Personal Jesus
"Tell us, pray, what devil This melancholy is, which can transform Men into monsters."- John Ford
"Father," I purred softly, to his dark ear, "I have sinned."
The curtly teasing declaration barely shook the roots of his mountain. He was a stalwart, impressive adversary, worthy of nothing but the utmost respect from monster to mortal. I had no idea how well today's exchange would go, but it would be a refreshing exercise indeed. The last time we had met, he had cut off my right arm and my left leg and it was a glorious day indeed, fillling him likewise full of holes and laughing like a goddamn lunatic with only two of four of my limbs remaining.
Ah. I do miss the old days.
The man in question, poised at the altar with his head bowed, looked behind him slowly. Long reaching fingers of the moon reached in through the stained glass windows; they filled the round gleam of his glasses like cups, full of silver, and made his mouth a mockery of civility. "Aye? And how many sins have ye accumulated this time, ye daft monster?"
"Let me count them." The Casull felt like a wonderful weight, alive with possibility, filling me with a pulsing need to feel blood spatter against my frozen skin, setting fire to my blood, bringing me to the absolute climax. Each bullet was the quintessential proof of existence. It was my mark on this dark, filthy world... marks made for no one but my Master. Little did she understand that everything I did was, in fact, for my own pure malicious joy. "With each one of these."
Good Father Anderson made a noise like a growl and a groan, as if he's been content with fighting me already. But his broad shoulders tightened under the holy garb he wore, and there again - that smile, that beautiful smile, revealing the beast that otherwise looked so tame, with perfectly straight teeth. The pools of his glasses gleamed at me in furtive interest. "I dinnae think you 'ave come to commune with my Lord."
"Of course not," I answered none too kindly, tipping my hat over my eyes with a crooked smile. "Though this house of God is tainted. My Master has sent me here, under orders that I must silence the freaks residing in the floor boards."
There, his brow wrinkled. He turned around gradually, a frown on his lips. "We must stop runnin' into each other like this. I swear that I was sent for th'same."
Integra, I started thinking, what did you really send me here for? But the opportunity was too sweet to pass up, to dance with a well-loved partner to our familiar deathsong. "I don't even sense a hint of the supernatural here... Priest, I think we've been played. You're too much of a golden boy to lie."
"I take that as a compliment," Anderson replied with a surprisingly generous beaming smile. The ring of blessed bayonets grated on my ears, gleaming from his hands. "Ya sin-drenched filth!"
The space between us considerably disintegrated in an explosion of urgency. A single bayonet pierced my breast and filled my nose with the scent of seared copper; the rest of my senses reeled with the taste of something different. Those tense shoulders hardened like stone, expending every energy possible to push me back. The altar behind him creaked and groaned with our combined weight. His skin tasted like sweat and bitter soap; he smelled like something clean and pressed, a savory smoky hint of new sins yet unnumbered. He pushed harder. The hard slab of his thigh nudged between my legs; he groaned again, his teeth flashing white in a grimace of amusement.
"Ye can't wait, can ye..." He slid his palm from the handle of the bayonet to the other side, where the blade was still sticking out from between my ribs, flicking his knuckle against the substance so it resonated from inside my very flesh.
I pushed my tongue against his throat and moaned around pain, "O Judas Priest... You cannot comprehend."
In the darkness, my master would beat me - as many masters did at least once in their lives. But oh, my Integra, would whip me... and I would wait for it, her silhouette, the hard instrument of punishment hot in her white-knuckled grasp. The pain would blossom behind my closed eyes, my breath panting, begging for more, as her anger spilled out in a flood of savagery. I never knew it could feel so good to serve such a minimal purpose.
But it never felt like this, like rough hands pushing between lapels, raking blunt human teeth against my jaw, hard metal thrumming against my skin. I shot him in the shoulder and tore my fingertips into the seeping hole, grinning around his lips, his adam's apple dipping dangerously low with his groan of carnal pleasure. His virgin eagerness gave me no end of amusement. His first pleasure had been pain - I saw the memories bright and clear in his mind, the guilty evidence of his own sin staining his gloves, his pants, blood on his sheets as he explored the limits of his regeneration in his dark little room, guiltily reaping the enjoyment.
Now it was in my best interest to oblige his indulgences, under the gaze of Our Lord and Savior.
"More," he started to say, choked with blood, almost apologetically.
He pulled the bayonet out of my chest with a sick, muddy squelch. His hard legs pulled me down, refused to let go. I sucked at his tongue and let one single hand move downward. His robe had been since torn open. His body was scarred and yet soft, like new silk, and the clean smell was submitting to the stench of blood. I painted a heart on his rapidly rising and falling chest.
"Soon."
His legs quivered, and he knew he was willingly corrupting his soul in front of me. His unshakable faith locked away, guarded, but his faith in his God's forgiveness made me laugh. He scowled at me, patience draining away from his eyes. Then his expression was screwed up into one of hatred and alarm, writhing to escape my explorative touch that had begun a southward route.
"NO! Stop!! Ngh...!"
"You're not a priest if you're not chaste," I observed calmly, cupping the stunningly hard bulge of flesh between his legs with my palm, prominently glaring with heat despite his bloodstained trousers.
The priest howled with desperate outrage, kicking his leg out at my knee and snapping it with a crunch. I staggered away, took up the forgotten bayonet, and effortlessly pinned the offensive leg to the altar with it.
Anderson's scream was pleasing. I covered him quickly, seizing his arms and nailing them respectively to the altar as well, knocking unlit candles and the empty coffer to the floor with a rattling clang.
"You asked for more," I reminded, watching him writhe, my handiwork sending thrills of desire through my center. I enjoyed the savage hatred he bore for me in his unrepenting gaze. I felt no remorse. He was mine here, in this filthy little church, no eyes but God's to bear witness to this shame.
I smiled at his discomfort. He looked a horrid mess, his clothes torn open, his blood seeping into every available edifice, sacrificial offering to his pathetic God. I stroked his feverish skin, lapping blood from the corner of my mouth. "Don't you think for a moment that God understands?"
"You BASTARD," he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. "God... O Jesus, my Lord, forgive me--"
He bucked on the altar, while I took what I wanted, his meaningless prayers dissolving into senseless whines and growls of hate, lust, mindless, all wrapped into one. He bit his lip hard to silence himself, but that only served to please him more than it did me. He begged for God's mercy, he begged for mine. He wept like a boy.
The only witness now was shadows. The riotous minions of my past hovered near, breathing the odor of corruption, whipped into frenzied gleeful dancing as he began to rise and fall with my acutely deft ministrations. I peeled his flesh away in layers, dug my fingers deep until my fingertips scraped his bones, digging deep as if I was searching for his stubborn faith so I could effectively cut it out of him and render him a godless eunuch. His panting becoming darting moans, prayers gone now. I sucked at his fingertips, while they yet quivered with shock-induced tremors. I sipped the sweat from his palms. I wanted him to remember this. I wanted him to remember who took him first.
At the end, his breathing roughened, and every iota of his body was coiling inward, his tongue leaden and his eyes blindly seeking redemption in the boiling depths of my gaze. He found none there. His spent passion spilled glitteringly over his ruined body, pearls before swine. He breathed against my smiling lips, the victorious devil I was, a name that was not for God or the Devil - it was for me.
He wept no more, but his shuddering breaths emptied onto thin air. I watched him pull himself free of the bayonets, his body broken (no more than his soul). His hands trembled as he pushed his glasses up his nose as if nothing, nothing in the world had transpired. If not for his nakedness, one would think he had just suffered a small nightmare.
I lifted the Casull before him. "There is no more fight in you for now, is there." Exhiliration gave way to a dull, mind-pummeled apathy for what I had done to Anderson. In the wreckage of his faith, I pieced together only a stolid resentment for me and also a guiltless need to see me again. Sad that I alone made his faith real... the only real monster in a world of slavering fools.
"Get out," he said. "Get out, you--" His voice died, and replaced his curses with a breathless sigh.
I turned away and left him to his misery, a permenant smile pasted on my lips, which still tasted of soap.
Author's Notes: I wonder what was going through my mind when I wrote this. It's... not a happy fic... just wanted to show how much of an insufferable beast Alucard can be...