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Chapter Text

Waiting on your knees in the middle of an empty room with your head bowed, draped in a black lace veil and nothing else, you eagerly await the beginning of the ceremony. The central point of the room, the area you were sitting, was covered in a large white sheet, a border of ash and dried flowers encircled you; something like a summoning circle. The room pulses a somewhat warm hue by candlelight and a fragrant sweet air wafts over your exposed flesh. You run your thumb over the scar in your palm, the result of your previous vows made in this same room. Typically this ceremony is held with at least five or ten sisters or brothers, but the church only required one sibling to receive the unholiest of oaths this time, and that was you. You’d witnessed the ceremony before so you know what to expect, but receiving the sealing spell directly was different, embarrassing.

This is a great honor, but to have a man I don’t even know—

The sound of the door startles you—he has arrived—the facilitator of the ritual, performer. He’s faceless, nameless, and doesn’t speak; typically a male member of the clergy. He dons a goat’s head and long black flowing cloak that shields his body—visage alluding to the Devil himself. 

Suddenly you feel a little more self conscious about your appearance and clutch the edge of your sheer laced draping. He bows slightly, acknowledging you, and you do the same. Before approaching you, he collects something off the altar at the other end of the room—a basket containing the tools required for the ceremony. Bringing the items over, he places them down at his feet. The first item to be used, the rosary of the grucifix, was placed around your neck and veil. You rise from a sitting position to kneeling with your hands clasped tightly around the grucifix—anxious to receive his will. 

“I welcome your presence, great one, please bestow your infernal hand upon me that I may receive your nefarious blessing,” you recite the first portion of the incantation.

His hand finds the crown of your head, accepting you as the recipient of his evil whims. Peeking slightly, you can see his body from the opening his protruding arm made, similarly to you he is stark naked under his cloak. Both of his hands are planted now firmly on your shoulders, symbolizing the burden being placed upon you. At this point his naked body is undeniably clear, you take in a real eyeful and swallow hard. It had been some time since you’d last been with a man, and felt uneasy about what you’re expected to do—sex had never been your forte, in fact you never quite enjoyed it, which is why you’d volunteered to bind yourself to Satan. In the past there were typically more siblings involved in the ritual and the highest ranking member was expected to perform as the direct receiver for everyone observing, but now it’s different, now it’s you. 

“Please cleanse me of my past that I may serve you anew,” still adhering to the ancient incantation, now you look up at him.

He kneels down on the sheet with you, initiating the next step in the process—the anointing. He pours a light scentless oil in his hands and begins applying it, starting from your head. He smooths the oil down over your hair, traces from your forehead to your chin, and draws sacred symbols over your body. His hands are hot but the oil is cool, and you begin to notice your growing excitement. An easement begins relaxing you as his fingers dance across your skin, uncertainty wading under pleasing stimulus. You try not to be obvious, sneaking a look between his legs in order to see if he’s being affected at all—maybe slightly, but you try not to let your eyes linger. It’s strange, but you find yourself growing curious about him, perhaps it was because his touches were so light, or maybe there was something in the oil that had just been spread all over your abdomen; whatever it was it was intoxicating.

“Please, great one, accept my essence that I may bind myself to you.” You sweat a little at this point, knowing what follows.

On the ground between the two of you he places a wide mouthed chalice and retrieves the ceremonial dagger from the basket. He runs the edge of the dagger across his smooth palm, and allows the blood to drip into the chalice. Crimson droplets stream from his fresh wound and pitter patter in the base of the goblet. 

His palm is smooth? This caught your eye, the palm hadn’t been slit before like the previous “old one’s” who preceded him. Those who’d conducted the binding in the past were never known, but they’d all had their palms split in previous rituals. Their identity, or identities, were never revealed and the number of facilitators were never divulged, but each ceremony you attended had been conducted by someone who already performed a pledge ritual; be that a binding or one of another fashion.

He extends his now bloodied hand, waiting for you to give yours, you oblige him with the right—it has to be the right. He cradles your hand, running his thumb along the scar as you did only moments before. Guiding your hand, he places it to his chest over his heart—this gesture symbolizing the bond between yourself and Satan. His chest was warm and slightly moist with sweat, rhythmic pounding reverberated to you. Before long he retracts your hand and glides the knife’s sharp edge through skin and scar tissue. You wince from the pain, but refuse to retract your hand. He curls your fist closed and squeezes it, encouraging blood flow. The two offerings meet each other in the chalice, your companion plucks the cup up and swirls it—aerating it as one would a fine wine. He offers the first sip to you, it doesn't really matter who drinks first, and you accept his invitation, receiving the chalice with two cupped hands. Looking in at the sanguine mixture, you almost don’t want to go through with it, but something bigger compels you to fulfill this deed—something that has the rim of the chalice pressed to your lips and the blood in your mouth and down your throat before you could hesitate any longer. The taste of iron spreads across your tongue, a thick bold flavor that sticks to the senses; one you’ve never been fond of.

After drinking about half of the offering, you present the cup to your partner, to Satan—or, at least, the man dressed as Satan. The liquid jostled inside with the shaking of your palms, but you weren’t shaking out of fear, no, the cause of the shaking was unknown and strange to you. The mysterious man receives the chalice and sneaks it away under his mask. You can see his Adam’s apple bob as he finishes off the last of the mixture. Placing the goblet aside, he then grasps your hands—awaiting for your recitation of the final act of the incantation. 

“Please, great one, accept my body that we may consummate our bond,” your chest flutters as the final word of the ritual falls from your lips, breath heavy in the air. You look into the cold, dead, prop eyes of the goat and can feel the man under the mask staring back.

You can tell he was beginning to feel aroused as his manhood stiffened slightly at your words. You lean back on your elbows, waiting for him, as he bows over you on hand and knee—chest puffing. He retrieves the oil used in the anointing and pours it over your body. Fingertips sliding across your skin as he indulges in quiet arousal—cupping your breasts, stroking your stomach, and spreading your thighs—his slick hands explore you. The blood from his palm ran across your glistening skin as he delighted your senses with meaningful strokes. His hands, his blood, your body heat all worked to warm the cool oil he carefully caressed over you. He plucks and twirls at your hardening nipples with slippery motions, drawing out a heated moan from deep in your throat. His attentions were so fleetingly light it left you on edge for the next pleasure he’d allow you.

Between your heaving breasts, down your abdomen, and finally reaching the mound of your sex; he graciously anoints you.

His fingers roll over your ever sensitive dew coated clit, causing you to jolt in surprise—and pleasure. A more direct action that  leaves you gasping as his fingertips gently swirl at the quivering bead of your womanhood. Something stiff pressed against your leg, hardened by each gasp that escaped from your open mouth—pulsating with expanding vigor and wild passion. Pressing your lips into the exposed side of his neck, you stifle the moans that grow louder, hungrier for something more. Soon enough a finger, two fingers—index and middle—work their way inside and stretch the band formed round their middle joints. A weak murmur spreads over your body as his fingers plunge deeper, only to retract out and rub the entrance—the repetition of the act causes your back to arch, meeting his chest with yours. He angled his fingers up into the walls of your writhing insides and began stroking there; each motion a sweet gush of ecstasy. It had been some time since you last relieved your own urges, so to have someone else’s fingers stirring you up in this way was truly unheard of. It was as if he knew every inch of you to tease and stir. His fingers went in as deep as he could get them, down to the knuckles, and just as fast as he pushed them in he retracted them; over and over he did this. This sensation causes a start to come over you along with a rather loud moan that you quiet by nipping his nape.

Had it ever felt like this before? You can’t even remember the last time you’d felt such yearning.

Such sweet sensations, yet not enough to satisfy your burning, ceaseless desire that welled and breathed hot sparks of lust in you. You trail along the length of his body and stop at his throbbing cock that warmed your thigh, vocalizing your ache with a small whimper in the vicinity of where his ear might be. Stroking his girth lightly, you clench his fingers as a way to communicate your needs, and he seems to understand your unspoken words. This was absurdly bold and out of character on your part, but how could you resist this worshipful pleasure. The man rises from your body, hand and neck wet from indulging your senses in small delights. Slow pumps of his palm against his cock work to lubricate his erection in the slick coating left over from the oil—or you. With great anticipation, you stare between his legs as he holds it steady, nearing your entrance. You’ve forgotten all sense of doubt and instead crave him, crave his every touch. Heavy breaths cause your chest to rise and fall, and a small ticklish anxiety flutters sweetly within your stomach; one might call it butterflies.

With your legs spread and hips angled up, you position yourself—desperate—for him to enter. He teases the opening with his tip, hot and eager to pleasure your trembling carnal instincts. Slowly—his heat enters you slowly—and leaves you breathless as he inches inward.

“Fuck,” you gasp. 

The pressure invaded your insides and spread you open farther than you’d thought it would. Though he was bigger than expected, he advanced smoothly and eventually seated himself completely within you. From inside the goat head you could hear the soft vibrations of a man losing himself to the wills of his own innate pleasures. With one hand he holds your thigh and the other your waist—and in a breath he thrusts in you for the first time. The sensation of his imposing manhood sends clear waves of the sweetest tingles all throughout you. His hips dig into yours with a tantalizing rhythm, grinding into places you didn’t know existed and causing you to twist with fervent cries for more. Each swing of his hips a new sweet tingle running through your body. With the cadence of his thrusts you feel yourself bobbing along and attempt to stop this by clawing at the sheet between you and the floor, but your efforts prove mostly useless. Still coated in oil, he can’t manage a grip on your body sufficient enough for his liking, so he leans more into you—imparting some of his weight onto you and into his thrusts. He means to keep you still by doing so, but this has the side effect of deepening his position and increasing the magnitude of each movement—fucking you into the floor. Now you hold onto the thin cotton sheet, defiled in sweat, for another reason. He squeezes your leg against his chest as he plunges into your depths over and over, caressing your piquing skin. 

Involuntarily, you convulse around him and with that a jolt strikes his body and a soft sound seeps from under his goat’s visage. A man is certainly under there and he’s driving you crazy with each furtive groan he quiets in his attempt to remain in character. He’s still for a second and pants heavily before starting his pace again, obviously trying not to finish the deed before you do. That really turned you on further, so you urged him down overtop of you as he had been before and breathlessly sucked on his exposed skin. Removing the cape strings that had been tied at his neck, it’s as if he was insisting you continue what you were doing. Gleefully, you oblige, and run your teeth along the length of his neck, nipping and licking his hot flesh as his movements grow more erratic. You hum moans into his skin, arms and legs enveloping him in an embrace, and coil around his throbbing passion—fit to burst. 

“Oh, Satan! You’re gonna make me come,” your voice quakes as your limbs shake and shiver.

Ecstasy welled up and trickled out in an iridescent wave of gratifying electricity that thrummed and purred, radiating from your pelvis and quivering snugly against the searing heat within you. A rapturous orgasm, one you never experienced before overtook you, causing your body to tremor as if The Unholy Spirit itself had possessed you. His shoulders shook and soon after he filled you with something warm, muscles tight as he did. You run your still trembling thumb between the bottom of the mask and his damp flesh, pressing your ear against the bristly side face of the taxidermied goat. Listening to his breaths from within the confines of his mask you can hardly make out a near inaudible whisper, but before you can process whatever was said you fell into a deep sleep; thus concluding the ritual of binding.

***

An urgent matter required all clergy members to converge in the worship hall of the church; to include ordinary siblings. At this time of day everyone was at each of their respective tasks. You were unfurling a luxurious sheet over Papa Emeritus III’s uselessly large bed when the call came over the intercom. Papa Emeritus III, or Terzo, was the current Papa and the one you were charged to serve directly as his chambermaid. Currently he’s out on his mission, bewitching the hearts of thousands, and spreading the teachings of Satan to the masses. He was expected back soon, so you reasoned his bed ought to have been made and presentable by the time he returns.

“All clergy members report to the grand hall immediately,” Papa Nihil wheezed the order over the loudspeaker.

You drop your current task at hand in favor of heeding the patriarch’s command. Unlike the others, you were a little ways away in the rectory where the Papas reside, an annex to the church itself, so you were going to need to hurry to make it in time. There was nothing you could do regarding the bedspread, you’d have to leave everything unfinished until you could return after whatever it was they were calling everyone for. You left just as the intercom clicked off.

By the time you made it to the foyer outside the main hall nearly everyone had already found their way in to their seats. A few stragglers remain in the halls, one of which caught your eye; a man you hadn’t seen before. He was dressed in a bright red cassock, no doubt he was a cardinal, gloved fingers fidgeting against each other in some perplexed manner. He seemed stiff and looked a little awkward as he turned round like a nervous dog. He paced a little outside the double door and muttered to himself about something unknown before entering. You followed not long after him.

The nave was beating with life as idle chatter of the buzzing crowd sitting in the garden of pews hummed. The entire clergy was called to the heart of the church for some reason or another, but not a soul knew why. The sea of heads before you swayed this way and that, hoping to catch every word of unfounded gossip about the possible reason for the wholly complete roll call.

“I heard Papa Emeritus II crashed the hearse and now he’s in some hospital,” one nun whispered, hand to ear.

“I think I was told that Papa Emeritus III was impotent, so now they’re having trouble producing an heir,” another squealed, unable to stifle her laughter.

“Not a chance!” Her partner in babble replied.

“If anyone’s impotent it’d have to be the old man,” no doubt referring to Papa Emeritus I.

Dear Lucifer, do these girls not have any couth? The constant jabber of inane group-speak was becoming unbearable and setting your nerves on edge. Your leg bobbed at a tedious rhythm just right of the leg of the bench you reclined on.

“What do you think, Sister?” The voice to your left impeded your loan wallowing of existential boredom with a rather unwelcome question. She leaned in close, eager for the opinion of a veteran nun.

“I think it would be very wise not to speak so rudely of the Emeritus bloodline, and wait for further instruction from the papacy,” rather harshly, you scold the newer devotee.

The girl retreated back to her own sullen space on the pew, a little wounded, but otherwise unharmed. 

The bobbing of your leg stopped as you realized how rudely you reacted to a fairly innocent question; it’s not like she was asking you to gossip. Looking over, you notice she’s got this look of reservation on her face like a little scared animal.

You want to thread the words of an apology, but you’re ultimately interrupted by the resounding clatter of an opening double door at the back of the great hall. An uncharacteristically bright dawning light accompanied by unseasonal fog spilled in through the entrance. All sound of self assured murmurs and blatant disrespect hush to utter quiet, replaced by the clacking of heels on the delicately polished marble floor. No one dared look, as it was already apparent who it was exactly.

Sister Imperator—the dark mother—walks swiftly and uninhibited down the mouth of the wide aisle between the stacked wooden seats that flanked its sides. Her once blonde hair, now silver with age, swayed in a high ponytail with each beat of her foot on the ground. Shambling after her was Papa Nihil, complicated look fixed on his face, he kept pace at Imperator’s heels; oxygen tank clattering after him.

Not a whisper was offered as the two made their way up to the lectern that stood, facing the congregation. You quickly retracted your foot from the walkway and sat perfectly upright so as to not make an obstacle of yourself. Your head sinks in solemn prayer as Sister Imperator passes, your movements are that of a statue in her presence. She held an ethereal charm along with an otherworldly authoritative nature, something you’ve never personally had to experience due to your exceptional attendance and professionalism. In fact, it seemed she favored you to some degree as she has proposed you for many privileges within the church. She entrusted you with a rather hefty ring of keys, granting you access to nearly every inch of the church and the grounds that surround it. ‘My right hand,’ she has called you this once or twice in the past, and while she may favor you, you know best to keep yourself small so as not to incur her wrath. So far your efforts have paid off, and while the other siblings in the same position as you have slowly dwindled in number, Sister Imperator made sure you continued your work in the rectory as normal.

“Good morning children of Satan,” the gray man cleared his throat as he stepped up center stage. Sister Imperator was just to his left, stage right, standing tall and statuesque; sporting her signature corporate-chic visage.

“Lucifer’s light shine on you, Papa,” in unison the crowd responded.

Nihil gripped the sides of the lectern with shaky hands, and looked down at the rows of filled seats in dark contemplation before an elbow into his side from his companion urged him on.

“Well, my children, I come bearing most unfortunate news,” the elderly man wets his lips before continuing. “It is with heavy hearts that Sister Imperator and I come to you today to inform you that Papas Emeritus I, II, and III have all tragically passed away.”

The air in the grand hall thickened with a heavy worry and utter disbelief at the patriarch’s words. Shock, that is what replaced the inane jabber before. Absolute dead quiet sweeped over the masses. The room was awash in incredulity, how could this be true? No one in the crowd had the answer, but it had to be true, the church would never—could never lie. With that realization, that being the fact of the matter, weak sobs erupt from the more “devout” siblings in the room.

Surprisingly, you were unmoved by the news. Having served all three of them directly, if only briefly for some, in subsequent order as a personal chambermaid of sorts you found it strange how you seemed to lack the emotion that had compelled your brothers and sisters to cry aloud for their fallen Papas. What filled you—rather than despair—was this strange anxiety that had a way of shifting, ebbing and flowing. You were unsure of the future, and excited—good and bad—to see what the ever changing hand of fate might deal for you. You were, as of just now, still under the command of the late Papa Emeritus III after all. 

Nihil raises his palm to calm the congregation, rendering the room silent once again.

“I understand your woe, but rest assured knowing that the three of them are resting in eternal damnation with his dark eminence.”

Imperator eyeballed him, brow in a superfluous arch.

“Ah yes,” the aged man coughed into his fist. “Please join me in welcoming the church’s new successor,” he gestures to a man in the front row.

The entire room locked eyes on the mysterious figure in the red cassock, standing from his seat to address his new station. You had trouble making him out through the gaps between shoulders and heads. 

“Eh… Hello, how do you do,” he greeted, more than somewhat awkwardly. “I am Cardinal Copia.”

The members of the clergy looked on quietly at his uncertain display. 

“I, eh-, look forward to,” his voice was small in the deep worship hall, “uh, serving you.” He stands awkwardly facing the audience in a rather slouched posture.

“The cardinal was selected in pectore, before the tragedy occurred, and will be taking over the late Papa Emeritus III’s duties until further notice.”

Murmurs hushly picked up again, echoing shadows of concern over this relatively unknown brother replacing the newly un-incumbent—and much beloved—Papa. Many sisters clutched the grucifix at the end of their rosaries in quiet prayer while others became borderline catatonic. Sister Imperator clapped her hands sharply, sending vibrations to the very under roof of the church which then showered down from above; indeed, she commanded quiet once more.

“Now that that’s over, back to your duties, business as usual!” She chimed, smile clear in her voice, but not nearly meeting the meaning of her words.

The worried flock filed their way out of the main hall in an orderly fashion, not a soul took any courage upon themselves to speak another word about the new heir. No one turned to watch or look or gawk at the man, still standing in place—aside from you. Not having the chance to get a good look at this Cardinal as he introduced himself, you toss a glance back over your shoulder to maybe see the face of the new highest ranking member of the clergy.

Oh, it’s him, you recognize the man from earlier, now understanding his nervous nature before.

His hair was a rather subtle ashy brown, and was slicked neatly behind his ears. A dark lip, tucked under a pencil-thin mustache, floated over the other in a parted bewilderment, possibly at the fast emptying pews. He was older than you, but rather attractive in a refined, dapper way—especially his eyes nestled in their black border of dark makeup. He scanned the room, chasing after his fleeing brothers and sisters in Satan who seemed too eager to return to work.

“Poor guy didn’t even get a chance,” you console him only at a safe distance as the mass trickled back to ‘business as usual’.

Unexpectedly, he looked directly at you. Like the Emeritus before him, his eyes were heterochromic in nature, intensely piercing through you, and profoundly dazzling. You found it hard to relieve yourself of his burning gaze, it caused your blood to boil in the most feverish way. That wave of anxiety you had felt before swelled with his eyes locked onto yours, as the ebb did flow in that way it does—you stumbled—fleeing from his intense look. 

As you merged with the mingling bodies in the corridor you felt your tension relax slightly, but found it hard to catch your breath. Your face flushed a red that rivaled the crimson of the newly appointed cardinal’s frock causing you to fan yourself in an attempt to cool your titillated nerves. No Papa before had ever caused you this strange immobilization—an almost blood sickness—but you couldn’t help but ache with curiosity about what this strange intruder had done to you.

“Who’s in charge of the rectory laundry?” A voice cries out as the mass of nuns return to their stations.

“Me!” You reply, each step away from the Cardinal a small reprieve from the striking heat set upon you.

After sometime busying yourself with your duties, your body forgets the intensity of those eyes and reverts back to normal. As you strip the sheets of the late Papa Emeritus III’s bed you feel an ominous presence encroaching on you.

“Sister, might I have a word?” Sister Imperator beckons to you, standing cross armed in the doorway of the room you were working in.

“Yes ma’am,” you drop what you were doing at once and approach the matriarch obediently.

“I’ve decided that like the Papas before, you’ll serve Cardinal Copia as his personal maid.” She smiles, self assured that her word is law. 

Your body shivers at the thought of his searing gaze penetrating you as it did before, but you can’t refuse her. “Of course,” you offer an understanding nod. “I’ll be sure to introduce myself first thing tomorrow morning.”

“No, go now,” her words cut through the air.

“Now?” You ask.

“His schedule is very full tomorrow, go now,” she insists.

“Yes ma’am,” not wanting to meet the brunt of her wrath you do as she says, leaving the laundry in a crumpled mess on the bare mattress.

“Please make sure to fill my position here,” you say as you step out into the hallway.

“No need to worry about that, take this and hurry along,” the woman wore a very corporate smile as she offered a sliver of folded paper between her fingers.

You reach for the paper but she retracts her hand swiftly. “Still keeping up with that vow of yours?”

“Yes?” You say, a bit confused by her asking. The binding ceremony had already taken place a month ago, but it seemed she wasn’t aware of it for some reason. Though you didn’t remember much of it yourself; that day was a blur.

“Good girl, now hurry along; no use worrying about the dead,” She once again offers the paper to you, actually giving it up this time, along with something else. 

Looking down at what she had given you, you find a dark metal key wrapped in a small scrap of paper. Unfolding the paper, you find directions to the Cardinal’s chambers had been quickly jotted down in red ink. The key itself was cool to the touch and had a rather wicked looking serpent functioning as its handle and spine. You knew what this meant—as it did before—if your knock receives no answer, just let yourself in. Many times you’d find yourself in such a situation before, with each Papa. And they’d usually be engaged in some level of debauchery, too busy to grace your knock with any reply. You were discreet about any of the goings on that you’d been privy to while acting as the chambermaid, which is probably why you’ve been charged with serving ‘Cardinal Copia’—a mystery in the clergy. No doubt someone like him would be the subject of much talk, especially after today. You could only hope that he was not as open about his escapades as the ones before him. A few bedmates were bound to be witnessed leaving his chambers as he gained his popularity, but you really couldn’t stand the thought of witnessing the activity itself. With key in hand you made your way to the Cardinal’s quarters, to him. 

Your journey began as the sun fell.

Chapter Text

Following the directions to a T, you find yourself standing outside an ultimately underwhelming door nestled in the old wing of the church. Much unlike the grandiose manner of the official papal chambers located in the rectory, there were no intricate carvings of saints purging in hell flames and definitely no sign of a brightly polished golden handle. The door that stood before you was utterly plain and particularly hidden away; hence the need for directions. The only distinguishing feature was the snake, similar to the one on the key, engraved into the metal base around the door knob—chasing itself in ouroboros. His room was situated on a sidewall just at the mouth of a short dead end that hadn’t seen the business side of a broom in what seemed like a few decades.

“Papa Nihil wasn’t joking when he said ‘in pectore’, this guy’s as off grid as you can get in this place,” you mumble to yourself and to the vacant dark hallway that surrounds you. Being a less populated section of the church, the halls were somewhat unkempt with peeling wallpaper and torn or otherwise obscured old paintings of who knows what lost to time. Vague human figures appear blackened out by some dark substance that did not come away easily from the portraits; rubbing at the surface with your finger has no effect. Even the ceiling had been covered by some blank drapery that had been collecting dust for some unspecified number of years. Is this really where the current successor is staying? Some old unused storage room in the old wing of the church? 

You poke your head around the corner that leads to a similarly remote hall and hear distant echoes, probably coming from somewhere better traveled. 

You clench your palm into a fist and bring it to the face of the door, but freeze at the thought of meeting those eyes again. The image of burning depth in his white eye, and the soft tenderness in the green made apparent its place in your psyche—granting a lukewarm chill to seize your spine. A strange sense of fight or flight burrowed into you, you couldn’t tell whether you were frightened by the strange man or intrigued by him; perhaps a little bit of both? There is a fine line that separates the two, and he’s perched you atop that tightrope almost completely against your will. Although it seemed to be by some will unbeknownst to you, you weren’t completely free of blame; you did look back after all. You looked back as your brothers and sisters fled without a second thought, and perhaps that is where your fault lies. Perhaps if you left with the masses, if you’d given the Cardinal no second thought, then you wouldn’t be affected by him. Wouldn’t be thinking much of your current situation in the way that you are now; nothing to cause you pause in any way. It might even have been easy with your experience of serving the Papas before him. If he’d been anyone else this would have been as easy as breathing. Your perplexing feelings whir within you as you ready yourself to confront those eyes again.

The spiraling sconce that accompanied the door closely, the only real source of light besides that from the waning sunbeams muffled and shrouded by thin cloth coverings pinned to the windows, flickered tiresomely with a slight buzzing sound. The combination of the two was particularly obnoxious, having the potential to cause a headache if one were to dawdle in its presence. Snapping out of your haze of restless intangible thought, and coming back to your senses, you strike the door three times with the crest of your knuckles… No answer. You were certain to have knocked hard and distinctly enough that if anyone were inside they would have heard you, but rather than immediately opening the door you give another sequence of knocks just to be sure. Again, you’re met with no response; none at all. 

While the location isn’t much like the Papas’, his attitude about guests seems similar so far, you can’t help but compare. Because you received no answer from the Cardinal it’s now up to you to intrude on his peace—enter his domain. With the other Papas this would be nothing to me, but the Cardinal is… you’re hesitant to proceed. Taking a deep breath to steel your nerves and shutting your eyes, you linger with your fist still curled as if to strike the door for a minute before turning the key over in your hand a few times.

With a wavering hand you slide the key into the lock and turn it, receiving a click in response. You grip the handle of the door and twist it all the way to the side, ensuring that the latch has been drawn back far enough to minimize the sound of your reluctant entry. As the door gave way to your force on it the hinges creaked with submission of intrusion. The door had only been halfway ajar before you spotted him. He sat lax in an armchair across from a moderate fire cooking in a mid-sized hearth, his nose in an old looking leather bound book. Much alike to his predecessors, he either didn’t hear you knock, or couldn’t be bothered to let you in. He had rid himself of his vestments, instead wearing the clothes beneath his red cassock—red slacks with a black, partially buttoned, dress shirt. The hand that gripped the book and the other that slouched across the arm rest were similarly wrapped in leather—off black—embroidered with the symbol of the grucifix. He muttered somewhere under his breath to himself about the contents of the text inches out from his face. He had a handsome manner in his posture, easy in his chair yet studying his literature with such fervor. It was apparent that you found yourself immediately attracted to him. He was too far when you noticed him in the foyer and too frightening when he held you in his gaze, but now at this distance you can truly appreciate his looks.

“Good evening, Cardinal,” you greet him as you would any member of the clergy, doing your best to tame the trembling in your limbs. He hasn’t even set you ablaze yet and you’re already cowering in anticipation or some treacherous thrill; you can’t be sure which.

“Ay!” Half falling out of his chair, he exclaims in surprise, dropping his partner in deliberation to the floor. His eyes widen at you in astonishment, lacking that certain intensity he had when he first set them upon you. “Sister!? Please knock before you enter.”

“I did… twice.”

“Oh,” he puffs while grabbing at the book below, and standing to receive your presence. “My apologies Sister, I was deep in thought,” he lets out a sigh while smoothing his hair back. 

“I could tell,” you chuckle lightly at his mannerisms, soothed by his awkward maneuvers. Not something you’d expect of the man in front of you, but you really didn’t know what to expect. He’d been awkward before when you saw him in the foyer, and again when he introduced himself to the clergy at large, but you had been fixating on that brief moment of concern and heat you felt before scurrying off with the crowd. At this moment he was absolutely sheepish in his approach and you couldn’t help but find that somewhat charming in itself.

Copia’s expression shifts from one of surprise to a relaxed smile when he hears your laugh. He looks at you for some time, studying your face with a pinched brow. “So,” he clasps his gloved hands at his front with a creak in the leather. “What brings you to my room tonight, Sister, perhaps a spiritual counseling session?” he propositioned you earnestly, lacking any innuendo that might have been misconstrued in the manner of his question. It seems he was already looking forward to guiding his flock, but you weren’t here for that.

“Actually, Cardinal, I’m here at your service as your chambermaid,” the same spiel you’ve used before for the previous Papas, but it has a different feeling when it’s just you and the Cardinal; no team of five or ten others to act as a buffer. Such a team wouldn’t be needed to service such an intimate, humble dwelling. “Sister Imperator has instructed me to do so. She gave me the key to your room and insisted I introduce myself tonight. When you didn’t answer I let myself in,” you flash an apologetic smile to punctuate your words. “I’m sorry for scaring you.”

“Ha!” he scoffs. “I’ve never needed one before, and now all of a sudden here you are. Must be the perks of being next in line, no?” He places the book on a nearby side table and approaches you. “Unfortunately you’ve come so late in the day, little one, and more than a maid servant I need a, uh,” he pauses, searching for the right thing to say, “study buddy,” he smiles, satisfied that he found the correct term in English. Once again, he inspects your face, now at a much shorter distance. Is it possible that he recognized you from this morning?

“Study buddy?” you ask, a little confused.

“Sì, I’ve been given the opportunity to lead tomorrow’s Mass as my proper introduction, and after today… Oy,” he shoots a glance to the side briefly as he recalls the rather brutal reception of the congregation.

You can’t help but smile at his humble display, “I’d be honored to help you with this, Cardinal.”

“Please, make yourself comfortable,” he gestures you to enter. 

Was this a trick, a trap? Inviting you into his room like this? Studying his face, he seemed expectant in a similar way to a child. 

With some kind of resolve you oblige, entering and pulling the short footstool close to the chair he’d been making use of to sit, patting the seat beside you as to invite him to do the same. Shutting the door with a somewhat ominous click, he makes his way over after you and reclines in his seat once more. It’s strange how at ease you feel now, as opposed to just this morning, was this really the same Cardinal? This Cardinal seemed safe and sweet, someone you felt perfectly comfortable with at your side. As he took his seat he reopened his book, searching for the right passage to perform. 

“Sister, at this moment you’re my window into the hearts of those in the congregation, how do you suggest I go about this?” He asks, before flipping the page he’d been reading before your arrival. Casting his eyes on you, waiting for your instruction. You avert your gaze out of some molecule of fear still nestled in your stomach.

“The clergy,” you start, giving it some thought before you answer. “The people of the clergy like to be commanded, if you can’t command the room they’ll have apprehensions about this new change. They just lost three Papas all in one day; they need someone to command them—to ensure them that it’ll all be okay,” you explain, having watched sisters and brothers alike anguish over the abruptness of losing their much beloved Papas.

He leaned to his side to rest his elbow on the arm of the chair, placing his chin on his thumb, and tapped his tightly closed lips with his gloved index finger. “I understand, they’re feeling lost.” He pauses, processing what you said. “I don’t exactly have the confidence in myself to fill these shoes,” he sinks his brow into the cupped palm of his hand.

Fuck, I made it worse! You need to reassure him, to ease his stress regarding the situation, and fast. Inadvertently, you caused more tension in the freshly christened man which can be studied in his stiff posture. You move to get a little closer, hoping to build his confidence with some encouraging words.

What you said next wasn’t exactly thought out, feeling a sense of urgency, you say the most comforting thing you can muster.

“I may not know you well, Cardinal,” your voice low, comforting, “but I know the clergy, Papa Nihil, and Sister Imperator, and I believe you were appointed for a purpose; I have full confidence in you.” You pat his shoulder and a gentle warmness envelopes your hand. You recoil almost immediately, gripping the warmth with your other; maybe it was best not to touch him. This gentle warmth caught you off guard, such a delicateness to it yet still suggesting something devious. 

If his eyes have the power to overtake you then his body must be the path to your downfall. You push the worry of ‘what have I gotten myself into’ to the back of your mind. The Cardinal seemed subdued now, and what happened this morning could have just been a fluke, right? Above all you feel a need to assist him, not like how you felt obligated toward the Papas; something much more esoteric that pulled you in.

“You are,” he rubs his palm down his face a little before recovering himself, “too kind, Sister.” He fixes himself in his chair, crossing a leg over his knee. “I truly appreciate those words,” he smiles at you, small but soothed.

You feel something soar in your chest at his soft expression. Something that you thought you gave up on many years ago, yet somehow still had a small hope of feeling again. You couldn’t help but come to trust that genuine look and lose to his easy demeanor. You looked into his eyes and he into yours, lost in some warm staring contest neither of you wanted to lose.

“Well then,” you, once again, avert your eyes, worried that anymore would dispel the resolve you just built before you even started what he invited you in for. “Should we begin?” You crack open your book to initiate the study session and he does the same.

The two of you poured over the old books he kept tableside, reading straight from scripture and similar supplemental apocryphal texts. Contrary to your initial impression of his deep oppressive gaze—he looks upon you kindly—a relaxed reassurance that fills one with the want to trust him, the need to trust him. This strange man. This unknown man. He’s endearing himself to you now, but inflicted some alien power over you only hours ago. Now you seemed to forget that power, that ensnarement that impaired you, practically writing it off as just your imagination; focused more on the gentle Cardinal at your side.

This study session allowed you some insight into this strange, unknown man; something you wouldn’t have been privy to had you not visited him this very night. You come to understand his serious nature about his duties and dedication to the doctrine, yet find that he has some good humors about him. He cracked some jokes, you laughed even if they were a little unfunny, and you fell into an eased state during your time together. His personality was rather shy and a little unsure, but that was what you liked about him. No pompous attitudes or self righteous behavior as you’d been so accustomed to.

“How about this,” you point to a passage on the page you were reading. “It’s old, but dedication to the old ways is always well received.” You show him your book, both of you leaning close to give it a read.

“That does seem to be the case more often than not,” he taps the cover of the book he’s holding. “In my experience, fortune favors the old,” he snickers at his joke and you do as well.

“‘In my experience’ makes you sound very well practiced, Cardinal, I can’t imagine this is the first church you’ve been assigned to,” you posit, interested in his reply.

“No, but I was just recently transplanted from our branch in Italy,” he says as he smooths the hair on his lip.

“Oh, how romantic, I’ve always wanted to see the grand cathedral of the Italian branch!” You gush, mystified by the old elaborate architecture of the far-flung past.

“The cathedral truly is a sight to behold—as for romance—feh, there was none to be had in it,” he explains, waving away the notion you proposed with his ever emotive hand. “I was too busy with my studies and training; everyone was busy.”

“I see… were you there for very long?” Your intrigue grows deeper. The Italian branch is the head church’s sister location, even still, not a lot is known about it unless one has been there personally. This branch was secretive in its practice, but the Italian branch was ten times that. Even Sister Imperator expressed her frustration with the ever covert goings on of the Italian branch.

He looks into the fire and watches the flames dance in their shelter before answering. “Sì, in fact, I was raised in that church, that was my home until I was called upon to serve here a few years ago.” Sighing, he adds, “One can never truly feel at ease when they’re far from home.”

You notice his quiet shift in tone, maybe he was more wistful than before. You decide not to pry any further in fear of crossing some unknown boundary. “I’m sorry for getting off track, let’s continue where we left off, alright?” You move to change the subject, yet still his words stick in your mind. Why did he come to this location, was it even his choice to be here? You wonder about a few things like this as you move onto the next page to occupy yourself.

“No need for apologies, Sister, I appreciate your help,” he says, comforting smile present on his lips.

The study session eventually progressed into independent reading time for the both of you. The only sound exchanged between the two of you could be heard as the odd mutter or eventual page turn. The muttering seems to be a habit of his, possibly unbeknownst to the man himself. It was a little incomprehensible, but you’d catch the occasional ‘Satanas’ here and there as he took in the information of whatever text he had in hand at the time.

The glow of the flames painted his dark features in the ill lit room, catching your attention. Warm heart beating hues outlined the pronounced traits of his face and defined them well. With your book in your lap and head bowed in near mockery of prayer, you can’t help but steal glances at the Cardinal. His fingers ran down the length of the pages in deep prolonged thought, caressing the uneven yellowed parchment. His face, in quiet debate once more, possessed less of that friendly demeanor he’d endeared to you during your brief study session and now conveying a much firmer character about it. He moved very rarely but to clench his jaw every once in a while, and with his slow studied movements—that you watched so intensely—his finger dropped down the thin line of the aged paper and gave the page a turn. Once the page had progressed he replaced his fingers, stroking at the jutting edges yet again. The gloves he had been wearing were removed some time ago for an easier grip on the pages, exposing his hands blessed with beautiful structure and sculpted by his years. His palm boasted a thick scar, not uncommon to those in the clergy as it’s expected to partake in a ritual here and there, but you found it odd to be in the right. Only very specific rituals called for blood of the right hand; those that require a symbolic gesture of the mark of the beast. 

You figure that he’s been a member of the clergy for long enough, he’s probably performed or participated in his fair share of rituals; including the sacred ones. You continue to study him, somehow mesmerized by his every move.

This guy, he’s really hard to gauge, you thought.

Earlier today he was a little scary, but now. 

“Sister,” his abrupt voice caused your body to bolt upright.

“Yes?”

“Your eyes, they tickle my face,” without turning away from his book, he peers at you with his white eye.

“Ah, I’m sorry, Cardinal,” you feel a heat enveloping your cheeks.

“What is going on in your head, hm?” closing the tome with his index finger as the bookmark, you receive his full attention. 

Wait, this is… something had changed, the white eye became intense in an unexplainable way.

You couldn’t find any good response. Your thoughts and reasoning were in utter disarray, and you found it difficult to sift through your incomprehensible muddled feelings of horror and desire. It’s happening again.

Now he was much less Cardinal Copia and more—something you didn’t quite know yet; perhaps that something from this morning.

the Cardinal had cast his wicked spell over you once again. You shivered, not from any unruly wind that may have found its way into his living quarters, but from that anxiety from within—he seized at it with flames in his wretchedly enchanting eyes. 

You feel yourself transfixed by those eyes, enthralled by the frightful flame that inhabits them deep within. You’re almost completely ready to succumb, to give into any temptation he might offer. 

Looking down to his exposed collarbone, an unknown stirring fills you, and you’re reminded of your oath—your binding. The events of the ceremony were nearly all lost to you, only known in fragments of recollection, but you couldn’t forget your promise to Satan. As tempting as the Cardinal’s unknown magic might be, you’re determined to hold fast in your sacred pact.

You exhaled a hot shaky breath, “I think I should be heading back to the nunnery now.” Your body began a low tremor while your heart thrummed in the confines of its rib cage. 

The feeling in your chest was that of severe pressure, as if to rid you of the beating that plagued your bosom. At the same time it ached in the most pleasant way—such an ache that persuaded you that you wouldn’t mind if the whole thing were squashed flat completely. With buckling knees you somehow manage to rise from your seat, book expelling itself from your lap as you paid it no mind. The thought of his enjoyment of your company earlier had caused an easement to the edge you’d felt initially, but this time was different; you were overcome with the overwhelming urge to flee from him, from your desires. You move across the room from him, bidding a quiet and rushed adieu as you go.

You must seem out of your wits to him now, hastily leaving for no known reason. 

“Please, allow me to escort you back, Sister,” he reached for your hand, but with the odd state of your body you retracted from his touch. A kind gesture, or maybe something more akin to a predator courting its prey into accepting an early fate? You couldn’t afford to find out, or why he made you burn in such a way, with such heat; not tonight anyway. As he followed closely at your back you hastened your steps to escape the hold of his inexplicable influence. The room wasn’t a long trek, but each step trudged heavier and more incumbered than the last, making the whole ordeal feel somewhere between now and forever. Your mind fought for fear, yet it seemed your body worked against it.

You couldn’t bear to feel his skin against yours, the temperature of his body would be maddening. You feared something so simple as direct contact, yet you craved it all the same and with a depth that gave you more reason to fear it. With a quickness, you managed to slip through a small crack in the door, and from the other side you met him face to face—between hunger and putrid flighty fear—you enchanted each other through hurried breath and sliver of wood. “This is goodnight, Cardinal, I had a very nice time studying with you,” chest heaving.

He seemed exasperated, in need of something, hungry for something. He came to meet you just on the other side of the door, having followed your fleeing steps. “Perhaps it is better you leave me here tonight. For the trouble, I apologize and—well… sorry,” the embers in his eyes smoldered as he apologized. You couldn’t be sure if he was feeling the same as you, this yearning, but you couldn’t bring yourself to find out. His face was a little disappointed at your hurried escape; perhaps more so than when the siblings left him hanging.

“Have a good night,” and with that the door shut tightly. You couldn’t help but soak up the remnants of his warmth that he’d pressed to the door before taking your leave into the dark. As soon as that something appeared, it resigned itself just as quickly. Surely it was the Cardinal who had bid you goodnight just now.

The light that had clung to life outside the Cardinal’s room snuffed itself out with a harsh buzz that sizzled for some time. The hall was now completely immersed in void like shadows, windows covered up in a way that wouldn’t betray the pitch black to the light of the still rising moon. The paintings draped with now ghostlike linens became something more haunting, and the ones soiled with some unknown blackness became doorways to a still deepening dark. Sounds still trailed in from who knows where, and followed after the echo of your footsteps. Your heart beat did not come to rest nearly as fast as it did after your first encounter with the strange new Cardinal; his enchanting spell.

As you mooned about the halls of the old wing, you traced your finger along the dusty walls and thought deeply about the events that had just transpired.

Why do I react like that with him, to the heat in his gaze? A question you can’t seem to find the answer to, yet it and many others like it erode all other thoughts from your mind.

Does he know what he’s doing? Does he know he’s doing it to me? 

It was as if he switched halfway through—his presence had-, you trail off, afraid that the very idea of him would cause your situation to worsen; heart still pounding dizzyingly. You don’t understand exactly why you become afflicted with intermittent bouts of searing anxiety and curious attraction, but you decide to not let it sway you. It can’t be like this every time you’re supposed to be near the Cardinal; running away from him isn’t the answer. You wouldn’t be performing your duties wholly if you continue to flee at the slightest titillation of your sensitive nerves.

How am I supposed to deal with this? As you question yourself the ornamental moulding you’d been following with your finger had come to its limit; It seemed you were at the end of the old wing. 

The chattering from before had been drowned out by your busy mind, but became more apparent as you came back to your senses. You stood in place, squinting down the long dark corridor preceding the old wing. Windows before you now dapple the ground in light. No light, besides that of the moon, to suggest anyone is near enough to be heard. Distant at first, the indistinct babble seemed to approach nearer and nearer, you quickened your pace in response. Down the hall, across the grand foyer, and down another hall; it seemed like some impending nightmare clung to your heels. Looking back over your shoulder and peeking around corners, you couldn’t find anything or anyone that could be causing the sound; it was likely that everyone had retired to bed. You were alone, nearly running through the church in almost complete darkness. The assorted sounds of shrieking, laughing, incoherent speech, and indecipherable whispers chased you from one end of the cathedral to the other. Louder and louder the voices grew and so too they grew ever demented, rambling after you as if to accost you for entering their realm. 

Though they had no face or body to them, you could hear the sneer in the growing sound. 

Hands still shaking, you press them over your ears to shield yourself from the intensities that follow you; the sound seemingly invaded your head. You’re frantic now and running short of your breath when you finally reach the stairs that lead you to your floor of the nunnery. 

The voices, once so close you could almost tell what they were saying, now faded with each advance toward your room. You didn’t find any reason to halt your pace, still running with your hands flat over your ears in case the sounds were to ambush you when you turn on the first landing to precede up to the second floor.

You managed your way back to your room in spite of the untrustworthiness of your wobbling legs. The night sunk deeper and darker than it had before which was made evident by the otherworldly quiet you experienced on the other side of your door. The insistent voices and cacophony of unknown noises from before had lost you in your race back to the nunnery. Your body wilted in relief as you held the door shut tightly, assumedly safe from harm.

Your cheeks flushed as you relieve yourself of your habit and veil, still burning from the thought of the Cardinal’s eyes—still puffing from the chase. The beating in your chest had become dizzying, and as you removed your bra you felt it even more. Some kind of acute sensation that had been boiling within you nearly made you vomit, but by sinking into your bed that feeling faded. You shut your eyes tight and held still to maybe feign sleep. In time your pretending turned into reality and you slipped into a deep sleep, free of that nauseating feeling and the menial day-to-day. The Cardinal remained in the corner of your fading lucidity as you drifted out of consciousness.

***

An odd numbness tickled you, a buzzing whirred, and something held you fast to the mattress. You weren’t nearly conscious enough to register what was going on, having been in a deep sleep only moments ago. You were forced into a claustrophobic limbo; between sleep and wake. A paralysis overtook your being and the only thing you could do was open your eyes, but why would you want to? The hazy black figure standing at the end of your bed deterred you from doing so again. It lurked, unmoving and amorphous; likely the progenitor of that static sound that commanded you cast aside your veil like sleep. Your pulse burst, nearly audible as you labored against the invisible force that had affixed you to the sheets. With gritting teeth you struggled, but to no avail, you were stuck in place at the mercy of your dark companion.

Though you tried, no amount of effort provided any semblance of movement; you were perfectly still despite your best efforts. You could feel the sweat bead—cold—against your skin as the buzzing became a deafening whine in your ear. Perfect prey can’t run.

A voice emerged from the nauseating sound. “Sister,” it was him, “are you unwell?” His voice found you through the dreadful whirring static.

Did he know you were feeling sick, or perhaps he was the cause of your illness—the cause of the awful noise—the cause of it all.

“Sister,” his voice was so soft. “Open your eyes.” A tender coercion clear in his soft beckonings tempted you so. 

The incessant droning in your ear had subsided to a low vibration that made it difficult to think cohesively. You had no idea why he was in your room, how you hadn’t noticed him coming in after you, or if it was some evil trick being played on you. There was one thing you knew for sure, and that was his presence—in spite of it all—calmed you at this moment. 

Hearing his voice washed you with relief. You felt the cold sweat fall away and were warm again. Only a garbled hum could be heard as your reply, still rendered all but immobile. Heeding his instructions, you pried your eyes open to sneak a peek at the figure that waited across from you. He stood there, right where the strange intruder had been, at the foot of your bed. Indeed it was him—all dressed in abyss—wearing the thick black shadows as his cloak. His face was cast in obscurity by the weak light of the moon, you could hardly see him, but you were certain that it was him. Knowing it was the Cardinal, you discontinued your struggle for control and opted to relax into your stubborn stone like prison of sleep. 

“Good,” he cooed his satisfaction of your surrender. 

The numbness spread its way about your body and tempted your tense muscles into a roused posture, legs inching their way apart.

The humming tingle caressed the edges of your body, like the Cardinal did the pages of his book and you succumbed to the pleasure you received. Sweet, faint bubbles pop and fizz at your limbs, kissing your tension into submission. 

“Sister,” he called for you again as the tingling spread all over your body. “Show me,” his tone was hushed and so intimate, as if he was whispering right in your ear, yet he was so far away.

You wanted to close your legs out of embarrassment of the growing wetness in your panties, but they remained spread with knees taut at an angle. The feeling was as though you were being bathed in a pool of eclectic pleasures, like your entire being had been vibrating at a different frequency. The quaking of your muscles were boundless as your consciousness floated between wake and sleep. Suddenly, you felt a pressure form at the end of the bed and, slowly, it crept its way up to you. The strange mass felt like it was at your ankles now, encroaching on your restless slumber. It skirted light motions against you all the way as it passed your knees, traced across your stomach, and mounded itself atop your chest. You found it difficult to breathe against the phantom body weight and winced at the density of its illusory being. Your breath did not come easy and your chest rose and fell violently, shallowly, but that didn’t dissuade you from receiving his pleasure.

You want to tremble with the sweet sensation stimulating your poorly defended body, but it’s apparent the paralysis is too strong. Something deep within aches for some kind of release, some kind of outlet for your pleasures. It’s frustrating as it is now, having no way to soothe those excited nerves that quiver at the ever sweet, and airy, vibrations that overlap and mingle about your body. Sweet as they may be, they weren’t nearly enough to coax your elusive orgasm out of hiding. No, what you were experiencing now was a form of pleasurable torture; so minuscule in magnitude.

Each lick of those vibrations across your sprawl, another denied expression of your edged lust. 

Suddenly, it felt as though something were touching you through your underwear; a slow pressure. The weight against you, the ticklish trail advancing up your body, and now this—it was as though he was the one on top of you. The Cardinal, however, remained unmoved at the foot of the bed. You gasped at the sudden contact, so different from the abstract sensation the rest of your body had been experiencing. As the Cardinal watched, you noticed his white eye was the only discernible feature you could observe besides his subtle silhouette outlined in the weak hue of the degraded light received from your room’s only window. His eye glowers at you, observing you as you groan at the pleasure he imparts upon you. You knew in your clouded mind that he was doing it for you, giving it to you, this odd sensation. Knowing he was watching enhanced your hidden excitement causing more sounds to escape your throat. 

The pressure between your legs had deepened in intensity and explored you through your underwear. Frustratingly, the only sounds that came out of your mouth were muted at best. You couldn’t beg for more no matter how hard you tried; you could only shiver motionlessly. The feeling of the mass—or him—sliding down the length of your slit caused you to shudder. The feeling in your knees suggested their readiness to give out from their perched position, but you didn’t have the authority to let them go; they weren’t yours to move anymore. He advanced back up, slowly, to toy at the nub that had made itself apparent through the fabric that clung to you. Your mouth gapes and you inhale sharply at the sensation, exhaling a slow quaking shuddering breath as the feeling circled your bud ever so gently.

“Dolce sorella, already so wet,” he spoke sweetly with the hint of a smile in his breathy voice. A whisper in your ear, a puff of warm breath on your cheek, yet he remained at his position across from you. 

A frustrated groan slips out of you as the pressure increases its pace, chasing you into ecstasy. Your brows knit as your urgency heightens, breath hard and fast against the weight on your breast. 

Your skin piqued at each movement that insisted itself upon you, the buzzing that eclipsed your entire body tickled you with a gossamer ache of sweet debilitation. Soon enough, the static that had occupied your flesh followed too between your legs, adding to the sensation that worked you up.

“Ah!” an actual sound you couldn’t control.

The Cardinal’s blinding white gazed upon your face as you ached for more. He knew you were somewhat conscious of his actions, and spurred you on more with the devilish pace he’d set for you. He, or the mass—whichever—was stroking your clit in smooth motions that swirled and slithered across the wet barrier of your underwear. Your breath continuously labored against the weight on your chest and your fingers managed to twist into the sheets as he brought you to your weakest point. Orgasm erupting from your writhing body, no longer incapacitated by the will of the strange visitor. 

“Copia,” you murmur a breathless whisper into the dry air.

He hushes you, “Good, Sister, you did so well for me.” He sounded pleased by your release, becoming more distant than he had before.

You had your freedom from his hold, but freedom from his influence was not so attainable. You visit him in your wake, and he haunts you in your sleep; coming for you at your most vulnerable. You gripped harder at the sheets as you were left in vestigial ecstasy, no longer held down by some invisible force or choked by some unknown weight. You glance back at him, still gasping heavy breaths. With the shadows growing across the room he’d been swallowed up, leaving you to rest in your fading consciousness. Dream, or nightmare, fading into the depths of the night.

Chapter Text

It was still dark when you woke, but it was always dark when you woke. Your body fights your progressing wake with heavy eyelids; batting between warm comfortable sleep and confusing conflicting lucidity. In the blink of an eye you woke again, confused by the rising light creeping through the solitary window. Your typical day starts at five-thirty in the morning; not likely to chance a ray of sunlight at that time. This morning you didn’t have proper time to flirt with sleep and wake, springing up just as the last bell began to toll; the bell signified morning mass had begun. Your clothes lay strewn on the ground as you apparently discarded them sometime in the night. Had this morning followed a regular sleep you would’ve been in your seat in meaningful worship as your sisters were probably doing now.

Fuck!

Your posture was that of a threatened cat—on the edge of your bed—hunched over. Whipping the covers off of your mostly bare body you notice that not only had your unexpected visitor impeded on your sleep, but he also left your sheets, and you, an utter mess. Your thighs glistened with the evidence of the events from the night prior, and your hair was particularly wild looking.

Fuuuuuuck!

Time was not on your side so you begrudgingly opted out of taking a very much needed shower. With a tissue paper and some frigid water you wipe away the liquid that had settled on your inner thighs.
A solid yank to your underwear drawer had revealed its unforgiving emptiness save for the black stockings you hardly wore. No doubt the introductory rites were already over and done with, and the Cardinal was walking down the aisle, and the chants were being performed. Your head spiraled as the thought of being late consumed you.
Nerves are high as you claw at the stockings; reasoning that anything is better than nothing, and is certainly better than wearing soiled underwear. With the tights on, you made quick work of the rest of your wardrobe as everything else was clean and in its proper place. Soon enough you were out the door and venturing down the, now empty, corridor toward the worshipful hum of boisterous voices.

The Cardinal was up at the lectern with his arms in air gesturing in great pontification; performing the liturgy he’d been so anxious about as if it had been the most natural thing on earth.

“—The fields of God’s worship are rife with sin and the enemy who sowed them is the Devil, and the harvest is the end of the age; and the reapers are angels,” he paused, noticing your belated arrival.
“They mean you harm by means of flaming sword, and power greater than yours alone,” he reaches to the audience.
“Hold fast in your faith–be many in number–and salvation will find you in the flames that might devour the reapers of human life; indeed, those are the fires of hell that shield your body from the wrath of the angels,” he bowed his head and closed his eyes. “Nema,” he ends, solemnly.

“Nema,” the crowd replies in unison, uncharacteristically enthused by the relatively unknown man.

His groupies will soon be throwing themselves at his feet the next time he steps down from giving his sermon, you think to yourself.

With the conclusion of the sermon comes the receiving of unholy communion. A few members of the clergy, to include the Cardinal, begin distributing the wafers. You rush to take your place in the very last pew that had been occupied by the other nuns.

“This new guy is pretty good, don’t you think?” One sister says to another.

“I know, he’s completely different than how I thought,” her companion replied.

Oh, sure, NOW you give him a chance… you can’t help but openly roll your eyes at your sisters who callously spurned him yesterday.

The idea that he might have used that bewitching power of his wasn’t lost to you. Anxiously, you peer around at those surrounding you to deduce whether anyone has been exhibiting any of your symptoms or not. Shooting a look about the room, from person to person, you saw no indication of such; those in attendance waited peacefully to receive unholy communion. A minute relief washes over you as your small search betrayed no clear indications that he had used that power on anyone else. Even though you found it to be fearful you couldn’t help that special feeling you felt in believing you were the only one to receive it from him; whether it be by his own will or not. Still scanning here and there for any evidence otherwise, that feeling only seemed to grow. Against your knowing better, you get this giddy feeling rising within—something you shouldn’t afford yourself to feel.

The light that had illuminated the stained glass behind the altar and warmed your seat abruptly became obscured, pulling you back to your senses. The Cardinal stood before you with his brother in sin carrying the communion platter.

“Sister,” he nodded his greeting.

“Cardinal,” you reply, nodding your head back.

“We missed you earlier,” he stated, rather sternly. He turned to the man holding the silver platter of flavorless wafers and plucked one from the pile.

Of course he noticed, you sink a little at his words.

“I’m so sorry to miss your first sermon, Cardinal.”

“Open,” he commands. You follow this order, opening your mouth for him to place the unholy communion on your tongue. His leg found its way between your knees, not quite touching but still unbearably close. “I’d like to speak with you after the Mass, Sister.” His thumb stroked your bottom lip as he withdrew his hand.

“Yes, Cardinal,” you nod again.

“I’ll meet you here, sì?”

“As you wish, Cardinal”

“Well then,” he nods again before moving on to the next person.

What was once a bland, flavorless wafer had suddenly caused your mouth to water. No, he didn’t need to use any sort of mystic influence over the masses to become beloved; he was already charming in his ways. Some siblings still seemed reluctant to accept him, but with time you’re sure he’ll become just as beloved as the Papas.

He might reprimand you for being late, but the feeling of his gloved touch dispelled any worry you might have regarding his cruelties. Surely he couldn’t be too angry if he were willing to caress you so tenderly in such a way. You touch your bottom lip, and cast your gaze to his figure. He was donning a black cassock today, matching somewhat with the version of him you vaguely remember from your dream that kept you away from the real thing. Before you can dwell too long on the thought he turns to look your way. Everyone who’d received their communion had already bowed their head in prayer, but you were caught gawking. You immediately snap to a position of mindful meditation with your head down and eyes closed. Almost immediately, you pried one eye open—just enough to look at him again as he made his way back to the altar. He had this quality to his back that made him seem eerie yet so very appealing; so full of contradictions. Your eyes trailed after him as he met the first step, tripping over it a little; probably thankful that seemingly everyone had their eyes closed. You smile at his awkwardness as he tries to play it off, biretta needing a little adjustment.

So full of contradictions, you thought, supervising his every move instead of offering any prayers.

After some time Mass concluded, and the Cardinal ventured down the main aisle in his damned procession of exalted figures—figures no one had seen but to welcome the new kin of the Emeritus bloodline to power; a curious sight to be sure. The Cardinal at the head of the convoy, thurible swinging effortlessly from his perched fingers that crooked up ever so slightly, appeared stoic with his head tilted in air. He flashed you the slightest glimpse of his warm green eye. Was he more Copia today, you couldn’t be too sure yet. The mist of the incense from the gilded pendulum swaying back and forth had all but masked the procession as it neared the exit.
The seats began to grow in vacancies as the clergy’s highest order vanished through the wooden double door at the end of the worship hall. Doing as you’re told, you wait in your seat for Copia’s return. The faces that passed you today seemed much less grief stricken than yesterday as they mingled and diverged to tend to whatever might occupy them for the hour. Not a single one of them gave away any hint that some overbearing sensation had taken their senses; not a single victim aside from you. Some odd sense of satisfaction you’d never felt before, not even from your high status duty, warmed your cheeks.

“Ahem,” the sound surprised you from your mindless observations. Sister Imperator stood to your side, arms akimbo.

You jump to your feet. “Oh, Sister Imperator! What could I do for you?”

“Sister,” she starts, “we missed you this morning.”

I’ve heard this one before, you begin to feel a not so strange sense of deja vu.

“I’m so sorry for my lateness, Sister, it will never happen again,” one hand holds the other in an almost pleading nature and you look to your feet.

“Look at me, child,” firmness clear in her voice.

You do as you’re told, accepting your fate as a verbal punching bag of sorts, and reluctantly meeting her gaze.

“Have you forgotten that the duty I’ve tasked you with is a privilege, how could you be so absentminded as to miss the first Mass held by the very man left in your care?” She speaks at a slightly elevated volume from usual, as if she’d taken it personally. A tone you’d heard her use on other siblings but never with you.

“No ma’am, I haven’t forgotten, I was just-” you begin, cut short from making some measly excuse.

“If you don’t feel like you can handle this job I can place another member for this duty if you’d like,” she huffed, as if you were never her ‘right hand’ at all.

“No ma’am! I’m fully equipped to assist the Cardinal in any manner he needs,” you can feel your temperature drop ever so slightly at her threat. You really didn’t want to be separated from the Cardinal—even if he has some kind of influence over you with his strange power—even if his gaze instilled the sweetest fear in you. You didn’t want to be separated from him even if your better senses told you that you should be separated from him.

“You better have a good excuse for your showing up late then,” she demands, folding her arms at her chest.

“I-“ you stutter the beginning of a meager excuse to her interrogation until you feel the pressure of a hand grip your shoulder.

“Our dear sister was my study buddy last night,” the Cardinal gleefully stated.

“What?” Imperator replied, probably the most natural response to such a statement.

“Of course, how could I do it without our dear sister; she’s practically fit to run the church herself.” Copia patted your back as a sign of a job well done.

Nervous laughter squeezed through your polite smile at his lavish praise and overconfidence in your abilities.

“C, are you sure?” Sister Imperator asks, a little softer in her manner than she had been toward you.

“She’s already proven herself to me,” the Cardinal insists.

“Very well,” Sister Imperator relents, “but if I find you late again I will not be so lenient in the future.” The crease between her brow regained its place. “I chose you for a reason; don’t make this hard on me.”

“Of course, Sister,” you sigh in relief at her final reprimand.

“Now then—if you’ll excuse me—I have other matters to attend to,” Sister Imperator briskly walks away, nose in the air, to deal with her clergy affairs.

As her footsteps faded to echoes only you and the Cardinal remained. The worship hall was hazy with warm light from the still rising sun, making your shadows reach to the far end of the hall. Copia gestured to the pew for you to retake your seat.

“No, thank you; I’ve been sitting for some time so I’d like to stand,” you wave your hand to decline his offer.

“Ah, but I do like it when you look up at me,” the Cardinal whispers. He clears his throat. “Ahem, no, no…” he takes some time to collect himself. “Why are we meeting?” He points back and forth between the two of you.

You were taken aback a bit by what he had said; it’s not everyday that such a seemingly passive man would so boldly make a pass at you like that.
“Uhm…” you swallow some dry anxiety that had built up from Sister Imperator’s chastising. “You said you wanted to speak with me, Cardinal,” you remind him of his original intent as the anxiety is replaced with something else; a slight titillation that fluttered in your chest. You were becoming hot again—hot in a way that wasn’t quite as burdensome, frightful, or explosive as it had been before. A warm beating pulse of beautiful languid ripples that tenderly spread from core to finger tip, toe tip, ears, and nose. You hold yourself as if to shiver from the cold, but really to save yourself from failing to the easement of your perplexing senses.

“Yes, I wanted to ask what had kept you from the Mass.” He didn’t seem quite as stern as he had been before; was that Copia or was it the something else that you’d seen from him before? Copia was absolutely the one speaking to you now without a doubt.

“Oh, I uh,” you have a hard time finding a suitable excuse. How could you tell him that he came to you in the night, or how he possessed an almighty power that caused you to climax so profoundly that you fell into such a deep sleep. A sleep that kept you from waking with the chime of the first morning bell. You wished you could speak truthfully about how he was the one who upset your regular schedule today—wished you could scold him for it before immediately forgiving him, but there was nothing to be forgiven. It wasn’t him after all—just the enchanted dreams of a newly lustful sister of sin who had been driven absolutely mad by the blazing hot gaze belonging to the mysterious stranger in his captivating red cassock that caught her eye so easily that day. A stranger so capable of making this sister so readily dash her resolve to the side—a vow she made as she first joined—the very vow that afforded her the opportunity to have met him.
“I think I had a nightmare,” not entirely a lie, yet not the whole truth.

“Does a nightmare keep a sister from attending Mass?” His quizzical brow offered an air of disbelief. If his question wasn’t a clear judgment of your untruth then his raised expression surely punctuated the sentiment perfectly.

“Yes! You see, I had a hard time falling asleep again after that.” You speak a little fast, the hallmark of a nervous liar. “So once I went back to sleep I must’ve been so tired that I slept right through the first bell.” As you sputter your lie you begin fidgeting with your fingers, mapping the details surrounding your nail bed by touch; you had a small hangnail budding on your left pinky finger.
Even as you’re being questioned by him you feel it still—the stirrings in your body that yearned for him.

“If you say this then I’ll see it as the truth,” Copia relents. He was not so heavy handed as Sister Imperator as to threaten you in any fashion; even if your lie was terribly blatant. “But you better be at the next one,” he chastises in jest while wagging his finger at you as if you were about to receive a timeout.

“I’m so sorry I missed your sermon, Cardinal, but judging by what I’ve heard you must’ve really been something.” You smile shyly for him, cheeks glowing.

He laughs. “Should you wish for a private sermon; I would gladly entertain you, Sister,” he has an incredible talent for forging innocent intentions into innuendo. There were no underlying meanings to his offer, nothing from what you could tell at least; his expression was genuine.

He couldn’t possibly know what effect his words have on you, or would he delight in your manipulation? Would he be the one delighted or that alter ego of his who ignites your adrenal glands? So many questions surround him and captivate you.

“And,” he takes your hand into his, “if you would like to get something off your chest I am always near.” You felt yourself fall into his eyes, he spoke as if the walls could hear him. His hand was so warm through the glove, bejeweled grucifix dazzled in the light of the sun. Finally you could touch him without fear. Not bare skin like he proffered last night, but enough contact to send your still heated body into a state of utter bliss. He turns to take his leave. “I have a meeting to attend, so we can speak again when you come by to clean.” With that he released your hand and took his leave.
You cradled the hand he held near to your ever pounding heart, and watched as his dark visage became nothing more than a thought. Alone—but not alone—as the Cardinal said, he is always near. The warmth of your body had eventually cooled to its normal temperature, but your hand retained some of the radiant heat he gave to you.

Taking advantage of the Cardinal’s time in the office, you opt to do a much needed load of your own laundry. You mutter under your breath, cursing the church’s lacking facilities as you take your wet sheets to the rear garden. Had you been just a bit earlier, and outstandingly lucky, you would’ve been able to have claimed one of the dryers in the laundry room; unfortunately your sisters were on top of their chores. As luck would have it though, there was another means with which you could use to dry your freshly washed sheets. You exit the garden into the courtyard nestled at the back of the church, trekking to the out-of-the-way clotheslines.
As you walk on the small dirt path that leads to the somewhat secluded area the wind chatters against the trees that border the edge of the property. The wind lulls and picks up, swells and falls. A hectic rhythm that was all too familiar to you. The air was clear, ebbing and flowing as all ephemeral things tend to do. The birds overhead gladly coast on the wind currents, a welcome reprieve from the fight to fly.

Once you reached your destination, ye-olde-fashioned drying station, you settled your basket into the tall unkempt grass, wicker creaking at your release. Crabgrass and dandelions jutted out from the base of the posts, long since hammered into the earth. It’s not everyday you have to hang your laundry to dry, but you’ve had your fair share of practice. You pick up your wet sheet, still practically dripping with water, and pin it securely to the bobbing line. As you work to fasten your blanket next you look up to the sky, clouds running over the sun; much more dim than earlier. What started as a glowing morning had become a rather spotty day, a fact that was sure to impede on the drying of your linens. Not so terribly cloudy or windy as to warrant any worry regarding the weather; you couldn’t smell any temptation of rain that might fall. Your nose was usually sharp at detecting the first drop hours before it touched down, and with this confidence you continued.

As the wind swelled and breathed, you affixed your final wet sheet to the line. Your linens flapped and waved in the rhythm of the midday breeze. Though the sun was a bit shy today, you still felt its heat every so often when its appearance was unhindered. You watch the rippling fabric for just a moment longer before retrieving the basket from its spot in the grass. As you’re bent over you notice something; a pair of shoes on the other side of the sheet. Dark leather dress shoes held shut by two little buckles.

“Hello?” You address your visitor, squinting slightly as if to fix your vision.

No response.

“Cardinal?” You draw back the wet cloth to see if the Cardinal had come to collect you. With a swift flip of the hanging sheet, you find the space opposite you empty; dress shoes nowhere to be found.
Absolutely dumbfounded, you stare at the strange absence before you. Turning all around, you try to find any evidence that the Cardinal, or someone, had been there. You find nothing close to what you’d hoped—no one to be seen, no cruel prankster, or mischievous ghoul. The wind, the only thing present in your solitude, stirred about your veil and habit. Taking one last good look around, you squeeze the basket and return to the church; off to your next task of the day.

As you wheel the cleaning cart through the hall you think about the strange occurrence at the clothesline. The old cart wheel creaks at the slow pace as you wrack your brain to recall what shoes the Cardinal wears; it’s not coming easy. You’d been so focused on the Cardinal’s actions, how could you have taken the time to notice his shoes?

I was probably just seeing things, the most rational explanation.

I’m just tired from last night, another plausible answer.

I shouldn’t dwell on it, you decide to yourself.

The assorted cleaning products and utensils bounce on the cart due to its loud bum wheel.

“Or… maybe?” You’re dwelling on it, out loud this time.

You wonder about the bizarre things that have happened to you since you’ve been afflicted with your insistent desires for Cardinal Copia. The anxiety, the fear, the burning lust, the taunting voices, the visit in the night, and now a waking hallucination, and it hasn’t even been two full days yet. Either he was up to something or you were just going crazy. Breathing out a heavy sigh as you try, and fail, to make sense of anything you round a corner. You’re staring down the Cardinal’s door now; the only door down this way. Suddenly those feelings are with you again, and they only grow as you approach nearer to his room.

The cart halts with one last piercing squeak, and you knock promptly on the door face. You wait for a delayed response, but receive no invitation for entry. With no answer, you give another three knocks. Same as before, you hear nothing on the other side. Reaching into your pocket, you feel the body of his room key. You turn it over a few times before releasing it. If he’s not in then you didn’t want to enter just yet. Of course he could be as he was the night before and simply didn’t hear you, but you reasoned that he must still be in his meeting. For the time being you cleaned the surrounding area; sweeping and mopping, dusting the baseboards, shining the door knob, etc.

Something caught your eye, or the lack of something did; the sheets that had covered the windows were missing. Rays of light filled the hall in a way they couldn’t yesterday evening, simplifying the cleaning process. The other coverings remained as they had been before, obstructing certain paintings and shielding the ceiling. The meaning for protecting some paintings and blacking out aspects of the others remains ever lost to you, but the act seemed intentional, thought out, not haphazard.

Just when you thought you had nothing else to do in the hall surrounding the Cardinal’s room, you looked to the light fixture. The sound of the sizzling filament from the night prior buzzed in your head. Rifling through some empty boxes and bottles of cleaning solutions on the bottom shelf of the cart, you eventually find what you’re looking for; a pack of old incandescent light bulbs—the kind the church uses practically exclusively. You grab the wooden step stool that was probably older than you and place it beneath the sconce. The wood, worn from excessive use, bore obvious slouches in the steps that determined where those before you who used it had stood. With one hand supporting your weight on the wall, you ascend the ladder. First step—steady, second step—stable, third step—rickety. You slid your hand up the wall as you climbed the warped wooden step ladder. As you reached the final step you could feel the stool shudder beneath you; one time-beaten leg was undoubtedly shorter than the others. The mouth of the bowl-like sconce opened just above your eyebrow, so you made the brave decision to raise your heels off the foothold to see inside. The old, modest ladder made its annoyance at this choice abundantly clear with a wincing whine from the neglected brass hinges, and a groan from the grooved, dry wood.

“Sister?” An all too familiar voice—the Cardinal’s voice—having been absolutely unexpected, caused you a great fright. He’d somehow appeared right at your side without making himself known first, causing the surprise to be that much more acute.
The step stool that rattled with the slightest movement, having the honor of your misplaced trust to accommodate your weight, had almost toppled over.
Before you could fall, Copia had braced his arms around your waist in an attempt to keep you upright, and in that moment of pure intentioned aid, his cheek pressed fast to your abdomen. A well meaning, good natured act of service, yet it was so evil in a way that came so naturally to the gentlemanly Cardinal. Of course, he didn’t know of this evil—this terrible temptation that caused you to tremble—or the compulsion to soak in, with great jubilation, the strength of his arms. The sturdiness of his body was surprisingly foreign to you, even though you’d shared a night with him; only in your waking dreams at the very least. You were caught off guard by the sturdiness of the Cardinal’s corporeal form due to the night visitor’s liminal, fleeting embodiment of static kisses and fuzzy noise. You felt, in great depth, his permeating body heat and the stiffness in his shoulders, and found particular interest in the muted gold tones in the strands of his otherwise ashen-brown hair.

“I’m so sorry, Sister, I didn’t mean to frighten you!” He says, almost as destressed as you were. “What are you doing up there, on such an old thing, dolce inferno qui sotto! You could hurt yourself,” he asks rhetorically, more so demanding you come down.

You take a second to collect yourself, and ease yourself from the surprise and the thrill of his grasp. “I’m just changing the lightbulb, Cardinal,” opting to answer his question rather than heed his hidden demand, you smile apprehensively.

“I see that, but why?” He looks up at you, releasing you slightly in favor of holding you by your waist.

“Well… last night, just after we said our goodbyes, it burned out—rather dramatically,” you spoke calmly, slowly, but felt as though his touch was meant to evoke some deeper reaction. His grip was firm but not overly so, and made your heart thrum in a steadily increasing pace. He held you as he would something he prized and cherished, fearing it may shatter if not firmly clutched in his grasp. Indeed, a deeper reaction it did evoke, but not outwardly, for fear of appearing unwell you keep your all too inconvenient symptoms below the ever ready to bubble surface.

“Is that right?” Absentmindedly, or perhaps completely wittingly, his thumb caressed your flank ever so delicately. “But it was working fine this morning,” he explains, lips parted in confusion.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I saw it with my own eyes.”

“I also saw it burn out just last night, I swear!”

“Scuse, Sister, I didn’t mean to call you a liar; I’d just like for you to come down.”

“Cardinal, can you test the light by flipping the switch?”

“Unfortunately there is no such switch, Sister, and even if there were—I would not let go of you to test it,” as he says this his grip grows in strength.

You feel your excitement escalate as he holds you more firmly, with better control. You release your hand from the wall and place it on his shoulder, touching him more directly.

“I-it wouldn’t hurt to change it,” you stutter slightly, reeling from his touch. “Even if it’s working like you said, changing it would be better since it’s obviously having issues.” At this point you feel more fear of your instincts rather than falling.

“If you insist, Sister, then let me-“ as he offers his help you manage to grip the clear glass bulb the two of you disagreed on, but before you could begin unscrewing it a blinding white light evaporated your vision.
In shock, and a state of optical impairment, you jump in surprise, busting the top perch of the step ladder.

The Cardinal’s firm grip hoisted you up before you could fall in any meaningful way. In a single breath you weren’t falling, but instead lifted by a clumsy ballerino who—with a quick turn—stumbled with you into the door’s oak face.
With the momentum of it all you’re squeezed in between the door, which was not giving, and the Cardinal’s body. He boxed you in with himself and breathed heavily from surprise. Warm puffs hit your exposed jawline, worsening your situation. You heaved heavy breaths out, but your reasoning was different from his. His thigh pressed between your legs and his hands on your waist glued you fast against the door. You can’t do much but ball a fist into the fabric of his shoulder and white knuckle grip the screw base of the bulb, fearing that any movement might cause you to succumb.
As if to urge on your downfall, his thigh increases the pressure between your legs. Similarly, his groin gained real estate around your hip area. With the lack of protection a proper pair of underwear might have lent you, the pressure of his thigh against you was all too real and incredibly tantalizing.

“Sister,” he draws his face back to meet your gaze, “are you alright?” Something glimmered in his eyes as he asked.

“Yeah, I’m,” you lift your hips away from his thigh, “I’m fine.”

“Ah… Good…” He nodded a little in reply, but still pressed his body to yours.

“Cardinal,” you breathe so shallowly; ready to give yourself over.

You squeeze his thigh between your legs unconsciously as the two of you share a burning gaze. If you didn’t know any better you would’ve thought he was wishing you to discard any inhibitions, any solemn oath promised to yourself or any deity that might hold it against you. An oath that vowed you’d never go seeking any wild pleasures; unlike the promises made by the other sisters to the clergy. Those eyes—they demanded something of you, turmoil, ecstasy—be it heaven or hell itself you wanted to give it all to him; to promise that oath to him instead.

“Yes?” He inches closer, mustache practically grazing your skin.

It’s not clear to say what—the flicker of some unknown origin in his eye, the stirring of your fever, or the beating of your heart that he might hear—but it all seemed too much. Your heart felt as though there wasn't enough space to beat and strained painfully, loudly. It took everything within your power not to fall into him more than you already had—into his unforgiving trap—aching bliss would surely be what awaits, but you’re not meant to attain it.

Turning your head away you say, “I think you can let me go now.”

“Ah… yes, yes, of course.” He seemed reluctant to free you from your intoxicating cage yet stepped away as requested. Heavy sighs cut through the quiet as it seemed the two of you had been breathing in arrhythmia. Your eyes stayed matched in ineffectual research of one another as you were released from his embrace. The white eye that had been inducing your symptoms now offered no illumination of his actions, desires, or intentions; no evidence of what was just there. You stared into the abyss and two warm tender eyes stared back.

After he recedes from your personal space you manage to regain your breath. “Thank you for your help, Cardinal, I definitely could’ve been injured if you hadn’t… picked me up,” a bit embarrassed by the situation, you offer your gratitude as best as you can.

“Well, it was a good excuse to see if you were ticklish,” he chuckles.

“Pardon?”

“A joke, of course!” He beams at you, clasping his hands at his front so as to appear saintly.

“I’m sure,” you reciprocate his smile with a look of mild doubt, but ultimately leave it alone. “Now that the fun is over I guess it’s back to work, right?” You say, replacing the now unused lightbulb in its box on the cart.

He ushers you in with his arm coiled around your waist. “Uh, I’m just worried that you might still be unsteady on your feet,” an excuse for his contact. It felt like he was leading you to his bed rather than to clean his room, but you didn’t mind that feeling, feeling wanted by this man, desired despite not even knowing him.

As you cross the threshold with him you’re reminded of just how small his room is. Last night you couldn’t really tell due to the space being poorly lit, but now with the light of the sun seeping in between the closed curtains of one lone window you can get a better look at it. Naturally the room was bigger than your own, but not nearly to the standard expected for the church’s successor. The bed was even of a meager size compared to the previous Papas’ vast spreads of fine fabrics and countless pillows; all with their own matching shams requiring frequent laundering. The bed frame, however, was an ornately carved four poster bed with swirling details at the headboard and spiraling ribs chasing down the posts. The chair across from the fireplace occupied the area at the end of the bed, and on the far wall a writing desk flooded with papers and books nestled up to the natural light source.

“Shall I help you undress?” With the intention of treating him no differently from those before him, you accidentally say something so suggestive.

“Don't you think you should take me to dinner first?” The Cardinal quips. His remark jabs at your resolve slightly.

“I just meant your cassock,” you feel your ears burn at his reply.

“I’m only joking; please do,” waving you over. He removes the biretta from its place on his head as you undo the sash at his waist and set it aside.

“Did you undress the Papas often?” He asks as he combs his fingers through his hair, reshaping the part that had been flattened by his headpiece.

“Not all the time, but I did it quite frequently; even dressed them too.”

He unclasps the grucifix ornament from his chest as you begin to unbutton the numerous buttons that dotted the length of his robe. The collar was high, just under his chin, and you took every precaution to not graze his skin for fear of the fire that burns in you being stoked again.

“That’s funny, considering I’ve never known one of them to have a woman dress them,” he laughs at the image in his head.

You work from his collar to his chest. “You knew them well?”

“Ehh— some would say, perhaps, but I wouldn’t say we were close.”

As you get to his navel his stomach flutters and he quickly grasps your wrist. “Careful, Sister, I am ticklish,” his lip curled in a mischievous smile before releasing you, gloved fingertips stroking your palm as he does so. There it is again, that strange attitude he flip-flops between.

You shudder slightly at the feeling of the leather, but continue as if nothing had happened. Soon enough you’re crouched down, on your knees in order to finish undoing the buttons of his cassock. Something catches your eye as you near the hem, a pair of leather dress shoes fastened by two little buckles; the same shoes from earlier. Those shoes that belonged to the specter that had played tricks on you in the field are now staring you right in the face.

“Those are interesting shoes, Cardinal, where did you get them?” You inquire, hoping to come off casually.

“Do you like them, Sister Imperator gave them to me after she told me about Papa Nihil’s decision to make me the successor.”

“Really, do you know where she got them?”

“Ehhhh—“ he squints, trying to recall, “maybe not the name, but she said they’re custom made; not another pair like them.”

“That’s very thoughtful of her, the two of you must be close for her to give you such a nice gift.”

“Yes, she’s like a mother to me,” you look up at him as he explains, “she has looked after me ever since I entered the ministry as an official member.”

As you fidget with the last button you can’t help but think that fact to be slightly suspicious. The boy she looked after ever since he entered the clergy now being named as the successor? You remained looking up at him, opting not to pry any further for fear of being too intrusive, but still wonder—does she have some kind of motive?

“Sister—“ his voice, a little sing-songy, called out to you, breaking your train of thought.

“Hm?” You reply, a little delayed.

“Are you waiting for unholy communion or something; kneeling at my feet for so long.”
Before you’d realized it, his cassock had been completely undone.

Something about the situation felt more dangerous than before, but you fight the enthralling temptation gnawing at your being. He offers his hand, drawing you back to your feet in an iconically chivalrous fashion. Dapper as always, yet possessing a quality of some lascivious old man that you can’t help but crave. He’d been toying with you all day, inserting every dirty sort of notion anywhere he could, not to mention finding excuses to touch you. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was coming onto you… or making fun of you. Either way you decide to take a jab at him somewhat.

“Aren’t you a bit of a pervert, Cardinal?” You retort

“A pervert!?” He seemed honestly shocked by that revelation.

You move to disrobe him, removing the black draping fabric and hanging it up neatly in the wardrobe. The red cassock he wore yesterday swayed slightly at the disturbance of the rack. While the Cardinal was still stunned by your words, you continue storing the accompanying accouterments of his attire; biretta on the shelf, sash folded smartly in a drawer, and grucifix displayed on a stand. Retrieving a dust rag and some spray from the cart, you begin cleaning his chambers as you ought to have done before he even arrived.
Copia undid the top few buttons of his black stiff collared shirt and rubbed his chin, jaw slack. “I—“ he clears his throat, “Sister, I apologize if I made you uncomfortable.”

Clutching the rag, you grow remorseful by the sincerity in his voice. It wasn’t exactly fair to insinuate such things about him when, in fact, you were standing in his room while missing an important article of clothing. Not to mention the ever troublesome bouts of lustful paroxysms that you were hardly coping with. Nothing about his overly friendly demeanor had made you uncomfortable; fearful that you’d desert your oath—absolutely.

You laugh, “Don’t worry, Cardinal, you’ve done nothing of the sort.” Perhaps you were admitting too much by saying his advances weren’t ill received. It may have been wiser to push him away naturally with this out he’d given you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do that. Even though you knew what was best, you still wanted to know that part of Copia you couldn’t understand yet; the part that scared and thrilled you.

“You shouldn’t scare an old man, Sister, my heart can’t take it,” he feigns faintness as he clutches his chest.

“I think you’ll be alright,” you scoff at him a bit.

“Oh, but Sister, won’t you feel my forehead? I’m boiling up and it’s all your fault,” he leans forward, inviting you to check his temperature.

“There you go again,” you shrug off his joke, too meek to actually touch him. “Why don’t you go sit and relax since you’re so unwell.”

“Relax?! While you’re working?” He seemed offended by the idea.

“Don’t pay me too much mind, I’m used to it, after all, Terzo’d even make me apply a moisturizing mask to his face when I worked for him,” you try to reassure him.

“What?!” He practically shouts.

“He said wearing the face paint all the time was causing wrinkles,” you explain, forgetting the surprise you should feel from his tone; you were strangely accustomed to outbursts from the Papas.

“I meant—“ he recollects himself before continuing, “calling him by his first name is…” he trails off, taking on a sudden shyness.

“He insisted that we all call him like that, he said that anyone who enters his bed chamber should call him like a lover,” you recall the late romantic’s odd preference.

“A guy like him, he must have been over the moon to have a team of siblings running in and out of his room; vecchio bastardo,” he crossed his arms, pouting slightly at the idea.

“It wasn’t like that, everyone in this position was off limits,” you show him your right palm. “We’re all committed to Satan in a binding ritual, he’s not such a lustful man as to go against a church order.”

The Cardinal stares at the scar in your palm, it had grown in size with your last pledge. Unconsciously, he tugs at the bottoms of his gloves as if to ensure their security on his hands. It seems he was trying to hide his own pledge scar, perhaps he wasn’t the type to show it off. He maintains eye contact with your scar until you retract your hand; he seemed particularly interested in it.

You clear your throat, “He didn’t do anything untoward,” you explain.

“I see… well, since you say so then I must believe you,” he relents, similar to how he did just this morning. “I’ll let you work, but I won’t be relaxing while you’re so busy; I have my share of work you know,” he says, turning to sit at his writing desk. Before taking his seat he asks, “About the binding ritual, what is its purpose?”

As you finish up the dusting you explain, “Sister Imperator instated the practice due to the hedonistic lifestyles of the former Papas.” You set aside the dust rag and exchange it for a broom.
“She was worried about the potential over abundance of possible heirs, or so I’ve heard, but whether it was effective is really unclear considering the last two Papas had a fairly open door policy when it came to their bedrooms. Although, once the prime mover program was established I think that curbed the issue.”

“Then what’s the point of the binding ritual if its result is questionable?”

You stop sweeping and think for a second, that question hadn’t really crossed your mind. Your main concern thus far had been focusing on yourself and your beliefs; attaining a highly sought after position had just been a symptom of that. “You know, I don’t really know,” you admit. A way to reduce jealousy? A way to curb wanton pregnancies? Perhaps the numbers of your colleagues dwindled for some reason unbeknownst to you.

He takes his seat and peers through the opening in the curtains. Without turning, he asks, “You said you were committed to Satan, how does that differ from your oath as a sister of sin?”

“Are you interested in the ritual, it is rather unknown to most so I’d understand if you are,” you ask as you rest your chin on your hand that had been gripping the top of the broom handle.

He turns to you now, chair creaking as he shifts his weight. “Yes, I’d like to know more about it,” his tone was less jovial than it had been before; somewhat serious.

“Well, it’s different from the Satanic counsels in that it’s essentially a marriage to Satan—a sealing—a binding. My soul is bound to him as if it were to a husband,” you profess the poetic, tragic nature of your oath. Only now becoming tragic with the emergence of your novel yearnings.

You could feel his eyes on you, they slither from your feet, up your thigh, over your breasts, and rest on the side of your face. “Does this mean your body belongs to him?”

A warm excitement pooled in your cheeks as you nodded in affirmation. His eyes on you felt sensual, as if he was doing something he wasn’t supposed to. “Because I wasn’t the true receiver the last few times I made my oath I had to renew my vows, but this time it’s permanent; that’s why my palm is so cut up.”

“True receiver?” His brows jump as he continues observing you.

You continue sweeping, trying to ignore the feeling growing inside. “The true receiver, the one who retains the oath for those participating in the ceremony. Everyone offers their blood, but only one receives the anointing that truly binds their soul to Satan.”

“What happened to the last ‘true receiver’?” He questions, hand on chin as if to advertise his contemplation.

What did happen to the previous true receiver? You hadn’t the faintest clue. “I don’t really know, I kind of forgot who it was,” you search the clouded memory of ceremonies past, but ultimately can’t recall. In fact, it was even difficult to remember your own ritual, where you were, what you did, or how long it lasted; you just knew the general idea of the process. You run your thumb along the embossed slit that crossed your palm.

The consummation, I can’t even remember the consummation, just that it happened, your thoughts become somewhat hectic as your memory continues to fail you. A dark room, a fragrance, a warm sensation, and what else? Dim fleeting wisps exist in the dark foggy corners of your mind, but nothing to fill the gaps that had made themselves apparent after Cardinal Copia began his questioning.

“It’s a shame, really,” his voice, clear, pulled you from your frenzied search. You look to him for an answer, his back is to you now, smoothing out a document that had been jammed somewhere in between other papers and a half closed drawer. Without turning—he continues, “Such a beautiful young sister.”

“Oh, don’t say that, Cardinal, it was my decision,” again, you deflect his cunning.
Before he can utter another word, you derail the conversation, “You know, I’ve been thinking it this whole time; your bed frame is absolutely gorgeous,” a poor excuse for a change of subject. To have him ask your reasons would be too much to bear at the moment, and you weren’t ready to answer those questions just yet—questions you didn’t even have the answers to yourself. You had your reasons for volunteering your celibacy, but you weren’t prepared to blurt it out to the world at the moment.

He scrawls something out on the document he dewrinkled. “Do you like it,” he looks at you once again, “I’m glad if you do, seeing as how I carved it myself,” proud smile spreading across his face.

Shocked would be a modest way to describe your reaction, dumbfounded seemed more fitting; the Cardinal, a carpenter? The smartly dressed, debonair, clumsy, mysterious Cardinal—a carpenter?

“Your face tells me that this is unexpected news, why are you so surprised?”

You repress the wide eyed, dropped jaw look that had betrayed your better senses to keep your wits about you. “It’s just not something I expected, Cardinal”

“Wood working is something beautiful, exciting, when the plain, straight wood begins to take form and becomes something unrecognizable—becomes what I desire; it’s one of the greatest feelings.” His hands gesture meaningfully as he explains his love of the craft. “When I feel the wood begin to bend for me,” his movements become more slow and fluid, “that’s when I feel the most enjoyment.” Suddenly it felt like he was talking about something else entirely. “You can’t force the process, it has to bend for you, otherwise it splits.”

His passion for carpentry was—in a way—attractive, and you find yourself gripping the broomstick a little tighter than you meant; holding on to his every word. “That’s beautiful, Cardinal,” without thinking, you say the very first thing that came to mind.
He seemed a little surprised by your words, and you were too, but you meant them.

“Do you think so?” He asked as he cast his eyes to the floor; facing you but no longer looking at you.

“I love that you have something you can be passionate about; taking pride in your craft is beautiful, don’t you think?” Your heart quickens its pace a little as you speak.

He turns back to the sliver of sun peering in through the curtains as he sits with your words. He doesn’t respond and continues to scribble on his wrinkled document. You followed his lead, continuing to work without a word, but felt as though he took what you said to heart.

After some time you finished cleaning and tidying the Cardinal’s otherwise well maintained room. He was still sitting quietly at his desk as you packed up to leave, analyzing his papers.

“Well, I’m finished for today, Cardinal,” you say as you open the door to leave.

He turns his face but doesn’t quite meet your eyes again, “Sister.”

“Yes?”

“I’m not at all like the Papa before me, but…” he pauses.

“But?”

“Similarly to him, would you call me by my name… when we’re alone, of course.”

This request was somewhat unexpected, yet left you excited, ecstatic, elated, all the things you shouldn’t be feeling for any man let alone him. He was as forbidden to you as you were to him.

“Of course, Copia,” a minute thrill tickled your tongue as you spoke his name; it felt like a sin.

“One more thing before you go,” he calls after you, now meeting your gaze with his dominating stare. You freeze in place, subdued by the power he wields over you. Whether it was his will or something in you that felt compelled to follow his command was unknown. “I’m not quite as gentlemanly as you think, don’t forget, I’m just as weak as any other man.” It seemed like he was warning you to stay away but couldn’t, or didn’t want to, say it directly. With that, you were released from his hold after his advisory. A little out of sorts, he rubbed his eyes as if they were strained. “That’s all, have a good evening, Sister,” he bids you farewell before returning to his work.

“Good evening, Copia,” that same elation felt so smooth and tasted sweet as you called him by his name again; the more you say it the better the feeling.
Closing the door, you look to the light that you could have sworn burned out just last night. The bulb emitted a strong unwavering glow, free of any flickering or maddening buzz. The sun began settling behind the trees in the distance; this was about the time you introduced yourself yesterday.

I probably won’t be seeing him after sundown again, you lament before returning to the nunnery with your cart.

Chapter Text

By the end of the day you found yourself requesting a bundle of linens from the nunnery’s dorm management office. Some time between dinner and confessions you managed to check up on your still hanging sheets, as well as a few intimates, and found them still requiring more time to dry; probably thanks to the rolling clouds. Unfortunately, the dryers ran all day as they’re oft to do at this time of the week. Without many options you had no choice but to leave them to dry overnight; not something you’re entirely thrilled about. A justifiable pout is subdued as you begrudgingly write your name in the log to check out a spare pack of bedding the sisters manning the dorm management desk weren’t ready to let go of. Their oh so precious hand-me-down linens were ‘for newbies’ and, apparently, ‘in short supply’; as if you were chomping at the bit to sleep on them. With some convincing and promises to have them returned by the end of the following day they eventually released a bundle in your charge. An old well used bedsheet, practically see through, a scratchy gray-brown wool blanket, and two water stained pillow cases you had no interest in making use of all wrapped up in a thin plastic bag. Unenthused by the idea of sleeping with these items, you carry them off to your room.

The sun began nestling itself in the tree line as you made your bed, grumbling as you did. The sheet fit just fine but the blanket was a little small; probably due to the poor attention paid to its laundering instructions. The sides of the bed were clearly uncovered and you found yourself pulling the bottom edges of the blanket down to keep the foot of the bed from view. An awkward distance between the head of the bed and the top of the blanket was very apparent as you tried, and failed, to dress the spread to your liking. You reason that it’s better than nothing, thanking Satan that the sheet and blanket appeared in much better condition than the pillow cases you left in the bag. The game you played with the blanket was getting old and you decided to just give up, you won’t have to deal with them tomorrow, so who cares? Fed up, you roll your eyes and begin to undress for a very well deserved shower. Your body felt somewhat gritty and dirty due to all the dusting and cleaning you’d done in the Cardinal’s corridor. The night visitor also comes to mind as you peel the tights from your legs, leaving them to fall rolled up and inside out in a pile of discarded clothes on the floor. 

The night visitor, you thought, will I see him again tonight? You bite your lip at the prospect.

Maybe he’s already here, maybe he never left, you open the door to your bathroom, was he here still? You roll the thought over in your mind as you look at yourself in the mirror, observing the parts of your body he left hot. The thought of him watching you as you undress, that thought excites you a little; especially if it was the Cardinal who visited. It certainly sounded like the Cardinal. The silhouette was a little questionable, but that voice was unmistakable. His warm voice, dulcet tones, and words of praise were all too real, and really his—that man’s. The Cardinal or the other something you see in the Cardinal from time to time, but without a doubt it was the Cardinal; maybe not without a doubt. Were they mutually exclusive, could you have one without the other, or were they intrinsically linked? Were they the same person, you couldn’t be sure. You didn’t even know if the man himself was aware of his alter ego, his Mr. Hyde, or if he were as clueless as you are bemused.

Whichever it was, you can’t deny your apparent attraction to him, to his something too; either one and both. A smile comes to your lips as you think of him more, but you’re not supposed to do that. You can’t smile while you think of him, you can’t even be thinking of him but to serve him within the capacity the church deemed fit with its arbitrary rule. Just as quickly as you see your smile, you immediately drop it. Frowning now, you move the thought of the Cardinal from your mind and recite some old line of scriptures instead. Turning the hot water of your shower on with a squeak to further muddy the waters of your ever indulgent thoughts. You rub the temples of your head for some relief of these growing, expanding feelings and step into the shower; hoping for the warm water to wash you in tranquility.

The tension and dirt from the day circle the drain as you finish scrubbing yourself, but the Cardinal remains in the dark looming parts of your mind despite your best efforts. Ignoring him didn’t seem to work and you feel a fever strike you as you ready yourself for bed. Hot, shaking, shivering warmth that steals the senses. You hardly make it to the bed as another paroxysm takes your strength and causes you to curl into a meager form on the scratchy blanket. A thin weak glimmer of orange light disappears behind the horizon visible from the window, aiding in the growing blackness of your room. You watch the light fade as the tremors in your limbs grow. Heated breaths puff in the air, warming the area about your face. You can’t help but tug at the neckline of your sleeping gown as your breath is squeezed into the chilled air. Only when you relent and relax do you attain relief, falling into a calm and—eventually—sleep.

In time a buzzing came to you, gnawing at your ear. You fade and blink at the sound, same as the night before, but you really didn’t register it yet. You groaned and winked an eye at the profusely annoying sound, wanting sleep. The buzzing static whir nagged and continuously rang in your ear, not wanting to appease you, insisting you regain yourself. Your consciousness does not come however, you remain bound to your dreams, but the buzz continues its low hum in your ear.

Your dream—steeped in pitch—a dark corridor and cold chill. Subdued candlelight and a misty, low atmosphere filled the air as you advanced in the hall. The low buzz in your ear remained but was accompanied by something else, something sinister. The rowdy sound of disjointed overlapping voices that mingled and howled in some distant echoing place called to you. They quiet themselves for a time as you cautiously continue to walk to who knows where, lulling in the depths of the halls with an echo that causes the walls to shudder slightly. 

When you hear the voices again you pause to gauge their position, how close were they? They sounded far, but that didn’t mean they weren’t on their way to you now. You continued in the direction you had been going, not knowing where you were or your predetermined destination. 

This must be the right way, you were sure of that, perhaps because it was the way you were headed before you even realized you were headed anywhere, or maybe it was an instinct of yours. 

Looking to the wall of what should be windows, you notice there isn’t an ounce of light outside. Even during a new moon there was some light be it man made or otherwise, but now there was no hint that there even was an outside at all; just pure black. The corridor seems to stretch on forever—on and on—a straight line, but then you feel a change in the floor. Barefoot, you notice the slightest rugged cut of marble transition to the old wing’s wood floor. 

You were nearing the old wing! 

Now knowing where you are, some slight understanding of your destination comes to you. The threshold seemed a mountain to cross, something you shouldn’t brave, a warning to turn back while you still could, but you continued your advance. 

The old wing had an uncharacteristic darkness to it, darker than before, and particularly daunting. You stopped just past the threshold to stare at the deep, candlelight waning as the trail leads on. Some approximations of what could be mistaken as branching halls off the main corridor shroud themselves in the night.  The slightest desire in you wanted to turn back for the safety of the small beating glow and cold marble of the new wing, but you ignored that weakness; there was something here you needed to see. The wood was warm, almost pulsing with warmth, and the air a little thicker; even still you pressed on.

“Sister,” it was him, the Cardinal, or his voice at least. He sounded distant, echoey; you followed after him.

“Yes,” you reply a breathy response, searching in the deepening black corridor.

The buzzing in your ear a demand to halt, but you pay it no mind and continue on your path. The strange fluid mixing voices that wailed and snarled seemed to also reply. You gasp, realizing the distance between you and the ever growing voices shrink. A shock, a jolt, you want to run but your pace remains as steady as it had been before—painfully slow. Closer and closer, you hear the voices speaking in tongues relentlessly down the halls. The walls shake more intensely now at the sound and so do you, unable to stop as you did before for fear of those unnerving tones that seemed to have identified your presence.

“Sister, where…” his voice was closer but still out of reach.

“Copia,” you reply in pure elation, he was searching for you, you weren’t alone in this place with those strange sounds. Soon enough the joy was replaced with a quick fear; the voices were at you again. Closer now, sounding more outlandish, they gnashed and clambered their way around a corner unseen. You can practically feel your adrenal glands pumping as your legs maintain their ever steady rhythmic saunter. 

“Sister…” he called again, but you still can’t find him regardless of your desperation. To find him and be rid of the frightful thing fast approaching from behind would be the greatest relief to you right now, but he’s as well hidden as his room. 

You look over your shoulder in hopes of seeing what might be making all that noise, but the hall you progressed down was densely packed with thick shadow from behind. Hellish screams, trembling shrieks, and inhuman laughter erupt from the thick fog—louder and more aggressive than before. Now you run. Now you can run; evading your fast approaching anomalous companion. You don’t know what would happen if it, whatever it was, catches up to you, and you don’t mean to find out. Picking up your stride, you sprint down the hall; further into its world. It chased you from the safety of the church, but you were the one to encroach on its territory to begin with. It was at your heels now, almost consuming you in whatever manner it might.

Finding a hallway, a haven, you stowaway from the shaking noise. You cling to the wall, expelling quick heavy breaths, and searching after the invisible force; nothing to be found. Looking around, you study your surroundings, hoping for some indication of where to go.

“Sister, where…” he was asking again. “Where,” his voice sounded urgent.

A low beating glow catches your eye, a set of doors, something you hadn’t seen on your stroll thus far. Weak light seeped out from the seams, an odd familiar scent, and a strange feeling chased after. You approach the curious door, stomach churning and palms sweating at the idea of what might be on the other side. 

The Cardinal’s voice called out to you again and again, but your pulse was deafening in your ear; rivaling that of the constant steady buzzing whir. Your vision quaked too with the magnitude of your heart rate as your hand reached for one of the door handles. Holding your breath, you press down on the thumb latch and you yank the door open.

“Sister, where are you going?!” His voice was clear now. His arms braced you back into his body as a whip of light cracked across the cloud ridden sky, glowing them in traces of periwinkle as it did. Bone shaking thunder and the pitter-patter hum of heavy rain drops meet you at the open door to the back garden of the church. Small droplets wet your face as if to further pull you from your sleep. 

An inaudible gasp catches shock in your throat; you had been sleepwalking. You hardly get a breath in before another strand of jagged light bursts across the sky, causing you to clutch at his hands in surprise and recede into his hold. You weren’t afraid of rain or thunder, but you were entirely shocked by the waking world; having just been in a terrible nightmare. The fear of the Cardinal’s body doesn’t even cross your mind until your breath returns. You didn’t say anything; you just let him hold you as you shook in his arms. Your back glued to his chest, became warm with his heat, and he held you in silence for a time. It seemed he knew you needed to become calm again before anything could be done with you, so he held you until your trembling shoulders became still. He held you. Against your better wishes and intentions he held you. So warm and safe, safe from those horrible voices, he held you. The two of you waited in the open door and watched the rain fall as you regained yourself.

It was everything, it was beautiful. His warmth was all that you’d hoped it would be; it seeped into you so sweetly and calmly. His bare hands offered a comforting squeeze that made you feel safe, safer than ever before. Eventually, you closed the door and he let you go as you did; he took this to mean you were fine again. You felt cold as he relinquished his hold on you, but you didn’t want to tell him that. How could you tell him that him holding you was the most calm you’d felt in years? You felt silly now, knowing that you’d been running from such a gentle, genuine warmth.

“I’m… I’m sorry, Cardinal, I-“ how can you explain? You don’t even understand the situation yourself. This is the first time something like this has ever happened. Sleepwalking wasn’t exactly a nightly routine for you, and now you feel the absence of his warmth. It was like a punishment, having the thing that you craved—the taboo—taken away from you as soon as it had been given. “I- I don’t…” your thoughts are confused now, your face burns, and tears threaten to swell. You’re incredibly embarrassed, befuddled, shocked, and all these things turn to the wetness threatening to spill from your eyes. You don’t want to face him when your tears are almost falling; that would only make matters worse.

“Sister, please,” his voice, a murmur in your ear. “I’m not upset with you, so please don’t worry.” He grabs your hand, the right hand, and motions for you to face him. 

You follow his lead, looking up at him slightly—into those eyes. A single tear spilled over your bottom lid and trailed down your cheek as your gaze met his. How could you fight it, how could you deny it in this moment? You knew you couldn’t, and so your tear fell. He brushed the residual wet from your face with his thumb, cupping your cheeks in two warm hands. He leans in closer, searching the emotion in your face, hoping to find something for him there. Your feelings get the better of you, eyes full of adoration and something else he could’ve sworn was attraction. “Don’t cry,” he pleads a shaking breath against your lips, and you both fall into a kiss. So sweet and tender—his lips press against yours—mustache pricking at your skin. A hum against your lips, a whine into his and some needy gripping of one another; you’re both doing something you shouldn’t be. That fear—that anxiety that you would feel because of him welled inside as he pulled you in close—into his clutches. You could feel his body so clearly against yours through your airy sleepwear. His chest hair peaked out over the crossed fabric of his red satin robe’s neckline; likely not wearing a shirt. Instead of fighting that feeling you tried so desperately to evade, you allowed yourself to give in, parting your lips for his tongue. He bit your bottom lip with a groan before slipping his tongue in and pressing your chest to his more, his hand cradling your waist.

Your tongues met and mingled, his dominating yours with intoxicating vigor. Your head fell back to be cupped in his hand, gripping slightly at the roots of your hair as if to keep you from escaping. A sound leaves your throat at the grip before he pushes you into the sidelite flanking the door. He has you now in a position not too dissimilar to how you were during the day, but now the thigh pressing into you showed no signs of relenting its deliberate pressure and you didn’t retreat from it. The glass was cool, only making your body feel that much more hot as you indulged in the act. His hand ran down the length of your body before steadying your hips to rub you against him. The stimulus surprised you, gliding smoothly with just enough friction to cause your back to arch, moving your hips in just the right position to feel it more. You run your fingers through his mussed hair, muffled cries escaping from your mouth as you give into him. Falling to your desires—to his pleasure—was the single most exhilarating experience you have ever felt; tasting that sin made you ever needful of it. 

Finally, he retracts from the kiss in order to peck at your neck. “Sister, you’ve no idea,” he nips at your jawline, “how I’ve been craving this.” He applies the slightest pressure to his teeth, biting the side of your neck. You jump at the feeling as the pressure continues to build until he’s bitten you completely. A tremble sets in at that feeling. You’re prey at his mercy and so very excited by this; excited enough to begin a wetness between your thighs.

“Copia, I-“ you gasp at the feeling of his hand advancing up your thigh, drawing the hem of your nightgown up with it. His fist in your hair gave a squeeze in repudiation, some kind of reprimand for what you were going to say. He piques your senses by running his palm up and down your inner thigh, warm and sweet languid strokes, tongue tracing the length of your neck as he does.

‘I think we should stop,’ the words you couldn’t say—didn’t want to say—he erased them as if he knew what you were thinking.

“Don’t call my name unless it’s in ecstasy, Sorella,” he presses his lips to your neck as he chastises, mustache bristling ticklish traces over your sensitive flesh. That word though, ‘sorella’, that’s how the night visitor called you. It just means ‘sister’ in Italian, you know that, but until now he’d been calling you and the other nuns ‘sister’ so this switch up caught you a little off guard. The word alone enough to elicit a moan, but you bite it back with your teeth. There’s no way he could know how that word excites you, how he—your boogeyman—whispered it to you breathlessly the night you became acquainted.

The hand that had been traversing your skin found its way underneath your nightgown. He stopped the rhythm he had rubbed into you, and now played at the bare space between your exposed sex and navel. His fingertips grazed over you with such delicate motions, causing a small thrill to run—hot—up your body. The slickness between your legs only grew at his subtle caresses and meaningful grip in your hair. Having him touch you so lightly, so delicately, as his grip grew in strength, it truly felt like both versions of him were with you now. After imparting one or two hickies on your neck, he draws back to look into your eyes; some inaudible lightning briefly illuminating his face. His white eye, fading a little later than his features as the light receded, pierced through you as that ever steady anxiety built up within, but you couldn’t fight it now; you didn’t want to fight it. 

“No underwear?” He hums a pleasant question in your ear as the tips of his fingers brush where your waistband should be.

You could feel yourself shake at the contact, the lightest touch he’s laid upon you now, yet the most enthralling—the most tantalizing. “I wasn’t expecting to be out like this,” you whisper back to him. Going commando wasn’t something you did often, but you had a valid reason, what was it again? 

Sweeps of his index finger edging closer to where you feel the most need light up your nerves as the pit of your stomach grows an ache and mind goes blank.

You tilt your head back against the rain pelted glass and breathe heavy breaths as his fingers advance closer. Finally, he meets you at your most sensitive place, passing the bud that laid a shudder to your cold spine, and dipping his fingers into the slickness concealed by the skirt of your nightwear. Covering his fingers in your dripping wetness, he chuckles to himself in some dark amusement or self satisfaction, running them back up to play at your sensitive nerves. ‘Already so wet?’ The phrase uttered by your night visitor comes to mind as he does. You wonder if that’s what he was chuckling about, if he’d wanted to say what he or whatever it was, whether it was him or not, had said before. Your body bucks slightly as a rather loud whimper escapes your throat and echoes into the barren hallway. 

He releases his hold on your hair, and brings his other index finger up to his lips, “Quiet, Sorella, we wouldn’t want to be found out, would we?” A smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth.

You shake your head, “No, I’m sorry,” you breathe a shaky breath, “Copia.” You relish in saying his name in such a situation, thrilled and excited by the secret he wanted you to keep.

“Good, Sorella, so obliging,” he puts more effort into the rhythm of his fingers slithering across your quivering clit, causing a muted moan to fall into a hot sigh. “Just stay quiet and I’ll give you what you need, hm?” he doesn’t wait long for your nod before catching your bottom jaw in a grip to coax your open mouth to meet his again in an intoxicating kiss.

You writhe against him and the window, heated heady sighs and breaths all but drowned out by the rain falling ceaselessly on the other side of the glass. Not knowing what to do with your hands, you trace your fingertips down his jawline, neck, linger at the collarbone that caught your eye in his room, and proceed down his torso. Another sweet swipe urging you on, enticing you to continue your adventure down his body. Your hands only stop once they reach the stiffness that had been poking at your thigh, palming it through his strained pants. The light fabric left nothing to the imagination, detailing a vulgar outline of his throbbing cock within its confines.

He groans out a gravelly breath, “Sorella, you shouldn’t tempt such a lustful man.” His words contradict his actions though, pressing his heat into your palm readily. Your hands were clumsy against his expanding manhood, but you could feel his breath hitch at the feeling of your motion. His excitement seemed to grow with each pass of your hand, and yours with each trace of his fingertips. His fingers would find their way back to your entrance every so often before retreating back to your clit. You could hardly stand the ache of the tease as you still in anticipation just to be denied. The two of you breathlessly worked each other in a hurried, desperate manner, ecstasy resonating in the night air. Your hand moves from his clothed member to his waistband, palm flat to his stomach as your fingers make their way into his pants and inside his underwear, coarse hair leading you to the base of his stiff cock. Your chest fluttered and something in you burned as you felt the girth in your hand and heard his voice groan. When you pulled his cock out from his pants and began pumping, that’s when he halted his attack on your clit. You stifle a needy whine against his skin, letting him know of your desire for more—for your nearing climax—by biting his collarbone. You shiver at your worked up nerves being left with no release.

He lets go of his hold on you, dropping to his knees on the chilled floor, and looking up to you. The sight was truly astonishing, the Cardinal on his knees? You couldn’t help the sharp inhale that sucked in an air of surprise, clasping your hand over your mouth after the fact.

“You shouldn’t do something like that, Sorella, tonight this is my fault,” he ran his hands down your sides as he looked up to you. “Tonight you’ve been attacked by a lascivious old man and no one will blame you,” his voice shook in what sounded like excitement, some exhilarating breathy tone.

He breathed shallow, lustful breaths as he proceeded to lift the skirt of your nightgown, “If you wouldn’t mind,” presenting the fabric for you to hold. You do as he insists, holding the skirt in your shaking hands. He laid kisses over your abdomen, down your stomach, and finally settled at the very peaks of your thighs with a nip to the flesh warming his face. The feeling of his mustache bristling down your exposed skin titillated and lit up your body in electric currents so small and sweet. “Look how dirty you are, and I’m to blame” his wet fingers run over your equally wet slit, causing you to hum your desire for more and posture yourself impatiently. “Sorella, watch me, don’t look away.” His hands on either side of your sex, he spreads you open; extending his tongue out and meeting your eyes. 

You watch, as if the act were done in slow motion, his tongue slowly makes contact and flattens over your bud. You hiss out an eager moan, doing your best to remain quiet as he instructed, but the feeling of his warm wet tongue was enough to send you over the edge. His mustache too, it tickled you with each quiver of his lip as he rolled his tongue over your clit. His short breaths provide a tantalizing heat that warmed your thighs. 

“Copia,” you whimper a quiet exhale in ecstasy, as he said, eyes falling half closed. Noticing your missing gaze, his fingers bite into your thighs as if to demand ‘Look at me’, and you return to watching. His eyes peered up at you with a command to them, an eerie coercive look that glimmered in the pulsing light. He rewards you with his tongue, flicking and undulating against your shivering flesh. Now you can’t look away; you want to roll your head back and restrict your moans, or bury your face in your hands, or maybe even just close your eyes but you can’t. He has you transfixed, but this wasn’t his influence over you, you were simply enamored.

You can feel it more urgently than before, the approaching crescendo of your edged nerves demanding their belated release. One finger, his middle finger, pushed its way in with little resistance from your drenched cunt. That. He gave you what you wanted and you whined as hushed as possible as you clenched around his finger. He hummed against you in what could be some kind of approval or arousal, causing his tongue to vibrate. He’d only just started yet that quiver came to you far sooner than you’d hoped. Shaking with no control of yourself, you peak on the tip of his tongue and spill over the edge of your lust. He doesn’t let your gaze leave his as he watches you stammer in heat over his smallest movements. He drinks in your pleasure as he watches you come down from your orgasm.

“It doesn’t take much for you at all, does it?” Such a thing to say with his lips gleaming in the expanding and shrinking light of the storm at your back. He latches his arms around your waist and looks up to you with his chin resting on your stomach, devilish smile creeping across his lips.

Your breaths steadily ease their pace as you watch him through a heated gaze. His hair was a mess, so different from how you’ve come to know him; this was probably your doing. You work to smooth his hair back before wiping the gloss from his lips; you left him an utter mess. “Not when you go and do something like that,” you can’t help the chuckle that tickles your words. It wasn’t that you were quick to come, but he was good at making you come. That fact alone caused you to smile at him—him not knowing this aspect of your typically unresponsive body.

A bright flash of light incites a loud crashing sound, shaking the glass panes you had been leaning into. The two of you jump in surprise, pulled from your small world of little ecstasies to stare, shocked, outside. Just then you’re reminded—your laundry—the reason you were without any panties, the reason you’d been sleeping on an unpresentable bed. You watch in new found horror as the rain relentlessly falls; no doubt drenching the sheets and undergarments you so dutifully hung to dry. Copia notices your rigidness and springs to his feet, looking out the window after your gaze.

“Sorella, what’s wrong?” He leans in from behind, probably still in his sensual headspace.

“My… uhm,” you have a hard time collecting yourself to explain and point out to the direction of the clothes lines. “My l-laundry… is out there.” You can’t do much but look on in shock and wallow in self pity as the rain falls biblically, torrentially. Brows furrowing in despair as the chattering of the rain beats harder and harder against the glass mockingly.

“Laundry?!” He looks on, just as shocked as you are. 

“There weren’t any dryers so I had to hang them up,” you explain, truly this is what dread feels like; so far he’s only seen you at your worst or at least that’s what it felt like anyway. You can’t stop a dejected sigh from leaving you before you fall defeated against the glass. “Well… I better go get them,” you pull yourself away from the sidelite to get back to your room for some wet weather gear. Wobbling at first, you make to leave, but he stops you with a hold on your wrist. 

“Sister, don’t,” he looks from you to the downpour outside then back again, “I’ll go get them.” His grip remained firm on you.

“What?! I couldn’t allow you to go out in that weather!” Your whisper, practically a shout. He’s already put up with enough from you but still seems to want to put up with more and you’re only left to wonder why.

“And you think I can allow you to do the same?” he questions sternly. “Sister, let me go, if not for you then at least to alleviate my,” he clears his throat and gestures to himself shyly, “situation.”

You follow his meaning, looking to his still eager nether regions that he had tucked back into his pants. He was still hard from the misconduct the two of you had partaken in. “Oh, uhm…” you blush a little at the sight. “Should I-“

He cuts you off, “Cold rain is like a cold shower, no? I’ll be fine in no time; right as rain,” he puffs a little laugh, ever the comedian.

“You’re sure?” You still can’t fathom his proposal.

“Of course, but,”

“But?”

“But I also would like you to wait for me in my room.” He draws you in closer to whisper to you more meaningfully. “I can’t have you wandering the halls again and running into some other salacious man, so please go lay your head in my room for tonight,” his whiskers brush at your ear, and his words tug at your heart.

You look to him, speechless by what he just said. You would’ve thought his behavior now too familiar if he hadn’t just had you on his tongue only moments ago. He stands upright to follow through with the plan he just concocted, but doesn’t let go of your wrist before saying, “I’ll have no ‘buts’ about it, Sister.” With a quick turn he ran out into the storm before you could even reply.

***

You sat, waiting in his room as he told you, using the footstool as a chair again just like the first night. I really wasn’t expecting to be back here so late again, you think to yourself. Starting a fire would be ideal as the Cardinal will no doubt be drenched and shivering by the time he comes back, but the rain would definitely cause some problems with that. He only had one small desk lamp to light his dark room, and it had already been turned on when you entered. His bed was still made, almost like he hadn’t slept. You look to the clock at his bedside table, 1:30 AM. What was he doing up so late? You wonder. Why was he in the hallways to begin with? The answer eludes you.

Had he been roaming the halls of his own will, or was he searching for you? Was it him who called you out of your bed, or had it been something unknown that facilitated the encounter? An encounter you wished would’ve never happened, but also wished to never end. Your body glows just thinking about it—about the Cardinal. You both know it’s not something either of you should have done, but how could you resist his temptation; his lips practically called out to be kissed. Surely that wouldn’t count against you, some fling in a dark hallway, and how would anybody find out anyway? Copia even made it his intention to absolve you of any guilt with what he said, claiming he’s the one to blame. That may or may not have been the case sincerely as you still find him and his actions perplexing, was he really to blame? In truth you didn’t want to place all the blame on him, you didn’t want it to be one sided, and you didn’t want him to view it that way either. It should be both your doings, but you still worry about what that might mean for you. It was a mistake so naturally you won’t let it happen again, but the thought of him not stopping was entirely too thrilling to ignore. What would have happened if he hadn’t stopped you from touching him? If instead of running out into the storm he stayed and took you right there with the heat that pulsed into your palm? You melt at the thought, the Cardinal and you sharing a heated night of passion. 

You’d been so lost in your lust that you allowed the sickly sweet anxiety that befalls you whenever the Cardinal is near to overtake you, and without knowing your body shook continuously. Some nervous tremor that would usually be gone by now with the distance and time, now a ceaseless tremble in the limbs. The sick side overtakes the sweet and you begin to fear your symptoms—the result of having fallen into his eyes. “O Old One, guide me from the path of virtue to your light,” you begin praying earnestly, absorbed by thoughts of the Cardinal. “For I am weak, but with your power I may overcome all.” You squeeze your eyes tight and kiss your hands folded into a fist at the last word, “Nema,” a calm comes to you now at the small incantation. It seems the only thing that can dispel the tremors was a prayer for strength to bolster your resolve; such a prayer always worked to sooth your worries.

With some time passing, the clock reads 2:00 AM, the Cardinal returns; absolutely soaked. His state is to be expected considering how fast and hard the rain fell. He stood—a nightmare—lurking in the doorway and dripping with shadow. He held you in his gaze quietly before entering with your laundry three shades darker than it had been when you last saw it. 

“Sister, the door,” he used his eyes to indicate the door on the same wall as his bed.

You move to open it and find it had been a bathroom; not a closet as you’d expected. With the door open he hurried in, rushing to mitigate the amount of water seeping out of the saturated cloth and onto the floor. Entering the bathroom after him, you find—to your surprise—his personal washer and dryer. He places the wet heap of cloth on top of the dryer and begins placing sheets inside. As he loads the laundry in you find and grab a towel off a rack for him to use. He seemed hesitant to load it all in together. “It’s fine, as long as it’s dry, just- don’t worry about it,” flustered by his courtesy to your sheets, he probably knew you were particular about your laundry considering your position, but that was the least of your concern.

“What about for… ehm…” he presents your drenched underwear with some embarrassment in his tone, averting his eyes as if he hadn’t just seen a more intimate part of you. You try to subdue a laugh but are ultimately unsuccessful. That side of him, his sweet bashfulness, his easily frazzled nerves, his chivalry despite claiming to not be a gentleman, all while being one of the most powerful men in office, all of that you find just so charming. His lecherous side was one of his contradictions that you found so strange yet enticing; for this shy man to be hiding something like that was truly baffling. Still, even with those contradictions, his ears are turning red at the situation.

“Just put them in with the rest,” you giggle, forgetting where you had just been in his absence; thinking of him and dreading him. Dreading in a way that empowered some growing feelings within yourself. Feelings that you still needed some time to figure out for fear of whatever they might entail.

“Eh… okay, if it’s okay with you,” he does as you say and loads the black frilly things in with the rest of the laundry. His face was red as each garment passed through his hands into the dryer. “I, uh, should apologize though,” when he’s done he rubs the back of his neck.

“Why is that?” You move to dry his wet hair for him.

“I ended up losing one pair of your… eh…” he stammers a bit as he wrings his hands together. “Eh… your… underwear in the wind; it’s very… eh, brutal out there,” he finds it hard to meet your eyes as he tells you this.

You throw the towel over his head before responding. “That’s alright,” you ruffle his hair before smoothing it back. “I can’t complain when you’ve already done too much, Copia.” You wipe the black makeup that had streamed down his face, erasing the border encircling his eyes. “It looks like you were crying with the makeup smudging like that, poor thing,” you console him half jokingly, sincerely feeling bad about his state though. When the eye makeup is gone you notice how tired he appears, so hidden within the black. He seemed the type to lose sleep easily, but not to the extent that you see now. You continue to dry his head, neck, and chest before asking, “Do you mind if I-“ you gesture to the belt of his robe, indicating a desire to remove it in order to dry him off. You swallow hard as you wait for his response, not something unexpected for the chambermaid but still a little dangerous considering the situation. Peering down in a way to appear as though you were looking to his robe’s belt, but actually you were surveying his once raging hard on. It seemed he was right, the cold rain must’ve settled him down.

He nods an affirmation and you slip the cord loose from his waist. As you expected he was in fact shirtless under his robe; glistening in the bathroom light from the rain. A thin layer of chest hair laid flat on his sternum and faded gradually across his chest. You tried your best not to stare, but perhaps the aversion of your eyes was more telling than your fixed gaze. His chest rose and fell in a pleasant rhythm as you dried his wet skin; starting from his neck down. His heart reverberated clearly through the towel into your palm; a little elevated in pace. He watched your movements and almost demanded you look at him, but you weren’t answering that demand of his. 

He didn’t emit his regular heat; he seemed more frigid than anything. “I really hope you don’t get a cold, Copia,” you break the silence of your stares and not quite stares to express your worries.

A chuckle escaped his chest and shook your hand as it did, “I’m as healthy as a horse, Sister, you have nothing to worry about.” You bit your lip, still thinking of the possibility. He smiles, hoping to dissuade your doubts from growing further. “Anyway, I’m more concerned about you, Sister, Satanas—what time is it? You should be in bed!” 

The two of you lock eyes and find yourselves laughing at what he just said, at how absurd yet genuine the statement was. Such a kind yet silly thing to say, as if he shouldn’t heed his own words and sleep himself. In fact, why has he seemingly been awake all night? You didn’t get to ask the question before he, politely, kicked you out of the bathroom for him to finish drying himself and change into some fresh clothes. ‘I’m not so shameful to have you dry me… down there,’ he said something along those lines before convincing you to spend the night in his room. He did mention it before running out into the storm, but you weren’t expecting ‘no buts about it’ to be taken seriously. He assured you that he’d wake you before the first morning bell in order to afford you enough time to get ready for the day.

The tiredness crept up on you as the night does the day—unexpectedly fast. When your head hits the pillow you’re almost completely knocked out, but you’re determined to wait for him. You wanted to ask him something before you fell asleep; it was very important that you stay up for this. Eventually the door clicked open and he exited in a fresh set of loungewear. Your eyes followed after him as he made his way over to his writing desk, was he going to continue his work?

“Copia,” your voice now far more sluggish than it had just been.

“You should be asleep,” he seemed a little more firm than before.

“Why aren’t you going to sleep?” Not the question you stayed up to ask but still one worth asking nonetheless.

“Ah, well, I still have some papers that need my attention,” he seemed a little perplexed by the question.

“And,” you fidget a bit before asking the real question on your mind. “Why were you in the hallway earlier; walking around in the middle of the night?” It felt like it was too personal to ask but you had to know, was this related to your nightmare—your sleepwalking?

He stiffens slightly at this question, clearly not something he was expecting to be asked. “… I,” he pauses, seemingly unsure as to how to approach this subject. “I’ve been having trouble sleeping; sometimes nightly strolls help me put my mind at ease,” a vague explanation but you’re not in your right mind to prod for more information. “Besides, I could ask the same of you,” he says, lightening the mood slightly with a smirk on his lips.

You laugh a little, not because it was funny, but because you wanted to ask the same thing, ”You’re not supposed to wake people who’re sleepwalking, don’cha know?” You say before becoming serious again, “I guess we’re both dealing with our own sleeping problems.”

Soon after receiving his answer you drift off to sleep, wrapped in his soft blanket and his scent. Fighting off the sleep to ask your question was a very difficult task when there were such factors meaning to lull you into your dreams. Gratefully succumbing to the pleasant feeling of losing consciousness, you hum one last gleeful sigh.

The Cardinal only looks to you after he’s sure you’re really asleep, having waited for your breathing to change. He rises quietly from his work and cautiously approaches your sleeping form wrapped in his thick blanket; making sure to create as little noise as possible. He haunts over you, watching and ensuring you won’t wake by his presence. He examines you for a moment before running the back of his hand down your cheek, gauging your reaction to his touch. You show no harsh refusal to his contact but seemingly enjoy it, to his surprise. From under the covers he searches for your hand, the right, and pulls it out to examine it. He heaved an exasperated sigh at the sight of your thoroughly cut palm; cut for him yet not for him at the same time. He laid his right palm over yours before returning to his seat to continue the work he made for himself.

Chapter Text

Copia is not sleeping again tonight as something prevents him from doing so; something from within he grapples with. Lately he’s been consumed by visions in his sleep and wakes in cold sweats, remembering not much besides his trembling. The shivers—cold—while his sweat beaded hot in exasperating fits. For about a month he’s been like this, running on a few hours of sleep at best along with sheer willpower. Perpetually tired, yet unwilling to meet those night terrors if he can help it. The new work keeps him busy enough to forget about those visions for the day, but instead of sleeping he’s been searching for an answer to his questions every night; why have these visions consumed him and what can he do to stop them? His nights of research have been ultimately fruitless and only seem to grow longer as the days go on, still looking for answers, optimistic in his otherwise unsuccessful pursuit.

Cazzo, he thought, another dead end. The paper he’d been pouring over led him nowhere in his search. Crumpling it up, he tosses it to the side with it landing just short of the waste basket. Old books he borrowed from the library, along with notes he’d taken himself, stacked either side of his desk. The left were those he’s yet to have analyzed, and the right are the ones he’d finished—largely unhelpful in his research. He pinches between his brow, kneading at the tensed muscles caused by another failure before reaching for the next book on the pile; again at square one.

In the night he looked to you often as you slept and breathed slow, calm breaths. So tranquil you are as the rain beats continuously on the glass pane of the window and chatters against the roof—almost deafeningly. The answers he looked for can’t be found in your sleeping figure, but he could’ve sworn something called him to search for you in the halls, he didn’t understand what, or why he’s pulled by you. So he continued watching as he thought about the experience, a whisper of his name beckoning him into the deep—almost as if he heard you. Such a strange urge to go trekking through the dark corridors of the church only replaced by the surprise he felt as he witnessed you trudging towards the bitter storm in a trancelike state. When you didn’t respond to his voice the first few times he called out to you he realized you weren’t all there and he knew waking a sleepwalker wasn’t the safest option, as you pointed out, but he couldn’t stand by as you seemingly intended to venture into that downpour. He had to stop you. Whether what he did was right or wrong remains to be seen, knowing that his actions afterward were questionable at best. His body burns when he’s near you and when he touches you it’s so much more. Burning for you, exactly what he’s not supposed to do, but the question is why—why does he feel this way? Why he took you earlier, another question on his mind, something so uncouth yet beautiful, intoxicating even. He felt that burn ignite hotter, the burn he was able to quell before, enhanced somehow. 

The look in your eyes as he was overcome with something unbeknownst to him, the static pitter-patter of pelting rain, and the tiresome insomnia that fatigues his very soul all must’ve come together to have him act so heinously; at least that’s what he thought anyway. The feeling was as though his better self retreated somewhere within him, and his more devious, more lecherous self that he keeps hidden, as all others do, had been set loose. That greedy self who inhabits him, lusting after you after such a short acquaintanceship. Something drew that side of himself out, provoked him to appear.

He’s noticed your strange shifts in demeanor, you weren’t hiding them quite as well as you thought, but he couldn’t understand them until he had you. What first seemed like quick agitation or even discomfort now he understands as something else, something much more worrisome. That look you gave him, that look told him so much more than you ever meant to divulge. Something deeply pleading to him for what only he could give to you; a feeling he reciprocated. It was clear to him now that you’re afflicted with something, possibly the same thing plaguing him. His heart filled with hope, realizing that you might just be the other half of the puzzle he’s found himself piecing together—the Sister he can’t help his attraction to. If that’s the case then the real challenge comes in solving it, traversing this curious maze. Did he dare to lead you through it, did he even have a choice? He huffs a sigh at his thoughts, replaying each sinful moment in his head. In the same way he hopes that pleading look of yours belonged to him with greater depth than a spell; a greater need than whatever terrible thing you might be ensnared in. Even if he didn’t want to acknowledge it yet, he wanted you to desire him as any woman would a man.

Such a succulent temptation, but forbidden all the same, he laments as he turns back to his work. 

***

When you woke you were honestly surprised by the sight of the unfamiliar ceiling, the warm embrace of ultra soft bedding, and the sound of someone’s voice calling you to open your eyes

Copia?

As promised, the Cardinal woke you from your sleep before the morning really came. When he did he gave an apologetic smile and coaxed you up. He knew you’d probably be tired due to the lack of sleep; having become all too familiar with that feeling himself and so felt a little guilty for the jostle he gave you. Already dressed, wearing his red cassock and all the accompanying accessories; the sun hadn’t even risen yet and he was prepared before the day. The makeup you’d wiped away the night before had reclaimed its place on his face, just as precise as it had been yesterday. His gloves, shoes, biretta, everything was just as it was yesterday. Then there was you, messy, groggy, sick with something evil that ebbed and flowed. You felt so small in his presence—so affected. He was just as smartly dressed and unassuming as he usually is, and you were still burning with the passion you held last night. It was as if what had happened hadn’t even happened, to him at least, and you felt some kind of embarrassment for that. 

Doubt about the prior night flooded you as you began to question yourself. You were sleepwalking, of course, but that means any amount of the previous night could have been nothing more than a creation of your own mind. So much of it was so vivid; the rain, the blackness of the sky just beyond the windows, the strange door bleeding with ominous light, those horrible twisting voices, and Copia’s warmth. You could hardly pick out the dream from the world you inhabit, both blending together seamlessly in your recollection. The night visitor was proof of your wild dreams manifesting in strange sensual ways, so who’s to say whether what you did—what the Cardinal did—was real or not?

Should I ask? You consider to yourself

You bite your lip at the notion, the thought of it all being the makings of your dreams. Too shy to ask, too scared to find out whether it had been something real, and definitely not prepared for what he might have thought on the matter, if it actually occurred. On one hand If it were real then the consequences would be unheard of, but at the very least you would be sane. On the other hand, if it were a dream then that worried you for how real it felt and what it might mean to conjure up such thoughts. Immobilizing nightmares, waking hallucinations, sleep walking, and now losing grip on what’s real and what’s imaginary; you feel as if reality is crumbling around you.

No, it would be too strange to ask.

What if he thinks I’m crazy?

What if he thinks I’m clingy?

You pondered about such things on the edge of his bed as he bustled about the room, preparing for the Mass soon to come. You watched him as he paced back and forth reading his text, still reclaiming yourself from sleep. Fluffing up your hair to appear less disheveled, you look around. The other side of the bed had been left untouched, it seems he didn’t sleep last night, but he said it himself—he wasn’t sleeping well. Perhaps the presence of an unruly Sister in his bed also kept him from sleeping. That thought made the embarrassment that had been rattling around in you turn into guilt for fear of causing him more stress. He’s already working ceaselessly after his promotion, continuing into the wee hours of the morning with his papers, and you really didn’t want to add to that. Didn’t want to add to his insomnia or anything else that might be bothering him. All you really wanted to do was be of some help, be useful, make his life easier, but you felt as though you were failing already. If what happened were real then it couldn’t happen again, it shouldn’t have even happened in the first place, but it was too good to pass up. Whatever was happening now inside you needed to be stopped before it got worse, but you really didn’t want to stop it. Whether it was sneaky midnight romps with the Cardinal or something in your deepest dreams that lurks around each corner of your ever muddled mind—it needed to be stopped.

You offered to fix the bed before going, but he refused, saying that ‘you ought to get yourself ready before the first bell.’ The regard was thoughtful, but you felt a little sad leaving like this, leaving his warmth. He was right though, there wasn’t enough time to linger in his room. 

The basket by the door held your neatly folded laundry. It was honestly a relief to see it there, aiding in the believability in some of last night's events; you were awake when you came here at least. He even folded your underwear. So sweet, too sweet, you thought to yourself. He’d been so red as he loaded them to be dried, you could only imagine how he looked folding them, maybe as red as his cassock? You chuckle at the thought of the now pristine Cardinal becoming flustered over your underwear. 

He’s already at the door, ready to see you off so you, the dutiful Sister that you are, might make it back to your room in time. Before you could, he picked up the basket and presented it to you. The gesture is kind, and you smile your gratitude at him. 

“Sister,” he starts, giving you an acknowledging tilt of the head, “I would like to see you on time today, hm?” He hands the basket to you as he chides lightly, not letting it go after you grab it.

Honestly his trying to be stern with you was endearing and you find yourself feeling that calm that comes to you when you’re with him. When you’re not transfixed by any will he might possess, being with him feels easy, but you quickly deny it. You have to stop it, you have to stop it.

“Of course, Cardinal,” you use the title instead of his name, intending for some small distance to barricade you from your conflicting desires, growing guilt, and warm swell that fills your chest.

His brows raise a bit at ‘Cardinal’, he did ask to be called by his name when you’re alone with him, and you did just that last night or in your dreams, but he doesn’t correct you. “Good, ehhh… good, good,” he seemed a little curious about ‘Cardinal’, but patted the back of your hand with his gloved fingers before releasing you. You’d hoped he wouldn’t notice the small change. Maybe chalking it up to nerves or simple forgetfulness on your part, but the surprised expression he flashed seemed to suggest otherwise.

Calling him ‘Cardinal’ was the only thing you could think to do to minimize the effect he had on you. Every time you said his name you felt yourself sink lower and lower for him. No, you can’t say his name; you can’t let that easy feeling, that adoration take you over. You remember how it tasted as you cried out your hums of pleasure, and that’s why you must refrain from saying it. Right now you didn’t have the courage to bring up that encounter. You didn’t want to say anything about it, it scared you, the thought of it being a mere dream within a dream. The way you melted at his touch, succumbed so readily, and gave yourself so freely also scared you. You did all the things you swore to yourself—to the church—to Satanas himself that you wouldn’t do, and now you seek some kind of damage control. The safest option, you thought, was to build up your defenses so as to not allow this confusion to happen again.

“Have a good morning, Sister,” he bids you goodbye as he opens the door for you to leave.

“You as well, C-,” almost calling him by his name, “-ardinal,” you stutter out a not so smooth save before exiting. You clench your jaw to choke back a cringe at your own flub. 

“Don’t get lost on your way back to the nunnery; it’s still dark,” he calls out after you, poking his fun.

You walk down the hall, only turning back to laugh sarcastically at his joke. It was still dark, nowhere near as abyssal as you saw in the night, but a deep indigo meeting a horizon that betrayed a fading gradient of light blue seeping through the shadow. You needed to hurry back in order to freshen up and get dressed; the first bell tolls soon. 

In some time night faded to day, and the Cardinal’s Mass came to its conclusion. You made it this time as he, and Sister Imperator, insisted. It seemed after his initial Mass he was less apprehensive about the whole thing. Sure his performance wasn’t without its hiccups, but it was still impressive seeing him give his sermon. He still has a ways to go if he wants to match the might and popularity of the previous Papas, but surely with more time in office he’ll be giving dark sermons that could make the most devout men and women fall to the evil wills of Satan. 

When his eyes caught yours during his delivery it seemed he acknowledged you in some subtle way. A twitch of the eyelids that briefly revealed more white to contrast against the black bordering them, a minor tilt of the head disguised as some consideration of the literature he’d been reading, and a small smile that concealed itself as quickly as it was shown. Of course you were going to show up for Mass, and he knew you were too, but those tiny mannerisms betrayed his excitement at your presence. His eyes would drift to you every now and then as the service progressed and each time they did you felt yourself hanging on to his every word. Now you felt more remorseful for missing the first one, thinking he might’ve just performed his sermon to you and you alone if you’d been present. 

Your gaze on him was heated, concealed as it was, but growing in desire. You clutched your grucifix rosary many times throughout the service, begging Satan below for the strength to make it through without feeling that ache, that horribly delightful anxiety that would set your bones to quake. 

You have to stop it! You have to stop it! You’d chant this over and over in your head at those feelings. 

The slightest jitters and flutter of the stomach would result in you shutting your eyes in order to shake them away, but you’d wind up wide-eyed and staring just as soon as that feeling subsided. 

If only you were a free woman, you’d be at his arm as soon as he stepped away from the altar. At his mercy for him to have you in any way he might deem fit. To hold him and have him hold you. To soak in his warmth and bathe in his lust as yours beats fiercely, unwavering in your depths. You felt these stirrings and many like them during his delivery. No, you continue your struggle over your conflicting feelings; not wanting to disappoint the church or the very lord you worship. 

You have to fight it! You have to fight it! 

As the seats cleared you could make out the sounds of his growing fanbase as well as his dissenters converging within the crowd of moving bodies. You can’t help but condemn those dissenters, knowing that eventually they’ll come to see his light as he grows into the position. They always say the same thing when the last guy gets replaced, the only difference now being that the last guy cannot come back. You scoff at that fact, knowing the regular routine of those in opposition who, without fail, come to love the new guy in the end.

‘Papa III’s nothing like Papa II,’ and ‘Papa II wishes he were Papa I’ the same old same old. They all change their minds about the successor in time and, no doubt, act as though they were the truest followers from the very beginning. 

I wonder where he’s at, you look to the high altar he disappeared behind as you waited out the gaggle. You were sure he’d pop back out, but it seems he made a quick escape.

Gah! Stop that! You chastise yourself. Stop it, stop it! You have to stop! It was bad enough during the service, but now you find yourself seeking him out. Why? You already decided that distance is best, so why are you looking for him?

You cast your eyes to the crowd, trying to occupy your mind with other things.

The group is hardly orderly as limbs seem to sprout from who knows where. You sit by in your pew as the herd of brothers and sisters makes for the exit, still working to calm your nerves that had been riled up by the subtle rolling of his tongue during the last verse he read. You consider it to be just some personal flair on his end, but couldn’t help but think that he had done it on purpose. The caress of the paper edges too caught your attention as he’d fidget, squeezing the aged dry paper between pinched thumb and index finger before turning. These small movements of his only assisted in stoking that feeling in your stomach that tightened and grew in temperature. 

It seems you weren’t getting very far in your efforts to take your mind off the Cardinal. You sigh, somewhat defeated in your efforts.

As you waited and watched you noticed something cut through the siblings’ paths, a man?

He was tall, much taller than the Cardinal, and sported a formal black attire with a waist sash. A rather impish metal mask greeted you with no semblance of human emotion. The most distinctive features being devilish horns erecting from the forehead, no trace of a mouth, and some noticeable rusting here and there. The siblings around him passed by as if he wasn’t there, spilling about his sides like a post of wood splitting rushing water. Who or, rather, what was this creature before you? 

He stood to your side, unbothered by the rush of bodies, he was here for you it seemed. When you realize this, you stand to greet him but receive no response. His lack of any acknowledgement had you questioning what his intentions were. 

“Uh… May I help you?” Naturally, you’ve never spoken to this individual before. The best you can do is ask a simple question and wait for a simple answer. 

Void can be seen within the eyeholes of his mask and he remains eerily silent. A regular person would emit some natural insignificant sound, a breath, a hum, or even a sound made from shifting one’s body weight from one foot to another; something like the natural sound produced by the Earth that calms its inhabitants. Nothing. Nothing is what you heard from the thing before you, and that set a growing unease in you as you observed his otherworldliness—his stillness. You stare into that void, voices of siblings growing distant as they exit the worship hall, yet something similar echoes in your head as you study those blackened eyeholes. Something boisterous, frightful, something you’ve endured before. His eyes give you no hint as to why he’s here before you, they just leave you wholly disconcerted as you stare into them. In fact, it didn’t even seem like he was looking at you, head not tilting to meet your height. He stood in quiet stoicism, completely rigid, revealing nothing but his strange aura that perplexed you.

“Well… if you’d, uh, excuse me.” Thinking he was there for his own reasons, rather than meeting with you, you try to step around him but are ultimately stopped by an abrupt movement. His arm swiftly protrudes in your direction and extends a rigid hand. Similarly, he finally meets you with his, what should be, eyes. Movements seemingly delayed, he’s now “looking” at you with his void.

You were completely ready to bolt, adrenaline pumping by just being near him, but look to his outstretched hand instead. He was holding a small folded up piece of paper, offering it to you. You look from the paper to the mask, your features reflecting back to you slightly in the hazy, unpolished metal; right where the mouth should be. That image was just as unsettling as the man before you, but you look back to his offering.

“Is this for me?” You ask, not really expecting a reply at this point. You hesitate to take the paper, looking at him for some kind of indication of yes or no. Without any answer, you pluck it from his grasp and he releases it willingly. 

You unfold the paper; it’s a note. You look to him again, still perturbed by his presence, but begin reading soon after.

“Sister,

Your presence is expected in my office following Mass. 

Don’t be late,

Sister Imperator”

“Ah, I see…” your breath runs cold as you say this. Your mind spirals as you think through what this message could be in reference to, but really only one thing comes to mind—last night. A chill runs about your body at the thought of what could be in store for you as you grip at the paper, no longer acknowledging the presence before you. When you come back to your senses your companion is gone, as if he hadn’t even been there, looking around to find any evidence of him. The hall is sparsely populated, a few sisters and brothers dot its perimeter in muted conversations you have no interest in. You look down again at the note, it’s not becoming any less real as you’d hoped, and so you set off for Sister Imperator’s office.

Down the ministry hall you can see her, Sister Imperator's, office door. Each step toward it felt like a step toward your end, and it took everything within your power to keep from falling over; your knees felt particularly untrustworthy. Eventually though, you did come to meet her door. A deep stained oak door with even darker grain that boasted a black placard with gold lettering that read ,simply, ‘Imperator’. You shuddered at the gloss.

Mouth dry and limbs wobbly, you knock thrice against the wood. 

“Come in!” A voice, but not the stern one you expected.

Chapter Text

You open the door cautiously, surprised but not entirely surprised by the Cardinal sitting in one of the chairs opposite the large black, almost mirror-like, desk centered at the back of the office. The desk itself was unoccupied and this causes you to release an ounce of stress, sighing it out before taking your seat beside the Cardinal—separated by a small table. Your nerves shiver slightly at his presence, still easing from before. You wonder if that feeling, that heightened sense of danger that flirts with your temptation will ever become manageable. 

“Eh… hello, Sister” he greets you in a rather hushed tone.

“Hello,” you reply, voice uncharacteristically small as well. You look around anxiously before asking, “Did Sister Imperator call you here?” 

“Yes she did,” he nods a little to affirm, “and you?”

“Yeah, me too,” you slump a little in your seat, feeling as though you’re a student sitting in the principal’s office.

“Do you have any idea why?” You try to seem unphased by the situation but can’t help the peaking of your brows. If it were for that then you’d found yourself in the worst mess possible, if not for you then for the Cardinal. If by some horrible joke the Cardinal’s blame taking were to be serious then that could put a very good man out of a much deserved position. On the other hand, if the blame were to fall to you, which is much more likely, there’s no telling what might happen; flat out expulsion perhaps? The thought was enough to turn your stomach, you loved the church and serving Satan, and couldn’t fathom life outside these walls. How could you even begin to process the idea? If that was a mere dream, how easy it would be for you now. You can’t admit to yourself the satisfaction for the night you were still unsure of, validity of its existence still up for debate, yet some less sensible part of you hoped for it to be true. Against the reasonable, responsible wishes of the Sister you should portray, the woman you are hopes for it. This was a nerve wracking scene you’d stumbled into and you held your breath for his reply.

“No, unfortunately I don’t,” he confesses, looking down to the twiddling thumbs in his lap. “Sister Imperator doesn’t invite me to visit her office very often so I’m not sure.”

“Do you think… it’s…” you stop yourself, still not wanting to acknowledge what happened between the two of you. Not wanting him to deny it, to act as if it were only your imagination, or dismiss it himself as something regretful. You felt those things, wanted to believe those things, but still felt the desire for that moment so much more. It was a horribly confusing feeling, denying yourself what you want but craving it for what it was. 

He sighs a little as your sentence falls short of its true meaning. You don’t know what that sigh meant to him, and were really wishing you could ask but the unfortunate truth is that Sister Imperator could walk through that door at any minute and you were too scared to get caught in that kind of conversation here of all places.

“Well, uh… The person? Who gave me the note to come here was strange,” you explain, presenting the folded up paper as proof.

“Someone gave you a note?” You take this to mean that he was personally informed of this meeting by Sister Imperator herself, and he shifts his gaze from his lap to you. “What made this person so strange?”

“It was someone wearing a metal mask, wearing black clothes; a sharp suit with a waist sash,” You watch his face for its minuscule movements as you explain. “They didn’t say anything, and their eyes,” just thinking on it imparts a certain apprehension in you, a stippling of goosebumps and a stiffness in the shoulders, “it’s like their eyes were replaced with shadow; I couldn’t see them at all.” You felt a little foolish describing them this way, it sounded a little far fetched even to you, but it was all true. “They were honestly frightening,” you fold your arms at your chest, trying to soothe your still agitated self. 

“Hmmm…” his brows knit as he processes what you said. “Such a thing couldn’t possibly,” he strokes his mustache in contemplation as his words trail off.

“What?” Your eyes follow his as he averts his gaze to the far side of the room.

“Well, it’s just… it’s just, they’re not supposed to be about during the day, let alone during regular working hours,” his gloved index finger taps pad side against his lips as he squints straight forward at nothing in particular.

“Who’s not?” You lean in your seat to see his face, he’s sporting a rather firm look as he thinks.

“What you described sounds like a ghoul,” he explains, turning back to you again.

“A ghoul!?” You repeat in pure astonishment as you trade gazes with the man beside you. You’d only heard of them, read of them, seen depictions of them in old books, but never met one in person. Of all your time in the service of Satan you never once had a run in with a ghoul, but today one came to you—intimidated you. From pictures they looked very much human, but after experiencing one first hand you question that notion. One look from a ghoul would be enough to last your whole lifetime, and you could only pray that you never have a run in with one again.

“Well, the church calls them ghouls, they’re the product of some sacred summoning ritual.” He shifts his weight in his chair, leaning in to whisper to you, as if it were a secret. Now both leaning toward each other, you almost burst from the closeness, but contain yourself in order to catch his words. A little fixing of the legs to squeeze them tight, you try to reduce your body’s reaction to this proximity as he elaborates. “From the description you gave, it sounds like you met one of Papa Emeritus III’s former ghouls. I’m surprised it hasn’t been sent back yet.” His eyes linger over your crossed knees, exposed in the position you were sitting in. You didn’t notice this, hung up on the warmth he exuded and the thing he just said.

Sent back? 

You stared at his slightly parted lips, wanting to ask about the last words on them, but the clattering sound of a door opening drags the conversation to a grinding halt. The two of you start at the sound and shift back to sitting straight up in your chairs. You flit your eyes to the Cardinal as you hear the tapping of heels approach from behind. To your surprise he’s looking your way too, practically statue-like. The both of you feel a heavy air fill the room as Sister Imperator nears, neither wanting to turn to look. It wasn’t clearly stated as to why the two of you were called to her office, but you could wager a possible guess. Perhaps it was to address something that occurred in the depths of the night—a recently broken rule? The conversation you weren’t prepared to have with the Cardinal, let alone with the matriarch of the church; the one who set the very rule in place.

Expulsion couldn’t be so bad, you thought to yourself as you prepare for the worst. There was no way you’d be okay with being expelled, and maybe even excommunicated, but you were trying to soften the blow by diluting the sting in your mind—deluding yourself with a lie. I mean, it wouldn’t be the end of the world, for you it may very well be. Inadvertently, you swallow hard at the idea as you feel your pulse quicken in delirious anticipation of what she might do or say. 

You could feel yourself wince as she took her seat, unable to make out what her neutral expression might mean. She was quiet for a time as she rifled through some papers in a Manila folder. Producing one document, she looked at you both with a raised brow before placing a pair of reading glasses that had been dangling from her neck onto her nose. You could feel your limbs drop a few degrees in temperature as you clutched at the edge of your chair and chewed the inside of your cheek nervously. 

Once more, she eyed the both of you before cutting to the chase, “Cardinal, the clergy congratulates you on your succession and wishes to inform you that your new office in the ministry hall will soon be ready for your use,” her eyes skim over the text on the page as an audible breath escapes the man sitting beside you. It seems he was as frightful of her invitation as you were, perhaps for the same reason? “This is just a formality really,” she assures, “you already know how proud we are, Cardinal.”

“Of course, Sister,” his voice shaking slightly from the anxiety of it all, he clears his throat before taking on a more cheery tone now after receiving the good news. “The consideration is appreciated, as is the new office.” His palms flattened together in a manner of thankfulness.

You peer at him again, now much more relaxed in his posture. A small smile tugs at the edges of your lips, knowing what this means for his position.

“As for you, Sister,” you snap back to attention at her voice as she looks at you over the edge of her paper. 

Oh Satanas, please not expulsion! Your thoughts whirl in turmoil at the idea, now no longer believing in the lie you concocted earlier. Anything but expulsion! Even though the Cardinal received his good news you still remain anxious about what she has to say to you; it’s not like you were called here just to observe. A cold nausea swept across your body in a sickening wave as you waited for her to speak, to throw you out, to revoke your oath to the church. Your lip quivered slightly as each second passed, a millennia before your eyes. Every muscle in your body was constricted by the anxiety that swelled in the pit of your stomach. Unconsciously, the one leg that supported the other had begun to bob a terribly fast rhythm. 

She opened her mouth to speak.

Your mind was so busy with ‘what if’s’ you couldn’t focus on a single one; something like the static you hear in your dreams. You hardly spare a flutter of the lid as she begins.

“I don’t suppose you’d have any issues maintaining the Cardinal’s office as well as his chambers, would you?” The ask was a typical one, but somehow felt more like an order than anything else. You were entirely shocked by this, fully expecting the worst but being met with the mundane.

You let go of your own audible exhale, relieved by the additional task rather than the admonishing you had in mind. A relaxed expression spreads across your face and soon enough a bright smile follows. Your limbs felt like jelly without the tension that was just there, no longer contracting with foreboding. At this moment you were so relieved you wouldn’t mind doing every Sister’s chore for the whole year. 

Shaking your head, you reply, “Of course not, Sister, no issues at all.” You practically beam at her now as that sickening nausea turned into a warmness forgotten briefly by your body.

“Very good, I do appreciate your enthusiasm in this, Sister,” she says as she annotates something on another piece of paper, misattributing your expression as one of obedient subservience. “The Cardinal’s new office could use a good cleaning before it’s fully prepared, go ahead and start on that today if you’re not busy.” She hands you the key. 

With the newly acquired key, and after some chit chat, she waved the two of you out in order to receive an incoming phone call. You followed the Cardinal closely from behind for fear of overstaying your welcome. You didn’t get the chance to ask Sister Imperator why she sent the ghoul to collect you, but you never were able to get a word in edgewise in the past. It was completely possible that she was just busy, but if that were the case she very well could have sent a sibling to do so. 

When he closed the door behind you, he stared at you and you at him and the two of you laughed, wrapped in that high that resulted from bubbling adrenaline. Something about that anxiety felt so good when it was washed away, trembling in a slight exhilaration that felt oh so sweet. The butterflies, once bound in tense knots that made you queasy, now gracefully tracing their wings in a ticklish way that made your stomach flutter. But you couldn’t let that feeling become a craving, couldn’t let it sweep you away in its deceitful current that looked lazy and languid but moved much more swiftly than initially thought. Look at where craving things got you; gripping the edge of your seat, gnawing into your cheek until it was raw, and expecting the worst news of your life. You really couldn’t afford to feel that craving grow, yet still allow yourself to indulge in it even now as you share the moment with him. Coming down from your inexplicable laughter, you both shared a smile; knowing but not really knowing.

‘Why were you so anxious?’ The desire to ask that question ran through you. The rigidity of his body and that exhale he released as Sister Imperator informed him of his new office, what were they for? You figured that since this meeting had nothing to do with the events that took place last night, then it all must’ve been some kind of waking dream that your restless, unconscious form crafted in her sleeping pursuit of the unknown.

How could Sister Imperator not know about it if it were real; she knows everything that goes on in the church, of this you were certain. She had an almost omniscient knowledge of the goings on within the church’s walls, so this meeting—being what it was—only served to further cement the fact that you had been imagining lustful acts with the Cardinal rather than actually engaging in them. With that knowledge, you come to the conclusion that the Cardinal must’ve had his own reasons to be anxious, something unrelated to you. You feel a little lighter, seemingly free of any wrongdoing, but not entirely free of what got you to that anxiety to begin with; the man standing, smiling, before you. 

“Congratulations, Cardinal,” you break the silence the two of you shared following your sudden laughter. 

“Thank you, Sister,”the leather of his gloves creaked as he flexed his fingers at his sides. 

With newfound confidence, knowing now that nothing could’ve happened if Sister Imperator wasn’t privy to it, you ask that question in the guise of teasing “All nervous and for what, a new office?” Another small laugh came to you but it was used more as a way to conceal the question it followed rather than being genuine.

“Eehhh… well, you know,” his eyes on you watched for your reaction to his words as he makes some gestures with his hands that try to convey his meaning but ultimately confuse you.

“Your nightly walks?” You question, trying to interpret what his two fingers mimicking legs scurrying in the air meant. 

He pauses his movements, looking at you for a moment, eyes wide before replying, “Sì, ahh… yes, you know—the nightly walks.” His arms extend as if in praise of you before clasping them swiftly behind his back. “And you, Sister, don’t think I didn’t notice your restless leg, why was it so… bouncy?” He took a half step toward you, hands still clasped behind his back, waiting for your answer.

A little flighty feeling surged through you briefly at his words, no longer laughing light heartedly, you quiet yourself. Still not quite so dreadful as it had been before, you felt that ever present edge of his slip past your dropped guard. 

“Oh, um…” you shoot a desperate look to the side before returning your gaze. “I guess we’re in a similar boat; I was thinking this was about my sleepwalking.” Obviously you weren’t going to bring up what you really thought this meeting was about, convinced only the dream version of him that dwells within your mind would recall the incident. 

“Is that so?” He asks, almost sounding as though he doesn’t believe you.

“Yes?” Your reply, somewhat skeptical of your own answer as you shrink a little in his gaze.

That look reminds you of who he is, and why you’re in such a state. It would be too easy to succumb to it, but you knew you weren’t supposed to. Like a flash, it was gone, and you were eased again. The Cardinal seemed much less sinister as his possession faded, but the feeling he laid into you didn’t quite vanish. You honestly almost forgot about that power, that unexplainable bewitching spell he casts every now and then. You were still unsure if he had presence of mind over that power he possessed and remained as curious about whether he did or not as ever.

His look on you persisted for a bit, boring holes through your being, but eventually relented with it dropping to the floor. “I see, well,” he rocked forward a little awkwardly as he made some excuse to leave; something about having to consult with Papa Nihil about budgets and whatnot. Before leaving he says, “Goodbye for now, I’ll be waiting for your visit.” No doubt meaning when you come to clean, but sounding as if he were implying more.

You gripped the key that remained cool in your hand, replying, “Actually, Cardinal, I think I should focus on cleaning your new office for the time being.” This was it, this was the excuse you needed to put some distance between you and him. You’d been afforded a chance like this once or twice before, but now you were taking it after swimming in that anxiety. Though it fluttered lightly and delicately now, you knew the real outcome of your actions would cause you to swim in anguish rather than titillation. “Of course I’ll come clean your room when I have time, but your new office might need more attention right now.”

“Ehh… oh… uh… of course, right,” he stammers in that way he does when he’s uncertain. “Right, of course, sorry about that,” apologizing for the extra work added to your plate, but really it felt like he was apologizing more for the situation. 

‘Tonight this is my fault’ those words floated through your head as he took the blame again. You pushed that little memory to the back of your mind, paying it no more attention than you would any other brief thought. When exchanging your goodbyes he appeared largely unaffected by the wall you erected, but he lingered for a bit with his gaze not quite meeting yours.

“Well then, I’ll… see you when I see you?” He shrugged.

“Yes, Cardinal, I’ll see you then,” you don’t offer any direct indication of when that might be but smile anyway.

Your heart receded a little as you watched him leave to meet up with Papa Nihil, taking his warmth with him. It was hard driving him out of the crack in your heart that he found his way into somehow, but you reasoned that it was for the best. He’s a busy man and will only get busier as he maintains his station, and you’re an off-limits sibling, a chore to get involved with. Though he may seem dejected now, he’ll soon have his pick of any man, woman, or otherwise that he so chooses. 

That thought stings a little as you watch his back grow more distant; the thought of the nice, sweet Cardinal that you’ve come to think to be quite cute taking on his own harem of faithful sheep. The thought of him becoming just another Papa who you’d be unable to distinguish from those before him in any meaningful way other than the fact that he’s alive and they’re not. You lay all these fabricated possibilities into him without any consideration of the man, and by the time he rounds the corner to exit the hall, you’ve made up a completely different version of him that causes your heart to ache pitifully.

You’re the dejected one now, and it’s all your own doing, in a meager attempt to dampen that fire that burns ceaselessly within, you ascribe false characteristics that only serve to self flagellate. To have him be like one of the former Papas, the men you had no desires for, that would save you from your turmoil. If only he were that way naturally, you wouldn’t feel so pained by merely thinking poorly of him, but he already said that he’s nothing like the Papas before him. If he had been then this wouldn’t be so hard, seeing him leave in low spirits wouldn’t be so hard, rejecting him within yourself wouldn’t be so hard, but you also wouldn’t have been able to feel what kind of depth of emotion you’re capable of experiencing. You wouldn’t have been able to feel that pressure that inhabits your chest when his eyes strike you, ensnare you in his gaze. And though you wish you could forget all that and be how you were before meeting the Cardinal, you can’t remember much of what that life felt like. You find yourself positively enthralled by him, infinitely curious of his mystery, and hopelessly putting up pitiful fights that increase that aching feeling in your heart. 

You stood and stared at the end of the ministry hall, the turn he just took before leaving, glimpsing for even a shadow of him. Missing him already when he just left, you can’t be making a habit of that. Somewhat peeved at yourself, for doing what you want instead of what you should, you shake your head for some clarity before  going off in search of the Cardinal’s new office.

Not far down the hall, you find just that, the door to his new office. Opening the door, you’re met with an asphyxiating cloud of dust that wafts and scatters from the agitating new air flow of the hall. You cough a little as you fan in front of your face to rid the air around you of any irritants. Large, incredibly thick curtains deprived the room of the sunlight and concealed three grandiose windows. You make your way across the room to draw back the curtains, allowing the light to pour in; you always find that natural light is much better for cleaning. Another cloud of dust fluttered, nearly opaque, as you flung the middle curtains apart, but you masked your nose and mouth with the edge of your veil in order to keep from inhaling more particles. With a substantial amount of light, you turn to see what you’re working with.

All the furniture appeared to be unused and in good condition, but when a room isn’t properly cleaned dust settles fast. Dust, dust, dust, it was everywhere. In the corners, encrusting the chandelier, dangling cobwebs from candle sconces, even on the empty boxes that were scattered about the room; you couldn’t believe your eyes. Two floor-to-ceiling bookcases that flanked the door were quite daunting in what work they meant for you, and an unkempt fireplace on the wall to the side of the desk meant you’ll be the church’s own Cinderella—cleaning out ashes and soot. 

The furniture might be new, but the room has certainly been used before, you think to yourself as you inspect your surroundings. It was to be expected—it was an old church, but you wondered why it had been left so unkempt all this time.

You sigh at the task at hand, such a large room would surely take some time to clean, but you were looking for an excuse to reduce your time with the Cardinal, so you can’t complain about getting what you wished for. It’s just that the things you didn’t wish for were quite more inviting and tempting. Oh well, this will just have to be the next few days of your life until you can find another excuse to repel him.

Chapter Text

Beginning work on the Cardinal’s new office was grueling, one whole day of cleaning and you weren’t even close to finished, but it was an escape from him and you were thankful for that. Maybe now you could get the chance to sort yourself out as you keep away, or at least figure out your next move. Continue your distance or meet him head on? You wish you didn’t have to choose, making this kind of decision was a battle in itself.

Your eyes blink slow now with heavy lids as you lay in bed, freshly made up in clean sheets, muscles straining slightly from the pressures of cleaning such a grand space. Feeling your head sink into your pillow was a welcome reprieve from work and made your failing consciousness hard to support. The room grew dark with each beat of your lashes, shadows expanding with the descent of the sun in large swaths of black that twisted the appearance of what little furniture you had. The veil and habit set out for the next day that slouched across the chair in the corner of the room had become a beast in the deepening black. You laugh at its guise a little, not something so scary as to rile you up, you’ve dealt with much more frightening things within the last few hours—dreamt much more frightening things. With another bat of your eyes the shadows reached the far side of the room, opposite the window, and rested delicately on your armoire with door slightly ajar. You smile still, knowing that you’ve met with greater abyss than the one that exists within the storage of its cabinets. 

Something about your tiredness made you absolutely giddy in a strange lazy way, made you relish the thought of sleep yet stay awake—delaying slumber as if it were a sort of pleasure to be denied for a more profound crescendo. You were exhausted but enjoyed that feeling right at the precipice of sleep, a little joy entertaining your fuzzy mind as you toed that line. You looked for more of the night's little terrors in your room to mock lightheartedly, craning your neck this way and that, nestling your head further into the pillow as a result. Your bedside table and lamp didn’t seem to do the trick, and the door to your room wasn’t much fun either, but the corner of your room, obstructed by your armoire, caught your attention as you shot looks here and there. You peered into it, head at an awkward angle so you didn’t have to lift it, and as you stared at it a small murmuring buzz began to grow. 

Once more, you blink, and your room is gone. Your world exists in slivers of light outlining only the parts within reach of the moon’s faint influence allowed by the small window. The sound of crickets chirping outside had been eroded by the steadily growing static chatter in your ear. Your smile faded in recognition of that sound and in concern of that corner. You find it difficult to remove your gaze from it, dark but not even the darkest spot in your room, yet still in so much more need of your attention. 

That giddy, flirty tired you felt before was gone and your monitoring of that obscured intersection of walls made it hard to get back to it. Staring down the nothing that revealed more nothing while being provoked by the chattering that stung your eardrums—it sounded like a downpour of violent rain or even beads of hail pelting the roof. Your breath quickened as you stared, and your pulse burst. You try to get up, but your body couldn’t move—voice could not leave your throat—you were affixed to the bed, bound in sheer vulnerability.

A murky something moved beneath the wallpaper, bubbling and warping as your eyes strained to see in the dark. You thought you were imagining things, attributing the movement as some trick of the night, but continued to observe it as it turned and twisted. The once faint glint of light that shined in the deepest part of the corner, right where the two walls met, began to blacken—not from shadow, but from something even deeper. As it grew, so too did that horrible sound—deafeningly ringing out—rivaled only by your heaving breath. Terribly dark, and amorphous, the apparition stuck to the wall before it took on a more recognizable shape. You could make out the smallest resemblance to a human figure, but was it? It solidified itself in a more corporeal way and seethed into life as it expanded and detached from the wall. It wavered in its presence, shaking as it performed—what looked to be—a laborious act. With some time passing, and a good shudder of its dark shoulders, it appeared to be done crafting itself. It wasn’t facing you at first, turned inward toward the corner, it hunched over in its space before it looked over its crooked shoulder at you. 

What is— Your thoughts are slow and clouded by the sound still plaguing your ears. 

Oh Satanas, no! You lament. Your body was deadweight, frighteningly stagnant against your efforts to get away.

Your fear was quicker than anything, and all too useless. As you fought, and failed, against your immobile body it appeared to have noticed you in bed and turned to approach. Malformed, malignant, and hazy—it shambled over—scraping its weight against the wood floor with a nauseating dull sound.

Slow, trudging footsteps that echoed somewhere past the buzzing reverberated in your mind; its gait was that of inebriation. As it neared you its body deteriorated, wasting away in small paper thin flakes of shadow that crumbled at the feather-like impact from the fall. 

You could feel the pump of blood deliver adrenaline to your supine form as your heart raced tirelessly in the confines of your rib cage. Your eyes hardly closed as you stared up at the thing lumbering over—a real nightmare—they fluttered only about halfway shut in order to continue monitoring it.

Soon enough it was by your side, bubbling and fuming in whispering waves of black that caused your hair to stand on end. You couldn’t find any distinct features as you observed in utter horror at the being before you; it was genderless, faceless, and utterly ambiguous—pure void. The beating of your heart pounded violently until you could feel the pulse of your temples throb, and though you were sick with fear, you couldn’t take your eyes away. It might have been less trouble to shut them, but you couldn’t manage that; it already knew you were watching anyway, so what’s the point of feigning ignorance now? Flecks of its inchoate body continued to slough off as it leered over you; even without eyes you could feel it returning your gaze. 

Brittle arms reached out to you with intent—you couldn’t even manage to flinch; each movement caused more flakes to fall, the smaller ones withering midair. The lightest scent of decay pricked at your nose as its palms flattened over your head, making contact. The sensation of it was strange, akin to a pins and needles feeling while also imparting a sort of beating vibration. From its touch hushed voices could be heard, overlapping and mingling together. Through your heavy breaths, the continuous humming static buzzing sound, and the pounding of your heart, you try to make out the meaning of those whispers. It seems though that focusing on one voice leads it to drawing back, becoming distant and nearly imperceptible—try as you might. 

What is the motive? Why did it come to you, immobilize you, terrorize you? Your thoughts whirl with such questions as the voices hasten their speed and become indistinguishable from the white noise bogging down your mind. 

Before long it took its hands from you, seemingly done with whatever it was doing. As it came away, a thin layer of itself stuck to you before crumbling to ash and then nothing at all. The feeling of that briefly lived gauze-like shed it left glued to you was grotesquely dull, and still assailed your nose with that lingering stench despite it evaporating. You wanted to scream, to flail your arms and legs, to curse it, and maybe even defend yourself, but still your body was aggravatingly inert as sweat now clung to your skin. Your eyes stayed trained on it as it continued to deteriorate at a more rapid rate until it was just a hissing waste of dust that reduced itself to putrid memory.

With its demise, you relaxed into your position on the bed; without knowing, your body had been tense all this time despite not being able to move a muscle. Your jaw that had been clenched tight in a vise ached a little as you slacken yourself against the mattress; the slightest taste of blood tickled your tongue from the pressure between your teeth. Suddenly, your world didn’t seem as dark as it had just been and your eyelids could hardly stay open as sleep overtook your now incredibly tired conscious. A cold, sick sweat still clung to your skin, but your breaths and heartbeat slowed to normal intervals. As you faded into the depths of your dreams the remnants of the creature still lurked in the dark recesses of your mind, watching you as it did.

The break of day over the next two weeks established a quiet tedium free of the Cardinal’s character. You continued with your new task of cleaning his office; a little bit more of a chore than you previously thought. In doing so you were afforded ample time to fester on the events of that vile night—that repulsive creature that staggered its filthy way over to you—put its hands on you, and soon enough became overwhelmingly anxious as a result. 

Unfortunately, you were particularly alert even in the nights. The smallest sounds would have you shooting straight up in bed, ready to make a mad dash for the door. Your heart would pound and pound each time you woke like this, not coming to rest easily, and keeping you from continuing any restful sleep. You’d even find yourself twisted in your sheets, as if to suggest a struggle occurred. A headache would greet you each morning following such episodes along with a stomach full of winding knots; you found it difficult to assuage this illness—the persisting insomnia.

Sleep came to you only in momentary instances, but the prospect of hearing that vomit inducing buzzing noise that preludes the entry of your nightmare kept you awake for the most part—unable to partake in deep meaningful sleep.

At some point when you woke to nothing you’d just sit there, defeated in your fight for rest—believing that the fight was more tiresome than the defeat of wake, and so you’d sit and watch as the deep, dark indigo sky would become blanched by the ascent of the cold morning’s dim light. You’d watch as the shadows receded from your room—as the shadow in your corner disappeared too. 

With the increasing wakefulness following its terrible visit, paranoia overtook you with each passing day. Quick turns of corners would trick your eyes into seeing shadows dash just out of sight, breathy whispers followed you—only revealed to be that of the wind, and that foul stench lingered near—wafting to you occasionally. You found yourself jumping at the slightest unexpected movements of a sibling or the creak of the floor boards when walking from the new to the old wing. This change in demeanor was astoundingly plain to you, but you couldn’t seem to shake free of it. Your heart skipped several beats when you were with the Cardinal, but this was jarringly different. Looking all around, over your shoulder even, and up and down every hall you approached became a new habit of yours; not only looking out for him—the Cardinal, but also scoping out the area to make sure you weren’t going to see any more strange apparitions.

You still found reason to keep away as your anxiety is much higher than usual. You can’t fathom how your newly agitated self—agitated in new ways—might react to him, if he dared lay his evil gaze on you again; maybe your heart would stop completely. The times you were with him were relegated to attending Mass and returning quick greetings, as good manner dictates, so any close contact might be kept to a minimum. Your excuses to get out of being around him started out believable enough; aiding a fellow sister in a task, volunteering for additional duties, and even scurrying off to the bathroom when you didn’t need to use it. Increasingly though, you’d begun turning and fleeing as soon as you caught sight of him; he was especially easy to make out when he wore his red cassock. You really didn’t want things to get worse, but they also weren’t getting any better with your current actions. Each time you’d run away you hoped he didn’t notice, but he did.

Every move of yours was very clear to him and he didn’t blame you for it, he’d deduced some kind of reluctance to be near from how you’ve been acting. As to why you were fleeing was another story, something less observable to him. You seemed unwilling to admit the happenings that occurred the other night, and he felt responsible. Was it his fault that you’d taken to running away—avoiding him when before you’d be willing to be there, talk with him, encourage him, and maybe even gratify yourself in the smallest ways that you’d allow? It was obvious that the two of you felt the same fear of retribution that might be incurred for your actions, but to deny it happening altogether? Surely fear wasn’t the only thing you both felt; it wasn’t the only thing he felt at least. While he can’t force you to participate in that kind of relationship, he did wish you’d come around a little. It's not like he was going to pounce on you like he did that night, not without you coming to him for it anyway; he knows some restraint. The look in your eyes when he woke you in the hall though, that told him something deeper than you’d reveal in words—the look in your eyes that led him to believe there wasn’t just fear there. And after what he thought, and hoped you thought too, was a beautiful night of passion, you’re now running every chance you get. 

For him it was disheartening to say the least, and while the two of you didn’t owe one another anything besides the obligations set upon you by the church, he had some sense of yearning that he couldn’t quite figure. The thought that you might be, in some way, related to those dreams of his that make sleep an almost foreign concept was one motivation, but another—more personal—motivation exists with it. His eyes would naturally fall to you without him knowing, only realizing his stare when it was all too late; he couldn’t help it. An absentminded sense to find you, something that moved him to search for you; like he did that night. That strange sense was now stumped by the sight of your fleeing back, every approach thwarted by the sound of your hurried footsteps echoing farther and farther away. 

One day, as the Cardinal was trekking back to his room following Mass, he was caught by Papa Nihil in some uninteresting church related affairs; budgets, receipts, and scheduling for new and current services. The old man stammered over the conversation, taking several puffs from his oxygen mask before wheezing each thought out incrementally. The Cardinal had a hard time maintaining enthusiasm, Papa Nihil had a certain way about him that made every conversation ten-times longer than it needed to be, cracking a joke that caused him to launch into a coughing fit following a hard laugh. With the new position came new responsibilities the Cardinal must bear in order to properly lead his congregation, so he stood quietly and politely as Papa Nihil recovered from another bout of violent coughing—patting the elder a little awkwardly on the back.

“Are you going to be alright?” Copia asked, not really interested in the answer.

Nihil waved a hand at him, dismissing the Cardinal’s concern.

From the end of the hall Copia made out your figure as you advanced down the corridor. You seemed a little lost in thought as you accompanied a fellow Sister of Sin, both carrying boxes of what look to be files and papers, helping her with a duty no doubt; your latest modus operandi for avoiding him at present. It appeared to him that you weren’t exactly aware of his presence, considering you hadn’t fled yet. He tried ignoring you as you neared, not wanting to fall to his urge to call out to you, but still sneaking glances in quiet excitement. He wanted so badly to approach you, but felt awkward doing so amongst the gaggle in the hall—a host of eyes to watch his uncoordinated display—inhibited also by the wretching man to his left.

No, she’ll just run again, he thought to himself, but by Satanas! This game of keep away is driving me mad.

As you grew closer he found it more difficult to remove his gaze from you. Your companion seemed all too happy to have your help, trying to engage you in some polite conversation, but your face betrayed a certain look about it that didn’t seem quite as jovial. The Cardinal noticed the blank stare and dark circles under your eyes as you distracted yourself in observation of the floor, you didn’t seem very present in the other girl’s company—at no fault of hers. That look was one he knew well, one he shared, one that haunted him following restless nights, but why was it haunting you now? This was a first for him, not seeing you out of sorts, but seeing you as drained as you are. 

She looks tired, he watched from afar as your reaction to the Sister beside you seemed delayed, inattentive; she made multiple attempts to draw your attention. He sighed a little, relenting any resolve he might’ve had to talk with you—thinking it better to leave you be as you already seemed stressed enough. 

“… How does that sound?” Papa Nihil questions before turning the knob on his oxygen tank, receiving a gaseous hiss in return.

“Ehhh… good—yes, perfect!” He agrees, not having paid any attention to what was said just before.

You were close now, passing by with quick eye contact that reminded him briefly of that pleading look you showed him once before. Now you seemed aware, pleading turning to surprise and then nothing as you turned away sharply. That hurried avoidance, he was used to that by now, but he clung onto that look that preceded it—hoping that’s the look you truly mean to give him. He maintained watch over you as you passed by; you haven’t been this close in awhile. While he wouldn’t like to admit it, he was a little thankful you’re as out of it as you are; if you had more of your wits about you he wouldn’t have been able to get so close.

“Then you’ll be expected at the funeral home by 3 P.M. so don’t be late,” Nihil said a little sternly with a wag of his shaky finger.

“What?!” The Cardinal snapped his eyes off you and back to the old man at his side.

“What ‘what’? You just agreed to service a funeral!” Nihil pushed a folder full of papers into Copia’s chest. “Like I said, don’t be late,” air escaping in a strained chuckle at the Cardinal’s visible discontent that made itself apparent in a slight scowl.

With that being said, Nihil scuttled off to his office triumphantly, the Cardinal left in his wake. 

“Cazzo, that smelly old fart—he should just kick the bucket already,” Copia grumbles, thumbing through the contents of the folder, particularly angry at the suddenness of this request.

“The least he could do is give me more time to prepare,” he shook his head, not entirely a stranger to the patriarch’s lackadaisical, and oftentimes goading, ways. He thought that he’d at the very least take his work seriously, but perhaps with age he’s taken to amusing himself more rather than conducting himself properly.

He casts his gaze in the direction you were headed, looking for you once more, just catching sight of you at the end of the corridor. You exchanged looks with one another for an ounce of a second before you were consumed by the crowd. 

Ah… Fuck, he thought, upset that he missed you while Papa Nihil loaded him with more work.

Now wasn’t the time to confront you directly, no, he turned around briskly and made off for his room. His frustration grew with each corner he rounded until he was back in his quarters, giving his next actions some consideration. He has to facilitate a funeral service soon, but his head was swimming with thoughts of you. How can he get you to look his way for more than just a moment—to talk to him again? How can he get you to acknowledge that night and those feelings you couldn’t admit to? How can he quiet all of those anxieties that filled your head and kept you in a state of standoffishness? More importantly, how can he address that look he saw on you just earlier—the one that burdened you in the same way it did him. Over time he’d grown used to it—that depleted feeling following a largely sleepless night—the unavoidable nightmares that seek him out and mean to torment, but to see you with that very same look? Were you dealing with those terrors too? He wiped his face with his gloved palm before his eyes fell to the window. He approached the small source of light in swift steps before drawing one curtain back slightly to look out over the yard. He peered into the distance and leaned his weight into the other hand on his desk, knocking over a cup holding an assortment of pens. 

He looked down quickly, releasing the curtain as he did, finding his pens to have spilled across the top of the desk in a rather dramatic array. The corners of his mouth tightened in frustration, muttering curses under his breath at the minor inconvenience that followed a much bigger one, exasperating his aggravation. While placing his writing tools back into the holder he stopped at the last pen that reached the far edge, finding it to have given him an idea. It laid diagonally across a piece of cardstock he’d been making use of for his research. 

Recently you’d been making more frequent stops by his room to clean, so you were bound to notice a note, right? He wasn’t quite sure whether you’d receive a note from him or not, but he figured it couldn’t hurt to try. Removing the used piece and setting it to the side, he clicked the end of the pen down and brought it to hover less than an inch above the white paper’s face. What was he to write? He checked the clock on his desk, not a lot of time before he had to go conduct his service. He struggled with his thoughts.

Copia hesitated a bit, retreating briefly before coming at the note card again. He didn’t know what to say, what to pour onto the paper without coming off as too needy, but he was needy. Needy in a way he still wrestled with, a way he didn’t quite understand yet still so easily gave into. He wanted to address that night, how he felt, ask how you felt, and maybe even see if you were open to the idea of playing again—his game of subdued consent that he meant to absolve you of any wrongdoing but came across more as a strange inclination of dubious nature. He was crazy about that night, the taste of you on his tongue, the smell of you on his mustache, he was mad with the thought of it. He also wanted to address your fears, your oath to Satan in particular—how you might be treated if your promise were to be broken, how he doesn’t want the worst for you but still desires you all the same. He wanted to assure you in ways he couldn’t even believe himself, tell you that it would all work itself out in some way despite having no proof of that. He didn’t want to lie, but he didn’t feel like he would be lying if he were to tell you it would all be okay; does not knowing the truth turn his words into lies? He wanted to write all this—how greedy he was for you—but if he did he knew he’d only scare you more.

Something casual, something easy, he stared down at the card as his clenched hand continued to waver over the thick writing square. 

Don’t scare her away, he searched his thoughts for something cool, casual.

“Ah-hah,” his voice suggested ‘eureka’.

Bringing his pen down, he begins to write, “Sister, I thank you…” he starts, words dictating each pen stroke.

Chapter Text

Drained, you have been for some time now. Walking with heavy steps through the halls as you assist a sister with one of her chores—moving documents to be archived—you shamble, exhausted at her side. On top of the lack of sleep you’ve begun volunteering your help to your siblings as well as taking care of your own tasks in a ploy to continue your avoidance of the Cardinal—any excuse he might have to talk to you. It seemed to be working so far, run-ins with him decreasing substantially outside of worship hours, but now all of this is causing the side effects of your insomnia to worsen. Absolutely lacking in all your wits and finding mundane tasks to be particularly tiresome, yet still conducting yourself as the good sister you are, you have unconsciously bound yourself to a wearying state of autopilot. Each day that passed following this arbitrary distance you employed, and the terror you were subjected to in the night, had become so heavy with unreasonable feelings of dread as you fought with little illusions from each shaded corner of the church.

Even as your companion tries to engage you in polite conversation, you find it hard to be enthused. Your eyes trail the lines in the marble floor at your feet as the two of you make your ways to the library’s store room. The girl you’re assisting prattles on about something unimportant before making a more concerted effort to get your attention.

“Hey!” She exclaims in whisper, jabbing you a bit with her elbow. “Isn’t that the new guy?”

It couldn’t be, he’d have no reason to be here at this hour. Your tired eyes flit up from your gaze on the floor to look in the direction she motioned to with the box she was carrying. Indeed it was him. He was positioned off to the side of the hall—out of the way of the masses—discussing something with Papa Nihil. It didn't seem like he noticed you just yet, probably because of his attention to the old, haggard man. You reason that it would be within your best interest to coast as far under his radar as possible and pass by without incident. 

“Uh… yeah,” you reply, hurriedly replacing your stare to the floor. The mere sight of him alone was enough to rattle you, in more ways than one.

“What do you think of him?” She asks, but you don’t reply—worried that your voice might draw his attention.

What a loaded question. ‘What do you think of him?’ Generally you’ve been trying not to think of him in any meaningful way, but still find him slipping into your thoughts from time to time. Attractive, good natured, a little silly, and bearing a certain mystique you couldn’t quite explain—not unless you want people to think you’re half crazy anyway. He was mysterious and intriguing while also being completely frightening. Frightening in the way his very being seeks to compromise the oath in your blood—your integrity as the true receiver.

He’s supposed to be in his chambers by now, so why is he out here? You woe so pitifully in your head, knowing the Cardinal’s typical routine as you’ve continued your pursuit for distance. He’d usually take a quick break in his bedroom following Mass, so seeing him out in the halls was a bit of a change. Obviously he had as much of a right to be out and about as anyone else, but it seemed like some cruel trick of fate that he’d be here now. Seeing him as he conducts himself naturally, after not being near him for a time, was like a reward in some ways and a punishment in others. You tighten your grip on the box you were carrying as a means to ground yourself, tensing up in ways not discernible to the passive viewer.

“Hello—!” She continues a relentless effort of calling out to you and bumping your arm with hers in order to get your thoughts on the matter, determined not to stop her attack until you give in.

And so, shyly, you capitulate. “I think he’s doing a good job so far,” you praise him in the smallest way—in the smallest voice you could muster. You felt the words light you up, it had been a while since you thought of him fondly in any way. Somehow you ascribed a negative connotation to him, and in your resistance to his unknown power, made him out to be the monster from your dream. In some ways you related that dreadful, haunting experience to him, found reasons to deny him even as the kind man he is. Fearing him as the shadow in the corner, as the man who tempts you to ruin, as the successor of the church, yet he hasn’t done anything you did not want—did not ask for—did not desire. You know this, yet still you resist him as any small, shivering, frightened animal would in the stalking eye of a great beast.

Hearing your own words of praise was like a small revelation, not bearing any falsehoods yet not the entire truth. You did think he was doing a good job, in reality you thought so much more than that. Unlike the rest of the siblings, you were more acquainted with the less public parts of his life, and have seen how his room results in strewn about books following a night of restless studying; the evidence of his conviction to become a great leader of his congregation. Though you did not come to meet him in those days, seeing the commitment to better himself for the good of the church left a mark on your heart. Truly, you thought so much more of him than you could ever lead on—ever admit to. To admit those growing feelings of adoration and respect might lead to admitting other things as well.

You kept your head down as you neared, becoming aware of the warmth pooling in your stomach and spreading tenderly through your body. You thought that if you made yourself small, avoided his line of sight, that you might get out of this situation unscathed. Your veil had the added benefit of partially covering your face as it flapped and fluttered with the rhythm of your steps, and that gave you some relief as it might be what gets you to the end of the hall unseen. Without realizing, your heart’s pace increased. This wasn’t his fault though, it was your own self consciousness that made this whole situation much more troublesome than it needed to be. What stirred in your body was an odd mixture of attraction and anxiety that elicited an irritating prey-like response, made you incapable of facing him, and bothered you to no end. A response you entertain without any consideration of consequence, a sense that screams ‘get me out of here’ before your brain is given the opportunity to plan, and all of that has only served to heighten what was once already heightened—your reaction to perceived dangers. Here you are now, too scared to even look at him when before that’s all you would find yourself doing. 

Your hands felt numb as you approached, and despite the ground remaining still, you could’ve sworn it had begun to tremble under your feet as even your eyes failed to keep you steady. The box you were carrying was pressed tight into your chest and abdomen in a way to comfort you despite how the edges dug into the soft parts of your body. The comfort though—the attempt to resist those feelings—was not entirely there as you noticed the growing beat between your chest and the cardboard; you could just make out his voice. Your stomach fluttered in acknowledgment of his low tone, one you hadn’t heard since the night he came to wake you from your walking nightmare. His voice during service was much more commanding and took on a sort of power greater than himself, truly the makings of a grand successor, but you missed that low tone of his. Something that felt so sweet and hushed—a shared secret.

Their conversation became much more clear amongst the chatter of the buzzing siblings, Papa and the Cardinal’s; all stopping or at least slowing down once to gawk a little at ‘the new guy’ in one manner or another; some out of reverence, others out of curiosity, and maybe a few still out of quiet contempt. 

“The budget for the—“ the old man wheezed.

The Cardinal interrupted with a hum of, what sounded to be, consideration.

“… As I was saying… The budget for the—” 

Another hum cuts Nihil’s thought short; it really didn’t sound like the Cardinal was actually listening.

“Well,” he huffs, “there’s a funeral being held today, and you’re being considered to facilitate the service, how does that sound?” He sputters out, increasing the speed of his regular cadence in order to finish one sentence.

“Ehhh… good—yes, perfect!” The Cardinal’s voice suggested eager enthusiasm at the proposition, but it was clear to everyone within ear shot that he hadn’t exactly been paying attention.

This awkward trait of his was one that you found so endearing. He was truly a well learned and devout brother of the Satanic cloth, but those moments that remind you of the human that he is—as opposed to the demon you conflate him with—lull your tensed nerves into a somewhat subdued state of easement. In a moment of weakness, and curiosity regarding what had the Cardinal so preoccupied, you finally lift your head to look his way. His eyes were on you and caught yours as you passed. It was only a second or two, but you felt the warmth in your body bubble up as you traded gazes. It felt like you were looking at him for the first time in a long time and you relished the warmth he imparted in you; the warmth he gave you being different than the one you felt from before. Before it was the muted memory of that warmth—your own musing of it, but now it was the real thing. No longer crudely stamped out by the distance you enacted, but very easily igniting your senses as he had done in the past. Your face softened at that feeling, how easy it was to enjoy his presence—his gaze. The power he had to relax your tension in waves of hot heaving breath you let out so naturally felt so inviting; you almost made your way over as if a sheep called by its shepherd. Suddenly your arms were no longer clutching the cardboard box tightly, your legs were no longer shaking out of anxiety, and you didn’t want to hide anymore—all you wanted was him. 

You wanted to fight those nerves that barred you from seeking him out, wanted to forgo any self preservation instinct you had, and even break a few rules that might bind you in order to feel his warmth with greater freedom—to traverse his skin, and maybe let him indulge in yours. Your eyes betrayed this fact, they betrayed most of what you desired whether you were aware of it or not, your eyes addressed all this in ways you’d never understand; his revealed none, but yours revealed all. A light in his changed as he watched you, a glint or some sort of highlight, it added to that mystery he exudes. 

The contrast between white and green—how different they were—how different you reacted to them. The left had an overwhelming energy about it as it bored through you with its ring of pure white in unrelenting observation, an ominous look—something burning deep within. It set an anxiety in you if you stared too long, yet left you enthralled and curious to no end. The right however, had a softness to it, the warmness of a budding green spring day. The more naturalness of his green eye was almost therapeutic, a quiet psalm that steadies the nerves. It was all too easy, being caught in his influence, and you liked it there—liked how light you felt and how warm you were. You wouldn’t mind being swallowed up by that feeling, existing purely to experience it, but you couldn’t. 

In quick realization you snap back to yourself, no longer enjoying that orbit of his. Your eyes become less fond, returning to reality—your presently startled instincts. Your worry for what had just happened creased your brow before you quickly turned your head straight, as if to ignore what had occurred. It wasn’t lost on you how brusquely you brushed off his gaze just now, in fact you were concerned by how he might have taken it, but that river’s current was sweeping you away with frightful speeds you weren’t prepared for. The laminar flow of those treacherous waters nearly made off with you just now, and though it was positively sublime in each sensation and pleasurable thrill it gave you, there was always an excuse to not let it take you. And so as you ebb and flow, continuously whirled by his sweeping currents and your own indecisiveness, you continued your stroll down the hall; still confused, frustrated, and tired—yet feeling somewhat lighter in step. 

Before you were too far off you caught the end of the conversation.

“Then you’ll be expected at the funeral home by 3 P.M. so don’t be late.” Papa’s voice, rich in mirth, cut through the idle chatter and pattering footsteps.

“What?!” The Cardinal sounded shocked at the elder’s proclamation.

“What ‘what’? You just agreed to service a funeral!” Nihil’s tone was a bit annoyed at the Cardinal’s clear lack of awareness regarding their conversation. “Like I said, don’t be late,” his annoyance took on a more snarky manner, full of himself for having pulled one over on the other man.

A little guilt set in as the cause for the Cardinal’s wandering mind, but you also found the situation to be quite funny. 

How in character of him, you thought as you bit back a giggle; you were much lighter now.

With the information you gathered you know where to expect him, he’ll be servicing a funeral around 3 P.M., so you decide that’s when you’ll go to clean his room. You make a mental note of it, reasoning that you’ll get more time to clean as he’ll be out for much longer than usual. 

With his office taking up much of your time as of late, and your undeniably skittish new behavior, you haven’t been maintaining his quarters with the proper care it required. Knowing this, your remorse grew, it was your job to do this yet it wasn’t getting done, and you were really the only one to blame. Something about having put the chore off for so long made you that much more reluctant to do it; reluctant because of that distance too. It was a little embarrassing, doing all these three-sixties in mood or routine, but you’d be more embarrassed if you put it off for any longer than you already have—if your inattentiveness becomes known and you find yourself replaced with a more eager sister, what could that mean?

That thought stops you, now at the end of the corridor. You look back to him as his eyes move across a document in his hand, lips muttering to himself. What if a more eager, less restrained sister were to replace you? Would he welcome her gladly? Would he offer her his warmth? Would he plant dreams into her mind or visit her in the night, paralyze and please her sexually? And would she allow herself to fall victim to him in the way you wished you could? If she were to take the same oath as you—promising herself to Satan—she wouldn’t be permitted to do so, but if she were more inclined to indulge in his temptation, what would happen? A victim to his wills. Is that something he wanted, it was something you denied wanting, but how about him? 

And what?! You think to yourself. It’s not like he can’t have whoever he wants; we’re not together. The thought pricked at your heart despite being the undeniable truth, in fact because it was the truth it made that feeling more acute.

It’s not like we could even… you don’t complete the thought, what it might tell you about the desires you so desperately wish to hide from. 

Unexpectedly, he looks up from his paper—straight to you. The sister you were accompanying didn’t quite register your pause and continued on a few paces ahead, leaving you there to bask in his stare. His eyes pierced, they burned, not like the pulsing warmth from before, but something much more intoxicating. It had been some time since he afflicted you like this, you once again began to heave heavy breaths. Your chest rose and fell sharply, squeezed against the box, and fright settled into the pit of your stomach so swiftly. You’d always feel that way from his more deep gaze—the intolerable fear you loathed so much. The fear that led you to evade, escape, run—kept you from properly accomplishing your work to its fullest—from addressing him in regards to your conflicting feelings.

And there it was, that iconic shiver—a thrill that slithered up your side and stimulated a strange sensation that caused goosebumps to stipple your skin. The fine hairs on your neck erected themselves as though a warm breath tickled your nape. His presence was on you in an intangible way, but was this his doing? He was far yet in your ear with intent, whispering words unheard that meant to persuade you into temptation. In quick time he was out of sight, enveloped in the ever wandering crowd within the hall. Your breaths came easier, but your body remained piquing in suspense and odd tickling jolts of electric tingles that traced your obliques. When the crowd dispersed he had already made off somewhere, presumably his chambers, but you continued to look for him amongst the bobbing heads in the hall; he’s nowhere to be seen. He was gone, you were no longer influenced by his power, and yet you looked for him.

“Hey, what are you doing?!” The sister from before finally realized she lost you.

“I— uh…” you stutter, still reeling from what had just happened, still looking too.

“You’re so out of it today,” she sighs, shaking her head.

“Oh, uh…” your eyes still don’t meet hers, desperately searching. You weren’t aware of it, but you couldn’t help yourself. It was worrisome, his control over you, but something small inside you felt reassured that he still held that influence. It was something that made your distance seem like nothing—a sense that the two of you shared a thin connection.

“What are you looking at?” She pops her head around the corner to follow your unintended direction.

“Oh! It’s nothing. I thought I saw a bat or something flying around,” you lie, covering your tracks so as to not draw any attention to Copia—if he were to maybe come back. 

“Well then, let’s get back on our way to the archive, hm?” She was being a little funny with you, a tone that couldn’t conceal a mild, yet somewhat deserved, annoyance.

“Yes, I’m sorry,” you offer an apologetic smile, not really blaming her for the attitude she was growing.

You looked back once more, peering into the crowd as you took one slow step away into the other hall. You didn’t feel quite so tired anymore, having been completely startled awake by his strange ways. You now felt more alert, somewhat frightened, but otherwise unharmed; he had that effect on you, one that left you so confused yet perfectly content. It was a perplexing feeling to say the least, how was it even possible? Calmed yet so fearful for yourself—of yourself. How you might act or react because of him—his power. The thought caused you to shudder as you continued your march. 

Making your way to the library’s archive room, the image of his eyes still smoldered like hot coals in your mind. The lingering feeling of his stare, a gentle reminder of why you’re so concerned by him. That look alone was enough to cause a fever, the sound of his low voice was enough to coax you over, and the enveloping warmth was the subtle touch to guide you along to your folly.

The Cardinal’s touch, the thought would infrequently graze your mind, it had been a day or two since you really thought of it. After seeing him in the hall today—experiencing him—it clung to you now in a more persistent manner. You still rejected the idea that your rendezvous in the dark recesses of the night was more than a mere dream, it was safer to assume its farcical nature anyway, but you found a likening between his eyes from that delusion and now; intense in the way they burned and maybe even a little needful. Those eyes that analyze you, that find you in the crowded pews despite changing seats regularly, that don’t look away until you do; they seem so much like the ones from your dream. The warmth was similar too, albeit not as passionate, but largely the same with how it spread—how it made you squirm. You could only think of him, his eyes, his warmth, and voice as you filed those stacks of folders into their designated cabinets; more mocking temptation to test you in your menial tasks. 

After a longer than expected stint in the archive, you concluded your work there and set off for your next duty. It wasn’t long before you were pacing just outside the Cardinal’s door, chewing on your lip in apprehension, not really wanting to enter. It was a little past the time he was slated to arrive at the funeral home in town, so there was no cause to suspect he might be lingering, yet you were still reluctant to open that door. It’s not like you haven’t been in his room since you began busying yourself with cleaning his office, it’s just that after being afflicted by him you feel somewhat scared to enter his bed chamber—his domain. You look around, searching for an excuse to prolong the inevitable, but nothing caught your eye as needing to be cleaned; not a lot of foot traffic besides the Cardinal in this nook of the church. To your surprise, the peeling wallpaper appears to have been repaired without you knowing, and some of the paintings seemed to have lost their dust covered drapings since your last visit. They revealed themselves as untainted landscape paintings—much unlike that of the obscured, blackened canvases hanging on the wall still. Those besmirched paintings were so strange, chilling to you. You avoided them. They reminded you of the voices, and you didn’t want to draw them out. The gnashing whispers, overlapping otherworldly bellows of anguish, and skin crawling laughter; your blood froze with the mere thought of it. Ignoring those unfathomable portals to a deep nowhere, you prayed not to insight their ire or interest—whatever that might entail. 

You scanned over the freshly uncovered paintings, looking through little windows to the past. One was of the church in its youth, a distance away and quite small compared to today. The road leading to town was nowhere to be seen and neither was the rectory—only the old chapel stood. It was rather interesting to you, seeing the old wing on its own, the underdeveloped land, liminal and odd. You smiled at it, knowing its progress and success as a future observer relative to then. The other painting to have been revealed, a little bit above the one of the church, depicted the rear courtyard. Well, the path leading through the courtyard—past the garden and closer to the edge of the property. The stone wall that stood there now was missing in the painting, the property’s edge only being marked by the maw of the wood bordering the land. The foliage concealed the bulk of the forest and a thick shadow impeded your view within. It wasn’t quite as quaint as the rustic, old fashioned feel of the painting of the church. Not very intimidating, yet the peak into the forest’s dark wilds reminded you only of the shadow from your nightmare. Moving on to the last canvas, you grapple with an odd sense of stress from the previous. You shake the feeling free, looking now to a less recognizable sight.

“A cemetery?” You think aloud, covering your mouth in surprise of your own voice. There was no one to hear you, at least no one of this realm.

This painting, less masterful in its composition, was that of an old cemetery; old even by the standards of the painting. Swallowed by the night, the overall scene was a bit difficult to make out. Tombstones, what looked to be a crumbling mausoleum, and a…freshly exhumed grave? That’s what how it appeared to you anyway; it was hard to tell. Your brows pinch in investigation, approaching the canvas as if to crawl in and discover its secrets—what the night conceals. 

Before you get too close a whine, pop, and crash. With a bright flash of white the lightbulb in the fixture to the side of the Cardinal’s room door burst and scattered down a shower of crystalline glass shards that spilled over the mouth of the sconce. They jingled against the floor as they fell, splintering into even smaller pieces of glimmering specks. You jumped in response, already frightened as you’d been for days, now elevated by the unexpected meeting with the Cardinal, and thoroughly shaken by the bursting glass. Your heart palpates wildly in surprised shock of it all. You clutch a wall in order to support your mortified self from falling to the ground. 

Your mind raced with questions, each boiling up into the other before a fully formed thought could take hold. A squeezed gasp, the only thing to escape your throat hissed into the hall. The sound of which caused you to unconsciously clench your diaphragm and stop your breath altogether.

Frantically, you cast your eyes all around, looking for what could have caused this. The corners were lit by the sun’s midday rays pouring in through the window; nothing hiding there. The bowels of the church’s maze-like corridors betrayed no echo of inhabitants; no murmurings to be heard; the only thing out of place here was you. 

Once it was clear that the bulb shattered on its own, without any kind of known intervention, you regained your breath. With caution, you approached the area. Just overhead the static in the light socket continued to buzz, its remnants of electric currents traveling across paths interrupted—nowhere to go. The floor glittered now in the light, cascading little rainbows about the walls. Your footsteps crunched down on tiny shards as you neared. Looking around the corner, the corridor leading to the Cardinal’s room was just as barren as it had been before. The light socket buzzed faintly until it couldn’t any longer, and with a static hiss it ceased its droning.

Grabbing the broom from the custodial cart, and reciting a little prayer for strength, you can’t help but find it odd. The light wasn’t even on, what the hell? Your question goes unanswered as you sweep the tiny flecks of glass.

When you finally entered his room it was empty, thankfully so; you couldn’t take anymore surprises today. Knocking on the door wasn’t very telling of this in your experience, but he really wasn’t in. You were able to relax somewhat knowing this, though not entirely free of the tension from just before. Cleaning his room was no big deal, and now you even have enough time to do so properly with him being away. When you snuck in covertly to clean between excuses to avoid him in previous days you only did so briefly, so the Cardinal’s room had gone a little under treated besides the attention he gave it himself. While he was maintaining his room fairly well he didn’t have quite the eye for spick and span as you. Oftentimes you’d find that he’d track sawdust in, working on something you weren’t privy to it seemed. Seeing those tiny grains of wood particles reminded you of the excitement he had when speaking about his unexpected hobby. His face lighting up, the somewhat sensual gesticulations of his hands, you’d recall all of it as often as you’d sweep up the fine powder. 

Today was no exception, on the contrary, it was particularly heavy; the light color peppering the ground and furniture. You’d think the same thing each time, How has he not noticed he’s tracking it in? The bed was free of any sawdust, and while it may seem like a good thing that it's clean, you can’t help but be concerned over what that means. He’s still not sleeping well, if at all. You pout a bit, remembering his tired eyes hidden beneath the black border surrounding them. How can anyone function when they seem so tired? You can sympathize somewhat, what followed that nightmare was mostly wakeful nights and paranoia, yet you still found some meager hours of sleep. The Cardinal though? He seemed to be in a much worse situation. 

You could only wager a guess as to how long he’s been in his current state, and what’s expected of him is much more demanding than what you could begin to fathom. Leading a congregation, performing duties like today, ensuring the success of the church? You know too how he works to dispel any concerns caused by the absence of the previous three Papas, how he has to fill those shoes and how that caused him unknowable amounts of anxiety. It all seemed so much more daunting than what you were meant to do, keeping your vow and cleaning some rooms, and he was doing it all while suffering from insomnia. 

You sigh a complicated sigh. Cleaning always helped you clear your head, but now you feel even more confused than when you started. You didn’t really know what to do next. You haven’t been fair to the Cardinal, running from him and relating him to that inhuman visitor in the night, but you still felt strange and a little uneasy about the whole situation. 

As you went to return his wastebasket back to its place by his desk, you noticed something—a crumpled up piece of paper. You pick it up, thinking it must’ve fallen out as you were discarding the trash, you mean to reunite it with the rest of the wastebasket’s contents. As you turned to throw it away in the large bin at the end of the cart, something else caught your attention. A small bit of cardstock folded into a tent on his nightstand. A note?

You pluck it up from its place on the side table, examining the writing on the front face of the card.

“Sister,” scrawled in a neat, simple, yet elegant script. Unfolding the note, you flatten the middle crease and begin to read.

I thank you for your hard work again today. Please make sure you rest well, no more nightly excursions.

Sincerely,

Copia

An odd bewilderment took hold of you, it seems he was referencing that rainy night. You feared that night in a different way than how you feared your nightmare—how it melded together so seamlessly with your dream and deepest desires. To have him acknowledge it was something else. It was an occurrence you still found yourself questioning, how much of it was real? You still weren’t sure of how he viewed it either, thinking that the two of you had made an unspoken agreement to never mention it. Such a night, one where you caused him so much trouble, but it seems he has a more lighthearted way of thinking about that meeting. To be found distraught and shaking, utterly shocked, and wrongfully fabricating false realities to be held in—to be touched in; it was a mortifying feeling. Yet he, who impeded your unconscious wanderings and braved the cold torrential rain alone for your sake, was being so gracious; it honestly made you feel better ever so slightly. If he didn’t view that as burdensome then perhaps it wasn’t something worth neglecting as you’d been doing.

Closing your eyes and tensing the muscles in your face, you mull the idea over, desperate for some sense to be made. 

Was it real or… delusion? You hadn’t entertained that question since the day you and the Cardinal were called into Sister Imperator’s office—cleared of all counts of wrongdoing by your assessment at least.

Without a clear answer you slacken, no longer constricting yourself in thought. Your mind is still clouded from the wakeful nights, even at your best you’d be confounded, but with your faculties out of sorts it’s even more of a fruitless endeavor. 

Well at least one thing’s for sure, he’s still thinking of me, your mind delicately drifts to him. A smile sneaks across your face as you read the message again, now with a better humor about it. You’d been so worried about burdening him, but this note lightened that feeling. He seemed so casual about it that he mentioned it in jest, but not so casual as to not address it in a note. 

You wondered if this was his way to contact you and make peace where no peace needed to be sought. You weren’t trying to make a war out of a wall, yet he must’ve seen it that way.

You read his signature again, Copia, before stuffing the note into your pocket—forgetting the wadded up paper with it. You give the room a good look over, ensuring that everything was clean and all the supplies were returned to the cart. Once satisfied, you took your leave.

Chapter Text

Night. It was night again. A long drawn out dark that left you restless. Your eyes were closed, your body still, and your heart remained easy. Surely you were sleeping. Only, your mind was awake and you, somewhat conscious, could make out the low hum of a static buzz. You’ve come to know this sound well, the harbinger of your dreamscape, it would announce the beginning of your futile battle against that which you could not control. Ever since you had that nightmare you’d find yourself like this. Between bouts of insomnia, when you were able to lull yourself into a transient slumber, you’d often come to an inescapable motionlessness. Not so unconscious as to call it sleep but not entirely present to be considered awake either; your own limbo. You’d find that some nights were more lucid than others, and others more indescribably empty than you’d ever experienced before. 

Your limbs remained heavy in their resting position and your jaw clenched in anticipation at the sound growing with intensity—what it entails. The grinding of your teeth, the only thing to be heard through the noise that came from within and filled the still air of the night, had made you more alert to your current condition. A new habit you formed after the nightmare that so fully endowed you with the most cumbersome fear, it starts as a squeak—as if thumbing a smudge off of a pane of glass—but soon becomes much more intense. The scraping sound of your teeth began to liken itself to the sound of two stones being rubbed together roughly. Even as you are now, barely aware and still holding onto your miniscule sliver of sleep, you were annoyed by the noise coming from your own mouth but couldn’t find a way to stop it. You could feel the muscles in your face, how tense they had been, and how they ached in such a way that made you wonder how long they’d been like that. You attempt to relax, releasing a warm breath through lips that had become dry in the cool air of your room, but couldn’t find the ease you hoped for. One thought, more of a muscle memory, suggested you lick them in order to soothe the dryness, but your lack of mobility made this act nearly impossible.

Though you’ve experienced this paralysis before, the confusion is as present as it had been on that first night. The noise made it so, the ringing, buzzing that persisted until the nightmare yielded to more insomnia—made any rationalization of your current situation seem so far. 

You groaned at it in some meager act of defiance yet it still remained ever surging, ad nauseum, through your wilted mind. Your wrists were pinned, by something stronger than you, restrained just so at either side of your head. Wrestling against this unknown force wasn’t any good, yet your still somewhat unconscious self couldn’t understand why this is—couldn’t fathom how prone you were to whatever comes next—only operating at a baser instinct to fight a perceived threat. An odd tingling numbness began a low pulsing thrum from the pit of your stomach. It was a lick of anxiety bustling about in soft whispers of white noise that fluttered and waned; agitating yet somewhat thrilling. 

Against your own will, your legs that were curled close to your body in fetal position had begun to slowly work their way down until the heels of your feet were digging into the surface of the mattress; your ankles also pinned by that unknown force. You were now flat on your back at the behest of something unseen, and almost shaking at the prospect of being faced with another intruder. You kept your eyes squeezed tight.

What would it be this time; melting walls, a shadow figure, a hissing putrid entity that reeked of decay and whispering ash? Apprehension filled you as you fought painfully, dully against yourself. Or perhaps would it be…

Copia. the one thought you could actually manage, could actually comprehend. Another sigh, a shaking one, vibrated from your throat. The warmth of your breath heated the air around your face, a much hotter sigh than before.

Would it be him? Needless to say, it would be a nice reprieve from your nightmares and waking dreams. You felt guilty though, wanting him to soothe you, you’d been aloof and distant after all, but longed to have him come to you once more—to satisfy your growing need. Wake you with his glowing eye, melt your anxieties to beads of sweat that kept you warm, relax you with the gentleness of his voice. How you’d delight at another such sensual delusion. 

The idea provoked that which had been stirring within you to produce a subtle warmness to trickle out, ever so slightly, into your underwear. Even just the mere thought of him in that capacity was enough to have your body react.

Your teeth grind again, pulling you from your desires, waking but not waking. A presence, your eyes remained glued shut and your brows knit in frustration, but you could still make out a presence imposing itself upon you from the shadows. That same feeling you get in your gut when you know someone is standing just out of view but still very close by. It was across from you, in the room, concealed but not hiding. You fight once again to recollect control of your arms, but the weight against them is unwavering. The sound in your head was piercing, all consuming, nagging, dissuading you from continuing your struggle. It whirred so wildly in thought disruption, making you hold onto your last breath. 

The air in the room became heavy, you could sense that presence approach. No footsteps accompanied the nearing entity, a gliding force that meant to invade. You were somewhat thankful for that, that it wasn’t the same dull scraping sound that had accompanied your terrorizer. No dry wood creaking under shambling foot to add to the clamorous, skin crawling orchestra of noise that still haunts you—still wakes you from what little sleep you get—despite the time that has passed. You held your breath still until the presence was, assumedly, at the foot of the bed. Slowly, your blanket crept its way down your body, a sick tickle from the edge of the fabric bid your skin farewell before it had been yanked swiftly away. Your breath released in a shallow exhale that replaced itself as soon as it had been expelled. You couldn’t gasp, though you really wanted to, eyes also remaining shut to save you from this nightmare. Something within you told you whatever it was is best left unknown. 

Your body trembled against the cold as well as in recognition of that tingling, growing with each advancement of this intruder. Your limbs, where they were being held, had fallen asleep—numb and burdened by their captor. The sensation that started at your core was growing, spreading; faintly at first, but soon electrifying your skin. A strange feeling to say the least, yet your body piqued with some minute delights; a vibration of intangible pleasure that soon enveloped your whole being. You can feel yourself writhe just softly at the breathing waves of static energy humming through your body, tracing up and down your sides, rivaling the noise drilling into your head. A small sound, one that could only come as a result of your enjoyment, makes its way out in the form of a choked moan. Such negligible, faint tremors that traveled through your nerves halted when a weight formed at the end of the bed.

Not just an ill defined sense of pressure, it truly was as if a human weight had placed itself on the bed. A depression, or some kind of decline in the mattress, it felt so real, but no creak could be heard in the springs. The desire to open your eyes, it grew as another depression formed. You were convinced that two knees joined you on the bed before a set of hands came to crawl, all fours, up your way. As the presence neared, the anticipation made you swallow hard with a shiver. Right on top of you, yet no warmth could supply itself as proof, you just had to guess based on the weight sinking in around you. That feeling started up again, the pleasurable sensation that coursed over your skin and in your weak joints, you couldn’t stop the exhilarated sigh that came out of your mouth ending in a higher than expected whine. 

With one more hard swallow, you spoke your first word of the night. “Co… pia…” repeating the same sentiment from your brief consciousness just earlier. 

You could feel your pulse burst, thinking that the Cardinal was hovering over you—staring. Whether by dream or nightmare, you wanted it to be him, wanted that eye to look into your soul as it had done before—to bewitch you. You wanted so ardently to give into him. You wanted to see, wanted so badly to confirm, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look. If it was him then you wouldn’t know how to react, would it be better if it was him? Could you allow him to take the blame again? Were you in any position in the church not to let him take the blame?

“Sister,” his voice felt close, but his breath did not come to fall on you. “Sister,” he cooed, “open your eyes.” 

His voice filled your heart with a density. You wanted to obey him, but felt a sense of foreboding in doing so. What if it wasn’t him—if it were instead that malformed, anomalous entity masquerading as him? Coming to leave its stench on you again—leave you colder, more afraid, and chronically disturbed. It sounds like the Cardinal, but that frightful monster is as known to you as the dark side of the moon is to the earth, what could it be capable of? You try your best not to entertain the thought, not wanting to dwell on the unpleasantness of that moment. If you keep your eyes closed you wouldn’t have to see that thing, wouldn’t have to contend with that fear, you could stay in a warm, riveting dream with the Cardinal’s honeyed voice.

“Sister?” His question had a comforting tone. His voice, sultry and rich with a delicateness that sat somewhere between a hush and a whisper, caused goosebumps to rise. “Or would you prefer ‘Sorella?’”

You quivered at that word, ‘sorella,’ it had been a long time since you last heard him say it. Whether he was aware of it or not, you really enjoyed how his voice curls around the word in such a soft, subtle way that felt so intimate. It has a much different meaning to you than how he normally calls you or any other nun in the church, carries a different connotation. His words, voice, everything had you shaking on a near daily basis, becoming more frequent as of late.

“Sorella, open your eyes,” his whisper, so sweet.

“Copia…” Tasting his name more fully this time, allowing that thrill to run from your tongue. It was so nice to say it again after referring to him as ‘Cardinal’ in your poor attempt to evade his temptations. The sleeping you has far less inhibitions to worry herself over, and she very much liked the way it felt to say it again. The rushing thrill, the sweetest sinful enchanting of the tip of your tongue; it practically left your mouth watering.

“Sorella, won’t you open your eyes for me?” He questioned, just at your ear, sounding a little expectant.

You puffed out another warm breath, very much enjoying how close he was. Not meeting his request, however. “No,” you shudder your response, breathy and quaking. You couldn’t find the courage to do as he says, fearing what you might, or might not, see. 

“Hm…” A hum of thought resounds from him, vibrating and pulling away from you a bit. It sounded like he was accepting a challenge, as though you were playing hard to get. A hint of a smirk can be heard from his voice, you could very clearly picture his face with that devilish look; a raised brow and half smile with a glint in his eyes.

His hand caressed your cheek, imparting its own static into you, and causing your warmth to surface at his heatless touch. His hand trailed down your face in soft, gentle strokes and came to trace your lips. The tip of his finger glided over your bottom lip with featherlight contact that does little to subdue the electricity cascading through your body. You could feel him close in—leaving sweet, sensual kisses from the side of your face to your neck. The feeling of his lips was fleeting, even as they met yours, like they couldn’t be on you for long—evaporating into nothing. You felt so greedy for his touch, aggravated that you couldn’t return it too, and still so needful of him in other ways. Your lips fell open, parting as a passive invitation for more, but he did not answer you this way. 

“Then should I make you?” His chuckle against you a tingle like none before. You sucked in a breath at the stimulation, wholly excited by his proposition only adding to the growing slickness between your legs.

Your skin grew in warmth and buzzed wildly, feeling as though a swarm of bees were beating their wings just below the surface. His hand descended from your jawline, stroking over your collarbone, between your breasts, finally coming to rest on your stomach. The snaking trail his hand traveled down tingled with the still rising heat of your body. So brief, so expertly avoiding certain spots that made you twitch. You whimper out some approximation of dissatisfaction. He replies with his low chuckle, acknowledging your frustrations with his own pleased tone.

“Where would you like me to touch you?” A question you can’t answer, and he seems to know this; asking, but really teasing. His other hand finds its way to you, now running both up the length of your torso and down again. His hands were on you, moving, finding friction against your body, but somehow not disturbing the fabric of your nightgown as they did. They were touching you, you could feel them—unclear and fleeting as they may be. The feeling was very much like his hands were on your skin, as if the nightgown weren’t there at all. “Did you want it here?” His hands move up, stroking at your nipples peeking through the fabric. It was a surprise, feeling that static of his there, your back spasmed  in response to the stimulus. With a weak moan, you voice your arousal.

Not lingering, he diverted his hands to run his palms over your breasts before kneading them with a bit more force, a provoking massage—grip firm but not painful; much more soothing than sensual. You sighed out the desire he built within you, eager for his continuation. He brought his face down between your breasts, pressing down on your nipples again soon after as he kissed at your sternum. The prickle of his mustache was faint, but still there, against the skin that should be covered. You really wished you could indulge in that feeling, tell him that you want more than just his lips on you, but your body only allowed the slightest of trembling shudders to pass through your lips. Your breathing became more quick as his hands messaged and played at your chest. His thumbs rolled over your nipples before pinching them between a tingling grip with his index fingers. Your jaw clenched and you could feel your knees twitch in response.

“Did you like that, Sorella?” His whispering lips tickled you, and with a firmer pinch your body reacted again, answering only in the way you’re able to. “Do you like how I give pleasure?” He continues, interrogating you with his touch. His finger tips never leave your body as his hands retreat downward.

Your head rolls to the side, movements limited and completely sluggish. Soon he’s at your waist, then between your thighs—rubbing there before bidding them to part. His palms flat on either side, he coaxes them to widen in a way that exposes your lower half. The skirt of your gown hiked itself up and your damp, heated panties cling snugly to your trembling flesh. To be made to spread like this, you feel completely exposed and at his mercy. The thought of being victim to him made your wetness grow. If he were looking intently at your black panties, perhaps he could see this or how they did little to conceal the outline of your sex. The excitement at the thought of him knowing your arousal, you couldn’t help the impatient sensation that began swirling in your pelvis. Starting from your bud then spreading to your cunt, you were longing—aching—for him. You were practically gasping as he waited and, presumably, watched with his white iris beating down at you. You were only getting wetter as he took his time, seeing your not fully conscious body squirm as your thirst for him grew. 

“… Please,” your words weren't your own, they came too freely—too easily—begging and shaking. How you wished you could plead for his touch and receive it at will under a more normal circumstance, but there’s always something preventing that. Now, in this moment, only are you able to express your desires so readily. Now only when you’re not completely awake are you able to receive him. Only when you’ll lose the finer details come morning are you able to express that newfound lust that ensnares your better senses. Only when his touch is subdued comparatively are you able to fully appreciate the way his fingers feel on your body without hesitation or some fear of reprisal. 

Your thighs shook with tension in the position his hands parted them in. You longed for the heat you knew should accompany them, but still enjoyed the feeling of him spreading you—revealing your most vulnerable state. How excited you were knowing that he was seeing you like this, how that something within him that entranced and afflicted you—made you weak with temptation—was acting on those desires he cultivated. 

You were completely immobilized and very ready to be devoured; most thankful prey.

His palm covered you where you felt the most heat, and applied pressure to your sensitive bud before rubbing up and down. The heel of his hand, employing the most intensity, would intermittently be replaced by the length of his fingers gliding up to meet your eager clit with the pads of his fingertips, and stroking there with gentle sweeps. He’d stir you up before dipping down again to reapply that pressure and coat his fingers in your dew. Much like your nightgown, your underwear remained undisturbed as his fingers became wet with your desires. Your body winced in response to the stimulation, having been made to wait for it, you felt his static envelope you there more acutely. 

He purrs out a satisfied tone at your reactions, the way your shaking hinges on what he does to you. He comes back up, laying his weight over your chest, pressing his lips to yours as he rubs you with pleasant pressure. The heaviness of him over you is a little overbearing, yet you felt reassured to have him there. He was heavy and your breath struggled a bit underneath him, but not in a way that made the act uncomfortable, just somewhat difficult. You can only sigh against his lips as the pleasure tingles with each pass of his hand. With no control of yourself, you begin to rock your hips against his palm. His friction was so tantalizing, you wanted to feel it even more—how it lit up your nerves with small, dampened sensations. If you had been more alert, you probably would’ve felt some shame from how insistently your body reacts to him, but the electrification of his touch leaves no time to quarrel with such thoughts. And when he presses one finger in, when that small stretch surprises your titillated senses, a surge of sweet waves rippled through you. Your chest expanded violently against his weight, shallow and ragged huffing breaths that couldn’t manage to fill your lungs, erupted into the air. 

“You’re so wet, Sorella, my finger—it practically slid right in,” he hummed his approval against your lips, and punctuated this statement by inserting his other finger more abruptly. When you moaned more at the feeling, he took great pleasure in drinking that in from your still open, panting mouth. “Ahh, cara,” he sighs, “so precious when you sing for me.”

‘Cara,’ that was a new one, one you hadn’t heard from him before. It was mesmerizing how it sounded, chased with his excitement. Hearing him call you by something other than ‘sister,’ it lit you up inside. The temperature of your core heightened and radiated over your body. His fingers began to stroke you, slow at first but soon gained speed. He pressed them into the roof of your quivering walls with steadily increasing rhythm. His other hand grazed over the soft flesh of your inner thigh, still stoking that buzzing in your body with his attentions. Down the length to your knee, then up again to where your thigh found its seat; long sensual strokes. The vibration reverberated from within you now, where his fingers touched and curled in, coursed with much greater strength through your body. Your insides churned and clenched, clinging onto each sweet sensation he was laying into you. 

Soon enough, his hands felt as if they were all over you; in your hair, fondling your breasts, running over your shuddering flanks despite how he was already stroking you inside. A barrage of caresses coming from thin air to aid each sweeping, rippling flitter of glittering jolts that spread through you in electric waves. Your body was consumed in his presence, meekly trembling for him as you made attempts to cry and beg for more. Your hot, hollow breaths mingled and merged with your muted pleas into soft, hoarse whines. His fingers receded and were replaced by something else, something bigger. You could only choke out a squeezed groan at the intrusive feeling as it prodded at your entrance, coyly pressing against you without the force to penetrate. 

You wanted it so bad, feeling the ache grow much more apparent as your wet cunt convulsed for him. With some strength of your own, you raise your hips to encourage the act more. ‘Please fuck me,’ that’s what this position said. A soft, humored chuckle responds to this gesture, and you swallow the eagerness with an audible gulp. 

“What’s this, cara, do you want me to please you more?” Lips to ear, he questioned so softly. 

A throaty, needy whimper is your only response.

“Will you be good and accept it all?” He pushes closer and inflames you with a taunting rock of his hips.

Your teeth grind with his movement, unable to verbalize a real response, how much you agonized for it.

“Ah ah ah. None of that.” He grips your jaw, opening your mouth to keep your teeth from producing anymore of that terrible sound. “Then just like this,” he lingers on the S in ‘this’ before placing a kiss to the corner of your lips. “I’ll do as you like.”

With that, he applies force into his hips. Something thick passes your entrance, and delves into your quivering insides, your legs squirming in place. Mouth gaping, nothing coming out, as it advanced slowly without stopping. Slowly, slowly. Your body was on fire with the new feeling, of what you can only imagine to be his erection, stretching you wide open. Just like before, no heat came from him—it was so strange—but enthralling all the same. Only when he fully buried himself inside did your pleasure escape your throat, drawn out and stammering. 

Your head rolled again. When he stilled himself you could feel just how invasive his girth truly was, how you felt like you were squeezing him despite remaining as relaxed as possible. Your body stuttered against its heavy slumber at the pressure coming from inside. 

It’s really—

Before your thought can be finished, he rocks his hips into yours. A dry gasp does little to suck in air so much as it does to announce your surprise at the motion. Soon another came, another, and another. His thrusts brought with them the tiny sparks of that electric static that tickled your senses, now you could feel that sensation filling and rubbing you deep inside, and your breath hitched with every swing of his hips. His rhythmic thrusts churned your walls and made you pulse hard against his cock. Desperately—you try to refrain from tightening, but when he thrusts in ‘til the hilt and presses himself into the deepest part of you with grinding force, your muscles naturally jump to contract and stroke him.

“Is that how you like it, you want it deep?” His voice sounded ineffectual as if he wasn’t driving himself in and out of you with vigor. He only whispered his words when you liked to hear them. “You take me so well, cara, are you feeling good on my cock?” His question seemed rhetorical, you wouldn’t react this way if he wasn’t lighting your body ablaze.

You wanted to hear his hunger, his sounds of pleasure, but they weren’t there to harmonize with yours. You alone puffed and breathed under struggle of sleep and against prior convictions, unable to entangle your body with his as he seeks out your orgasm. You’d quiver around his grinding heat, dragging against where your need pulsed, clinging onto him until he retracts just to snap back into you with a roll of his hips. Your entire body was on fire for him and quivered undeniable shakes full of ecstasy and fantasy. You bobbed in tandem with his rhythm, completely ready to burst, to come completely undone around his thick, thrilling passion.

“Sorella, look at me…” His voice was darker than before, sideburns bristling against your burning cheek. You brush closer to the side of his face to feel him as you gasped at your fast approaching crescendo. “Open your eyes…” his whisper, a distant hiss. “Open…” 

“Wait… I—“ not quite hearing his words, you focus on that still rising pleasure.

You can feel it, you were just at the precipice of orgasm, convulsing a little harder than before and heart beating wildly in your ear—drowning out the screaming static sound. Heaving breaths and shuddering moans parched your throat as your fingers clawed at the bed sheet and legs spasmed. Your body was coming back to you as the heat persisted. And with one more push from him, you finally submit to his request, eyes wide in the dark searching for what was just there. The shaking was gone, the presence was gone, you were alone, and slick with sweat among other things. You shot up against the cold air of your room, you the only thing that was warm, he was gone—Copia was gone—and he took that pleasure with him. The static pulse lingered for just a second longer than the first waking breath you took but soon dimly, lightly faded into receding memory.

Astonished, confused, wholly shocked, and frustratingly unsatisfied, you sit curled against the wall at the head of your bed. The feeling, the pleasure, his voice, as you sought them out in your foggy mind they became more and more elusive. Something happened, something pleasurable, something you weren’t expecting but accepted and enjoyed.

As the pale blue morning eroded the shadows of your room, and dream faded into ambiguity, you could only think of him—how he came to you as you wished in a most ethereal way. You might be surprised or maybe even a little incredulous, but you knew what he did—or what you dreamed him to do—wasn’t meant to frighten you. The enthralling ripples of glittering, intoxicating, fleeting ecstasies coated you warmly as you longed to have them do again. His voice soothed as it does. You didn’t regret what you could recall, only wished it could’ve lasted longer; already, you miss him.

Your tongue rolls over your dried lips.

You sigh a cold sigh as the chill works to erase the memory left on your skin. Across the room, on the table near the window, your collection of his notes bade you ‘good morning’ as the blue continued to eat away at the places Copia might be hiding. You looked at them for a time before getting up to prepare for the day. 

***

‘C. O. P. I. A.’ You studied his name on one of the note cards he left for you. Two swooping curls at the top of the capital C, followed by a small detached O with its own curl, a P with a rather extended tail end, connected to an I whose stem was particularly short and swept out at the bottom to point at a detached A; C and A were the only two letters completely detached. You’ve collected a number of these notes from him over the past few days as you cleaned his room. He was always absent when you would come by, around midday, to perform your duty. You suspected that he was giving you the space you needed, but he was there in his notes. Nothing he wrote to you was incredibly significant, but you couldn’t bring yourself to throw them away; they had his name on them. You traced over each swirl and swoop with your finger, allowing the signature to take on its own meaning in your head. His name—it had become special to you the very first time you spoke it aloud, a sacred incantation of sorts. When you first erected this wall, you were numb without it, but after receiving, reading, and re-reading these notes you felt so much more from it. How profoundly dull life had been without it, how glum you were in your pursuit for distance. 

Each morning, just before the first bell’s chime as the pale sky began to surrender to an orange hue, you’d find yourself reading one or two of his notes. It made you feel close despite the distance, made the unbearable somewhat bearable, but this morning it was different. It felt like you spent the night with him, and now treated the letters as his substitute, making up for his absence. Following a hot, steamy night one would hope to wake up beside their partner and lull in languid bliss together, but you alone woke up with a still burning desire and an otherwise empty bed—kissed by solitude.

The note in your hand, the most recent addition to your small collection, read:

Sister

I hope I’m not causing you too much work, it seems like forever since we’ve talked.I’ve been busy myself and could use a break but can’t seem to take one.

Sincerely, 

Copia.

The sentiment of this note was much more personal than the previous mentions of how nice the weather is or the regular gratitudes, it sounded like he was wanting to see you. Your heart ached and soared at the notion, so happy to remain in his thoughts, yet still being the cause of the bitterness there. As for him not being able to take a break, you know this to mean from the stress of it all, what the position asks of him. In days passed you’d find his room to be littered with his books and documents for work, none of which you’d ever seen while working for the former Papas. Maybe they were better primed for the taxing workload bestowed upon them, maybe their lascivious natures were the result of venting those frustrations out, you didn’t really know. What was obvious to you though was how his work is getting in the way of his rest, whatever small rest that might be, and you fear it might end up consuming him. The man was tired to begin with, suffering with his own sleeping problems, but now much more is expected of him as time goes on. You reckon that he’ll be facilitating confessions soon; Papa Nihil can’t keep conducting them forever. His position as the successor is becoming much more apparent and his abilities are only becoming more commendable. Your chats with the siblings you’ve been helping have revealed this to be so, how impactful his guidance has been on the congregation. Concealing your envy of these anecdotes surrounding the Cardinal was difficult, but you were able to stifle that petty feeling in recognition of his progress. But that progress came at a cost, this note was his admission of that. 

After the first few messages you began replying with notes of your own, mostly praising him on his sermons or updating him on the progress of his office. You weren’t expected to or compelled by any rule to reply, but you wanted to, it just felt right to do so. The notes just felt so him, the him without that wicked gaze, and you had a hard time leaving them alone. And while you were mesmerized by that wickedness of his that makes your chest squeeze with anxious anticipation, makes you wonder and worry over what he might have you do. It was that wickedness that made you keep this distance while the good, well mannered Cardinal was left to wonder why; in his correspondence to you he was that good, well mannered man, the man with the power to soothe. Maybe it was that side of the Cardinal you should be more wary of—the bait to your demise—the most wicked in genuine sincerity. 

Coming up with a reasonable response to the latest note was a little more difficult, it wasn’t just niceties you were composing, you had to respond to him with more thought. 

Cardinal,

Please don’t worry about me, you have much more important things to deal with, and don’t overwork yourself. Whether you have insomnia or not, you should get as much rest as you can.

Sincerely, you crossed out ‘sincerely’

Respectfully,

A worried Sister

Your response didn’t quite convey your concern, in your opinion at least, and you weren’t sure if it was okay to bring up his insomnia; that whole night seemed off limits. A short note couldn’t encapsulate the shock you felt from seeing his tired eyes underneath that makeup, or how your fear influenced you in such a way that made you even more fearful. You couldn’t begin to put into words how intimidating your own imagination had become, or how he waded just at the border of that intimidation in the black parts of your mind—with a small burning candle—beckoning you to follow despite your efforts to purge his presence there. You anguished over how starved your reply was for the meanings you wished you could have given it, now only after the fact, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say more.

You held his note close and choked out a small sound at the feeling plaguing your chest. Wanting him, craving him, your reluctance to fold to your desires, the vow you made. Your heart whirled around in a storm of conflicting emotions. You didn’t know what to do, but you so desperately wished to speak with him; maybe he can help you make sense of it all. Suddenly the idea of him, being near him, wasn’t so daunting—in fact it was somewhat comforting. You were a bit dumbfounded by the revelation, the fear was all eased by morning, and all that had remained was the memory of his static and your warmth and how they merged, becoming confusingly yet comfortingly singular. Perhaps this calmness was due to your dreaming or maybe the notes you exchanged with him, was your barrier deteriorating from such minor contact?

“I don’t know,” you wallow a little before re-re-reading his note. You sigh at his handwriting, wishing your response could have conveyed half of what he did. “Maybe I should see him,” your little voice whispered to the empty room, a secret. “If not in writing then maybe in person.”

You glance sideways at the key on the table, the key to his office. You had no reason to hold onto it anymore besides your waning reluctance to see him; the office was completely clean by now. You couldn’t make any more excuses to keep it for much longer. Sister Imperator has been bothering you about the progress and you can’t continue to lie to her about it; she’s getting impatient. You look back to the card in your hand, biting your lip, you supposed it was time to give him the key… and an explanation. Truly it had been too long since the two of you exchanged anything beyond polite greetings and stares. After avoiding him for so long you felt like talking to him out of nowhere would be strange and a little awkward due to how you’d turn tail and run any chance you could.

Just as the trees burned beneath the awakening sun’s warm, bleeding line of growing light—the first bell began to toll. Shooting up from your seat at the small table, you grab the key. Scanning over the table top once before leaving. Your eyes inspect the arrangement; his notes stacked a little disorganized, a book you were in the middle of reading, and the crumpled up paper you inadvertently took while cleaning his room. You stared at the paper a little, not removing your eyes from it as you stowed the key in your pocket and secured your veil to your head. The contents of the paper remained unknown to you. Your taking it was an accident, but in spite of the passing days you couldn’t find the time to throw it away. The thought of reading it tempted you, wasn’t it wrong to read something not meant for you? This is something private, but he did throw it away. Surely it would be wise to read just enough only to make sure it wasn’t tossed on accident.

Shaking your stare loose, you turn and leave to join the sound of footsteps racing past your door. 

During Mass you found it difficult to focus, only really catching the last few words of any given sentence that had been spoken. You bounced your leg as you stared a little too intently at the man up at the podium, staring but not entirely seeing. You were more focused on the thought of breaking the ice again, as well as how you’ll feel about being so close after all this time.

Does absence make the heart grow fonder or grow in terror? You thought, a little sarcastically.

As anxiety guided the rhythm of your leg you played out little scenarios in your head as to how you’ll approach this issue; where to find him, what to do, what to say.

You still know his routine from your time spent evading him. should you go to him then, when he’s alone in his room following Mass? If you do then what would you say? How would he react after you’ve avoided him so blatantly? How much would you allow yourself to confess to? How would you cope with being alone in such close quarters after all this time? If absence does in fact make the heart grow fonder then would your heart have grown too fond, same with terror. On these issues you weren’t very confident. The conviction in you receded with each passing second but it never entirely disappeared. 

There are some things you want to say, need to say, but can’t quite figure the right way to word them. Your feelings, the way he has some kind of power over you, and possibly his thoughts on the matter; all things you wanted to discuss. How all this affects your oath to Satan is another one too. What about that dream, those feelings? There was also the intruder—if not the enchanting, pleasurable visits from your incubus—then maybe you could discuss that nightmare. This topic, one you were definitely more reluctant to broach, weighed heavy on your mind; if he didn’t already think you crazy before then he definitely would if you mention your hallucinations. Anyone would think you were strange by how you’ve been acting recently, but to actually admit to nighttime possessions? You roll your eyes at the mere thought.

You don’t have any real hope to express all this to him or even to have him understand you. To you it would be enough just to get some things off your chest. You might even end up feeling a little more normal, a little more sane, once you reveal these confounding details to him. 

I really wish he was the one holding confessions, you sigh out all the turbulent thoughts. It would probably be easier to say all this to him there. Perhaps in the dimly lit booth, with the partition aiding you in separation and obscurity, you’d be more willing to admit to all this. Easier than putting all these emotions into words on paper with how frantic they become when you attempt to make sense of them, and easier than finding a skeptical brow raised in disbelief that he might offer in person.

As this and that rushed your mind and busied your thoughts, you didn’t realize that the Cardinal had commanded the room to follow him in prayer, you were the only one whose head remained up. You searched around, a little shocked that you missed the cue, eventually looking to him. To your surprise his eyes returned your gaze, he already spotted you in the sea of heads—staring; that white eye that you’d been longing and dreading to see. His expression was firm but not reprimanding, you gaped at him a little as it pierced you. Suddenly that density filled your chest again, the affliction you so desperately craved. A slight twinge and a shortness of breath; painful—but in a good way. Out of sight from the others in the room, you two shared a moment of silent breaths and smoldering stares. You smiled a little at that feeling, only briefly, at how it still pursues you. He blinks first at this and the feeling subsides. Clearing his throat, he commenced the prayer. As his voice picks up to cover the room, only then do you bow your head and press your lips to the beads of your grucifix rosary. It felt like you were listening to him for the first time in who knows how long. Some of the anxiety dissipates and you remember your determination, you won’t let your meek side get the better of you this time.