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grimeshound · 2 months ago

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ONLY THEN, I AM HUMAN.

word count: 1,906

pairing: thomas lawrence x vincent benítez

summary: following his ascension to the papacy, vincent benítez must choose a secretary of state. he turns to the only man he deems worthy: thomas lawrence, the man who’s been trying to outrun the vatican becomes the one vincent cannot lead without.

c/w: general religious themes, internalized religious guilt/conflict, romantic subtext (non explicit), power dynamic if you squint (lawrence practically worships benitez)

a/n: obligatory ‘take me to church’ lyric for song title ,,, this one may be a little botched cause minimal proofreading + still doing a bit of character studies on lawrenitez but nevertheless i had a lot of fun writing this & i hope you have fun reading ^_^

—-

Lawrence’s intent was set in stone.

To finish the Conclave, leave the Vatican. To resign.

To never look back.

He was spiritually exhausted, hollowed out by all the years of quiet disillusionment. The once sacred had become political; what was once divine, transactional. He knew it best for him to walk away, and Vincent Benítez’s ascension to the papacy shouldn’t change that. If anything, Pope Innocentius deserved a fresh beginning, a clean slate. A Secretary of State who hadn’t already made peace with leaving it all behind.

And yet, it seemed as history had a cruel affection for repetition. Because once again, as always Vincent Benítez saw something in Thomas Lawrence that Thomas simply could not, no matter how hard he tried.

It brought Thomas back, unbidden to one of their earliest encounters. The day Benítez voted for him.

“I don’t want your vote,” Lawrence had said plainly.

But he’d had it anyway.

When faced with the prospect of appointing his own Secretary of State, Benítez had suggested Lawrence’s name—briefly, almost tentatively, only to be swiftly dismissed. Now the morning after the Conclave, the new Pope had barely a moment to himself. The day had blurred, public blessings at Saint Peter’s, the Apostolic Palace meetings, confidential briefing—the world’s eyes bearing down from every screen and every square.

And still, as dusk gathered and the marble halls softened into quiet, he returned not to the Apostolic Palace but to his modest quarters in Casa Santa Marta, where he had made his temporary residence as a cardinal. Where Thomas Lawrence walked beside him in step, a familiar presence. A steady hand in shifting tides.

They stood in the doorway of Benítez’s room, shadows stretching long behind them, the weight of the day clung to their shoulders.

“I’ll take my leave then, Your Holiness.” Thomas offered, voice tired but not cold. A smile flickered—small, genuine and worn at the edges.

Benítez didn’t return it at first. He looked at Lawrence in that still searching way of his, dark eyes taking him in like scripture in need of interpretation.

Finally, the pontiff returned it with something deeper. His eyes crinkled with quiet affection, something akin to reverence.

“Tomás,” he said finally, with a quiet gentleness. “Would you… stay a moment longer? I don’t mean to keep you, I just—” He faltered, something flickering in his voice. “I’m still trying to feel like myself in this… this skin they’ve dressed me in.” Benítez smoothed the cuff of his sleeve, as if retreating into habit.

Lawrence hesitated. The doorframe was safe, familiar—an exit. But something in Benítez’s expression made him nod before he could even think twice.

The room was spare. The kind of monastic plainness only a man like Benítez would keep, even on the eve of a papacy. They sat at the edge of the bed, a respectful distance between them. Benítez’s hands were clasped between his knees; Lawrence’s remained still at his sides.

Benítez spoke slowly. “Today, I looked into the eyes of cardinals who think they already know who I am. Who believe they’ve won something. Who are waiting for me to be… one of them.” He exhaled sharply, taking a brief pause to carefully collect his next words. “But you—you looked at me like a man. Not a symbol.”

Lawrence didn’t speak. His brows knit together, eyes shining with something unvoiced.

“I know we haven’t known each other for long,” Benítez’s voice dips, gentler now, as if afraid to scare the moment away. “But during the Conclave, I watched you. How you moved through the shadows of this place. Not hungry for power, not playing a game. You carried something heavier.”

Lawrence let out a dry, soft laugh. “That’s not virtue. It’s disillusionment.”

Benítez turned to him, more earnest now. “Or perhaps, it’s clarity.”

Lawrence shook his head. “You hardly know me.”

“And yet,” Benítez replied, “I trust you.”

Thomas looked away, the words almost painful.

“I’ve told you, I’m not the man you want,” he murmured. “I’ve done things. Believed in things I no longer do. I’ve served this Church so long I can’t tell where duty ends and compromise begins.” He turned to Vincent then, brow furrowed. “I’m not worthy of that kind of trust. Not anymore.”

Benítez’s voice softened further.

“Maybe that’s why you’re the only one I can ask.”

A silence settled between them. Almost holy, the kind of silence only felt in confessionals and empty cathedrals.

At last, Benítez reached out—tentatively, and rested a hand over Lawrence’s.

“I need someone who will not be dazzled by the title. Who will tell me when I am wrong, who will not let me become what I fear.”

Lawrence’s throat tightened.

“You really think I’m capable of saving you from that?”

Benítez’s eyes met his. Dark, tired, unwavering.

“I think you’re the only one who might try.”

Lawrence didn’t pull his hand away. But he didn’t answer either.

Not yet.

He couldn't help but feel the way his breath hitched, it’s something he only felt with Benitez, something that never went away since he had started speaking to him during the conclave. A connection he had to the cardinal of Kabul. And yet, part of him wanted nothing more than to run. Vanish off to some monastery in Ireland or Italy, far from the Vatican’s gleaming illusions and bloodstained traditions.

But now, and only now—as the moonlight slipped through the blinds in solemn bands of silver, Thomas Lawrence saw with a sense of clarity that terrified him.

The thoughts he had of Vincent were damning. They clung to his soul like unconfessed sin, unapologetic and unrepentant. Yet, impossible to let go of. He didn’t understand it, this devotion to a man he barely knew. Whether it was some sacred pull or something far more human, far more dangerous, he couldn’t tell. He only knew it permanently branded into him, quiet and consuming like a prayer he shouldn’t dare to utter.

He had tried to bury it beneath duty, beneath silence, beneath God Himself.

As the light crept across the stone floor and onto the sheets where Benítez presented himself before him, Thomas didn’t see the life of resignation he had once chosen, the quiet severance.

He saw a cross he hadn’t meant to carry, and a man he could no longer walk away from.

Vincent Benítez, Pope Innocentius sat in front of him, cloaked in soft rays as if God Himself had anointed him in that light. And somehow, for the first time in years, Thomas Lawrence’s path never looked so clear. So right.

Lawrence couldn’t help the soft gasp that broke from his lips, unintended and almost prayerful.

It wasn’t desire in any simple, earthly sense. It was a plea, a craving he hadn’t known could be answered. A hunger etched into the hollow of his chest. Holy, aching, wordless.

“Innocentius…” he breathed, not as a title, but as something closer to a name in scripture. Revered, spoken through trembling breath.

Benítez couldn’t help but smile. That same quiet, devastating smile, so tender and calm. The kind that didn’t demand, only invited and forgave. It undid Thomas in ways no other temptation ever had.

He had faced false idols. Survived the wilderness of bureaucracy and pride. But this—

This was a longing only Vincent could answer. A thirst only he could name. As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul longs for you, O God.

God has mercy on all His creations, Lawrence thought distantly. Even on the ones who taste fruit not theirs to touch.

Even on the ones who look back when told to walk away.

“Tómas… Mi Tómas,” Benítez whispered.

He cupped Lawrence’s face with both hands. Weathered palms, worn by prayer and time and yet so impossibly gentle, as if Lawrence were something sacred.

As if he weren’t already falling.

Thomas inhaled shakily, instinctive, as he leaned into the touch. His eyes fluttered half-shut, meeting Benítez’s gaze.

“I’d do anything for you,” Lawrence said before he could stop himself. The words tumbled out—unearned, unrepentant.

And then, like gravity obeying something more than science, more than sense, he leaned in.

It wasn’t rushed.

It wasn’t loud.

It was quiet in the way miracles often are.

Their lips met—gently, reverently, like a secret sacrament passed between them. As if this was something that had been promised long before either of them arrived at the Vatican. As if their souls had known each other in some garden older than memory.

How could this be wrong, Lawrence thought, if it felt so much like grace?

Like fire from the bush that would not burn away. Like the prodigal son, not shunned, but embraced. They were men of God, and yet in this moment they were simply men. Flesh and breath. Spirit and longing. Two aching hearts in the hollow of a city that had forgotten how to love without condition.

They pulled apart just slightly, their foreheads resting together, breath mingling in the quiet space between them. Thomas stood there, tense and still. A man poised on the edge of a life he never thought he’d reenter. Lawrence let the kiss linger, eyes shut, breath soft against Benítez’s. He hadn’t meant for it to happen. He hadn’t known it could. But now, now that it had, it felt inevitable, as if this moment had always waited for them at the end of the path they didn’t know they were walking.

“I don’t believe in the Church the way you do,” he said without preamble, almost breathless. “I don’t believe it deserves to be saved.”

Benítez didn’t interrupt. He simply listened, eyes clear, face unreadable.

“I am not the best man for this,” Lawrence continued. “I don’t believe I ever was.” He swallowed hard. “But I believe in you. And that has to be enough.”

“So you’ll stay?” Benítez couldn’t help the way his voice wavered slightly, feeling more vulnerable than he ever had before.

Thomas nodded once. “I will be your Secretary of State.”

Benítez’s eyes glistened, just slightly, in the filtered evening light.

Then, softly, Benítez inched closer. “You’re not doing this for the Church?”

“No,” Thomas said. “I’m doing it for you.”

The words were not romantic—not overtly. And yet, they carried the weight of devotion all the same.

Silence hung between them, although not heavy by any means. Thomas’ mind ran rampant with thought. This devotion, wrong as it may be—how can something so quiet and consuming, so certain—be wrong?

It can’t be. Not when it’s for him. Not when it’s for Vincent.

He is everything the Church should be, gentle and unshakable, burdened and still full of grace. He sees the world not as it is, but as it could be. And somehow, he sees me.

If this is a sin, then let it be mine to carry, Lawrence concluded.

When Jesus revealed himself after the resurrection, he called her by name—‘Mary.’

She turned to him and cried out, ‘Rabboni!’—Teacher in Aramaic. In that single word, ‘Mary’—she was seen. Known. Chosen. And in speaking his name, her love was laid bare.

So too with Vincent and me. He called me back to life, and I turned toward him.

Because it’s not rotten work, not when it’s for Vincent.

Vincent, who is perfect. Perhaps not in the eyes of men, but in mine.

#lawrenitez #thomas lawrence #vincent benitez #conclave #conclave fanfic #conclave 2024 #lawrence x benitez #religious imagery

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grimeshound · 6 months ago

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SNEAKING AROUND.

word count: 1,289

pairing: in-ho x you.

summary: you can’t seem to leave your father’s friend alone, thoughts of him filling your mind with nothing but sick fantasies. luckily for you, in-ho’s got you in his sights too, and he’s more than happy to make those thoughts come true.

c/w: 18+, huge age gap (reader is 18+ and in-ho is 54), dbf!au, sneaking around, creampie, pervert in-ho

a/n: gosh ……… writing inho is like a drug to me, once i start i just cant stop

was gonna post this sooner but had to proofread, so let’s just say i waited to post this on inho’s bday ^_^ happy bday to this old geezer

—-

“I like your watch,” you said, smiling up at In-ho.

“This old thing?” he chuckled, shaking his head as he glanced down at it. “This watch is older than you are, sweetheart.” His tone was light, but the implication beneath his words sent a shiver through you.

You tilted your head, pretending to be surprised, your curiosity laced with something darker. “Oh, really? That old?”

He laughed softly, his gaze lingering on you a second longer than it should’ve. “Had it since I was in my twenties. Now…” He sighed, running a hand through his hair, a faint smirk tugging on his lips. “I’m fifty-four. You do the math.”

You did, and instead of feeling any discomfort, you felt the opposite—an attraction that made your stomach flip. God, this was so wrong, but you couldn’t help yourself. The way he carried himself, the confidence, the way his voice dipped just slightly when he spoke to you—In-ho had you absolutely hooked.

Before you could respond, your dad called him over, pulling him back into the fold of conversation with the other men. You couldn’t hide the pout on your lips, the frustration at being left alone again.

In-ho noticed. Of course, he did. Before he moved to join the group, he leaned in close, his hand brushing against yours for the briefest moment. “I’ll be back soon, princess,” he whispered, his voice low enough for only you to hear. Then, before you could even process his words, he glanced around and placed a quick kiss on your lips, causing your breath to hitch.

Before you could even blink he slipped away, leaving you standing there, cheeks flushed and heart racing. You couldn’t help but giggle softly to yourself, already counting the seconds until he returned.

Amidst the crowd and bustle of your father’s work party, your attention kept wandering back to In-ho. The way his eyes followed you, dark and hungry left you feeling weak in the knees. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of you, the intensity in his gaze burned into your every move.

In-ho wasn’t subtle, either. Every chance he got, he let his hands find you—fingers brushing along your waist, sneaking lower to rest dangerously close to the round curve of your ass. His touch lingered, just enough to send shivers down your spine and leave you craving more.

And then there was the way he “accidentally” pressed himself against you as he squeezed past in the crowd. His body was firm, his touch purposeful, and it left you reeling. You couldn’t breathe, the heat in your core pooling unbearably, forcing you to excuse yourself. You rushed to the bathroom, desperate to find some sort of relief from the ache he had been building with every teasing touch, every searing look.

Naturally, In-ho had his sights on you the entire time. His sharp gaze tracked your hurried steps, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he watched you disappear into the bathroom. He didn’t wait long before following, slipping inside and locking the door behind him.

It was all a blur after that. One moment, you were alone, and the next, his hands were hooked beneath your thighs, pulling you flush against him. Your mind went blank while his voice, low and dripping with filth—spilled against your ear. The words barely registered, lost to the sensation of him grinding behind you, each syllable a ghost of sin against your skin.

He had you like that for a while, before lifting you easily, pinning you against the cool tile wall as he snapped forward, filling you to the hilt in one rough thrust of his hips. You gasped at the intrusion, your head falling back against the wall as he wasted no time pounding you.

The sensation was overwhelming. His pace was relentless, each thrust hitting spots that had you dizzy, the world spinning around you. Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, holding on for dear life as he buried himself deeper into your heat. You bit down on your lip, desperate to stay quiet despite the overwhelming pleasure ripping through you.

“In-ho—! Feels so good—” you moaned breathlessly, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

He groaned in response, his breath hot against your skin. The low, guttural sounds he made sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through your cunt. He inhaled deeply, taking in your scent like a man starved. “So sweet,” he murmured against your neck, his voice thick with lust. “This cunt was made to take my cock. So fucking good, baby.”

Your walls clenched around him as he hit a particularly sensitive spot, and you couldn’t help the high-pitched whimper that escaped. Your nails dug into his sleeve as you fought to keep yourself steady, the heat pooling low in your belly threatening to consume you entirely. “Mmf—Daddy!” you cried out suddenly, the word slipping past your lips before you could stop it.

Clearly, that did something to him. Because you felt his cock throb inside you, his rhythm faltering for a moment just for his hips to snap forward, even rougher than before. His breath came out in a low, almost ragged rasp as he processed what you’d just called him.

“Daddy, huh?” he teased, pulling back just enough to look at you. His dark eyes were blown wide, the usual cold stoicism replaced by something primal and unhinged. “That’s what gets my little angel off? Dirty girl,” he chuckled, the sound dripping with mockery and lust. “Does my sweet little girl get off on the thought of daddy taking care of her? Like getting fucked by someone old enough to be her father?”

The filthy words sent a shiver down your spine, your head falling back against the wall as a loud moan escaped you. His hand darted up, grabbing a fistful of your hair and tugging harshly, forcing you to meet his gaze again.

“Answer me,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

“Yes, yes!” you cried, your voice trembling as he pounded into you harder, each thrust pulling another gasp from your lips.

“Yes, what?” he pressed, his grip on your hair tightening as his teeth grazed against your neck.

“Ah!—Love it, need daddy to take care of me,” you whined, your words tumbling out in a desperate rush.

A dark, satisfied grin spread across his face as he pressed a kiss to your temple. His hips slammed into you with renewed fervor, each thrust hitting that perfect spot deep inside you. “That’s my girl,” he murmured, his voice dripping with possessiveness. “Takin’ daddy’s cock so well. Fuck—what would your father think if he saw you like this? His precious little girl, getting her needy pussy stretched out by his old friend.”

The thought alone had you unraveling, your walls clenching around him as your orgasm tore through you. Your entire body was trembling as he fucked you through it, the overstimulation sending shockwaves through your core.

In-ho wasn’t far behind, his thrusts turning sloppy and more erratic. His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you down onto him while he buried himself to the hilt, groaning loudly as he came.

By the time you rejoined the party, your cheeks still flushed and your legs weak, In-ho was already back in the crowd. He stood by your father, laughing and chatting like nothing had happened. Sharp eyes flicking to you for just a moment, a smirk tugging at his lips. the bastard. Acting like he hadn’t just fucked his friend’s daughter senseless in the bathroom, and acting like he doesn’t have her dirty panties tucked in the back pocket of his slacks to serve as his personal little trophy.

#hwang inho #inho x reader #inho smut #player 001 #squid game 2 #inho squid game #smut #oh young il #the frontman #fanfic

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