Chapter Text
There were bells for everything.
They rang for prayer. They rang for death. They rang for the Angelus and for evening Mass and for saints long turned to dust. They rang through Caitlyn’s skull like ghosts asking to be remembered.
She sat alone in her private study, long after the last candle had guttered out.
The cassock hung from its hook beside the wardrobe, limp and holy. Her shoulders ached from its weight. Even now, in linen nightclothes, she felt the phantom press of its collar against her throat.
The Vatican slept around her—tight and walled, sacred and still. Caitlyn did not. She rarely did. Not since the conclave. Not since they’d slipped the Fisherman’s Ring onto her finger and expected her to become something more than a woman.
A white shadow passed outside her window: the dome of Saint Peter’s, glowing with floodlights. She had grown used to the view, but not the feeling that came with it.
Caitlyn set her rosary down on the desk, its beads clacking softly against the wood. Her prayers tonight had been mechanical. Her heart refused to lift. She had whispered the mysteries of light and found none.
She closed her eyes.
Her mother used to say God spoke in silence. But here, in this place, silence only seemed to speak of loneliness.
Her guards changed rotation every six hours. She didn’t need to check the clock to know who was stationed outside her apartments now. She could feel it—like static, like pressure behind glass.
Violet.
She knew her presence. Knew the shift in the air when she stood nearby. Knew the way she moved, weight rolled through the balls of her feet like she’d grown up expecting to run.
Caitlyn had never seen her pray. Not once.
And yet—there she was. Every day. Every Mass. Every procession. Every moment.
Watching.
Guarding.
Waiting.
Caitlyn rose and moved to the window.
From this height, the city of Rome glittered like an offering bowl spilled open. She placed a hand against the glass.
She didn’t want to feel that.
Not interest. Not curiosity.
Certainly not attraction.
(And she didn’t. Not truly. Just… awareness. That was all.)
Caitlyn turned from the window. Crossed the room. Opened the cabinet near her desk and poured herself a finger of sacramental wine.
She shouldn’t. She almost never did. But tonight—tonight felt fragile.
She brought the glass to her lips and paused.
There was movement outside the door. A faint rustle of armor. Then stillness.
Caitlyn waited.
Nothing.
She took a sip.
The wine burned.
⸻
Later, she sat at her desk, light low, pen hovering over a letter she would never send.
I do not hear Him anymore, she nearly wrote.
I am beginning to think that I never did.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she dipped the pen in ink, and wrote a single line across the page:
Loneliness, too, can be a kind of devotion.
She folded the page and locked it in the drawer with the others. When she finally laid her head down, the bells had not yet rung for Matins.
But she dreamt of footsteps outside her door.
———
The Vatican Apostolic Archive was a sanctum of silence, its air thick with centuries of secrets. Caitlyn moved through the dim corridors, her footsteps muffled by the ancient stone floors. The scent of aged parchment and candle wax lingered, a testament to the countless documents housed within these sacred walls.
She had summoned Violet to accompany her, a necessity dictated by protocol. The Pope was never to be left unattended, especially in the depths of the Vatican. Violet’s presence was a constant, her silent vigilance both a comfort and a reminder of the weight Caitlyn bore.
They reached a secluded chamber, its walls lined with shelves bearing manuscripts bound in leather and gold. A single table stood at the center, illuminated by the soft glow of a solitary lamp. Caitlyn gestured for Violet to remain by the door as she approached the table, her fingers tracing the intricate designs on a tome that lay open.
“Your Holiness, is there anything specific you seek?” Violet’s voice broke the silence, her tone respectful yet tinged with curiosity.
Caitlyn glanced up, meeting Violet’s gaze. “I’m reviewing correspondence from the early 15th century. Letters between the papacy and various monarchs. They offer insight into the Church’s diplomatic endeavors during turbulent times.”
Violet nodded, her eyes scanning the room. “It’s remarkable how these documents have been preserved.”
“Indeed. They serve as a testament to our history, our trials, and our resilience.”
A moment of silence settled between them, the only sound the faint rustle of pages as Caitlyn turned them. Violet shifted her stance, the subtle movement drawing Caitlyn’s attention.
“You seem restless, Violet.”
Violet offered a slight smile. “Apologies, Your Holiness. I’m accustomed to more… active duties.”
Caitlyn closed the tome gently, her fingers resting on its cover. “Tell me, Violet, do you find your service fulfilling?”
Violet’s expression grew contemplative. “It’s an honor to serve, to protect. But at times, the rigidity of protocol can be… constraining.”
“I understand. The weight of tradition is both a guide and a burden.”
Their eyes met, a shared understanding passing between them. In that moment, the roles of Pope and guard faded, leaving two individuals bound by duty and the silent acknowledgment of the lives they led.
Caitlyn broke the gaze, her attention returning to the tome. “Thank you for your candor, Violet. Your perspective is appreciated.”
Violet inclined her head. “Always at your service, Your Holiness.”
———
The morning was cool, and still.
The chapel was tucked deep within the Apostolic Palace—a quiet chamber paneled in ivory and gold leaf, no larger than the nave of a country parish but soaked in centuries of reverence. Caitlyn had always preferred it to the grand basilica. The weight of St. Peter’s made her spine lock; here, among the soft candlelight and worn marble, she could breathe.
It was a private Mass. Small. Intimate. Four nuns, two clergy, a cardinal’s secretary—and her Swiss Guard.
Violet.
The others knelt in the front pews, their hands folded. She stood alone at the altar, facing the carved crucifix suspended above her. Her voice, low and steady, recited the liturgy—“Dominus vobiscum,” and the familiar response, “Et cum spiritu tuo,” whispered like old rain.
Her eyes did not stray to Violet. They hadn’t all morning.
Not when she’d entered, last in the line, boots hushed against the floor.
Not when she bowed her head at the Gospel, her pink hair tucked just so behind her ear.
Not when Caitlyn’s fingers trembled, briefly, lifting the host above the chalice.
“Hoc est enim Corpus Meum…”
The consecration ended. The transformation complete. She held in her hands, if her faith meant anything at all, the body of her Lord.
And now, she would give Him away.
She descended the three steps from the altar.
Each person came to her one by one. The kneeling rail was old and worn, the velvet cushion faded from decades of bent knees. She spoke softly, reverently.
“Corpus Christi.”
—“Amen,” a nun whispered, eyes closed.
“Corpus Christi.”
—“Amen,” from a gray-haired priest.
“Corpus Christi.”
—A trembling laywoman took the wafer with tears in her eyes.
Caitlyn never rushed this part. She gave each soul its moment, its stillness. Her hands were steady, her expression serene. She had practiced serenity since she was fifteen.
The last to approach was Violet.
And that was when something broke.
Violet stepped forward, slow and measured. She went down on one knee, like the others had—nothing improper—but the sight of it pierced Caitlyn’s composure like a shard of lightning.
That same armor. That same gaze. That same stillness. But now—
Now her lips were parted.
Now her hands were clasped, waiting.
Now her mouth was open, a silent yes ready to be spoken.
Caitlyn froze.
Only for a breath. A blink. But it was enough.
“Corpus Christi,” she said softly, placing the wafer against Violet’s tongue.
Violet did not flinch. Her lips closed reverently around it, eyes never leaving Caitlyn’s.
Caitlyn’s fingers brushed the corner of her mouth—barely, accidentally. A heat rushed up her wrist like she’d touched fire.
Violet stood slowly, not with a bow, but with a look.
That look.
Like she knew.
Like she felt it too.
Caitlyn turned back to the altar. Her blood was loud in her ears. She finished the Mass as she always did, with perfect enunciation and folded hands and every thread of piety sewn back into place. But something inside her—quiet, until now—was awake.
It had risen with the incense. And it would not lie back down.
———
Castel Gandolfo was silent, its walls thick with history and incense, its halls echoing faintly with the sound of distant rain.
The storm had rolled in unexpectedly—sharp rain, wind tearing through the olive groves and shuttering out the sun. What had been intended as a quick diplomatic meeting had now become an overnight stay. The delegates were being shown to their quarters. The villa’s old bones did not yield many options, but thankfully, arrangements had been made without need for improvisation.
Caitlyn had been granted the western room overlooking the gardens: modest, monastic, with a crucifix above the door and a narrow bed tucked beneath an arched window. Quiet. Plain. She appreciated the silence. The space to think.
The problem, of course, was not the storm. Or the delegates. Or the stiff conversation about Jerusalem’s latest position on canon law.
The problem was her—Violet—posted just outside her door.
Even now, as Caitlyn set her hands on the window ledge and stared out at the rain-slicked hills, she could feel her there. Not watching, exactly. Just… present. A steady thread of warmth and wariness in the hallway, clothed in uniform and silence.
Caitlyn exhaled, long and low. The window glass fogged faintly with her breath.
She was the Vicar of Christ. The Bishop of Rome. There was no space in her thoughts for what Violet looked like under lamplight, or how her voice dropped when she used that maddening, reverent title—Your Holiness—like it meant something more than protocol.
But the image kept returning. Not even from that morning’s procession or the tense diplomatic table. No—what haunted her now was a moment as small as breath.
Hours ago, after the delegates had dispersed for rest and before the rain had closed in fully, Caitlyn had lingered in the inner courtyard—a few paces behind the others.
She hadn’t noticed Violet had paused too.
“You’re tired,” Violet had said simply.
Caitlyn had turned. “You think I’m not used to long meetings?”
“I think you bear more than most, Your Holiness,” she’d said, eyes flicking toward the arched hallway ahead.
Caitlyn had stared at her for too long. A beat, then another. The silence between them had hummed like a psalm just below hearing.
She had wanted to say something sharp. Professional. Distant.
Instead, she had said nothing at all.
Now, standing alone in her room, she was still thinking about it.
A knock. Light. Controlled.
She turned.
“Enter,” she said, smoothing her expression.
The door opened halfway, and Violet stepped inside, helmet tucked under her arm, damp from the walk between buildings. She didn’t track water—of course not—but the scent of rain followed her in.
“Your Holiness,” she said, bowing. “Forgive the intrusion.”
Caitlyn lifted a brow. “Is something wrong?”
“No. Only…” Violet hesitated, then continued, “I’ve reviewed the perimeter. You’re safe. The delegates have all retired. The storm’s interfering with signals, but we’ve secured alternate channels.”
Caitlyn nodded. “Very good. Thank you.”
Vi turned to leave—but paused.
“…Would you like me to remain at the door tonight?” she asked, still not looking directly at her. “We’re in unfamiliar quarters.”
A pause.
“I don’t need you to,” Caitlyn said, more curt than intended. “This is not a war zone.”
“No, Your Holiness.”
Another silence.
Then Vi added, “But some things are still worth guarding.”
That struck deeper than it should have.
Caitlyn didn’t answer. She only watched Vi—watched the way her jaw tensed, the way her posture remained loose but alert, like a soldier who’d long since learned how to look relaxed while anticipating every kind of danger.
Finally, Caitlyn said, “There’s an antechamber just outside. Use it. I won’t have you sleeping on your feet in the hallway.”
Vi nodded. “Yes, Your Holiness.”
Vi gave the faintest bow and stepped out, the door closing softly behind her.
And Caitlyn stood alone again, hand on the sill, the storm no longer the loudest thing in the room.
———
The chapel was small—humble by Vatican standards, tucked into the western wing of the villa, where only the most private rituals were held.
There were no pews here. No rows of tourists or dignitaries. Just stone, silence, and saints gazing down from darkened frescoes. The air was cool and still, scented faintly with myrrh and old wax. Candlelight guttered along the walls, catching in the gold thread of the altar cloth.
Caitlyn knelt in front of it.
No robes, no miter, no great Papal procession—just her simple black cassock, unadorned, sleeves buttoned to the wrist. Her hands were folded, white-knuckled against each other, elbows resting on the worn velvet of the kneeler.
She had come here alone.
Or, at least, she had intended to.
Violet stood behind her—just inside the chapel doors. Not at attention. Not stiff. Simply there. Present in the hush, in the weight of her silence. Her uniform cast a deep shadow on the floor, and her breath—low, controlled—seemed to echo more than Caitlyn’s own.
Caitlyn had tried to pray.
She had tried to close her eyes and sink into the rhythm of it—Domine, dirige nos… fiat voluntas tua…—but it clanged hollow inside her skull. Her body was too full. Her thoughts too loud.
She didn’t know what had shifted. Maybe it had happened yesterday, maybe earlier. But since that moment in the courtyard, since the low murmur of “You bear more than most”—she hadn’t been able to stop feeling Violet’s presence.
And now they were alone.
She turned her head just slightly. Not enough to meet her gaze. Just to feel the weight of her behind her.
“Do you read scripture, Violet?”
A pause. Then, “Yes, Your Holiness.”
“In Latin?”
“Yes.”
Caitlyn swallowed.
She shouldn’t ask. She didn’t need to ask. But the stillness had become unbearable. The silence too tight in her lungs. She needed something to fill it.
“I want to hear it,” she said.
A quiet shuffle of movement. A book retrieved from the shelf near the rear.
“Which passage?”
Caitlyn closed her eyes. “Psalm forty-two. Start with Sicut cervus.”
Violet’s voice entered the room like water—cool and steady, washing over the stone walls:
“Sicut cervus desiderat ad fontes aquarum,
ita desiderat anima mea ad te, Deus.”
As the deer longs for streams of water,
so my soul longs for you, O God.
The words sank through Caitlyn’s skin.
She bowed her head again, but not to pray.
She felt the shift like heat in her spine—something slow and guilty blooming behind her ribs.
Violet’s voice carried the Latin with reverence. But not just that. It was smooth, low, and—God help her—beautiful. Like something alive.
Caitlyn’s breath hitched.
She could feel her own pulse now. In her throat. In her fingers pressed tight together.
She clenched her hands tighter.
Behind her, Violet read on.
“Sitivit anima mea ad Deum fortem vivum:
quando veniam et apparebo ante faciem Dei?”
My soul thirsts for the living God:
when shall I come and appear before His face?
The sound curved around her like a whispered confession.
And suddenly she saw it again.
Not the courtyard. Not the conference table. Not even Violet’s face.
She saw her kneeling—during Communion. Bowed, her hands folded, mouth parted as Caitlyn approached her with the Host. A position of faith. Of devotion.
Of surrender.
The memory sliced through her like a sin.
She gritted her teeth.
“I asked you to read,” Caitlyn said, “not to perform.”
A beat of silence.
“I’m not performing,” Violet said softly.
Caitlyn turned her head, finally meeting her gaze.
Violet stood only ten feet away, hands clasped loosely behind her back, eyes unreadable but steady. The candlelight caught the line of her jaw. Her mouth. Her breath was slow.
“Then what are you doing?” Caitlyn asked, too quietly.
Violet didn’t move. “What you asked.”
That should have ended it.
Caitlyn looked away first. She rose slowly from the kneeler, feeling the ache in her knees, the heaviness in her chest. Her spine was straight, but her heart was traitorous.
She crossed to the candle stand and lit another taper with shaking fingers.
“Has it occurred to you,” she said, not looking back, “that some things aren’t meant to be spoken aloud?”
“I think,” Violet said behind her, “some things demand to be.”
Caitlyn turned.
Violet hadn’t moved. Still distant. Still composed. But her eyes…
There was something burning there.
Caitlyn took a step closer before she realized it.
“It’s inappropriate,” she said, but her voice lacked heat.
“I know.”
“You don’t act like it.”
Violet tilted her head. “Neither do you.”
Silence crackled between them.
Finally, Caitlyn whispered, “You will not speak to me like that again.”
Violet’s voice softened. “Then don’t ask me to read things that make you feel this way.”
Caitlyn’s breath caught—fully, painfully. She turned away sharply, as if the stone floor might cool the flush rising in her chest.
She didn’t tell her to leave.
She couldn’t.
Because despite every vow, despite every instinct, despite the crucifix watching her from above the altar—
—Caitlyn wanted her to stay.
She stood before the altar again, but this time, she did not pray. She stared at the crucifix above her, mouth dry, breath shallow, the weight of silence crowding her lungs.
“I wonder,” Caitlyn said softly, “if He ever doubted.”
The question came out hoarse, unfinished. The sound of a soul unraveling.
Behind her, a long silence. Then: “Who?”
Caitlyn turned slowly. The gold of her vestments caught the flickering light and cast long, ghostly shadows down the aisle.
“Christ,” she said. “On the cross. Before the end.”
Violet blinked. Her voice, when it came, was gentle. “He asked why He had been forsaken.”
“Yes,” she murmured. “And I wonder if doubt is a sin. Or if it is the condition of being human.”
Violet didn’t answer. Not right away. Her face was calm, but Caitlyn could see it—something flickering behind her eyes. Some understanding.
“Do you doubt?” Caitlyn asked.
Violet tilted her head slightly. “What would you do if I said yes?”
“I don’t know,” Caitlyn said. “Maybe I would feel less alone.”
A pause.
Then Violet said, quiet as breath, “Then yes.”
Caitlyn stepped closer. “What do you believe in, then, Violet?”
Violet’s mouth quirked, just slightly. “Structure. Discipline.”
“That’s not belief,” Caitlyn whispered. “That’s control.”
“Sometimes,” Violet said, “they’re the same.”
Caitlyn’s throat tightened.
She stepped forward again. And again. Until they were inches apart. The chapel felt smaller now. Holier. Hotter.
Caitlyn’s chest burned. “Tell me,” she whispered, “what you know about sin.”
Violet’s voice came low. Steady. “That it begins with desire.”
“And ends?”
“Often in silence.”
“Is this silence?”
Violet opened her eyes. Looked up at her.
It was unbearable.
“I don’t know what this is,” Violet said, and for the first time, Caitlyn heard it—a crack in her armor. Barely there, but real.
She turned. Took a step away. Then another. Her pulse thundered in her throat. Shame and want and something that felt close to grief.
“You should go,” she said, voice tight. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
Caitlyn’s breath broke on the exhale.
She didn’t look back. Couldn’t. She wasn’t sure what her face would give away.
But she felt it—how the space behind her remained full. Heavy with Violet’s body, Violet’s breath, Violet’s soul. The echo of her obedience.
Sin, she thought, is not loud.
It’s soft.
It kneels.
And it waits.
———
It was a sea of faces. Tens of thousands below, their heads tilted skyward, sun spilling over them like a benediction. Flags waved. Children sat on shoulders. Cameras blinked like a second sky above the crowd—long lenses and flashes and drones hovering like metal birds. A holy spectacle. A performance of faith.
Caitlyn tood at the center of the great balcony of St. Peter’s Basilica, the wind curling the edges of her white mozzetta. Gold shimmered in the trim of her robes, and the weight of the Papal ring pressed into her gloved fingers. Her expression was serene. Still.
Inside, she could barely breathe.
Below, the roar of devotion surged and ebbed like the tide—cheers, songs, distant sobs. The camera feeds had gone live half an hour ago. Translations were broadcasting across the world. The faithful, the curious, the skeptical—all of them watching.
And behind her, just out of the frame, Violet stood.
Caitlyn hadn’t looked at her yet. Not once since they left the Apostolic Palace. But she could feel her. As she always could.
Violet wore the formal uniform today—crimson and deep blue, polished cuirass gleaming, sabre at her hip. Her braid was sharp, tight, but not severe. Her expression gave nothing away. But Caitlyn could sense it beneath her ribs: Violet was watching her.
Caitlyn’s voice did not waver when she began to speak.
“Dear brothers and sisters, gathered here in this sacred place and beyond—”
She spoke of unity. Of mercy. Of the weight of human suffering and the power of compassion. She spoke of the Middle East, of ecological responsibility, of the need for spiritual and practical action in a fractured world. Her Latin was perfect. Her English, flawless. She blessed the sick. The poor. The disillusioned.
And all the while, the sun rose higher. The crowd roared and wept and clung to her every word.
And Violet watched her like she was watching a miracle burn.
You shouldn’t be able to see her, Caitlyn thought, and yet I feel it like heat on the back of my neck.
When the blessing ended, Caitlyn raised her hand slowly and traced the cross in the air—In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. She held the final moment of silence like it was her final breath. The cameras snapped like gunfire. And then—
Applause.
Thunderous. Relentless.
The crowd was no longer a crowd, but a wave. Pressing forward. Chanting her name. Crying. Laughing. Shouting “Viva il Papa!”
She didn’t move. Not right away. She stood there in the center of it all, radiant and ghostly, and thought of nothing but the sound of Violet’s breath just behind her.
Finally, Caitlyn turned. Slowly. Deliberately. And their eyes met.
Violet didn’t speak. She didn’t smile. But something in her eyes softened—just the smallest fracture in her usual reserve. And Caitlyn—suffocating in silk and gold—let it strike her in the chest like lightning.
They said nothing.
They walked back inside.
⸻
The thunder of the crowd was muffled by centuries-old walls. Their steps echoed down the corridor. Alone now. Silent.
Violet finally spoke. “You were… breathtaking.”
Caitlyn stopped walking.
Turned.
“Is that allowed?” she asked, not quite teasing.
Violet’s jaw tightened, but she held her ground. “I meant—”
“You meant it in the way you weren’t supposed to.”
A pause. Charged. Holy.
Violet said nothing.
And then Caitlyn stepped closer. Not close enough to touch—but enough for her voice to drop.
“Tell me,” she said quietly. “Do you believe in me?”
Violet blinked. “What?”
“Do you believe in me?” Caitlyn repeated.
Violet exhaled. She looked like she was choosing between two kinds of damnation.
“I don’t know,” she said finally. “But I want to.”
Caitlyn felt her throat tighten. She wanted to reach for her. Just once. She didn’t.
Instead, she said: “There are too many eyes out there.”
Violet’s mouth twisted into something like a smile. “And none in here.”
Another silence. Tighter now. Fuller.
Caitlyn turned again. Began to walk. Her voice floated over her shoulder like a benediction and a dare.
Violet didn’t follow right away.
She just stood there. Alone in the shadow of gold.
⸻
The applause had long since faded. The square had emptied. The cameras had turned elsewhere. The city—ancient and aching and restless—lay beneath her in silence.
Caitlyn sat alone in the private study. No aides. No guards. No voices. Only the low hum of the Vatican night, the soft creak of old wood, and the rasp of candlelight shifting against the frescoed walls.
She hadn’t changed out of her formal vestments yet.
The mozzetta draped her shoulders like a mantle of judgment. Her gloves, still on. The Papal ring heavy on her hand. She looked like a statue in a museum of saints. Untouchable. Unmoving.
But she was trembling.
“You were… breathtaking.”
Caitlyn closed her eyes.
She hadn’t meant to turn back. Hadn’t meant to look for her. She’d promised herself detachment. Distance. A sovereign above temptation. A shepherd untouched by longing.
And yet—
She had turned. She had looked. And Violet had been there. Watching her as if she were something sacred, not for her title, but for herself.
And Caitlyn had asked—“Is that allowed?”
God help her, she had wanted the answer to be no. She had wanted the boundary. The wall. The clean severance of duty.
Instead, she had said the words with a flicker of something dangerous curling beneath them. A glimmer of invitation.
Was it allowed?
Was it?
She pressed her gloved hand to her mouth. The leather was cool. Sterile. It muffled the sound she didn’t let escape.
Her thoughts raced, unholy and unsanctioned.
She remembered how Violet had looked in her formal uniform, radiant and ironclad, like a knight torn from an older century. And behind all that armor, the eyes—so full of restraint it ached. Not just desire. Devotion.
That was worse. That was what unnerved her.
That Violet might believe in her—not the Pope, not the office—but in Caitlyn.
The woman. The soul. The sinner beneath the silk.
And what would it mean, if Caitlyn let herself believe in her back?
She stood suddenly, needing movement, needing oxygen. Her vestments dragged around her legs like chains. She walked toward the balcony doors and opened them.
The night air hit her like cold absolution. She stepped out.
Rome shimmered below. The Vatican lights still burned golden. From here, she could see the faint glow of St. Peter’s Basilica, the place she’d stood that morning, the place she had looked back.
Somewhere inside the compound, Violet would be sleeping. Or not. Maybe she was awake, restless, thinking the same things Caitlyn was.
Was it allowed?
She took off her gloves. One slow finger at a time. Then the ring. She placed it gently on the marble railing.
Bare-handed, she gripped the stone. Cold. Steadying.
You are the Vicar of Christ, she reminded herself.
You are not a woman first. You are not flesh first. You are a soul. A symbol. A vessel.
But her soul didn’t tremble like this. Her vessel didn’t ache.
“Do you believe in me?”
She hadn’t meant to ask that. It had escaped her lips like prayer, or sin.
And Violet had answered: “I want to.”
She wanted to scream. Or laugh. Or kneel and confess to a God she could no longer separate from the feeling of Violet’s gaze.
What do you want from me? she asked the night.
But the stars said nothing. God said nothing.
She stayed out there a long time.
When she finally returned inside, she picked up the Papal ring with steady fingers. Slipped it back on.
⸻
It was the kind of morning that seemed not to move.
The air was mild, the sky the color of bone-white parchment stretched across the heavens. The hush of the Vatican Gardens felt older than Rome itself—like a place unbothered by time. Ancient olive trees cast long, dappled shadows across the gravel paths. Roses bloomed as if in reverence.
Caitlyn had asked for solitude.
Not full solitude, of course. That wasn’t allowed.
Two guards followed at a distance, silent shadows beneath cassocks and steel. But beside her, closer than any of them, walked Violet. As always. Eyes sweeping the edges of every hedge, every path, every moment between.
Caitlyn should have asked for someone else. She could have. But when the assignment landed in Violet’s hands, she had said nothing. She had allowed it.
And so now, they walked side by side. A Pope and her guard. A woman and her sin.
For a time, neither spoke. The only sound was the hush of their steps and the breath of leaves rustling in private prayer.
Then—quietly, carefully—Violet broke the silence.
“Do you ever get used to it?”
Caitlyn turned her head. “Used to what?”
Violet kept her eyes forward. “The weight. The way people look at you. Like you’re… something more than real.”
Caitlyn studied her. The tone had not been teasing. It wasn’t flirtation. Just a question. A sincere one.
“I suppose I’ve stopped noticing,” she said. “Or I try to.”
Violet nodded. Her jaw tightened a little. “They expect something impossible from you.”
Caitlyn’s voice was dry. “That is the job.”
“Is it?” Violet glanced at her now. “Is that really what God asks?”
That stopped her.
They slowed, came to a pause near a marble bench carved with scripture. Caitlyn looked at Violet—not as her Holiness, but as a woman. A little tired. A little undone.
“What do you think God asks, Violet?” she said, voice low.
Violet’s eyes didn’t flinch. “I think… sometimes we make Him into something colder than He is. A judge. A warden. When maybe He’s just waiting for us to be honest.”
The words hit something deep. Dangerous.
Caitlyn turned away, looking toward a vine-laced trellis ahead, its branches twisted like the knots in her own chest.
“I can’t afford to be honest,” she said, almost to herself.
A beat passed.
“You were,” Violet murmured. “When you asked me if it was allowed.”
Caitlyn’s breath caught.
She looked back, sharply, but Violet wasn’t watching her now. Her eyes were on the path, on a bird settling in a low branch. But her meaning had landed.
Something between them opened like a wound. Or a door.
Caitlyn spoke carefully. “What did you think I meant?”
“I think…” Violet hesitated. Then: “I think you were asking if I saw you.”
She did not answer that.
Instead, she sat—slowly—on the edge of the marble bench, hands folded in her lap like penance. Her voice, when it came, was quieter than before.
“Is it wrong,” Caitlyn asked, “to want to be seen?”
Violet shook her head. “Not wrong.”
“Even if it’s you who sees me?”
Violet hesitated. Then, with impossible gentleness:
“Especially if it’s me.”
Caitlyn closed her eyes. Something hot and bright welled behind her ribs.
She could not sin. She could not love. She could not even want.
But she did.
And that—more than anything—was her heresy.
———
She had paced for nearly an hour before she gave the order.
The silence in the Apostolic Palace was heavy, cloistered. The Pope’s private quarters sat high above the glow of Rome—its domes and towers lit in reverent hush below—but the windows were dark now. Caitlyn had not touched the lights. Only the candles burned, twelve of them, aligned like apostles across the marble mantle.
Outside her chamber doors, the guards were still.
Inside, her mind was not.
“Especially if it’s me.”
Those words had not left her since Violet said them in the gardens. Not with evening prayer. Not with the creaking of the confessional booth. Not with the wine she drank slowly from a crystal glass, trying to drown the ache that had taken shape in her chest.
So she had spoken the order aloud.
Bring her to me.
And Violet came.
The knock was low. Caitlyn turned as the door eased open. Violet stepped inside in her formal uniform—blue and crimson cutting sharp lines down her body.
But her eyes—they were not formal. Not now.
“Your Holiness.”
It scorched her. That name. That title. Spoken in her voice.
Caitlyn said nothing. She only stepped forward, slowly, one foot after the other on the cold stone floor. She reached Violet in four steps. Stopped inches away.
Violet stood at full attention, chest high, eyes unreadable.
“I shouldn’t have called you,” Caitlyn said, but it wasn’t an apology.
“I know,” Violet said.
“I can’t be seen with you like this. Not in private. Not alone.”
“I know.”
“And you still came.”
“I always will.”
That cracked something.
Caitlyn didn’t speak again. She reached.
Her hand found Violet’s collar, fingers trembling slightly as they caught the fabric. And then she kissed her.
Not shy. Not delicate.
It was like breaking a seal.
Violet made a low sound—deep in her throat—and she kissed her back without hesitation. The discipline she wore like armor fell away the moment Caitlyn touched her. Their mouths found each other like absolution and sin tangled together.
Caitlyn pushed forward, tasted breath and devotion. She didn’t know if she was kissing Violet or the idea of freedom itself. But her body moved without permission, lips parting against Violet’s mouth, heat blooming behind her ribs.
When she finally pulled back, they were both breathless.
And then Caitlyn stepped back. Her voice was quieter now, but heavy with something darker.
“On your knees.”
Violet looked up at her. Something like awe passed over her face.
She didn’t speak.
She knelt.
The motion was slow, deliberate. Her hands rested against her thighs, shoulders relaxed, gaze lifted. She knelt in front of the Pope not as a soldier—but as something else. Something more dangerous.
Caitlyn stared down at her, her heart breaking and reassembling in real time.
This was wrong.
This was blasphemy.
But all she could think was: Yes.
Yes, this. Yes, her. Yes, the feel of Violet’s breath warming the hem of her robes.
“You’ve done this before,” Caitlyn said, voice barely above a whisper.
“Only to you,” Violet answered, steady as stone.
“I can’t…”
“You already are.”
Caitlyn’s hand—of its own accord—lifted. Fingers hovered, then sank into Violet’s hair, slowly, gently. The gesture was both blessing and possession. Her thumb brushed against Violet’s temple like anointing.
Violet didn’t move. Her eyes stayed locked on Caitlyn’s face. Open. Waiting.
Caitlyn’s breath trembled. Her soul felt like it was cracking.
And still—she did not pull away.
She pressed her palm fully to the crown of Violet’s head.
A sacrament. A sin. A need.
God forgive me, she thought. I want her more than salvation.
The weight of her title had never felt heavier than it did with Violet kneeling at her feet.
Not when the conclave named her.
Not when they crowned her beneath the dome of St. Peter’s.
Not even when she first addressed the faithful as Sancta Papa.
But now—now—with candlelight flickering over the carved saints and Violet’s mouth parted, eyes waiting for her command?
Now she felt the divine pressing in on her lungs, suffocating with the hunger of a god who’d been locked out of His own temple.
Caitlyn’s breath shivered out of her.
“Touch me,” she said.
Violet’s eyes closed for the briefest second, lashes trembling. When they opened again, something in them had changed—something wrecked. “Yes, Your Holiness.”
That name shouldn’t thrill her.
It shouldn’t make her feel wet.
Violet’s hands rose slowly, reverently, stopping at the hem of Caitlyn’s cassock. Her fingers ghosted over the linen like it was sacrament. But she didn’t lift it yet—she waited.
Caitlyn nodded once.
That was all.
Violet bunched the fabric, her movements careful, almost shaking. She lifted the white robe—so pure, so damned—and pressed her face into Caitlyn’s thigh, just above the knee. A kiss. Silent. Worshipful.
Caitlyn let out a sound—low, animal, shameful.
“Higher,” she commanded.
Violet obeyed.
Her hands slid up slowly, drawing the robes higher, baring Caitlyn’s legs in the golden flicker of candlelight. And then—skin. So much skin. Thigh, hip, the small scar at the top of her femur.
And Violet moaned at the sight.
“Your Holiness,” she whispered, voice cracked. “Let me.”
Caitlyn nodded again.
Her mouth found the inside of Caitlyn’s thigh first—lips parting, tongue pressing hard and slow. Caitlyn’s head tipped back. One hand braced on the edge of a carved wooden table behind her. The other gripped Violet’s hair.
Not gently.
Violet didn’t flinch. She melted. She pressed deeper, more desperate now. Her hands found Caitlyn’s hips. One slid to the small of her back to steady her, the other cradled the soft flesh just under her stomach, reverent.
When Caitlyn guided her higher, closer—when she opened her legs in silent permission—Violet groaned like it hurt.
And then her mouth was there.
And Caitlyn broke.
She gasped—sharp, hoarse—one knee giving, the table behind her catching her weight. “God forgive me,” she whispered.
Violet didn’t stop.
She devoured.
Her mouth moved with fierce, focused hunger. Tongue curling, lips sealing, every movement deliberate. Not greedy—but dedicated. Worship in every stroke.
Caitlyn clenched her teeth.
“More,” she said. “Deeper.”
Violet hummed in answer, the sound vibrating against Caitlyn’s core. It sent lightning through her spine. Her head fell forward, and she looked down.
She should’ve stopped.
She should’ve torn herself away.
But what she saw—
Violet’s face buried between her thighs, brow furrowed in devotion. Her fingers digging into Caitlyn’s hips like they were the only anchor left in this life. Kneeling like a penitent before the altar of something divine.
Caitlyn’s body clenched around her. Her hips bucked once.
“Don’t stop,” she said. “Not until I say.”
Violet whimpered. And obeyed.
The sounds—wet, desperate—filled the candlelit room like a hymn. Caitlyn’s thighs trembled. Her fingers tightened in Violet’s hair. Her stomach tensed.
It came on fast.
She tried to fight it. She tried to hold it off.
But Violet sucked harder, her tongue fucking her with brutal precision now, and Caitlyn shattered.
She cried out—loud, raw—and collapsed forward, both hands in Violet’s hair. Her orgasm hit like an exorcism, violent and holy, her soul slamming against the ceiling of her own body.
And still—Violet didn’t stop.
She kept licking, kissing, whispering against her like prayer.
Caitlyn pulled her up finally—yanked her up—and crashed their mouths together.
She could taste herself on Violet’s tongue.
And then—when the kiss broke—she stared into Violet’s eyes, their foreheads pressed together.
“I will burn for this,” Caitlyn whispered.
“I already am,” Violet said.
They stood like that—waiting for a thunderclap that wouldn’t come, only the low drum of blood between them, thick and dangerous.
Caitlyn’s voice was quiet, but sharp. “Undress me.”
Violet blinked once, slow. Her breath hitched in her chest.
“You’re certain?” she asked, the whisper of a soldier trained to obey but terrified of what obedience might cost.
Caitlyn stepped forward, just enough that the front of her cassock brushed Violet’s chest. “Do it slowly.”
Violet reached up with both hands. Her fingers trembled. She began at the buttons—one by one, ivory slipping through their loops. The white of Caitlyn’s papal robes gave way to skin, porcelain-pale, impossibly soft-looking beneath the starched fabric.
She exhaled through her nose as she went, head bowed as if in prayer.
Caitlyn watched her the entire time.
“Eyes on me,” she said. “Don’t look away.”
Violet looked up. And undressed the Holy Father like she was being judged for every second of it.
The robes slid from Caitlyn’s shoulders, a sacred collapse of cloth. Beneath, she wore only a simple chemise, and beneath that—nothing.
Violet made a sound. Barely a sound at all.
“Your Holiness—”
Caitlyn silenced her with a touch—two fingers beneath her chin, lifting her face fully.
“On the bed,” she said.
Violet’s obedience was absolute.
They moved together, tangled in silence. Caitlyn sat first, legs spread slightly, the folds of the white chemise parting like pages. Violet knelt between them. Always kneeling.
Her hands slid up Caitlyn’s thighs.
And then—breasts.
Violet paused. Caitlyn raised an eyebrow.
“Well?”
Violet flushed. “They’re perfect,” she whispered.
“Touch them.”
Violet did.
She cupped them gently, reverently, then leaned forward and kissed one. Then the other. Her mouth opened, her tongue circling a nipple slowly before she sucked—hard enough to draw a gasp from Caitlyn’s mouth.
Caitlyn’s thighs twitched.
“Put your fingers in your mouth,” she said.
Violet froze. Then obeyed.
Two fingers—her own—pushed between her lips. She didn’t just suck them.
She choked on them.
Her eyes fluttered. Her jaw opened wide, saliva catching at the corners of her mouth. Her tongue curled around her fingers, obscene and slow, and then deeper, until her throat clenched.
The sound it made—it was filth.
Caitlyn was panting now. “Lower,” she whispered. “Keep them in. Let me watch you struggle.”
Violet whimpered. Her eyes watered. But she didn’t stop.
She gagged once—hard—and Caitlyn’s hand shot out, cupping her cheek.
“Now—take those wet fingers and fuck me with them.”
Violet groaned.
She pulled her hand back, strings of spit still clinging between her lips and knuckles, and reached down between Caitlyn’s legs.
“You’re so wet,” Violet whispered, breath hot against her chest. “You’re dripping, Your Holiness—”
“Say that again,” Caitlyn snarled.
Violet looked up, flushed and undone. “You’re dripping, Your Holiness.”
The first push of her fingers made Caitlyn moan—loud and sharp. The second had her hips rolling.
“Harder,” she ordered. “I want to feel it.”
Violet obeyed.
She fucked her deep, relentless, her own saliva easing the way. Her palm pressed tight to Caitlyn’s clit. The angle—her strength—made it brutal.
But Caitlyn loved it.
She threw her head back. “You think this absolves you?”
Violet gasped. “No, Your Holiness.”
“Then why do you do it?”
“Because I want to burn with you.”
Caitlyn’s breath caught. Her hands gripped the headboard behind her.
“Faster,” she growled. “Don’t stop.”
Violet’s fingers moved harder, knuckles slick, her whole arm working with raw, sinful reverence. She watched Caitlyn’s face the whole time—watched her come apart, watched the flush climb her chest, her jaw clench, her stomach tighten.
And when Caitlyn came—screaming into the crook of her arm—Violet didn’t stop until her body trembled, until she slumped back against the pillows, legs falling open like the gates of heaven.
Caitlyn lay still, her breath ragged in the dim light. Her thighs were open, her body slick and flushed, limbs spread across the white sheets like a blasphemous offering. Her hair clung to her temples. Her chest rose and fell like a prayer gasped into silence.
Violet should have pulled away.
She didn’t.
Without a word, without instruction, she pressed a kiss to Caitlyn’s thigh. Then another, higher. And then—
Her tongue touched her.
Soft at first. Just a taste.
Caitlyn’s breath stuttered.
She looked down, eyes heavy and disbelieving, to find Violet kneeling again—between her legs this time, her face buried, her hands gripping her hips like she’d never let go.
And Violet moaned.
The sound it made—low, desperate—nearly broke her.
“You—” Caitlyn gasped, but the words didn’t form. Her head hit the pillow again.
Violet licked deeper.
Her tongue slid through Caitlyn’s folds, slow and thick, gathering everything she had left behind. She didn’t rush. She wasn’t trying to make her come again. She was cleaning her, mouth full of sin, devotion, love, and something darker.
And God—she made it feel like penance.
Every pass of her tongue was deliberate. Violet licked through Caitlyn’s arousal like it was sacred. She circled her clit, flicked against the oversensitive bundle of nerves just to hear her whimper, then dragged her tongue down again, catching everything, swallowing every trace.
Caitlyn reached down without thinking.
Her fingers tangled in Violet’s hair.
“You filthy girl,” she whispered.
Violet groaned into her.
Caitlyn’s voice cracked. “I didn’t tell you to do this.”
Violet didn’t stop.
Caitlyn tightened her grip and pulled her head up just slightly, enough to meet her eyes.
Violet’s mouth was wet, her chin shining. Her breath came out hot against Caitlyn’s inner thigh.
“I couldn’t help it,” she rasped.
Caitlyn stared at her. “You’re insatiable.”
“I want every part of you,” Violet said.
Caitlyn’s jaw locked. Her thighs trembled.
“And if I told you to stop?”
Violet’s eyes darkened. “I’d die trying.”
That broke something open.
Caitlyn shoved her back down.
Violet laughed, breathless, and went deeper—mouth open, tongue flat, licking long and obscene.
Caitlyn bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.
“You think God is watching us?” she whispered.
Violet hummed into her. The vibration made Caitlyn curse.
“You’re on your knees,” Caitlyn said, breath unraveling, “tongue deep in the Pope’s cunt—and you’re still the most devoted creature I’ve ever seen.”
Violet moaned.
Caitlyn’s voice dropped, hoarse and trembling. “Finish what you started.”
And Violet did.
She licked her clean like a sinner starving for grace.
She didn’t stop until Caitlyn was trembling again—until her muscles had gone weak, until her thighs closed around Violet’s head like a benediction, until she collapsed back against the pillows and whispered—
“God forgive me.”
And Violet, still between her legs, kissed the inside of her knee like a vow.
“I hope He never does.”
The silence after was thick—humid with breath, heavy with something unspoken. Caitlyn reclined back on the pillows, still bare, still flushed. Her chest rose with each slow inhale. Her thighs, damp and parted, glistened faintly in the low light.
Violet was still there. On the bed. Between her legs.
Just breathing.
But Caitlyn could see it—how she trembled. The way her arms were locked tight at her sides, fists balled in the bedsheets. The tension in her shoulders, the press of her thighs against the mattress. Her hips—her hips were rocking. Slow, desperate. Grinding down against the duvet, small, helpless movements.
“Violet,” she said softly.
Violet froze.
Her hands clenched in the sheets.
“Look at you.”
Violet didn’t raise her head. Just whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Caitlyn asked, though her voice lacked any real rebuke.
Violet let out a sob, half-laugh, muffled by the bed. “I didn’t mean to—Your Holiness, I—”
Caitlyn said nothing. She simply reached down, one hand threading through Violet’s hair. Her fingers rested there a moment, curled gently at the base of her skull, as if claiming her.
Tears had gathered at the corners of Violet’s eyes. Her mouth was swollen, lips bitten red. Her chest heaved with shallow breaths.
Caitlyn smiled, slow and cruel in its tenderness. “Poor thing.”
Violet whimpered.
Caitlyn kissed her.
It wasn’t soft. It was claiming—mouth against mouth, full of slick heat and hunger and the electric tension of surrender. When she pulled back, she whispered, “Let me take care of you.”
Violet’s eyes widened. “You—”
“Lie down.”
Violet obeyed without question, scrambling onto the bed, gasping as the sheets hit her skin. She moved to lie flat on her back, legs parted, body trembling with need. Caitlyn moved above her—slow, commanding—and settled between Violet’s thighs.
Still kneeling between Violet’s legs, she reached up and began to undress her. Every movement was deliberate. The buttons of Violet’s shirt—one at a time, slow and reverent. She peeled it off her shoulders and ran her hands over bare skin. The light from the bedside lamp painted gold across Violet’s chest, her stomach, her trembling arms.
“Be still,” Caitlyn whispered.
Violet obeyed, teeth biting down on her lip to keep the sound in.
Caitlyn unclasped her bra with two fingers and slid it away. She paused, watching Violet’s breath hitch as her breasts were exposed. Caitlyn looked, then touched—just with her fingertips at first, then her mouth. She kissed softly, then sucked, lavishing attention on each breast until Violet was panting.
“Your Holiness—”
Caitlyn silenced her with a hand to her jaw. “Don’t speak.”
Violet whimpered.
Then Caitlyn moved down, unbuttoning her pants, tugging them over her hips. The wet spot on her underwear was dark, obscene.
Caitlyn smiled.
She dragged the soaked fabric down Violet’s thighs—slowly, methodically. The cool air hit her, and Violet squirmed, trying to rub her thighs together for friction.
“Don’t,” Caitlyn said sharply.
Violet froze.
Caitlyn loomed above her. Her hands trailed up Violet’s bare thighs with aching slowness, until they reached her waist. She splayed her fingers there, thumbs brushing the ridges of Violet’s hip bones.
“So beautiful,” she murmured.
Violet’s breath stuttered.
Caitlyn leaned down—not to take, but to taste. Her mouth pressed to the line of Violet’s stomach, just above the swell of her cunt. She kissed lower, then drew back, watching Violet’s muscles tense, her stomach flutter.
Then she moved upward.
She started with Violet’s hip, pressing her lips to the sharp curve of bone, tongue flicking out in slow, wet drags. Violet twitched. Caitlyn didn’t relent. She moved over the plane of her belly, worshipping the softness with long, indulgent kisses. Her nose brushed skin. Her breath made it worse.
When she reached Violet’s breasts again, Caitlyn used her mouth without mercy. She sucked one nipple deep between her lips, holding it there until Violet moaned. She didn’t let go—not until it was swollen, wet, marked. Then she gave the other the same attention.
Violet arched, breath ragged, trying not to beg.
Caitlyn didn’t stop. She moved higher.
Her tongue found Violet’s collarbones, laving slowly at the hollow between them. She bit there—just a little. Enough to leave a mark.
“Please—” Violet whispered, voice hoarse. “Please, Your Holiness—”
Caitlyn dragged her mouth up the column of Violet’s throat. Her hand kept Violet’s jaw tilted just right, exposing every inch. She licked a stripe from collarbone to jawline, then kissed just below her ear.
Then she bit—the side of Violet’s neck, hard enough to make her cry out.
A bloom of red followed.
Caitlyn kissed the bruise as it formed. She marked her again, a little lower. A constellation of purpling skin, of obedience. Of sin.
When Violet was shaking, skin flushed, nipples peaked and lips parted in near-silent prayer—Caitlyn moved lower again.
Her mouth mapped every inch. The dip of Violet’s waist. The heat behind her knees. The trembling stretch of her inner thighs. Caitlyn kissed the inside of one, then the other, holding Violet open, nose brushing the wetness she refused to touch just yet.
“You smell like devotion,” Caitlyn whispered.
Violet sobbed. “Please—please just—”
Caitlyn settled lower. Her mouth hovered.
No warning.
Just Caitlyn’s mouth—hot, open, hungry—pressed to Violet’s cunt.
Violet screamed.
Her back arched violently off the bed, hands flying to Caitlyn’s shoulders. But Caitlyn didn’t let up. She groaned against her, tongue flattening, licking broad and slow through Violet’s soaked folds. Then faster—targeted—flicking over her clit in short, ruthless strokes.
Violet cried out again, high-pitched and raw.
“Oh—God—Your Holiness—”
Caitlyn moaned into her.
It vibrated straight through Violet’s core.
Her hips jerked upward, but Caitlyn’s hands pressed her down, thumbs digging into the crease of her thighs.
“I—I can’t—” Violet gasped. “Please—please—”
Caitlyn’s lips sealed around her clit. She sucked.
Violet howled.
Her legs thrashed. Her hands fisted in the sheets again. Her body writhed as Caitlyn’s tongue worked merciless circles, then dragged lower, teasing her entrance before plunging back up—lashing, sucking, consuming.
She was feral. Her mouth slick, her breath ragged against Violet’s skin. She was lost in it. Drinking her down like something sacred.
Violet sobbed aloud.
Caitlyn pulled back just enough to breathe against her. “You’re so wet.”
“Your Holiness—” Violet whimpered.
Caitlyn groaned and sucked her again.
Violet’s body was a live wire—convulsing, desperate.
“I’m gonna—please—I’m gonna come—”
Caitlyn didn’t stop.
Violet bucked against her face, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Please—please—Your Holiness—can I—?”
She choked on a sob. “Can I come?”
Caitlyn pulled back, just a breath.
“You want permission?”
Violet nodded wildly. “Yes. Yes, please—please let me—”
Caitlyn’s voice dropped to a rasp.
“Then come for me.”
She dove back in.
Violet came immediately.
Her scream broke in her throat. Her whole body seized—back arched, thighs clenching around Caitlyn’s head, fingers clawing at the sheets. She shattered. Cried out until she had no breath left.
And still—Caitlyn licked her through it.
Gentle now. Reverent. Every sweep of her tongue like absolution.
When Violet finally collapsed back into the mattress, shaking and wrecked, Caitlyn crawled up to her. Pressed a kiss to her mouth, deep and claiming, letting her taste herself on Caitlyn’s lips.
Violet whimpered into it.
Caitlyn pulled back. Brushed her fingers through sweat-drenched hair.
“Thank you,” Violet breathed.
Caitlyn said nothing for a long time.
Then: “You don’t belong to God right now.”
A beat.
“You belong to me.”