[Warning: Language]
"It's grown back again, hasn't it?"
Mephistopheles froze, halfway to seating himself at the kitchen table, and arched one brilliant red eyebrow at his frowning sister. "Excuse me?"
"Your tail. It must have grown back, it's the only time you dress like _that_." She gestured to his rather baggy attire, a pair of loose black slacks and a white dress shirt several sizes too large; a far cry from his usual closely-tailored ensemble.
"Yes, it did," Mephistopheles agreed somewhat grudgingly as he finished seating himself. He tugged the hem of his shirt up, uncoiling a rather long, barbed tail from his waist, where he had been keeping it hidden. "I'm going to have to go into Dr. Benway and have it surgically removed _again_." He rolled his yellow-tinged hazel eyes melodramatically, his tail slinking sheepishly to the floor and twining around the legs of the chair.
"Honestly, Meph, I don't know why you keep getting it cut off," Dante chided her brother as she busied herself pouring two steaming cups of coffee. "It's nothing to be ashamed of."
"DANte, do you know how tacky obvious signs of demonic parentage are? They're just so 17th century." Mephistopheles sounded somewhat irritated and bored in the same breath, and he leaned his cheek into a waiting palm as he watched his sister collected the cream and sugar and put it on a tray with the coffee and biscuits.
"You know, there's a reason we keep up the old traditions. They _work_, for one." Her voice took on a lecturing tone, but it also held a tinge of ennui. Clearly, this was an old argument.
"Oh, don't start. Besides, I may end up keeping it this time after all. Christopher thinks I should." He pursed his thin, elegant lips in a small moue of disgust as Dante raised her eyebrows in surprise.
"Christopher? Your priest?"
"Yes, _my_ priest. He says that I'll be a powerful symbol to the masses when he finally manages to convert me. As _if_." Mephistopheles heaved a long sigh.
"So," his sister began carefully, "You haven't managed to corrupt him yet? It's been, what-"
"Nine months," Mephistopheles cut his sister off warningly. "And no, I haven't."
"But Mom invited him to that-"
"I _know_. I have absolutely no idea what to do." Mephistopheles cast his eyes down to the coffee his sister slowly slid across the table to him, watching his reflection in the black depths before mournfully adding a generous dollop of cream.
"Meph, can I ask a personal question?" Dante watched her brother with concern, reaching up to unconsciously twine a length of dark auburn hair peeking from her scarf around a plump finger.
"Shoot."
"Are you in love with him?"
He looked up at her then, and the gold tinge in his eyes seemed to shine wetly. "Hopelessly," he answered in a doleful voice.
"Oh, Lucifer."
"Tell me about it." He added three heaping teaspoons of sugar, provoking a small grimace of distaste from Dante. But when he looked up at her, she was straightening the hem of her voluminous black skirt, studiously avoiding his gaze. "Look, Dante-"
"I just... I just worry about you, little brother. I mean.you've been seducing priests since you were thirteen, you're the best I've ever seen at it! And you do it so effortlessly, and still manage to have a good time, on top of all that. This is the first one that's really thrown you any curve balls. I mean, if you were just taking your time, or heaven! If you wanted to settle down with this one, I could understand it. But... he's not even turned, is he? I mean, you're not-"
"We're not fucking, no."
"So what's the deal, Meph? I mean.I don't want you to see you go down Anton's path." Her voice was quiet, full of deep worry.
He tried to crack a weak smile. "You must be serious, if you're bringing up our older brother."
"Not anymore." Her voice is suddenly stern, like the crack of a whip. "He's not our brother anymore."
"Dante, just because-"
"I don't want to hear about it. Mom was right to throw him out. He _abandoned_ us, for that little _Baptist_ bitch." She practically spit the word, and her brown eyes sparked with fury.
"He didn't want to, you know." Mephistopheles' voice was quiet, careful, and somehow sad, and he took a slow sip of coffee.
"He made his choices. He can live with them." She glanced up at her brother again. "But I don't want to talk about him. We're talking about you. You and your... priest. Are you going to tell Mom before Saturday?"
"I'd rather not. She's not going to take it well. But I suppose I have to."
"Yeah, I think you do. But you're not." her voice slid down into a quiet, almost terrified whisper, "You're _not_ converting, are you?"
"Oh, Satan, no." For a moment he allowed humor to fill his eyes, his tail flickering with amusement behind him. "I have no interest in becoming Catholic." He sighed again. "Problem is, he has no interest in becoming Church of Satan. Dante, I don't know what to do!" He looked at her pleadingly, as though sure the five year age gap must have provided her with some wisdom.
"Well, why don't you tell me a little bit about him," Dante invited, wearing her big-sister-confidant role like a comfortable cloak.
"Well, he's gorgeous, for one. I mean, absolutely stunning... beautiful black hair, just about the perfect body, and these utterly amazing eyes." Mephistopheles leaned dreamily into his hand as he talked. "And he's so passionate! When you get him on the topic of corruption in the church, or the infallibility of the pope." He looked up at his sister with something close to despair.
"He should be so _easy_. I mean, he's got all the traits that make for a smooth corruption: great passion, a quick temper, a love of the physical... I mean, for Satan's sake, Dante, he's a _flagellant_!"
"So how does he feel about you?"
"That's the worst part of it! I _know_ he wants me. I sleep in the same blessed bed as he does, half the week! Almost naked, right next to him! And he squirms, and shifts, and lets me touch him for a bit... then he runs off into the next room to whip himself. That man has more welts across his back." Mephistopheles bit down on his lower lip at the thought, almost overcome by the desire the man provoked in him. "I think he loves me, too. I mean, he's not getting sex from me - not that I wouldn't give it away at the first invitation - but he still wants to spend time with me. We have these great discussions... dear Lucifer, but he'd make a wonderful Satanist. I can see the potential in him... but he's still holding out!"
Dante listened to her brother with some interest, folding her tattooed hands neatly in front of her, ignoring her coffee for the moment. Never had she heard her brother so worked up about another person; usually he was charmingly self-centered in a harmless sort of way. "You really love him, don't you?" she asked softly.
"Yes!" he answered, distress breaking through his normally smooth tenor. "Yes, God take me, I adore him, I worship him!"
"Then you're going to have to be patient," Dante told him decisively. "If he really is all you say he is... well, then he's worth the wait."
Mephistopheles looked at his sister is a state of semi-shock. "Wait a minute... you're telling me I should wait... for a priest? My sister, voted Miss Depraved Illinois two years running, is telling me to wait for a priest?"
"Meph, I just want you to be happy. If that mean taking two years to corrupt a priest, then settling down with him for a life of delightful debauchery, as strange as I find monogamy, then yes, I think you should wait." She smiled at him, her lightly freckled face shining cheerfully in the afternoon sun streaming through the kitchen window.
Impulsively, Meph, leaned forward to grasp her hands in his, squeezing lightly. "Dante, you are the best sister ever! What do I owe Beelzebub for having you in my life?"
She grinned back at him impishly. "Now you just have to figure out what you're going to tell Mom."
"CHRIStopher, you can't be serious!" Mephistopheles exclaimed, somewhat outraged as he leaned back in his chair, barbed tail flickering with irritation behind him.
"What will it hurt?" Christopher asked calmly, sipping his tea and studying his friend with a pair of deeply blue eyes, like the twilit sky.
"I am _not_ going to Mass with you, and that's final." The younger man snorted, rolling his golden hazel eyes and crossing his arms over a toned chest covered snugly with a burgundy silk top. "I don't know why you keep asking. Lucifer, what would my _mother_ say?"
"Since when do you factor your mother into your decisions?" the priest asked archly, setting down the delicate porcelain cup.
"When it comes to religion, since forever," Mephistopheles answered calmly, then leaned forward, his thick red hair falling forward over one eye. He pushed it back impatiently, and tried his most charmingly serious look on the other man. "Chris, I worship the ground you walk on. The operative word being _you_, not your god."
"But how do you know if you don't-"
"_Chris_. I know, okay. Trust me on this. I've boffed enough Catholic priests." Mephistopheles immediately regretted the statement as he watched the other man narrow his eyes, almost angrily. "Oops, maybe that was the wrong way to put it. Look, let's just say the church doesn't exactly tempt me, okay?"
"Yeah." Christopher's normally warm baritone seemed several degrees colder than a few seconds previous. Mephistopheles bit his lower lip lightly, and reached across the small table to take the other man's hand.
"Chris." The priest remained silent. "Chris.come on.don't be mad." More silence. "If you're going to stay mad I'm going to have to do something." Nothing.
//I swear, he does this just to get me to react,// Mephistopheles thought wryly as he slipped out of his chair to his knees next to the other man. He brought the hand still held in his to his mouth, and lightly flicked his tongue across the broad knuckles, watching Christopher's face as he did so. Still stony, his normally lush and generous mouth set in a hard line.
Carefully, Mephistopheles took one long forefinger into his mouth, suckling at it wantonly, swirling his tongue over the pad before sucking the whole thing into his mouth with a wet sound. He watched those beautiful lips part, allowing a soft sigh to escape, and his tail danced behind him in triumph. He dipped his head again to take in two more fingers, teasing them with his tongue, before Christopher pulled his hand away reluctantly.
"You shouldn't do that," he chided quietly, but with no real force behind his words. "It's not.proper."
Mephistopheles remained on his knees, resting his cheek lightly against his friend's knee. "I know.but I can't help myself," he purred, rubbing like a cat against the thin cotton of the other's slacks. Christopher smiled down at his fondly.
"Oh, Meph, what am I going to do with you?"
"Throw me on the bed and fuck me senseless?' Mephistopheles responded hopefully.
"Not an option," the priest reminded him somberly, and the younger man rolled his eyes.
"So I can give a faux blow job to your fingers, and sleep in your bed, but I can't fuck you." He tried to keep the bitterness out of his tone, but saw his failure writ spectacularly across Christopher's face, in the sudden stony ache of his frown.
"We've talked about this before," Christopher said slowly, looking away, at anywhere but Mephistopheles' face. "Maybe.maybe you shouldn't be here."
"Oh, Chris, I'm sorry, you know me and my big mouth." Mephistopheles scooted forward, to lay his head in his friend's lap, winding his lean arms around the other's waist. "Please don't make me go," this last in a pleading whisper.
"I.alright. I just.I don't know what to do with you, Meph." The confusion, the utter loss of what to do was evident as always. This was an old conversation, an old argument. Mephistopheles never knew how to unravel the complexity of his priest, that the man would let him get so close, and yet still not allow himself that one bit of comfort. Surely his god would think sleeping with a man was a sin, why not take advantage, if he's already sinning? Christopher never really could explain why some things he would allow, others were taboo, not to Mephistopheles' satisfaction, anyway.
"Just don't kick me out. Not tonight."
"I won't." Christopher leaned over his friend's body, kissing him lightly on the top of his head, and Mephistopheles smiled secretly to himself when he felt the other man stop for a moment to breath in the scent of all that violently red hair. Abruptly, the younger man tipped his head to the side, so his face was within inches of the priest's. He smiled up at him sweetly, pleased with the sudden intake of breath. //Well, at least I know he's tempted,// he soothed himself, reassured by the familiar bulge in the older man's pants.
"Chris, I have a favor to ask." he said, biting his lower lip hesitantly. The priest remained bent over, staring down into those golden eyes, not even flinching as Mephistopheles playfully snaked his tail around the other's knee.
"Mm, go ahead."
"Well, it's about my mother.you see, she wants you to come over for dinner on Saturday."
Christopher sat up abruptly, blinking his beautiful dark eyes owlishly. "Your mother? Wants to have _me_ to dinner?"
Mephistopheles nodded, tilting his face up to watch the priest. "She does this with all the people I see for more than a few months.and, well, you've clocked in the longest time so far."
"I have?"
"Mmhm." Mephistopheles cast his eyes down briefly, then smiled back up at the older man. "Congratulations."
"Well! Um.I suppose I should go then. Though we're not really seeing each other as such." Christopher blinked thoughtfully, idly running his fingers through Mephistopheles' hair. "Will she.?"
"Just don't try and convert her, Chris. You've got to be on best behavior with mum, or she'll eat you alive," Mephistopheles warned suddenly.
"Look, I'm sure I can handle-"
"For me, love? I mean, my mother and I get on fairly well, and I don't want to see her and the man I love getting in a tiff when they first meet." Mephistopheles sat up, giving his best puppy dog eyes to the frowning priest.
"Well.alright. For you, then. I can wear my collar, can't I?" Christopher arched one expressive brow up, the corners of his lips quirked crookedly.
"Of course! Mum _does_ know you're a priest, after all."
"Well, I guess I'm going then."
Mephistopheles let his wide grin spread across his face like melting butter, and snatched Christopher's hand, bestowing loud, wet kisses upon it. The priest laughed, lightly brushing his fingers over the younger man's cheek. "Time for bed, then," he said, smiling down.
"Mm," Mephistopheles agreed, getting to his feet and stretching, arching his back out gracefully, like a dancer. He felt Christopher's eyes on him, and added a little weave of his tail for effect, before deliberately turning his back, unfastening his pants, and leaning over to pull them off. A little gasp was his reward, and he stepped out of his pants neatly, toeing them to the side and turning as he began to undo the line of buttons on his shirt.
"Um, excuse me," Christopher muttered, his porcelain skin flushing a lovely deep crimson. He stood quickly, and ducked into the bedroom. Mephistopheles padded leisurely after him, knowing he would find the priest ensconced in the little bathroom with the door shut firmly behind him. Chuckling to himself, he let his shirt fall to the floor, then threw himself on the bed, wearing nothing but a pair of burgundy silk boxers. He let his eyes drift closed as he listened to the sounds of Christopher nightly ablutions, the tinkle of water in the small sink soothing.
Finally, the other man exited the bathroom, wearing a pair of voluminous silk pyjama bottoms, his broad chest bare. Mephistopheles watched him with slitted eyes, adoring the view of his priest's muscular arms and shoulders, the soft curl of black hair low on his stomach leading into his waistband, the curve of his hipbones, so deliciously masculine. His tail snaked across the bed beside him, betraying his state of awareness.
"Just sleep tonight, Meph," Christopher warned him as he flipped off the lights and slipped the covers of the bed over his legs, leaving his upper body bare. He said it every night they spent together, like some sort of useless mantra. Mephistopheles found it somewhat comforting by now.
The priest rolled over onto his side, facing away from the younger man, and settled himself into the lush pillows. Mephistopheles lay there for a few minutes, then begin slowly inching himself closer, bit by bit, until he was almost, but not quite, pressed up against the other man's back. He breathed gently across the Christopher's neck, then raised his arm and lightly began to trail his fingers down the priest's shoulder, tracing spirals and arcane patterns across his skin. He felt the other man shift slightly, his breathing increase a touch in tempo, but nothing else.
Smiling wickedly to himself, he firmed his touch somewhat, trailing down to the older man's side, stroking just above the hip. He let his thumb massage lightly there, before dipping his head to rub his nose gently through the thick ebon hair in front of his, inhaling the priest's lovely spicy fragrance, musky and rich. As he drew in a deep breath, he heard Christopher echo him, his breathing turning husky and rough.
This was the danger zone. Any minute now, Christopher was going to leap from the bed and flee to the other room. It was only a matter of how far Mephistopheles could get before it happened. Sometimes he slowed things down achingly, going no further than these gentle touches, trying to draw it out. But tonight he felt bold, and so moved quickly, pushing himself forward to mold himself into Christopher's back, shivering at the glorious feel of that hot skin pressed into his chest and legs. At the same time he slid his hand down so that he was cupping the other man's hip, nearly brushing his groin, and he moved that half an inch forward to press his lips to the priest's neck, licking and nipping.
For ten agonizing seconds, Christopher let him do it, arching back into his touch with a groan. And then he was off the bed as predicted, slamming himself into the walk-in closet. The closet that held his collection of whips, his symbols of his devotion to God, his desire for penitence. Mephistopheles wondered idly which one he'd use tonight, then heard the heavy thuds coming from behind the hollow door. The flogger of braided rope, tied into heavy knots, like those used to punish seamen in the 1800s. It was a cruel choice, that often not only flaying Christopher's back open, but leaving heavy bruises as well.
Mephistopheles sighed softly into the darkness, then moved forward to bury his face in Christopher's pillow, inhaling his scent and trying to hold back the tears. He comforted himself with the thought that in only an hour or so, his beloved would come back, and fall into a deep slumber, eased by the waves of forgiving grace that washed through him when he used the whips. And in the morning, they would awake in a tangle of limbs, finding in their sleep what they could not in the waking world.
Mephistopheles straightened Christopher's clerical collar one last time as they stood in front of the door to his mother's house. His tail danced in agitation behind him as he looked up into placid blue eyes.
"How can you be so bloody calm?" he burst out with at the older man, who was neat and, Mephistopheles had to admit, resplendent in the traditional black vestments of the church.
"Am I supposed to be afraid of your mother?" Christopher asked, pulling his eyes from the fat black tapers burning in the window to regard his boyfriend. "Is she going to eat me or something?"
"She might just!" Mephistopheles moaned, running fingers up into his long hair and yanking at it. "I want this to go so perfectly, and I know she's just going to start throwing out the rude questions, or - Ba'al forbid! - bring out the photo albums, or-"
"Meph." Christopher laid a gentle hand on the smaller man's shoulder. The redhead stilled, biting his lower lip and looking up again. "It'll be all right. Promise. She can't possibly be as bad as the little old Italian ladies in my parish, and I won them over."
"You don't know my mum." Mephistopheles sighed, but then nodded. "You're right. I need to calm down. You'll do fine. Just remember, the white wine's fine, but _don't_ drink the red, don't ask what's in the casserole, and-"
"-and don't tell her she looks too young to be your mother, I _did_ get it the first ten times."
"Right. Right. All right." Mephistopheles took a deep breath, then turned to face the door, reaching for the knob-
-which was yanked away from him as the door was opened from the inside, revealing a plump woman with pretty red hair two shades darker than Mephistopheles' pulled back in a loose braid. "Meph! How long are you planning on standing out here?" she hissed to him, grabbing his wrist and pulling him inside, not waiting for him to answer. Then she stuck her head back out to smile sweetly up at Christopher.
"Oh, my little brother was right, you _are_ pretty. Come on in." The priest blinked down at her, surprised, but followed her inside.
"Dante!" Mephistopheles confronted his sister, scowling at her in outrage. She just patted his arm, and turned that same innocent smile on him.
"Don't start with me, Mom was heading out this way to see what the fuss was. You don't want him," jerking her thumb at Christopher, "to run into her first, do you? I got her back in the kitchen." Mephistopheles sighed, but had to agree, his sister was a little easier to swallow than his mother. Her voluminous black skirt and chaste, high collared blouse gave her a deceptively staid air, only the tattoos coiling darkly over her hands and the tasteful silver pentagram resting above her heart betraying her.
She smiled again at Christopher, dimpling charmingly, and held out a hand. "Dante Faust, I'm Mephistopheles' big sister. You're Chris, right? Pleased to meet you." Christopher, thrown, shook her hand with a hesitant smile in return.
"Ah, yes, Christopher Vespucci. But Chris is fine."
"Great. Well, look, Meph, I have to go make sure Mom's not going to poison us all tonight. Why don't you give your honey a tour of the house?"
"Oh, I'm not his-"
Dante cut the priest off with another smile, this one accompanied by a gaze that could cut diamonds. "Look, Chris. Something you need to understand here. My baby brother is madly in love with you, for whatever reason. Now he's told me your 'situation', and I can't say I approve, but he's old enough to make his own choices. _However_, in the house of mother, you _will_ treat him with the affection and respect he's due, or so help me Lucifer, I will rip out your tongue by the roots with my bare hands and feed it to the cat. Understand?"
Christopher stared at her for a full ten seconds before he could manage to nod mutely. "Good!" Dante pressed under his jaw to close his mouth with a click, then kissed her brother on the cheek. "Have fun."
Mephistopheles rubbed his temples, and managed a rueful, "Sorry about that. Dante can get a little flagrant, sometimes."
"Meph. Your sister has freckles,' Christopher pointed out.
Mephistopheles looked up in surprise. "Uh . yes?"
"Isn't she supposed to be a practicing Satanist?"
"Yes again? Satanists aren't allowed to have freckles?"
"And she's got." He furrowed his brow, gesturing at his throat to indicate a high collar. He leaned in, eyes wide. "She's so _wholesome_ ... dimples!"
Mephistopheles blinked at him, and then burst out laughing, great gusts of relieved giggles, hanging on to the taller man's shoulder. "Oh . oh, love . no, that's . well." He tried to catch his breath, waving a hand at Christopher. "I think you have a lot to learn about us. We don't all dye our hair black and wear too much make-up, you know."
"Well, I didn't think that-" Christopher started stiffly, then sighed. "All right, maybe I did. But, even the clothes? You don't dress like that."
Mephistopheles rolled his eyes. "Well, that's just Dante. She's part of a sect, the Daughters of Baphomet, who all dress like that. Their bodies are considered consecrated to a certain demonic force or entity, and therefore must be covered at all times, except when being used in service of that demon." He sniffed. "Dante's kind of a throwback in our family. She always was more conservative than the rest of us."
Mephistopheles took Christopher's hand, leading him through the rest of the house. The couch in warm earth tones, the television with slightly bent rabbit ears, and the various hanging plants distracted almost entirely from the paintings on the walls, which consisted almost wholly of various graphic and obscene acts being performed on animals by cheerfully grinning humans. Christopher took in the whole room wide eyed before being led to the back hall.
As he regarded the strangely shaped and cheerfully colored insertables arrayed on the edge of the bathtub among the shampoo bottles and bath salts, he asked Mephistopheles, "I thought your family was English? But your sister sounds pure middle America."
"Oh, no, I'm the only one with the British accent. We're from Illinois, originally."
Christopher digested this contemplating the little altar set up next to the computer in the den. He could swear that the dead rat lying in its own blood atop the skull that was the centerpiece for the altar winked at him. "Are there . many diabolists in the Midwest?"
"Oh, sure, lots. You know, Satanic Bible Belt and all."
Mephistopheles' old bedroom proved to be illuminating. Literally. His walls were covered with reproductions of pages of the Bible, hand painted by monks. The window that could be seen behind black drapes had been colored in by markers in a younger Mephistopheles' attempt to created his own stained glass. Several severe looking photographs of priests, mostly in full robes and vestments, and mostly Catholic, though a few Russian Orthodox, were scattered about on the walls. The redhead stood shyly in the doorway as Christopher looked around.
"I guess I've always had a bit of a Catholic fetish," he admitted. "This is all left from my rebellious phase. Mum used to get so angry." He cast amber-hazel eyes down, twisting his hands in front of himself nervously. He risked a glance up when Christopher said nothing, and winced at the hard expression on the older man's face.
"I'm sorry?" he managed to get out as the priest strode across the room angrily, and seized him by the shoulders, pushing him up hard against the wall.
"No more," Christopher growled, low and rough.
"W-what?" Mephistopheles gaped up at him, his tail twitching anxiously against the wall. Christopher's hands gripped him tight enough to bruise.
"No more, no more of these _other men_," he snarled, eyes narrowed, mouth a tight, angry line as he gestured sharply at the pictures on the walls.
Mephistopheles felt like he'd been hit in the gut, as all the air went out of him. He managed a breathy, "A-all right ." as he stared up at Christopher.
"You're mine," the priest insisted, and backed up his claim with a furious, vicious kiss that lit Mephistopheles from within - the warmth that spreads after a hard slap, flushing the skin with fading pain and delicious tingle. Before Mephistopheles could melt and wind around the other man, Christopher pulled away and stepped out of the room, waiting out in the hall with his fists clenched at his side. Mephistopheles raised a wondering hand to his mouth, smoothing his forefinger over the damp lower lip as if to preserve the harsh kiss there permanently.
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