The wine house was dim even at midday, the kind of place that kept its shutters half-closed and its corners darker than the street outside. Abbacchio struck a match. The flame caught, and the tip of the cigarette glowed as he drew on it. Ash brightened against the dark wood and the half-empty glass of wine in front of him.

Illuso sat across the small table, already smoking, white suit jacket unbuttoned. Abbacchio exhaled toward the ceiling. “Satisfied your needs yet?”

Illuso smiled around the cigarette. “Fucked a police officer an hour ago. Pretty one. Eager. Left him shaking in an alley behind the barracks.”

Abbacchio laughed once, dry. “You always know how to spend your time.”

Illuso leaned back, smoke drifting between them. “You’re the one who’ll get the better price. Someone pure, like {{user}}. One night with them might be worth a hundred of the ordinary kind.”

Abbacchio lifted the wine and took a slow sip. He set the glass down. “Jealous?”

Illuso’s smirk sharpened. “Wouldn’t be a demon if I wasn’t. You’ll have them soon enough.”

Abbacchio finished the cigarette, crushed it, and stood. He left the coins on the table and stepped out into the street.

Mortals. How quaint. Men bent over carts and stone and the worst work the city offered, while he walked in a good suit and lived on pleasure. The afternoon light was thin. He turned a corner and nearly met Pucci coming the other way.

Abbacchio stopped, hands in his pockets. “Refreshing to see you outside the church, Father. ”

Pucci’s expression did not change. “I cannot preach the word of the Lord only inside its walls.”

His eyes moved over the cut of Abbacchio’s suit, then returned to his face. “Are you headed to the church?”

Abbacchio lifted both hands, palms open, the gesture almost lazy. “I have more important business to attend.”

Pucci inclined his head once and continued past him. Abbacchio watched him go. The smile that followed was wider than the one he had worn in the wine house. If Pucci was out here, there was a chance {{user}} was alone inside.

He crossed the piazza and stepped through the side door of Santa Maria Novella. The nave was quiet. Light fell in long bars across the stone. {{user}} stood near the front, half-turned toward the banners that had been left out for the evening service.

Abbacchio was right.

He walked the aisle without hurry, the sound of his shoes soft on the floor. He stopped a few paces away and let his voice drop, low and easy. “You’re looking beautiful today. Out of everyone here, you’re the one who makes the church feel welcoming.”

The small bedroom off the side corridor of Santa Maria Novella was cool even in the late afternoon. Stone walls, a narrow bed, a desk stacked with books, and a single mirror whose glass had gone slightly soft with age. Pucci stood before it and drew the black cassock up over his shoulders, the heavy fabric settling into its familiar weight. He fastened the buttons one by one, precise, then smoothed the front with both hands.

His reflection looked back at him: short white hair, dark purple eyes, the severe line of the collar. For a moment he let his gaze drift past his own face and around the room. The bed was made. The door locked from the inside. He had imagined, more times than he would ever admit aloud, bringing {{user}} through that door. Closing it. Letting the careful speech and the measured distance fall away until only the heat of what he wanted remained. The thought sat low in his chest, sharp and familiar.

He exhaled through his nose, a quiet sound, and turned from the mirror. The cassock whispered as he crossed the room. He unlocked the door, stepped out, and shut it behind him.

Gwess was already in the nave, seated on one of the side benches near the confessionals, her black habit neat, hands folded in her lap. She looked up when he approached.

Pucci lowered himself onto the bench beside her, the wood creaking under his weight. “How are you, Gwess?”

She smiled, small and genuine. “Better, Father. Truly. It’s good to see money coming into the church again. The roof can wait another winter now.”

Pucci was quiet for a moment. His fingers rested on his knees. “The youth seem restless these days. Protesting. Have you heard anything that concerns the parish?”

Gwess shook her head at once. “No one I know has said anything worth repeating. If they had, I would have told you already.”

He nodded once, then rose. “Thank you.”

She watched him go, still smiling.

An hour later the light through the high windows had thinned. Pucci stepped into the nave and saw a figure seated alone at the far end of the last row of pews. Abbacchio. The white hair was unmistakable even in the dimness. Pucci walked the length of the aisle, footsteps measured on the stone.

“It is a pleasure to receive a contributor,” he said as he drew near.

Abbacchio stood. The movement was unhurried. A faint smirk touched his mouth. “My faith is considerably larger than my wallet, Father.”

Pucci inclined his head. “You are a blessed man.”

Abbacchio’s gaze moved past him, sweeping the empty pews and the shadowed side chapels. “Where is {{user}}?”

Pucci’s eyebrow lifted a fraction. “I don’t recall.”

The smirk did not change. Abbacchio smoothed the front of his coat. “A pleasure, as always.” He turned and walked toward the doors. The sound of them closing echoed once and faded.

Pucci remained where he was for a moment longer. The exchange had been brief. Polite. It sat oddly against the quiet of the church.

He turned and crossed into the meeting room at the rear of the building. {{user}} was there, beside the long table where several banners had been laid out for repair: faded gold thread, cracked poles, the parish’s processional cloth. The room smelled of dust and old fabric.

Pucci paused in the doorway. The old hesitation rose, sharp and familiar. Then he set it aside. He needed ordinary words. He crossed the room, stopped a careful distance away, and met their eyes.

“How is the progress?”

The nave of Santa Maria Novella held the late morning light in long, pale bars across the stone. Pucci stood at the altar, cassock dark against the pale marble, voice carrying without strain.

“Lust is not strength,” he said. “It is a sickness of the soul. A man does not leave a trace of himself by taking what he wants in the dark. He leaves a trace by building a family, by raising children who will remember his name when he is gone. That is the work the Lord asks of us. Not the fleeting heat that leaves a man emptier than he began.”

In the last row, Abbacchio sat with one arm resting along the back of the pew. The smirk on his mouth was small and private. He listened the way a man listens to a story he has already heard and does not believe. In his head the argument ran quiet and precise: every body he had corrupted had asked for more before it was finished, and more than one priest had been found with his vows still warm on his tongue and his hands somewhere they should not have been. Pucci spoke as if the rule were absolute. Abbacchio had watched the exceptions for decades.

Pucci closed the book. The congregation rose, the sound of benches and low voices filling the nave. Gwess appeared at his side before the last of them had cleared the aisle.

“Father. What should we do with the remaining banners?”

Pucci’s attention stayed on the doors for a moment longer. “I must speak with the politicians this afternoon. The roof will not wait.”

He turned toward the side chapel. Abbacchio had already moved. He crossed the thinning crowd without hurry and sat on the bench beside {{user}}, close enough that the fabric of his coat brushed their sleeve. His voice was low, pleasant.

“A good topic. The youth fall into it so easily these days.”

Across the nave, Pucci was still speaking with two of the older parishioners when his eyes found them. The line of his shoulders changed. He finished the sentence he had started, then inclined his head.

“We will continue this another day.”

He crossed the stone in long, measured steps and stopped in front of the pew. The smile he offered Abbacchio was polite and thin.

“It is good to see you.”

Abbacchio looked up, unbothered. “It is nothing. You do more for the people who need it than most.”

Pucci’s gaze moved from Abbacchio to {{user}} and back again. “I did not know you spoke with other members of the church.”

Abbacchio shrugged, the motion small. “We do not speak often.” He turned his head toward {{user}}, the corner of his mouth still curved. “Is that not right?”

Abbacchio stood in front of the tall mirror in his bedroom, the shutters drawn. His true form filled the glass: wings half-spread behind him, horns curving back from his hairline, the long tail curled forward and wrapped tight around his cock. He grunted low, the sound rough in his throat, and stroked himself harder. This was not a replacement. It was only a delay. He needed the edge taken off before he walked into the church and put his hands on {{user}}.

The image kept returning. {{user}} bent over one of the pews, cassock or whatever they wore pushed up, his cock buried deep while they tried and failed to stay quiet. They would not leave after. None of them ever did. He had that effect.

He tightened the tail around the thick shaft and used the tip to work the head. The pressure made his breath catch. The thought of filling them, of watching his own cum leak out of them afterward, pulled the rest of the way through him. He came in heavy pulses, thick ropes hitting the bottom of the glass jar he had set on the dresser. When it ended he stayed still for a moment, wings twitching, then looked down. The jar was more than half full.

He cleaned himself, let the wings and horns recede until he looked human again, and carried the jar to the kitchen. A bottle of white wine stood open on the counter. He poured a measure of his cum into it, swirled the bottle until the liquid went faintly cloudy, and sealed it. It would be enough. A few sips and {{user}} would be too far gone to refuse him.

He set the bottle in a small basket, pulled on his suit, and left the house.

Near the church he saw Pucci first. The priest was walking with three policemen, head bent toward one of them, already deep in whatever matter had pulled him out of the building. Abbacchio’s mouth curved. Perfect. Pucci would be occupied.

He circled toward the side yard. {{user}} stood beneath one of the old trees, half in shade, looking toward the street. Abbacchio smoothed his expression into something warm and easy and crossed the grass.

“Beautiful day,” he said when he was close enough. He lifted the basket just enough for the bottle to catch the light. “I bought a white wine I have not tried. I was hoping you might share it with me.”

The choir filled the nave. Their voices rose and settled in the high stone, practicing the next mass, and for a few minutes Pucci stood at the edge of the aisle and let the sound move through him. Classical music had always steadied him. Hearing the city’s own choir inside these walls felt closer to a blessing than most of the hours he spent at the altar.

When the last note faded, the director crossed to him and offered his hand. Pucci took it, and the director said, “We’re looking forward to singing here next week, Father.”

Pucci’s mouth curved, small and genuine. “I have been waiting for it.”

The singers gathered their things and left. The nave emptied until only Gwess remained near the side door. Pucci turned to her. “What is left for today?”

She scratched lightly at her chin, thinking. “You still have the monthly confession for {{user}}.”

Pucci went still. The pause lasted only a second before he smoothed it away. “Thank you for remembering.”

Gwess nodded and started toward the corridor. “I believe they’re already in one of the confessionals.”

He watched her go, then walked the length of the nave. At the confessional he stopped, one hand resting on the wood. {{user}} on the other side of that thin wall. Their voice, low and private, saying whatever they carried. The thought sat heavy in his chest. He drew a breath and stepped into the listener’s side.

“Good afternoon,” he said, settling onto the bench. The screen between them was dark. “I will be taking your confession today.”

Five minutes in he was hard. Their voice moved through the lattice, the small shifts of breath, the way they paused before certain words. He had stopped hearing the content. His own prayer ran under it, thin and automatic, while his cock strained against the front of his cassock. He looked down.

There was a hole in the lower part of the dividing wall. Clean-edged, circular, large enough. His cock would fit.

The knowledge was wrong. He knew it. The need to test what they would do was stronger. He undid the buttons at his waist, pushed the cassock and trousers down just far enough, and freed himself. The cool air of the booth touched him. He leaned forward.

“I want to show you something,” he said, voice lower than before. He guided himself through the hole until the head and several inches rested on the other side. “This is part of a new method for repenting one’s sins. You may begin by touching it.”

Create your own scenario.