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Bruce Joker

Camerlengo fic, or "Why I Am Officially Going to Hell: A Case Study"

Posted on 2009.07.06 at 02:05
Yeah, so I think this may be the dirtiest thing I've ever written, and there's not even any sex. Ah, the joys of the human mind.

Title: Communion
Fandom: Angels and Demons (I know, I know! Trust me, it's an even guiltier pleasure than wrestling for me!)
Pairing: Camerlengo Ventresca/Cardinal Mortati (in a way); That's McKenna/Strauss to the movie-oriented folk. It's really more like Ventresca/Mortati/God, or rather Ventresca/Mortati/Catholicism
Rating: R, for "Really freaking twisted!"
Warnings: Spiritual ecstasy, improper thoughts about communion elements
Summary: Camerlengo Carlo Ventresca is enamored with his religion and all of its rituals. He knows nothing of "sublimation" or "transference"; he knows only his adoration.


Communion

The view from the altar is fairly constant during communion days. Cardinal Mortati makes his way down the row of bowed head-tops placing communion wafers in barely-opened mouths. When Mortati presents the Blood of Christ to his parishioners, they hardly shift. They attempt to drink the wine while continuing to stare down at the kneeler, with the result that they only receive tiny sips obtained through discreet slurps. Nothing but head-tops, as far as the eye could see. The reason for this was obvious to Mortati: his parishioners felt fear in the presence of the Lord—fear nurtured by an apprehension that they were not good enough, not pure enough to be worthy of the blood sacrifice that was offered in payment for their souls’ salvation.

Mortati had almost finished the line when he saw the camerlengo—the only man in the Vatican, in Mortati’s opinion, who lacked the good sense to feel unworthy. His eyes were fixed straight forward onto the golden crucifix atop the altar. He was silently and feverishly mouthing words to the crucifix, pausing every so often to swallow heavily.

Mortati fixed his eyes onto the silver plate of wafers in his hands. He had learned some time ago that it was unadvisable to watch the camerlengo during communion. If he watched the camerlengo, he would have to watch supple lips opening and closing, a sculpted chest rising and falling with each breathy whisper, unwavering eyes glazed over in adoration…It was too much to bear for a man who had lived his almost eighty years under strict chastity vows. The wanton little nit. Mortati fixed his eyes on the kneeling men’s heads as he moved down the communion line, not daring to look up and hardly daring to look forward. Mortati’s heart leapt into his throat when he saw eyes staring back into his. His breath caught; he had neglected the fact that fixing his eyes downward would leave him unprepared to meet the camerlengo’s.

Carlo Ventresca. The only adolescent ever to enter the priesthood who had not once complained about his chastity vows. It is true that, on occasion, Mortati heard stammering accounts of wet dreams tumble from the boy’s lips—on these occasions, Mortati would, himself, have to rush to a booth to confess the ruthless jeering of the boy that was taking place inside his own mind. Even so, Carlo never said a word in objection. He never confessed to seeking release from another member of the clergy. He never confessed to touching himself, or even to being tempted to do so. Mortati would probe Carlo for a confession, but Carlo would only stare at the wall of the booth in confusion. He truly was not tempted.

Mortati had thought this lack of frustration decidedly odd for such an attractive youth so rapidly reaching his sexual peak. It was obviously not due to lack of desire or to physical malfunction—the youth reported (often in lurid detail) dreams that would have made even the staunchest of pope’s blood boil from beyond the grave. This paradox would serve as a conundrum for Mortati for many months until, one evening, Carlo left his Bible in a pew. Mortati thought, with a marked roll of his eyes, that the youth would most likely be pulling out his own hair by this point after having been away from his precious scripture for an entire hour. The boy really could be a sanctimonious little tick sometimes. Nonetheless, Mortati decided to return the Bible to Carlo’s bedchamber.

When Mortati opened the door, he saw Carlo kneeling beside the bed, his rosary in his hands. Though slightly surprised that the youth did not spring from his position and tear his Bible away from Mortati’s grasp, he figured that, perhaps, the boy already had memorized the book and could recite it verbatim. Besides, Carlo looked quite involved in his Hail Marys at the moment. Mortati had almost decided to simply put the Bible on a nightstand and walk away when his ears were met with a whimper. Mortati leaned in closer. Carlo was ardently whispering each Hail Mary, and he had raised the rosary up so that it would graze his lips as he turned it. His body was pressed against the bed, and his head was thrown back in rapture. It was little wonder that the youth had not surrendered to carnal temptation; he had surrendered to something much grander and much more dangerous. Carlo had taken a lover, and that lover’s name was Deus.

A strained whisper brought Mortati back to the present. The camerlengo’s eyes were boring through him now, widened in supplication and—Dear God!—begging.

“Father,” Carlo beseeched him, “please.” And damned if Mortati didn’t almost drop the communion sacraments. The thoughts that flitted through his head…those kinds of thoughts should not be present in a seventy-nine year-old cardinal’s head. Celibate old cardinals did not think about their young camerlengos nude and kneeling before them, touching the front of their red and white cardinal’s robes with the whispered supplication of “Father, please…” The little bastard.

Mortati gulped down a breath in order to compose himself. Only then had he realized how tightly he had been holding onto the wafers and the wine. His hands were sweating on the silver, and his knuckles were bone white. A part of him considered simply shoving them both into Carlo’s hands, telling the camerlengo to have fun, and getting the hell out of there. But Mortati was a professional, and he was not about to be chased away from one of the most sacred altars on Earth by a priest who couldn’t keep his transference in check. He carefully placed the wine on the altar behind him. With his free hand, Mortati resolutely plucked a wafer off the tray and brought it to the camerlengo’s waiting mouth. Carlo’s eyelids fluttered closed, and his mouth opened another fraction of a centimeter. Stubbornly undaunted, Cardinal Mortati slipped the Body of Christ between his camerlengo’s parted lips. The priest’s eager tongue darted upward to meet his Lord, and, in the process, it flicked across Mortati’s fingertips. The teasing sensation sent a jolt to the aging cardinal’s nether-regions. Mortati allowed his eyes to roll back in his head for a split second. When he opened them, he saw Carlo sucking vigorously at the wafer—tongue swirling within his mouth, cheeks hollowed, no teeth. Swallow it whole. Dear, sweet Christ, that was the command that Mortati wanted to give the camerlengo. Swallow it whole. Take it all. That was the rule. It took the cardinal several moments to remember that the rule was intended for communion.

Mortati silently thanked his God that the cardinals’ robes were heavy, loose, and dual-layered, lest someone see the erection caused by the little virgin-whore that was on his knees before him. With a shaky hand, he placed the tray of wafers back on the altar. Tremulously, he grabbed the chalice of wine, the Blood of Christ. When he finally saw Carlo swallow the wafer, he lowered the cup to his lips. Mortati grasped the stem of the chalice with one hand and tilted the base upward, pouring the wine into Carlo’s mouth, with the other. The moment the Blood reached Carlo’s tongue, the camerlengo issued a guttural moan. Mortati bit down hard on his own tongue in order to keep himself from following suit. Carlo allowed his head to fall back, Mortati’s hand tilting wine into his open mouth all the while. Carlo’s lips did not release the rim of the glass until his mouth was entirely full with the Blood of Christ. The camerlengo’s tongue darted out over the rim of the glass and then over his purple-stained lips. It wasn’t until then that Mortati noticed a rivulet of violet running down the camerlengo’s mouth and Sweet Lord in Heaven did that look obscene. Carlo must have caught the direction of Mortati’s gaze, for a second later he caught the errant drop with his middle finger and brought the fingertip to his own lips. He swirled his tongue around the tip before closing his lips around the wine-stained finger, eyes bright with either the light of Heaven or the fires of Hell. Mortati frantically thanked his Heavenly Father that it was over now, that he did not have to look at the camerlengo anymore, that the painful throbbing in his loins could finally cease.

Too late, Mortati realized with a grimace that the Heavenly Father can be anything but merciful. The camerlengo was still staring at him. Why was the camerlengo still staring at him? Then Mortati saw that the camerlengo’s eyes were not upon his own but, rather, fixed upon his chest. They seemed to be in a trance, moving back and forth, back and forth. Mortati’s heart seized at the same time that his erection strained against the pants he wore under his robes. He slowly looked down at his own chest with a knowing dread, already able to guess what had caught Carlo’s eye. He had guessed correctly. The large rosary over his chest swayed back and forth, back and forth, like the hips of a taunting harlot. Mortati dared another glance at the young priest. He looked transfixed and near to salivating. His lips were moving of their own accord. At last, the camerlengo looked imploringly into Mortati’s eyes and once more uttered the word that vowed to keep Mortati awake tonight: “Please?”

Mortati could have denied Carlo. In fact, he could have done so with great pleasure, smirking at the thought of the Pope’s self-important bastard child left hard and wanting. However, in this moment, Mortati could not deny himself; and, damn his flesh, he wanted this just as badly as Carlo did.

Mortati approached the barrier between the altar and the kneeler slowly, as though he thought it may strike him. His eyes never left Carlo’s face, nor did Carlo’s eyes leave his. Mortati leaned forward until his head was bowed over Carlo’s, his rosary a mere centimeter from the camerlengo’s face. He heard the priest below him draw in a shuddering breath as he took in the young man’s scent of incense, soap, sweat, and a heady aroma he could not place. He was shuddering himself now, his breaths coming in short gasps. He stopped breathing altogether when he heard the click of teeth against his rosary. He looked down upon Carlo. The camerlengo’s lips encased the dangling crucifix, his tongue dancing around its grooves in a sort of sacrilegious French kiss. The camerlengo’s eyes locked with Mortati’s own as he slowly let the rosary slip from his mouth, letting it linger between his lips just long enough to press upon it another, more unmistakable kiss. Mortati’s blood was pounding in his ears and still pulsing in his groin. Both men were trembling. Mortati was shocked; this meant that Carlo had not found his release. He stared inquiringly into the camerlengo’s eyes, and Carlo broke his gaze. He looked down at the floor, a flush coloring his youthful cheeks. It was then that Mortati understood. Carlo never complained about the frustration because he loved the frustration, not because he found physical release. The incubus before him took pleasure in inflaming himself, teasing himself with spiritual ecstasy until he was converted into a writhing mass of nerves that would make Saint Teresa herself blush.

Mortati smiled. He understood now. He would never need sex, and neither would Carlo. They had just been far more intimate than that over the altar barrier. Mortati glanced down at Carlo with what he hoped was a knowing smirk. Carlo merely stared at him in rhapsody and mouthed a silent, “Thank you.”

Mortati walked down the corridors of the church that evening lost in contemplation. He and Carlo were intimate; they always had been. That evening, Carlo would dream, all the while innocently and unknowingly grinding his arousal into the mattress. He would confess the dream, though not the self-gratification—because he would never know about it, so innocent was Carlo Ventresca. Mortati would hear the confession. He would sin in thought, simultaneously wanting to take Carlo’s chastity and to take Carlo’s life. The little minx. The little demon. Then Mortati would go to confession. Then, the cycle would start over again. And so they would continue forever, or at least until they destroyed each other. Mortati could not help but laugh. It was all that he could do, for he knew that, eventually, his camerlengo would do something that would make him weep.

Comments:


Thleen
ankeelv2 at 2009-07-06 11:02 (UTC) (Link)
That was-- kind of epic. Really twisted and delightful.
comrade_sir
comrade_sir at 2009-07-07 05:50 (UTC) (Link)
I must say, I am SO relieved that someone liked it! I was a bit worried about this one. :) Thanks so much for reading and commenting!
Shull Bitter
shullbitter at 2009-09-11 03:29 (UTC) (Link)
This was too long for me to read and I don't even know who cardinal venti and moriarty or whatever their names, yeah, I don't know who they are. You should try writing something good next time.
comrade_sir
comrade_sir at 2009-09-11 18:39 (UTC) (Link)
Well, duh, Cardinal Venti is the Patron Saint of Starbucks, and Moriarty is the nemisis detective in Sherlock Holmes. Why shouldn't they be paired? Geez, you need to read more, dum dum.
Shull Bitter
shullbitter at 2009-09-11 19:21 (UTC) (Link)
They shouldn't be paired because that's just stupid.

And YOU need to read more. Like, reading your own title, ANGELS AND DEMONS. That means this fic should have been Anna/Ruby femslash. Duh, try reading your own stuff, dweeeeeeeeb

(PS: Anna/Ruby. I dare you. DARE YOUU.)
Shull Bitter
shullbitter at 2009-10-09 23:34 (UTC) (Link)
Hey, you good-for-nothing hobo, you forgot to friend me back and to show the lovely D------- how to add friends on teh el-jay.
Surely you do not wish for a pox upon your house!!!
BTW, hear about the fencing prof? She won a US tournament and so made the U.S. team for a world tournament in some uncivil place like Russia
Claire
interpretthis at 2009-09-21 22:38 (UTC) (Link)
I just finished the book and was thrilled to find this. I never considered the pairing, but at this point anything involving Carlo Ventresca is ace in my book, and you managed intense, well-written, miraculously in-character hotness in a way that makes me all wibbly with happiness. Go you (and *thank* you)! ♥
comrade_sir
comrade_sir at 2009-10-22 20:26 (UTC) (Link)
Sorry it took so long for me to reply, but thank you for your comment. Honestly, I never considered the pairing either, until I was writing this (to fill the sad void of A&D slash on the interwebs). Glad you thought they were in character; I always worry about that. Thanks again for you kind words!
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