Fic! 'Corpus et Sanguine (Body and Blood)' - Steve/Bucky, Adult, AU....
So! I wrote a D/s fic for a Steve/Bucky challenge over at AO3, and the fic authors were just revealed! So I wanted to post it. Go read *everything* at the Summer Lovin' Fic Exchange. All the fic are D/s, all are Steve/Bucky.
The fic *for* me is Brooklyn (We Go Hard), by anseladamsfan. A little rough play, a little bondage, a little delight...:)
Myself, I wrote, as per requested, a Medieval AU, with Sergeant Templar Stiofan and Master Fixer Mason Apprentice Jacopo, in 13th century Italy. Some bondage, some spanking, some flogging...perhaps a little blasphemy. :) If you're into that, well - here we go.
Also at AO3.
Beta'd, as always, by the delightful and dedicated darkhavens. Thank you, bb!
Summary: A Sergeant in the order of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon (or Templars), Stiofán has travelled from his home in Ireland to Italy, to assist in the raising of a new church and Templar headquarters, under the auspices of brother Knights Templar Bonvicino. Stiofán is steadfast, pious, and dedicated, and his work as architect and artist is invaluable to the endeavor.
Jacopo is an Apprentice to the Master Fixer Mason, cutting stone to fit seamlessly with stone, an exacting and difficult job, and one he does flawlessly.
Both of them discover something in the other that leads to distraction, to temptation...to sin.
See the end for notes, translations and links.
Perugia, Umbria, central Italy - 1256
Temple of San Michele Arcangelo
It was aoine, fast day, and Stiofán faced the grey-white twilight before dawn with nothing but water, for his face, his hands, and his belly. The air in his cell had cooled in the night only a little, and he pushed wet fingers back through his hair and carefully, by feel, trimmed errant hairs from under his chin, making his beard smooth.
After drying with a thin, linen towel, he picked up his tunic and eased the dark brown garment over his head, wincing just a little. Then he stepped into the braies, tugging the drawstring snug, and tied the braided, woolen cord about his waist. It rubbed a little, a flare of heat, but Stiofán ignored it. He then slipped on the surcoat of heavy black linen, with the red cross stitched to the front. The red - all of his clothing - was fading a little, from the salt of his sweat, from sunlight and heat. Stiofán looked down at the cross for a moment, smoothing the worn cloth, and then he bent to pull on his leather shoes, fastening the strap at the ankle.
Over all, he lapped the long, leather belt around his waist, but only hung from it the dagger in its plain sheath. Not for the consecrated site was the sword, weapon of war. This was not the place for such a thing.
From the small table under the window, Stiofán picked up the sheaf of papers and folio that rested there; the plans and drawings and notes that he would need to work that day. A new course of stone was being laid for the church, and Stiofán had to be extra-vigilant. An entire section had been laid face-bedded the day before, which must of course be removed and turned and properly seated, or risk that portion of the wall degrading too quickly.
Stiofán had been distracted, yesterday; distracted and disgusted with himself, so much so that, after compline, he had knelt down in his cell, stripped to the waist, and prayed for strength and forgiveness. So, today he fasted, not only from meat but from all food, hoping to purify his body of ill humors, and his mind of ill thoughts. Impure thoughts.
He stepped out of his cell and walked down the hallway, the white plaster a dim, milky blue, the stone underfoot cold. At the end was an iron-barred door, and he stepped through it into the ambulatory of the Temple, and then across to the presbytery, where he knelt before the altar. He could hear the brothers at lauds, in the western chapel, but they let him be here, on his own. Respect or fear, he did not know.
Stiofán stared up at the crucifix,and then he bowed his head and prayed.
Some time later, he pushed himself stiffly to his feet, walking to the ambulatory, treading the circle of it to the door. A figure detached itself from the shadows and joined him; a short, round man of middle years, with a greying fringe of hair and deeply socketed, dark brown eyes. Fra Pietro, who, of all the monks, was not wary of Stiofán.
"Buon giorno, Dominus," Fra Pietro said, and Stiofán grimaced at that Dominus, trying to hide it. He was not the master here, not even a knight, but a Sergeant of the order. His family was too poor, too common, for him to have ever attained knighthood.. But still he served, and still, he could not break the Fra of the habits of a lifetime.
"Buon giorno, Fra Pietro," Stiofán said back, polite but distant. He was not in the mood for conversation that day.
"Will you break your fast with us, Dominus?" Fra Pietro asked, in Latin this time, as Stiofán did not have much Italian yet. He'd only come from Éire two months before, after a month at sea, and the sing-song of the language would not settle into his brain.
"No, thank you, Fra. I am fasting today."
"Oh, I see." Fra Pietro looked worried, and Stiofán stifled his irritation, forced himself to calm. The man was a humble and pious soul, and did not deserve Stiofán's temper.
"I have much work today, Fra Pietro. I may not return until after compline. God be with you today."
"And with you," Fra Pietro said, coming to a stop at the main door, pulling it a little wider as Stiofán walked through. He could feel the monk's gaze on his back all the way down the hill.
The new temple was nearer the Tiber river, on its own hillock that had been cleared and leveled, and then dedicated to a local legend, saint and hermit, San Bevignate. The foundation had been dug and finished while Stiofán was at sea, and now the courses of sandstone were being laid for the walls. A scaffold of pine boards advanced upward with the bricks, like a warped, shaky skeleton, and all around the site were heaps of rock and mud and rope, pavilions for the Masters, a smithy, and all manner of shelters, makeshift workshops and ratty tents and lean-tos for the workers and builders who swarmed the site every day.
Most every day. Today, though, was the first day of a festival - nothing like the nineteen-day-long festival that had commemorated the ground-breaking of the temple, but something else. Fra Pietro hadn't seemed eager to explain, but had suggested that Stiofán might wish to remain at San Michele Arcangelo today. Stiofán, angry at himself, and impatient (another sin on his soul), had dismissed his concerns, and gone to his cell to pray.
So now, with the sun just climbing over the hills of cypress and cedar, the work site was not waking in its usual way, with cook fires and cursing and dust. It was a steady stream of boys and apprentices and Masters, faces washed and newest clothing on, walking into Perugia; pushing and grinning and chattering, heading for the Cathedral of San Lorenzo e San Ercolano, to be blessed by Bishop Salvio de' Salvi.
And then released, to what, Stiofán did not know. Games and feasts and merriment. Diversions. Sins, most assuredly. The people of this place, Stiofán thought, did not have enough care for their souls.
Stiofán walked slowly to the pavilion he was accustomed to use, ignoring the way the workers were avoiding looking at him. Afraid, no doubt, he would force them to stop, to work, as they should be. But Stiofán couldn't bring himself to care. Still distracted.
He went into the pavilion and stopped, jaw clenching so hard it hurt. Here was the reason for his distraction, the reason for his temper, and his disgust.
Jacopo. The Fixer Mason's apprentice. He was perhaps a year older than Stiofán, but everything about him was youthful. He wore his hair long, in waving locks. His tunic was always rumpled, if indeed it was even on his back, his feet were always bare, and dusty. His eyes, his blue, blue eyes, were always laughing with some secret, inner amusement that infuriated and intrigued Stiofán by turns. The marks on his tanned back bore some history, some story that Stiofán could not guess, but every glimpse of those silvery lines made his heart crowd painfully in his chest.
Jacopo was standing in the pavilion, a sack of wine at his feet, a squat pottery cup in his hand, idly turning over pages of sketches and notes. Invading, impudent, untidy.
"Dominus!" he said, with a bright grin and a lift of the cup. "I guessed you would be working."
"It is a work day," Stiofán said, and then only stood there, uncertain, in the entrance to the pavilion. Because to cross the dust and straw of the floor would be to cross to him. To stand in his heat, and the salt-musky smell of him.
"Only for you, Dominus," Jacopo said, and lifted the cup to his mouth. Stiofán found himself staring at the cup - at Jacopo's lips - and licking his own, without thought, as Jacopo's tongue slid out, catching a stray drop and cleaning it away.
Jacopo made a small sound and Stiofán dragged his gaze back to meet the other man's, which were hooded in the shadows of the pavilion, assessing...intense. Stiofán could feel the dull heat of a blush stain his cheeks, and he jerked abruptly into motion, striding across the ground, snatching up the papers Jacopo had been looking at. He saw a smudge of dust on one, smearing delicate lines, and had to fight the instinct to curl his hand into a fist.
"Apprentice. What are you doing?"
"I came to invite you to the festival, Dominus," Jacopo said, his blue eyes wide, all innocence, with the stain of wine on his plush lips. His Latin was a little accented, different than the Fra. "I came to make you stop working so hard. You work too hard, Dominus."
"I work as hard as I must, Apprentice. God wants the sweat of my labor, not...libations."
"Why can't he want both, Dominus? Did he not make the vine? Did he not turn water into wine?" Jacopo grinned, lifting the cup that was beaded with condensation. He took a sip of the wine and Stiofán found himself watching how the man's long, tanned throat moved as he swallowed. Felt in his loins the hot, traitorous flush, the quickening of flesh that he detested and yet still...made use of. In the darkness, in despair.
Jacopo saw him watching, and his mouth spread in a slow, sweet smile as he lifted the cup again. Stiofán felt a surge of violent anger and, before he could think better of it, he slapped the cup away, sending it spinning and thumping to the dirt, the dregs of the wine inside spattering out in a pale arc.
Jacopo made a small sound, jerking back, his hand going to his mouth, and Stiofán saw that his lip was bruised, pinched between cup and teeth, a smear of blood trailing into the morning stubble he had not removed. Stiofán's anger sank as quickly as it had risen, and in its place came shame. For lashing out, for hurting. For losing his control, for letting Jacopo know...that he affected Stiofán.
"I- I am sorry, I...should not-" Stiofán lifted his hand and almost touched the darkening swell of Jacopo's lip. Then snatched his hand back before he could make contact, breathing hard. "Dia logh dom…. Tá brón orm," he whispered, his Latin deserting him.
Jacopo licked at the bruise, and then he grinned, and Stiofán felt his heart skip. "No, no, Dominus, no. It's nothing! Just a little bump. It's fine," Jacopo said. He slung his arm around Stiofán's shoulders, shaking him a little, rough, like boys always were, and Stiofán couldn't hold back the hiss of pain, the sudden sweat on his brow.
"What did-? Are you hurt? Have you been hurt? Let me see," Jacopo said, and Stiofán lifted a shaking hand, trying to ward the other man away.
"I am- I am unhurt, do not-"
"You are not, you looked ill when you came in, let me see," Jacopo said, his voice rough, and his hands hauled at Stiofán's clothing, at surcoat and tunic, yanking them free of Stiofán's belt, baring some of his back. His warm hands, bunched in the linen, froze, and Stiofán bowed his head, shaking in humiliation as quick tears burning in his squeezed-shut eyes.
"Oh, oh, Dominus. Who? Who would do such a thing? Who would hurt you so?"
Stiofán could feel Jacopo's fingertips just touching along the edges of the wounds on his back. The long, puffy weals left by the knotted cord that Stiofán had flogged himself with, trying to drive out the unclean thoughts - the perverse thoughts - that this man, this dark and golden man, inspired in Stiofán every day, every night.
"No one, no...it is not…I, I...am impure. My thoughts are filth. I...deserve…. I deserve much worse."
There was silence, and then Jacopo let the cloth fall, gently and carefully smoothing them down. His hand on Stiofán's shoulder tugged, making him turn; his fingertips slid through Stiofán's beard and lifted his chin, forcing him to look up.
"No, my Dominus. No. You are a good man. You are devout, and good, you are…bello, mio sole, bello." Jacopo's eyes were grave and wide, the blue gone dark, his smiling mouth downturned now, and Stiofán wanted to smooth the crease between his brows, wanted to sooth his distress.
The throbbing of the weals on his back reminded him that he should not. Must not. Jacopo sighed, and stepped back, and bent to pick up the wine, and then the cup. He looked at Stiofán once more, sorrow in his gaze. "Dominus, I will show you. I will...win your forgiveness, for the pain I have caused."
"Jacopo," Stiofán started, but the man was gone, striding out of the pavilion, and a moment later Stiofán walked stiffly after him, stepping out into the dust and strange quiet of the work site. Jacopo was gone, and the last of the craftsmen, boys, and apprentices were straggling out, dust drifting chalk-white in the beams of the sun. It was still morning, the jumbled stone outside the Mason's tent was still sparkling with dew, and Stiofán felt it had been...hours.
Years.
He wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands and then turned and went back in. Back to the notes and the drawings, the plans and the lists. Determined to forget.
Stiofán walked slowly up from the site, toward San Michele Arcangelo. He was tired, more in spirit than body. Tired of his thoughts, of his mind; tired of the disgraceful reactions of his body. He had not truly done any work all day. Now, in the long, golden light of late afternoon, he simply wanted to go to his cell, to meditate, to pray, to rest mind and body, and hope that God would forgive. Would give him peace.
At the temple, he walked wearily around behind, and drew water up from the well. He took off his surcoat and doused his head in the cold, fresh water. He scrubbed his face and neck and hands, and then drew up more, to drink deeply. Finally, he drew a last bucket up to take to his cell, for he must wash his back. He had seen infection, and nearly died of it, when he had been young and skinny and sickly.
Back in Gabhrán, in Chill Chainnigh. In Éire. Stiofán felt a deep wave of homesickness wash over him.
But he squared his shoulders and took up his belt and surcoat, lifted the full bucket with a little huff of effort, and trod the worn stones of the dim, cool passage to his cell. The single window - more of an arrow slit, for the temple had once also been a keep - let in a mellow ray of sunlight that fell on the plaster wall and the crucifix hung there. It lit to fire the nails in the Christ's hands and feet, made ruby the 'blood' painted there, and for a moment, Stiofán's eyes were dazzled, and he could see only that tortured figure.
He put the bucket down, his gaze fixed there, and stepped forward, meaning to kneel, to pray. Instead, he stumbled, his foot caught in something, and he looked down, blinking hard, momentarily blinded. Clothing was there, a neat little pile of it by his door, and Stiofán untangled his foot and looked up, puzzled. There was a figure kneeling beside his cot, and Stiofán felt his mouth go dry, and his heart thump, painfully fast. He pushed the door of his cell closed and then only stood there, his mind a whirl of confused thoughts, of terror, of….
No, he would not entertain that.
"Jacopo. Apprentice. Wh-what are you doing?"
The bowed head lifted fractionally, blue eyes flicking up and then away. "Serving my penance, Dominus. I have wounded you. I have caused you so much pain, and I must earn your forgiveness, Dominus. Please," Jacopo looked up fully, this time, long locks of silken hair sliding back, away from his cheeks. "Please make me serve penance. Let me suffer for your pardon."
"Jacopo," Stiofán began, helpless. It was true. It was because of Jacopo that Stiofán had knelt here, and beat himself. But it was also because of himself. That he had allowed the man to so incite him, that he had so little control over his own mind, and body.... "It was not- You are not to blame."
"But I am, Dominus," Jacopo said, and he unwound to his feet and spread his hands, showing his nude body, all shades of gold and tan, touch of cinnabar in his hair and on his lips. Long legs and torso and wide shoulders, muscled by his work on the stone, by chisel and hammer. Stiofán felt, again, that rush of heat and blood, that yearning in his belly and in his groin, and bit his lip, hard.
"I have tried, very hard, to make you notice me. I...craved your attention, Dominus. I craved your touch." Jacopo took a step forward and Stiofán stepped hastily back, into the closed door of his cell. He hissed at the pain of it, his back connecting with the aged wood. Jacopo made a noise of distress and hurried toward him, hands reaching, and Stiofán...Stiofán felt that anger in him - that furious, humiliated rage - and felt his own hands clenching into fists.
"Stop!" he barked, and Jacopo did, startled. "I did not give you permission to stand. Or to speak." Jacopo stared at him, wide-eyed, and then turned and slunk back to his place, and knelt. Stiofán took a deep breath, and shut his eyes for a moment. He must...be in control. He must remain in control. He must not let this man…cajole him.
If he were to give in, to soften toward him…. Stiofán knew he would be lost. All of him...would be lost. If Jacopo said he would do penance, then penance he would do. If Stiofán could remain calm - cold - perhaps he could teach him.
Stiofán took a deep, deep breath, and let it out slowly. He pushed the crumpled clothing Jacopo had left by the door aside, and stepped further into his cell. He hooked his belt to the peg in the wall where his sword-harness hung, and laid his dagger on the little table, then hung his surcoat from another peg. He looked for a moment up at the Christ, crossed himself, and then he turned away to study the figure kneeling beside his cot.
Jacopo's hands were flat on his thighs, his knees slightly parted, his head ducked down. But he was still looking up at Stiofán through the curtain of his hair, and in the mellow, golden air of the room, Stiofán was sure he was smiling.
He's like a boy, Stiofán thought. So sure he's going to get his way. So sure he's won. Stiofán remembered himself, as a boy, always running and climbing where he was not supposed to go; always fighting. Until the Father at Eaglais Mhuire took him under his wing, and showed him the beautiful illuminations in the holy books. Father had sponsored him to school, so that he could learn his letters and numbers, learn how to draw the plans and pictures that guided the Masters to erect places of worship and holy sacrament.
And when that boy had stolen windfall apples, or drawn unflattering images of the brothers, or neglected his prayers, the Father would look at him sadly, and then take Stiofán over his knee and spank him. Two or three hard slaps, and then he must go and scrub the scullery floor, or weed the gravel walkway. Stiofán remembered the humiliation of it, belly-down on the rough wool of the Father's cassock, face and buttocks alike burning.
(But had there also been some secret thrill? Some kernel of sin in that, that heat, that pounding of blood...?)
Stiofán shook himself free of the past and went to his cot. He settled himself there, his thighs spread, his feet braced, looking down at Jacopo, and the curved nape of his neck, the skin there a little pale from being hidden under the dark fall of hair, soft and clean.
"You were presumptuous, to come to my cell. You were impertinent, to speak to me so. And...you touched my things, at the site. You disturbed important papers, and sullied them with dust and wine."
"I'm sorry, Dom-"
"I did not give permission to speak," Stiofán interrupted, letting his voice drop a little, a growl that had made sailors and soldiers alike blanche and obey. Jacopo stopped talking, breathing in a little, gasping breath. "Stand up, Jacopo, and lay here, across me."
Jacopo's head came up with a jerk and he stared at Stiofán, wide-eyed. All trace of a smile was gone from his lips, but Stiofán could see his chest lifting and falling in quick breaths, and could see the flush of blood beating into his face with each thump of his heart. Jacopo stared at him for a moment and then he pushed himself upright, a graceful unbending, and took the two necessary steps to bring him next to Stiofán.
And then he leaned down - leaned over - to spread himself across Stiofán's thighs, his feet on tip-toe, his fingertips just brushing the floor. He was heavy, all solid muscle, and through the linen of his braies, Stiofán could feel the heat of Jacopo's body. The pale tan, lightly-haired backs of Jacopo's thighs flexed as he fought for balance, and Stiofán put his hand on the nearest one, watching with a kind of hypnotized fascination as Jacopo's skin pebbled with reaction.
Jacopo made a hoarse, gasping kind of sound, and his buttocks flexed, as well; ripples following the lines of muscle up his back. Stiofán placed his other hand on Jacopo's back, just above the swell of his buttocks, and Jacopo made that noise again, almost a whimper.
"Be quiet," Stiofán said, gently. "Be still." He could feel the rapid lift and fall of Jacopo's ribcage as he breathed, almost panted. Stiofán looked once more up at the Christ, and closed his eyes.
Let me be strong. Let me be a guide for him, and a teacher. Let me be pure….
Then he lifted his hand from Jacopo's thigh and brought it down in a ringing slap on his buttock.
In his lap, Jacopo jerked, his breath coming out of him in a hoarse 'ah!' sound, buttocks bunching, thighs flexing as he surged against Stiofán's thigh. Stiofán spanked him again, and then again, and each time, Jacopo surged forward, and each time Stiofán's hand on his back pushed him back down.
Stiofán slapped again and again, watching as the honey skin began to flush a delicate pink and then a deeper rose. Jacopo's cries became louder - hoarser - and Stiofán slapped hard. His hand lifted from Jacopo's back and fisted in his hair, jerking his head up and back.
"I told you to be quiet, Jacopo. And to be still. You are not obeying me."
"I'm ss-sorry, Dominus, please, I'm ss-sorry-"
"You must do better," Stiofán said, stern as the Father, and let go of Jacopo's (soft, so very soft) hair. He began to spank again, over and over, and Jacopo writhed in gasping silence. He all but hung over Stiofán's thighs now, his fingers clawing at the floor, his feet kicking. Held by Stiofán's heavy hand and his own weight, Stiofán could see a sheen of sweat on the scarred skin of his back.
He could smell it, a salt-musk smell, clean and earthy, and it made him want to put his face down into that clean skin and breathe…. But that was not why he was doing this. Not what Jacopo needed from him. He needed...discipline.
Stiofán moved his leg a little, a better placement, and felt the solid, hot push of flesh against his outer thigh. Stiofán froze, his hand lifted up, and moved his thigh again. Jacopo whimpered, and Stiofán looked down to see the plump, flushed length of Jacopo's prick - pushed back, like his balls, between his thighs - resting against Stiofán's leg.
For a long, long moment, Stiofán could not think. He could not move. His hand remained frozen in the air, and his heart was pounding, pounding. And then Jacopo lifted his head a little, one of his hands curling around Stiofán's ankle.
"Please, Dominus, please," he whispered, and Stiofán brought his hand down. Three, four, five hard slaps, Jacopo crying out softly, the flesh of his buttocks hot under Stiofán's stinging, aching palm. And then Stiofán stopped. He pushed at Jacopo, forced him to stand, and then to step away.
His erect prick swayed before him, flushed rosy like his buttocks, and Stiofán hastily looked away. "You pervert your penance. You...you are sinning, in body and thought. You should not- You-"
"Dominus," Jacopo said, and his voice was hoarse. He knelt again, nearly between Stiofán's thighs, and looked up at him. His hair was sticking together, a little, from sweat, and there were the marks of tears down his cheeks. His tongue licked out, sliding over the swollen, bruised spot where Stiofán had hit him, had knocked the pottery edge of the cup into Jacopo's lip.
"Dominus, please don't desert me. I know I'm wicked. But I know you can teach me. You can...purge me of my sins. Please, I want to serve you."
"I- I don't-"
Jacopo smiled and reached out, gently lifting Stiofán's foot, bringing the leather sole to rest on his knee. "Please. As Gesù washed the feet of his disciples, so too shall I serve you." His long, deft fingers undid the buckles of Stiofán's shoes and eased them off, setting them aside, neatly aligned. Then he rested one warm hand on Stiofán's calf, holding lightly. "I know I've tormented you...I am truly sorry for causing you pain. Please, let me."
Jacopo came up onto his knees and his hands slid up, from calf to knee to thigh. Stiofán watched him, his heart pounding, his lungs hitching, little half breaths that made him feel dizzy and shaky. Jacopo's hands slid further, along Stiofán's thighs, their callused surfaces catching on the linen. His hands slid up, then hesitated before moving to Stiofán's hips, to the waist of the braies, which were damp with sweat and water from the well, dusty from his day on the site.
Jacopo tugged and pulled and undid the tie that held them in place. Head bowed, all his attention was on what his hands were doing, as he breathed softly. He was so intent, but Stiofán could see the pale bead of moisture at the tip of Jacopo's prick; could see the flush that pinked Jacopo's cheeks and throat.
"Please, Dominus," Jacopo murmured, tugging, and Stiofán felt he was in a daze, in a dream. He moved, lifted, and Jacopo slid the braies down and off and away. The hem of Stiofán's tunic caught on his own prick, his own shame, for he was as hard, as flushed and wet, as Jacopo. He was as wicked, as impure, as sinful. He could not stop the pained groan of mortification that rose to his lips.
"More pain, I've caused you," Jacopo said, his voice a silken murmur. "Let me help you, let me, please, Dominus." And Jacopo swayed forward like a snake, his body bending, a sweet curve of gilded flesh. Stiofán stifled a shout as Jacopo's lips touched the tip of his prick; as Jacopo's tongue - oh God - lapped out like a cat's and licked away the moisture there, clear and welling like tears.
"Jacopo, no, no-"
"Yes, Dominus," Jacopo said, and his hand came up, to cup Stiofán's balls, kneading them gently, while his other hand slid over Stiofán's belly, stroking the line of hair there before combing into the denser curls at the root of Stiofán's prick. His blue eyes - blue as the Tiber on a cloudless day - were almost glowing in the candle-gold light of the afternoon sun. Were (angelic? demonic?) otherworldly. "Yes, I will make my penance, on my knees. I will pray forgiveness from you, mio sole, mio Dio del sole."
"Jacopo- " Stiofán's hands curled into claws in the rough wool of his bedding as Jacopo's head dipped down and he was licking again, sucking gently. Everything he did sent lightning jolts of sensation into Stiofán's balls, his belly. His heart was pounding, his blood roaring in his ears like a storm wind, his thoughts whirling. (Dio, Dio..Deus…no!)
"No!" Stiofán growled, and pushed Jacopo back, hard. His whole body followed the push, the twist of want in his belly like a punch as he shot to his feet. "You dare kneel there and beg for forgiveness, and call me God? You dare blaspheme in his name on your knees, like some whore?"
"We are all whores to His will, Dominus," Jacopo said, half-crouched, his hair in disarray over his jaw and cheeks, his prick - his lewd and sluttish prick - still hard (but oh, God forgive me, so am I, so am I….).
"We all kneel before him and beg. We all open our mouths to his flesh, and take him into us, like a lover, like a cuckold. We all sell our souls to Him, one prayer at a time."
"No!" This time it was a roar, and Jacopo's cat's eyes were wide as Stiofán swooped down upon him, jerked him to his feet and shoved him, hard, at the cot. Jacopo half fell over it, his bruised buttocks up behind him, and Stiofán snatched his belt from its peg and slapped the offending flesh, making Jacopo gasp, his hips jerking up, not forward. Not away.
Stiofán half fell atop Jacopo and straddled his ribs, pinning his wrists together. He whipped the supple leather of the belt around them, jerking it fast, and then dragged the body beneath him up in one heaving pull. Stiofán looped the end of the belt around the cot leg and then back, through the buckle, twisting and knotting, fastening Jacopo there on his belly, his hands fast to the cot, helpless.
The knotted cord that Stiofán had used on his back was there, under the thin pillow. Stiofán wrenched it free and pushed himself to his feet, lifted the flogger and brought it down, in a hissing arc. it cut across Jacopo's back with a crack like a breaking bone, and Jacopo cried out, writhing on the cot.
Again and again, Stiofán lifted the flogger and brought it down, crisscrossing Jacopo's back, panting for air. The hem of his tunic brushed again and again, maddeningly, over his aching prick, and Stiofán growled out a litany of curses, shedding his Latin and his calm, slurring out Gaelic between gritted teeth.
"Whore and son of whores! Snake and seducer, spawn of evil, wicked little cat, vile strumpet!"
"Dominus, Dominus,, please, oh God, I am sorry, I am sorry, Deus, mio Dio, mio Dominus!" Jacopo was twisting on the cot, his whole body lifting and flexing, his hips pushing up and then grinding down. He was rutting on the bedding, gasping out his pleas and his blasphemy, and Stiofán could see his buttocks, flexing and clenching; could see his balls pulled up tight; could see a glimpse of his flushed prick as Jacopo took his pleasure on Stiofán's bed.
Jacopo seemed not to notice or care that his back was welted with stripes, was red and bruised and, here and there, bleeding, from the force of Stiofán's arm. He was rose and gold, mink-brown hair and that gasping, pleading, desperate voice, rough from crying out, and it twisted something in Stiofán's chest.
"You whore," Stiofán moaned, and his shaking hand dropped the flogger. Stiofán stripped his tunic off, never minding the pop of a torn seam, and flung himself down onto the cot. Onto Jacopo. Stiofán buried his face in the tortured flesh of Jacopo's shoulders, his tongue lapped up salt and blood while his hands circled Jacopo's straining biceps.
His thighs bracketed Jacopo's thighs and Stiofán's hips came down onto the burning-hot skin of Jacopo's buttocks. They were slippery with sweat and Stiofán groaned as his prick slid between, as he felt the wrinkled flesh of Jacopo's hole slide against the wet head.
"Dominus! Yes, oh yes, please, please, enact your wrath, take out your fury, use me, use my body, punish me-"
"Sinner, you are a sinner, you are sin," Stiofán growled, and he began to rut down into Jacopo's body, using all his weight, all his strength. He bit and suckrf at Jacopo's shoulders and neck, his prick shoving down, sliding up, stabbing at Jacopo's hole, at his balls and his own wet, straining prick.
Jacopo twisted and heaved under him like a cat, moaning, his arms jerking at Stiofán's belt, the cot shuddering under them. He was reduced to breathless gasps, crushed under Stiofán, and Stiofán buried his face in the locks of Jacopo's hair, now, tasting the strands on his tongue, all dust and salt, smelling of some green herb at the roots, sweet, like hay.
Stiofán groaned, hips pressing down in jerking, uncoordinated movements, everything heat and sweat, his chest sliding on Jacopo's back, his heart pounding so hard and fast it hurt, like a wound. He wanted to put his hands on every inch of Jacopo's skin. He wanted to put his mouth…there...on Jacopo's prick and the thought of it made Stiofán cry out, his body going rigid, straining.
He could feel the hot slick of his spend on Jacopo's buttocks and between his thighs, and Stiofán moved on pure instinct, frantic grind and push, sobbing out a half-choked noise, his fingers biting into Jacopo's biceps, bruising the dusky skin.
"Dominus, Dominus-" Jacopo moaned, and Stiofán gasped sharply, twisting one hand under Jacopo's hip to find the wet, rigid length of him and, beneath that, the head of his own prick. He squeezed them together in his fist and Jacopo heaved under him, crying out. Stiofán felt Jacopo spill over his fingers, hot and slick, and Stiofán's belly clenched, his own prick giving a last, cramping throb. Stiofán's hand moved, squeezing and stroking, until Jacopo finally shuddered into stillness under him, panting hard, his whole body going lax, boneless and soft.
Stiofán sagged on top of him, gulping air, their ribcages rising and falling together, their flesh adhering, sweat and...other things. Jacopo's breathing had a slight wheeze as he strained to fill his lungs, and Stiofán forced himself to move. He slid off, sideways, his hand pulling out from under Jacopo, fingers slipping off his prick, wringing a little, groaning sigh from the other man.
Stiofán lay on the cot, the cool plaster of the wall against his shoulders, one thigh still lying heavy over Jacopo's thigh, every muscle aching. Beside him, Jacopo stirred. He turned his head, peering out at Stiofán through sweat-lank strands, and Stiofán lifted his hand and pushed the locks back, carefully tucking them behind Jacopo's ear. Jacopo merely watched him, his long lashes stuck together with tears or sweat, his face still flushed, his mouth wet. He was beautiful, even so used, and Stiofán felt the first surges of panic, of despair.
"Oh, God forgive me," he murmured, and Jacopo's eyebrows came down in a scowl.
"No, Dominus," he said, and his voice was wrecked, rasping and raw. "No. You are not to blame. You are blameless. My sun-god, beautiful golden man-"
"Jacopo, do not, do not say such things," Stiofán whispered. Jacopo twisted a little, wincing, and Stiofán looked up at his stretched arms, at his wrists, which were raw under the coils of the belt. He reached with a shaking hand to undo the belt, unwind it, and made a sound of dismay at the red, abraded flesh that was revealed. "Oh, God-"
"No, no, it is nothing," Jacopo said. He pulled his arms down slowly, got his elbows and then his knees under him, and lifted himself. Settling himself on his knees, he reached out, and lifted Stiofán's hand up - the one still sticky-wet from their mingled seed, that Stiofán had curled into a loose fist.
"I said I would serve you. And I will. Until you cure me, until you teach me, Dominus, I am your slave, and I will tend you." He bent his head to Stiofán's hand and began, with long, slow licks, to clean the fluid from Stiofán's fingers and palm, and Stiofán….
Stiofán allowed it. Watched him, as his pink tongue slid between fingers and along tendons, sucking at calluses and lapping, licking…. Until Stiofán's hand was clean, and damp, and his prick was throbbing again, rising between his thighs.
"You bring on my shame with your wicked mouth, Séamaisín," Stiofán murmured, and Jacopo looked up, a quizzical tilt to his head, from where he was stroking his fingers along Stiofán's forearm, feeling the scar there from Stiofán's first fight, so many years before. He tugged his wrist free of Jacopo's hand, curling it into his chest. "Jacopo, we must never do this again. We must beg forgiveness of God, and pray for strength."
"I pray on my knees to you, Dominus." Stiofán started to speak, and Jacopo shook his head, his fingers reaching out to lay gently across Stiofán's lips. "You are pure and good. I pray you infect me with your goodness. I want to take it into me, to absorb it, let it transform me. Like the flesh of the Christ, you will purify me."
"No, Jacopo," Stiofán said, but Jacopo was moving, bending down, his mouth touching Stiofán's prick again, lips circling the tip and then taking him in, soft and sweet, as if he were tasting the easily-bruised flesh of a damascene plum. The long line of his back was curved before Stiofán's gaze, and Stiofán could see the new welts overlaying old marks. Whip-marks, laid down years before, silvery lines, slightly raised.
As if hypnotized, Stiofán raised his hand to touch one, running the tip of his finger along its length, and Jacopo groaned softly, a sound and sensation that made Stiofán's hips twitch forward. It made his head spin, his thoughts subsumed under a warm and golden haze, a languorous sensation of floating.
"Who gave you these?" Stiofán asked, and Jacopo lifted his head slightly, his mouth sliding off Stiofán's prick, but his fingers there, stroking.
"I have always been bad, Dominus." Little cat smile, there and gone. "But none have ever done more than punish me for it. None have tried to save me." Then his head dipped down again, his mouth engulfing, and Stiofán groaned softly.
"You are...wicked...seducer. You must...be brought to heel, Jacopo, you must...be taught your lessons, you must…learn," Stiofán said, between unsteady gasps for air, and Jacopo writhed under his touch, his arms moving behind him, abraded wrists crossing, fists clenched. A surge of fierce want, of unholy and unnatural desire, dashed through Stiofán, washing away his despair. If he could let Jacopo work his temptations - his sins - on Stiofán, then all others were safe. And Stiofán…. He could train him; teach him to put away his wiles and lead no others into temptations, and in time he would see, he would understand…. In time.
Stiofán flattened his hand on Jacopo's back, rubbing, knowing it would make the welts sing. He dragged his hand slowly up Jacopo's back and then into his hair. Stiofán fisted the slippery strands, tugging and twisting, and Jacopo was groaning and gasping, sucking at Stiofán's prick and whimpering. Stiofán let his head and shoulders fall back against the wall, panting as his hips pushed forward and back, again and again, until his release came, almost painful in its intensity. He pulsed wetly into Jacopo's mouth, and oh, it was filthy, it was vile, for a man to do that, to swallow the essence of another man, to debase himself so.
Stiofán watched Jacopo kneel up, licking his lips, that cat-smug smile on his face lifting his mouth crookedly, and he felt...elation. He looked at Jacopo's prick, heavy and flushed, thick with need, and met Jacopo's wide-eyed, pleading stare.
"You wish to serve, so, there is water. I am sweated and dusted from my day of work, and the weals on my back throb. Fetch the water and tend me, Jacopo." Stiofán's belly twisted in him, and he closed his eyes, and let go of discipline, of shame. Let go of the day. "I am hungry, as well, and thirsty. When you have tended me, you will find food and drink for me. Perhaps I shall let you share it."
"Yes, Dominus," Jacopo whispered, in his ruined voice, and he slipped from the cot and went to do as he was told.
On the site, three days later, Stiofán looked up from his drawings and talleys to see Jacopo stepping into his pavilion, a cup in his hands. He carried it to Stiofán, his head ducked down, and lifted the cup for Stiofán to take. Stiofán accepted the cup from Jacopo's hands and sipped it, slowly.
Watered wine, flavored with clove and cinnamon, refreshing in his mouth and warming in his belly. Stiofán stood drinking it in small mouthfuls as Jacopo stood still, his hands tucked behind him now. His long hair was caught back by a twist of hemp rope, he had smudges of stone dust on his skin, his tunic unbelted, his feet bare. Untidy. Disrespectful.
"Are you being good, Jacopo?" Stiofán asked softly, and Jacopo looked up, blue eyes alight with wicked amusement.
"Not good at all, Dominus. I made the Master Cutter swear, and teased the water boys, and see, here, my tunic is torn."
Stiofán surveyed the ragged tear and fraying edges before handing the cup back to Jacopo, empty now. "Then you must be punished. Come to my cell at compline."
"Yes, Dominus," Jacopo said, and took the now-empty cup. He stood still for a moment and then darted forward, his lips touching Stiofán's, just briefly. And then he was walking away, and Stiofán turned back to his work, thinking of the night, and quiet of his cell, and Jacopo, stretched long on Stiofán's cot, bared skin warm in the candlelight, his hair loose about his shoulders.
Taking his punishment.
Notes:
Corpus et Sanguinem - Body and Blood. Taken from the 'Oratio Ante Communionem, or Prayer Before Communion
Stiofán - Steven (Irish)
Jacopo - James (Italian)
Perugia, Italy
In 1259, the phenomenon of the Flagellants was born in Perugia, after a particularly bad wave of illness and crop failure. Although it came to prominence three years or so after our story is set, the idea of self-mortification of the flesh, to atone for sins, was certainly part of the public consciousness.
Temple of San Michele
Arcangelo
aoine - Friday (Irish)
braies - linen trousers
Sergeants of the Knights Templar were usually from a lower social class than the more noble knights. The Sergeant was a light cavalry officer, the chief support officer for the knight. Sergeants dressed in a black tunic and a black or brown mantle, often with a red cross.
face-bedded - Stone laid with its layers parallel to the wall plane (face-bedded) rather than perpendicular to the wall plane(naturally-bedded). Face-bedded stone is more prone to deterioration by weathering as entire sheets of stone tend to flake off.
lauds - a divine office that takes place in the early morning hours.
Fra - used as a title equivalent to brother preceding the name of an Italian monk or friar.
Buon giorno - Good morning (Italian)
Dominus - the Latin word for master or owner, also used in its shortened form, Dom, as a prefix of honor for ecclesiastics of the Catholic Church, and especially for members of the benedictine and other religious orders.
San Bevignate
Dia logh dom…. Tá brón orm - 'God forgive me'... 'I'm sorry' - (Irish)
bello, mio sole - beautiful, my Sun (Italian)
Gabhrán - or Gowran is a town located on the eastern side of county Kilkenny
Chill Chainnigh - County Kilkenny
Éire - Ireland
Eaglais Mhuire - St. Mary’s Collegiate Church Gowran, also known as the Church of the Blessed Virgin of the Assumption, located in the centre of the town of Gowran, County Kilkenny, and the site has had religious significance since the 1st or 2nd century A.D.
Gesù - Jesus (Italian)
mio Dio del sole - my Sun god (Italian)
Séamaisín - Jimmy, Jamie. Diminutive of Séamus, or James (Irish)
compline - the final church service (or office) of the day in the Christian tradition of canonical hours.
Originally entered at http://tabaqui.dreamwidth.org/187550.html - comment where you please!
The fic *for* me is Brooklyn (We Go Hard), by anseladamsfan. A little rough play, a little bondage, a little delight...:)
Myself, I wrote, as per requested, a Medieval AU, with Sergeant Templar Stiofan and Master Fixer Mason Apprentice Jacopo, in 13th century Italy. Some bondage, some spanking, some flogging...perhaps a little blasphemy. :) If you're into that, well - here we go.
Also at AO3.
Beta'd, as always, by the delightful and dedicated darkhavens. Thank you, bb!
Summary: A Sergeant in the order of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon (or Templars), Stiofán has travelled from his home in Ireland to Italy, to assist in the raising of a new church and Templar headquarters, under the auspices of brother Knights Templar Bonvicino. Stiofán is steadfast, pious, and dedicated, and his work as architect and artist is invaluable to the endeavor.
Jacopo is an Apprentice to the Master Fixer Mason, cutting stone to fit seamlessly with stone, an exacting and difficult job, and one he does flawlessly.
Both of them discover something in the other that leads to distraction, to temptation...to sin.
See the end for notes, translations and links.
Perugia, Umbria, central Italy - 1256
Temple of San Michele Arcangelo
It was aoine, fast day, and Stiofán faced the grey-white twilight before dawn with nothing but water, for his face, his hands, and his belly. The air in his cell had cooled in the night only a little, and he pushed wet fingers back through his hair and carefully, by feel, trimmed errant hairs from under his chin, making his beard smooth.
After drying with a thin, linen towel, he picked up his tunic and eased the dark brown garment over his head, wincing just a little. Then he stepped into the braies, tugging the drawstring snug, and tied the braided, woolen cord about his waist. It rubbed a little, a flare of heat, but Stiofán ignored it. He then slipped on the surcoat of heavy black linen, with the red cross stitched to the front. The red - all of his clothing - was fading a little, from the salt of his sweat, from sunlight and heat. Stiofán looked down at the cross for a moment, smoothing the worn cloth, and then he bent to pull on his leather shoes, fastening the strap at the ankle.
Over all, he lapped the long, leather belt around his waist, but only hung from it the dagger in its plain sheath. Not for the consecrated site was the sword, weapon of war. This was not the place for such a thing.
From the small table under the window, Stiofán picked up the sheaf of papers and folio that rested there; the plans and drawings and notes that he would need to work that day. A new course of stone was being laid for the church, and Stiofán had to be extra-vigilant. An entire section had been laid face-bedded the day before, which must of course be removed and turned and properly seated, or risk that portion of the wall degrading too quickly.
Stiofán had been distracted, yesterday; distracted and disgusted with himself, so much so that, after compline, he had knelt down in his cell, stripped to the waist, and prayed for strength and forgiveness. So, today he fasted, not only from meat but from all food, hoping to purify his body of ill humors, and his mind of ill thoughts. Impure thoughts.
He stepped out of his cell and walked down the hallway, the white plaster a dim, milky blue, the stone underfoot cold. At the end was an iron-barred door, and he stepped through it into the ambulatory of the Temple, and then across to the presbytery, where he knelt before the altar. He could hear the brothers at lauds, in the western chapel, but they let him be here, on his own. Respect or fear, he did not know.
Stiofán stared up at the crucifix,and then he bowed his head and prayed.
Some time later, he pushed himself stiffly to his feet, walking to the ambulatory, treading the circle of it to the door. A figure detached itself from the shadows and joined him; a short, round man of middle years, with a greying fringe of hair and deeply socketed, dark brown eyes. Fra Pietro, who, of all the monks, was not wary of Stiofán.
"Buon giorno, Dominus," Fra Pietro said, and Stiofán grimaced at that Dominus, trying to hide it. He was not the master here, not even a knight, but a Sergeant of the order. His family was too poor, too common, for him to have ever attained knighthood.. But still he served, and still, he could not break the Fra of the habits of a lifetime.
"Buon giorno, Fra Pietro," Stiofán said back, polite but distant. He was not in the mood for conversation that day.
"Will you break your fast with us, Dominus?" Fra Pietro asked, in Latin this time, as Stiofán did not have much Italian yet. He'd only come from Éire two months before, after a month at sea, and the sing-song of the language would not settle into his brain.
"No, thank you, Fra. I am fasting today."
"Oh, I see." Fra Pietro looked worried, and Stiofán stifled his irritation, forced himself to calm. The man was a humble and pious soul, and did not deserve Stiofán's temper.
"I have much work today, Fra Pietro. I may not return until after compline. God be with you today."
"And with you," Fra Pietro said, coming to a stop at the main door, pulling it a little wider as Stiofán walked through. He could feel the monk's gaze on his back all the way down the hill.
The new temple was nearer the Tiber river, on its own hillock that had been cleared and leveled, and then dedicated to a local legend, saint and hermit, San Bevignate. The foundation had been dug and finished while Stiofán was at sea, and now the courses of sandstone were being laid for the walls. A scaffold of pine boards advanced upward with the bricks, like a warped, shaky skeleton, and all around the site were heaps of rock and mud and rope, pavilions for the Masters, a smithy, and all manner of shelters, makeshift workshops and ratty tents and lean-tos for the workers and builders who swarmed the site every day.
Most every day. Today, though, was the first day of a festival - nothing like the nineteen-day-long festival that had commemorated the ground-breaking of the temple, but something else. Fra Pietro hadn't seemed eager to explain, but had suggested that Stiofán might wish to remain at San Michele Arcangelo today. Stiofán, angry at himself, and impatient (another sin on his soul), had dismissed his concerns, and gone to his cell to pray.
So now, with the sun just climbing over the hills of cypress and cedar, the work site was not waking in its usual way, with cook fires and cursing and dust. It was a steady stream of boys and apprentices and Masters, faces washed and newest clothing on, walking into Perugia; pushing and grinning and chattering, heading for the Cathedral of San Lorenzo e San Ercolano, to be blessed by Bishop Salvio de' Salvi.
And then released, to what, Stiofán did not know. Games and feasts and merriment. Diversions. Sins, most assuredly. The people of this place, Stiofán thought, did not have enough care for their souls.
Stiofán walked slowly to the pavilion he was accustomed to use, ignoring the way the workers were avoiding looking at him. Afraid, no doubt, he would force them to stop, to work, as they should be. But Stiofán couldn't bring himself to care. Still distracted.
He went into the pavilion and stopped, jaw clenching so hard it hurt. Here was the reason for his distraction, the reason for his temper, and his disgust.
Jacopo. The Fixer Mason's apprentice. He was perhaps a year older than Stiofán, but everything about him was youthful. He wore his hair long, in waving locks. His tunic was always rumpled, if indeed it was even on his back, his feet were always bare, and dusty. His eyes, his blue, blue eyes, were always laughing with some secret, inner amusement that infuriated and intrigued Stiofán by turns. The marks on his tanned back bore some history, some story that Stiofán could not guess, but every glimpse of those silvery lines made his heart crowd painfully in his chest.
Jacopo was standing in the pavilion, a sack of wine at his feet, a squat pottery cup in his hand, idly turning over pages of sketches and notes. Invading, impudent, untidy.
"Dominus!" he said, with a bright grin and a lift of the cup. "I guessed you would be working."
"It is a work day," Stiofán said, and then only stood there, uncertain, in the entrance to the pavilion. Because to cross the dust and straw of the floor would be to cross to him. To stand in his heat, and the salt-musky smell of him.
"Only for you, Dominus," Jacopo said, and lifted the cup to his mouth. Stiofán found himself staring at the cup - at Jacopo's lips - and licking his own, without thought, as Jacopo's tongue slid out, catching a stray drop and cleaning it away.
Jacopo made a small sound and Stiofán dragged his gaze back to meet the other man's, which were hooded in the shadows of the pavilion, assessing...intense. Stiofán could feel the dull heat of a blush stain his cheeks, and he jerked abruptly into motion, striding across the ground, snatching up the papers Jacopo had been looking at. He saw a smudge of dust on one, smearing delicate lines, and had to fight the instinct to curl his hand into a fist.
"Apprentice. What are you doing?"
"I came to invite you to the festival, Dominus," Jacopo said, his blue eyes wide, all innocence, with the stain of wine on his plush lips. His Latin was a little accented, different than the Fra. "I came to make you stop working so hard. You work too hard, Dominus."
"I work as hard as I must, Apprentice. God wants the sweat of my labor, not...libations."
"Why can't he want both, Dominus? Did he not make the vine? Did he not turn water into wine?" Jacopo grinned, lifting the cup that was beaded with condensation. He took a sip of the wine and Stiofán found himself watching how the man's long, tanned throat moved as he swallowed. Felt in his loins the hot, traitorous flush, the quickening of flesh that he detested and yet still...made use of. In the darkness, in despair.
Jacopo saw him watching, and his mouth spread in a slow, sweet smile as he lifted the cup again. Stiofán felt a surge of violent anger and, before he could think better of it, he slapped the cup away, sending it spinning and thumping to the dirt, the dregs of the wine inside spattering out in a pale arc.
Jacopo made a small sound, jerking back, his hand going to his mouth, and Stiofán saw that his lip was bruised, pinched between cup and teeth, a smear of blood trailing into the morning stubble he had not removed. Stiofán's anger sank as quickly as it had risen, and in its place came shame. For lashing out, for hurting. For losing his control, for letting Jacopo know...that he affected Stiofán.
"I- I am sorry, I...should not-" Stiofán lifted his hand and almost touched the darkening swell of Jacopo's lip. Then snatched his hand back before he could make contact, breathing hard. "Dia logh dom…. Tá brón orm," he whispered, his Latin deserting him.
Jacopo licked at the bruise, and then he grinned, and Stiofán felt his heart skip. "No, no, Dominus, no. It's nothing! Just a little bump. It's fine," Jacopo said. He slung his arm around Stiofán's shoulders, shaking him a little, rough, like boys always were, and Stiofán couldn't hold back the hiss of pain, the sudden sweat on his brow.
"What did-? Are you hurt? Have you been hurt? Let me see," Jacopo said, and Stiofán lifted a shaking hand, trying to ward the other man away.
"I am- I am unhurt, do not-"
"You are not, you looked ill when you came in, let me see," Jacopo said, his voice rough, and his hands hauled at Stiofán's clothing, at surcoat and tunic, yanking them free of Stiofán's belt, baring some of his back. His warm hands, bunched in the linen, froze, and Stiofán bowed his head, shaking in humiliation as quick tears burning in his squeezed-shut eyes.
"Oh, oh, Dominus. Who? Who would do such a thing? Who would hurt you so?"
Stiofán could feel Jacopo's fingertips just touching along the edges of the wounds on his back. The long, puffy weals left by the knotted cord that Stiofán had flogged himself with, trying to drive out the unclean thoughts - the perverse thoughts - that this man, this dark and golden man, inspired in Stiofán every day, every night.
"No one, no...it is not…I, I...am impure. My thoughts are filth. I...deserve…. I deserve much worse."
There was silence, and then Jacopo let the cloth fall, gently and carefully smoothing them down. His hand on Stiofán's shoulder tugged, making him turn; his fingertips slid through Stiofán's beard and lifted his chin, forcing him to look up.
"No, my Dominus. No. You are a good man. You are devout, and good, you are…bello, mio sole, bello." Jacopo's eyes were grave and wide, the blue gone dark, his smiling mouth downturned now, and Stiofán wanted to smooth the crease between his brows, wanted to sooth his distress.
The throbbing of the weals on his back reminded him that he should not. Must not. Jacopo sighed, and stepped back, and bent to pick up the wine, and then the cup. He looked at Stiofán once more, sorrow in his gaze. "Dominus, I will show you. I will...win your forgiveness, for the pain I have caused."
"Jacopo," Stiofán started, but the man was gone, striding out of the pavilion, and a moment later Stiofán walked stiffly after him, stepping out into the dust and strange quiet of the work site. Jacopo was gone, and the last of the craftsmen, boys, and apprentices were straggling out, dust drifting chalk-white in the beams of the sun. It was still morning, the jumbled stone outside the Mason's tent was still sparkling with dew, and Stiofán felt it had been...hours.
Years.
He wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands and then turned and went back in. Back to the notes and the drawings, the plans and the lists. Determined to forget.
Stiofán walked slowly up from the site, toward San Michele Arcangelo. He was tired, more in spirit than body. Tired of his thoughts, of his mind; tired of the disgraceful reactions of his body. He had not truly done any work all day. Now, in the long, golden light of late afternoon, he simply wanted to go to his cell, to meditate, to pray, to rest mind and body, and hope that God would forgive. Would give him peace.
At the temple, he walked wearily around behind, and drew water up from the well. He took off his surcoat and doused his head in the cold, fresh water. He scrubbed his face and neck and hands, and then drew up more, to drink deeply. Finally, he drew a last bucket up to take to his cell, for he must wash his back. He had seen infection, and nearly died of it, when he had been young and skinny and sickly.
Back in Gabhrán, in Chill Chainnigh. In Éire. Stiofán felt a deep wave of homesickness wash over him.
But he squared his shoulders and took up his belt and surcoat, lifted the full bucket with a little huff of effort, and trod the worn stones of the dim, cool passage to his cell. The single window - more of an arrow slit, for the temple had once also been a keep - let in a mellow ray of sunlight that fell on the plaster wall and the crucifix hung there. It lit to fire the nails in the Christ's hands and feet, made ruby the 'blood' painted there, and for a moment, Stiofán's eyes were dazzled, and he could see only that tortured figure.
He put the bucket down, his gaze fixed there, and stepped forward, meaning to kneel, to pray. Instead, he stumbled, his foot caught in something, and he looked down, blinking hard, momentarily blinded. Clothing was there, a neat little pile of it by his door, and Stiofán untangled his foot and looked up, puzzled. There was a figure kneeling beside his cot, and Stiofán felt his mouth go dry, and his heart thump, painfully fast. He pushed the door of his cell closed and then only stood there, his mind a whirl of confused thoughts, of terror, of….
No, he would not entertain that.
"Jacopo. Apprentice. Wh-what are you doing?"
The bowed head lifted fractionally, blue eyes flicking up and then away. "Serving my penance, Dominus. I have wounded you. I have caused you so much pain, and I must earn your forgiveness, Dominus. Please," Jacopo looked up fully, this time, long locks of silken hair sliding back, away from his cheeks. "Please make me serve penance. Let me suffer for your pardon."
"Jacopo," Stiofán began, helpless. It was true. It was because of Jacopo that Stiofán had knelt here, and beat himself. But it was also because of himself. That he had allowed the man to so incite him, that he had so little control over his own mind, and body.... "It was not- You are not to blame."
"But I am, Dominus," Jacopo said, and he unwound to his feet and spread his hands, showing his nude body, all shades of gold and tan, touch of cinnabar in his hair and on his lips. Long legs and torso and wide shoulders, muscled by his work on the stone, by chisel and hammer. Stiofán felt, again, that rush of heat and blood, that yearning in his belly and in his groin, and bit his lip, hard.
"I have tried, very hard, to make you notice me. I...craved your attention, Dominus. I craved your touch." Jacopo took a step forward and Stiofán stepped hastily back, into the closed door of his cell. He hissed at the pain of it, his back connecting with the aged wood. Jacopo made a noise of distress and hurried toward him, hands reaching, and Stiofán...Stiofán felt that anger in him - that furious, humiliated rage - and felt his own hands clenching into fists.
"Stop!" he barked, and Jacopo did, startled. "I did not give you permission to stand. Or to speak." Jacopo stared at him, wide-eyed, and then turned and slunk back to his place, and knelt. Stiofán took a deep breath, and shut his eyes for a moment. He must...be in control. He must remain in control. He must not let this man…cajole him.
If he were to give in, to soften toward him…. Stiofán knew he would be lost. All of him...would be lost. If Jacopo said he would do penance, then penance he would do. If Stiofán could remain calm - cold - perhaps he could teach him.
Stiofán took a deep, deep breath, and let it out slowly. He pushed the crumpled clothing Jacopo had left by the door aside, and stepped further into his cell. He hooked his belt to the peg in the wall where his sword-harness hung, and laid his dagger on the little table, then hung his surcoat from another peg. He looked for a moment up at the Christ, crossed himself, and then he turned away to study the figure kneeling beside his cot.
Jacopo's hands were flat on his thighs, his knees slightly parted, his head ducked down. But he was still looking up at Stiofán through the curtain of his hair, and in the mellow, golden air of the room, Stiofán was sure he was smiling.
He's like a boy, Stiofán thought. So sure he's going to get his way. So sure he's won. Stiofán remembered himself, as a boy, always running and climbing where he was not supposed to go; always fighting. Until the Father at Eaglais Mhuire took him under his wing, and showed him the beautiful illuminations in the holy books. Father had sponsored him to school, so that he could learn his letters and numbers, learn how to draw the plans and pictures that guided the Masters to erect places of worship and holy sacrament.
And when that boy had stolen windfall apples, or drawn unflattering images of the brothers, or neglected his prayers, the Father would look at him sadly, and then take Stiofán over his knee and spank him. Two or three hard slaps, and then he must go and scrub the scullery floor, or weed the gravel walkway. Stiofán remembered the humiliation of it, belly-down on the rough wool of the Father's cassock, face and buttocks alike burning.
(But had there also been some secret thrill? Some kernel of sin in that, that heat, that pounding of blood...?)
Stiofán shook himself free of the past and went to his cot. He settled himself there, his thighs spread, his feet braced, looking down at Jacopo, and the curved nape of his neck, the skin there a little pale from being hidden under the dark fall of hair, soft and clean.
"You were presumptuous, to come to my cell. You were impertinent, to speak to me so. And...you touched my things, at the site. You disturbed important papers, and sullied them with dust and wine."
"I'm sorry, Dom-"
"I did not give permission to speak," Stiofán interrupted, letting his voice drop a little, a growl that had made sailors and soldiers alike blanche and obey. Jacopo stopped talking, breathing in a little, gasping breath. "Stand up, Jacopo, and lay here, across me."
Jacopo's head came up with a jerk and he stared at Stiofán, wide-eyed. All trace of a smile was gone from his lips, but Stiofán could see his chest lifting and falling in quick breaths, and could see the flush of blood beating into his face with each thump of his heart. Jacopo stared at him for a moment and then he pushed himself upright, a graceful unbending, and took the two necessary steps to bring him next to Stiofán.
And then he leaned down - leaned over - to spread himself across Stiofán's thighs, his feet on tip-toe, his fingertips just brushing the floor. He was heavy, all solid muscle, and through the linen of his braies, Stiofán could feel the heat of Jacopo's body. The pale tan, lightly-haired backs of Jacopo's thighs flexed as he fought for balance, and Stiofán put his hand on the nearest one, watching with a kind of hypnotized fascination as Jacopo's skin pebbled with reaction.
Jacopo made a hoarse, gasping kind of sound, and his buttocks flexed, as well; ripples following the lines of muscle up his back. Stiofán placed his other hand on Jacopo's back, just above the swell of his buttocks, and Jacopo made that noise again, almost a whimper.
"Be quiet," Stiofán said, gently. "Be still." He could feel the rapid lift and fall of Jacopo's ribcage as he breathed, almost panted. Stiofán looked once more up at the Christ, and closed his eyes.
Let me be strong. Let me be a guide for him, and a teacher. Let me be pure….
Then he lifted his hand from Jacopo's thigh and brought it down in a ringing slap on his buttock.
In his lap, Jacopo jerked, his breath coming out of him in a hoarse 'ah!' sound, buttocks bunching, thighs flexing as he surged against Stiofán's thigh. Stiofán spanked him again, and then again, and each time, Jacopo surged forward, and each time Stiofán's hand on his back pushed him back down.
Stiofán slapped again and again, watching as the honey skin began to flush a delicate pink and then a deeper rose. Jacopo's cries became louder - hoarser - and Stiofán slapped hard. His hand lifted from Jacopo's back and fisted in his hair, jerking his head up and back.
"I told you to be quiet, Jacopo. And to be still. You are not obeying me."
"I'm ss-sorry, Dominus, please, I'm ss-sorry-"
"You must do better," Stiofán said, stern as the Father, and let go of Jacopo's (soft, so very soft) hair. He began to spank again, over and over, and Jacopo writhed in gasping silence. He all but hung over Stiofán's thighs now, his fingers clawing at the floor, his feet kicking. Held by Stiofán's heavy hand and his own weight, Stiofán could see a sheen of sweat on the scarred skin of his back.
He could smell it, a salt-musk smell, clean and earthy, and it made him want to put his face down into that clean skin and breathe…. But that was not why he was doing this. Not what Jacopo needed from him. He needed...discipline.
Stiofán moved his leg a little, a better placement, and felt the solid, hot push of flesh against his outer thigh. Stiofán froze, his hand lifted up, and moved his thigh again. Jacopo whimpered, and Stiofán looked down to see the plump, flushed length of Jacopo's prick - pushed back, like his balls, between his thighs - resting against Stiofán's leg.
For a long, long moment, Stiofán could not think. He could not move. His hand remained frozen in the air, and his heart was pounding, pounding. And then Jacopo lifted his head a little, one of his hands curling around Stiofán's ankle.
"Please, Dominus, please," he whispered, and Stiofán brought his hand down. Three, four, five hard slaps, Jacopo crying out softly, the flesh of his buttocks hot under Stiofán's stinging, aching palm. And then Stiofán stopped. He pushed at Jacopo, forced him to stand, and then to step away.
His erect prick swayed before him, flushed rosy like his buttocks, and Stiofán hastily looked away. "You pervert your penance. You...you are sinning, in body and thought. You should not- You-"
"Dominus," Jacopo said, and his voice was hoarse. He knelt again, nearly between Stiofán's thighs, and looked up at him. His hair was sticking together, a little, from sweat, and there were the marks of tears down his cheeks. His tongue licked out, sliding over the swollen, bruised spot where Stiofán had hit him, had knocked the pottery edge of the cup into Jacopo's lip.
"Dominus, please don't desert me. I know I'm wicked. But I know you can teach me. You can...purge me of my sins. Please, I want to serve you."
"I- I don't-"
Jacopo smiled and reached out, gently lifting Stiofán's foot, bringing the leather sole to rest on his knee. "Please. As Gesù washed the feet of his disciples, so too shall I serve you." His long, deft fingers undid the buckles of Stiofán's shoes and eased them off, setting them aside, neatly aligned. Then he rested one warm hand on Stiofán's calf, holding lightly. "I know I've tormented you...I am truly sorry for causing you pain. Please, let me."
Jacopo came up onto his knees and his hands slid up, from calf to knee to thigh. Stiofán watched him, his heart pounding, his lungs hitching, little half breaths that made him feel dizzy and shaky. Jacopo's hands slid further, along Stiofán's thighs, their callused surfaces catching on the linen. His hands slid up, then hesitated before moving to Stiofán's hips, to the waist of the braies, which were damp with sweat and water from the well, dusty from his day on the site.
Jacopo tugged and pulled and undid the tie that held them in place. Head bowed, all his attention was on what his hands were doing, as he breathed softly. He was so intent, but Stiofán could see the pale bead of moisture at the tip of Jacopo's prick; could see the flush that pinked Jacopo's cheeks and throat.
"Please, Dominus," Jacopo murmured, tugging, and Stiofán felt he was in a daze, in a dream. He moved, lifted, and Jacopo slid the braies down and off and away. The hem of Stiofán's tunic caught on his own prick, his own shame, for he was as hard, as flushed and wet, as Jacopo. He was as wicked, as impure, as sinful. He could not stop the pained groan of mortification that rose to his lips.
"More pain, I've caused you," Jacopo said, his voice a silken murmur. "Let me help you, let me, please, Dominus." And Jacopo swayed forward like a snake, his body bending, a sweet curve of gilded flesh. Stiofán stifled a shout as Jacopo's lips touched the tip of his prick; as Jacopo's tongue - oh God - lapped out like a cat's and licked away the moisture there, clear and welling like tears.
"Jacopo, no, no-"
"Yes, Dominus," Jacopo said, and his hand came up, to cup Stiofán's balls, kneading them gently, while his other hand slid over Stiofán's belly, stroking the line of hair there before combing into the denser curls at the root of Stiofán's prick. His blue eyes - blue as the Tiber on a cloudless day - were almost glowing in the candle-gold light of the afternoon sun. Were (angelic? demonic?) otherworldly. "Yes, I will make my penance, on my knees. I will pray forgiveness from you, mio sole, mio Dio del sole."
"Jacopo- " Stiofán's hands curled into claws in the rough wool of his bedding as Jacopo's head dipped down and he was licking again, sucking gently. Everything he did sent lightning jolts of sensation into Stiofán's balls, his belly. His heart was pounding, his blood roaring in his ears like a storm wind, his thoughts whirling. (Dio, Dio..Deus…no!)
"No!" Stiofán growled, and pushed Jacopo back, hard. His whole body followed the push, the twist of want in his belly like a punch as he shot to his feet. "You dare kneel there and beg for forgiveness, and call me God? You dare blaspheme in his name on your knees, like some whore?"
"We are all whores to His will, Dominus," Jacopo said, half-crouched, his hair in disarray over his jaw and cheeks, his prick - his lewd and sluttish prick - still hard (but oh, God forgive me, so am I, so am I….).
"We all kneel before him and beg. We all open our mouths to his flesh, and take him into us, like a lover, like a cuckold. We all sell our souls to Him, one prayer at a time."
"No!" This time it was a roar, and Jacopo's cat's eyes were wide as Stiofán swooped down upon him, jerked him to his feet and shoved him, hard, at the cot. Jacopo half fell over it, his bruised buttocks up behind him, and Stiofán snatched his belt from its peg and slapped the offending flesh, making Jacopo gasp, his hips jerking up, not forward. Not away.
Stiofán half fell atop Jacopo and straddled his ribs, pinning his wrists together. He whipped the supple leather of the belt around them, jerking it fast, and then dragged the body beneath him up in one heaving pull. Stiofán looped the end of the belt around the cot leg and then back, through the buckle, twisting and knotting, fastening Jacopo there on his belly, his hands fast to the cot, helpless.
The knotted cord that Stiofán had used on his back was there, under the thin pillow. Stiofán wrenched it free and pushed himself to his feet, lifted the flogger and brought it down, in a hissing arc. it cut across Jacopo's back with a crack like a breaking bone, and Jacopo cried out, writhing on the cot.
Again and again, Stiofán lifted the flogger and brought it down, crisscrossing Jacopo's back, panting for air. The hem of his tunic brushed again and again, maddeningly, over his aching prick, and Stiofán growled out a litany of curses, shedding his Latin and his calm, slurring out Gaelic between gritted teeth.
"Whore and son of whores! Snake and seducer, spawn of evil, wicked little cat, vile strumpet!"
"Dominus, Dominus,, please, oh God, I am sorry, I am sorry, Deus, mio Dio, mio Dominus!" Jacopo was twisting on the cot, his whole body lifting and flexing, his hips pushing up and then grinding down. He was rutting on the bedding, gasping out his pleas and his blasphemy, and Stiofán could see his buttocks, flexing and clenching; could see his balls pulled up tight; could see a glimpse of his flushed prick as Jacopo took his pleasure on Stiofán's bed.
Jacopo seemed not to notice or care that his back was welted with stripes, was red and bruised and, here and there, bleeding, from the force of Stiofán's arm. He was rose and gold, mink-brown hair and that gasping, pleading, desperate voice, rough from crying out, and it twisted something in Stiofán's chest.
"You whore," Stiofán moaned, and his shaking hand dropped the flogger. Stiofán stripped his tunic off, never minding the pop of a torn seam, and flung himself down onto the cot. Onto Jacopo. Stiofán buried his face in the tortured flesh of Jacopo's shoulders, his tongue lapped up salt and blood while his hands circled Jacopo's straining biceps.
His thighs bracketed Jacopo's thighs and Stiofán's hips came down onto the burning-hot skin of Jacopo's buttocks. They were slippery with sweat and Stiofán groaned as his prick slid between, as he felt the wrinkled flesh of Jacopo's hole slide against the wet head.
"Dominus! Yes, oh yes, please, please, enact your wrath, take out your fury, use me, use my body, punish me-"
"Sinner, you are a sinner, you are sin," Stiofán growled, and he began to rut down into Jacopo's body, using all his weight, all his strength. He bit and suckrf at Jacopo's shoulders and neck, his prick shoving down, sliding up, stabbing at Jacopo's hole, at his balls and his own wet, straining prick.
Jacopo twisted and heaved under him like a cat, moaning, his arms jerking at Stiofán's belt, the cot shuddering under them. He was reduced to breathless gasps, crushed under Stiofán, and Stiofán buried his face in the locks of Jacopo's hair, now, tasting the strands on his tongue, all dust and salt, smelling of some green herb at the roots, sweet, like hay.
Stiofán groaned, hips pressing down in jerking, uncoordinated movements, everything heat and sweat, his chest sliding on Jacopo's back, his heart pounding so hard and fast it hurt, like a wound. He wanted to put his hands on every inch of Jacopo's skin. He wanted to put his mouth…there...on Jacopo's prick and the thought of it made Stiofán cry out, his body going rigid, straining.
He could feel the hot slick of his spend on Jacopo's buttocks and between his thighs, and Stiofán moved on pure instinct, frantic grind and push, sobbing out a half-choked noise, his fingers biting into Jacopo's biceps, bruising the dusky skin.
"Dominus, Dominus-" Jacopo moaned, and Stiofán gasped sharply, twisting one hand under Jacopo's hip to find the wet, rigid length of him and, beneath that, the head of his own prick. He squeezed them together in his fist and Jacopo heaved under him, crying out. Stiofán felt Jacopo spill over his fingers, hot and slick, and Stiofán's belly clenched, his own prick giving a last, cramping throb. Stiofán's hand moved, squeezing and stroking, until Jacopo finally shuddered into stillness under him, panting hard, his whole body going lax, boneless and soft.
Stiofán sagged on top of him, gulping air, their ribcages rising and falling together, their flesh adhering, sweat and...other things. Jacopo's breathing had a slight wheeze as he strained to fill his lungs, and Stiofán forced himself to move. He slid off, sideways, his hand pulling out from under Jacopo, fingers slipping off his prick, wringing a little, groaning sigh from the other man.
Stiofán lay on the cot, the cool plaster of the wall against his shoulders, one thigh still lying heavy over Jacopo's thigh, every muscle aching. Beside him, Jacopo stirred. He turned his head, peering out at Stiofán through sweat-lank strands, and Stiofán lifted his hand and pushed the locks back, carefully tucking them behind Jacopo's ear. Jacopo merely watched him, his long lashes stuck together with tears or sweat, his face still flushed, his mouth wet. He was beautiful, even so used, and Stiofán felt the first surges of panic, of despair.
"Oh, God forgive me," he murmured, and Jacopo's eyebrows came down in a scowl.
"No, Dominus," he said, and his voice was wrecked, rasping and raw. "No. You are not to blame. You are blameless. My sun-god, beautiful golden man-"
"Jacopo, do not, do not say such things," Stiofán whispered. Jacopo twisted a little, wincing, and Stiofán looked up at his stretched arms, at his wrists, which were raw under the coils of the belt. He reached with a shaking hand to undo the belt, unwind it, and made a sound of dismay at the red, abraded flesh that was revealed. "Oh, God-"
"No, no, it is nothing," Jacopo said. He pulled his arms down slowly, got his elbows and then his knees under him, and lifted himself. Settling himself on his knees, he reached out, and lifted Stiofán's hand up - the one still sticky-wet from their mingled seed, that Stiofán had curled into a loose fist.
"I said I would serve you. And I will. Until you cure me, until you teach me, Dominus, I am your slave, and I will tend you." He bent his head to Stiofán's hand and began, with long, slow licks, to clean the fluid from Stiofán's fingers and palm, and Stiofán….
Stiofán allowed it. Watched him, as his pink tongue slid between fingers and along tendons, sucking at calluses and lapping, licking…. Until Stiofán's hand was clean, and damp, and his prick was throbbing again, rising between his thighs.
"You bring on my shame with your wicked mouth, Séamaisín," Stiofán murmured, and Jacopo looked up, a quizzical tilt to his head, from where he was stroking his fingers along Stiofán's forearm, feeling the scar there from Stiofán's first fight, so many years before. He tugged his wrist free of Jacopo's hand, curling it into his chest. "Jacopo, we must never do this again. We must beg forgiveness of God, and pray for strength."
"I pray on my knees to you, Dominus." Stiofán started to speak, and Jacopo shook his head, his fingers reaching out to lay gently across Stiofán's lips. "You are pure and good. I pray you infect me with your goodness. I want to take it into me, to absorb it, let it transform me. Like the flesh of the Christ, you will purify me."
"No, Jacopo," Stiofán said, but Jacopo was moving, bending down, his mouth touching Stiofán's prick again, lips circling the tip and then taking him in, soft and sweet, as if he were tasting the easily-bruised flesh of a damascene plum. The long line of his back was curved before Stiofán's gaze, and Stiofán could see the new welts overlaying old marks. Whip-marks, laid down years before, silvery lines, slightly raised.
As if hypnotized, Stiofán raised his hand to touch one, running the tip of his finger along its length, and Jacopo groaned softly, a sound and sensation that made Stiofán's hips twitch forward. It made his head spin, his thoughts subsumed under a warm and golden haze, a languorous sensation of floating.
"Who gave you these?" Stiofán asked, and Jacopo lifted his head slightly, his mouth sliding off Stiofán's prick, but his fingers there, stroking.
"I have always been bad, Dominus." Little cat smile, there and gone. "But none have ever done more than punish me for it. None have tried to save me." Then his head dipped down again, his mouth engulfing, and Stiofán groaned softly.
"You are...wicked...seducer. You must...be brought to heel, Jacopo, you must...be taught your lessons, you must…learn," Stiofán said, between unsteady gasps for air, and Jacopo writhed under his touch, his arms moving behind him, abraded wrists crossing, fists clenched. A surge of fierce want, of unholy and unnatural desire, dashed through Stiofán, washing away his despair. If he could let Jacopo work his temptations - his sins - on Stiofán, then all others were safe. And Stiofán…. He could train him; teach him to put away his wiles and lead no others into temptations, and in time he would see, he would understand…. In time.
Stiofán flattened his hand on Jacopo's back, rubbing, knowing it would make the welts sing. He dragged his hand slowly up Jacopo's back and then into his hair. Stiofán fisted the slippery strands, tugging and twisting, and Jacopo was groaning and gasping, sucking at Stiofán's prick and whimpering. Stiofán let his head and shoulders fall back against the wall, panting as his hips pushed forward and back, again and again, until his release came, almost painful in its intensity. He pulsed wetly into Jacopo's mouth, and oh, it was filthy, it was vile, for a man to do that, to swallow the essence of another man, to debase himself so.
Stiofán watched Jacopo kneel up, licking his lips, that cat-smug smile on his face lifting his mouth crookedly, and he felt...elation. He looked at Jacopo's prick, heavy and flushed, thick with need, and met Jacopo's wide-eyed, pleading stare.
"You wish to serve, so, there is water. I am sweated and dusted from my day of work, and the weals on my back throb. Fetch the water and tend me, Jacopo." Stiofán's belly twisted in him, and he closed his eyes, and let go of discipline, of shame. Let go of the day. "I am hungry, as well, and thirsty. When you have tended me, you will find food and drink for me. Perhaps I shall let you share it."
"Yes, Dominus," Jacopo whispered, in his ruined voice, and he slipped from the cot and went to do as he was told.
On the site, three days later, Stiofán looked up from his drawings and talleys to see Jacopo stepping into his pavilion, a cup in his hands. He carried it to Stiofán, his head ducked down, and lifted the cup for Stiofán to take. Stiofán accepted the cup from Jacopo's hands and sipped it, slowly.
Watered wine, flavored with clove and cinnamon, refreshing in his mouth and warming in his belly. Stiofán stood drinking it in small mouthfuls as Jacopo stood still, his hands tucked behind him now. His long hair was caught back by a twist of hemp rope, he had smudges of stone dust on his skin, his tunic unbelted, his feet bare. Untidy. Disrespectful.
"Are you being good, Jacopo?" Stiofán asked softly, and Jacopo looked up, blue eyes alight with wicked amusement.
"Not good at all, Dominus. I made the Master Cutter swear, and teased the water boys, and see, here, my tunic is torn."
Stiofán surveyed the ragged tear and fraying edges before handing the cup back to Jacopo, empty now. "Then you must be punished. Come to my cell at compline."
"Yes, Dominus," Jacopo said, and took the now-empty cup. He stood still for a moment and then darted forward, his lips touching Stiofán's, just briefly. And then he was walking away, and Stiofán turned back to his work, thinking of the night, and quiet of his cell, and Jacopo, stretched long on Stiofán's cot, bared skin warm in the candlelight, his hair loose about his shoulders.
Taking his punishment.
Notes:
Corpus et Sanguinem - Body and Blood. Taken from the 'Oratio Ante Communionem, or Prayer Before Communion
Stiofán - Steven (Irish)
Jacopo - James (Italian)
Perugia, Italy
In 1259, the phenomenon of the Flagellants was born in Perugia, after a particularly bad wave of illness and crop failure. Although it came to prominence three years or so after our story is set, the idea of self-mortification of the flesh, to atone for sins, was certainly part of the public consciousness.
Temple of San Michele
Arcangelo
aoine - Friday (Irish)
braies - linen trousers
Sergeants of the Knights Templar were usually from a lower social class than the more noble knights. The Sergeant was a light cavalry officer, the chief support officer for the knight. Sergeants dressed in a black tunic and a black or brown mantle, often with a red cross.
face-bedded - Stone laid with its layers parallel to the wall plane (face-bedded) rather than perpendicular to the wall plane(naturally-bedded). Face-bedded stone is more prone to deterioration by weathering as entire sheets of stone tend to flake off.
lauds - a divine office that takes place in the early morning hours.
Fra - used as a title equivalent to brother preceding the name of an Italian monk or friar.
Buon giorno - Good morning (Italian)
Dominus - the Latin word for master or owner, also used in its shortened form, Dom, as a prefix of honor for ecclesiastics of the Catholic Church, and especially for members of the benedictine and other religious orders.
San Bevignate
Dia logh dom…. Tá brón orm - 'God forgive me'... 'I'm sorry' - (Irish)
bello, mio sole - beautiful, my Sun (Italian)
Gabhrán - or Gowran is a town located on the eastern side of county Kilkenny
Chill Chainnigh - County Kilkenny
Éire - Ireland
Eaglais Mhuire - St. Mary’s Collegiate Church Gowran, also known as the Church of the Blessed Virgin of the Assumption, located in the centre of the town of Gowran, County Kilkenny, and the site has had religious significance since the 1st or 2nd century A.D.
Gesù - Jesus (Italian)
mio Dio del sole - my Sun god (Italian)
Séamaisín - Jimmy, Jamie. Diminutive of Séamus, or James (Irish)
compline - the final church service (or office) of the day in the Christian tradition of canonical hours.
Originally entered at http://tabaqui.dreamwidth.org/187550.html - comment where you please!