Archive of Our Own ^beta

Thomas is too old for this.

While he classifies most desires onto a box of pointless longing, something so youthful is almost childish, this one is for certain past its expiration date. Still, it persists, lingering on the back of his mind and occupying an unwanted place.

He swallows it down like a hard pill, never allowing it to have any space. It's meaningless if he wants it to be and Thomas most desperately does. It's a pathetic, superfluous thing his mind occupies itself with. Out of all the things he should desire, this isn't one of them.

He's almost sixty five, years past the age of success. Thomas was a prodigy in every way, becoming one of the youngest cardinals ever, but youth is nothing but a memory. He has fallen behind, puzzled by the worries of his age, and has nothing more to give. There is no use in desiring anymore, not any of the things he does.

Begging for his resignation, a lump in his throat and a tremor in his hands, was Thomas' way of admitting he has seen it all. Enough is enough, to want more would be greed. Then here comes Vincent, his very own Deus ex machina, teaching him there is much more to see and many different ways to do it.

It reawakens his desire, shamefully so. He suits the role of Pontiff so well, commanding the Vatican with gentleness yet never letting his power waver. Vincent is a friend, a guide and admirer, he is man and spirit, God's voice on Earth.

They fall in love, fall into bed yet the desire remains tucked in the pocket of Thomas' coat of complexities. It's one of the ugly parts of him, a face he wouldn't show unless asked to with care. Over their dinners, he tries to drown it with wine in an almost torrid manner, as if it would go away after denying it enough.

“We should address this, Thomas,” Vincent says softly over dinner one night, in the same voice he uses to address kids or baby doves.

Thomas raises an eyebrow, confused. Vincent possesses a never-ending list of qualities but he is certain mind reading isn't one of them. Unless God has bestowed this gift upon him, it's impossible for him to understand what's going on through Thomas' mind. Like a guilty child, he places his hand behind his back and feels like he has been caught.

“I don't understand what you are talking about.”

“You are holding back.”

“Aren't we all?” He smirks, trying to use his natural dryness to escape the conversation.

“I don't think so. Most people are too far gone.”

“Holy Father,” he whispers, the words heavy on his tongue. “I don't understand what we are discussing.”

“Do you regret anything we did?”

Thomas frowns, placing his hands on Vincent's. He wants to give himself to him in any way possible, to share as much as he can of the light parts of his soul. There is no need to let some topics arise, to make public what shouldn't exist. If Thomas repents enough, it might vanish.

“No.”

“So, forgive me for saying it, my beloved, but why do you seem so constrained lately?”

Intimacy is a long road. It took months for them to come to terms with their needs and wants, for sex to even enter the conversation. He doesn't have any desire to undo the work by confessing one of his perversions.

“I am afraid I want too much, Holy Father,” he says, sinking to his knees in front of Vincent and kissing his ring. Thomas keeps his head low in shame. “And I shouldn't subject you to my foolish fantasies.”

Thomas feels confused about it. Even the admission of it feels like a crime. The desire is mismatched, it doesn't truly belong to him. He is a man of strength, a manager, a voice to be listened to. It makes little sense that this is what he craves so deeply, what eats his insides.

Vincent touches his hair apologetically. The hand remains there, keeping him in place. It's a sign of ownership, much like a zucchetto. Thomas would only bow down to one man. He wants to whine, to say the words and make it over.

Part of him believes it would be easier, to put an end to it by sending him away. Vincent hides, but he is a tough man, he doesn't get scared by much. He has lived between bombs yet Thomas believes his grotesque nature is enough to scare him out of their affair.

“Most people think prayer is the only fundamental sacrament of our faith. It's reductive,” he says, stroking his face. “But prayer is important. It teaches us how to thank God and how to ask for things. Perhaps that's where your difficulties lie: you don't know how to ask for it.”

He stares deep into Thomas' soul, not his eyes, and smiles. It's kind, reassuring, his Pope smile and human smile are all the same. “It's about time you learned it, don't you think?”

Thomas nods, trying his best to hide his trembling hands. The position he is in is no longer a simple sign of devotion but of submission. The unknown lies in front of him and he is eager to see where it leads him.

“Everything I do is for you, my child. Come to me and do this for me. Confess.”

Thomas shakes his head in frantic desperation. “No. I can't.”

“It's no harm,” he whispers, running his hand through Thomas' thinning hair. His touch is slow and comforting, almost rewarding. Thomas is confused as to why he deserves such affection when failing to complete what Vincent asked of him. “Talk to me, my dear Thomas.”

Thomas lowers his gaze in shame, staring at Vincent's well polished shoe. It would be so easy to bend down and lick, to make it wet with saliva and even shinier. He is tempted to give in to the thought but ultimately holds himself back.

“It's nothing I don't already know. God tells me everything. He tells me to take care of you.”

He chews on his bottom lip, contemplating his choice. Giving in would mean shame and open the very strong possibility of rejection. His desire could put an end to their entire affair. Thomas doesn't know if it's worth it.

On the other hand, Vincent deserves to know every bit of his soul to own it. He should make the decision himself, not Thomas. If he deems Thomas to be the barrier of shame, then he will wear its crown. He will take his penance as instructed, and perhaps finally store this desire somewhere else.

“Holy Father…please.”

“I'm Vincent here,” he states. “Unless you don't want me to be.”

Thomas thinks, almost out loud. They are trailing the right road, finally approaching the topic that has become the boogeyman of his psyche. He wonders if it's more sinful to consummate this particular desire or to keep having sex as if nothing happened. Hell is already a certainty but would the flames be hotter if he let it go?

He nods, swallowing down his shame. If it ends here, it was a special time. He already pictures his retirement in a monastery in Ireland, the perfect place to hide from Vincent and from God. He could carry this shame forever if it meant he gave it a shot.

“Do not imagine that love can be found without suffering, for we carry with us our human nature; and yet, what a source of merit it is!” Vincent quotes, grabbing his chin and forcing them to look eyes. It's so gentle, so intimate. “It's normal to struggle, Thomas, but don't let it get it in the way of love. I promise I will love you no matter what. I only want you to be happy.”

He is so close, he can almost taste it. Victory and embarrassment lay thick on the mouth, a bittersweet and addicting taste. His tongue is heavy and dormant, making it hard for him to utter a single word. Still, he tries.

“Close your eyes and say it. It's okay, Thomas. I've got you, my sweet child.”

“Daddy,” he whispers, almost slurring through the syllables. When the sky doesn't fall on him, he opens his eyes and sees Vincent adoring eyes facing him. There is no trace of disgust or repulsion, only love.

“Again.”

“Daddy.” It's more raw this time, as if he is forced to reconcile with his desire. He leans into Vincent's touch, taking whatever he offers. He's sinking into a pool of bliss, smiling like the cat who got the cream. For the first time in forever, Thomas lets himself feel everything, good and bad, whatever God gives to him.

“There you go. Tell me what you want.”

“Whatever you want. I will want whatever is chosen for me.”

Vincent stops, thinking before moving. It's not uncommon for Thomas to surrender all power and give himself to him, Vincent is more experienced after all, but this feels different. It feels like complete devotion, no holding back.

“Come to bed, sweet boy. Let me take care of you.”

Thomas obeys, sitting by his side. He hides his flushed face in Vincent's neck. He avoids his lap, self-consciously, not wanting to overpower him with his weight. “I want to make you happy, Daddy. Please.”

“You are making me so very happy by telling me what you want. Tonight's daddy's turn to reward you for it, ok?”

He whines, feeling Vincent's hands pushing him down the mattress. Thomas' eyes are closed as his trousers are taken off. His breath is ragged and inconsistent, a sign of pure pleasure. He feels like he could die of happiness in this bed.

Thomas tries to shrug off the shame from having his naked body exposed while Vincent is fully clothed. There is something so sacrilegious in exposing himself fully to the Pope, more so than usual. He rocks his hips against the bed, letting out a sigh with the friction.

Vincent's lubed finger comes to tease his hole. His breath hitches as Vincent inserts his finger. Penetration is not a common occurrence, as it takes a lot of effort and time they don't normally have. Thomas feels special for being granted such pleasure, he feels his cock twitching against his leg.

“Oh, darling. You are so tight.”

He adds another finger, gently stretching him out. Thomas shivers with every touch. He is half-hard, panting while trying to remember how to breathe. He's such a wonderful toy to play with, beautifully responsive. A few simple touches are enough to make him whimper. Each word that falls out of Vincent's lips, each praise, manages to reduce him to putty.

Soon, Vincent removes his fingers and uses them to spread his cheeks apart. Thomas feels a warmth creeping up his neck, still not used to such intimacy. “Let me taste you. I wanna see if you are as sweet as you look.”

Without warning, Vincent licks his testicles, drawing a moan from Thomas' lips. He's a live wire. Thomas sinks his teeth into his lips, trying to stop any more noises from coming out. Vincent's tongue moves to his hole, placing it where his fingers were minutes ago. He fucks him vigorously, enciting a sensation Thomas never felt before.

“Daddy, please, daddy.”

Vincent replies by shoving his tongue even further and touching his balls with his left hand.

“You are so wet for me,” Vincent mutters, biting his cheek. He turns Thomas around to face him and wipes away a tear that falls from his eye. He misses the feeling of Vincent inside of him, such intimate parts of them touching. He was a man who made a living out of the skill of his tongue, it was an honour for Thomas to receive it inside of it. His own Saint Anthony.

Obscenely, Vincent spits in his hand and uses it to stroke Thomas' cock. The friction is irresistible, making him forget his self-imposed vow of silence and moan loudly. He bucks his hips up, fucking his fist.

“You are such a perfect boy for daddy. My favourite.”

“Can I come, daddy?” He begs. Thomas never lasted very long, always eager to reach the bliss of an orgasm. Vincent allows him to fuck his hand, desperately chasing his own climax.

“Of course, darling. This is about you.” Thomas nods, whispering sweet thank-yous as he shuts his eyes and moves a hand to touch his nipple. The pleasure is almost electric, making him shiver. “Just don't forget to breathe.”

With a hand on his waist, holding him in place, and another one on his cock, Thomas comes. He buries his face in Vincent's clothed chest, staining it with the tears running freely on his face. It doesn't take long for the silent tears to become sobs that wreck his entire body. He cries, not understanding why. He simply does.

“Oh, darling. What's happening?”

Thomas shakes his head, not daring to speak. He is embarrassed by his situation, not managing to find the right words to explain the turmoil in his chest. Part of it is bliss, mixed with an indescribable feeling of doom, as if the world was about to end.

“It's alright,” Vincent soothes him, running a hand down his back. “You can cry if you want to. You were so good for me.”

After a while, Thomas feels confident enough to trust his voice. He rasps, cleaning his throat, and mumbles into Vincent's chest. “I'm sorry. I liked it. My crying makes no sense.”

“That's a relief,” he replies, rubbing his shoulders. “You're tense, that's all.”

“Thank you,” Thomas whispers. “For indulging me.”

“I will always be here for you, my sweet boy, for whatever you need.”

Thomas nods, allowing a small smile to form on his lips. Surrender tastes so sweet.