#patrick mckenna

You stood outside the confessional box, waiting another moment before stepping into the small room. You knelt down, looking through the screen at the priest hidden behind it. 

“ Bless me father for I have sinned, it has been a month since my last confession. ”

“ Good evening my child, I am here when you are ready. ”

You took another breath, trying to collect the courage before beginning. 

“ I have given into temptation, I fought against it, but I was weak father, please forgive me. ”

“ We all have our weaknesses, but what is important is that you fight against it. Go and say five Hail Mary’s God will forgive you, my child. ”

You quietly thanked the older priest before you left the small room. You walked down the church aisle, bowing to the crucifix that hung proud in the center of the altar before entering a long wooden pew. You sat down on the wooden bench folding your hands reverently on your lap. Your head dropped, your eyes shutting before you began to quietly pray. You went through all your prayers before rising, once more you bowed as you left the aisle before exiting the church. 

You padded down the tall marble steps, watching carefully not to bump into any of the men of clergy that passed. As you walked one man in particular caught your eye, Carlo, he was the closest man to the pope, his own personal aide. You had spoken to him a few times, in fact you had quite a close relationship. 

Carlo’s eye caught onto, you were much different than the other sisters. You weren’t yet a nun officially, your vows having not been taken. You didn’t wear black, or a habit, instead you wore a white gown paired with a lace veil to cover your hair, you stood out like a flower in an empty field. 

“ Sister, you are coming from the church? ”

“ Yes, I just took confession, and you know I am not a sister yet. ”

“ You will be soon enough. ”

“ But not yet. ”

“ Soon though. ”

You rolled your eyes at his persistence, continuing your path back to the nearby convent. Carlo continued following your lead, even though the Vatican where he belonged was the opposite way. 

“ And why may I ask, are you following me? ”

“ Heaven forbid I wish to make sure you make it home alright. ”

A small smile slipped across your lips as you walked beside him. You remained together in a peaceful silence, simply taking comfort in one another's company. Your heels clicked against the stones, as did Carlo’s loafers. 

After some time had passed you finally reached the convent, the grand building standing tall beside you. 

“ Thank you for walking me. ”

“ It was my pleasure, goodnight Sister. ”

“ I told you, I am not a sister yet, I am a postulant. ”

A laugh escaped Carlo, a smile slipping across his lips from your correction. 

His eyes followed you as you entered the convent leaving him a small wave and goodbye.

- 

The next morning you left the convent, walking down the stone streets of Rome. Your veil caught in the breeze letting it flow as you walked. You held a few books in your arms that one of the sisters had requested you bring to Carlo. 

You found him in one of the Vatican’s private chapels, lost in prayer. You quite approached, reaching out to touch his shoulder. Carlo jumped at your sudden touch, his eyes opening as his head turned to face you. 

“ Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I was asked to deliver these to you directly. ”

“ It’s quite alright, I just wasn’t aware you were here. ”

Carlo now stood in front of you, his hands reaching out to take the books from your arms. He opened a few of the covers, looking through the material. 

“ Thank you for bringing this to me. ”

“ Of course, is that all that is needed of me? ”

“ Yes, I suppose, but you’re more than welcome to join me while I go over this. ”

“ Yes, I would like that. ”

Carlo led you down the winding halls of the Vatican, and you simply followed after him. He reached out, opening the door to his office for you, allowing you to enter before him. You entered the room, sitting down in a chair on the opposite side of his desk. 

“ How are you to see the text from over there? Come around, sit beside me. ”

“ But there is no seat on that side? ”

“ You are welcome to sit on my knee, would that be alright. ”

You gave a weak nod, rounding the desk before coming to sit down on his thigh. Carlo opened the books, spreading them out across the top of the desk, revealing all the material. You sat together in silence, your eyes roaming the words on the page. All the books were in Latin, which fortunately you both understood. 

Carlo went through the material, writing down notes in a separate book. He went through all of the material in a matter of hours, the sun just beginning to set when he finished. He reached out, shutting the books, setting them aside in a neat stack. 

“ It’s quite late, I’m not sure you should walk back to the convent. ”

“ It’s only a quarter to nine, it’s only just getting dark. ”

“ I would feel better if you stayed at the Vatican, just for this evening. ”

A sigh escaped your lips, turning to face him.

“ If it will calm your worries, I will stay. ”

Carlo helped you off his lap, guiding you from his office. He snuck you down the Vatican halls, successfully getting you to his private chambers. 

His bedroom was fit for a king, a large four poster bed dressed with red silk sheets, there was a velvet sofa pressed against the wall just below a window. Opposite to his bed there was a large wooden wardrobe with a matching desk. It was like nothing you had ever seen before. 

“ Your bed reminds me of a princess’. ”

A smile slipped across Carlo’s lips, his hands moving to pull off his clerical collar. He set the white band aside on his desk beginning to unbutton his black dress shirt. You stood awkwardly behind him, unsure of where to sit or what to do. 

Your eyes dropped, following Carlo’s shirt as it fell to the floor. He continued to undress, seeming as if he had forgotten you were even there. His hands moved to pull loose the buckle on his belt. His pants fell to his ankles before he stepped out of them. He now stood in only a grey undershirt, his boxers hanging low on his hips before he turned around. 

“ I apologize, have I made you uncomfortable? ”

“ No, no, I just was lost in a moment of thought. ”

“ You are welcome to make yourself comfortable, I do not mind. ”

You only responded with a small nod, your hands reaching up to pull loose your veil. You removed the pins from your hair, setting aside the lacey cloth. You wore a much simpler gown than the other nun’s, having not yet taken your vows you weren’t held to as high standards, so it didn’t take you long to remove the garment. 

You slid out of your dress, letting the white fabric fall to your feet. You now stood in only a silk chemise, the garment falling just past your mid thigh, Carlo couldn’t help but stare. 

“ Will I sleep on the sofa? ”

“ No, of course not, you will share my bed. ”

You responded with a nod, rounding the bed before crawling under the blankets. You knew men and women of the church were forbidden to give into temptation, but Carlo was a high member of the clergy, surely he knew best. 

You laid together under the blankets, your bodies near, but not touching. Your eyes were both trained on the covering that lay over his bed, neither of you speaking. 

Eventually sleep took you, allowing you to drift off, letting your thoughts subside. 

- 

Throughout the night your bodies moved, searching for each other's warmth. Your arms slipped around his neck, your face hiding against his neck, your legs entangled together under the blankets. Carlo’s arms were wrapped around your waist, holding you tightly against him, his face hidden in your hair, inhaling the sweet scent of your shampoo. 

The moon stood high in the midnight sky but yet you began to stir, shifting and tossing against Carlo’s front. Your eyes cracked open, finding yourself entangled with Carlo, but you didn’t break apart. Your eyes found his closed ones, silently wishing he would wake. As if God himself had heard your prayers his eyes cracked open. 

Even as Carlo came to he didn’t pull himself from your embrace. You both simply laid there in one another’s arms, keeping each other near. Eventually you broke the peaceful silence.

“ We are sinning. ”

“ We can ask for forgiveness in the morning. ”

Carlo’s arms tightened around you, pulling you nearer to him. His head dipped down, his lips finding your neck. Soft sounds escaped past your lips as his lips moved about your smooth skin. You knew in your heart this was forbidden, but yet it still called to you. Carlo’s kisses trailed up your neck, tracing the soft edge of your jawline before finding your lips. His fingers dug into your hips pulling you closer. 

Your fingers slid up the nape of his neck, pulling on his locs of chestnut hair. Sounds you did not know you could make slipped from your lips, falling into Carlo’s mouth. The desire you shared together was primal, both of you to lost in one another to care of any consequence. 

Through the stained-glass windows, colourful reflections of light fell onto the cold marble floor. As you entered the church, the heavy oak door creaking behind you rather loudly in the general silence of the building, you felt a little nervous, as if the small number of parishioners here placed great responsibility on your shoulders for everything you said, even though no one would even bother to hear you...

You'd been showing up at the church at least several times a week. By some amazing coincidence, always on days when the young Camerlengo, Father Patrick McKenna, happened to be conducting the service.

The first time, you came here to light a candle for your late grandfather. Tired of sleepless nights of sorrow, now relaxed by the damp smell of incense and melted wax, you looked around, imprinting in your memory the breathtaking sculptures and architecture of the church; this short moment was the beginning of your strange attachment.

You saw his calm, yet inaccessible and mesmerizing silhouette across the nave and froze, forgetting every little worry you'd had on your mind. The glare of morning light coming through the window made you squint painfully, losing him in the crowd. Your head turned from side to side, desperate to find the alluring figure in a flowy cassock once more, but he seemed to have vanished already. A quiet exhale escaped your lips, and your hand moved up to your temple as you tried to pinpoint the source of that strange melancholy that had overwhelmed you in this short moment. You swallowed nervously and hurried to leave, your eyes fixed on the floor a bit embarrassed.

Since then, from time to time, you'd come here — not so much to confess your sins to the altar and pray, but mostly to steal glances at Father McKenna sheepishly, as descreetly as possible. It felt awfully base, like succumbing to a wild animal nature and ignoring every single rule ever made by man, but you kept reassuring yourself that there was nothing wrong or sinful about simply admiring the man. Besides, your passion brought you closer to god, didn't it?..

Time passed and you found yourself in an endless cycle. You kept returning again and again just to admire from afar, never gathering the courage to come closer, to talk to him, ask a simple question or even just thank him for something, — to hear his voice, at least — yet, even the thought of doing that felt suffocatingly unbearable and made you weak in the knees to the point of collapsing before the altar without any meaning to, but simply to catch your breath. And the solution, you thought, lay in confronting the way source of your torment.

...Now, looking around, you noted that the number of parishioners had dwindled even further. The evening service was coming to an end. You let out a shaky breath, calming yourself, fingers fidgeting slightly. As you stepped further in that familiar space, you hoped that at least a cold breeze would caress your ankles reassuringly or a drop of melted wax would burn your finger — just something that would distract you from your own self-repoaches and torments. Soon, you found yourself near a small wooden booth. «Sacramentum Paenitentiae», read the sign above, and your heart ached with apprehension as you stepped into.

Here, even fewer sounds reached your ear. All you heard was your own uneven breathing and the rustle of clothes, as you kneeled down slowly.

— In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, amen. — You spoke the resonant phrase softly.

Behind the bars of a confessional you could barely see a shadow, a hint of a human presence, but it was impossible to make out a face in the darkness. In a second, a voice responded — confident, but not too loud, and surprisingly calming. Of course, in a place of absolution, it could hardly be otherwise:

— May God help you to see your sins and trust in His mercy.

From that point, you couldn't turn back anymore. You spoke doubtfully, almost in a whisper:

— Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned, — you hesitated and bit your tongue thoughtfully, your fingers tracing along the hem of your skirt on the floor.

The shadow shifted somehow, as if feeling your inexperience. The tone was still strictly even, but had softened slightly as he replied:

— I could not recognize your voice, my child. It is your will to tell me your name or do not, yet say, when it happened to be the last time you went to confession? — a priest asked softly.

You bit your lip, a little bit lost.

— Never, Father. Previously, it seemed like there was no need to come here... I guess.

— We are all sinners, my child. Remember, you are in the presence of God. Speak honestly and do not be afraid. — the shadow nodded sympathetically, patiently waiting for an answer.

You ran through everything you planned to say in your head again, but the words got stuck in your throat. You sighed shakily and wiped your forehead with a palm. Only after convincing yourself to relax did you continue, pretending that you were not talking to a person of flesh and blood, but some higher power:

— I believe I am strongly attached to someone, Father, — you started, bowing your head and closing your eyes shut, — I can hardly call this love, more like unhealthy addiction. But I didn't give in to a sin, Father. Not yet, at least... — you believed to hear a silent “m-hm” from behind the partition, though maybe you encouraged yourself too much. — That person is, uh... Closer to God, than I am. — You trailed off with caution.

After hearing the last phrase, the voice paused. Then continued calmly:

— The Lord is merciful, my child. Proceed.

A chill ran down your spine and you nodded. Realizing that the priest can't really see you, you hurriedly let out a quiet “Yes” in agreement, exhaling.

— I have very impure thoughts about someone I shouldn't desire... — you swallowed the anxious lump in your throat. — He is a priest, Father. A holy man.

Silence hung in the air, but you decided to go to the end, afraid to give in to the temptation to run away from here and burn with shame, not daring to return to the church anymore:

— I only know his name, but even our glances never crossed. Father McKenna, I believe, he is, — the name slipped off your lips somehow naturally, though it haven't been spoken aloud since the moment you memorized it, — one sweet old lady told me. I can't help but... Become simply mesmerized by his presence. Feel drawn to him.

There was a slight tension in the air. You raised your eyebrows guiltily and instinctively turned away, even though you were already out of sight. The shadow took its time answering, but you weren't surprised, since the topic was, as you thought, not often encountered.

— Domine miserere... — a barely audible whisper touched your ears, — Father... Patrick McKenna, you say? I happen to know him, my child, — the man answered somehow differently: thoughtfully, almost icy. — He is a man of faith, indeed.

The last phrase sounded like a reproach, and your heart trembled in fear of condemnation, but you quickly sighed, driving away your worries.

— Only he makes me come back here day to day. Some oddly impure thoughts do not leave my head, — your brows furrowed and you bit your trembling lips, fighting the shame that was welling up inside. — I can't even rest peacefully without seeing him in my dreams.

The tension that had built up inside you suddenly came out through pitiful tears. You heard a short, muffled cough behind the bars, before the voice addressed you again.

— Child... — a deep sigh escaped priest's lips. — The Lord knows struggles of the human heart. Have you ever... Given in to attraction?

— No, Father. — you shook your head, sniffing.

— Good. Such feelings are not sin in themselves, but a temptation to place human being above God. You must avoid any occasion of sin, do you understand?

— Yes... Yes, I do. — your lips purged nervously as you stared blankly ahead, your eyes still glossy with tears that were slowly drying. The voice had a strangely soothing effect on you, though you couldn't explain why, even to yourself. The thick silence, — which had lasted, at least you feel like it did, the whole eternity, — thankfully, was finally broken by a surprisingly gentle response from behind the grating:

— You speak of temptation, — the priest started, his voice a bit quieter, — yet you do not know the man you desire. What is he to you, besides the certain... charming appearance? What if he is not what you imagine at all? — he asked gently.

His hand, — pale, as if carved from marble, — found its place on the edge of the bars, long fingers tracing the intricate pattern thoughtfully.

You exhaled shakily, your gaze riveted to that unexpected movement.

— I don't think it would matter, Father... — your hands clenched together almost involuntarily. — I cannot think of anything that could've turn me away from him, honestly.

A small sigh, maybe tired laugh, was heard from the opposite side of the confession, and before you could react, the hand moved to the latch, opening it, and then pushed the wooden gate open, the flickering candlelight revealing the priest's face.

Father Patrick McKenna.

His painfully familiar features were now inches from yours. So close that your breath hitched in fear, afraid to make him disappear. He was smiling faintly, maybe even guiltily at some point, murmuring:

— See, my child, somehow it appears to be that the man of your dreams is just a sinner — no better than any other.

Your voice trembled as you raised your head to face him, stil kneeling. From down there his tall figure seemed authoritative, even terrifying a little.

— You... You let me confess this? — you stummered, unable to believe your eyes.

Patrick nodded.

You flinched, but he leaned closer, taking your hands in his, guiding you to your feet. Not knowing whether you wanted to burst into tears or laugh hysterically, you obeyed, clinging to him, as if grounding yourself, dizzy. His light blue eyes, lashes flattering, studied your reddened face with, maybe, a hint of amusement, but mostly just pity. He bit the corner of his lips doubtfully before speaking out loud:

— I have sinned beyond my ability, as terrible as it may sound, — McKenna started thoughtfully, — but I intend to help you.

Your gaze fell on perfectly tailored cassock, rustling softly as he moved, and you swallowed, barely able to control your thoughts anymore. Your hands shook as you realized you were still holding onto the priest's, and you let go reluctantly.

At his next words, Patrick's face darkened a little, a shadow of seriousness falling under his brows. He scolded:

— However this makes you feel, — he chastised, — this is a filthy path you've chosen. You must understand the sin of idolatry, — the Camerlengo whispered low. — Do you, child?

Your heart pounded at the mix of overwhelming guilt and intoxicating attraction, you bit your tongue and sighed, forcing yourself to agree.

— I do... — you whispered.

Before you could murmur anything else, a stinging slap burned your cheek. You gasped and raised your hand to your face, but Patrick caught your wrist, forcing you to meet his gaze.

— Liar, — he hissed. — I see how you look at me, do you truly not understand that?

Words died in your throat. The tears immediately dried in your eyes, mixed feelings swirled around in your head.

With the same cold precision, McKenna spun you around, pinning you with all his weight against the wall of the booth with a dull thud, making you choke on your breath for a moment. His hand covered your mouth fastly, muffling another gasp. He whispered, the warm breath tingling the side of your neck:

— Quiet. This is a sacred place, meant to serve God, not to entertain fantasies. — a pause. — I will free you from this obsession, that I promise. — You felt Patrick move away, taking half a step back but holding you steady against the wall by the waist.

You wanted to look back, to face him again, but found yourself unable to move, standing obidiently, listening to your irregular heartbeat.

Behind you, something clanked. The light in the booth flickered, then grew slightly brighter, as Patrick turned back to you.

— Give me your wrists, — he ordered.

Still struggling to steady your breathing, you obidiently stretched your arms behind your back, where they were immediately caught by someone else's hand, making you bend over a little bit uncomfortably.

A second later, you could feel how a couple of scalding hot drops of wax fell on your wrists. As if deliberately, they did not harden, but flowed down painfully slow, leaving red marks on the sensitive skin. You flinched and squeezed your eyes shut, biting back a whimper. Your hands jerked involuntarily, trying to break free, but the grip on them only tightened.

— Father, please—

— Ah-ah. Endure it, — the calm voice interrupted, quiet and merciless.

The torture continued until he deemed it enough. Then, with deceptive gentleness, Patrick rubbed the remains of the cooled wax over your wrists, honestly, just worsening the burns. So any of his movements, no matter how slow and caressing they were, made you squirm in pain, wanting to break free, but restraining yourself. Tears slowly formed in the corners of your eyes, making you take a deep breath.

McKenna didn't release your wrists. Instead, he twisted them at the small of your back firmly, dragging his thumb over the tortured flesh. You hissed, but was quickly distracted by his other hand that slipped over your waist, down your stomach. One hand cruel, the other — posessive. Both tormented you in different ways.

— You will take this properly. I'll make sure of that, — he murmured, his hot breath grazing the back of your neck.

With a sharp nudge, Patrick pressed you face-forward against the cold wooden wall of the confessional. His leg slid between your thighs, pinning you securely in place. A groan nearly escaped you, but the sound was quickly cut by the Camerlengo's fingers rubbing the damaged skin harder, emphasizing his point. You heard a quiet chuckle from behind.

— Tell me, do you repent? — he breathed, his hand moving lower beneath the hem of your skirt, — Or do you crave my touch that much?

You shuddered, torn between arching into his movements or pulling away from the pain.

— I... I d-don't know, Father, I—

— Wrong answer.

With that, his slim fingers confidently slipped lower down, tracing a small circle, dragging a strained moan from your lips. Your eyes fluttered shut, hips jerking instinctively against his hand. Patrick chuckled again, twisting your abused wrists once more, without stopping the sweet torture.

— Hush. Don't you dare take pleasure in this, — he whispered menacingly, buckling his hips against you from behind, forcing your face to press harder against the rough wall. — Five Hail Marys.

— But... — you bit your lip, your mind clouded with guilty desire, struggling to form a coherent thought. Arguing would only prolong this, you realized. — Hail Mary, full of grace... — you began, voice trembling, as you fought your focus.

When you faltered, Patrick's fingers immideately quickened their pace, applying more pressure, while the other hand yanked your wrists roughly, making your knees go weak.

— Pathetic. From the beginning, — he scolded, releasing your hands only to fist a handful of your hair instead, yanking your head back, — Focus on the prayer, child.

You gasped, panting, holding onto the wall with your free hands with all might. Your legs shook and you let out a breathy moan, muffling the sound with one hand and leaning on the other, your neck arched back compromisingly. Patrick's voice didn't help you at all, unraveling you further. Besides, he didn't give you a mere second to breathe.

— Hail Mary... F-full of... — You started over, but whimpered as you felt his touch grew merciless, the rhythm changing between agonizing pauses and frantic intensity, and the grip on your hair tighten even more.

— I can't hear you. — Mckenna remarked.

— I can't... — your words dissolved into a shudder as he bent you lower, your hips flushed against his. His fingers went into non-stop motion, making you squirm weakly, rapidly dragging you closer the the edge.

A choked sob escaped you — part frustration, part shame.

— Last chance, — he breathed calmly, his own voice slightly ragged, hot against the back of your neck, — if that mouth can still form holy words, of course. Is this how you worship, with trembling thighs instead of folded hands? — he raised his voice slightly, pushing you sharply from behind.

— F-father... — your weak plea turned into another moan, the unrestrained sound escaping you, resonating against the walls of the booth, as you reached the peak and fell apart completely, arching. The world before your eyes darkened, and your nails dug into the wooden boards in panic, clinging to any protrusions.

— Enough.

The hand stopped.

— God forgive me... — Patrick wrenched himself away, wiping his palm against his cassock hastily, leaving you cold and shaking against the wall. He reached out to you doubtfully, grasping your chin, turning you to face him, his thumb tracing your swollen, bitten lower lip.

Now you could see him properly — breathing uneven, pupils dilated.

— Look at you... — there was disgust in his voice, and it seemed to be directed equally at you and at himself. — Panting like a lustful whore. In God's house, — Patrick shook his head and quickly adjusted the belt of his cassock with trembling hands, furtively, as if hiding something.

— Get out.

But he was the one who left.

His broad-shouldered figure quickly disappeared from view, stealthily, running away hastily, a criminal of faith.

You were left alone. Your skirt wrinkled, your body treacherously hot, face wet, lips swollen from bites, wrists covered in cracked wax and deep scratches.

You thought you had everything in your life and knew everything about him, and you should have, after all; you were raised together. Yet soon you would discover that even the holiest of people had secrets, and the man you loved was not the exception.

The house you lived in was warm and just perfect for you. Being the Inspector’s daughter did come with privileges, like houses in the best areas and rather close to the Church, making certain evening visits far easier.

Candles burn slowly, the only illumination in the rooms, including your bedroom. Aromatic sticks burn without stopping, their sweet fragrance masking the smell of passion and lust in the room.

Your back was pressed against the soft mattress of your bed, body bare of anything but a simple satin nightgown that was pushed up, letting your legs and waist be exposed to needy, steady male hands.

A strained moan escaped your lips, your hand grabbing the back of a man’s neck and the other holding on his shoulder, nails threatening to mark his soft white skin. You tossed your head back, pressing it harder against your pillow and arched your back in response.

Eager lips found your neck, the kisses feathery soft and gentle, teeth always careful not to leave a mark. A groan reached your ears, the sound vibrating through your skin as your lover picked up his pace, unable to resist the way your body bent to his will.

A strong arm grabbed one leg and hooked it, wounding his waist, offering him a new angle that stole your breath away. Then, the same arm returned to hold you steady by the waist, fingers threatening to bruise your soft skin as he chased his release, no longer able to hold back.

For a man of the church, who was the true epitome of patience, he sure did know how to lose it when around you.

Though in your defence, it had taken years to achieve that and a lot of failed seducing attempts.

“My...” you almost called out the name of God as you felt the coiling sensation in your stomach, yet you restrained yourself from committing that sin.

It was bad enough you were sleeping with a man of god, a Camerlengo nonetheless. The last thing you needed was to utter God’s name as you reached your euphoria and surrendered to the familiar bliss that so many chased after.

Though, even if you did dare to sin that way, you could always ask for forgiveness. You preferred, however, not to reach that point, not yet, at least.

Your walls tightened, and you squeezed your hands, mouth open in delight and shock. The Camerlengo above you cursed next to your ear, feeling just how tight you were after your orgasm, threatening to lock him there.

His thrusts became sloppy; A few more was all he needed before he joined you, his face buried on your shoulder as he leaned, emptying his holy seed within you, making sure not to spill anything.

You both remained there for almost a full minute, the room silent except for your laboured breaths and pants. The high you both experienced slowly came down as sweat made your hair stick to your skin, and your bodies ached for a better position and some stretching.

The Camerlengo lowered himself to rest on you, always careful of his weight—a difference between the two of you. He let his head rest on your chest, hearing just how fast your heart was beating and sensing your chest as it moved up and down, filling your lungs with precious air.

You slowly released him and merely opened your legs wider, letting him find comfort in this position while he remained within you, as if wishing to ensure not a single drop was spilt. And you let him.

Your other hand moved from the back of his neck to gently caress his sweaty hair, which was once pristine and well-maintained but is now a moppy mess. Wild strands fell on his forehead in a way that you would never stop loving.

“You almost did it again, love,” a male voice said, your lover holding back a chuckle as his mind started to clear and his body started to relax.

“Did... did what?” you asked, trying to catch your breath.

He smirked, chin resting against your skin. “Call God upon this act.”

Your smile was sweet, and you had no true shame about what you almost did. “Next time, I will try to call you instead,” you said, bringing your face closer, pecking his sweet pink lips. “Camerlengo.”

This time, he did not hold his chuckle as he gently moved one hand to caress your side. “You could call me a sinner, and I would still ask for more.”

His gaze was soft and caring, something not many saw during Mass. To them, he was Camerlengo Patrick McKenna, the orphan boy under the Pope’s guidance. He was the soldier who preached kindness, whose eyes held pain and strength far beyond his years.

But to you, he was just... Patrick, your childhood friend. To you, he was the boy you tutored in Italian and spent your days studying the bible with him. To you, he was the man who broke his vows to be with you.

“Anyone who does not love does not know God because God is love.” He told you when you were younger, when you were worried what you wished to do was wrong.

Even now, many would judge it; thus, you had to remain secretive. It did offer a sense of adrenaline; you were not going to lie. But sometimes, you could imagine the scandalous news titles if things got out.

A Camerlengo and a Gendarmerie.

The Pope’s son and the daughter of the Pope’s bodyguard.

Straight out of the forbidden romance stories you used to read as a teenager before your interests shifted to more serious matters, such as psychology and criminology, to name a few.

Gentle, strong fingers caressed your cheek, snapping you from whatever world your mind had wandered into.

“What is on your mind, mi Angelo?” Patrick asked, looking at you with his beautiful deep blue eyes.

“Just stuff, you know how my mind is,” you explained, dismissing the seriousness of the topic.

“Thought I had knocked them out of you,” he smirked, shifting his body slightly, his soft member still within your caverns. “Perhaps I didn’t do a good job.”

Your chuckle was music to his ears, your beaming smile the sweetest image he could see. He wished this could be what he saw daily, not the grumpy old faces of the Priests. You were a ray of sun, sent by god to break through the dark clouds of his existence.

You were God’s gift, hidden behind the image of a simple low-born woman. Just like Mary Magdalene, you were more than you showed; he was the man you vowed to follow and love.

He offered his signature smile, letting you chuckle and brighten your mood while he admired you, as if you were the most beautiful painting he had ever seen.

His staring was not new; it was something he did when so many things were in his mind, and yet no bodily movement took place. Sometimes, you were out in public, and all he could do was stare at you from afar, hoping for the second your eyes would meet, and you would lower your head to hide your smile.

And sometimes, his staring was rather obvious to the men around him, especially his holy men. They were old men; they did not understand his feelings or his views, choosing to judge him for admiring the beauty of God, just as Adam admired the beauty of Eve after her creation.

“How is he?” you suddenly asked, your smile slowly fading. “Your father?”

The Pope’s health had declined in the past few months, and many feared for the worse. Medication was given in secret, and the world did not truly know, but deep down in their hearts, they feared it.

Pop Pius the XVI was a revolutionary, more open-minded than his predecessors. He did not cower at the face of advancing science but actually supported it, wishing to reduce the gap between religion and science.

He was a kind man, who adopted Patrick after his parents were killed in a bombing attack; and who allowed you to spent time with his new son, helping him learn this new life and language.

Despite being a woman, he even believed that you could make it to the Corp and follow your father’s footsteps.

Patrick sighed and returned to lay upon your chest, his ear pressed against your skin. “He is declining, day by day,” he confessed, his heart heavy. “I am afraid it won’t be long before the Father will take him back.”

Your hand through his hair was comforting, fingers gently massaging his scalp as your steady breathing calmed him down.

“When it happens, know I will be there for you, Patrick.” You whispered, gently kissing his head.

His response was to move his arms in a hug, keeping you closer as he chose to try to quiet his mind. He knew you both had to clean up, but you could do that later.

For now, he only wished to stay where he was, to cherish the feeling he only got when the two were left bare, with no secrets from one another.

Only this time, he held one: a secret he could not tell you. Perhaps one day he would, but for now, the burden had to be his and his alone.

He told himself, " There is no other choice," hoping this would help justify his actions before God's ever-seeing eye.

The day you dreaded happened a week after that sweet night with Patrick. You were with the Swiss Guard, accompanying your father to a meeting about increasing security measurements.

The phone call was sudden and went straight to the Commander’s Richter office. He picked it up, his face never giving away his emotions, even after the call ended. He looked at everyone in the room, his eyes cast down momentarily.

“His holy father is dead. He has passed in his sleep during the night,” he informed, forming a cross in respect.

Everyone followed except you, who were too shocked by the news to react in such a way. Your lips had parted, your eyes wide, and you swore you felt your heart rate spiking. But it was not because of the Pope’s death.

No, it was because of the pain you knew Patrick felt.

Patrick, you thought as you grabbed the silver cross hanging around your neck, his gift to you from years ago.

It took a week before you could even see him, for Vatican procedures were strict. He was inside preparing the funeral, destroying his father’s ring, and accepting the responsibilities that would happen when you arrived on the day of the Conclave.

And you... Well, you were busy yourself.

Cardinals from all over the world would fly for the funeral and then the Conclave, foreign security mixed with yours, while Vatican City would be filled with loyal believers who would come to pay their respects and cheer for the new Pope.

The Swiss Guard and the Gendarmerie would be spread thin, with every man available to help and ensure the outmost security for the holy faces of the Catholic Church. Meetings were held daily, and missions were sent often, and crime spiked now that the crowds were gathering.

But after one week of thinking and longing for the man that held your heart, your chance came.

His visit to your house was unexpected, starting with a sudden knock on your closed door. It was so unexpected that you grabbed your gun, ready to defend yourself if the visitor ended up being a foe, not a friend.

Yet all your trainings went silent upon opening the door and seeing a red-eyed, tired Patrick standing there, soaked clothes sticking to his skin while the rain outside raged with ferocity.

“My god, Patrick!” you exclaimed and placed the gun on a nearby little table before you grabbed his wet sleeve, pulling him into your house.

Your door shut with little more force than necessary, and you put the bolt in place before you turned to face him. His gaze remained downcast, his shivering body suffering beneath his wet clothes and the raindrops that had mixed with his salty tears.

Your next move was rushed. You grabbed a white towel from the cupboard before wrapping it around him. You felt the water seeping through the towel and felt how his body shivered due to the cold.

“Oh, Patrick,” you said gently, moving him to the armchair near the lighted fireplace and helping him sit.

“I am... so-sorry for co-coming this late...” his teeth faintly clutered with one another as his hand held the towel closer, trying to warm himself.

“Do not be ridiculous.” You knelt before him, your hands placed on his knees. “And don’t apologize. Patrick, you might be a man of God, but you are also human; don’t forget that.”

Your moves were soft. You slowly helped him remove his wet shoes and socks before grabbing another towel to start drying them off. You let him stare at you as you slowly started to take care of him, starting from low.

Like Jesus cleaning Judas’ feet, you were doing the same, unbeknown to yourself that you two represented those two more than one would think of.

You had just stood up when he did as well, his arms wrapping around you in a desperate and needy hug—one of a wounded child asking for comfort and safety. You returned the hug without hesitation, rubbing his back above the white towel, and you felt the silent sobs he tried hard to suppress.

“Let us get you something to change, Patrick.” You whispered to his ear, your heart aching for the wounded man in your arms.