut the fuck up!”
Rounding on the taller priest who shouldn’t be there—who wasn’t there—and grabbing him by the shoulders, Jehan shoved him up against the wall with the satisfying smack of spine and skull against wood and plaster. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the rush of rage and adrenaline clouding his mind. It made his blood boil, made his hands shake with a need to grab and punch and just break, made his body ache for some release, whether through a fight or even a fuck.
Tiefer seemed to sense it—seemed to smell the fear and want that washed over the small priest before him—and it made him laugh, low and deadly and trailing off into a choked groan as Jehan shoved his arm against his throat, pressing down.
“I told you to shut up,” he bit out. He was still shaking some, but whether from fear or adrenaline or something more, neither knew and neither cared.
The white-haired priest twisted some in his grip, his lips curling into a nasty grin. “What, don’t like the truth?” he sneered, his voice half-hoarse from the pressure on his throat. “Hn, what’re you gonna do about it? Gonna shut me up all by your baby self? Gonna choke me?” He chuckled, the sound quickly breaking into a mangled gag as Jehan pressed harder on his windpipe, his thinning patience and growing rage building as steadily as the pressure on the other’s throat.
The smaller priest didn’t say a word, though, as he grabbed the front of the other’s cassock and shoved him to the ground. Tiefer laughed, the choked sound cut off with a swift kick to the ribs.
“When I tell you to do something,” Jehan snarled and kicked him again, “I expect you to do it. So when I tell you to shut up,” another kick, another choked laugh, “I expect you to shut the fuck up!”
Spitting blood down his front, Tiefer grinned up at Jehan. “Make me, baby. C’mon, Je-Je, you look so wound up, so…anxious…Let it all out now, c’mon, c’mon, you know you wanna show me who’s boss ‘round here.” He practically giggled when Jehan kicked him again. “Tha’s not enough, baby, not much more’n your words, ha… Mais, that all you got? Not much of a man, are ya, princess?”
“Get up. On your knees.”
The order was quick though the older priest was not fast enough for the other’s liking. After a few silent seconds, Jehan huffed, impatient, before bending over and pulling Tiefer up onto his knees into a slumped heap. Tiefer merely grinned in response, blood smearing his teeth.
Jehan narrowed his eyes. “What?”
“You’re jus’ so cute when you think you’re in control.”
“Don’t fucking patronize me,” he snapped, yanking the older man’s head up by his hair. “Who’s on their knees, huh? Who’s covered in blood?”
“Who told you to let it all out?” Tiefer replied, his grin turning sour, a dark gleam in his one good eye. “I hold the leash here, cher.”
A strangled cry died in the smaller priest’s throat, taken over by a snarl of pure need—the need to wipe that fucking smirk off of Tiefer’s fucking face, the need to hurt, the need to humiliate, dominate, win. He could feel it burning his bones, his muscles, his skin; the feeling ran through his whole body, pooling deep in his stomach, warm and festering and not at all sated by just a mere smattering of blood. He needed more.
He needed to rub Tiefer’s face in it.
He kept one hand clenched in his hair, keeping Tiefer still (though in his state, he wasn’t about to go anywhere far); the other quickly undid his belt and rucked down his pants before pulling out his cock, already flushed and hard.
Tiefer was still grinning even as the head of the other’s cock rested against his lips. “So, this gonna be it? I’m supposed to lick an’ suck an’ bob my head until you get off, yeah?” Behind his madman’s grin was the unspoken ‘pathetic’ that sat on the tip of his tongue.
But Jehan shook his head. “Not at all,” he said before pressing against his lips. “You’re supposed to open up—that’s it, baby.”
Surprisingly, Tiefer did as he was told, leaving Jehan free to push deep into his mouth until he hit the back of his throat. He could feel the muscles spasm, could hear the choked gurgles as Tiefer tried to remember how to breathe (even if he didn’t need to.)
“Am I in control yet?” Jehan asked with a sneer as he began to thrust in and out of the other’s mouth. There were no slow, steady licks, no tricks of the tongue or light graze of teeth—only heavy breathing from Jehan as he moved his hips and the occasional whimper of pain from Tiefer. “Is this fucking cute?”
Tiefer did not answer, any capabilities of speech stamped out as his mouth was reduced to nothing more than a warm hole for the smaller priest to fuck with rage and abandon. He did, however, keeps his eyes focused on Jehan, glinting red behind his now skewed glasses as if to answer Jehan that yes, it is fucking cute the way he thinks he’s in control.
Because no matter what Jehan did to him, beat him or berated him or fucked him dry and bloody on the unscrubbed floor, Tiefer was still in control. Tiefer had goaded him to act. Tiefer wasn’t real—no, just an illusion, a simple hallucination, a ghost—but he had more control over Jehan than the smaller priest himself even had. And to the man with an aching jaw kneeling on the ground, that fact was both insanely pitiful and horribly amusing.
Jehan knew this—of course he knew—but he could not help but enjoy the momentary sweetness in wiping away the other’s smirk, in choking him hard and cutting him off, in paying back all the bitterness that Tiefer carved into his life with equal bitterness in his current position and on his tongue. And when he pulled away with a swallowed groan and spilled white and hot against parted lips downturned with no smile and on sallow cheeks barely flushed, Jehan leaned back against the wall, spent and tired, and grinned at the sight of Tiefer on his knees, his glasses askew, his hair mussed from where he was held still, and his face marred with white streaks.
“There you go,” he gasped. “I let it all out. You happy now?”
Tiefer wiped at his face, brought his dirtied hand to his lips, and lapped away the dripping mess. “Ecstatic,” he growled. “Way to be a man, Jehan.”
The shorter priest shrugged him off and fixed his clothing. “Shut up.”
“Hn, bet your daddy’d be real proud if he could see you now!”
Scowling, Jehan turned on his heel and left, the sound of Tiefer’s laughter ringing in his ears.
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mature | tiefer/jehan
“Daddy…daddy…oh fuck– Daddy!”
Jehan had woken up in a sweat (from a dream that was wrong in so many ways) to a dark, dark room that should have been empty but wasn’t – and the burnt glow of a lit cigarette’s crumbling embers and the unnatural red of what had once been two piercing eyes told him just who his company was.
(Then again, he always knew; ghosts haunted places, yes, but also people and wasn’t he always the lucky one?)
“You’re too old to be nearly pissin’ yourself over some dreams, boy.”
“No thanks to you. Bet you wish I had.”
“Oh c’mon Jehan, I’m not a pervert.”
Jehan had glared and what had once been Tiefer (or perhaps still was or perhaps this was all in his head) had merely smiled sweetly before stepping closer to the bed. “So what’s got you so upset, p’tit?”
“Don’t look like nothin’.”
Tiefer had reached out, his nails looking long and bloodied, like the urban legends kids told about corpses whose nails and hair grew long after death, and Jehan had immediately jerked away.
“Don’t touch me!”
Tiefer had scowled at that – scowled and grabbed Jehan by his throat, shoving him down on the bed as he leaned over him. “Don’t you ever order me around again, little boy!” His fingers had tightened, his lips inches away from Jehan’s.
And Jehan cowered. “Yes, sir.” And Jehan apologized. “Sorry, parrain…” And as the grip around his throat lessened, Jehan hated himself because even as a grown man he sounded like a child and even as a grown man, he was haunted (and even as a grown man, he still wanted him.)
“You’re lucky I don’t fuckin’ spank you.”
“I’m not a child.”
“You act like a bratty one.”
Jehan did not comment at that, did not rise to the bait. “Well I’m not your child.”
“But you want to call me ‘Daddy’.”
Jehan had flushed red at that. (His mind had gone blank, replaced only by screams and screams and screams as if violated because oh God, Tiefer knew! Could ghosts see into dreams? Was it ever really a ghost at all? Was he mad? Oh God, oh God, oh d–)
It had taken him a moment to realize he’d been speaking aloud.
“If you wanna sound like you’re prayin’, little boy, I promise Daddy’s happy to get you down on your knees. Unless, of course, you’d rather be worshiped.”
The low growl in Tiefer’s voice, the way he slurred little boy, the way he got so close to Jehan as he said it (eyes alight and unnatural and so damn close and oh god he was dead, he was dead, he should want him dead and yet–) should not have gone straight between Jehan’s thighs but there he was, heart racing and all, trapped with a ghost in his bedroom – prey with no other options.
Tiefer had placed his hand – cold, pale, not real, never real, god why did it feel so real – on Jehan’s thigh. “Tell Daddy what you want.”
“I want…” You to die and stay dead! Rot in Hell! Leave me alone! Haven’t you taken enough from me? “I want you to make me… Make me feel good. Please.”
And Jehan had bowed his head and Jehan had shut his eyes and Jehan had said for the first of many times that night (as Tiefer so kindly made sure):
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mature | (msgr.) tiefer/adam
canon-compliant if not outright canon
The monsignor’s office was one of the few places in the small rectory that didn’t have air conditioning. Logic said it was because the monsignor was used to the heat, considering he was from as south as you could go in the country, but rumor said it was because he might actually be Satan.
“How long have you been out of seminary, Adam?”
“About two months, sir. Why?”
Tiefer leaned back in his chair. “D’you know why I took this job here?”
“Is that rhetorical or…”
Tiefer rolled his eyes. “No, please. Take a guess.”
“If you haven’t learned sarcasm yet, Adam, you’re gonna have a hell of a time working with me.”
Adam frowned. “My apologies, sir,” he bit out.
“As I was saying,” Tiefer continued, “I took this job because Fr. Davidson’s a senile old bastard and somebody needed to run this joint. It’s fairly standard. Anyone with experience could do it.”
“And you’re telling me this because?”
Tiefer held up a small manilla folder. “Look familiar?”
Adam shrugged. “I mean, I’ve been to Rite Aid before, sir. File folders aren’t exactly cutting edge.”
“Cute.” Opening the folder, Tiefer started scanning through. “You had quite a few…incidents…with a few of your classmates.”
“Eh, you know how it is.” Adam shifted in his seat, grinning. “One guy makes a smartass comment, you forget yourself, kinda rough him up a bit—”
“Do I look like a fuckin’ idiot to you?”
Adam froze, sinking in his seat.
“You can answer this one, Adam. Please, I’d love to hear your thoughts.”
“Then why are you taking me for one?”
Adam sunk lower.
“If it were something as petty as a few fights, the damn file’d say so. So again: why the hell are you takin’ me for an idiot, huh?”
“I’m sorry sir.”
Tiefer chucked the folder on his desk and leaned back, taking off his glasses with a sigh. “That wasn’t an answer, but I guess it’ll do…”
Adam pulled himself up. “Why’s this such a big deal, anyway? Uh, sir,” he added.
“Because I am in charge of your sorry ass, boy, and quite frankly, I don’t need anyone coming down on me because of your behavior.”
“What, are you afraid of a few bad marks on my report card?”
“No, I’m afraid of what they mean. Specifically for me when you get too many bad marks under my watch.”
“That was seminary—”
“Do I really have to ask you a third time whether or not I look like an idiot to you, Adam? Because I’m really tired of repeatin’ myself.” Grabbing the folder, Tiefer stood and crossed the room to place it back in the old filing cabinet before looking down at Adam. “You’re not the only person in this room with a folder full of vague little ‘incidents’.”
Adam looked away, eyes wide. “Oh.”
“Yeah, ‘oh’,” Tiefer sneered, slamming the cabinet drawer closed. “Listen: I don’t care what you do on your down time. Really, I don’t. Fuck a guy. Fuck ten guys. I will give you the number of a whorehouse, that is how much I do not care,” he said, pacing closer to Adam before grabbing him by the collar and lifting him to his feet. “But be discreet or so help me God, I will make life absolutely miserable for you. Are we clear?”
“Good. Because if I get my ass shunted back to the swamps because somebody can’t keep it in his pants, we’re gonna have a fuckin’ incident and it’s gonna involve my fist down your throat.”
Adam winced. “So…not the fun kinda incident, huh?”
Letting him go, Tiefer smirked. “Well, I’d rather it not be my fist, but if the circumstances call for it…”
“Was that a—”
“I do care what you do on the church’s time, Adam, so you should probably get your ass out of my office and into the chapel because Mass starts in ten minutes.”
“…but it was a—”
“If you don’t learn thinly veiled suggestions, you’re also gonna have a hell of a time working under me. And you can take that any way you want, long as you take it out my office and do your damn job,” Tiefer said, waving him off.
Adam sat outside the church after mass, collar undone and cigarette dangling between his teeth.
“Hey, gimme one.”
Adam looked up to see Tiefer standing over him, palm out.
“Don’t you have a whole pack in your pocket?” Adam asked as he handed a cigarette over.
“Mmm, yeah,” Tiefer said, pulling out his lighter. “Mais, I am also your boss and you’d be an idiot to cry ‘bout me ‘abusin’ my power’ over a damn cigarette. So.” He lit the cigarette and took a drag. “There you go.”
“You do that often?”
“Abuse your power over petty things?”
“No. Sometimes I get little boys to give me blowjobs.”
Adam nearly choked.
“I’m joking, dumbass.” Tiefer took another drag. “I don’t do that shit on the clock.”
“Oh, so that’s where you draw the moral line.”
“Also a joke. I like younger men, sure, but not children.”
Adam rolled his eyes. “That’s such a relief.”
“But also yeah, I ain’t doin’ that shit when I’ll get caught. Did you not miss that whole discreet thing earlier? Mais…”
“Your accent’s slipping.”
“Ain’t at work no more, am I?”
“Guess not.” Adam took a slow drag. “So…that the only thing that slips when you’re not at work, sir?”
Tiefer smirked. “Nice to see you’re catchin’ on.”
“Believe it or not, I’m pretty smart.”
“I know. I saw your report from seminary.” Tiefer looked around the church walls and then to the rectory. “Okay, smartboy, tell me this: what’s that up there?” He pointed up in the corner of the rectory, right above the door.
“An’ what do they do.”
“Watch for intruders…?”
“Mhm. But there’s no point putting them inside the building, is there? ‘Specially in, say, an office.”
Adam looked him over. “Are you suggesting…?”
“I’m sayin’ if I were to abuse my authority over you by bendin’ you over my desk, there’d be absolutely no video proof whatsoever and, provided we were both quiet about it, neither of us would have a nasty little incident on our records.” Tiefer put out his cigarette against the church wall. “I ain’t suggestin’ shit.”
Adam put his cigarette out immediately.
“Has anyone told you you’re a bastard?”
Tiefer shoved Adam’s face into the desk.
“Is that any way to talk to your superior?”
Adam kicked back at him when he shoved his legs apart.
“Sorry — has anyone told you you’re a bastard, sir?”
“Well, considerin’ I am one, they wouldn’t be wrong.” Tiefer grinned and kissed Adam on the temple as he pressed a finger inside him.
“Good for you, you old — fucking! — bastard.”
“Ooh, what’s the matter? Would you rather I be gentle?” he sneered, pressing another finger inside. “Go real slow, cuddle you after?”
Adam whined, pressing his hips back and cursing into the desk. “I’d rather you shut up and fuck me.”
Tiefer pulled his fingers out. “Shut up and fuck me what?”
He pressed his cock between Adam’s legs, leaning over him. “Y’know, if you don’t wanna be polite about this, I’m fine just doin’ this like the Greeks and then leavin’ you to yourself.”
Adam muttered a handful of curses into the wood before pushing himself up on his elbows and glancing back at Tiefer. “Shut the hell up and fuck me, sir.”
They sat in Tiefer’s office afterwards, sharing a cigarette.
“It’s hot as hell in here.”
“Keeps people out. I like my privacy.”
“Don’t want people finding out about your little incidents, sir?”
Tiefer straightened up his cassock and grabbed the cigarette back from Adam.
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prêtrecest au | explicit | prêtre siblings
an old trio of Jehan/Gene fics
back when he was named Jean and knew about Jehan's abuse
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
He wasn’t supposed to be here, sprawled on his back on his brother’s bed (he never slept in his room anymore, not after that night), his legs spread open, while his brother—his baby brother—kneeled before him, hands gently pressing between his legs, slippery and slick. He wasn’t supposed to widen his legs like that or arch his back into the touch or moan into the back of his hand.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was only a few beers.
Jean had come home that night much the same way he dressed and groomed and generally presented himself: loudly. The truck pulled up in the driveway with engine revving and the cassette player blaring Alice Cooper’s greatest hits so loudly, Jehan prayed that the tape would unwind and jam the whole thing up. Once the engine was killed, there was a blissful moment of silence before the front door slammed open and in walked Jean in ratty acid-washed jeans, neon green sneakers, and his favorite bright red argyle sweater that, combined with his multicolored hair, made him louder than a watermelon themed Christmas tree.
“Hey bro! What’s up?”
Jehan offered him a weak smile from where he leaned against the counter, hot water on the stove for his late-night cup of coffee. “Regaining my hearing,” he replied, spooning some instant coffee in his mug. “Didn’t expect you home so early. How was Mickey’s bachelor party?”
“It was awesome, Jeje, he was so surprised.”
“…He didn’t know y’all were doing this?”
“Naw, naw.” Jean pulled a chair from the kitchen table and plopped down on it awkwardly. “His fiancée knew though, no worries.”
Jehan quirked his brow, a small smile forming on his lips. “You and your friends went out running the streets and you’re sayin’ no worries?”
“Yeah, no worries, no worries. We just took him out to dinner, had a few beers, an’ then him and the guys went out to a strip club.”
“Ah…” He poured the boiling water into his mug, followed by some milk, and stirred lightly. “So that’s why you’re home early.”
“Yeah.” Out of the corner of his eye as he went to put the milk back in the fridge, he could see his little brother rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, not my thing, y’know?”
“I know you haven’t drank enough otherwise I’d have gotten a call from the strip club asking me to pick your dumb ass up.”
“Aww, Jeje, is that anyway to thank me for not calling you?”
“Just be glad mama’s out of town and didn’t hear one damn word about strip clubs.”
That was the reason either of them were actually at the house in the first place. Their mom had gone to visit her friends in Mississippi for the week and asked them to housesit for her. Well, really she had asked Jehan to housesit. Jehan, however, couldn’t stand being in that house for more than a day all on his own, so he called up Jean to keep him company. Granted, Jean spent more time out of the house than in, but as long as he was there while Jehan slept (what little sleeping he did), then Jehan was content.
Jean pouted. “She woulda picked me up.”
“Oh and I wouldn’t?” As much of an annoyed front as he put up, Jehan wanted—needed—him home at night, safe and sound and close-by.
“Naaaaaw,” Jean giggled, “’cause you’re a meanie.” He stuck his tongue out, the silver piercing glinting in the overhead light.
Jehan rolled his eyes as he joined his brother at the table, not looking at the bit of metal in his brother’s mouth. Their mom had thrown a fit when she saw that piercing (as she had done with his nose ring, his lip-ring, and the piercings littering his brows and ears) and tried to get him to side with her against his baby brother. It didn’t work—not because Jehan was particularly fond of the piercings, but because every time he thought about them, he thought about why, exactly, his baby brother had gotten them in the first place. Unlike their mother, he knew about his brother’s preferences, and some of those piercings brought images to mind that he was far from comfortable with thinking about.
“How much did you have to drink again?” he asked once Jean bothered to stick his tongue back in his face. “Nevermind, you managed to drive home so I don’t want to know.”
Jean laughed. “I told ya, no worries. It was only a few beers.”
“Uh-huh…” Jehan took a sip of his coffee, leaning back in his chair. “I see how it is. Don’t bring me nothin’.”
“You’re a big boy, go to the store, get your own.”
“Man, do I look dressed to go to the goddamn store?” Jehan gestured to the old boxers he had round his hips and then to the too-big flannel shirt that hung off his shoulders and half exposed his bony chest.
“Mm, true.” Looking his big brother over, Jean pursed his lips. “That one of dad’s old shirts?”
“Yeah. Mom gave me a bunch of them, dunno why.” He took another sip of coffee. “My wardrobe’s gonna be all black soon ‘nough. You’d get more use outta these.”
“Prob’ly ‘cause, like everyone says, you look so much like him,” Jean replied and Jehan could hear the silent “plus you’re her favorite” still sitting on his tongue.
“But I don’t. I’m not big like him, I’m not strong like him. I’m nothing like him!” He sighed. Maybe when their dad was a kid, perhaps, but he was nothing like the man Nathan was. His daddy wasn’t afraid of anything; he couldn’t even sleep in his own bedroom anymore. “Yet everyone keeps saying that: our aunts say it, our uncles say it, hell mom says it all the time, and even Tief—” He paused, shuddering. “Just…everyone says it and it’s bullshit.”
“Well then fuck everyone.”
Jehan looked at his brother who was now leaning towards him, his face serious. “Fuck ‘em. Fuck our aunts, fuck our uncles, fuck mom, an’ fuck Tiefer!”
If he noticed how Jehan flinched, he didn’t say a word about it, to which Jehan was a bit surprised. Jean normally walked on eggshells around him, outside of his well-meaning but often badly placed displays of affection, but apparently a few beers fixed that. Not that Jehan was complaining—the change was welcome, even.
“I don’t see dad when I lookit you.”
“Yeah, well, you never knew him.”
“So? I’ve seen his picture, haven’t I? I know what he looks like an’ when I look at you, I don’t see my dad.” He leaned in close. “You know what I see?”
“What?” Jehan could faintly smell beer on his brother’s breath but he didn’t pull away, not even when Jean pressed a finger to his chest. He was warm.
“I see my big brother an’ that’s that.”
There was silence between them broken only by the heavy, exasperated sigh from Jehan coupled with a rather pointed roll of his eyes.
“Gee thanks, Captain Obvious,” he muttered, getting up from the table and taking his mug with him.
“Hey wait—Jehan!” The chair scraped against the tile and suddenly Jean was behind him and around him, pulling him close in a hug.
Jehan started, nearly dropping his mug. “Jean!” Coffee sloshed across his hand and spilled down his shirt. “Fuck!”
“Oh shit, sorry!”
He backed off and there it was, that same embarrassed, nervous, frightened expression that Jehan had seen too many times on his little brother, the expression he wore every time he got close, every time he did something he thought was wrong, every time he danced around the eggshells. Jehan hated that expression.
“No…no, wait, Jean, it’s okay,” he said, grabbing his arm before he pulled too far away. He set the cup down on the counter before turning back to Jean. “It just—the coffee’s hot, man, you gotta be careful.”
His face lit up a bit, though his eyes were still nervous, like a small deer. “Oh…then you aren’t upset I hugged you?”
“No, I’m not.” Why would I be? I love you. “I…” He couldn’t say it. Jean never believed anything he said after little outbursts. Hell, this was the first time he’d hugged him that tight in a long time—ever since Jehan snapped at him for surprising him with a big, tight, warm hug, Jean had stopped hugging him altogether except as a light hello. He was afraid of breaking him and that pissed Jehan off. He wasn’t some porcelain doll, he was a grown man, damn it!
He looked up at Jean again, at his bright blue eyes, at his half-parted lips, at all glinting metal that decorated his face, and pulled him close, burrowing his face in the crook of his neck. “Hug me,” he muttered against his neck. “Hold me.” He wrapped his arms around his back, clutching tight. “Shit, hit me.”
“Whatever you need to do to realize I’m not made of fucking glass, do it,” he ordered, pulling away just enough to look up at his brother. “I’m not breakable, Jean. I’m not!” He realized he sounded like a pouty child but he didn’t care. “My po’ ass is already broken and in more ways than one, okay, so you can stop acting like I’m gonna fall to fuckin’ pieces. Quit walkin’ on eggshells, shit. You said his name and didn’t care—”
“Really? Shit, I’m sorry!”
“No!” He shook him. “No, you’re not sorry, don’t be sorry, don’t you fuckin’ dare!” He was shouting and his face felt hot and he had to get it out before he started crying, before Jean started thinking he was glass again. “Don’t apologize. I want that. I want you to not care. I want you to treat me like a normal goddamn human being, Jean.”
Silence sat between them. Jehan didn’t speak, didn’t even breathe as his brother looked him over. “But Jehan…you’re not a normal human being.”
He wasn’t sure if the noise that came tumbling out of his throat was a cry of anger or a sob; either way, he felt himself sinking and grabbed onto his baby brother—his baby brother that was so much bigger than him, his baby brother that looked abnormal, his baby brother that wouldn’t treat him normal—to stop from falling to the ground. He buried his face back against his neck, not without mumbling a number of just audible enough swears, all directed at his brother.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Jean finally managed and Jehan thought he heard his breath hitch, like a small sob. “I meant, to me, you’re not just a normal human being—”
“Really then,” he spat, his voice harsher than Jean deserved. “So what the fuck am I to you, huh? An abnormal, fuckin’…fuckin’ glass doll or some shit? Huh? Some kicked puppy to be pitied?”
“No, it’s just that…you’re my big brother. You’ll never be just a normal human being just like you’ll never be dad or whatever everyone else says. You’re my brother an’ I’m gonna treat you like a brother should.”
Jehan was silent, his eyes wide in shock. He’d expected pity. He’d almost wanted it, just so that his anger would be justified; instead, Jean simply gave him love. This time, as he held himself close to Jean, he knew the sound falling from his lips was a sob.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
They weren’t supposed to be going back to Jean’s room—at least, not for this. They weren’t supposed to press so close or be so warm or want so badly. They weren’t supposed to be kissing, his hands on his brother’s belt, tugging it off, while his brother’s hands pushed his too-big shirt from his shoulders, undoing just one button so that it fell to the floor.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. He hadn’t drank a single beer.
“So you had fun at the bachelor party?”
It was an attempt at normal conversation as they sat, snuggled up, on the little sofa in the living room that openly connected with the kitchen. Jehan had his coffee and was calm enough in his brother’s arms to talk without sniffling. Jean was just happy to be close.
“Yeah, like I said it was awesome. Still can’t believe Mickey’s getting married, though.” He frowned. “He’s only twenty-three.”
“Would you rather him be thirty-two like me?”
“Well, naw, maybe like…twenty-seven or something? Sounds reasonable.”
“To tell you the truth, I’d have thought you’d’ve been married by now,” Jean added, glancing at his brother. “I mean, besides the whole…seminary thing.”
“You thought I’d be married? Really?” Jehan laughed. “Jean, I ain’t even had my first real kiss yet…” He paused, his gaze only a little hollow as he stared down at his cooling coffee. “I mean, except…”
“You went all throughout high school and college without even having your first kiss?”
Hunching his shoulders some, Jehan glanced furtively at his brother before returning his gaze to the coffee, not about to look up. “No,” he mumbled, his cheeks reddening. “I haven’t.”
“Blasphemy! Nobody’s ever kissed my big brother? It’s an outrage!”
Jehan doesn’t need to look—he can hear the mock horror and indignation in his brother’s voice. It made him smile, if only for a second. After all, Jean didn’t say ‘except’ or ‘nobody that matters.’ No, he just said ‘nobody.’ He snuggled closer and wiped the smile off his face as he looked up. “An outrage, huh?” he asked, trying not to snicker. “An’ blasphemy too?”
Jean flashed him a grin. “Damn straight! That’s outright scandal right there.”
He rolled his eyes. His brother could be entertaining with a bit of drink in him. “Oh and what’re you gonna do about it, huh?”
“Gimme yer coffee.”
“Wha—Why?” he asked but Jean already had his hand on the mug and easily slipped it from his fingers, setting it on the ground before he turned back to his brother. “Jean, give it back—”
“Do you want me to spill it on you again?”
“Why would y—”
But he didn’t get to finish as Jean was close, too close. His lips pressed against his, the metal of his lip ring digging into his bottom lip, leaving a small indent. He could smell his breath once more, the smell of alcohol just faint enough that he knew, he knew that the beer had to be where this was coming from, but then his tongue flicked out against his lips, that little bit of metal pressing against him, and he couldn’t help but let him in with a small gasp, parting his lips for his little brother. And Jean took him, took him like he would any other man, any normal man, that sat before him with lips parted and cheeks flushed, and Jehan couldn’t help but make a small sound at the realization.
Jean, however, pulled away at the sound which, upon second thought, Jehan realized sounded way too close to a whimper.
“Oh God, Jehan, I shouldn’t have done that, why would I think you of all people would want that, shit, I’m sorry—”
“No!” Immediately, Jehan grabbed him and pulled him back, kissing him hungrily. His hands fisted in his brother’s sweater and held on tight for dear life, like a small child claiming his favorite toy. He should be embarrassed at how wanton he is, should be ashamed that this is his brother—his brother who was just being nice and stupid and a little bit drunk—but he’s neither of those things when he pulled away, his cheeks lightly flushed and lips dark pink and body too hot. “No, I told you not to be sorry.”
“If you say sorry again, I’ll kick your ass.”
A pause and then a snicker. “I’d like to see you try, shortstuff.”
Jehan growled and tackled him, small enough to get on top of him easily and heavy enough to be a bit difficult to move off. He sat there, straddling his little brother with a triumphant smirk, and shifted slightly. That’s when he felt it. Immediately, he froze.
“Y-you’re…” He looked down. Jean followed his gaze.
“Oh. Uhm…yeah, just a bit.” He grinned sheepishly. “B-but so are you.” His gaze flickered down to his boxers that are a little tighter than before.
Jehan didn’t say a word. Of course Jean would be hard. And of course he would be hard, he’d been groomed to do so for years. He knew he shouldn’t be so surprised, so scared, but there he was, straddling his brother—his baby brother, his turned-on brother—and he knew what came after this, knew how badly it could hurt—would hurt—and knew he had let it happen. He deserved what came after, deserved the hurt and the paint because he let it happen. It was his fault. This was his fault.
He snapped his head up. “Y-yeah?”
“Jehan, if you don’t…oh, c’mere.” Jean sat up and, putting his arms around Jehan, gently lifted him off his lap. “Let’s just stop, okay? If you don’t want me—”
“I do want you!” It came out too fast, the panic and the fear and the loneliness, too much and all at once. He didn’t want to be alone. Tiefer used to hit him and scream at him, yes, but the worst was when he ignored him outright, acting as if he didn’t exist. Sometimes, the priest would just lock him in a separate room for hours on end because he couldn’t be bothered with him. He didn’t want that. He’d already alienated Jean too much before; he didn’t want to lose him now. “Don’t go! Don’t, please, please, I’m sorry.”
“Jehan, I’m not going anywhere.”
“Don’t leave me.” God, he was crying. “I want you, please…please don’t leave…” Jean was right, he was a stupid broken doll.
Jean shushed him and kissed him on the forehead. “I’m not gonna leave, just let me finish, okay?” He waited until Jehan nodded. “If you don’t want me to do something, tell me.”
“I…” Taking a deep breath, Jehan looked his brother over. “I’m scared,” he admitted. “I’m scared it’ll hurt.” I’m scared you’re right, I am made of glass.
“Then we can stop. I can stop.”
“You’ll stop?” He knew it was wrong, knew this wasn’t really how normal people acted, but sex made Tiefer nicer to him and sex made Tiefer calm and sex made the knives go away, made his Parrain come back, made everything the way it used to be between him and the priest, even if for only a few hours, so why couldn’t it make them normal? Why couldn’t it make them the way they used to be? Besides, Jean wasn’t Tiefer. Jean was always nice all the time. Jean slept with men and never hurt. Jean would stop if he asked, if he demanded. “No matter what?”
“No matter what.”
Jehan nodded. “Then I want this. I want you.”
“You’re sure, Jeje?”
“You’re my first kiss.” He smiled, slowly. “I’d like if you were my first time, too.”
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
They were men, even if times were lenient now. They were brothers, even if they were years apart. He was a deacon, soon-to-be priest. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was only a few beers. He hadn’t drank a single one. This was never supposed to happen.
But he wanted it to happen. He let it happen. And he could stop it from happening.
Looking up, blearily, at his younger brother above him in the half dark, Jehan smiled. He could see the glimmer of all the piercings decorating his face and body with still more out of sight, could see the brightness of his half-lidded eyes, could see the small smile on his lips and he wanted it, wanted it more than anything. He wanted it, he let it, and he wouldn’t stop it, not now, not ever.
“Mm, do that again.”
Smiling more now, Jean curled his finger, adding a second slowly inside of his brother, and watched him squirm against the sheets. “Like that?”
“A-ah—the fuck you think?”
“Ooh, big brother’s got a mouth on him!” he laughed before bending down to kiss Jehan, open and wet and hungry, as he twisted his fingers and made him buck his hips, a third finger soon following. “Gonna make any more cute sounds for me?” he asked once he pulled away just far enough to talk. His piercing still pressed against Jehan’s lips, making his words come out in stuttered gasps.
“D-depends…you gonna gimme a-a reason to?”
He responded by pulling his fingers out all at once, earning a pained whine from Jehan that he quickly silenced with another hungry kiss, exploring his mouth with flicks of his tongue, the metal piece clacking against his teeth and making Jehan moan all the more. He rocked his hips slightly, the head of his cock brushing against the other’s hole.
“You like my piercings, huh, Jeje?” he teased.
Biting his lip, Jehan nodded. “Yes, fuck yes…” Just the thought of his brother’s cock inside of him, slowly pushing in inch by inch, the little metal piercings rubbing against him, inside him, with every inch, made him gasp and moan and rock his hips. “Please…”
He whined. “In me…please, please, Jean, fuck me…”
He sounded so helpless, but they both knew that wasn’t true—Jean had heard helpless earlier that night, had seen how broken his brother was, but this? This wasn’t broken, this wasn’t helpless. This was pure want and need and complete openness. Gently holding his legs open, Jean pressed the head of his cock against him lightly. “You ready?”
Whimpering, Jehan nodded, eyes scrunched tight. He wasn’t all that ready. In fact, he was still very scared, but he nodded anyway. He wanted this.
Jean was still smiling but the teasing lilt was gone. “You tell me if it hurts. No matter what, tell me.”
His voice was soft and sweet and made Jehan smile. He opened his eyes a little. “I will.”
“Good,” Jean said and Jehan was almost shocked not to hear ‘boy’ added nastily at the end, but this was Jean. Jean was with him and Jean wanted him. “I’m gonna go slow, okay?”
True to his word, Jean slowly pushed in until the head of his cock was inside, the first of his piercings rubbing against the stretched muscle. “Good?” he asked, tentatively.
Jehan couldn’t talk, his whole body tense. It was odd, as the feeling often was, yet it didn’t hurt, not at all like he knew it could, thought it would, and the cool metal of his piercing rubbing just there against his entrance was driving him mad. Nodding his head, he tried rolling his hips but his body was too tense. “A-ah, fuck!”
“Shh, just relax.” He kissed him again, lightly, before moving his hips again, slowly, giving him another inch, another piercing, another kiss. Again and again, the process slowly repeated, Jean giving paused for Jehan to relax his body despite his protests and whimpers for more, more, more, until finally he was completely inside, piercings and all, up to the hilt.
Jehan sighed, letting out the breath Jean had been telling him to let out the entire time.
“Are you okay?”
Panting slightly, Jehan flashed him a grin. “I’d be better if you fucked me.”
Jean smiled back. “Big brother knows best.” He hands came to rest on Jehan’s hips, holding tight and secure, and he began to slowly pull out again, letting Jehan feel every inch, every bit of metal, until only the very tip remained. He stayed like that for a moment, watching Jehan squirm and push back against him, trying to get more, to get it all, until he took pity and moved back inside, a little faster than before. “Is this good?”
“D’you want more?”
“Oh Jesus, yes.”
He’d heard a lot of blasphemy over the years, especially in the bedroom, but never did it sound as filthy and naughty and so wrongly right as it did coming from his big brother, his deacon brother, his soon-to-be a priest brother. It made his cock twitch inside, made his pulse race, made his hips buck harder and faster, setting a new rhythm that had Jehan calling out all sorts of things, obscenities, blasphemies, and sometimes his name—something Jean never thought so nice sounding until now, hearing it from his brother, like that. It should sound horrible but since when had he ever done anything he should?
“Does big brother want more?” he teased, seeing Jehan wasn’t about to push him away (not with the way he was moaning.)
“Please, God, yes…”
He obliged, moving faster and faster, one hand now snaking down to ghost over his brother’s cock, earning a shuddering moan. “You like that?”
“What d’you like about it?”
“Fuck, Jean, don’t make me—”
There was an edge—a plea—to his voice that Jean didn’t know nor care to know where it came from. “I won’t, I won’t…I’ll just keep finding what you like, okay?” He touched him again, rubbing gently and getting a whimper in reply.
He continued to tease his brother’s cock, eventually just gripping him and loosely pumping in time with his thrusts, which were growing more and more erratic with every second.
“Oh God, J-jean, I’m…I’m gonna…”
Jean kissed him, softly, a murmured, “Go ahead, you deserve it” against his lips.
Moaning into the kiss, Jehan did come, spilling white and hot all over his own stomach and his brother’s hand, his hips bucking some. Jean soon followed, the evidence coating his big brother’s insides. He stayed inside of him as he kissed him again, wrapping his arms around his neck. Slowly, he pulled out and moved to lay beside Jehan, his head resting on his shoulder.
“So,” he whispered sleepily, “enjoy your first kiss?”
Jehan laughed. “Better’n my first time.”
Jean frowned before masking it with a mocking, put-upon frown. “Aww, c’mon, I’m not that bad, huh?”
He shot him a look, almost confused, until it came back to him. Jehan laughed again (and if it sounded just that much more hollow than before, Jean didn’t mention it.) “No…no, you’re perfect. I’m sorry.”
Jean kissed him on the cheek before nudging him. “If you say sorry again, I’ll kick your ass.”
“I’d like to see you try, pincushion.”
Jean was big. Big in height, big in the shoulders, hell, even big in personality. Much bigger than Jehan, at any rate. The only thing not big about him was his gut—like Jehan and everyone else in the family, food didn’t seem to stick to him—but even then, he at least looked healthy and strong enough to carry those big shoulders, that big personality. So Jehan should not have been surprised to see that his baby brother (his big baby brother) was almost painfully proportional. Big height, big shoulders—a big cock was hardly out of the question. After all, everything was big about him.
Jehan had always known his brother was big in more ways than one. They’d undressed in front of each other before. Except they had been kids, then, and things had changed a lot. Jean grew even more as a teenager and by then Jehan, off at college, was barely around. Now, the most skin he saw from his brother was that one time Jean fell in an ants’ nest and they had to strip him down and hose him off. Out of modesty, Jehan had made sure not to look. But now, in the early morning light, as they lay on Jean’s bed after what Jehan would have written off as a drunken mistake had he actually drank anything, Jehan could see his brother, naked and tangled up beside him. Jehan could see everything about his brother, and his brother was big as ever. It was a matter of proportion, and, luckily enough, they’d both been blessed with relatively proportional bodies.
The only problem was that, unlike Jean, Jehan wasn’t big at all.
“How the hell did that even…fit?” he mumbled as he sat up, rubbing his eyes. Jean stirred beside him but didn’t wake. Even asleep he was big, taking up most of the bed. Jehan looked him over and shuddered. The piercings didn’t help—if anything, they made him look even bigger. Something that big shouldn’t have fit inside him. He wasn’t a kid, he wasn’t that used to it anymore. A wave of panic hit him and he was cold with fear. “Shit.” Jumping out of bed, he sprinted down the hall to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. It didn’t latch all the way but he didn’t care.
“Shit, shit, shit…” Grabbing the little hand mirror, he angled it between his legs and spread himself with the other hand, looking for blood or tears or something horribly wrong with himself. Instead, all he saw was a trail of sticky white fluid that smeared between his cheeks. He was fine. There was nothing wrong.
“Enjoyin’ the view?” Jean stood in the doorway, rubbing the side of his head. “Y’know, for someone so small, you can hit like a friggin’ champ.”
Jehan dropped the little mirror and stood up, his face red. “I-I…uhm…right, sorry ‘bout that.”
“No prob.” He cocked his head. “So…what’re you doing?”
“I…I was…you…” Mouthing dumbly was not a helpful enough answer for Jean, so, sighing, Jehan turned away from him and took a deep breath. “You’re really, really…really big.” He blinked, trying to figure out if that really did just sound as stupid as he thought.
Apparently it did sound that stupid as the bathroom was suddenly filled with Jean’s laughter. “Oh, Jesus, Jeje, you’re not talking about my—”
“I am.” He turned around and had to keep from looking anywhere but his brother’s eyes. “You’re fucking huge compared to me.”
Jean stopped laughing. “Is this a pride thing?” he asked, concerned.
“No, it’s not a God damn pride thing,” he snapped because, if he was going to be honest with himself, in some ways it was. For the most part, though, this was far from a petty pride issue. “It’s a logic thing! How the fuck did someone so, so…so big like you fit into someone like me? I should be bleeding, I should be in pain, something…”
There was silence. Suddenly Jean was laughing again. “Oh my God, Jehan…” He had to hold onto the doorpost to stay up. “Oh Jesus…”
Jehan frowned. “How the hell is that supposed to be funny, you ass?”
“No, no, it’s not…it’s just…” He took a deep breath and wiped the tears from his eyes, still grinning. “I’ve seen men take vibrators three times as big as me in them, no problem. I just forget you haven’t…never mind.” He sighed. “It’s all about preparation. I made sure you were slick and spread enough to handle it and you did. That’s all. Nothing more than some lube, these,” he wriggled his fingers with a cheeky grin, “and decent preparation.”
Jehan was still frowning. “Well, forgive me for being so foolish,” he said, crossing his arms. “Unlike you, I’m not very accustomed to that sorta luxury.” With that, he stormed out of the bathroom and down the hall to Jean’s room to gather his pants.
“Jehan, wait! What’s wrong?”
He looked back. “I don’t know, Jean, you tell me.”
“How can I? You’re the one who stormed off!” Jean paused. “Look, if you just talk to me—”
Scowling, Jehan turned on his heel, calling back to his brother. “I did. You laughed.”
“That’s what this is about?” Jean followed him into the room, grabbing him by the arm. “Jesus Christ, Jehan, I’m sorry, alright? I’m not used to people not…well, not knowing how this…er, works…”
“I’m aware of how men have sex, Jean.”
He flinched. “Right, yeah…but I mean, how this normally goes…uhm, y’know…good preparation and all…” He sighed and let his brother go. “Look, if you’re regretting last night, I get it. You don’t have to pick a fight, Jeje, just tell me and I won’t let it happen again.”
“No.” It was an order, less harsh than everything else he had said that morning. “I don’t regret it,” Jehan said, looking up at his brother. “Shit, I kinda want to do it again, it’s just…” He glanced down only for a moment. “This morning, when I saw you, and then myself, I freaked out. I wanted to do it again, but you’re so…so…Shit, how the hell did that not tear? And I know, I know, preparation, whatever, okay, that doesn’t change how fucking huge you are, Jean.”
“You managed just fine last night.”
Jehan shifted from foot to foot. “Yeah...but I—”
“But nothing.” Jean kissed him lightly. “You took it just fine and I was just as big last night as I am now.” He grinned, patting Jehan lightly on the cheek which Jehan shook off with a huff. “You just never saw it so close before this morning, huh?”
“Pretty sure it’s considered a social faux pas to stare at your siblings’ dicks.”
“Well what does that make last night?”
Jehan rolled his eyes, not bothering to suppress his smile. “Wonderful, that’s what,” he smirked.
Jean grinned back. “So what’s the difference between last night and this morning, besides a bit of sunlight?”
“Your cock looks a lot bigger with a bit of sunlight.”
“Mm, well, we’ll just have to get you used to that, then,” he said and then scooped Jehan up into his arms.
He carried him over to the bed and set him down before sitting beside him. “Shh, calm down. I’m just putting you back into bed. You’re cranky in the morning.”
“You’re such a charmer.”
Jean rolled his eyes before leaning down to kiss him, biting his lip lightly, and Jehan didn’t push him away; instead, he pulled him closer, feeling his much larger body press atop his, almost suffocating him. He pulled away, finally, once his chest hurt.
“What was that about me being a charmer, Jeje?”
“Shut up.” He pulled him in for another kiss, letting his hands run along his shoulders, his back, arms just barely long enough to reach and cup his ass. He rolled his hips gently, feeling his cock twitch, warm and heavy against his little brother’s hip, and that’s when he felt it. Jean’s cock, warm and just slightly hard, pressed against his thigh. He could feel a one of the many piercings that he knew ran along the underside of the flushed organ, heavy and metal and glinting, and it made him shudder to think about them, inside him, pressing against his insides as Jean fucked him, hard and heavy, with his huge cock—
Jean pulled away, pressing a wet kiss to the side of his mouth. “Do you want more?” He sat up on his knees, letting Jehan lie back against the sheets. Slowly, he ran a hand along his own chest, down his stomach, fingers pressing against the surface piercings that took the place of what had once been a fine trail of hair before going lower, wrapping around his pinkened cock, hard enough in his hand. He stroked himself once, twice, gripping just below the head. “You want this in you?”
Looking him over, Jehan felt his eyes go wide. “Shit…” His heart dropped into his stomach. If his brother had looked huge this morning, he wasn’t sure what to call him now that he was hard and heavy and all of his piercings were on display, all silver and bright, pulling his skin taut. It scared him to think about that fitting inside of him, no matter what happened last night, yet his cock didn’t seem to mind at all. He sat up some, leaning on his elbows. “I-I want it…”
“Do you want it in you?” Jean repeated, licking his lips. “Or…do you want to just touch it? Feel it against your fingers, test how big it is?” Part of him reasoned it would probably help Jehan get over his new anxieties, and part of him reasoned that watching his slender fingers fit around him would be hot as hell. “Hmm?”
Jehan sat up on his knees, leaning up to press a small kiss to his brother’s lips as his hand wandered down his body. His teeth grazed over the little ring in his lower lip just as fingers touched his cock, grazing against the piercings underneath. “How many are there?” he asked with another kiss.
“As many as can fit.”
A grin. “So a shitton, then, huh?” Wrapping his fingers around the entire length, Jehan slowly began to stroke him, base to tip, his movements leisurely and languid until Jean whimpered against him, his hips rocking lightly.
He responded with another kiss. He let his hand drop away, replaced instead by his own body, his cock rubbing against his brother’s. “Fuck, you’re so big,” he whispered against the other’s lip as he looked down at their bodies moving in time, flushed cocks rubbing and pressing against each other. He moaned when he felt himself rub against the metallic beads that decorated his brother like a ladder, grabbing onto Jean for support. “So fuckin’ huge…Christ, you’d split me in two…”
“N-no I wouldn’t, Jeje.”
“Mm.” Jean kissed him. “But you know I wouldn’t.”
He paused, his hips stilling. “I-I know…” he mumbled, his grip tightening.
“Then if you know, let me.”
“I-I…” He looked down. God, he was so huge. How could he have missed that last night?
“And if you don’t know, let me prove it to you?” Another kiss. “Just like last night…”
Biting his lip, Jehan looked back at up Jean, at his sheepish smile, at his half-lidded eyes, and slowly, very slowly, he nodded his head. “Okay,” he said, hugging tight to him. “Okay, just like last night. You promise?”
They kissed and, just like last night, Jean gently laid him back down on the sheets, spreading his legs open. Just like last night, he slicked him well and stretched him wide, fingers making sure he could handle it. Just like last night, he pressed in slowly, asking if it was alright, if Jehan wanted him to move faster, and, just like last night, they both came, hot and hard and wet against each other, and dozed off in each other’s arms.
The last two times they’d slept together were mistakes. Not because they were both guys or because they were brothers or even because Jehan was in seminary. Granted, they were all very pertinent reasons but, in the moment at least, all of those issues dropped with their clothing at the foot of the bed. Rather, the last two times they’d slept together were mistakes because both the darkness of night and the dim morning light still managed to hide a lot of the finer, dirtier details and Jehan was always on his back and Jean never saw. The last two times they’d slept together made Jehan think he could be normal—another damn mistake.
Over breakfast that morning, Jean suggested with a cheeky little grin that they try doggy-style, a suggestion which, besides making Jehan spit out his coffee also made his heart sink down to his belly. That would mean him on his hands and knees with Jean behind him, Jean seeing him. As much as he loved that Jean wasn’t walking on eggshells around him now—and why should he, they had fucked each other twice in two days—he couldn’t just magically undo years of shame and embarrassment and self-loathing at his baby brother’s word.
Wiping his mouth, Jehan set his coffee cup down and looked to his brother. “Er…I don’t think that’s such a great idea, Jean…”
“Why not?” He smiled. “C’mon, it’ll be fun.”
Because you’ll fucking see the scars and then it’s back to the ‘oh my poor brother’ treatment as usual! He had to bite his tongue. “Because,” he replied with a small shrug, trying to come up with a more solid reply but it was too late: he had said enough.
Jean’s eyes widened and his hands became the most interesting thing in the world. His eyes were downcast and his shoulders slumped in painfully obvious guilt. “Sorry, Jeje, I shouldn’t have pressed it. I know you have your, uhm, reasons and stuff, yeah, that was stupid. Forget I said anything.”
“No! No, that’s not it!” It was and he knew it (and somewhere deep down, Jean knew it too), but that didn’t stop the lie jumping out from his throat. He wasn’t about to lose the normalcy Jean had given him—even if it was normalcy born out of the most abnormal sin on earth, he couldn’t lose this, couldn’t lose Jean. “It’s not that, it’s just… I’ve never done it that way before.”
Jean looked at him, his brow furrowed. “But how…I mean, with your sc—”
“He never used knives when we had…when we were together like that. Always before. Or after.” The key to lying was not the lie itself but the bullshit you fed someone to keep the lie looking true. After Tiefer, he’d had to master that art. “He wanted to see my face every time. I’ve never been on my hands and knees except for a beatin’.” More bullshit—Tiefer had hardly ever wanted to see his face when he raped him and was always glad to bring a knife between the sheets—but Jean ate it up.
“So you’ve never done it that way, then.”
Jehan shook his head. “That’s why not. You know how I am with trying new things and all.”
“Yeah, you ain’t exactly adventurous,” Jean teased, a bit of his earlier grin coming back.
“Gee, what a flatterer you turned out to be.”
“But that’s what I’m here for! Er, well, not to flatter you, but to make you get out your goddamn comfort zone. C’mon, you trusted me enough to let me have sex with you twice already, even when you were scared it wouldn’t fit. Look how that worked out!” He smiled again, though there was a bit of hesitation in his voice. “I promise, the second something doesn’t feel right, you tell me and I’m out. I’ll stop. Promise. Just trust me again, please?”
Jehan sat there, silent. He felt like he’d just been thrown into the wall, all breath knocked out of him. He couldn’t say no. That meant he didn’t trust his own brother. He’d either hurt Jean’s feelings or have to tell the truth and have Jean treat him differently again. But if he said yes, that meant letting Jean see everything, meant giving Jean an obvious reason to go back to pitying him, meant no longer being normal. He couldn’t tell the truth, couldn’t show him the truth, but the lie…he would not have his brother think he didn’t trust him. That was a lie he couldn’t keep up—Jehan trusted him more than anyone.
“Alright, Jean, alright. I trust you.”
It was mid-afternoon when they found themselves making out on Jean’s bed, the door shut behind them. Jehan had wanted to wait till that evening when the lights would be dim, but Jean had promised some friends he’d go out with them that night. “Besides,” he said through hurried kisses when Jehan has asked him about it, “I wanna be able to see you…and how much you’ll enjoy this…”
Jehan knew he meant that with all the kindness and sincerity that lust could muster but it made his stomach turn at the thought.
“Mm?” He was in the middle of tugging off his big brother’s shirt. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I just…Never mind.”
Jean stopped pulling at his shirt. “You can tell me. Jehan, if something’s upsetting you, tell me. I don’t wanna hurt you.”
“You’re not hurting me.”
“Then what is it?”
Jehan’s eyes flickered to his baby brother’s hands, still fisted in the material, but otherwise said nothing.
“Jeje, there’s nothing about your body I haven’t seen.”
“You haven’t seen the scars,” he whispered.
He grinned but it didn’t meet his eyes. “I’ve seen you naked a buncha times including the other night. Pretty sure I’ve seen ‘em once or twice in my lifetime.”
“But you haven’t seen them.”
He kissed him softly on the corner of the mouth before slowly moving to press his lips fully against his brother’s, letting his tongue flick against his lower lip. “Then show me,” he said against his lips, breath warm, and Jehan replied with a desperate kiss, arms wrapping around his neck and pulling him flush against his own body so that they were close, so close, and so together for at least a moment.
But eventually he had to pull away. Pushing Jean’s hands from his shirt, he sighed and replaced his hands with his own. “You’re gonna regret this,” he said before pulling the shirt over his head and turning around so that Jean could see.
“There’s more…you can’t see them yet but they’re there.”
Jehan grimaced. “I know.” He shut his eyes, breathing slowly. “They’re disgusting.” Saying that would just make the little pity party that Jean would inevitably throw him even worse, but it was true. Every bit of ruined flesh was more and more horrific than the last. The crucifix brand was still so nasty that even he couldn’t stand to look for long. “If you don’t—”He swallowed heavily. “If you don’t wanna go through with this anymore, I don’t blame you.”
Jean kissed him on the back of the neck. “Why would I pass up this chance to be with you, huh?” He breathed before kissing him again, lower now, along his spine. Jehan shuddered, his brother’s lip piercing cool against his skin, the feeling of metal once again along his back too familiar a memory. He exhaled slowly, fear slowly creeping inside his mind. He had to ignore it. For Jean.
“If that’s what you want, Jean...”
He couldn’t ignore it.
He was on his hands and knees. Jean was behind him, the head of his cock pressing against him, slowly pushing in, and though it didn’t hurt, he still felt sick. Jean had kissed him no less than five times, all along his back, and Jehan could feel the metal of his piercing against his flesh, pressing just so against him. He knew it was stupid—it was just a bit of metal and hell, didn’t he get all hot and bothered before at the thought of some of his brother’s piercings, what should this matter—but every time sent a shiver of fear throughout his entire body.
And now, as Jean slowly pressed inside, inch by inch, while leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses along his scarred back, Jehan had to bite the inside of his cheek. He knew his brother was just trying to show him how much the scars didn’t matter to him, didn’t mean a thing; however, every kiss was as good as a blade, every flick of his tongue with that bit of warm metal another slice against his skin. It hurt, the fear eating him from the inside out, but he kept quiet. He didn’t want Jean thinking he was broken again. He already looked the part. Jean said he would stop if he asked but stopping meant admitting he was everything he appeared to be.
“Jehan? You alright?” He was all the way inside and Jehan could fully feel how big he really was. “Is it okay to keep going?”
Oh God he knows. “Mhm…Yeah.” Maybe once he started, it would take his mind off of all the little things. “Yeah, it’s…it’s fine, please.”
Jean nodded and kissed him again—Jehan winced—before he pulled out almost all the way, the head of his cock still just barely inside, and then thrust back in. The shock of it almost made Jehan fall on his face but he kept upright. The second and third kiss, all timed with his thrusts, made him feel weak again.
Yet he kept silent—and Jean kept kissing him every time he moved his hips. And when he brought one hand along his brother’s stomach and down between his legs to touch him as he moved, he kissed him then too, over and over again, and Jehan couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop it, not without losing everything. So he kneeled there, bent over, his brother deep inside and holding him close, whispering encouraging words against his back and kissing every inch of his flesh, even the nasty brand on his left shoulder. Every kiss cut him deeper, tore another silent sob from him. His eyes stung wet with tears and his throat burned with pent up cries that he had to keep down until finally, as he spilled into his brother’s hand and collapsed on the bed, he was able to voice a small whimper, his body shaking.
Jean came not long after and with his release came a hundred more kisses to his beaten back, a hundred more unsaid whimpers and sobs that Jehan kept down and muffled into the sheets.
He shouldn’t have looked up. He should have just kept his head down until he could wipe at his face. But he didn’t. He was stupid and looked up, right up into his brother’s face, red eyes and all, and he knew he shouldn’t.
“Oh God…Jehan, what’s wrong?” His blue eyes were wide with panic. “Jesus, I told you to tell me if something upset you!”
Jehan winced. “Please don’t yell,” he begged, burying his head back into the sheets. He’d messed up. He was stupid. He was stupid for ever thinking he could be normal and now Jean was angry with him.
“What—no, no I’m not yelling, I’m sorry. I’m just upset that I hurt you. No, God, Jehan, I’m sorry! I’m sorry.” He trailed kisses along his shoulders, his back, each one a hundredfold worse than his raised voice ever was.
Jehan couldn’t stomach his apologies anymore. He snapped his head up and turned away onto his side, pushing his brother away. “Get out.”
“I said get out! Leave me alone!”
“What did I do? I just want to apologize—”
“No, stop apologizing and just get out!” It was Jean’s room and he didn’t care. He didn’t want to be around Jean. He didn’t want another apology. He just wanted to be alone. “Get out!”
Confused, Jean pulled away and slowly slid off the bed. “A-alright, Jehan…I’ll just go take a shower. Unless you want to first, that is.”
He didn’t miss the way his baby brother eyed him as if he were made of glass, ready to shatter. “No. Just go.”
“Okay. Okay, Jehan. I’m still sorry—”
“Get out!” His voice cracked , another sob overcoming him, and he had to bury his face in his arms to keep Jean from seeing. Still, he could hear his brother leave him alone, just as he’d asked, and Jehan didn’t need to look at Jean to know that he’d ruined it, ruined everything he’d had with his brother, ruined all that normalcy he’d managed to build in the past few days because he couldn’t fix himself for one afternoon.
The last two times they’d slept together were mistakes; this time was a disaster.
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genderbent AU | mature | tiefer siblings
He finds her hiding in what used to be their parents’ room.
He had forbidden her from going in there, but she’d jimmied the door open with the tip of her pocket knife while he was off banging a mess of floozies he’d dragged home from the bar. She had taken to hiding in there whenever she wanted—needed—to escape him.
Like now, as he tears the house apart in search of someone to relieve his anxieties with, as he cracks open the door, as he spots her curled up on the bed where she was conceived, sobbing, unseeing with her long, nearly-white hair covering her face. He slides the door open, steps into the room, and she bolts up, scrambling across the sheets, but he’s bigger than her and faster than her and stronger than her when he grabs her too-tender wrists and pins her to the bed with one knee wedged between her legs, spreading her open, the thin fabric of her sundress riding up, her even thinner panties not doing much against the thick, heavy denim of his jeans, and she gasps.
“You’re not supposed to be in here, little sister.” His breath is hot against her cheek and she twists away just enough, just enough so he can nip along her jaw, her throat, and now she can’t even shake her head no or force out the apology that might just make it better. “You know that.”
“I do, but—”
She cries out, her cheek stinging. He hits her again.
“Shut up.” A third strike and she listens, obedient, afraid, and he’s pleased enough because his hand is no longer raised. Instead his hand slinks along the top of her dress, pulling the fabric away, tugging it down and groping her, filling the palm with her breast, thumb gliding over a nipple, no bra to get in his way. “Little slut,” he growls and she shakes her head, mouthing no no no once he’s leaned back down to bite at her throat and feel her squirm, because she’s not a slut, she’s not, she’s only ever done things with one other person, that’s it, and it’s too hot to wear a bra and he’d just rip it off her anyway and they cost too much in the first place; but before she can open her mouth to tell him as much, he rocks against her, his knee rubbing between her legs, the denim pressing against her, rough rubbing her thinly covered body that was more than happy to react to the attention, and she moans, a shocked moan, an embarrassed, unplanned, unwanted moan, but a moan nonetheless.
Her brother hears her and smiles.
“You want this, Emmeline?” he asks, sitting back just enough to give himself room as he undid his jeans. “You want me to fuck you on our parents’ bed, ruin their memory jus’ like you ruined them?”
She tells him no—or at least she thinks he does—but he cannot, will not hear her over the clack of his belt or the shuffling of his jeans against the sheets as he exposes himself. She vomits in the back of her throat at the sight of her brother, hard and flushed and so gleefully ready to fuck her like a slave, love her less than the cheap women he finds at the ends of shady bars, but she has to swallow it down and it burns like a cigarette against the back of her neck.
He shoves her dress up and pulls her panties aside, looking at her, knowing her, when he sees the bit of dampness staining her underwear and she wants to die because now he has an excuse to push inside because she’s wet so she’s asking for it so she can handle it because she deserves it. And he does—he pushes in, deep deep deep inside her, going as far and as fast as possible in one thrust, filling her—and she does deserve it when she cries out, ruddy eyes shut tight, because now she has something to cry about.
And she cries. She cries in a twisted heap of limbs and tangled sheets and twisted skirts, her hair sticking to her face, falling into her open mouth, and sometimes her cries aren’t even words anymore, just sounds, guttural animalistic shouts and groans that all contain a plea for death or salvation or maybe both, but it’s nothing compared to the way he pants against the flushed skin of her collar, sneering curses and comments about his filthy little sister that just needs a real man to show her what it’s like, that forces him to do these things, that ruins everything she touches and makes people hate her like this.
The mantra continues until he comes inside of her, hot and wet and disgusting, and he makes sure to let the tip of his cock smear against her inner thigh, semen lingering against her skin, sticky and gross but she’s too tired to wipe it away. She simply lies there, breathing heavy, body still tense, still anxious, still expectant of something in return. Her brother never gives, only takes, so when he takes his leave, she doesn’t give him any hint of rage or sadness or hope or even defeat. She simply lies there, neutral, unfeeling, and if he wants to pretend she is broken, he can pretend, but she doesn’t let him see her cry. Not again.
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prison AU | explicit | kazuo/tiefer
crossover with TheDietElf
It was a simple crime, really. Petty theft. He’d only stolen some food and a few rolls of bandage. Nothing to really be thrown in jail for as far as he was concerned. The bit about resisting arrest and violently assaulting an officer, though, that’s what cost him. Kazuo sighed, rubbing his wrists where the handcuffs rubbed against his skin. He had just wanted to eat for once after three days.
At least in jail he’d have something to eat and somewhere to sleep.
Emilein Tiefer awoke to the warden banging her baton against the iron bars. “Good news, Father: you’ll be getting a new cellmate today.”
“Goody,” came the incredibly unenthusiastic reply from the middle aged man slumped over on the bunk shoved in the corner of the cell. “Should I bake the little fishy a cake?”
The warden sighed heavily. She was a rather stocky woman not much older than him with a surprisingly gentle face. “Be good to this one, you hear?” she said, peering in at the ex-priest through the bars. “You’ve already gone through three men in the past two years and you’ve got enough shots on you with the way you been actin’. Keep that up and they might ship you off to a worse hell-hole than this. I don’t need to see your skinny ass on the news with the words ‘ran through with a broomhandle’ under COD.”
Tiefer sat up slowly and put on his glasses. “You’re so thoughtful, Nanan Mère, no wonder e’rybody likes you in this shithole.” he said with marginally less sarcasm than before. “Don’t worry, I’ll be on my best behavior.” He remembered the jail he’d been at before this one. It was a miserable cesspit. Thankfully, the nature of his crime meant they had to separate him from the other inmates. Legal safety issues and all, ever since Dahmer. Thank God for good behavior.
“Good man. Try to remember all that seminary training they put you through, ‘kay?” Nanan Mère, as the prisoners called her, grinned. “Nice, humble, obedient, the works. I should be around in a little bit when he gets here.”
“What’s the fucker’s name?”
She paused. Obviously, his use of language didn’t bode as a good start to a vaguely healthy relationship with his new cellmate. Still, she conceded. “Kazuo,” she said as she walked away. “His name is Kazuo.”
“So who’s he gonna wind up with?”
“Shit if I know, man, check the list.”
Kazuo had more or less tuned out the two officers in the front seats of the cop cars for the entirety of the ride up from the courthouse to the prison. Mostly, they talked about their kids or office drivel or what happened to their buddy Chuck—nothing he was interested in, for sure.
“Mmm, one sec, one sec…well shit.”
This conversation was markedly more interesting than Chuck.
“What, Steve?” the driver turned to look at his partner. “C’mon, don’t hold out on me like that, who is it?”
Steve took a long drink of his coffee. Kazuo wanted to shout at him to get on with it.
“That mothefucker? Jesus. How many guys he’s been through?”
“Only three, Marvin, but ain’t nobody wants to be in a cell with him.” Steve took another drink as Marvin turned right on a gravelly road. “Word travels fast.”
Kazuo slumped in the backseat of the car as they pulled up to the prison. The last thing he wanted was to become another tic in a record-book.
“Play nicely, boys.”
Nanan Mère was many things. A benevolent warden, a somewhat-decent cook, a great chit-chatter, and an all around good woman. She was not, however, the best at introducing the latest in a line of fresh meat. At least, in Tiefer’s eyes she wasn’t. He was sitting on his cot when her little package arrived to be crammed into the cell with him. He watched her walk out of sight, leaving Kazuo standing alone before him. Well, he should be thankful she left him something entertaining to pass the time with.
“Evenin’, Kazuo,” he said lazily.
Kazuo regarded him silently for a while. Tiefer looked right back, trying to read him. Kid was probably wondering how he knew his name. They went on like this for some time until, bored with the tiny staring contest, Tiefer fished a contraband cigarette and pack of matches from inside his jumpsuit and began to light up.
“Spare a light?”
Tiefer slowly looked the boy over. “What, no hello? No good-day? No nothin’ ‘cept an attempt on my smokes?”
Kazuo managed a weak apology. “It’s just…” He paused, a spacy look over his face, as if he’d gotten lost while choosing his words. “You’re a lot scrawnier than I expected,” he finally said.
Flicking the ashes of his cigarette, Tiefer blew smoke towards the boy. “You ain’t much ‘sides flesh and bones y’self,” he said coolly. “Pretty close to my type, in fact.” He gave him a cigarette. “So what’re you in for, kid?”
Bristling some at being called kid, Kazuo accepted the cigarette. “Stole some food. Bandages.”
Tiefer laughed. That sorta petty stuff didn’t get you anywhere close to the hellhole he’d been living in for the past few years. “Shit, that can’t be all. They fuckin’ put you in here with me. Somebody’s gotta have it in for you.”
“I knocked a cop unconscious. A coma. He hurt me so I hurt him.” Kazuo shrugged with the nonchalant air of ‘simple as that’ about the whole matter.
“See, now that makes shit more interestin’.”
Silence passed between them until their cigarettes were both smoked into nothing. Kazuo glanced over at him. Finally, he asked, “Why’re you here, Father…?”
“Tiefer. Father Tiefer.” Stretching, Tiefer grinned. “Oh that’s an easy one, baby: I fucked a kid.”
The last thing Tiefer saw was a fist coming straight for his face.
He’d knocked the man back into the wall where his skull collided against stone with a nasty sounding thunk. He could see a small trail of blood as he slid down the wall and onto his cot. Glancing out the bars, Kazuo could see a few of the other prisoners staring at him from across the cellblock. He was already a person of interest—being a new addition and all—and he’d managed to put down his cellmate in less than ten minutes of knowing each other. At least the guards seemed not to have heard the sound of crunching bone (or if they did, it wasn’t worth their time.) He was thankful for that. Maybe the old man hit his head too hard on the way down and wouldn’t be waking up ever again. Kazuo would be very thankful for that.
A groan broke the momentary silence, followed swiftly by a garbled, “What the fuck!” as Tiefer came to. His lip was split and bleeding, and his white hair had streaks of red from where he struck the wall. “Fuck, you scraggly little shit,” he muttered as he slowly sat up with all the disorientated grace he could muster. He spat out a clump of blood and part of a tooth before glaring up at Kazuo. “The fuck was that for? What, you get diddled as a kid or something?”
Kazuo cocked his arm back and lunged at the ex-priest, ready to bust his skull against the brick and mortar behind him. Rapists left a very nasty taste in his mouth and he was not about to spend out his sentence in the company of one, a child-rapist at that.
His fist never made contact with anything but air as Tiefer grabbed him by the wrist and twisted his arm back, forcing Kazuo to tumble forward until he was face down into the old cot that smelled like decades of sweat and blood. He tried to twist away but a swift, blunt blow to the back made him go still. He could feel Tiefer leaning over him, the force of his weight pinning him down against the cot.
“I don’t know what your fuckin’ deal is, kid.” His voice was low and right against his ear. Kazuo could feel the warmth of his breath. “But you listen to me: you’d much rather have me as a friend than an enemy. There’re a lotta fuckers in here who don’t like me and a helluva lot more that know better’n to mess with me, but everybody wants to play with little fishies like yourself.” Kazuo did not like the tone of his voice or the way the older man’s hand seemed to move a bit more southerly than he’d like in such circumstances. “So I suggest you keep your hands to yourself and I’ll keep mine wherever I fuckin’ please. Understand, cher?”
“If you’re trying to make me your bitch,” Kazuo grunted against the rough cot, “you better try harder than that.” He wasn’t about to take shit from a child-rapist. “Besides, I think I can take care of myself, thanks. You’re not looking too good right now.”
“Hmm.” The weight pinning him down subsided as Tiefer got off the sorry excuse for a mattress. Kazuo sat up, keeping his eyes on the other man as he went to the small sink to wash out the cut on his lip. “Suit yourself.” He took off his glasses, cleaning off some blood that had gotten on the lenses. “Just know that when the lights are out an’ nobody’s got nothin’ to say ‘bout nobody else if’n they know what’s good for ‘em, preference don’t matter much. If some fucker wants his cock sucked, he’s gonna get his cock sucked an’ you don’t wanna be the bastard on his knees while everyone else looks the other way.”
“Thanks,” Kazuo droned. “I’ll remember that.”
Tiefer just shrugged his shoulders and took out another cigarette. “One other thing,” he said as he lit up.
“You’re in my bed. Up, ‘less you wanna rethink that deal.”
Kazuo got up quickly, shooting the ex-priest a look of revulsion as he hopped up on his bunk.
“That’s Jimmy over there. Most call him El Rey.” Tiefer took a quick drag from his cigarette. “Lotta these po’ bastards are in here for drugs—possession, distribution, smugglin’—but he’s…well, he’s the king.”
“Never would’ve guessed.”
Prisoners were allowed to walk around their cellblock and visit other prisoners during downtime when they weren’t eating or showering or out for daily exercise. Usually, Tiefer spent the time in his cell, occasionally venturing off to score smokes or a dirty magazine or two. Today, however, he was giving Kazuo the rundown of the other inmates. The brat hadn’t accepted his ‘protection’ but, unlike some of his other cellmates, he also hadn’t tried to hit him again. Which was good. Didn’t mean Tiefer liked him—oh not at all, in fact, he was thinking up ways to get rid of him in as minimally-fatal ways as possible at that very moment—but he didn’t have a problem helping him avoid the worst lot around. Besides, it kept him busy. Tiefer hated being bored.
Almost as much as he hated sarcastic replies from little brats. “You wanna meet these fuckers on your own? Fine, I’ll be sure to visit ya in your sick bed. Oh, I’m sorry, what? No, you don’t want a shiv lodged between your kneecaps?”
Kazuo sighed. “No.”
“Well then shut the fuck up.” The things he did out of the goodness of his heart. “As I was sayin’, El Rey over there’s the king ‘round here. You name it, he’s got it: smokes, drugs, booze, porn rags…fucker charges extra for the kinky shit. Lost all my cigarettes and had to do his laundry duty for one fuckin’ porno.” He put the cigarette to his lips and inhaled. “Good guy, though,” he added through a puff of smoke. “Don’t hold it ‘gainst ya if your preference ain’t the usual. Hell, even hides it behind a titty cover. Most of the cunts in here, you give ‘em that sorta information and suddenly everyone’s got it in their heads that you’re some easy, weak little fairy-boy jus’ beggin’ for dicks.”
“Speaking from first-hand experience?”
Taking another drag, Tiefer glared at Kazuo. “Only took one dumbass to learn ‘em better that not every fag is free for the takin’.” He sighed. Thankfully, no one snitched ‘round those parts—no one who valued their lives anyway—so when the guards started asking around as to who tried to cut off one of the other con’s dick with a makeshift knife, suddenly nobody had seen a thing. “But yeah, you don’t go talkin’ ‘bout that shit. Buncha fuckwits get all anxious and it’s the fags that become synonymous with easy prey first. Fags and pretty little things.”
He shot a pointed look at Kazuo who seemed to be completely spaced out.
“Hey! Are you even listenin’?” Tiefer shoved the kid. “I ain’t gonna waste my time if you’re jus’ gonna stand there an’ ignore me.”
Kazuo didn’t respond. His gaze was fixed on a couple of guys across the bloc. Some were just in their undershirts, jumpsuit pulled down around their waists, while the others went shirtless. Black ink ran across their chests and backs. One had an eagle emblazoned across his shoulders.
“Oh. Those fuckers,” Tiefer drawled as he followed Kazuo’s gaze, “They’re part of the Neo-Nazis ‘round here. Avoid ‘em if you can. Hard, sometimes, but do your best. They’re in competition with a buncha other fuckers, but them’s the worst. This place is like a fuckin’ high school, really.”
“Do high schools often have dangerous criminals roaming around?”
“Don’t be a smart ass,” Tiefer spat before gesturing towards the other cells. “See, the spics done got their group, the dagos kinda amble along, sometimes keep to ‘emselves, sometimes try to blend in with the Polacks. Strength in numbers.” He took another drag. “The Orientals got their own little niches but they all had to group together to actually pose any sorta threat against the Jugen over there. ‘Course, the only group that really stands a chance ‘gainst ‘em are the niggers. Sheer size, y’see.”
“Huh. With that language, I’m surprised you haven’t joined Hitler’s Boy Scouts.”
“Me an’ their leader don’t exactly see eye-to-eye, dollface.” He put out his cigarette. “Bummer, too. I coulda used the protection. Mais, don’t nobody wanna mess with those fuckers. They’re a small group but damn deadly.”
Kazuo looked over at the men milling about. “That their guy?” he asked, pointing to the man with the eagle across his back.
“Naw. Right hand man, though. Name’s Ritter.” Readjusting his glasses, Tiefer peered across the bloc. “Huh, don’t see the fucker around. He’s usually over—”
“Guten tag, padre.”
Both Tiefer and Kazuo turned to see a muscular man of about thirty with dusty blond hair walking along the row of cells. His jumpsuit was around his waist, revealing broad shoulders and a swastika tattoo peeking out from the collar of his wife-beater. A nasty smirk marred his features which, besides the muddy color of his blue eyes, were admittedly attractive.
“Oh, we’re using the heathen spic tongue now, Herr Metzger?” Tiefer snorted. “Didn’t think you were capable of speakin’ in more’n grunts.”
The man stopped in front of Tiefer, crossing his arms. “The coon-ass thinks he’s funny. Cute,” he sneered before looking at Kazuo. “This your new fuckmate?”
“I’m fuckin’ hilarious, ma petite chère,” Tiefer replied. “As for him, new cellmate. I’m jus’ showin’ him who’s who ‘round this shithole. He was askin’ ‘bout you, in fact.”
“Really, now? What’s your name, kid?”
He paused. “Hn. Sounds like a fuckin’ Jap name.”
Kazuo simply shrugged. “Observant, I see. No wonder you’re the leader.”
“Little shit!” He grabbed Kazuo by the front of his jumpsuit. “I’d watch my tongue if I were you—”
“And I’d watch where I put my hands, petite,” Tiefer said, his voice low. “If I’m gonna lose another cellmate, it ain’t gonna be in a body-bag. I don’t need you pinnin’ shit on me. I can run ‘em out myself, thanks.” He closed a hand over the fist bunched up in Kazuo’s shirt front. “Let him go.”
Kazuo found himself released almost instantly.
The Neo-Nazi held his hand close, as if he’d been burned. “You’ve got a lotta balls, priest.”
“Ex-priest, remember?” Tiefer smirked as he stepped forward. “Defrocked an’ all—”
“For raping a kid. Yeah, you piece of shit, we all know—“
“—means I don’t gotta watch my step, boy.” He was inches away from the other’s face. “And don’t pretend. It ain’t the kid part that bothers you, it’s the he-had-a-dick part. Thirty bitsa silver says you’d do the same if it was a pretty li’l Aryan bitch.” He leaned in, able to feel Metzger’s breath on his face. “Why don’t you just go run off to your nice, safe cell full of fascist fanboys and have a nice circlejerk over dear ol’ Adolf, huh?”
“Shut your mouth, you half-breed faggot.”
Tiefer smirked. “You could always shut me up with your cock, y’know.” He laughed as the man hurriedly put no less than a yard’s worth of distance between them. “Mm, an’ I may be a half-breed but I’m more German than you’ll ever be, Herr Tony,” he added with a wave. “Guten-tag!”
As the leader of the residential Aryan gang retreated, Kazuo glanced up at Tiefer. “Tony?”
Tiefer winked, his deadened eye looking blankly down at the kid. “Antony, if ya wanna be ‘xact. Fucker wants to call himself ‘the butcher’? He can go right ‘head and call himself that. I’ll stick to his God-given name, thanks.”
“Wouldn’t his parents have given him that name?” Kazuo asked after a long pause.
“Don’t be a smart-ass.”
Kazuo learned a lot from his first few days in prison.
He learned who to go to for the best contraband and who to avoid like they were covered in black, oozing boils during his and Tiefer’s daytime who’s-who among the inmates.
He learned if you didn’t have some place to be or someone to be conducting business with, you were better off just staying in your cell. Wandering the prison meant seeing some things that shouldn’t be seeing or getting dragged into things with which nobody wants to be involved. He had learned that lesson very quickly.
“Hey kid, what’s got you spooked?” Tiefer had been shoving some magazines under the mattress—hastily, now that he thought about it—when he’d walked into the cell.
“Nothin’,” Kazuo said, though it was a lie and no matter how composed he tried to keep his face, he could see the other man reading him like a book.
Scoffing, Tiefer leaned back on his bunk. “Yeah, yeah, an’ I’m the queen of fuckin’ England. Whatcha walk in on, hm? A fight? Beatdown? Police brutality?”
Kazuo shifted some. “You could say that,” he mumbled.
“Ah, now we gettin’ somewhere.” Tiefer grinned. “Mm, lemme guess, lemme guess…tall, slicked back hair, broad shoulders, yells like a fuckin’ drill sergeant?”
Kazuo didn’t say anything.
“Likes to use a baton?”
Kazuo didn’t need to say anything. The small shudder of revulsion gave him away.
“Yeah…yeah, ol’ Mark. Marky Mark.” The ex-priest’s voice was getting to an annoying level of sing-songy. He cackled. “Oh Mark…that ever-lovin’ cunt, ha-ha…mm, yeah.” He shifted some on the bed, readjusting the jumpsuit some. Kazuo didn’t really want to think about why—Tiefer seemed altogether not exactly right in the head. “Ya gotta watch out for him, baby-doll, with a face like yours. He’ll want to wreck it good, yeah. I might be sick but Marky? Hoo, shit, you lucky you got away.”
Kazuo had just nodded dumbly and climbed onto his bunk, trying not to think about Mark while ignoring the rustle of magazines and anything else coming from below him.
He learned quickly not to think much about some of the day-to-day happenings. He was rather good at spacing out but every now and then—a gang-related brawl out in the exercise yard, a food-fight that was less food and more knives and forks, a nasty confrontation involving someone’s bitch—something crept through. He tried to shove most of those events into a little box in his mind and bury it—no use in going bat-shit insane like his cellmate obviously was.
Speaking of his cellmate, Kazuo learned most importantly of all to never let Tiefer get bored. The reasons why were often varied but the lesson was always the same: never allow Tiefer to be bored. Regrettably, that was not always possible.
Kazuo awoke in the middle of the night to a painful reminder of that lesson. He hated waking up because getting back to sleep was difficult. Often, the muffled sounds of some inmates taking their payment for ‘protecting’ others would echo down the halls, and every now and then one of the guards would break up a fight or a rape—that or sometimes take advantage of men whose cellmates were easily paid off to not have seen or heard a thing. Stifled shouts and grunts were no lovely lullaby, but the most difficult nights were the nights when Tiefer was not only awake but bored.
“La grace du ciel est descendu me sauver de l’enfer…”
He turned over in his sleep, trying to block out the other’s singing. He was pretty sure, though, that Tiefer heard him shift in his bunk and knew exactly why, if the increased volume of his singing was anything to go by.
“J’étais perdu je suis retrouvé, aveugle et je vois clair.”
Kazuo chucked his pillow down at Tiefer. Immature, yes, but Kazuo had learned through painful experience that the older man was nothing but a five year old when he got bored. And he was almost certain that Tiefer existed in a perpetual state of boredom.
A pause. Kazuo sighed and rested his head on his arms. Sleep was so close, he just needed a few moments of silence. Sadly, that promise was soon snatched away as the ex-priest took in a long breath, his exhale another song.
“Fear not den said the angel, let nothin’ you affright…”
Kazuo groaned. Maybe if he humored him, he could actually get some sleep.
“’S day is born a savior of a pure virgin bright.”
That or he would be up until morning playing stupid games with a middle-aged child.
“To free all those who trust in ‘im from Satan’s pow’r an’ might.”
“Can he free me from your singing?” Kazuo’s voice was muffled into his arms but Tiefer fell silent anyway. At least, he was silent for a few seconds.
“Aw, cher, tha’ hurts.”
Kazuo rolled his eyes. “You smoke. You’re old. It shows.”
“Well, ‘less you got any other ideas of how I can occupy myself”—as spacey as Kazuo was, he did not miss the implication behind the man’s words—“then I guess I jus’ gotta entertain myself.”
“Magazines,” he grunted, wishing he had his pillow.
“Read ‘em all.”
An exasperated groan followed by silence. Hearing Tiefer take a large breath, though, he quickly offered, “Imagination. Use your imagination.”
More silence. Kazuo wasn’t sure if Tiefer was mulling it over or satisfied with his game or even just bored of being bored. He hoped the man was done. He really hoped he would be able to fall asleep, least Tiefer took his suggestion and he was stuck listening to him satisfy himself. Kazuo shook his head. Alongside Mark, that was another thing he didn’t want to think about at all.
Tiefer, bored as he was, did not help one bit.
“Y’know what I like to think about?”
Kazuo knew the bastard wouldn’t care if he gave an answer or not. He rolled over, trying once more for sleep he knew he wouldn’t get.
Kazuo froze. He couldn’t be talking about the same kid that he—
“Shit, he was cute. Big, gold eyes, pouty lips…mmh, he was jus’ adorable when he cried.”
Bile rose in his throat. He wouldn’t—
“An’ fuck, the firs’ time I pushed him down on the bed, mais, you wouldn’t believe how much he screamed, cher, it was like music…an’ fuck was he tight. I know he was a kid an’ all, but Christ, jus’ thinkin’ ‘bout it makes me wanna—”
He didn’t remember sitting up or jumping off his bunk or grabbing Tiefer by the front of his jumpsuit. All he knew was that he was going to ram his fist into the man’s face and throat so that he would never have to hear him speak about what he’d done ever again. He’d gotten one clean punch to the bastard’s jaw as he sat, straddling the man’s chest, and was about to land another when he was pulled back by his hair and smashed into the wall. He collapsed against the stone and felt himself be shoved over.
“Well, least somethin’ gets a rise outta ya.” Tiefer was standing over him. His glasses were askew and a large welt was forming on the left side of his face.
Kazuo groaned, narrowly dodging a punch aimed at his nose. “You’re disgusting,” he snarled as he pulled Tiefer back down, kneeing him hard in the stomach. The ex-priest gagged and crumpled to the ground. Kazuo stood, dizzy from getting smashed into the wall, and kicked him in the ribs, landing blow after blow wherever he could hit. He would have continued but after three loud cracks interspersed among wracking, blood-wet sobs, their fighting—now Tiefer’s beating—had garnered some attention.
Some incredibly unwanted attention.
“Oi, the fuck’s goin’ on?”
Kazuo halted mid-kick and glanced up to see one of the guards leaning against the cell bars, one hand pointing a flashlight at them and the other gripping a baton.
“H-hey, ‘s Marky…” Tiefer grinned stupidly up at him, blood leaking out the sides of his mouth. “Help a po’ bastard out, wouldja Mark?” He tried to laugh though all that came out was a nasty sounding cough and flecks of blood.
Mark wasn’t laughing. “I asked a question.” He thumped the baton against the bar. “The fuck is going on here?”
Shrugging, Kazuo stepped away from Tiefer. He could feel the guard’s eyes on him.
Another wet cough. “I think Marky’s lookin’ for an answer, kiddie.”
“Shut up, rapist,” the guard barked with another thump of the baton. He didn’t say anything to the weak giggle of “pot an’ kettle, babydoll” that rose up from the dirty cement floor. Instead, he kept his eyes fixed on Kazuo. “Well?”
“We were fighting,” he answered.
“No shit. I have eyes, don’t I? Why were you fighting?”
Kazuo looked away. He wanted to tell him what Tiefer had said—something as disgusting as that, he deserved what he got—but the words were stuck in his throat. Tattling, snitching. He’d learned that such things weren’t welcome there. So he simply offered another shrug.
Mark glared at him. “Obviously, he”—a quick look of disdain towards Tiefer—“did something to piss you off. What did he do?”
“ ‘S it ‘ven matter? Y’gon’ punish ‘s either way.”
Mark ignored the ex-priest’s comment, instead keeping his eyes on Kazuo. “Well?” he asked before cocking his head. “Wait a minute…you’re the kid who walked in on me with the wife-beater down in cell 68, aren’t you? The one that interrupted my fun,” A nasty grin spread across his face that made Kazuo thankful he had a row of bars between him and the guard. “You’ve seen my work, then.”
“So you know what happens when people piss me off?”
Swallowing hard, Kazuo nodded again.
“Then you’d better tell me what happened before I get pissed off at you, kid.”
Glancing briefly at Tiefer who managed a nasty glare right back through a black and blue eye¸ Kazuo kept his eyes on the ground. “He…told me about the kid,” he said. “The one he…” The word made his stomach turn. “Why he’s here.” Kazuo had to pointedly ignore the wet cough of blood that sounded suspiciously like “snitch.”
“Ah, so that’s why this piece of shit looks worse than usual…” Markus stooped down and peered at Tiefer through the bars. “Getting a taste of your own medicine, huh, padre?” He smirked, tapping his baton on the bars. Another wet, bloody cough, this time with a small “fuck you” added. “Well, no, not really…someone’d hafta stick their dick up your ass, wouldn’t they?”
His eyes lit up and a wicked, hideous little grin that made Kazuo’s stomach turn spread across the guard’s face.
Silence. Even Tiefer had stopped gagging on his own blood. The only sounds were the rustling of other inmates, the occasional bark of “quiet down” from patrolling guards many cell blocs away, and the echo of Mark’s words that hung in the air. Kazuo stared wide-eyed as the guard stood, twirling his baton.
“Well?” His sallow face still held that same wicked grin.
Kazuo didn’t move an inch. He simply stared like a small deer on a high-way. Finally, he spoke up, his voice much weaker than it had been. “You want me to fuck him?”
Mark rolled his eyes. “Yes, that would be the general gist of ‘fuck him.’ Christ, you ain’t a bright one, are you?”
“’Ey, don’ take the Lord’s name in vain…”
Kazuo shot Tiefer a panicked look—why was he antagonizing him?—and jumped at the sound of wood on metal.
Twirling the baton in his hands, Mark scowled and smacked the bars again. He was growing impatient. “I’m waiting, kid.”
“But that’ll make me just as bad as he is—“
“Look, you either do what I say or I come in there and make you.”
A labored groan. Tiefer had managed to prop himself up on one arm. “Jus’ do what he says,” he groaned.
“’S easier for all of us. Woulda been easier if you hadn’t fuckin’ snitched but, eh…” He moved his shoulders in what was a sorry attempt for a shrug. “Pretend I’m willin’, yeah?”
“This is fu—”
The clinking of keys shut Kazuo up quickly.
“Fine.” He looked Tiefer over. “…Can you stand?”
“Whoa, now, what’s this about standing, kiddie?” Mark sneered, keys in hand. “Oh, wait, you think you’re gonna take him to bed like a gentleman?” He laughed. “Naw, you fuck him right there on the ground like the dog he is.”
Mark dangled the keys in front of the bar, his grip on the baton tightening.
Kazuo didn’t bother to protest any more. Kneeling down, he leaned close to Tiefer. “Do you have any—”
“Know where I keep the nasty shit?”
Cringing slightly, Kazuo nodded. He’d once seen some of the contraband reading material Tiefer had managed to nab from El Rey and, miraculously, keep from the guards.
“Small vial. Watered-down ‘troleum shit.”
Kazuo quickly went to Tiefer’s bunk and dug inside the mattress, trying not to keep Mark waiting. He snagged the small vial and was back at Tiefer’s side. He kneeled down, a sudden wave of nausea coming over him as he looked at the beaten man sprawled before him on the hard floor. The man he was about to…and it was his fault, too, he had to pick a fight…
Groaning, Tiefer gingerly pulled himself up onto his elbows and made to unzip the bloodied jumpsuit, but Kazuo pushed his hands back.
“Stay still,” he hissed. “You’re not doing yourself any favors.”
“Jus’ get it over wit’, boy,” Tiefer snarled. “You do wha’ y’gotta do—wha’ever he says t’do—but you leave me this.” There was a dark look in his eyes. Kazuo pulled back and let him strip himself. Blood trickled down from Tiefer’s lower lip. He’d bit himself to keep from making a single noise of pain as he forced his bruised and broken bones to cooperate. When his jumpsuit and boxers were pushed below his hips, he licked up the blood staining his lips. His breathing was heavy, and he kept his eyes on Kazuo.
Kazuo, however, kept his head down, looking neither at Tiefer nor at Mark, who had gone suspiciously silent. He emptied the small vial into his hands and slicked himself up before gently preparing the other. He didn’t want to even think about how he was able to get hard—the adrenaline from the earlier fight must have counteracted every ounce of fear and disgust coursing through him. He liked that excuse. He liked it very much as he finished up with the vial, as he wiped the remnants onto his own clothing, as he positioned himself against the broken body in front of him. The excuse stopped liking him, though, when his gaze fell on Tiefer.
Bruises were forming along his sides, prominent reddened splotches marring his ribcage that was looking quite the worse for wear. Blood pooled just beneath the skin of his left hip and along his right hip was a deep scar that Kazuo knew he couldn’t have caused. The flesh was white and taut, as if he’d grown with it. The jagged mark had obviously been there for years, decades even. Red marks and blood-darkened skin ran along his arms—from where he’d been trying to protect himself from the array of blows—and Kazuo could see under all the blood and bruises the glimmer of white scar tissue running along his shoulders and crisscrossing down his wrists. The worst, though, was his face. There were no bruises, only a red welt on his jaw and a trail of glistening blood down his lips, but his expression cut like a knife, burrowing deep into Kazuo’s mind. Tiefer’s lips were not curled in anger, his jaw not set in rage, no muscles contorted in the gut-churning hatred Kazuo would have expected. No, instead the man’s face was set like a mask that betrayed no emotion besides his complete and utter resignation.
Kazuo froze. He was not the smartest around, nor the most observant at times—his thoughts always took him far away, off orbiting Mars—but even he couldn’t miss the truth etched in lines of the other’s face: he was used to this.
“Get it over wit’, boy,” Tiefer repeated, a weak imitation of his earlier, bitter order. His voice was hollow.
Averting his gaze, Kazuo pushed inside, closing his eyes to the pained gasp from beneath him. He had always watched his lovers—the twists and arches of their bodies, the intensity of their expressions—always listened to their gasps and pleas and moans, but not this time. They weren’t lovers. They didn’t even pretend to like each other. He wasn’t about to watch himself be forced into raping another, even if it was a monster that he was forcing his way inside. After this, he wouldn’t be far outside of the monster’s company.
“Good, kid, you teach that fucker a lesson.”
He could feel Mark’s eyes on him as he moved in and out, doing his best not to agitate the bloodied body before him, as well as on Tiefer as he tried to keep himself propped up on his elbows, some poor attempt at keeping his head held high even as his body obviously protested the labor. Kazuo’s hands found Tiefer’s hips, forgetting the bruise along his left side—a pained grunt choked by bloodied spit reminded him too late—as he gripped him. He thrust harder, determined to get this over with as fast as possible. If the labored breathing beneath him were anything to go by, Tiefer did not appreciate the gesture.
Kazuo would have apologized, if it were another time and another place—and probably another person at that. But they were there, stuck in the cell on the nasty, cold floor with the worst guard in the cell bloc egging them on (and getting off while doing so; any idiot could tell the sharp sound of a zipper and the muffled shlick of skin against skin against skin.) So he ignored the groans and choked back whimpers and the one or two moans that managed to escape, instead just fucking and fucking and fucking, praying to feel the familiar warmth in his stomach, the tension too far down and deep inside that meant it would be all over soon, so soon.
He pulled out, his hand shooting down for the last few strokes that would end the whole mess. The loud crash of wood against metal, however, made him freeze.
“The fuck you doing, kid?” Mark’s grin was feral, his sallow face showing the faintest trace of red. “No, no you paint that fucker’s insides white, you hear me?” The threat of what he could do—what he would do—lingered heavy and unspoken in the air.
Bowing his head, Kazuo slowly pushed back inside, earning only an agonizing groan in reply and the pained spasm of muscles as Tiefer reflexively tried to pull away. It only took a few more shallow thrusts before he spilled, white and warm, inside of the other’s broken body. He thought he heard another groan, not from Tiefer but farther away, behind metal bars, but Kazuo did not want to think about it or its owner whose eyes had been on them that whole time. Instead, he gingerly pulled out, sticky trails of white following.
Looking down, he noticed Tiefer had given up on propping his body up. All pretenses of pride gone, he’d let himself lie back on the ground, his head turned away from Mark, his eyes anywhere but Kazuo. It made him sick.
“Tha’s a good job, kid.” Mark’s shaky, winded voice cut through the silence. “Now you climb back up onto your bunk and get some sleep.”
Kazuo’s eyes went straight to Tiefer and the myriad of wounds on his body.
Mark just laughed. “Go get on your bunk and go the fuck to sleep,” he repeated. “I have one more round to do. I’ll be back in ten minutes to bring this bastard up to the sick ward, and when I return I better not see you out of your bunk or him up off of that floor, do you understand me?”
Kazuo nodded and dragged himself over to his bunk. He did not look at Tiefer.
“Smart move, kiddo.” The flashlight went out, sinking their cell into darkness, and Mark walked away.
Tiefer didn’t sing any more that night, yet despite the silence, Kazuo never fell asleep.
Nanan Mère came around their cell about five-thirty in the morning. The sky was just beginning to turn pink but everyone hadn’t been dragged out for six-o’clock breakfast.
Tiefer had managed to at least tug his drawers up over his hips before she passed them. He was grateful for that. He was also grateful that she didn’t ask any questions—she knew better, she knew no one snitched there—and didn’t twist her face in pity or even disgust. Rather, she simply opened the cell and kneeled down beside him, checking for a pulse before leaning in close.
“If I help you up, you think you can walk?” she whispered.
Coughing, Tiefer grinned, his teeth red with blood. “You help me up, I’ll fuckin’ sprint.”
He was in the infirmary all morning.
The doctors, unlike Nanan Mère, did not know better. As they looked him over and bandaged up whatever they could, they prodded him for information. How did this happen? Who did this? Why did they do this? Tiefer just stayed silent. No one snitched here. Snitching always led to trouble. It was why sitting in the hospital bed was anguish. Besides, it hurt for him to talk anyway.
They gave up eventually and let him go back to his cell. It was during their free time so he was allowed to walk alone, though Nanan Mère offered to escort him back. He declined.
He would rather slowly limp his way back with most of his pride intact than be led like a child.
Kazuo was at work in the laundry room, his trade off for cigarettes from El Rey. He had needed a smoke, anything to keep his mind off of what had happened the night before.
There were two laundry rooms, each with a door to the rest of the prison and a small hallway for storage in between them that was only accessible from the windowless doors in either room. The hall was spacious enough that a few people could fit inside. All manner of more shady dealings went on in the little hallway. Few guards were really aware of its existence. Those that did know either weren’t aware of its usage or cared so little that they turned their heads. Kazuo usually tried to avoid going in there. No way of knowing what was going on unless you went inside.
As he loaded the washer, though, Kazuo couldn’t help but be drawn to the door when he heard the slam of the washroom door across the hall and the scuffling of feet. Someone and their friends—and their victim—were less than a yard away. He would have just ignored it until one of them spoke, their voice carrying through the door.
“Y’know, a simple ‘mornin’ to you too’ woulda been sufficient, ‘Herr’ Tony.”
Tiefer was alive, though by the strain in his voice, he wasn’t well.
“Shut up, priest. Or should I say bitch?” A snicker. “Ritter saw what happened last night, how you bent yourself over for that Jap cellmate of yours after he beat your ass.”
“If your little spy-boy wasn’t as useless as a half-blind labradoodle, you’d know the whole story rather than half-chewed dog shit.”
A grunt, the sound of flesh on flesh, and cursing tumbled out of the hallway.
“Ha-ha, the puppy has claws, yeah?”
“C’mon, let’s just teach the old man a lesson.” A new voice, Kazuo suspected Ritter, sounded out, eager for blood.
Another snicker from Antony. “Help me hold him down.”
More grunts and curses. Kazuo stood on the other side of the door, face blank. He could walk out, leave them to their business. Tiefer had done horrible things in his life—horrible enough to make other inmates afraid of him, or at least disgusted by him—and probably deserved whatever he got in a painfully cosmic twist of justice. After last night, another fight could probably kill him. On the other hand, he had just beaten and raped the older man not even twelve hours before. No matter what the circumstances were, Kazuo couldn’t stop reminding himself it had been rape. It disgusted him. The least, then, that he owed the man was to spare him more pain—he had been beaten badly enough last night as it was.
Kazuo took a deep breath and opened the door.
“Let him go.”
Antony was in the middle of undoing the zipper of his jumpsuit as Ritter forced Tiefer, jumpsuit still bloody and body still stiff, onto his knees. All three men looked up at Kazuo standing in the doorway. Antony sneered.
“We’re just havin’ a little fun, Jap,” he said. “Don’t worry, we’ll let you have a go, soon as we’re done.”
“I said let him go.”
“And why would we do that?” Ritter asked, incredulous.
“ ‘Cause…” Kazuo paused, trying to think up a reason for why he was here, protecting him…protection… “He’s my bitch.”
Antony and Ritter exchanged glances before busting out laughing. Ritter never lost his grip on Tiefer who, despite being shoved on his knees with his hands bound in the other’s grip, tried to suppress a derisive snort.
“I’m serious,” Kazuo growled. “You saw what happened last night, Ritter.”
“Yeah, and I also saw Mark. You put on shows often, huh?” He glanced at Tiefer. “Exhibitionism your thing?”
“Kissin’ Tony’s ass yours?”
That earned Tiefer a backhand across the face.
“Enough. Look, kid, you wanna lay claim to this faggot bastard all you want, good for you,” Antony said, “but talk don’t mean much ‘round here. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to teach this fucker his place. He won’t be so high and mighty after we’re done, and it’s all thanks to you, kid.”
He didn’t see Kazuo coming, too busy trying to remove his jumpsuit to notice the fist coming at his face until he was on the ground.
Ritter abandoned his place beside Tiefer and lunged at the young man who simply shoved him into the wall and busted his nose with a nasty headbutt followed by a punch to the gut and a knee to the groin. Ritter slumped to the ground just as Antony pulled himself up.
“You little shit,” he snarled. Something glinted in his hand. Kazuo wasn’t quick enough and soon learned from the bloody wound in his shoulder that the glint was a pocket knife. Enraged, Kazuo grabbed Antony by the wrist, twisting it until he let go of the knife, still lodged in his shoulder. Grabbing the handle, Kazuo pulled it out and brandished it before him.
“Come on!” His breathing was heavy and he was ready to slice Antony to pieces. Nobody hurt him without payback tenfold.
Antony, however, was smart enough to count his losses. He turned tail and ran, leaving Ritter’s half-conscious body in the hallway with Tiefer who was slumped against the wall and Kazuo, who just stood there.
Slowly, Tiefer pulled himself up from the ground. “Shit, kid…how the hell did you learn to fight like that?”
Snapped out of his reverie, Kazuo dropped the knife before turning to regard Tiefer. The man had a fresh bruise blossoming on his jaw and by the way he was holding his chest, another was forming on his ribs. Kazuo finally just shrugged. “Practice,” he answered.
They exited the hallway and walked off towards the infirmary, leaving Ritter behind. Someone would find him.
“No smoking in the infirmary.”
“Oh, c’mon baby, jus’ this once?”
The nurse stared at Tiefer before grabbing the cigarette from his hand and throwing it in the trash without another word.
“Guess that’s a no…”
Kazuo didn’t have any comment. He was sitting up in an examination bed next to Tiefer’s. A nurse was stitching up the gash in his shoulder, finishing up quickly. Tiefer, meanwhile, was having his ribcage re-examined and bandages from the other night changed. Nasty bruises marred his usually pale flesh. He noticed Kazuo didn’t look at him for long.
“They don’t hurt all too much. The bruises. An’ elsewhere.”
They sat in silence as the nurses finished up their work and left them to rest as they took care of other patients. Tiefer didn’t bother tugging his jumpsuit back up over his shoulders. Kazuo’s remained open so as to not irritate the stitches. The silence continued, and Tiefer was about to close his eyes and catch up on some much needed sleep when Kazuo turned to look at him.
Tiefer waved him off. “Don’ be, cher. You saved my ass. We’re even.” Kazuo looked ready to protest but the ex-priest cut him off. “Listen, I told you Mark’s sick as they come an’ that ain’t jus’ from bein’ an observant motherfucker.” He shifted slightly. “What happened there, tha’s nothin’ like it coulda been. Snitchin’ like you did might not’ve been good an’ all, but shit, we got off lucky. ‘Sides, I’d rather have you be doin’ that to me than him.” Tiefer grinned. “’Course, I’d rather’ve gotten to know you in a nice comfy bed than a cement floor. Maybe in another life…”
“Maybe I am. Shit tends to make you that way, y’know?” When Kazuo glanced over to the older man again, his eyes lingered on the jagged scar along his hip. Tiefer caught him looking. He sighed. “You wanna know, don’t ya?”
Kazuo didn’t say anything, instead keeping his eyes on the ceiling. Tiefer noticed, though, that the kid didn’t have his normal spaced-out little stare. Kazuo was still somewhere on Earth instead of out orbiting Mars. He was listening.
Tiefer sighed. “Not a shitton of people know ‘bout this,” he said, “though not a shitton of people see me the way you did, so there’s that.” He sighed again, his hand idly resting on his hip, fingers rubbing against the scar tissue. “My sister would have been a lovely addition to Antony an’ his gang. Raising a little faggot brother was not her strong suit, so the fuckin’ cunt decided that beatin’ and fuckin’ the gay outta me might jus’ make her life a little easier.” He sneered, memories leaking back into his mind and leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. “Obviously, that didn’t work.”
“Where is she now?”
“Dead. Her and our son,” Tiefer added. The fleeting look of revulsion across the other’s face wasn’t new to him—Agnes had brought up the untimely ends of his sister and their unborn child in court, as proof of past violence on his part. The judge and jurors did not seem to take incest well. “She never really gave up her whiskey an’ cigs, even with a baby in her, plus we fought a lot, an’ when the time came too early an’ she started bleedin’ out, I didn’t do shit to help her. She died and the kid…” He paused. “My kid came out blue an’ cold.”
He shrugged. “Don’t be. I’m not. At least...I’m not sorry for her.”
They fell into silence once more, Kazuo staring off into space and Tiefer trying to sneak himself another cigarette. The nurse caught him every time.
Finally, Kazuo turned to look at the old priest. “Do you think Tony’ll bother you again?”
“Oh yeah, ‘course he will,” Tiefer replied with a laugh. “Sure, he’ll bother me but he won’t really do much to me.”
Tiefer grinned and winked. “You said it yourself, cher: I’m your bitch.”
“I didn’t mean you really were, I was just trying to come up with an excuse and-and protection—”
“Oh I know all that, kid, don’t you worry,” he said, trying not to laugh. “Naw, I know we ain’t nothin’ but cellmates. Trust me, I’m much more of a very…giving person, if you know what I mean. S’why I’m here, ain’t it? But, y’see, those bastards? They don’t know that. And after what you just did, hell, they ain’t gonna mess with anyone that’s yours.”
Kazuo nodded, pausing after a moment. “So…I’m your protection?”
“Pretty much. An’ I’m your bitch.”
“But we’re not…I’m not…”
“Nope. But hey, if it makes you feel better, I’ll give you a blowjob every now an’ then, keep up the façade an’ all.”
They sat in silence again as Kazuo appeared to consider the offer.
“I think I’ll pass, for the time being,” he said.
Tiefer shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“There is one thing, though, that you can do for me as payment.”
“Please don’t ever get bored again.”
Tiefer laughed the entire way back to their cell.
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genderbend/trans!Jehan AU | mature | anthony/jehan, anthony/tiefer
based on an anon ask and multiple AUs
Tiefer left home at eighteen after a fight with his brother – the parish priest had helped him get into seminary up in New Orleans. He wound up back in the area at thirty to help run the church and found his brother, now forty-six and the spitting image of their father (besides his bright blue eyes), still alive and kicking and nasty as hell. He also found Nathan…with a wife named Agnes…and a four year old girl, Jehanne.
It didn’t shock him–he knew on some level he couldn’t expect Nathan to wait for him when Nathan didn’t even want him–but it still stung. But Nathan welcomed him, as did Agnes, and made him as good as his brother, as good as Jehanne’s uncle. And it was nice.
Well except for when Anthony realized his baby brother was back in town. Turning around after closing up the old church for the evening to see Anthony lighting up was not nice, nor was it nice the way Anthony slammed him against the wooden doors and put the cigarette out inches away from his face and “inviting” him to come visit sometime, well off little pope’s faggot that he was now, or he won’t miss next time.
But besides having to pay off his brother – because the disgusting pig worked so hard to keep him fed and clothed and cared for all those years – and, when that got dull, sucking off his brother, it was nice. It was doable, living in that town. Sure, watching Nathan play house with a woman was hard but at least he got to be part of that life.
And Jehanne, well, she was a welcome distraction as she grew. She was practically in love with him, trailing after Uncle Emi every waking moment, begging to go fishing with him and daddy or helping him before mass or asking him to play dolls, which usually consisted of grand medieval torture scenarios such as tying the dolls to the wharf to drown or, once she hit about 10 and decided dolls were completely passé, re-enacting the last moments of la pucelle Jehanne d'Arc (“I’m named after her,” she had said very solemnly while Tiefer lit the makeshift bonfire behind the church so that Agnes wouldn’t find out and throw a fit.) She was fun to be around, Tiefer would admit – it was like being kids with Nathan again, right down to the way she wandered around only in overalls. She didn’t completely understand why she couldn’t serve masses with him–“What’s so different?” “Babydoll, you’re a girl. It’s not allowed.” “I know more about the mass than that dumbass Boudreaux kid.” “Yes you do, but–” “Then let me.” “I don’t make the rules, p'tite.” “Well you should.” “Thanks, p'tite.”–or why sometimes he had to leave her alone when he went and ran errands–“I’m going to see my brother and he’s not a pleasant person.” “Then don’t go!” “I have to, p'tite.” “Then take me with you, I’m pleasant for the both of us!”–but she was sweet and loving and Tiefer was grateful for her. She was practically his own child, and it was nice.
And then puberty happened.
Agnes fussed at Jehanne for not wearing shirts and then for not wearing dresses because “you’re developing, sweetie, you can’t just wear overalls” and Jehanne countered with a screaming match about how well why don’t they just get her “DEVELOPMENTS” cut off then and Nathan hauled her over his knee for disrespecting her pregnant mother and sent her to her room and Tiefer had honestly just come by to help Agnes with dinner as it was becoming a chore for her to move around as far along as she was and instead got a front row seat to what having a pubescent daughter was like. “Imagine when she starts her period,” Nathan had sighed.
He luckily never saw that or the birth of his first son because unluckily he died.
Tiefer did not take it well. Jehanne took it worse. She hoarded all her daddy’s old clothes and took kitchen scissors to her hair (Agnes had had a fit until Tiefer fixed the mess as best he could–“I used to trim my bangs, we’ll salvage it, don’t worry”–and him and Jehanne spent the whole time crying over the same man for vastly different reasons.)
Months later, Jehanne was still coming to Tiefer to fix her hair short and still in her daddy’s shirts, which no longer smelled like him. He asked about it a few times but she just shrugged it off. Eventually though, about a year after her daddy died, she turned to Tiefer once he put the scissors down, and said, “I don’t wanna be like mama.”
“Your mama’s a very kind person, p'tite.”
“That’s not what I meant. I don’t wanna be like her. Physically. I don’t want kids.”
“You don’t gotta have ‘em.”
“I don’t wanna even be able to have 'em. I don’t wanna bleed, I don’t want boobs, I don’t want any of this.”
“What do you want then?”
“To be like you. A man. A real one.”
Tiefer had laughed – people like him were rarely called real men – but at the look on her face he stopped quickly. “Sorry. Never really been called a real man before. You know, though, that’s impossible, right Jehanne? You could call yourself my nephew all day long but your body is wired a certain way.”
“Maybe I can find a way to rewire it.”
“Maybe. But not in this shit hole town.”
“Uncle Emi? Until then…can I still be your nephew instead?”
“Your mama won’t like it much.”
“It can be our secret! Like when we martyred my Barbies!”
Tiefer held out his hand. “Alright, Jehan. Our secret.”
Jehan smiled, spat in his hand, and shook his uncle’s.
“You know, you don’t have to be gross to be a boy.”
“I know, Uncle Emi.”
It was weird but nice.
Until on one of their little visits where Tiefer left either with lighter pockets or the taste of cum in his mouth, Anthony, now having lived past their father’s age at fifty-three and somehow still able to throw a punch, asked him something that made his blood run cold. “So when did you get a kid?”
“I.. don’t have a kid.”
“Really? 'Cause I saw you with one. Sandy brown hair, skinny. He looked a bit like a girly version of that kid you always hung around.”
Tiefer froze. Anthony noticed.
“Well shit bro! You’re one of them kiddie fuckers? Fuck I knew you faggots were sick but shit–”
“I’m not a child fucker you cunt!” Tiefer spat. “That’s my ne…niece. Nathan’s kid.”
“Don’t look like no niece under those boy’s clothes.”
“You shouldn’t be lookin’.”
“It’s normal for men to look at women. You’d know that if you wasn’t a freak.”
“That’s bleeding age.”
“I swear to God, Anthony, I’ll fucking skin you alive–”
“Says the man who’s too afraid to stop me from robbing him blind or keep my cock out his mouth.”
Tiefer didn’t bother paying Anthony any visits after that. Anthony had come around the church a few times and Tiefer threw him out on his ass. It was nice not having to bother with him anymore. Jehan still dressed in his dad’s clothes despite Agnes’ best efforts and Tiefer generally tried to be there for his niece who was his nephew in private. Sometimes he really did look like a boy, like his father years ago, and Tiefer would be lying if he said he didn’t think about what he would do if that were a real boy beside him, a real replica of Nathan who loved and adored him this time – and maybe it proved his brother right afterall–but it was nice.
Until Jehan was late coming home from school one day. Tiefer was made aware come nightfall when Agnes came knocking at his small house on the church grounds asking if her baby was there (he wasn’t) because usually when Jehan didn’t come home straight away he was with Tiefer but he was always home before dark. Tiefer sent her home to go ask around to some of her neighbors while he’d go looking–it was dangerous after all for her to be wandering around when she had a toddler at home to watch.
As soon as she left he got in his truck and drove straight to his childhood home. “Anthony! Open up the fucking door!”
In a few moments, Anthony answered with a very shaken Jehan standing next to him, in his uniform which was dirty and wrinkled.
“What the fuck did you d-”
“Relax! She was lost, I found her wandering like a stray dog. Right, sugar?”
Jehan kept his eyes down. “Right.”
Anthony pushed him to Tiefer who immediately put himself between Anthony and Jehan.
“Why didn’t you come get me then?”
“You haven’t exactly been happy when I visit.”
“Oh fuck you-”
“How 'bout you thank me!? You should keep a better eye on your family, baby brother. You never know what kinda folks’re out there.”
Tiefer left without another word, taking Jehan home with him. They didn’t talk much on the ride back, besides Jehan reiterating, albeit weakly, that he was fine, really. Tiefer didn’t push it. He and Agnes were just happy to see Jehan.
Things seem to go back to normal and for a moment it was nice, until Tiefer received an envelope under his door with no return address.
Inside were Polaroids of Jehan, tied up to a bed, of Jehan in his uniform with skirt pushed up and blouse undone and bra and panties missing, of Jehan stripped naked and crying and being fondled and fucked and with semen dripping from his cunt and finally, finally, a Polaroid of his godawful brother kissing Jehan with the message 'turns out under those boy clothes she does look like a niece!’ scrawled on the back.
Dimly the thought occurred to Tiefer that this was the first present Anthony had ever given him. It was far from nice.
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To a Nunnery
nunnery AU | tiefer siblings
from a tumblr ask by callistochan87
Émile is livid when he finds out Annemarie is pregnant and even more livid over who’s kid it is because sure he’s white trash and has been bending his daughter over for years but he draws the line somewhere (and part of it is because he knows Emilein is a freak, he knows he wouldn’t want her so it’s obvious she’s the whole reason for being knocked up – and she’s been using the stupid baby in her fat gut as a shield to mouth off to him and run the joint – why not punish her? Besides, no one in that family can afford another mouth to feed…)
So he pulls Emilein aside, says, “hey, you’re good with that priest, yeah?” and Emilein shrugs, says, “maybe I am,” and braces for a nasty shot about how of course he is, he loves being on his knees, but it never comes, just, “so he knows about like…them wayward girl schools, yeah?” and Emilein plays dumb until his daddy plays his hand: send Annemarie off to a convent or wayward school or hell an asylum – she wants to use a baby to get her way, well then she can get out of the way. Forever.
Emilein, for once, is more than happy to help his daddy out.
He talks to the priest, Fr. Michaud, who has offered him chance and again ways out, one in particular though it would mean the priesthood, and reveals his sister is pregnant (not that it was terribly secret: the whole town was waiting for the day she slipped up at this point) and she is…troubled. And is there a place. The Church. Anything.
Of course Fr. Michaud hesitates because yes there is one nearby but it’s practically an asylum, run by an order on their grounds – cloistered – “And, to be frank, we all know your sister is…not exactly saving herself for anyone…but unless she’s a-a maniac it would be almost cruel–”
And Emilein puts his hand lightly on Fr. Michaud’s, smiles in a way that doesn’t meet his eyes, and says, “You know how she hasn’t named the father? You’d think someone like her’d be going up and down the street, demanding a wedding or at least support, wouldn’t you? But she ain’t. ‘Cause she can’t. Now, remember the first time we actually talked, you an’ me, an’ I told you I’d suck your cock in a heartbeat ‘cause that’s usually how things went with me an’ older men an’ not always by force?”
“Difficult to forget,” says Fr. Michaud, neglecting to mention that most fourteen year olds don’t say that.
“So we both agree I’m…funny.”
“What are you getting at, Emilein?”
“I’m sayin’, the reason she ain’t beatin’ down no po’ bastard’s door to help with her own bastard is ‘cause she doesn’t want anyone to know that the daddy’s her own brother.”
Michaud goes pale and Emilein isn’t smiling any more.
“We both know she don’t interest me much. So, Father, please: help me.”
Of course, being a good man, Fr. Michaud helps him, and Annemarie is sent away to have her child (and then work off the debt she’ll have accrued – after all, not like her father and brother can afford to pay.)
Her choice is very simple: go as willingly as she can pretend and nobody has to know about who the father is or fight and Emilein tells (with Fr. Michaud as a witness – Émile, of course, is more than willing to rat her out but really, every other word from his mouth is a lie.)
And life is peaceful – until Émile decides he can fully boss around his son like he did his daughter in a house he doesn’t own.
Emilein is having none of it but Emilein is terribly small and Émile has friends too, friends just as nasty as Annemarie’s boyfriends, and Émile ties him to a bed and starves him and lets all sorts of men use him for days and brags about the money he’s made from him – “shit, cher, we should’ve been whorin’ you out years ago! Guess yer cunt sister was just too jealous to share.”
He lets him go, eventually, after a week that feels like forever and Emilein runs to Fr. Michaud, banging on the church door, and when Fr. Michaud answers his request is much the same as it was before: “please, help me.”
Of course, being a good man, Fr. Michaud helps Emilein Tiefer and gets him connected to the seminary.
At twenty-five and with the title of ‘Father’ himself, Tiefer is assigned to a convent in Fuckoff Nowhere, Louisiana to be the priest and confessor on the grounds. Segregated from the opposite sex and the real world for so long only to be thrown headfirst into the wide world, some were realizing, was not the greatest idea: so, the younger were sent off to serve their religious siblings first, particularly their sisters.
The Mother Superior is kind when she greets him on his arrival, a stark contrast to all the rumors of the convent here: it was a convent, yes, that made its daily bread with something of a home for wayward girls – part home, part school (for the younger ones whose unfortunate choices and circumstances left them behind their peers as well as their children, for those who had or expected them), part workhouse so the former two could survive – but for years its nickname had been the asylum because, regardless of how long one worked, much like the TB asylums, the only way out was in a casket.
Which is where, Tiefer always figured, his sister was at this point.
Until, during a tour of the small school on the grounds (as the children would be needing sacraments as well) he sees one of the nuns with the children – though she’s not a nun, not exactly, as she only wears a veil and simple dress and the bangs of her blonde hair peak out and frame her face – and she, in turn, sees him and freezes.
“Mother Superior,” he asks, voice steady as possible, once they’ve passed, once he’s calmed down, “who was that woman?”
“With the children? That’s Sister Anne, one of our success stories – quite a tough one too. She came here, pregnant, no idea who the father was and ready to dare I say fight every one of us sisters who came near. But the Lord works in mysterious ways and eventually He brought her ‘round. She should be taking her vows in a few years.”
“Ah. Do many of your girls usually wind up joinin’ the order?”
The mother superior sighs, sort of pointed in a way that hints that the topic is better put to rest. “Unfortunately, it’s not always part of God’s plan,” she says and then adds, “You sound a lot like she does – how far down South did you come?”
“Hm. She also.”
“Sister Anne. A word?”
After all the introductions and required niceties are made, Tiefer doubles back to the classroom of children, led by the novitiate.
“Of course, Father,” she says, the shock from earlier long gone from her face, a little more lined than he’d remembered it, her eyes a little less bright.
He lets her lead the way to a small, unused classroom and locks the door behind them.
“Well. Never thought I’d see you here, Sister.”
She scoffs, the plain novitiate from earlier twisting, like a monster under flesh, into his sister, the way he knew her, cocky attitude and all. “Why not? You put me here.”
“You know what I mean. ‘Sides, he put you here.”
“Just told the truth is all. You want me to tell the truth again?”
“Can’t send me away again, sugar. Anyway, I’m a changed woman. The success story of these sisters.”
“Ain’t you special, huh?”
“Had to be. Play along or die like the rest.” She looks him over, sixteen years on his twenty-five, sizing him up. “You obviously understand, don’tcha Emi?”
“Father, now, actually.”
“Father, right, Father, now, huh? So Father – what was it? Not enough dicks to suck back home, you had to join the biggest boy’s club around? Or you just get sick of Daddy – bet he was a real sonuvabitch once he didn’t have me ‘round to take his shit out on.”
He cuts her off: “Annemarie. You like it here?”
“You like it where you are?”
He doesn’t answer, simply pulls out a cigarette and his lighter. He watches her reach out, then freeze.
“I’ll share if you tell me what the fuck you’re doin’ playin’ nunnery.”
“I told you. Play along or die. Same as you.”
“You don’t know shit about me or what I been through.”
“An’ you know ‘bout me?”
Tiefer shrugs, lights up. Refuses her one.
“I heard the girls who come here only leave one way.”
“Do I look like I left?”
“Mm.” He offers her a cigarette and a light. Her fingers brush his. He tries not to grab her wrist and crush it. “So this is better? Bein’ a mother to a slew of bastards an’ prayin’ to God who put you here?”
“I dunno, Emi–”
“Father Emi, you tell me: would you like being worked like a dog to pay off your own existence your fuckin’ family sold off, gettin’ beat ‘cause no one gives a damn about you, and not knowin’ if the priest they brought in to hear confessions this ‘round would rather you suck him off than say you’re sorry. I’m fuckin’ forty-one years old: I wanted something close to freedom, even if it’s from behind a wall an’ veil. ”
Tiefer makes a sound like mock pity. “Sounds like every damn day of my childhood, Annemarie. In fact,” – he grabs her by the jaw, pulls her close, tugs the cigarette from her lips and puts it out against the back of her neck, hidden by her veil – “looks to me like you’re getting off easy, little miss success story.”
“That’s Father to you, now. An’ come to think of it, I’m sure Mother Superior would love to hear what you really did.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Would they put you back in the work house? Or just turn you loose on the streets like a dog. Where you gonna go, Sister? Y’all take vows of poverty last I heard – gonna finally be a real whore and suck dick in the gutter?”
“Please what, pity you?”
Tiefer lets her go, takes a drag from his own cigarette, blocking the door. He grins, more a snarl than anything else.
“Oh Annemarie… You’re right: I wouldn’t dare as long as you don’t give me a reason to. I’m your superior now…let’s start treatin’ me as such, hm?”
He unlocks the door. “An’ Sister Anne? If you thought those other priests who put your ol’ ass on your knees were bad, you’re gonna really regret all your earlier sins against me.”
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Afterlife AU | explicit | tiefer siblings
Sunlight filtered through the curtain—artificial, Hell needed no light—and left flecks of gold across her fair skin, now paler than usual. She was a crumpled heap amidst the sheets, limbs slack, no longer needed. Her hair tangled about her, tawny strands strewn about like straw. Altogether, from her bright blue eyes now faded yet wide to her newly blue lips, she was beautiful.
Emilein ran his knuckles gently across her cheek. No regret stung him for using those hands to strangle her minutes before he now caressed her. After all, this was Hell: she would be fine in a day, fresh and ready for the rest of eternity. Now, however, she was dead—or played the part well enough—just a body laid bare before him.
“Where ya gonna go, baby?” His hand moved down her cheek and along her throat, lightly pressing on the bruises he had left. “You’re already in Hell, sis, where’s your soul got left to go? Or are you trapped in there, unable to anythin’?” His last question came with a twisted spark of hope.
She did not respond, her body still unmoving.
Emilein looked her over, a small grin on his lips. He sat back on his haunches and stripped off his cassock. No need to get that dirty when his hands would be filthy enough.
“Can you hear me?” He leaned in close, his breath warm against her cool flesh. “Can you feel me?” He brought his hand to her jaw, gripping her tight. “Can you taste me, Annemarie?” He pressed his lips against hers, momentarily warming her cool lips, and he soon forced her jaw down, sliding his tongue inside her mouth. He ran his tongue along her teeth which had many years ago ripped into his flesh, nipped against his neck as she rode him till she was satisfied. The memories welling up forced a snarl from his throat and he bit down on her soft lips, turning blue into purple as he pulled away. She made no sound.
Though his pleasure lay in hearing pained gasps and barely muffled shrieks and moans that laid low in the throat until forced out, Emilein had no care to hear his sister speak, not now, not with what he had in store. No, a stifled tongue suited her much better. He kissed her once more, a chaste peck on the lips, before sitting back and straddling her hips, eyes roaming over her body. He could see why so many men came to her bed. She was rather slender, her breasts still round and perky (though perhaps not as large as those on film that some men drooled over), the folds between her legs still healthy and pink like a rose despite the use she had seen. The slimness of her body and the breadth of her shoulders gave her a slightly masculine appearance, though appearance was not enough to make him ignore that she was, quit obviously, a woman.
In one fluid motion, he grabbed his knife, flicked it open, and jammed it beneath her right breast until metal met bone. He angled the blade to the side and made a wide gash where the base of her bra used to rest. Grabbing the hunk of bloodied, oozing meat, he continued to saw at muscle, fat, and flesh until all that was left was a smooth plane of white and red. He dropped the mangled breast onto the bed sheets, staining them, before setting to work on the remaining offense, hacking and tearing until they made a pair on the bed. The amateur mastectomy completed, Emilein wiped the knife clean in her hair, turning gold to guts, before surveying his work. Two raw roses blossomed on her pale chest, stems of blood winding down her ribs and belly, pooling droplets like thorns. He had felt the bone of her ribs meet his blade, and now, as he reached his hand into the first opening he had made, he could feel the length of bone beneath his fingertips, now stained red. The urge to dig his fingers in deeper, to wrap around her rib and just tug until it shattered from the rest, festered in his mind but the heat in his gut told him to wait. He would get his chance to rip her to pieces—he had done just as much before and would absolutely get the opportunity again in the future—but first, he knew, he would do better to make use of the whole body before him rather than rut against bits of gore later.
The blood trickled down into the dark hair between her thighs, matting the curls against her skin. Emilein spread his sister’s legs, watching the blood pool and coagulate before dripping down along the light folds of skin, dying pale pink and pink red. Scooting back some on the bed, he leaned down and gently licked where the white of her skin turned pink, now red from the blood. He still held on to his knife and brought it close so that her clit and labia were warped in the reflection to look like they were horribly mangled. Emilein grinned. The mirror image would soon become reality.
Spreading her wide with his blood-slicked fingers, Emilein pressed the tip of the knife blade against her opening. Already, he could see a drop of blood collecting on the knife tip. Kissing her again where he had been forced to lick and kiss too many times as a kid, he plunged the knife up to the hilt inside of his sister. Blood gushed onto his fingers when he pulled out and more continued to spill as he thrust the knife in and out, a violent pantomime of his whore of a sister’s favorite pastime. The sight of her, spilling blood all over his hands from between her thighs, so thick and dark and visceral, sent him back to the day of her death. She had a still birth and bled out, all because she kept poisoning herself with alcohol and nicotine. That had been one of the happiest days of his life, and reliving it now in Hell excited Emilein past simple sexual gratification. (Of course, he would never pass up such an opportunity.)
He stilled his hand only to grab her by the hips and pull her into his lap, her legs dangling at odd angles. Between her thighs was a mess of blood and gore but that was not where his interests lay. Instead, Emilein slid his fingers, already filthy from his sister, along the cleft of her ass. He pressed his finger against her entrance and forced it inside, the blood not much of a help. He knew it might even hurt, had she been alive, once it began to dry and stick, no longer slimy and slick and perfectly prepared. A part of him shuddered at thought—he had been shoved into mattresses and held down against tables and forced open with not much else than a bit of spit too many times that he couldn’t help but feel some sort of sympathy, despite what he had already done to her corpse. Maybe that was why he made sure she was dead. Still, she had been the cause of all those times. Her with her stupid fucking boyfriends who didn’t take no and didn’t know how to treat a boy. Her with her fucking “love” that had driven him to people who didn’t care how to treat another man in bed. Everything was her fault, so she could at least share in some of his old pain. Roughly stretching open her now blood coated hole, Emilein withdrew his fingers.
“If only you were here to feel this, Annemarie,” he growled as he pressed inside of her in one long thrust until he was fully inside. The butt of the knife that he had left in her now mangled body pressed against his lower abdomen. When he pulled out some, he could see the knife fall out. He had carved the tightness out of her, leaving only a cavernous gouge dripping red in its wake. He couldn’t help but grin at the fittingness of it all. With a low growl in his throat, he began to thrust inside of her, watching the knife move between them with the force of his body. As he grew more erratic, he could hear the knife slicing through her, the angle shifting downwards more and more. Eventually, he felt the cool of the blade through a thin, flimsy membrane. He pulled out, curled his fingers around the handle, and sliced through the membrane until her entire lower body was just one bloodied, mangled hole.
She had been a beautiful woman once, but for the moment she was a mutilated Barbie doll that her brother was seconds away from dismembering and lighting on fire. Both metaphorically and literally, as the thought did cross Emilein’s mind. Right now, however, he cared only for bloody relief. Sliding back inside her, he could feel membranes and organs and torn tissue rubbing against him as the dark, stinking mixture of blood and shit coated him. He didn’t much care as he dug his fingers in her hips and along her partially exposed ribs while he fucked her, her skin and blood catching underneath his nails. The feeling of her body completely undone beneath him and around him had his breath coming out in uneven pants as he spilled inside of her with a groan, hips still jaggedly bucking until he was completely spent inside of her bloodied guts. He pulled out to see his body just as red and bloody as hers.
Emilein smiled, satisfied, and grasped the knife in his slick fingers. “If only you were here to feel this, Annemarie,” he repeated, “then, an’ only then, would I have enjoyed myself even more.” He kissed her on the lips gently before getting off the bed to go wash up. He stopped only to lodge the knife point through her clitoris and deep into her body.
He would try and remember to come back and remove it before her body healed and she woke up, though he couldn’t make any promises.
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Afterlife AU | explicit | tiefer siblings
She had wanted a rise out of him since her attempts at seduction had, as always, failed painfully, and her insults and curses and defamations of his character had worked just as well as lingerie and sweet-talk. So she went for whatever was left and, desperate and foolish, she called him Emi.
He backhanded her for that and she fell onto the bed.
“You cunt.” He towered over her. She sprawled in the sheets. “Don’t you ever call me that.”
She simply giggled, wiped the blood from her split lip, and smiled. “Wha’s the matter, Emi? Don’t like yer little nickname? I remember tha’ boyfrien’ of yours’d say it all the time.”
He grabbed her by the hair, yanking her onto her knees. “Shut your fuckin’ mouth.”
“Emi, Emi, Emi, whatcha gonna do ‘bout it? Huh, Emi? Huh, freak?”
Her neck was exposed. His fingers would fit right over her pulse so nicely and he’d gain a day of peace and quiet in this Hell, but he stopped himself. She was still smiling stupidly at him, like this was still a funny little bit of foreplay and soon he’d come to his senses, rip off her white nightshirt and panties, and take her like the animal she’d always seen him as. Animal, monster, freak—the words were all interchangeable, pure acid from her mouth that burned in his stomach whenever she spoke, and to hear that same whorish mouth call him that—he shuddered. She wanted to run her mouth and call him a freak, an animal? He could give her one.
He sat on the bed and smiled, fingers dragging through her hair, nails catching at the ends. “I’m gonna fuck you, babydoll.” He pushed her back onto the bed. “I’m gonna fuck you like the freak you want. How ‘bout that?”
She wrapped her arms about his neck and practically squealed in delight. He could smell alcohol on her breath.
“Mm, love you, Emi.”
“Shut up an’ lie back.”
She spread her legs as she fell back on the sheets, her sheer, lacy panties already wet and exposed under her nightshirt. “Will you kiss me?”
Pulling her panties aside, he laughed. “Why would I kiss you?” He slipped a finger inside of her—she moaned loudly, as always—and came away sticky and wet. He smeared it down between her legs, sliding between her cheeks. “Nobody kisses whores.” Her panties held his hand there.
Annemarie pouted. “But I’m not a whore.” She rolled her hips, eyes fluttering shut.
“Fine. A slut, then.”
He shoved his finger inside her ass. Her eyes went wide.
“The fuck you think you’re doing!”
Tiefer shrugged and pulled his hand away. “Fucking you.”
“Not there you ain’t! Stop it!”
She kicked at him but he caught her by the ankle. “You wanted this, why the fuck should I stop?”
“’Cause I ain’t a nasty little faggot like you!”
He twisted her ankle until it snapped and she screamed. “Oh but Anne, you wanted a freak.” He let her ankle drop and bounce painfully against the mattress before undoing his belt and pants. “I’m giving you what you deserve.”
“Shut up!” He spread her legs wide and grabbed her hips, pulling her up and towards him. “Shut your fucking whore mouth, Annemarie, it’s what got you here in the first place.”
She screamed at him, cursed him as he spat in his hand, coating his dick in the makeshift lube. All he had to do was look at her—eyes wide and watery from the pain, ankle bruising, legs spread and grossly inviting—and imagine how pretty she’d sound, bleeding and screaming and begging him to kill her. It wasn’t ideal but he could make do. He pressed the head of his cock between her cheeks.
She spat at him and he smiled. One hand held her panties aside. The other he dragged down her body, along her breast and stomach and between her thighs, brushing against her clit and making her shudder. “C’mon, sis, play nice.” He forced his way inside of her. It burned—spit was nothing, he hadn’t stretched her—and she sobbed.
There would be blood if there wasn’t already. He held her down, pinning her wrists above her head, and fucked her like an animal, a monster, and when she didn’t stop screaming he gagged her with his own mouth, biting her lips raw and swallowing her curses until their chests hurt for lack of air. It occurred to him they were technically dead—technically didn’t need air, technically didn’t need intact bodies or gentle care—but improperly buried inside of her with spit and shit and blood on his cock and the burn of her in his mouth and her lacy panties rubbing against him as he thrust in and out was the closest he’d felt to alive in a long, long time. He would have thanked his sister, but she’d drown him out with curses and cries and call him a freak, a monster, and beat him like a diseased dog.
“You’re such a pretty whore, when you’re put in your place.” Tiefer traced the veins in her wrists.
“I’m not a whore!” She choked on her own sobs, her cheeks and eyes red. “I’m not a whore an’ I-I ain’t a li’l faggot freak like you!”
Snarling, Tiefer ripped her panties off, wadded them up, and shoved them in her mouth, gagging her until she couldn’t manage anything but broken cries and hiccupping sobs. He fucked her in this almost silence, gross and bloody and just like childhood—except for once he wasn’t bloody and sobbing and playing the little faggot whore—and just like childhood he rubbed her clit just the way she liked and slid his fingers in and out, curled them just right, and whispered all the dirty words she begged her boyfriends for—sweetheart and darling and love the dirtiest of all—until she came, crying, and he came with her, an actual moan on his lips.
He pulled out of her. Blood and semen leaked out of her ass and he wiped what remained on him between her legs, smearing it against her cunt. He let go of her wrists and pulled her panties from her mouth.
She spat in his face, her eyes red. “Fuck you, Emi.”
He kissed her, redid his pants, and left her bloody on the bed.
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In which Tiefer gets pegged
Afterlife AU | explicit | tiefer siblings
Tiefer looked up from his cup of coffee and bourbon (mostly bourbon) to see his big sister leaning against the doorframe that lead out into the hall. She was fiddling with something long, her fingers more or less obscuring it. He would have just shrugged her off, figuring the twisted cosmos that was their afterlife would find something new with which to distract her, but when she continued to stand there with her eyes locked on him, Tiefer couldn’t help but take the bait.
“What do you want, Annemarie?” he asked, pushing his cup aside.
She giggled in reply, one hand coming to her mouth in some mockery of a dainty giggle and giving him a better view of what she’d been holding: long and cylindrical with a tapered point, leather straps attached about the other end.
Cocking his head, he readjusted his glasses. She couldn’t possibly have what he thought she did. “Is that…?”
“Sure is, Emi.”
Turns out she could. “An’ why do you have that?” he asked.
“Oh, you’ll see.”
Tiefer quickly downed the rest of his mostly bourbon coffee. In his opinion, it needed a helluva lot more bourbon.
“Ah! Fuck, A-annemarie!”
Shoving his face into the pillow, Annemarie bucked her hips harder. “Shut up.” She dug her fingernails into his scalp, tugging at his hair as she moved, breasts bouncing with each thrust. Tangles of dirty-blond curls trailed over her shoulders and stuck to sweat-dampened skin as she leaned down to nip at her brother’s ear. “Shut your cock-sucking mouth up, brat,” she hissed, pressed against him, her body still and relaxed beside his tensed form. “I’d have thought you of all people’d enjoy this.”
“No one enjoys havin’ their ass torn open, you bitch,” Tiefer snarled. His knuckles were white from gripping the mattress and his body was taut. “Ain’t like your easy cunt, Annie-baby, use more’n that fuckin’ spitball sized shit."
Annemarie replied by spitting in his face, earning a shout of curses in response. Granted, Tiefer had done nothing but curse. When she ordered him to strip, when she forced him onto the bed, when she slid the harness on and slicked up the toy between her legs, everything was met with curses from him. Still, she pulled out and reached for the bottle of lube lying mixed up in the sheets, and, after better preparing them both, she slid back inside of him, much slower than before.
“Better?” The harsh edge from earlier was dulled.
Tiefer didn’t acknowledge his sister, though his grip lessened and color returned to his hands.
Taking his silence for consent—or whatever passed for consent between them—Annemarie began to move inside of him, grinding her hips against the base of the toy as she went. Her hands came to rest on his hips. Her fingers brushed against an old scar she had left back when her brother was a child, back when they were alive, back before Hell. Then again, as far as she was concerned, they never really left Hell. In fact, from where she was standing (or kneeling, rather, as the situation had it), this was an improvement.
Tiefer considered it an improvement. It was his sister, sure. A woman. Disgusting. He really should have been more outraged than he was. He tried to be revolted but a few more thrusts and he was less concerned about disgust and more concerned with feeling the next twist of her hips, the next thrust into the mattress, the next smack of flesh against flesh against fake but still quite welcomed flesh. He tried to touch himself. She batted his hand away. He twisted around to grab her hand and force it between his legs. She raked her nails along his skin until he let go. He pushed back for more of her, she thrust inside and forced him against the mattress. Surreal, perhaps, to be enjoying a position that, with anyone else but a few select individuals (of which his sister was none), was humiliating to him; then again, any pleasure was welcome to him in Hell. Considering the noises he was making, though, this was far from Hell.
She didn’t tell him to shut up that time. Rather, she moaned in his ear and followed with a whispered litany of how nasty this was, how much she enjoyed fucking him senseless, how dirty he was for letting her do this to him. Tiefer tried to answer her, to tell her that she made him, but every time he made to respond, she bucked her hips or slid her fingers in ways that twisted his words into a slew of moans and curses and ohfuckIhateyou and youcuntingbitchmovefaster and Godpleasefuck until they were both unable to do much more than move and moan and pant out small, breathless curses.
“Mmn, Emilein, I…”
A moan cut her off. Tiefer assumed she was just on the verge. He had been very practiced in knowing his sister. All she ever wanted was a fuck and an orgasm. Not very different from him in the least.
“I-I wanna see you…when…”
Tiefer looked over his shoulder at her. “What?”
Annemarie forced herself still, her hips reflexively still trying to move. “Turn around. Please, Em…”
Shocked as he was, he complied. She pulled out, letting him turn onto his back, and then thrust back inside, lying on top of him, in his arms now. Wrapping her arms around his neck, Annemarie moved faster, a small whine escaping her lips. It didn’t take her long. Her body tensed, her hips slowed, and soon she was nearly jelly in his arms.
She pulled out slowly and, with a small smirk playing on her lips, she positioned herself, the toy now pressed against the real thing. Slowly, she moved her hips, rubbing against her brother, until he spent himself, white hot against her stomach.
Panting, Tiefer looked down at his sister who was smiling at him.
“Enjoy yourself, baby brother?”
He gently wrapped his arms around her and shut his eyes. “I think I might need another shot of bourbon.”
Annemarie just laughed before curling up to sleep in his arms.
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Afterlife AU | mature | émile/tiefer
before it was canon that Émile had had sex with his son in life
“Disgusting piece of shit!”
Tiefer landed on the dirt at his father’s feet, clutching his stomach as he tried to stand. They were in the small bit of Hell that looked like home for their one big, “happy” family. Tiefer had let slip something about his past—his life—that upset Carina something fierce and Émile just would not stand for that. A swift kick to the chest landed him flat on his back. Émile walked over to him and slammed his foot down onto his chest, holding him there with more force than at all necessary. He coughed and tasted blood which he spat out with a groan.
“Hurts, don’t it?” Émile snarled, digging the heel of his boot in deeper, right where his ribcage met his gut. Tiefer let out another wet cough in reply, to which Émile simply pressed harder. “But you deserve this, don’t ya?”
“No…” Tiefer grunted and pushed at the other’s leg. Émile let up though Tiefer’s efforts were in vain as his father merely kicked him, hard, in the stomach, causing him to curl up into himself as he coughed up more blood. “I don’t fuckin’ deserve your shit…”
Émile hoisted him up by the back of his vestments and shoved him face first against the side of the house. “Really now?” His fingers were tangled in his son’s prematurely white hair and he was flush against him, pinning his body against the house. “You don’t deserve this?”
“No, dad, I fuckin’ don’t.”
Émile tightened his grip before slamming his son’s head against the wood siding. “Don’t you go callin’ me that, boy,” he snapped. “I ain’t ya daddy or ya paw or none of that shit, you hear? I don’t claim your sorry ass. You or your sister.”
“Funny, the bitch’s a lot like you—” The siding of the house cut him off as Émile slammed his head in again.
“Watch’er mouth, you ain’t any better than the rest of us.” Émile sneered, letting go off his son. “In fact, you’re worse.” He stepped away but not far enough to let the other escape. “Ya kiddie-fuckin’ faggot.”
Wiping at the blood trickling down his face, Tiefer looked over his shoulder to see his father’s disgusted sneer. “You say that like I’m diseased.”
“You are, ya freak.”
“Then our whoooole damn family’s sick, daddy,” he said, his lips curled into a smirk. Holding onto the wall for support, Tiefer turned to face his father. “Startin’ with you, the deadbeat, alcoholic, wife-beatin’ walk-out.”
Émile’s response was a quick punch to the gut before pinning him by the neck. “Shut yer mouth, boy,” he snarled, inches from his son. “Don’t go tryin’ to pin any of yer evil on me, faggot. Don’t you pin that on me, you hear?” He shook him, hard. “You was born wrong.”
“Well whose fault is that?”
“I thought I told you to shut. Your. Mouth.” Each of his words were punctuated with another blow to his gut, to his chest, and finally to his jaw. Émile pulled his bloodied, aching hand away.
Tiefer simply spat the wad of blood and piece of chipped tooth in his father’s face, thus earning another blow to the jaw.
“You told me to shut my mouth,” he said in defense, blood staining his teeth that were bared in a grin. “I was only followin’ orders, sir.”
Snarling, Émile whipped out a knife and shoved it against the other’s cheek, cutting a red line dangerously close to his good eye. Tiefer stilled under the knife, his body tense, his expression quickly souring. Émile only inched the dagger closer, the red line trailing until it the tip rested against his temple.
“I could ram this through your pretty li’l head right now, boy,” he said, “but that’d be too good for ya. Maybe I should cut out your other eye, make ‘em a pair. How ‘bout that?” He moved as if to swipe the blade across his face. Tiefer flinched. Émile simply laughed. “Naw, naw…it’ll just heal up for tomorrow, good as new. That ain’t fair, is it? Jus’ like it wasn’t fair what you do to ya sister, huh?” He smirked at the wide eyed look on the ex-priest’s face. “Oh yeah, I know all ‘bout that. It’s fuckin’ sick.”
“Oh, but I bet what she does is perfectly okay with you, huh?”
His grip tightened on the knife. “What did I say ‘bout keepin’ your mouth shut, huh?” he barked. “I should cut your fuckin’ tongue out an’ make you eat it. Serve as a nice reminder to listen to your betters, yeah?”
“I’d like to see the day someone like you becomes my better.”
Émile pressed the knife in deeper and drug it along his cheek, earning a trail of blood and a strangled grunt and grimace of pain. He rubbed the flat end of the blade in the blood, coating it, and brought the knife to his son’s lips, smearing a bit of the blood.
Tiefer just glared at him, blood trickling down the side of his face.
“Clean it off, boy. You an’ your disrespectful little faggot mouth caused this mess.”
Tentatively, Tiefer parted his lips against the metal, his tongue pressing slowly against the flat side. He licked along the sticky, reddened blade, cleaning it with a grimace.
Readjusting the knife, Émile pointed it towards his son and turned in to the side, razor-edge to one side of his mouth. “Go on,” he ordered. “Your kind know how to do this, yeah?”
Tiefer kept his eyes narrowed on his father as he opened his mouth wider and took the knife inside, careful not to let the serrated edge catch against his lips. He licked and sucked off the blood, nicking the side of his mouth the third time he took it inside. More blood spilled onto the blade, more blood that he was expected to clean up.
“Finish up.” Émile twisted the blade again so that it was straight at Tiefer, the knife edge pointing down and dripping with blood.
Sneering, Tiefer licked a long, slow stripe along the knife edge, taking the last bit of blood on his tongue. The knife cut him at the tip, puncturing the edge of his tongue just enough to draw blood.
He did as he was told. “There,” he said before pressing a kiss to the knife point and pulling away, his eyes on his father and his lips curled into a smirk. “All clean, daddy.”
Émile pulled the blade away from him as if his hand had been burned. “Fuckin’ freak,” he snarled. Turning the knife around in his hand, he struck him across the face with the butt of the blade and stepped away so his son staggered against the wall, landing on the dirt at his feet.
Tiefer laughed. “Jus’…followin’ orders,” he said, his hand cupped against the painful red mark blossoming on his temple. “Ain’t that all a kiddie fuckin’ faggot like me’s good for?”
“Go to hell.” Dropping the knife, Émile stepped away from him. “You’re sick. You’re a disgrace.”
“Already there, an’ guess what daddy—you’re right here with me. You, me, the whole damn family!”
Émile stalked off back inside the house, his son’s laughter following him the whole way.
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Afterlife AU | explicit | émile/tiefer
before it was canon that Émile had had sex with his son in life
Tiefer looked up from where he was leaning against the wall to see his father staggering toward him. He sighed, taking a drag of his cigarette. “What d’you want, Émile?” he bit out.
Reaching out with a grin that twisted at the edges, Émile clumsily plucked the cigarette with his thumb and forefinger from the other’s mouth and promptly dropped it on the ground. “I want you to quit pissin’ ‘bout an’ come wit’ me.”
Tiefer glared at him. “Why?”
“Don’ question me, boy, jus’ do whatcher told.” He grabbed him by the collar of his vestments, pulling him straight up.
Tiefer pushed him off. “Not till you tell me what the fuck you want with me. Where we goin’?”
“What I jus’ say ‘bout not questionin’ me?” Émile slurred, shoving him harder than necessary in the chest. “Now gitcher faggy ass in gear an’ come wit’ me.”
“How ‘bout I stay put an’ you go fuck off.”
Émile stepped back a bit, one hand resting beneath his chin, as if he were heavily considering the option. “Mmm, yeah, suppose you could do tha’,” he said finally. “ ‘Course, the girl is with ya mama, so’s if I go an’ fuck off like ya said, I’m gonna do it wit’ her…guess that leaves you an’ Annie all alone. Togetha. You sho’ you want that, faggy-boy?”
Tiefer scowled at the smirk spreading on his father’s face. He sighed. “Fine. Whatever.”
Émile’s smirk became a full smile, deadly teeth and all. Turning on his heel with the slightest of stumbles, he walked on down the road, calling back, “Allons, bougre!”
Tiefer pulled out another cigarette, lit up, and begrudgingly followed him on, uncertain how far Émile planned on taking him.
They wandered pretty far down the road. Tiefer was actually quite surprised. This afterlife of theirs, though a startling mimicry of the world they’d once known, was limited. He’d try to walk down the road once, see how far it led, see if maybe he could make it to the school he’d attended or to the little bait shop that sold more beer than bait or even to the house that Nathan had grown up in and inherited sooner than he’d liked, but Tiefer only wound up wandering in fog that shouldn’t be there and stepping right back up to his own porch. Now though, they were already past the bait shop. Nathan’s house was just a little farther down the road.
Émile however tugged him to the right and up the steps of a tiny old shack. He kicked open the door and they stepped inside. It seemed even smaller in than out.
“The hell is this place?”
“And you just waltzed right in?”
“His heaven’s his boat. This look like heaven to you?”
The shack was only two rooms of old wood, dust, and little light. A kitchenette was partitioned off from the rest of the small living quarters which was mostly filled up by the sofa bed. A small black and white TV sat on a rickety wooden stand across from the sofa and a door on the opposite side of where they stood led to the bathroom.
Stretching, Émile walked over to the kitchenette and grabbed two beers from the icebox. He handed one to Tiefer who eyed it like one would a grenade and kept his hands firmly to himself.
“Wha’s tha matter, boy? ‘S like you ain’t never seen a beer before.”
“I’ve never seen you be nice before,” Tiefer replied, folding his arms, “so forgive me if I don’t jump at the chance to drink somethin’ you offer.”
“Aw tha’s jus’ ‘cause you ain’t never got to know me, kiddo.”
“Well whose fault is that, dad?”
Émile narrowed his eyes. “Jus’ take the damn beer.” He thrust the bottle roughly into his son’s chest, condensation dampening the fabric of the old cassock he wore, and let go. Tiefer tried to clutch the bottle to himself but his fingers slipped and the bottle fell to the floor with a loud crash, glass shooting everywhere along now beer-slicked floorboards. Émile sneered. “Lookit what you done, boy.”
“Me? This is your—”
“Ah-ah, who let it drop? Clean it up.”
“Do as I said, boy.”
Neither backed down, their eyes locked on the other. Émile seemed slightly unfocused, though the beer remaining in his hand was most definitely not the first (or second) that day so far, and despite this he didn’t look away, didn’t even blink. He was frighteningly similar to Annemarie, outside of the ruddy hue of his irises. The color of his hair, the sneer twisting his mouth, the way he kept him under his gaze with the air of a predator, as if, even slowed by alcohol, he could rip his throat out if he so pleased and wouldn’t care one bit. Tiefer couldn’t help the small shudder that crept down his spine nor could he help Émile noticing.
And he noticed. Noticed and knew that he had one that little war of theirs. Émile grinned and leaned forward so that Tiefer could smell the alcohol on his breath. “Now…why don’tcha be a good boy, take some responsibility, an’ clean up your mess, hm?”
Tiefer rolled his eyes even as he got to his knees at his father’s feet, trying not to kneel in the puddle of beer seeping through the floor. “So what,” he began as he collected the shards of glass in the palm of his hand, “this your sad attempt at makin’ up for bein’ a no-show all them years or somethin’?”
“If that’s what you wanna believe, sure,” Émile said, satisfied. He leaned back on his heels, popped open the cap of his beer, and took a swig as he watched his son pick up the broken bottle. “Sure, call it makin’ up for lost time. Though I guess you ain’t too fond of it, huh?”
Looking up, Tiefer shot him a grin that was more grimace. “How’d you guess?”
Émile just smiled back sweetly and took another drink. “Don’t see why you ain’t happy to spend time with me, son, now that we got all eternity…”
“Maybe ‘cause you an’ my sister got more in common than I’d like, for once.”
Émile continued smiling though it no longer reached his eyes. “I think if you bothered to know me a bit, you’d find yourself wrong as hell.”
“No, pretty sure I’m right,” Tiefer said as he stood, glass shards in his hands. “We can skip over the part where you both look way too similar—”
“Ah, so tha’s why you shook like a baby deer jus’ now…”
Tiefer had to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from cursing at him. Or worse, emptying the contents of his hands onto his father’s person. Instead, he walked to the sink in the kitchenette and threw the glass in it for the time being. Taking a deep breath, he returned to where his father stood. “Like I was sayin’, you both look alike, you both have sadistic violent streaks a mile wide that you both happily act on—”
“Says the pot to the kettle.”
“Not to mention you both hate people like me. Naw, dad, can’t see how you too are alike at all.”
Émile was silent for a moment. His eyes remained on his son as he took a long drink. Finally he lowered the bottle. “Strip.”
“You heard me, boy. Strip. Take that, that…dress thing of yours off,” he said, motioning with his free hand.
Tiefer just stared at him. “Why?”
“I wanna see what she done to you.”
Tiefer didn’t move, his hands firmly at his sides.
“Lemme repeat myself in case you’re havin’ trouble understandin’ me, boy,” Émile growled, stepping forward. “Take off your fucking Jesus dress an’ let me see what she done to you before I give you a few bruises an’ scars to match.”
Tiefer continued to keep his eyes on him but managed to bring his hands to the buttons of his cassock. Shakily, he undid the first few at his collar and then tugged off the rest of the garment, throwing it on the sofa. His undershirt followed.
He stood there before his father, chest bare. The small scars on his shoulders and upper arms were barely visible, light as they were, but the mostly self-inflicted cuts lining his wrists and forearm were too deep not to be noticed. He turned his arms in to himself to try to hide them, but a few poked out, just like the jagged scar that ran along his left hip and thigh peaked out from his black slacks. Other smaller scars littered his body, a few deeper ones along his shoulders and back, but he wasn’t about to turn around and play model for Émile who was still watching him intently.
“Happy now?” he asked, breaking the silence. “Your daughter’s handiwork.”
“Hm.” Émile took another drink. “I’ve heard tell yours is better.”
No one who would’ve known what went down should have died yet, it hadn’t been that long. “Says who?”
“A friend of yours.” Tiefer’s eyes lit up. “Got to watch his kids grow up while he waits here. Whatsisname…ah, the Prêtre kid, you mighta known him.”
“Tha’s it! Yeah, says you’ve got a way with knives. Well, that wasn’t ‘xactly his words o’ course, but—”
“How? How did you find him?”
“My, ain’t you desperate,” Émile smirked. “What, was he your boyfrien’ or somethin’?”
“Just tell me how you got to talk to him. Please.”
“Well, I got my ways, kiddie…I’ve known this place longer’n you an’ know my way ‘round. I got all my own dirty li’l secrets an’ I know all of yours too.”
“Cut the crap, Émile,” Tiefer said, stepping forward and grabbing his dad by his collar. “Tell me how I get to him.”
“It’ll cost ya a pretty penny.”
The ex-priest sneered. “I’ve given up everythin’ before. I think I can do it again.”
“Trust me: I’m well aware of what you done.”
Exhaling slowly, Tiefer let go of his father. “What d’you want?”
“Well, ya mama’s been holdin’ out on me lately.” He ran a hand through his hair, still clutching the beer in his other. “She’s been spendin’ too much time witcher sister. The fuckin’ bitch, tryin’ to turn her ‘gainst me…”
“You po’ thing.”
Émile shot him a less than lovely grin. “Well lucky fo’ me, I got ‘nough booze in me so tha’ I don’t really care ‘bout particulars,” his grin widened, “an’ I got somethin’ you really seem to want.”
Tiefer snorted. “That it, huh? Holdin’ shit over my head.”
“Somethin’ you seem to be well versed in, kid.”
He scowled. “Thought you didn’t like my kind.”
“Eh, I’ve had ma fair share of hookers.” Émile shrugged. “You ain’t much different. A few steps below them lovely ladies but eh, beggars an’ choosers.”
“I’m your son. You—”
“Made ya?” He laughed. “Sure, I made you. I also made a shit in the toilet. Wouldja like to have a christenin’? You could do the honors , you an’ yer dress—”
“What the fuck d’you want?” Tiefer bit out. “Jus’…shut up an’ tell me what you want.”
Silence sat between them as Émile raised the bottle to his lips and downed the rest of his beer. He kept his eyes on his son, gaze lingering on the marks on his body. His fingers twitched slightly, the product of alcohol fueled bloodlust. And perhaps lust too. The kid was pretty like his mama and just as beat up—imagination could take him the rest of the way. Émile didn’t miss the way his son looked away from him or the slight color in his cheeks. Rage or embarrassment, he’d wager on the latter. No one liked having their flaws on display, and his son was a damn prideful man (he’d gotten it from him, of course.) Placing the beer bottle atop the TV stand, Émile sighed and undid his belt.
“Get on your knees,” he said, tossing the belt on the sofa.
Tiefer didn’t budge. “Can I have my cassock back?”
“You wantcher Jesus dress or you wanna see yer boyfrien’?”
Tiefer bit his tongue and got to his knees, careful of any bits of glass he might have missed.
“There ya go, ain’t you happy you cleaned up all that glass? Now…” He undid his ratty jeans and pushed his drawers down. He was half hard for reasons he would just let his son—mama’s boy in looks—imagine. “I’m sure a smart kid like you can figure out what I want, yeah?”
Scowling, Tiefer pushed his glasses up to the top of his head before reaching out and taking his dad in his hand. He was heavy and warm and when Tiefer leaned forward to press his lips to the tip he could feel the muscle twitch in his hand. Taking a deep breath, he took him into his mouth, going slow so as not to choke. Years without having to keep his gag reflex suppressed had not done him any favors. Keeping his hand at the base, he began to lick and suck along the length, his tongue dragging across the bottom and around the head until he pulled away with a soft ‘pop’ only to repeat the entire process again and again. At least it satisfied Émile if the hand cupping the back of his head, thankfully careful of his glasses, was any indicator.
Thankfully, it wasn’t drawn out. Émile, tired of any grace or skill Tiefer bothered to put into it, gripped him hard by his hair and held him still as he fucked himself dry on the other’s throat, nearly choking him three times (but of course, what true harm was there in that?) When he came, he did so with a groan, spilling white in his mouth and down his throat. He held his son still, forcing him to swallow it all. Tiefer complied, his eyes screwed up in discomfort and disgust, sticky trails of white running down his chin when his mouth ran out of room.
“Ah…merci.” Émile pulled out, a string of spit and semen following in his wake. He smeared it on his son’s lips, careful of the other’s teeth which were bared. He chuckled at the attempt at dominance before tucking himself back in and doing up his pants. “Y’ain’t half bad, boy.”
“Tell me how I get to him.”
“Hm. So desperate to see tha’ boyfrien’ of yours. What makes you think he wantsta see you?”
“Don’t matter,” Tiefer said as he got to his feet and grabbed his undershirt and cassock from the sofa, wiping his mouth before he redressed. “Now tell me.”
“Suit yerself…” Émile raised his hands up in defeat. “You know tha’ old bar down the way?”
“Boudreaux’s? Yeah, I know it.”
“Tha’s where I found him. ’Parently, it’s a common ground for many souls who’re tired of waiting for their loved ones to show up or’re just bored to tears. Shit, even saw Mark Trahan there a few times.”
“So how do I get there?”
“Same way you did before you offed yourself: walk.”
Tiefer bristled at the reminder of how he’d arrived in his father’s company, but any dig or insult died on his lips. “Wait…this is the farthest I’ve ever been able to go ‘round here. I’ve only just barely made it to the bait shop, how’m I supposed to fuckin’ get to the damn bar?”
“Takes some get used to. Jus’ wait a few decades, you’ll be sure to master the road by then.”
“You fuckin’ liar, you said you’d get me to him!”
“Ah-ah, I said I’d tell you how to do tha’, the rest is on you.” Slowly, his lips spread into a grin. “Of course, I can get you to him. Be a guide of sorts. Anywhere ya wanna go, anytime.”
Tiefer narrowed his eyes at the other. “You will?”
“Mais yeah, sure I will.” He paused. “It’ll cost ya, though.”
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Afterlife AU | explicit | émile/tiefer
before it was canon that Émile had had sex with his son in life
“Hey, kid, lookit.”
Tiefer looked up from where he lay on the little sofa-bed to see his father standing in the doorway holding a beat up revolver in his left hand, a six pack in the other. He was grinning like a mad fool.
“Where’d you get that?” he asked, sitting up.
They were bumming around Trahan’s abandoned shack (lucky bastard, off in his heaven.) Émile was only supposed to go down to the little grocery and snag some beers—not like anyone was around to charge them, being a literal ghost town and all—and he hadn’t been gone long. Tiefer scoffed. “Think you mean to say you stole it.”
“Found, stole, who cares?” He set the beers on the rickety end table. “What, I’m gonna be damned to Hell now, Jesus-fucker?” He sneered. Twirling the gun in his hand, he plopped down beside his son. “Ooh, is the li’l cross-wearin’ cross-dressin’ faggot in his li’l Jesus dress gonna tell on me?”
Tiefer rolled his eyes. He could smell the booze on the other man. Antagonizing him like that would end as well as antagonizing his drunken sister worked for him in the past. “Whatever.” He made to get up but Émile held him back, slinging an arm around his hips and tugging him back down so that he was half-sprawled on top of him. “Fuck! Lemme go, asshole!”
“Oh mais no.” Émile gripped him tighter, letting the hand with the gun come to rest heavy against his son’s chest, metal digging into ribs. “Naw, you ain’t goin’ nowhere, ‘less it’s to get me a beer. Which don’t sound half bad now that I think ‘bout it.” He shoved Tiefer’s shoulder. “Go get me a beer.”
“Get it yourself.”
“Ooh, somebody’s in a mood.” The muzzle of the gun dug in deeper, pressing between the other’s ribs as Émile jabbed it against him. “Now go get me a beer, boy, ‘fore I get pissed.”
“An’ ruin this lovely mood of yours?” Tiefer bit out, shoving the gun away as he got up, grabbed two beers out of the six pack, and returned to the sofa, making sure to avoid his father’s grip.
“Good thinkin’, gettin’ me two beers in case I get thirsty later.”
“The other’s for me,” Tiefer replied, handing him one of the beers.
“Well, did I say you could have a beer?”
Gritting his teeth, Tiefer sighed. “No.”
“Then they’re both mine,” Émile said as he grabbed both beers by the neck. He set one on the floor beside him, outside of his son’s reach. The other bottle he opened and took a swig, one hand still firmly on the revolver. “God, an’ here I was thinkin’ you was getting’ smarter.”
“If you’re jus’ gonna be a dick to me, I don’t see why the hell I gotta stick around.”
“Well fine then, go ahead an’ get yer own beer. Don’ let me stop you.” Émile took a long drink and waved Tiefer off with his gun. “Go ‘head, see how far you get. Oh, wait, tha’s right,” he smirked, “you can’t ‘cause you ain’t been here long ‘nough to make this work. You’re like a fuckin’ baby. Huh, so much fer that.”
Tiefer scowled and tried to distance himself as much as the sofa-bed allowed. “You’re an asshole.” He crossed his arms, eyeing the gun.
“An’ you’re a faggot. What else is new?” Émile was silent for a moment, his gaze following Tiefer’s to the gun. It was shabby, a little worse for wear, though it seemed still in working order. Really, all it needed was a cleaning, some spit and shine. A slow grin spread across his face as he looked his son over before raising his arm and pointing the gun directly in his face.
His order was simple: “Clean it.”
Tiefer simply stared at him. “An’ how’m I supposed to do that?”
“God damn it, boy, you keep crushin’ my hopes that you’d be the smart one, dontcha?” Leaning forward, he pressed the gun clumsily to Tiefer’s lips, the metal edge of the barrel cutting against his skin. “Clean it up,” he repeated before slowly bringing his thumb to the hammer and letting it rest dangerously close. “ ‘Less you’d rather test ‘er out first, that is.”
Tiefer grimaced. “You made me ‘clean off’ your knife,” he said, “an’ now you want me to do the same on some gun you’ve been wavin’ around? Overcompensatin’ for somethin’, daddy?”
“Now, now…you an’ I both know that ain’ true. Wha’s the matter, your jaw still hurtin’ too much?” Émile took another swig of beer. His thumb never left its place above the hammer. “C’mon, open up wide or I’ll open it myself.”
Scowling, Tiefer slowly complied, parting his lips and taking in the barrel of the revolver in small fractions of an inch. His eyes remained on his father’s hand, watching that he didn’t cock the hammer or pull the trigger. Thankfully, he did neither, though Tiefer was in no way calmed by the nasty smirk his father wore.
“C’mon, Emilein,” he sneered, jamming the gun further down his throat, “you can clean my gun better’n that, can’t ya?”
Tiefer would have snapped back if it weren’t for the tip of the barrel nearly scraping against the back of his throat, the sharp tang of metal overwhelming him. Instead, he relaxed his jaw, hoping it would ease the soreness and make fellating the hard metal just that much easier; however, Émile had other plans, and, with the resistance of his clenched jaw out of the way, he shoved the gun in all the way, painfully hitting the back of his throat and tearing the roof of his mouth. Tiefer gagged, blood and spit trickling from his lips and down his chin. In blind panic, he pushed the gun away, not caring that his father still had a tentative thumb on the hammer, ready to cock and shoot, and, leaning over the side of the sofa, he dry heaved blood and saliva onto the old wooden floor.
Émile just laughed. “What, too much for ya? Shit, thought yer kind’d know how to suck without gaggin’ everywhere.”
“My apologies for not being the golden standard of gay men everywhere,” Tiefer said, wiping his mouth.
“Y’know, you can take that smart little attitude of yours an’ shove it up your ass.”
“You can take that gun and shove it up your ass,” Tiefer grumbled as he got up and went to the kitchenette to fetch a rag to wipe up the blood. When he came back to clean up, he saw Émile was no longer laughing as he had been, but looking at the revolver, inspecting it closely.
“Wonder if it’d fit…” His gaze lingered on the gun before turning on his son with a nasty gleam and a smirk to match. “Take off yer pants.”
Tiefer dropped the rag. “Oh fuck no, that ain’t happenin’ you sick—”
“Listen, boy, this is gonna happen one way or the other. Whether I let this baby go off when it’s pointin’ at yer innards is gonna depend on whether you’re a good li’l faggot an’ take off yer pants.”
Neither said anything for a few seconds, the gun still heavy in Émile’s hand as he raised it, aiming it first at his son’s gut and then lower. Tiefer sighed. “I’m keepin’ my cassock on, though.”
“Oh what, embarrassed? I already know whatcha look like.” Émile chuckled. “Fine, fine, keep yer stupid Jesus dress on.”
Tiefer just ignored him as he undid the lower buttons of his cassock to get to his belt. Pulling that off, he quickly undid his fly and tugged his pants and boxers down to his feet, stepping out of his shoes and the entire pile altogether. He yanked his socks off last and threw them in the pile before crossing his arms and leveling his gaze at his father, thankful his cassock hung mostly closed over him.
“Well? You gonna get on the sofa an’ spread yer legs like a good li’l bitch or what?”
Tiefer sat down on the sofa and leaned over to pull a small bottle out of his pants pocket. “I’m not about to look at you as you fuck me with a gun. I still have some self-respect left.”
“With the number of men you’ve prolly been wit’, I doubt it.”
Tiefer rolled his eyes as he got onto his knees, facing away from his dad. “Va te faire foutre,” he mumbled as he poured some lube onto his hand.
“Mm, ain’t that what you’re doin’ to yerself, p’tit?”
“Just shut up,” Tiefer said and threw the bottle at him, “and slick that gun up good.”
“What, my natural charm don’t turn you on?”
Glaring over his shoulder, Tiefer hitched up his cassock and reached between his legs, slowly pressing a finger inside of himself as he gripped the back of the sofa for support. “It don’t exactly” —he grunted— “work that way.”
Émile rolled his eyes. “Oh then please, do ‘enlighten’ me.”
“Women get wet. Men don’t.” He added a second finger, then a third. “Nothin’ goes in without either lube or blood an’ nobody wants the latter.”
“What if I do?”
Tiefer narrowed his eyes. “Then you’re a piss-poor lover, how ‘bout that?” He stretched himself more, rubbing against a spot that made his knuckles white as he dug his nails in the cushion and bit his lip to keep from making a noise. He was thankful his cassock covered his front so that even if Émile could see him, he wouldn’t see his body’s reaction. “There,” He removed his fingers, wiping them on his cassock. “Now shut up, make sure you actually use that shit,” he warned, glancing at the bottle of lube, “an’ get it over with.”
“Well lookit you, learnin’ some obedience.” Émile snorted. He listened, though, and began to coat the barrel with the lube. “Good to see that some of Annie-girl’s beatings actually got through to you—”
“What part of shut the fuck up don’t you understand?”
Raising a brow, Émile laughed. “Ooh, touchy little fag, ain’t we? What, does me talkin’ ‘bout her bother you, kiddo?”
“Everything about her bothers me. Her, you, this whole fuckin’ family. Now shut up and just do it.”
“Shit, someone’s eager… But you’ll take anythin’, won’tcha?” Pressing the muzzle between his legs to nudge against him, Émile pushed inside, watching the barrel of the gun disappear until it was up to the base of the cylinder. “Fuck, that slid right in…”
“Why you think I had you use that shit?” Tiefer bit out, trying to keep his voice from betraying anything other than annoyance and anger. “An’ now you know it fits. Mystery solved.”
“Didn’t think it’d go in easy like that, though—”
“It’ll go out easy too, just pull it out.”
“Shit, kid, how many men you done had in you? Gotta be as loose as a whore—”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it, I’m a whore, I’m a fuckin’ slut for cocks, now would you just take it out? Please!”
Émile was about to comply, but his hand froze. “Why?” he asked, sitting up onto his knees. One hand still gripped the gun. “You scared I’m gonna let this little baby go off inside you?”
“If you were, you’d’ve done it by now.”
He laughed. “Aw, you know me well, boy.” He patted him gently, one hand resting on his hips. “Then what’s got you so hot an’ bothered, hmm?”
“Would you just take it out?”
“Oh sure, sure, I’ll take it out…once you’re done fucking yourself on it.”
Tiefer froze, his face fallen. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me, kid: fuck yourself on my gun.” He grinned, tugging up the other’s cassock until he could see what he’d wagered he’d find. And sure enough, Tiefer was half-hard. “Until you come like the little slut you are.”
Tiefer growled low in his throat, both of his hands gripping the sofa to keep him from grabbing his dad by the throat. “You’re an asshole.”
“An’ you’re a faggot. What else is new?”
Biting back a whimper, Tiefer slowly began to rock his hips, pressing back against the gun his father still held between his legs. Émile was nearly flush against him, keeping him from pulling away. He could feel it inside him, cold and hard and dangerous if his father went back on his word. Tiefer didn’t trust him to keep his word. If he could just make it go faster and get himself off by hand, he would—but as soon as he made to bring one hand down between his legs, Émile was dangerously close, his voice a low growl in his ear.
“No. I told you to fuck yourself until you come. You use your hand and I shoot it off, you understand?”
“But…” He paused, steadying his breathing. He wasn’t about to whine in front of Émile. “I can’t.”
“The fuck you mean you can’t?”
“I can’t come just from this, alright?” He kept his head bowed. “I can’t. All them hookers you sleep with, they get off on you just plowin’ in to ‘em?”
“Honestly, I don’t care if some bimbo enjoys it or not.”
“Fine, fine…then what about Cara, huh?” Tiefer grimaced. This wasn’t helping. “What about Ma? Does she always get off with you in her?”
“Occasionally, she don’t,” he bit out. “Sometimes it takes a bit more.”
“Yeah, well, pretend this is one of those times.” Groaning, Tiefer adjusted his grip on the cushion. “This don’t get me off. I ain’t gonna come. It takes someone wit’ a lotta skill to get me to come just from gettin’ fucked in the ass an’, quite frankly, daddy, tha’s something you don’t have at all.”
He could practically feel his father’s pride bleeding onto him, or maybe that was drops of his own sweat borne out of fear. After all, Émile’s fingers never left the hammer or the trigger. He could easily do it: just pull back the hammer and, with a twitch of the finger, pull the trigger and turn his insides into mush. Tiefer was waiting for it, the inevitable click and quick, gory explosion of his guts inside his own body. However, it never came.
“Fine,” Émile grunted, letting go of the gun. “Fine, touch yourself if that’s what gets whores like you off. But you turn around an’ you lookit me while you do it, you understand? No closin’ your fuckin’ eyes, no turnin’ away, no nothin’.”
Tiefer’s insides went cold. His sister used to make him do the same when he was young and she’d caught him touching himself or doing anything she decided was inappropriate. She’d make him stand before her, pants down at his ankles, and masturbate—sometimes again and again, until it hurt too much—while she watched, sometimes with complete disinterest outside of her usual air of judgment and sometimes with lurid enjoyment. He didn’t need to relive that with Émile of all people.
“Well? You gonna do this or we gonna see what this baby can make of your filthy faggot guts?”
Biting his tongue, Tiefer turned around to face Émile, the gun still inside of him.
“Much better. Now, c’mere.” He sat back and pat his lap.
“The fuck would I do that for?”
“How else am I gonna keep a hand on that gun while you move? You think I trust you? Now you come here right now.” He sneered. “Come to daddy, kiddo…”
Not looking his father in the eye, Tiefer straddled his lap, feeling the man’s hand snake between his legs to hold onto the gun. Slowly, he began to rock his hips again, one hand coming down to touch himself as he fucked himself on the barrel of the gun.
“There, now, ain’t that so much better?” Émile asked, mock sweetness dripping from his tongue. “You gonna come like the slut you are?”
“Go to Hell,” Tiefer bit out, his fingers working faster and his hips bucking more. “Jus’ go to Hell.”
Émile made a disapproving noise before grabbing him by the jaw with his free hand. “Lookit me, baby. Look at me, now,” he cooed softly, his grip painful. “An’ jus’ remember: you’re already there. You, me, the whooooole damn family.” He grinned. “Pretty sure your slutty little ass told me that one.”
“Then I hope God invents someplace worse and throws your ass there.”
A laugh and a reassuring pat on the cheek followed as Émile lessened his grip. “Oh, cher, that place already exists. It’s called your fuckin’ life, the Here and After!” He laughed again, his teeth like daggers in a smile that met wicked eyes. “An’ your po’ ass is stuck with it—forever—so ya better get used to it, jus’ like you better get used to that gun up yer ass ‘less you hurry up an’ come.”
Tiefer didn’t say a word after that. He simply continued to move his hips, eyes forced on his father, hand working mechanically between his legs. When he did finally come, he bit back all sound, letting out only a shaky breath as he spilled on his own hand, some fluid getting on his father’s shirt. Neither of them said anything about it, though, as Émile eased the gun out of his body.
“Good job, boy,” he said slowly as he wiped the gun on his son’s front, the milky fluid staining his cassock. “Still…” He cocked the hammer before aiming it between Tiefer’s eyes. “Gotta make sure she still works an’ all.”
Tiefer didn’t say a single word as he pulled the trigger, but his eyes remained open and empty even as his body cooled on the wood floor.
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