Chapter Text
Thomas is fairly certain this will work. According to Naughty Nancy’s article it has a 95% success rate, although he’s loath to trust the statistical analysis of a woman whose author photo features her fellating a lollipop. Nevertheless, the general plan is sound – he is all but naked, he is free for the next hour, and he is waiting for his beloved in the sitting room of what is unofficially their apartment. Thomas has his own apartment a floor below, has resided there for the past year – the line they use is that in the early days of his papacy Vincent, fresh from a tiny diocese, needed the 24/7 presence of an old hand – but in truth his bed there goes cold most nights. Occasionally there are times where they must hide evidence of a shared life, move Thomas’s books and reading glasses from the bedside table, but what can you expect from marriage to the Pope?
Certainly not this, Thomas thinks wryly, fussing over his apron strings. Had you told him in the earliest days of his marriage, the days when it was still a fever dream, that he would one day be waiting for Vincent wearing nothing but a short apron…well, the Thomas of those days would have turned so red his head may have exploded. Thank heavens that time, and the pleasures of making love, have softened his edges a little, allowed him to go ahead with this.
Vincent has been working so hard, after all. His papacy has always been defined by energy, by the sheer force of will with which he throws himself into things (foolish is the man who tries to tell Vincent to slow down) but this past month has been frantic. There are ten cardinals to be appointed, a new shelter for women to open before the year ends, slews of critical articles from Tedesco supporters in which Vincent is referred to as – amongst other things – the “patron saint of jihadis” just because he put in an appearance at a mosque to celebrate Ramadan. Most nights he barely has the energy to kiss Thomas before passing out, mouth a tense line even in sleep. Thomas can run himself into the ground all he likes – he’s proud to do it, he’s honoured – with a thousand small tasks, typing up homilies and making phone calls and explaining to various members of the Church that no, Vincent is not converting to Islam and yes, diversity is a good thing, really, a little bit of multiculturalism doesn’t mean they’re all going to turn pagan overnight, but any member of the team can do that. Only he has the ability, the right, the blessing, to soothe Vincent in other ways.
Vincent has gently asked him not to refer to their intimate acts as his wifely duties and Thomas has kept to this; he knows it brings up too many painful memories from Vincent’s past, abused women lining the beds of his shelters, the sanctity of marriage broken. But privately he still thinks of what they do – whether it is his mouth on Vincent or lying flat on his back – as, well, his service. He loves God and he serves Him in prayer, in spreading His word; he loves Vincent (he very pointedly does not think on who he loves more; his marriage skates perilously close to sacrilege as it is) and he serves him with kisses and guidance and, yes, sometimes more. It is holy work like everything else, it is worship. When he gets on his knees he knows just what to do – he is at an altar.
Thomas had marked off this afternoon on the calendar two weeks ago ago and has defended it fiercely ever since; on paper it is time for Vincent to unwind, to reflect, all good and necessary things, but in truth? It is for Thomas to comfort Vincent in one of the oldest ways known to man, with the warmth of another body, with kisses and firm touches.
Originally he had planned for them to make love in their usual fashion, but then a certain type of magazine in the oncologist’s waiting room had caught his eye – he strongly suspects some pervert left it behind; the idea that people read such things in public is abhorrent – and things had snowballed from there. There was a whole page of things he cannot imagine ever doing (after he dared to look up the definition of spitroasting he stuck his head in the sink and turn the cold tap on) but there were a few that had, well, been tempting. Perhaps even ingenious. Once upon a time Thomas would have been horrified at the idea of reading a sex column – indeed, horrified that such a thing could exist – but his situation has changed. He is a wife, he has a very busy husband, and their acts together are…not stale, he would never even consider that, but certainly routine.
Not that Thomas would dare to complain! Every time he goes to bed with Vincent he is blessed, adored and pleasured and safe in the arms of his beloved. But for all the rules he may break in his papacy – rules he breaks so politely and calmly that people don’t even notice until female theologians start showing up at Mass – Vincent is very ordered when it comes to making love. He likes to do it in a bed, he likes to be holding Thomas’s hand whilst it happens, and he cannot stomach the thought of demeaning his wife in any way. Occasionally he will put Thomas on his knees, tell him he is a good dog, but that is as far as he can go. Once Thomas had asked if Vincent could perhaps insult him just a little, nothing too hurtful, and Vincent had gone soft inside him immediately (in hindsight, asking mid-fuck had been a terrible idea). Thomas then had to ignore his throbbing erection to reassure Vincent that no, Thomas did not think he was a terrible wife and yes, he was happier in himself then he had ever been and no really, darling, it’s fine, forget I said anything, could you please help me finish now?
But this, this is acceptable, hovering neatly between new and old territory. Thomas is already Vincent’s wife. They regularly make love with the hem of Thomas’s nightgowns (he has three now, one of them daringly close to a negligee) up around his chest. Vincent has even remarked, more than once, that if he were not the Pope he would take great pleasure in buying and dressing Thomas up in all manner of frivolous things, little slips of lace, satin, silk. This apron, short as it is, is a minor deviation from their established pattern.
Thomas turns to examine himself in the mirror. He has managed to drape the strings so that they fall just so over his behind; he has gotten the flap of blue cloth positioned over his groin modestly. An awful lot of leg is on display, but Vincent has made it clear time and time again how much he likes his wife’s legs: Thomas has spent many mornings in bed having his lover kiss up and down his ankles, his calves, his thighs, sighing in pleasure all the while.
He checks his phone and yes, there is a message from Vincent signalling that he is on his way. He is operating under the same belief that everyone who manages the papal schedule is, that this is a rare few hours to put his feet up. Of course, Thomas thinks – a little appalled at himself, but also a little amused – if anyone will have their feet up it’ll be Thomas, and they’ll be up around his ears.
Dear Christ marriage has changed him – but then, it has undoubtedly been for the better.
A faint rattling comes from the entrance, and he quickly moves into place. He refuses to do one of the ludicrous poses in the magazine – quite apart from anything else, he hasn’t been that flexible in years – and settles on perching on the arm of their couch. It all feels ridiculous, but he has been waiting for this so long that the need, the desire, has already started to spark low in his belly.
“Thomas, mi vida,” he hears Vincent call as the door opens. “Are you in?”
“In here,” he calls, and he waits breathlessly as Vincent moves down the hallway, and-
His husband steps into the room, and three things happen in very quick succession.
His mouth drops open. He makes a choking sound. And he promptly faints.
Oh dear Christ, Thomas thinks in horror, I’ve killed the Pope. And then – I’ve killed Vincent! Terror the likes of which he has never known before floods him, ice in his veins. In all of his worrying about marriage, he had always taken comfort in the fact that he would die before Vincent, that he would never know the pain of going on without his husband, but now he has killed him, because he wanted to make changes to their already perfect sex life!
The papers will love this, he thinks. My God, they’d be right to give me the chair – and then common sense raises its head, and he rushes to Vincent’s side. His beloved was lucky enough to fall onto the carpet; he does not look injured but then Thomas is not a doctor and he can hardly call for help like this, all he can do is pat Vincent’s face until his eyelids flutter.
“Darling,” Thomas pleads. “Darling, can you hear me? Can you open your eyes?”
“Thomas,” Vincent sighs. “Oh my Thomas, I had the strangest dream.” With a low moan he opens his eyes, blinking. “I dreamt that-” His gaze goes to Thomas kneeling by his side, to where the apron has ridden up, and his eyes roll back in his head, and down he goes again.
Thomas sits back on his heels and considers the situation. It doesn’t take very long, because it never takes him very long to start panicking.
“Vincent!” He grabs his husband’s shoulder and jostles it. “Vincent, in His holy name, wake up!”
Vincent jerks upward with the gasp of a drowning man coming up for air. His eyes roam frantically over Thomas, over every inch of exposed flesh, and he chokes out a series of words in Spanish too rapid for Thomas to translate.
“My darling,” Thomas says as calmly as he can, “please listen to me very carefully. What is my name?”
“Thomas Lawrence-Benítez,” Vincent answers promptly. “The Dean to all others, to I and I alone mi todo, mi corazón.”[1]
Thomas lets out a sign of relief; he could not bear to imagine Vincent with a head injury so grievous he forgets their union.
“And where are we?”
“The Holy See. Our home.” With a strangled sound he reaches out to Thomas, rests his hand where fabric gives way to bare flesh. “My Thomas, where did you get this?”
“A shop,” Thomas replies, “but that’s not important now, Vincent, how many fingers am I holding up?”
Vincent looks at him as if he has lost all his senses.
“Why are we talking of fingers,” he exclaims, “where you are sitting here dressed like that.” His hand slides up Thomas’s thigh.
“Because you may be concussed,” Thomas points out, “and- ah, Vincent!” for Vincent has pressed his fingers just where Thomas is weak, the part of his inner thigh where he feels more than he ever thought one body could feel, and is pressing so firmly- so desperately-
“You did this,” Vincent whispers, eyes alight in awe. “Thomas, you beautiful- you brilliant- what did I ever do to deserve you?” One hand rapidly becomes two, both of them pushing the apron up and out of the way. “This free afternoon, you set it aside, you bought this, you- oh Thomas!” And suddenly Thomas is on his back and Vincent is atop him, is kissing him devotedly, their bodies joined at every point and it is divine, there is nothing like it in all the world. Neither of them knew how to kiss before, their wedding night had been an affair of fumbling and nearly knocking heads, but they are used to each other now. Vincent knows everything Thomas likes, knows to suck on his upper lip and to gently press his teeth against the lower and to place his hands just so on Thomas’s cheeks, to draw him in so close that they exist in the same breath.
“Have you been needing me?” Vincent pants against Thomas. “Have you been needing me all this time?" He punctuates with a firm roll of his hips, a beautiful pressure that moves along Thomas like a wave. “My poor darling, I won’t make you wait any longer, let me give you my penance-”
“You can give me the assurance that you’re not injured,” Thomas says, or tries to, because at that very moment Vincent moves down to place his mouth firmly on Thomas’s cock, and all words fall away. As usual he is only half-hard but Vincent is as undeterred by this as he is by anything, and he sucks and licks and swallows Thomas down like he is starving, like he would happily go hungry for a thousand days and nights if he were given the chance to devour his lover at the end. One hand squeezes Thomas’s thigh, pressing so hard the flesh dimples, and the other – oh – Thomas watches in awe as Vincent slides two of his fingers into his mouth. It is a tight fit – Thomas would never dare say it himself but he is, ahem, rather well-endowed – and Vincent’s cheeks bulge. With his dark hair already in disarray, beads of sweat forming on his brow, he is a world away from the calm and steady presence everyone else knows.
I’m the only one who gets to see him like this, Thomas thinks, and if there is a touch of possessive delight in the thought, well, what of it?
“Vincent,” he begs, “please,” and his husband moves his hand down, and-
Thomas lets out a stuttering gasp when the finger breaches him, moving as easily as a hot knife through butter, and Vincent groans as if he is the one being impaled, the one being opened up.
"You-" Vincent chokes out.
"I got myself ready for you," Thomas confesses. "I wanted - I wanted to feel you. I didn't want to wait."
Vincent makes a soft dazed noise, presses himself down against the carpet, and Thomas looks on, heart pounding, as Vincent – the Pope, the leader of millions – moves his hips up and down in earnest, chasing friction, already needing so terribly, and his cassock bunches up around his hips so that Thomas may see the frenzied way in which he moves -
Moves against the very floor on which he was just laying, the voice of reason never far from Thomas pipes up. And here you lie letting him pleasure you!
“Vincent,” Thomas says again, “wait, stop.”
Vincent pulls away and looks up, and the mere sight of him, lips swollen, mouth open in supplication, nearly undoes Thomas completely. His hand, fingers still – dear Lord – wet with spit, returns to Thomas’s leg.
“Are you all right?” Vincent asks. “Does it not feel good?”
“It feels wonderful,” Thomas rushes to assure him, “but you passed out only a few minutes ago, I can’t ask you to do this. You should be-” he thinks of all he knows of head injuries “-lying in a darkened room.”
“And would you be lying with me?” Vincent asks in an innocent tone, one corner of his mouth quirked. One of his hands goes to the neck of his cassock where he slowly, teasingly, undoes the first button. The line of his throat is beautiful, something from a painting.
“I would be,” Thomas swallows as Vincent undoes another button, “I would be tending to you.”
“But I am the one who has been neglecting you,” Vincent counters. Slowly, decadently, he rises, leans back on his haunches. His legs splay open. “I am the one who has left you cold in our marriage bed.”
“You are-” Thomas cannot quite remember his train of thought, but he pushes on “-doing holy work.”
“There is none holier than my wife.” Vincent’s cassock is now open to his waist, revealing a stretch of white linen underneath. “Be us not but one flesh?” Slowly, teasingly, he shrugs his cassock off. It pools around his hips.
“The flesh-” Thomas’s voice cracks. “Your flesh is of great importance to me, all of you is greatly important to me, and I would ask you to rest.”
“Ah, but I do not want to rest.” With a smile Vincent stretches out, presses himself against Thomas, all but in his lap. “I want to make love to you. Is that not what you took this time for? Should we not use the time given to us?”
There can be no rational thought, not when Vincent is so close to him, and Thomas-
Thomas yields utterly, and Vincent falls upon him in rapture.
“We should – ah – get your blood pressure checked,” Thomas gasps out; it is a little hard to form coherent sentences, given how vigorously Vincent is fucking into him, but never let it be said he gives up at the first hurdle. “Do you often feel light-headed during the day?”
“Not at all,” Vincent says from behind him. “But, mi vida, please don’t change the subject – does that feel good?”
Carefully Thomas pushes his hips back, groans at the satisfying slap of flesh, the heat where Vincent meets him. “Lovely, darling, but please don’t over-exert yourself, we can’t – oh yes, yes – have you fainting again.” He digs his elbows into the table, widens his legs a little. Being taken like this, an act he once imagined would cleave him in two as surely as it would cleave him from his faith, oh, he had never imagined it could be so divine!
“I fainted,” Vincent reminds him for perhaps the third time, “if we can indeed call it that-”
“I would say indeed we can.” Pettily, Thomas lifts Vincent’s hand to his mouth, fingers entwined so tightly they have gone white, and flicks his tongue against the line of his husband’s pulse. Vincent all but sobs. “Or would you prefer we stop, and call a doctor to do it for us? Let him define what did and didn’t happen?”
“No,” Vincent moans. “No, Thomas, please, let me- I have been missing you, I fainted, fine, because your body undoes me. I do not want to stop.”
“Will you let me make an appointment with your physician, then?” Thomas carefully eases himself down on his front so that he is wholly pressed against the table, opened wide, and Vincent pushes in even deeper with a bitten-off por favor, por favor-
“If you insist, just-” Vincent’s spare hand goes to where Thomas aches. “Oh, mi hermosa fuente, you’re leaking, are you close?”[2]
In truth Thomas has been close for the past ten minutes, holding on through sheer force of will; Vincent is an incredibly generous lover, he will pleasure Thomas until he cannot move for exhaustion, and the longer Thomas can hold off reaching his end the longer he has to convince his husband.
“Yes,” he confesses, gasping as Vincent strokes his cock. “I am- I- oh Vincent, my darling, you are so good to me, fuck.”
“What do you need?” Vincent asks desperately. “This?” His hand speeds up. “My mouth? Anything, beloved, anything you want, I’ll give it all to you-”
“Then lie down with me after this and let me put a cold cloth on your forehead.” Heat is rising in Thomas’s stomach, a thick syrup of need boiling and bubbling, he has so little time left, and he forces the words out. “See a doctor. Take it easy for the next few days, and-” Vincent’s hand slides up to cup his testicles and Thomas presses his forehead so desperately into the table that he sees stars “-and later on, let me pleasure you, just you, in any way you want, be selfish for once in your life. Can you do that for me?”
“Yes, yes, I swear, please.”
Thomas sighs, the satisfaction of a job well done flooding his senses, and orgasms into his beloved’s hand.
“Would an unwell man,” Vincent argues, “be able to do this?” His thumb presses against the large mark he had sucked into Thomas’s collarbone, a dark blotch of devotion.
“You are seeing a doctor, Vincent," Thomas replies. "You already agreed to it." He stretches out, enjoying the softness of the sheets beneath him. They will have to change them later; Vincent refuses to reach his end in Thomas’s mouth – never mind that Thomas secretly thinks he would like to consume as much of his husband as possible; he’d take him as the Eucharist if he could – and so a drying pool of ejaculate lies between them. It is hard for Thomas to care, not when he has brought his husband to pleasure twice (once in the kitchen of all places!) and can be quite sure no one will be fainting any time soon. And they still have an afternoon ahead of them.
“I won’t be able to see you in an apron ever again,” Vincent sighs. “It will feel obscene.”
Thomas snorts. “Darling, you don’t even let me near the stove, I hardly think it will be some great loss.”
“Ah, but every time I go into the kitchen,” Vincent splays his hand across Thomas’s hip, “I will want to grab you and bend you over the table.”
“Hmm.” Thomas closes his eyes and lets himself sink into the place where Vincent is touching him. “I suppose I owe a great deal to Nancy then.”
“Nancy?” He can all but see the confused frown on Vincent’s face. “Who is she?”
“Well, it’s a funny story…”