Archive of Our Own

The train ride back to Venice from Rome was spent in silence and long contemplation. To any outsiders in the train car, or even to his team, quietly chattering about something Tedesco didn’t care to hear, the patriarch of Venice may seem characteristically indignant; looking out the window with his chin propped up in his hand, the outside world speeding by rapidly on the reflection of his glasses, brow furrowed in seeming concentration. 

He had, however, been uncharacteristically quiet since the end of the Conclave, muttering a brisk, vague acknowledgement of the new Holy Father to the Italian press (Cos'altro c'è da augurare al nuovo Papa? Che Dio lo benedica), as he exited St. Peter’s Square. His personal secretary, a young man named Gianmarco, had been prepared for enduring endless ranting and a broad list of new investigations to conduct or, at the very least, some sort of attempt to meddle around for information on the new Pope, but at his arrival to Venice Cardinal Tedesco had only requested to postpone his meetings as much as possible, and to get in contact with the current Parroco of his favorite church in the city, a small parish church where he had once upon a time served as head priest, decades ago before climbing the ranks of the curia. 

This was not unusual for His Eminence, to contact Don Martin, the parroco of the Chiesa named after the all-compassionate martyr of Nicomedia, to step in to officiate mass in his dear old church. In the eyes of Gianmarco, it often meant —at least by his own deduction— that Cardinal Tedesco was going through a rough patch and longed for the normalcy and comfort of celebrating mass in the beautiful historic church, particularly during the off-season when Venice had the least amount of tourists around and the now-patriarch could focus on the locals he had served for decades. This habit, coming from a man so fond of running his mouth to the press and smirking at dozens of people screaming questions at him from behind flashing cameras, had always struck him as odd. But what else was there to say? Sì, eminenza. Sarà fatto. It was always yes, it will be done even when Gianmarco would have to deal with the fallout of pushing back the endless stream of “most important” meetings with the Patriarch. Tedesco did not like to be told no.

So here he was, barely a day after arriving from his excursion to Rome, walking to the back of the church in his idea of “unassuming” casual clothes (in reality highly expensive designer threads, and his beloved pair of engraved louboutin shoes), with nothing but his phone and a brand new vape in his pockets, ready to change into another man’s liturgical wear and turn off his brain for the few hours that the sacristy preparations, mass and confessions would keep him entertained. 

Truth be told, Tedesco was angry. A seething, hot, pulsating anger within the depths of his soul that threatened to explode at any moment. There was something else there, lingering, poking, whispering within him, that he could not particularly pinpoint or put a name to. Some sort of profound disappointment he could only relate to the feeling he would get as a child when none of his siblings would want him on their team when they played football in the dirt field beside their house, for he was deemed still too small to be of any help. By the time he was of age, his siblings no longer cared for playing. 

He despised this feeling more than the wrath, his most constant companion. Wrath was easy to slip into, and the loud voice inside his head, his internal monologue that had begun ranting and dissecting the conclave time and time again since the moment Pope Innocentius XIV had stepped foot into the loggia of the blessings, met with thunderous, deafening joy and applause. It wasn’t even worth it to pretend to himself that he didn’t care, that he hadn’t believed with all of his heart in the past couple of days that he would be the one to succeed Saint Peter. He felt such a profound shame, a burning jealousy so strong it almost blinded him. And what was worse; the fear, the suspicion that these feelings he had allowed to fester slowly, for years, would perhaps be his undoing. By day he thought unbecoming, pathetic thoughts, and asked God why he had not picked him. By night he repeated the prayer most often assigned to him as penitence by his confessor, the words so sickeningly familiar that they rolled off the tongue so easily by now.

O Jesus, meek and humble of heart,

Hear me.

 

From the desire of being esteemed,

Deliver me, O Jesus.

 

From the desire of being loved,

Deliver me, O Jesus.

 

From the desire of being extolled,

Deliver me, O Jesus.

 

From the desire of being honored,

Deliver me, O Jesus.

 

From the desire of being praised,

Deliver me, O Jesus.

 

From the desire of being preferred to others

Deliver me, O Jesus.

 

Back in the sistine, in the midst of applause and joy for having reached a vote that led to the appointment of their new leader and most holy shepard, Tedesco had felt only stillness. During that last poll, right after the explosion, an ineffable sort of profound serenity had cloaked the room, and had also, apparently, pushed the grand majority of his brothers to vote for the one man in the room none of them had even known about just a few days earlier. So why could he not feel it? That soft whisper of the Holy Spirit that Cardinals from all over the world had mentioned as soon as the Mexican pontiff was ushered into the room of tears, leaving them to discuss between each other, sharing in the joy of having fulfilled their duties. What about him was so wrong, so rotted and twisted that he was unable to listen to the guidance of the Holy Spirit? Dio non commette errori, ne sono certo, quindi perché sono maledetto da questo fardello? Da questa gelosia disperata e implacabile? 

Bah, he had had enough moping around. He’d confess and atone for his pride and wrath, maybe even for his jealousy, if he felt like it. But the only thing that mattered at the moment was getting dressed; throwing on the stole around his neck before getting into the chasuble that fit slightly too small on him. Hitting his vape, he took pleasure at being dressed in another man’s clothes, and said the last vestment prayer in his head; "O Lord, who said, 'My yoke is sweet and my burden light,' grant that I may so carry it as to obtain your grace. Amen.” 

Though he would never say it out loud, there was another reason why he liked celebrating mass at this church, and today, she was sitting in the front row. Tedesco had been familiar with her for a few years now, as she was the eager young girl who had volunteered to become the head catechist when the very old woman who had been teaching it for nearly a decade had fallen ill. He would see her, elbow-deep in washable paint, making a sign for a church fundraiser next to the children, translating the teachings of Christ in a way that was comprehensible and enticing to the young, and welcoming to the old who were just now finding their way into to the loving arms of their mother, the Church. She would always have a bright smile on her face, no matter the day, and said his name very sweetly whenever he’d show up to celebrate mass or oversee any important celebrations. Eminenza, che benedizione riaverla qui. What had initially started as an innocent admiration of the young woman’s dedication to Christ and His teachings had slowly turned into a bit of an obsession. He had never crossed a line, no, he had no plans to break his vows nor time on his hands to spare on adolescent-like behaviour, she was a good, catholic modest lady and he was a man of God, who belonged only to Him, body and soul. 

But sometimes, when he had been sitting for hours in the confessional, or answering often repetitive and dull emails, his mind would wander and conjure the images of this sweet, innocent, devoted young woman who so reminded him of the types of girls he’d confess to fantasizing about to his childhood priest as a young boy, quick to shame and guilt. 

Sometimes it’d be fairly tame; the thought of a soft hand placed over his chest as she laughed softly at one of his jokes, or a lingering look over the shoulder as she rushed children out of the church and into the garden. Other times, it would be things he’d find himself praying and seeking penance over; fantasies of undoing the small buttons of the white thin sweater she wore over many dresses, ripping fabric until he could put his mouth on her breasts. Thoughts of getting her on her knees, seeing her looking up at him with those big eyes he so adored, begging to touch him, to take him, to be taken by him. 

He’d fantasize about the way her voice would break if he was to be inside of her, how warm and perfect she would be under, over or beside him, untouched by any pair of hands other than his own. Pure and clean and his, only his.

It had been a long time since he’d been back here, though, longer than he would’ve liked, particularly now, as he stood over the altar and, paying more attention to her figure, saw the slump of her shoulders and her downcast eyes. Never, in the years that he had known her, had he seen her like this during mass. The few odd times that he had heard her confession she would open up about certain struggles, but always with a complete trust that Christ was putting these obstacles in her life for a reason, and she was thankful for them, ready to atone if needed and keep on forward. Day or night, rain or shine, she always had the biggest smile of all the frequent parishioners of this church. E allora cosa è successo? What had happened since he had last been here? Sick mother? Financial troubles? Perhaps some health difficulties? 

See, this is what happens when you let these stronzos and their misdeeds distract you from your flock. He thinks to himself, realizing that it’s been almost a year since he last celebrated mass here. Anything could’ve been going on with her, and he’d have been too busy taking care of the late Pope’s disasters to know about it.

The guilt made the mass go by fast, and by the end of it he could not tell what feeling had been worse; having to say, for the first time ever “...together with Innocentius our pope, and me, your unworthy servant.” or the dreadful feeling that struck him when instead of standing up to join the line of people partaking in the eucharist, she lowered her head in shame and remained seated.

When mass was over and the altar boys had been dismissed, he looked over to the small line that was forming outside of the confessional and sighed in disappointment when she was nowhere to be found. Perhaps he truly was paying for his sins, if He had not even allowed him the opportunity of hearing her voice as consolation for the disastrous week he had spent in Rome. 

But he had a duty to fulfill, and he briefly stepped away to undress, leaving on the stole and filling his lungs with cherry-flavored nicotine before sitting down in the confessional booth and doing his best to send away his children with a lightness of heart, off to walk out of the church in peace.

The last two confessions of the day took way longer than anticipated, so much so that the Parroco had texted him to ask if he’d do him the favor of locking up the church after he was done so he could succumb to sleep. By the third attempt of telling the last penitent —a fairly old man— to pray a couple decades of the rosary, say the prayer of St. Francis and call it a night, the sunlight streaming in from the stained glass windows had been replaced with the colder, softer rays of moonlight. He finally got the man to feel better enough to go away, and Tedesco found himself leaning his head back on the wooden wall of the confessional, rubbing his tired eyes under his glasses and weirdly, wishing that there were more people stepping in so he didn’t have to return to the apartment he had thought he might never see again once he left for Rome. 

And as he opens the door, sliding off the stole from his shoulders, his prayers are answered. 

There she is, sitting on a pew close to the confessional; rosary hanging from her clasped hands, eyes already looking straight at him.

He says her name, the syllables sweet and delicious in his mouth, a smile forming over his lips as he stops removing the stole and pulls it right back over his shoulders. 

“Buonasera, Eminenza.” She replies, with a small smile that does not do justice to the ones he so treasures in his memory. “We have missed you a lot. You should have heard us all cheering in the office whenever you appeared on TV during the conclave.”

“Hah, yes.” He nods briefly, brushing aside the bitterness he feels at the mention of all that he lost. He had not only disappointed himself, but also his people. “It is good to be back. You look… troubled, mia cara.” He said, clasping his hands and furrowing his brow with concern. “Do you wish to step in?”

Her eyes follow the gesture that he makes toward the wooden confessional, her worried eyes settling over it as if it's a prison cell. When she returns her eyes to his, they are already full of tears.

“Oh, povera dolce ragazza.” He says, in a tone that would sound foreign even to him, if he was paying attention to anything other than her. He steps closer and sits down on the pew next to her, and just like that, her hands find themselves clasping his, her head bowed so as to not meet his gaze, ashamed, clutching his hands with a strength he finds himself being impressed by. “Whatever is weighing so deeply on you?”

“I am so ashamed, father.” She shakes her head, tears falling to their joined hands as her voice cracks. “So ashamed I don’t even feel worthy of receiving the sacrament of reconciliation.” It’s alarming, how fast she had broken under his compassion. Tedesco knows her father had died years ago, but did she not have enough trust in Don Martín, her priest, to speak about this first? To seek the fatherly comfort and guidance she so clearly desperately needed?

Had she been waiting for me?

“Shh, don’t you worry. Va bene, va bene. Our God is a most forgiving father, and you, my dear, are hardly capable of committing any irredeemable damage.” 

She stares up at him with her wet eyes, and his heart comes alive with warmth. It never gets old, these types of stares he gets from penitents, eyes that shine with a desperation only he can relieve them of. It feels even better when it comes from her.

“I’m not so sure of that now, Padre.” She says, but her voice is more contained, and he smiles and allows himself to memorize the features he had so missed before standing up, gently pulling on her hand so she can stand as well.

“Come on in, child. Grant me the pleasure of unburdening your soul. You know very well the extent of His mercy.”

She sniffles, her cheeks and the tip of her nose flushed, and nods her head before following him and stepping into the other side of the confessional booth, still unsure.

“Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last confession.” She starts. Through the grate of the confessional, he can see her staring off into nothingness, her hands joined together in front of her mouth, as if she’s shocked to be sharing that which so deeply troubles her. “I have been impatient, with my family, this past week, and with the children… I have neglected my duties to them, hardly paying attention to the teachings I’m supposed to be giving them.” 

Tedesco shifts in his seat, waiting for her to continue. He is not a particularly patient man, but tonight, and for her, he can be.

“I have dishonored my mother and the memory of my father, my beliefs, and my God.” She continues, voice trembling again. “And made a very stupid mistake.”

There’s a certain uneasiness that starts growing within him, as he twists his head ever so slightly to get a look at her without interrupting the words that are clearly so hard to utter. 

“There is a boy, who has been courting me for a few months now.” She explains. “He… he was a good prospect, in the eyes of my family. He’s baptized, devout, takes the sacraments, he- he seemed a good man, but I knew, deep inside, that I did not want to marry him.” 

The ugly feeling, which was starting to feel an awful lot like the jealousy he had been trying to avoid by being here, dissipates. This sweet girl, looking a wreck over rejecting some idiot. Feeling such guilt for something so pointless. He’s ready to tell her to go in peace, that she has nothing to atone for, to forgive herself and keep honoring the responsibilities she so treasures. 

But she is not done talking. 

“I told him so. But this… this thing that has always haunted me, father, he brought it out so easily in me, with the things he said, the way he looked at me.” She puts her face in her hands, then takes a breath and continues. “All my life, I’ve had these… desires. No matter how much I pray, how hard an effort I make to keep myself busy, there’s a hunger within me, Father. A hunger so big it feels like I am always starving. I have these dreams, lustful fantasies where I am touched, where I am taken by men and used for their pleasure. Where my own ecstasy builds on their desire, their need to have me.” 

Tedesco goes cold, quiet. She is crying again, clearly ashamed, and he can do no more than sit there, stunned. 

It is not an unusual confession, by any means. Perhaps the most common of all; but so unexpected coming from her. His innocent girl, the picture perfect catholic woman he had fantasized so much about, participating in the type of scenarios she herself is now describing. Still, that was his own fault, and inside of here, with the weight of the stole on his shoulders, he has a duty to deliver her from sin. No matter the effect that her words were causing to his body, growing warm, clenching and unclenching his fists in an effort to keep himself from crossing the line he has been so mindful about. Chi l’avrebbe mai detto? La mia piccola peccatrice…

“My child, you are not the first nor the last to struggle with these feelings. Why don’t we-”

“You don’t understand, Father.” She interrupts, and his eyes snap to meet hers through the grate, caught off guard by her nerve. “I slept with him. The night I went to tell him I wished to stop seeing him, he saw it in me. I don’t know how, I might have- I might have done something, looked at him a certain way, and we just… we kissed, and I was so lost in the feeling, so hungry that I touched him in a way I knew he could not resist. And I prayed that he would resist, but he did not, and he took me. And I let him, Father, I wanted him to.” 

The young girl blinks, tears still falling from her eyes though she is shaking no more. It has been said, before God, in His house, and she can’t help but be slightly more relieved now that she did the right thing and confessed to her most grievous sin. She is in His hands now, and that is where she’s always felt most comfortable.

“I dishonored myself in a way I can never take back. Dishonored my family, though they are none the wiser. I can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t think… all I feel is shame.”

There’s a beat, so silent that she can swear she hears the flickering of the candles that adorn the altar outside of the confessional. She waits for a disappointed sigh, an admonishment from the figure she admires the most on this earthly plane. She waits for the ground to crack open and swallow her into the fiery pits of hell. 

Tedesco is silent, unmoving. He thinks, for a few seconds, that there might be a lesson in all of this. But the sad truth is that this performance, this act he’s so fond of, the ritual of hiding out in this church to get a taste of normalcy, is now completely useless to him.

His wrath is unavoidable, and as soon as the shock at the revelation of her actions dissipates, it hits him like a slap on the face. It’s an anger he cannot compare to anything, a desolation, a betrayal so big he feels as if he might bleed out from his ears that seem to almost ring from this gigantic, bitter rage that finally overtakes him. 

Not a betrayal from her, but one from God himself.

From the fear of being ridiculed,

Deliver me, O Jesus.

 

From the fear of being wronged,

Deliver me, O Jesus.

 

From the fear of being suspected,

Deliver me, O Jesus.

 

That others may be loved more than I,

Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

 

That others may be esteemed more than I,

Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

Stupid, pathetic, empty words that he finds no comfort in anymore. He cannot come down from this, he thinks, can’t erase the ugliness with a prayer or a drag of his vape or a lie to tell himself, there’s no comfort to be had, no escape from the realization that he had now truly lost everything he had desired with such a burning passion in the matter of a week. He doesn’t get the seat at the throne, doesn’t get to make the decisions everyone else is too weak to make, he doesn’t get to save that which he adores most from the hands of people incapable of taking proper care of it. He’d lost the papacy, lost his dignity, and now… this. 

So many nights spent laying on his back, grasping the sheets, resisting the urge of relieving himself while thinking of her, dreaming of being the one to make her a woman. So many times he pictured himself in another lifetime, bringing her home to his mamma and knowing she was exactly the kind of girl she’d be proud of him for marrying, How many times had he rejoiced in the fact that his devotion was so big that not even the feverish, taunting, delicious conjuration of her image could bring him astray from his path? from his promises and utmost devotion to God?

And all for what? For some idiot boy to defile her and leave her to suffer the guilt of his own lack of restraint? For her chastity to be wasted so senselessly on an undeserving, lowborn fool?

What is this, Father? I have done nothing to deserve this punishment. He thinks.

Wrapped up in his resentful thoughts, in his complete and utter outrage, he doesn’t even begin to notice that she’s growing more and more sorrowful at his silence, and deeply uncomfortable as the air thickens with the sudden, obvious shift in the energy that he exudes, even while in silence. Tedesco snaps out of it when she mutters a pained apology for wasting his time and exits the confessional, unable to sit right next to him and his thinly veiled disappointment. He only grows more upset. There is no way she will walk away from me.

“Torna qui, subito!” He demands, bursting out of the creaky door that had contained him and the enormity of his anger, the fragile carved wood making a resounding slam against the confessional itself. “Don’t you dare leave!”

She freezes, and turns around slowly with a terrified expression. This was her biggest fear in confessing this, hearing his voice change from that lovely tone he reserved just for her. To see the disappointment in his eyes burning through her tainted body. For a second, she thinks he might slap her as he rushes closer, the very faint light that the candles emit reflects almost menacingly from the lenses atop his eyes, making it impossible to look into them, which makes his already imposing figure all the more terrifying. She does not move, she believes she deserves it, and she will take the punishment with the last remaining dignity that she has left.

“You foolish, stupid girl.” he whispers, before carelessly grabbing both sides of her head and forcing her closer to press his lips against hers.

She gasps into his mouth, shocked, zeroing in on how his furrowed brow makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. A wave of nausea starts to hit her, confused and all too aware that this in and of itself constitutes a sin so unthinkable that it makes her previous one seem almost trivial, a mere whisper under the thunder of this unacceptable transgression. 

Not only does she find herself to be in this position with a most holy Cardinal of the church, her dearest Bishop, the Patriarch of Venice for crying out loud, but also to do it right in front of the altar, in the middle of the house of God; right in front of His eyes. She thinks she might as well sign her name into the book of the beast.

Eminenza Tedesco, who has told her many times to please just call him Padre Goffredo, a title he reserves pretty much only for her and the children of his flock, is perhaps the man she has admired the most throughout her life. The one to make her feel so welcome at 18, when her family moved nearby and she began attending this church. The man who blessed her whenever she was sick, who soothed her worries and encouraged her devotion to the church; who brought her closer to Christ. Who always made donation after donation towards the children she taught, so that none of them went hungry and they always had new books, paints, toys and clothes to spare. The one who saw her grow from an insecure shy girl into a passionate, capable young woman, respected in her community. 

The priest who presided over her father’s funeral. Who had not hesitated to hold her as she grieved. 

This is sick.

But then the wave passes, as he tugs her in closer, and is replaced by a warm, growing feeling starting to form at the bottom of her stomach and leaves her weak at the knees, and she can feel him, hard against her stomach, so that the hunger is impossible to ignore. It’s a kind of whiplash she has never before experienced, but she has enough conscience to know that this, the struggle that God had ineffably chosen to test her with since she had the ability to understand what want and desire truly were, was going to be her way into eternal damnation.

And the worst part is that when a shaky, unchaste whine finally escapes from the bottom of her throat and into Father Goffredo’s mouth, all she can think about is that it will all have been worth it if he kisses her like this, possessive and desperate, for at least a minute more.

The cardinal breaks apart from her lips with a deep laugh, pleased despite the rage still burning in his eyes. He looks down at her shaken expression, his hands still holding both sides of her face and keeping it locked in place. Just as quickly as it had appeared, his smile vanishes, replaced with something she thinks is disgust, want, or a mixture of the two. She has only ever seen him so angry on TV, when either defending or criticizing one or another Vatican decision that was being pulled apart by the secular media. Never in person, though she was told once by a young, unenthusiastic acolyte that Eminenza Tedesco was “a whole different person when you walk into the room.”

“You are not who I thought you were, fiorellina.” He says slowly as he stares into her eyes, expression dark and unreadable. “Credevo fossi la mia verginella…” She shudders, her jaw trembling as she does her best not to be rude and avert her gaze, as much as his eyes feel like they’re burning a hole right through her. “What happened? Eh? I was gone… what, four, five months, and you fall so easily into temptation?” 

She goes to open her mouth to apologize and beg for his forgiveness, but he shushes her and shakes his head, pressing his thumb over her now shut, still wet lips. “I am not done talking, ragazza. Mind your manners.” 

It’s as if he’s a complete new person she has never met. So many times did she defend him from others who disliked him or thought him vain and conceited, or rude. She could never wrap her head around it, when she knew him only as a caring, compassionate man who devoted himself completely to his flock and his commitment to God and His Church. A visiting Nun from out of the city had once told her how much she hated “that man and his bigotry”, but she had insisted that the media loved warping whatever he said to paint him in a bad manner. It was terrifying that perhaps she had been really, really mistaken.

“Did you see this man again, after you threw yourself at him? Nod your head, yes or no.” No. “Good, and this is the first time? The first time you’ve ever kissed a man, done things you shouldn’t have with one?” Yes. “Do you wish to see him again? Be honest.” No. “And why not, fiorellina? You can use your words now.”

The cardinal retires his thumb from over her mouth, but his hold on her head remains the same; making sure she’s staring right at him. 

“Because I regret what we did.” She says, voice thin, then clears her throat and speaks up, though he still turns his good ear towards her slightly so as to hear her better. “Because I do not love him. I don’t even like him.”

As a tear falls slowly through her cheek, Tedesco coos at her before swiping it away with his thumb. “My poor lamb, it’s okay. We are only talking, yes?” She nods, another couple of tears escaping her eyes. “I need you to be very, very honest when you answer, sì?” He gives her a smile that is way too sweet to be sincere when she nods again. “Did you enjoy it? laying with him?” 

She swallows, the knot on her throat becoming bigger and bigger by the second, and she nods, closing her eyes and giving up on hiding her shuddering breath. 

“Did it feel good, having his hands all over you, touching him? Hmm? What did you like about it?”

“I liked that he was enjoying it. That he wanted it-  wanted me. That it felt like he loved me.” 

“But you do not love him.”

“No.”

“Good. Good, Fiorellina. Thank you for being so honest.” He presses both thumbs into her cheeks slightly, as one might do to a small dog one is fond of. “Can you answer a few more question for me?” Yes. “What did you do, when you were together? To what extent did you sin?”

Her cheeks are burning, but she cannot ignore the throbbing, pulsating heat between her legs that his tone, his condescension, has caused her. Much less so, when she can still feel his hard cock pressing against her.

“We- we kissed, and we undressed each other.” she says, and she thinks, for just a second, that she can see sorrow in her bishop’s eyes as well. “And he laid me over his couch… and touched himself.” 

“Like this?” He asks, letting go of one of her cheeks to slip it in between their bodies and palm himself over his pants. 

She follows the movement with her eyes, and he allows her to do so for a few seconds before placing his other hand beneath her chin to lift it up, meeting her gaze once more.

“He… he had his hand around it.” She says, unsure.

“Right! He had undressed, colpa mia. Go on.”

She can hear the sound of him fumbling with his belt, and then with the fly of his pants. 

“And when he was… ready, he entered me. It did not… it did not last very long. After he was done I realized my mistake, and so I got dressed and ran away.” 

Tedesco hums deeply, touching himself, his hand down his underwear. It has been years since the last time he had done so.

“One last question, piccola.” He says, stopping momentarily to cup her face with his free hand as he tilts his head slightly, examining her face carefully. She cannot shake the feeling that he’s saddened and upset, despite his obvious arousal. “Did he spill his seed inside of you?”

She shakes her head no immediately. 

“No, Eminenza.”

He looks at her for a few seconds, and then, seemingly satisfied, smiles once more. 

“Aww, look at you. Your pupils are so wide, mia creatura! It’s alright, I’m sorry for yelling before. Perdonami. I have had a very exhausting week. You can understand why I was disappointed, Sì?”

She nods, mindlessly swaying back and forth ever so slightly; a nervous habit she’s had since childhood.

“You will have to devote yourself to prayer and beg God to cleanse your soul in your own time, but I have decided to absolve you of your sins, mia cara. I have never been anything other than compassionate with you, do you agree?”

“Yes, Padre.”

“Eminenza, my dear. I believe you might have lost some privileges with me, but there is a way you can atone, if you so desire it.”

She would feel sick at the implication if she wasn’t so stupidly turned on.

“I do, Eminenza. I will do anything you ask of me.”

“Now there’s my good girl.” He whispers, and leans in to brush his nose with hers in such a tender way that it almost brings her to her knees. He laughs when she chases his lips, clicking his tongue and meeting her eyes once more. “Ah, so eager for me, are you?” Cupping her cheek, he brings her closer to sniff the perfume on her neck, making a pleasured sound. “Were you as eager for him, too? Dimmi di no, fiorellina. Tell me, even if it’s a lie.” 

His voice is lower, almost a whisper caressing her ear. His fingertips just barely stroke the side of her neck.

“It wouldn’t.” She says, no hesitation. The Patriarch leans back to look into her face. Her whole body is trembling with fear, and arousal, and shame; but her voice, though quivering, is entirely truthful. “It wouldn’t be a lie.”

He brings her into a kiss, slipping his tongue into her mouth, and she all but melts against him. What is guilt and shame and sorrow, if she can be kissed like this? She doesn’t know, can’t think about it, or anything else, when he kisses her like this. She tells herself this must be God’s plan. She tells herself she’s only being obedient to her Bishop, who has authority over her in His name. Lying is an easier sin to repent from than whatever this is.

Tedesco slips his hand underneath her shirt, making contact with the warm skin of her belly and the sides of her torso as he slides up, brushing over her nipple with his thumb, the tip of it hardening under his touch. He adores that feeling.

If he stops kissing her, it’s only because he wants to see her. It’s quite a sight, her lips slightly parted and those half-lidded eyes that she can’t avoid making, looking dazed with lust, possessed by it. She was not exaggerating her struggle to resist these urges.

“Does it feel good, fiorellina?” He says, voice a little rough, eyes alit. “To have my hands over your skin?”

“Yes, Eminenza.” She replies, and he delights in the sound she makes when he pinches her nipples, high-pitched and just slightly pained.

“I would’ve been so gentle with you, if you’d behaved better…” He grumbles, leaving her breasts alone for a second so he can slip her shirt off of her. 

God, she is beautiful. He thinks, admiring her exposed torso and feeling annoyed that he can’t fully enjoy the sight knowing that another has laid eyes on her already. He cannot tell whether the burning of his hands is a manifestation of his immense desire to touch her, or of the rage he feels that he is not the first.

He trails a hand over the curve of her soft stomach, then over her sternum, until he meets the slightly cold surface of a little cross necklace she always wears. He fiddles with it, dropping it when he becomes distracted by how fast her heart is beating, and places his hand there, where he can feel it pumping directly against her skin. 

“On your knees, bella.”

She does not hesitate to do as he commands, and he watches as she instinctively raises her hands to meet in front of her chest in a prayer position before realizing, dropping them as she stares up to meet his eyes, ashamed.

“No, no. It’s alright.” He says, making a small gesture with his hands to indicate that she should go back to her original position. “I like where your mind is going. Open your mouth, and don’t look away.”

He releases himself the rest of the way, his already-hard cock almost throbbing as she drops her jaw open the same way she had done the countless times he had placed the eucharist on her tongue. 

He’s about to chastise her for looking down, but he can’t really be upset when her eyes widen, almost hungry, at his size and girth. Tedesco knows he’s big, and takes much pride in it. Much more when she has that expression on her face. 

“What, Fiorellina? Don’t tell me you’re shocked.” He jokes, pumping himself slightly as he shuffles a bit closer. 

“I am not.” She says, looking up at him once more. “It’s just… exactly as I imagined. Even better.”

He’s thrown off by her sincereness, and his heart does a leap when he realizes the meaning behind her words. She has pictured this, my beautiful little flower. Just as I have pictured her.

Before he can listen to the voice that urges him to drop to his knees before her instead, he pushes into her mouth and uses his right hand to steady her head, his smirk coming back as soon as she makes a little choked up sound, her throat closing in on his head before he pulls back slightly, letting her adjust.

“Dio mio, that’s it. Slow, be gentle, get those teeth out of the way.” He really is trying to look as commanding as he can, but it’s been quite some time since he… and she’s so perfect… who would have thought that she’d earn his forgiveness so easily, just by looking up at him with those perfect angel eyes, sucking his cock with a charming mix of inexperience and eagerness.

The last couple of times he had entertained the thought of sex, or even masturbation, the act had become disappointing; mostly because at his age —as regretful as he was to admit it— getting well and truly hard, not to mention getting any kind of release, had started to become difficult. By the grace of God, or maybe by the cunning ways of the Devil, this time it really was not the case. He felt as pathetically desperate and eager as he was at twenty, and his body seemed to comply perfectly. 

But still he knows, realistically, that there’s only so much time he can allow her to do this before he either goes soft or spills all over her mouth, and as much as the thought entices him, there’s somewhere else he’d rather do that tonight.

His hand caresses her hair, fingers burying deep into the strands so he can pull slightly as her tongue starts being a part of the equation, licking a long stripe along his length. He moans, pleased, throwing his head back slightly to look upon the stunning painted ceiling above them, scenes of a martyrdom he has examined time and time again and yet has never appreciated more than just now. In fact, he’s feeling so ecstatic and magnanimous he thinks he might as well call the Holy Father after this to congratulate him personally on surviving his first week as supreme pontiff.

Just as she’s beginning to get a sense of what she’s doing, he pulls out of her mouth and raises her chin with the tip of his finger, satisfied to have claimed at least one part of her that whoever-his-stupid-name-was hadn’t already.

He smiles, looking down at her proudly as he wipes off a strand of saliva that was still connected to the head of his cock from the corner of her mouth. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes watery and pupils blown, and he begins laughing when her tongue pokes out to capture his thumb, enveloping it inside her mouth as she sucks.

“Look at you.” He says, pulling his thumb out with a pop, raising it up to her forehead to trace a cross just as he would on ash wednesday. “Everyone thinks you’re so holy.” For a second, he can see her expression soften sadly, as if remembering just how greatly she was sinning. He takes both of her cheeks softly as he leans down slightly to look into her eyes. “Now I know you are.” He pulls her up, holding her against him as his fingers work the button of her skirt to let it fall to the floor, along with her underwear. “Holy and sacred, and you’re about to be mine, Fiorellina. If you so desire it.”

She’s fully naked before him now, looking beautiful in the candlelight that reflects in her eyes and the small cross than hangs from her neck.

“I am scared, Pad- sorry, Eminenza.” She says, and he looks frighteningly compassionate as he tenderly holds the nape of her neck and tugs her closer.

“What of, my child?” 

“Of Him.” She responds, turning back toward the altar where Christ hangs on the cross. “I want this, with you, have for longer than I should admit- but will He forgive us? Will He forgive me, for causing you to sin?”

He stares at her from behind his glasses, wondering the same thing. But has he not lost everything, anyway? Why should he lose her also? At what point does he stop letting his fear of God, which has controlled him for as long as he can remember, as an excuse for turning the other cheek and let himself become a victim, again and again?

“It is all His plan, piccola.” He says after a few seconds. “Sometimes, it is not up to you to understand why these things happen… but I believe I might have an answer. You have greatly sinned, in going along to the desires of that young man, of tempting him yourself. But here you are, mia cara. In my arms, seeking your penance, in the safety of the house of the Lord. I will make you clean again, Fiorellina, make us both clean.”

She nods, looking into his eyes so deeply and transfixed that he swears he can make out the reflection of the painted ceiling on her blown pupils— though his eyesight can’t be trusted much these days, the image unsettles him. 

“Lay down on your back.” He orders. She does, slowly, the cold floor sending a shiver down her spine. He takes her in, laying down in the same hall he had ascended at the beginning of mass, just another sacred vessel for him to fill. 

His knees, used to so much genuflection and afternoons glued to his prie-dieu, only complain slightly when he straddles her, parting her legs with barely a touch of his hand. He takes his time, swiping his thumb in between her soaked lips in a vertical line and letting out a pleased chuckle. He almost wants to stare up at the crucified Christ hanging high in the wall at the end of the altar, to smile in defiance, gloat at his delicious sin from which there’s no coming back. 

However, Goffredo is a coward; and a selfish one at that. He can half pretend like he’s so lost and misguided and wounded that he fell into the eager hands of the devil, seeking refuge in the arms of an equally damned woman. He’s used to these types of lies he tells himself. 

But there’s no need to think any further, once his fingers are inside her; as deep as his episcopal ring allows him to go. She’s so warm, so wet; making the most beautiful sounds as he slips in and out slowly, so hungry he could eat her whole and not even then be satisfied. 

He groans, shuffling his robust body further up on top of her own after thoroughly sucking his slicked fingers; famished, starving, desperate to fill her. So he does, finally, a heat coiling around itself a thousand times low in his abdomen: like rope creaking, threatening to snap. 

He curses a litany of unbecoming words, instructing her to get on top of him, now his turn to stare up at her, framed by heaven’s light as painted by Fumiani, who had fallen from the scaffolding to his death while in the process of creating this very masterpiece.

How could she be anything but the reward he had begged for while prostrate on his knees? 

Their noises of pleasure filled the building, the heat growing so hot he could swear a blinding light was spilling from where their bodies were joined; her hips moving so fast he could hardly hold on to her hips. 

“I’ll fill you, Fiorellina. Cleanse you of his rot, ruin you for anyone else; no other man shall ever have you.” 

She agreed, with a series of unintelligible words, blinded by the light. 

He came inside of her with one last rut of his hips, body red and sticky with sweat; her hands resting on his hairy chest which heaved up and down, desperate for oxygen. 

Her arms trembled as she felt her own release shatter inside her abdomen, threatening to give out under her. 

It was unlike anything she’d ever felt; a kind of satiety she had never experienced until that very moment, followed by the sudden, inescapable sense that she would seek this feeling again, and again, anywhere she could, at the risk of anything and everything. 

She could only steal a few gazes as he dressed again, having turned his back in silence as soon as they were up and off the floor. She wondered if she’d have to leave without saying another word, a nauseating thought after what they’d done in here tonight. 

Before she could even think of it, the cardinal motioned for her to follow him to the back of the altar, after all, what kind of priest would he be if he allowed her to leave without the mercy of the Eucharist?

“The body of Christ.” He said, placing it upon her tongue, breaking the heavy silence. 

In her eyes: the martyrdom of a saint. The shadow of Fumiani’s fall into death, and then into the loving, merciful hands of Christ. 

“Amen.”