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welcome home

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Of all the people Emilein Tiefer — now Father Emilein Tiefer — had expected to see when he opened the front door of the clergy house on the old church grounds, it certainly wasn't his deceased big sister.

"Welcome back, Emi."

Correction: formerly deceased.

"Y-you're..."

"We have a lot of catching up to do now that you've come back home, don't we?" Her hand struck him like a viper, fingers curled around his wrist, pulling herself closer, into his space, her eyes bright, her smile fake.

Tiefer simply stared, eyes flicking from her face to her fingers to the rise and fall of her chest. Definitely alive.

Shouldn't be alive.

"Why don't you let me in where we can chat?" Her fingers tightened around his wrist. "In private."

When her brother hesitated again, she pulled her hand away and pouted. "Unless you'd rather we talk out here 'bout the last time we saw each other." Her volume increased until her voice carried pointedly. "Hm?"

Immediately, Tiefer moved aside, eyes on his walking, talking, fucking breathing sister as she stepped over the threshold, heels clacking against the floor, blond curls bouncing as she strode past him through the entry way, down the hall, making a beeline for the kitchen liquor cabinet. He followed the sound of her voice and the clinking of bottles to find her pulling out glasses from the cupboard with three bottles beside her on the countertop: gin, vermouth, and absinthe.

"Shit, y'all fuckin' loaded — this all from Michaud or does the Church pay you that good?"

The answer was mostly Michaud but he didn't give it, instead slumping against the kitchen table, nearly missing the chair. His hands disappeared inside his cassock and quickly found his lighter and cigarettes; fingers shaking, he lit up and took a drag to calm himself. This was a dream — a nightmare — obviously born from anxiety about moving back here, back to this place. He must have just fallen asleep after moving his things in — or perhaps it was still the night before! Maybe he was still up in New Orleans and Fr. Michaud hadn't had a stroke that left a church empty and needing and he hadn't been assigned to the worst little town on earth and his sister was still dead—

A clink and the scrap of chair anchored him back to the reality around him.

"What's your problem?"

Annemarie Tiefer was sitting across from him, obituary in hand with another before her. Her head was cocked, as if confused at the less than warm welcome.

"My problem?"

She pushed the second glass towards him, a sly grin — as if some great joke had been told, as if they were best friends sharing drinks, as if time had never passed and their history was clean — pulling the corners of her mouth up, the lines of her face just a tad deeper than he'd remembered them.

"Well yeah. You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I saw you." Another drag. Still shaking so much. "I buried our son, I— You shouldn't be here."

Her grin faltered, the ingenuous facade melting.

"An' you shouldn't've stabbed me, fucked me in the ass, and left me for dead ten years ago, honey, but here we are," she said, splaying her fingers wide, painted nails catching the light. When she spoke, her voice was harsh. "For once, dad was useful. Swung by minutes after you ran off an' got me patched up." She took a sip of her cocktail. "The man's shit at most things but I'll give him this: motherfucker can lie like nobody's business. 'Specially to a cop. Spun a whole tirade to anyone who asked 'bout an ol' John who didn't wanna be a baby daddy...but that's not what I'm here for."

She leaned forward; Tiefer instinctively flinched.

"I'm here for you."

"I'm..." Gay? Didn't matter. Family? She never cared. "...I'm a priest."

A snort. Well, it had been worth a shot. "Yeah, how's celibacy workin' for you?"

Tiefer shifted in his seat.

"Mm, thought so." Another sip. "You know, that boy you liked still lives 'round here. Grew up damn fine. You should see him, he's so obviously hu—"

"And if I say no?" he interrupted.

Annemarie squinted her eyes. Her mouth split into a grin, all glistening teeth and bright red lips.

"Say no and all these fine people — in your church, I might add — will hear about how you knocked up your poor sister who lied to protect you, only to beat her within an inch of her life, sodomize her, an' leave her to die if it weren't for her prodigal father."

"You..."

"You might've cleaned up, you in your little black dress, but you left here a freak and returned an outsider, godly an' needed or nah. Me? I stuck around an' been bustin' my ass — it's damn hard work bein' a charity case! You wanna take bets on who'll be believed?"

"Fine."

Tiefer knew it was a mistake to grab the drink she'd placed before him and a bigger mistake to toss it back in one go, but he did anyway, nearly slamming the glass back on the table once done. He ashed his cigarette against the rim before putting it out in the now empty glass, mouth tasting of licorice and a warm burn in his gut.

"Take what you think you're owed."


"Oh I missed this..."

His sister was on her knees before him where he sat on the full bed, his cock out and half-hard from her palming and touches, her hands gripping his hips through his pants like a small warning, her smirking mouth inches away from the tip. Her skirt was wrinkled and hiked up her thighs, bare knees against the wood floor.

Tiefer could practically smell how excited she was.

"Just get it over with."

Annemarie laughed and leaned down, kissing the crown before taking him as deep as she could (and God, he couldn't help the groan in his throat or the twitch of his cock at the press of her tongue, the heat of her mouth, her throat) before pulling back and off with a soft wet pop.

"I'll take my fuckin' sweet time." A nasty little smirk, a toss of her hair. "I'm owed it, aren't I?"

Her lips were red and wet and Christ he wanted to split them with the back of his hand, his fist, his boot until blood painted her mouth and stained her teeth—teeth that were now dangerously close to his cock as she took him inside again, one hand moving from his hip, pressing along the long scar (which she had given him) down to the base of his cock, fingers gently wrapping around him, tugging with each obscene slurp and pulling a few soft sounds from him.

He'd blame the way his hips jerked up with each bob of her head and the way his fingers found her hair and tangled tight all on the spirits he'd thrown back that left him tasting herbs and candy, his mind too warm and body too heavy, but they both knew an excuse was all that was.

"Shit..."

"Almost there?" Annemarie asked, her lips brushing his cockhead, her warm breath ghosting against needy flesh.

Face flushed, chest heaving, Tiefer nodded dumbly.

"Perfect."

Suddenly, she was on her feet, hands no longer on his hips, his cock, but on her skirt zipper, at her blouse buttons.

"The fuck? Anne—?"

She shushed him and made quick work of her clothing, now but a pile on the floor, leaving her in a lace bra and panties, still as rail-thin as ever. A white scar shone low on her gut, a memento of the last time they'd seen each other.

"I told you, Emi," she spoke as if he were slow, stepping up to him and mounting the bed, bony knees against hip as she straddled him, panties quickly pulled aside, "I'll take my sweet time."

His no died on his lips.

Annemarie was on him, around him, her hands on his chest, pushing him down against the bed — and he didn't protest or shout or fight (despite being strong enough now to lift her off of him and slam her into the wall again and again), booze heavy in his gut, her earlier threat as good as a knife to his throat.

"God..." She rolled her hips with a groan-turned-giggle. "You really have grown, huh?"

"Anne..." It was less her name and more a growl, if not a plea.

"Cum in me," she whispered, leaning down, embracing him, her lips close to his. "We don't hafta worry 'bout our last...mistake." Her fingers trailed the buttons on his half undone cassock, tugging slightly. "I want you to fuck me into this mattress and fill me the fuck up."

When Tiefer didn't move, content to crawl away and hide like a sick dog in the passivity she'd allowed him, she spit in his face.

"I wasn't fuckin' askin'!"

He snarled, cursing as he grabbed her hips, nails leaving red marks, and rolled her onto the bed, his cassock half covering them and the reality of their familial relationship. His hands found her throat: he gave a slight squeeze, his cock twitching inside of his sister when she winced, face flushed.

"Do it." Annemarie was grinning. Her cunt was clenching around him. "Do what you couldn't do ten years ago. See how well you fare after raping and murdering your own family!"

Tiefer wanted to do it, God, he wanted to choke her, cut the smile from her face and gouge out the gash between her thighs, erase her completely from the world, from his life, the way he thought she had been — and what, find himself in jail? In the chair?

So he released her throat and his hands grasped her hips instead, pulling her onto his cock as he thrust inside her. He had been close, so close, thanks to her mouth (and, thanks to his new life, he had been without longer than he was used to) that it was not long before his grip grew vice-tight, his breathing labored, and the moan he tried to keep down spilled from his lips as he spilled inside of his sister's greedy cunt.

"Fuck yes..." she hissed. "Oh fuck." Her heels dug into his back as she held him there inside of her, body swallowing spurts of cum, fingers reaching between them to touch her clit. "Keep goin', baby."

"Shut up." It was tired, hollow, as he followed her orders all the same, giving as she demanded, mechanical and distant in his movements, until there was nothing left. He didn't look her in the eye. "Happy, bitch?" He tried to pull away but her heel dug into his lower back.

"Clean me up."

"Let me go and I'll get a rag."

"No, idiot." She released him, spreading her legs. "Use that fuckin' mouth of yours an' clean up your mess."

Tiefer made a face. Annemarie merely laughed at him.

"What's the matter? You're still a faggot, ain'tcha?" She sat up. "You swallow men's jizz all the time—"

"That's different."

"Is it? Still a man's cum. Oh, what, you ain't a man no mo'?" A nasty grin. "You a girl now, Emmeline?"

His hand connected with her cheek but she merely laughed through a split lip, an infuriatingly girlish sound.

"Never took you for a tranny."

Tiefer grabbed her legs and shoved her off of him before getting to his knees on the hardwood flood and, yanking her towards the edge of the bed, he lowered his head between her legs, biting hard on her inner thigh before pressing the flat of his tongue against her leaking hole, fingers digging into the fat of her ass as he swiped up once, twice, before pressing inside, tasting his sister, tasting himself.

"Oh, oh shit," —she was panting, her fingers pressing on her clit, rubbing hard as he fucked her with his tongue— "oh fuck what a good boy..."

There was a very small, very embarrassing part of him that lit up at that praise, but it had always been easy to beat down, even easier when all he could taste and smell was her, when he felt just as small as he'd felt at eighteen or at fifteen or at eleven, when she first started their sordid ordeal, when she first realized she could get more out of her sister-cum-motherly duties than simply a punching bag for all her pain. It made him want to vomit (but then, he was sure that if he did, he'd have to clean it up too.)

"Don't stop..." Her hand threaded through his hair, tugging him towards her. "Do not stop."

He didn't—he fucked her with his tongue until she came, trembling, shrieking, her juices mixing with his cum and dripping down his chin, his tongue, his throat. Tiefer drank her through her orgasm, pulling out only when she'd released him. Wordlessly, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, stood, and turned to the adjoining bathroom door.

"What? No kiss?"

He looked his sister over. She was splayed on his bed, hair fanned out behind her, with spit and slick glistening on her thighs and blood drying on her lips that were turned up in a nasty little grin.

With a noncommittal grunt, Tiefer leaned down, grabbed Annemarie by her jaw, yanked her mouth open, and spit his cum, saliva, and what remained of her own juices into her mouth.

She shoved his hand away but swallowed all the same with a wink.

"Enjoy your little rebellion?"

"Just get out, Anne."

"That anyway to talk to your big sister?"

Tiefer shot her a dirty look, grabbed her clothes off the floor, and threw them in her face as he left to the bathroom.

"Fuckin' drama queen," she huffed. Annemarie readjusted her panties, slid off the bed, and pulled her clothes back on before sauntering over to the bathroom. She leaned in the doorway, watching her brother gagging over the sink, faucet running.

"Em..."

No response.

"Emi."

Their eyes met in the mirror. Tiefer immediately looked away, washing his face of whatever fluids of hers remained on him.

"Emilein!"

The water stopped.

"Annemarie. Please."

He was still hunched over the sink, water dripping off his nose, his chin, his eyelashes, some of his hair sticking to his face. His fingers gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white. A thousand words sat on his tongue—go, stop, fuck off, die, die, DIE—choking him into a silence his sister broke.

"I asked you for a kiss." Her hands were on his shoulders now, her fingers gripping into the cloth of his cassock, tugging. Her body was pressed against his, lips against his ear. "You too grown to give your own sister a kiss?"

Shoving her off of him, Tiefer turned and pressed a kiss to her lips, tasting dried blood, wanting instead to bite down, to hit, to rip and shred and rape and eviscerate.

He quickly pulled away, holding his sister at arm's length.

"There. You got what you wanted. Everythin' you wanted. Please..."—and his voice broke, just so slightly, and he felt eighteen and fifteen and fucking eleven years old again, begging his sister to leave him anything, the barest scrap of dignity.

A sniff, a pout — Annemarie appeared entirely unimpressed but deigned to relent. In silence she returned to the bedroom and gathered her purse and heels from where she'd tossed them by the door, a, "Welcome home, Emi!" called over her shoulder as she left down the hall and out the front door.

It wasn't until the door slammed shut and the clack of her heels against wood was no more that Father Emilein Tiefer broke down sobbing like he was eighteen, fifteen, eleven years old again, the acrid taste of his sister still lingering in the back of his throat.