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vigilante24ish · 2 months ago

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Angeli et Daemones

Summary:

You are part of the Corps of Gendarmerie, working alongside your father, Inspector Ernesto Olivetti. You also have a secret relationship with your childhood friend, the Camerlengo Patrick McKenna.

However, when the Vatican is under attack by shadows of the past, you are paired with Professor Robert Langdon to save the kidnapped Preferiti and, subsequently, the Vatican City itself.

Will you manage to save the city and the Catholic Church? Or will you betray everything you knew for the man who had captured your heart for so long?

Paring: Patrick McKenna x Reader Chapter Warning: Smut, Sex, and Mention of Death

Next - Chapter 2

Chapter 1

The Vatican City was a rare jewel in Italy. It was its own country and city, with its own rules and a plethora of secrets. There, secret orders were born and faded as the power of the Catholic Church grew with the passing centuries.

So many people visited, whether as tourists or for a religious trip, yet few knew what was hidden behind the ancient walls and fancy architectural miracles across it. Not even you, someone who was raised at the very heart of everything, knew of all the secrets they were kept buried.

Your father was the Inspector General, and that had opened many doors for you, giving you exclusive access behind the scenes, as some would call it. Yet, your mouth remained shut, and the secrets of Vatican City were well guarded.

You guarded not just their secret but also yours. For years, you portrayed the perfect soldier and a potential future investigator—the first woman to do so. For years, you visited Sunday Mass and prayed before sleep.

And for years, you had found yourself lying in the arms of a holy man, sinful thoughts clouding your mind... and his.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Camerlengo and a Gendarmerie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded but spoke no words, his body and mind tired after all he had been through, and more would come. Thankfully for him, you would be there like you always had been.

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