#conclave x reader

[moltisantiii]

Sneak Peak from Quando Sono in Ginocchio, Prego per te (Goffredo Tedesco x Reader)

“Pardon me asking, you eminence, what are you doing here ? I’m sure you have more important duties at San Marco, no ?” 

He placed a white and gold stole around his shoulders. “This used to be my Church, believe it or not. Plus, it’s time for Mass.” 

You looked around, noticing the Basilica was completely vacant except for the two of you. He noticed your gaze at the empty seats in front of you. “No one comes to Church anymore. Back when I was a boy, these halls were always full.” He scoffed as he grabbed one of the eucharists from the tabernacle. “You had people listening in from outside.” He raised the wafer in the air, and whispered a quick prayer, before turning to face you. 

He made a quick head gesture, looking at you. You gave him a slightly confused stare. He shook his head again, this time with a cough. Oh. 

You slowly got on your knees with crossed hands, and closed your eyes. He recited a few words in Latin, and began lowering his arms towards your face. You opened your mouth, as if you were used to this, and as he placed the eucharist on your tongue, you felt his thumb stay on your lower lip for a millisecond too long. 

What you couldn’t see, was that instead of focusing on blessing the offering, he couldn’t keep his thoughts away from you. Your eyes, your mouth, your hair. It was clear from the look he displayed on his face, that his duties were the last thing on his mind at the moment.

A/N : Please let me know if this should be a series or a one-shot because some plot elements might change based on that. Also, if there's anything you'd want to see, don't be afraid to ask, I need inspiration.

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[conclover]

Thomas Lawrence x Reader x Vincent Benítez — Part 5

Summary: It has been a long time since you last saw Thomas, and now you’re building a new life with Vincent. Yet, a part of you still longs for him and Thomas feels the same way.

Warnings: +18, ordinary missionary (I have a vanilla side). Also, there are some references to suicide. So it’s not that vanilla after all.

Notes: Straight into it.

Word count: 5k

The only sounds that echoed through the Pope’s chamber were the rhythmic creaks of a king sized bed and the breathless invocation of God’s name, though His name was spoken in vain by the lips of two sinners. One of the sinners was still tethered to the divine, the other long escaped from its suffocating grasp.

You no longer cared about being heard. Not even by God, or by any curious nun who might pass by. Vincent cared even less. Perhaps the power of the papacy had gone to his head. Or maybe it was the crushing weight of piety, the years of sanctified restraint denying his most basic instincts. Either way, he needed release. A release he had convinced himself he deserved.

You were surprised by how easy it was to tempt these men of the cloth. The way they longed for the forbidden, like Eve reaching for the apple. It was almost laughable. And now, you had the Pope himself thrusting into you like a man possessed by Satan.

Vincent touched you like someone who’d been clearly starving for years. He grasped your boobs, watching in delight as they bounced with every deep thrust and sucked on them like he could find salvation.

These men were always the same. Puritanical, yet so deeply depraved beneath the robes. It was probably the first pair of breasts he’d seen since that mangled painting of Agatha of Sicily. But this time, the image wasn’t grotesque and besides, it was real, driving him mad with lust.

With how sky high these men’s sex drives were, you could only hope for one thing: that they’d last long enough for you to actually call it a proper fuck.

“Vincent...” you exhaled his name, barely able to catch your breath.

He was thrusting into you at an unbelievable speed, but he was barely present. Even if his eyes were on you, they were lost somewhere else. Maybe in Heaven. This must have been what everyday life in Eden felt like, before God casted out His two lovely guests for daring to sin.

Sweat glistened against his skin, a thin layer that traced every contour of his body. It ran in slow streams down his temples and neck, and slid to the rest of his body, following the rhythm of his movement. Some of the drops fell into your chest, like he was blessing you with holy water. And it really felt like that, like something sacred passed between you in silence, but the truth of it was far more raw. More intimate. More primal.

“You’re not real,” he whispered against your neck, as if saying it out loud might make it true. As if he needed to believe this was a dream, not a sin. It had to be some lucid dream like reward God had granted him for being the favourite one in the Church. “You can’t be.”

You could’ve laughed, but the sound came out as a moan instead, swallowed by his mouth as he kissed you like he was trying to learn the taste of Heaven.

“God,” he groaned, your body moving with the force of each thrust. “Why do you feel so... fucking good?” His voice cracked like worship offered from the mouth of a sinner who knew he’d burn for it.

His nails carved into your thighs, anchoring you to him. But he kept slipping, mind adrift, like every stroke of him inside you was pulling him further from the world. Each thrust was a desperate plea that seemed to crack open his soul. His grip tightened even further, fingers digging deeper as if trying to pull you closer, even though he was already there, drowning in you.

This wasn’t even his first time with you, and he was already on the verge, cussing like a different man entirely. Sex had taken its toll on him. On his whole damn personality. Ever since you moved in, things had spiraled fast. There were no days of rest. Every night, without fail, Vincent came looking for you like a man possessed.

He’d show up at your door, sometimes still in his robes, sometimes half undressed like he couldn’t wait anymore. Eyes wild, voice low and raspy, sometimes more playful than stressed, depending on what kind of day he’d had. And you? You let him in every time or followed him to whatever new location was left in the Vatican to explore. Not out of love exactly, but because watching the Pope unravel over your body was delicious beyond reason.

He wasn’t the holy man the world saw anymore. Not when he was fucking you like the rapture might come mid thrust. Not when he was inside you, muttering prayers and curses like they meant the same thing. He’d claw at salvation through your skin, swear he could feel God in your breath, and still come undone like the weak, filthy mortal creature he really was.

“I’m close... oh, my sweet angel... (Y/N)...” he stammered, voice trembling in uneven bursts, punctuated by small, desperate moans that reverberated through the space between you.

His movements were more erratic, but he still took a firm hold of you, even as his body trembled with the weight of his own need to release. You could feel the shift in him, the way he fought to maintain composure, but it was clear he was losing that battle with each passing second.

His body was so sure of what it wanted, every thrust purposeful, yet his voice faltered, as if even asking for it was too much. “Can I...?”

The words barely made it out. His gaze dropped, eyes darting from yours to the pillow, too nervous to meet your eyes. He didn’t finish the question. He couldn’t. Even if he was good when it came to having sex, he still struggled to talk about it. His tongue stumbled over the simplest phrases, as though even speaking them aloud would expose him in ways he wasn’t ready for.

“Come inside me?” you whispered, finishing the phrase for him, your voice a teasing caress.

Your fingers traced the damp curve of his cheek, urging him to look at you, to surrender to the moment.

Vincent’s brown eyes flickered to yours and it was almost comical how fast he nodded. He really wanted this. And when you smiled with a knowing curve on your lips, as though granting the wish he’d been silently praying for, his control unraveled. He leaned foward, lifting your legs over his shoulders with a sudden urgency. His hands trembled, unsteady but holding you there, as though he couldn’t hold himself anymore.

“Mhmmm... my God, ah, fuck,” he groaned as his eyes fluttered, almost rolling back in pleasure.

His body stiffened slightly as he filled you, the moment hanging in the air like a breath held too long. But despite the overwhelming pleasure, his eyes didn’t leave yours. He really needed to hold onto something in the chaos of his own body’s release.

“I’ve made a mess…” he murmured, his voice thick with awareness as he slipped out of you.

“Nothing new,” you replied, glancing down at the evidence of what had happened, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “But it doesn’t matter, sweetheart.”

You brought his head closer to yours, fingers gently brushing strands of black hair away from his sweaty forehead. He stayed there for a moment, his eyes soft, enjoying the deep connection between you. A gentle smile curved his lips before he placed a soft kiss on yours.

“I love you,” he said for the first time, his voice quiet, almost fragile. “Just wanted to let you know that.”

The words were a quiet surrender, a tenderness that contrasted with the intensity of everything before. You could feel the weight of his vulnerability, the rawness of his admission. His breath still trembled, but not only from the sex. There was something deeper in it now, as if he had said something he hadn’t expected to share.

But you froze, the suddenness of it sending a rush of something familiar flooding through you. A flood of memories of Thomas. A similar moment, once so real, now haunting in its echo. The emotions you had buried so deeply surged to the surface, and without warning, tears began to spill.

Vincent’s expression faltered, a flash of concern crossing his face as he took in the sight of your tears. He immediately pulled you close, unsure of himself, unsure if what he said had been the right thing, but desperate to comfort you nonetheless. His arms wrapped around you, tentative yet full of the need to make things right, to soothe whatever was breaking inside you.

“I’m sorry, I just…” You tried to explain between sobs, trying to find the right words without hurting him.

“Don’t worry… I understand.” He pulled you into a sitting position, still cradling you against him. His voice was soft, reassuring. “Too soon for that.”

He knew. He could feel the grief still raw in you, the lingering shadows of your past love that hadn’t fully healed. And though he understood the timing wasn’t right, a part of him still ached to show you his love, to fill the empty spaces he knew you carried.

...

You couldn’t recall the last time you saw Thomas, not since the fight, not since the day you left him. The Vatican had swallowed him up, its vast, towering walls closing in like a labyrinth that left you disoriented and empty. You never expected the palace to be this big, this overwhelming. And now, it seemed like you might never find him again.

Had he resigned? Was he purposefully avoiding you?

You couldn’t help but wonder. If only he knew how to use a phone, your messages would have been flooded with desperate pleas for you to return to him. But then again, you might have blocked him by now.

It wasn’t long before a nun mentioned in passing that Thomas was still around, still working in the Vatican, still coming in. Though it seemed like his heart was no longer in managing things. He’d been leaning more and more toward a shift in his career, toward the priesthood.

For a while, you thought his silence was his way of telling you he had moved on. That he no longer cared. That you meant nothing to him anymore. But the whispers you overheard painted a different picture. He was struggling, his mood darker by the day and worse during the night. Vincent had told you he barely ate. His appetite was so low that Vincent often had to force food into him, but nothing seemed to help.

Vincent didn’t really know what had happened. He wasn’t aware of the pain that lay between you and Thomas. You hadn’t shared much with him, not about that. You still held some respect for Thomas and his career. But did that really matter? Vincent, too, had succumbed to the same temptations Thomas had once fallen into.

“He asked about you,” Vincent said casually, handing you an envelope. “Again.”

You could feel the weight of his words even though he was trying to sound indifferent. He wanted to know more, wanted to understand what had really happened between you and Thomas. He could imagine it, but he needed it to come from you, or from Thomas, to make sense of the pieces he’d been piecing together.

“Oh,” you said, glancing at the envelope in your hand, your heart tightening. “How is he?”

Vincent’s eyes softened, his voice gentle and steady. “I know you two were… close, once.”

He kissed your forehead gently, a whisper of affection that lingered for a bit before his gaze turned more serious.

“I think you should talk to him…”

You hesitated, staring at the envelope, torn between the past and present.

“It’s not that simple…” you replied, the words feeling heavier than you expected. “It’s like he’s been hiding from me all this time. I don’t even know where to find him.”

Vincent’s gaze never wavered. He knew more than he let on, but he wasn’t one to press. He respected your silence.

“I think you do,” he said, his tone knowing but kind, as though he had already understood everything without you saying a word.

He wasn’t judging you, he never did. He only wished for you to open yourself up to him, to reveal the things you hadn’t shared yet.

You met his gaze, a small smile tugging at your lips. He returned it, soft and understanding. His hand reached up to gently caress your cheek, as if to remind you that he didn’t mind it, that he would wait for you to be ready.

“I’ll see you tomorrow...” he said softly, pressing a kiss to your lips, lingering just a moment longer than necessary. “Sleep tight, my angel.”

As Vincent walked toward the door, you remained where you were, frozen in place, his words echoing softly in your mind. The memories came creeping back. You could not ignore them. Thomas’s laugh, the way he used to look at you when he thought you weren’t watching, the last fight, the silence that followed.

That was when your gaze dropped to the envelope in your hand.

You opened it slowly, heart quickening as your eyes traced the handwriting. It was neat, careful and a touch dramatic.

It was from him.

My dearest (Y/n),

The letter began with the deepest intimacy and elegance, only the kind an old English man like Thomas could muster.

You let out a shaky breath, a small, involuntary smile pulling at your lips as a single tear welled in your eye. You sat down slowly, the letter trembling slightly in your fingers, and prepared to read whatever words he’d finally found the courage to say.

The days have felt dreadfully hollow in your absence. By now, I suspect you’ve heard that I’ve not been at my best. I have tried, but I have never truly known what to do with a broken heart. Perhaps I’ve always been broken.

But if there is one thing I have come to understand with painful clarity, it is this: I am, and always have been, an utter fool for you.

At first, I believed what I needed was distance. From this place, from the endless obligations, from the life I had devoted myself into. But if I’m honest and I must be, if this letter is to mean anything, I wasn't running from that, but from you. From every shadow, every corner, every routine that still bore the shape of your memory.

And yet, here you are, still everywhere.

God, I cannot even walk past the chapel where we first made love. It used to feel magical every time I stepped inside. Now, it aches. Every stone, every whisper in the walls, every echo of you. I just can’t bring myself to walk past it.

I hardly eat. I cannot even meet my own eyes in the mirror. The man staring back is a stranger, an older version of who I once was. And I confess, I miss who I was with you. I miss laughing. It only felt natural when I was with you. I miss your smart jokes. I miss your love. I miss your body. I miss everything.

But forgive me. I didn’t mean to make this a litany of self-pity. I wrote this letter because I needed you to know, above all else, how deeply, endlessly I love you. I will always love you.

The guilt I carry for how I treated you it’s a weight I bear every day. I still break when I think of your face that night. Your fear, your silence, and my cowardice. The image of you, frightened and small in my bed, has never left me. I weep for it still to this day.

Yes, I am a sick man. Sick with love for you, you could say. But I know that love alone does not absolve. It does not undo harm. And it does not justify the pain I caused you.

I’m not asking for your forgiveness, because I don’t deserve it. The truth is I do not deserve you. Perhaps I never did.

Oddly enough, there’s something liberating in admitting that. Writing it now brings a strange sort of peace to my heart.

You have found someone who does deserve you. I see that. I hear it in passing, I feel it in the air around you. And I am genuinely glad that you found him. Vincent is a good man. Kind, handsome, young, generous, unafraid to love without expecting anything in return. He is everything I am not.

Believe it or not, I am happy for you both. Truly. If I cannot be a part of your present, it is some comfort to know that your future is filled with warmth and care.

Still, I carry you with me. You always appear in my prayers. Always.

You remain, as ever, lodged deeply in my heart. And I know I can die in peace, knowing you have found someone you love, and someone who loves you as you deserve.

With all the love I have left, Thomas

You didn’t finish reading the letter. You couldn’t. The last few lines blurred before your eyes, not from tears, but from panic.

Your fingers tightened around the paper as a wave of dread surged through you. Something in his words set off an alarm inside you. The quiet peace he wrote about didn’t feel like peace at all. It felt like a goodbye.

I can die in peace.

The phrase echoed in your mind, louder with each repetition.

You stood up so fast the chair scraped violently against the floor. The letter crumpled slightly in your fist as you stumbled backward, heart racing. Vincent’s name flickered in your mind for a brief second, but you didn’t stop to tell him. You didn’t even stop to think.

You just ran through the corridors, past the disapproving glances of clergy and nuns. You knew the Vatican like the lines of your own palm now, every shadowed hallway, every locked door, every staircase. And you now knew exactly where he might be.

The chapel.

The one he said he couldn’t bear to enter anymore.

You turned a corner, nearly colliding with a group of priests, murmured a frantic apology, and kept going.

Please be there. Please be safe. Please God.

God?

Yes. God. You were desperate.

Your thoughts raced as fast as your feet. You didn’t know what you would say. You only knew you had to see him. Had to stop him. Because for all the pain, for all the broken pieces and haunted silences, part of you still loved him.

You reached the heavy wooden doors and flung them open.

“Thomas!” you screamed, the name tearing from your throat.

You desperately looked through every corner of the chapel, your heart thundering in your chest. The silence was suffocating and he was nowhere to be found, the shadows deepening with each second that passed.

Then, the image of Christ above you caught your eye. His face was carved in sorrow, full of pain and quiet suffering. His imploring eyes seemed to follow you as you moved. You froze, a wave of sudden understanding rushing over you. His gaze wasn’t following you, it was pointing toward something: the confessional booth.

You hadn’t thought to look there. You’d ignored it in your panic, rushing past everything in search of him. But now, it felt like the only place left he could be.

He might be there. Yes. He has to be. Please God. Please.

You reached out, your breath shallow, your fingers trembling slightly as you grasped the edge of the door. But the door didn’t open.

Your heart sank. You stood frozen for a moment, the weight of his absence pressing down on you. It was as though he had chosen to shut himself in, to cut himself off from the world and from you.

You quickly moved to the other side of the booth, hands shaking as you reached for the other door. This time, it opened with a soft creak. And there he was, on the other side.

“Thomas,” you said louder than you meant to.

At first, all you could make out was his silhouette, shrouded in the dim light of the booth. His figure was hunched slightly, as if the very act of existing in this world had become a burden. He didn’t look up as you sat inside, like if he had become part of the shadows himself.

For a moment, you thought it was too late. But then you heard it, the soft, uneven sound of his breathing, ragged and heavy in the stillness of the confessional.

“(Y/n)...”

His voice was hoarse, as though it had been a long time since he’d spoken aloud. The words felt like an exhale, as if hearing your voice had reanimated him from his restless sleep.

“My dearest Thomas,” your voice cracked as you spoke his name, each syllable strained with the weight of your fear and relief. “I thought you were…”

“Dead?” he finished, his tone surprisingly calm.

He shifted in his seat, the dim light catching the sharpness of his features, but his eyes remained hidden in shadow.

“What a poor image of me you have, my dear,” he said softly, almost teasingly. “Though I can’t entirely blame you. I haven’t done the best to portray myself in a good light.”

For a brief fleeting moment, you both laughed, the absurdity of it all hanging in the air like a fragile thread between you.

“My God,” he exhaled, his voice thick with something you couldn’t quite place. His fingers, pale and trembling, poked through the holes of the lattice, as if seeking connection. “You don’t know how much I missed your laugh.”

“Thomas,” you snapped, voice still trembling with worry. “Why did you lock yourself in here?”

He fell silent at your words, his shoulders slumping once again. You could see the light slowly draining from him, but you refused to let him spiral further into despair.

“Why, Thomas?” you insisted, your voice softer now, but no less urgent.

You reached toward the wall that separated you, fingertips brushing against his through the cold lattice.

“I didn’t want you to see me in this state...” His words were heavy, filled with an ache that only he could understand. “But I still wanted to hear your voice.”

“Thomas!” you exclaimed, voice cracking with frustration. “I want to see you. No matter what.”

Your heart raced as you pressed your hand against the lattice, wishing it would dissolve so that the distance between you both could just vanish.

“Please,” you whispered, your voice softening not just for him to open up, but for him to come back to life, to come back to you. “Tommy.”

You closed your eyes, letting the weight of everything hit you all at once. Your face crumpled in your hands, your sobs echoing through the quiet of the confessional booth.

And then, in the midst of your brokenness, you heard it. The soft click of his door and then yours.

You froze. Your heart stuttered in your chest as your breath caught in your throat. You slowly lifted your head, wiping your eyes, and when you turned, he was there, standing in front of you.

At first, you couldn’t quite process what you were seeing. The figure before you seemed unfamiliar yet painfully familiar at the same time. He was standing there, not quite close enough to touch, but just close enough for you to see everything.

He looked... older. It wasn’t just the lines that had deepened on the paleness of his skin. There was something more to it. A weariness that clung to him like a second skin. The time apart had left its mark not only on his appearance, but in his soul.

He looked thinner too. It was true, then, what they had said. He hadn’t been eating. The hollowness in his cheeks and the sharpness of his jawline told the story of a man who had lost more than weight. He had lost something far deeper.

“I know I look ugly…”

Thomas let out a sigh, a long, defeated exhale that seemed to drain all the strength from his body.

Slowly, he turned his back to you, as if trying to shield you from the image of his brokenness, from the way he felt about himself.

“No,” you whispered, your voice sure as you took a step toward him. “Thomas, you don’t—”

He cut you off, his voice tinged with a kind of rawness that made it clear he was already retreating. “You don’t have to lie to me. I know what I’ve become and I don’t blame you if you can’t look at me the same way anymore.”

You didn’t say anything, you simply reached out, gently touching his arm, your fingers trembling against the dark fabric of his sleeve. His blue eyes, filled with unshed tears, met yours.

“I never stopped loving you,” you said simply, your hand still resting on his arm, grounding both of you in the moment. “I never will.”

He seemed to hesitate, as if the weight of your words was too much to bear. But slowly, cautiously, he reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face with trembling fingers.

Without thinking, your hands moved on their own. You cupped his wrinkled face between your palms. You could feel the heat of his breath on your lips, a mixture of tension and longing hanging in the air between you both.

Then, you pulled him toward you. The kiss was sudden, urgent, a surge of emotion that didn’t ask for permission. His thin lips didn’t pucker at first, caught off guard by the force of your movement, but then he seemed to relax, his eyes fluttering shut as he leaned into it, as though this was the only thing he needed right now.

His hands, at first unsure, found their way to your backside, pulling you closer to his body. His touch was desperate, as if this was the last time he could taste you. The kiss deepened, every bit of emotion that had been simmering between you both crashing to the surface.

Time seemed to stretch out, the world outside the chapel fading away. All that existed was the warmth of his touch, the softness of his lips, and the overwhelming sense that, for this brief moment, everything that had been broken between you both was starting to heal.

When you finally pulled away, your breath mingling in the space between you, you were both left in the silence of the moment. For a long while, neither of you spoke.

“Don’t leave me again,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but full of conviction.

“I never did,” He pressed his forehead against yours, his breath shaky but steadying. “I thought you didn’t want to see me.”

“I do, but you have to stop all of this nonsense,” you murmured, your voice almost teasing as you pressed your lips against his cheekbone.

He closed his eyes at the soft touch, and a faint, contented smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

A brief, comfortable silence settled between you two, but then his voice broke it, filled with uncertainty. “So, what do we do now?” he asked, his tone soft but laced with genuine concern for what lay ahead.

But to your ears, his question sounded different. It wasn’t the question of a man unsure of his place in your world. It was a question of someone craving more, wanting to feel your body once again.

You hummed, your eyes drifting toward the altar behind you, where great memories had once been made. It felt like the right place to turn everything over again, to begin again.

“How about...” you began, your voice low and sultry, your gaze fixed on the altar, “...we recreate some memories?”

You watched his expression shift, the flicker of awareness lighting in his eyes. The tension in his body grew as he followed your gaze, then returned to you, his breath catching in his throat.

He stepped closer, his hand gently cupping your chin, tilting your face to meet his. “You’ve got a wicked way of tempting me, darling...” he whispered, his voice thick with both desire and affection.

“I don’t think you require much tempting,” you replied with a playful wink as the two of you made your way toward your favorite place.

“Are you saying I’m easy?” he asked, feigning shock as one eyebrow arched.

“No,” you said, tracing a finger along his jaw as you slowly settled onto the altar. “But I wouldn’t say it took much to get you on your knees.”

“How about Vincent?” he asked softly, resting his palms against the cold stone, caging you in.

“Vincent.” You echoed his name, caught off guard.

“Darling,” he leaned in closer, eyes searching yours for an honest answer. “I know.”

“You know.”

“Yes.”

Thomas didn’t seem to mind it and you wondered what had happened to the man you had once run from.

[celestiamour]

conclave 2025 is over so now back to the 2024 version lets sexualize these old men because there aren’t enough x reader fics of them

[celestiallure]

i feel like a victorian man i want to bite him so bad

he’s soo IM GOING FUCKING INSANE I WANT HIM

[alexisabirdie]

Me searching for Conclave x reader is like checking the fridge again to see if there's food, even when you know there won't be any there.

[ballard96]

Giggling like a bitch who let him be that sexy what

[tiredsnakebites]

⸻ ᴛʜʀᴏɴᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʟɪʟɪᴇꜱ [roleplay]

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴠɪɴᴄᴇɴᴛ ʙᴇɴɪᴛᴇᴢ x ɴᴏᴀʜ ᴍᴄᴀᴜʟᴀʏ |ᴏᴄ|

ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀ: ꜱʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ, ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ, ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ, ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏᴜꜱ

ᴛʀᴏᴘᴇ: ꜱᴏᴜʟᴍᴀᴛᴇꜱ, ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅꜱ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴠᴇʀꜱ,

ʀᴏʟᴇ-ᴘʟᴀʏ ᴛʏᴘᴇ: 1x1, ᴅᴏᴜʙʟᴇ ᴜᴘ, ᴄᴄxᴏᴄ, ꜰᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ

ꜱᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ: ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ɪꜱ ꜱᴇᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴀʟʟᴏᴡᴇᴅ ʜᴀʟʟꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴀᴛɪᴄᴀɴ ᴅᴜʀɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴇᴄʀᴇᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴄʟᴀᴠᴇ ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜᴅᴅᴇɴ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴏᴘᴇ. ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ, ᴘᴏʟɪᴛɪᴄꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴀɪᴛʜ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴡɪɴᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴜ���ʜᴇᴅ ᴄᴏʀʀɪᴅᴏʀꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ, ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴄᴀʀᴅɪɴᴀʟꜱ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ɢᴀᴛʜᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ꜱ���ʀɪᴄᴛ ꜱᴇᴄʀᴇᴄʏ ᴛᴏ ᴇʟᴇᴄᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇᴡ ᴘᴏᴘᴇ. ʟᴀʏᴇʀꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴᴄɪᴇɴᴛ ᴛʀᴀᴅɪᴛɪᴏɴ ᴡᴇɪɢʜ ʜᴇᴀᴠɪʟʏ ᴏɴ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴅᴇᴄɪꜱɪᴏɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴏᴜᴛꜱɪᴅᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪꜱᴛɪɴᴇ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴇʟ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡᴀɪᴛꜱ.

ᴘʟᴏᴛʟɪɴᴇ: ᴄᴀʀᴅɪɴᴀʟ ʙᴇɴÍᴛᴇᴢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴀʀᴅɪɴᴀʟ ᴍᴄᴀᴜʟᴀʏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴍᴇᴛ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴᴀʟʟʏ ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʟᴏɴɢ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴀᴡᴀʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ’ꜱ ʀᴇᴘᴜᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴘᴏᴘᴇ’ꜱ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ. ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴄᴀʀʀɪᴇꜱ ᴀ ᴍᴀʀᴋ ᴀʙᴏᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ- ᴀ ᴅᴇʟɪᴄᴀᴛᴇ ᴄʀᴏᴡɴ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴏʀɴᴇᴅ ᴠɪɴᴇ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴡɪɴᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴡʜɪᴛᴇ ʟɪʟɪᴇꜱ, ᴏɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴀʀᴇ, ᴅɪᴠɪɴᴇ ꜱᴏᴜʟ ᴍᴀʀᴋꜱ ꜱᴀɪᴅ ᴛᴏ ꜱɪɢɴɪꜰʏ ᴀ ᴘʀᴏꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ ꜱᴘɪʀɪᴛᴜᴀʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʙᴏɴᴅ, ʙʟᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ ʙʏ ɢᴏᴅ ʜɪᴍꜱᴇʟꜰ. ᴀᴄᴄᴏʀᴅɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴄʟᴇʀɢʏ ʟᴀᴡ, ᴏɴʟʏ ꜱᴏᴜʟ-ᴍᴀʀᴋᴇᴅ ɪɴᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴜᴀʟꜱ ᴍᴀʏ ꜰᴏʀᴍ ᴅᴇᴇᴘᴇʀ, ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴛɪᴄ ᴀᴛᴛᴀᴄʜᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ, ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ ꜱᴜᴄʜ ʙᴏɴᴅꜱ ᴀᴍᴏɴɢ ᴄʟᴇʀɢʏ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴜɴʜᴇᴀʀᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ʟᴏᴏᴋᴇᴅ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴜᴘᴏɴ .

ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴄʟᴀᴠᴇ ʙᴇɢɪɴꜱ, ʙᴏᴛʜ ᴄᴀʀᴅɪɴᴀʟꜱ ꜰɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇᴍꜱᴇʟᴠᴇꜱ ɪɴᴇxᴘʟɪᴄᴀʙʟʏ ᴅʀᴀᴡɴ ᴛᴏ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ, ꜱᴇɴꜱɪɴɢ ᴀ ᴍʏꜱᴛᴇʀɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴘᴜʟʟ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ꜱᴇᴇɪɴɢ ᴏɴᴇ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ’ꜱ ᴍᴀʀᴋ. ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴘᴏᴘᴇ’ꜱ ᴄʀʏᴘᴛɪᴄ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ɪɴ ᴘʀɪᴠᴀᴛᴇ ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀᴜɴᴛ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛꜱ, ꜱᴜɢɢᴇꜱᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ꜱɪɢɴɪꜰɪᴄᴀɴᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏʟʏ ꜰᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ʜᴀᴅ ꜱᴇᴇɴ ᴏʀ ᴋɴᴏᴡɴ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ꜰᴀᴛᴇ.

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hallo tumblr! i hope anyone reading this post having lovely day/night! I finally the summer break started for me and I finally have some free time on my hand and feels little more motivated to roleplay once more! So I been hyper fixated on the movie ‘Conclave’ for days now and I was wondering if anyone up for 1x1 or double up role-play! For the double up we can do same fandom or you can do different fandom on your said! :D

as you can see i have general idea that i wanna try out on my side! but I’m open to new ideas, if you don’t have your own ideas we can brainstorm together! If you are interested in, please leave a comment! Also please don’t judge me if there’s any mistakes in both language and format wise, I’m a long time lurker :,)

OC link: http://aminoapps.com/p/wro0vni

Fandom link: http://aminoapps.com/p/lsrkfj4

[enjoyyourpriests]

INTRO POST!!!

Kurt | They | 21

Hello this is my blog to post shipping headcanons! you can request x reader or a ship you like from the movie! I’m also okay with platonic or nsfw requests! Hell you can even ask me requests for specific characters. Just a silly place for silly writing, enjoy!

Small DNI:

- DNI if ur a proshipper or ship irl ppl. Respect the actors!

- DNI if ur a minor please!

- Will come in my asks about theology. This is just a silly place for me to enjoy silly fictional characters. Nothing deep!

- If an nsfw ask makes me uncomfortable I won’t reply

Okay that’s it byeee!

[alexisabirdie]

Mhm that's what i'm talking about.

Forgive Me Father For I Have Sinned.

warnings: weed, intox, smoking weed, religion, please let me know if I missed anything!

word count: 1.8k

A/N: i'm sorry i made it a little sad at the end, i don't know what came over me.

okay so i can't stop thinking about it apparently!!

being a nun came somewhat naturally to you, you wouldn't say it was something you always wanted to do but it was something that was always there. a little thought at the back of your mind that would sometimes grow so large you felt as though it was taking over your very being. you joined a few years into your 20s, you had gone to university, had a job for a while and then found that it really wasn't for you.

it held nothing, there was no peace and quiet, only festering at your soul which grew with each day; each bill, each payment of rent, each early morning squished on a bus as you made your way to your office and sat at your desk. often scrolling mindlessly on your phone for hours as your work for the day had been completed already.

it was then one late night that you had decided that maybe you should give it all up, nothing in your life seemed to fit right and click into place like you had been told it would. things only seemed to drone needlessly, an empty void deep within you that couldn't be filled no matter how hard you tried. so you left, told your loved ones goodbye and joined an order.

somehow in those early morning prayers, vows of chastity and sometimes silence, you found peace at last.

maybe it really was the life you were meant to lead, to be a nun in a time where it seemed ridiculous to even consider giving up your life for this. but it soothed that ache in you, the void inside you filling bit by bit with each prayer, each communion, each sip of wine that was taken as christ's blood.

it was a few years after you had taken your final vows that you had been sent to an order in italy, rome, your eyes drooping closed in your plane seat and you drifted off to sleep. when you landed you were greeted by your new sisters, taken in and shown to your room and left to unpack before joining them for lunch. it was that night at mass that you first met him. cardinal goffredo tedesco. this was his church, his flock, and he was here to greet the new lamb that had joined them.

you don't see much of him after that, busy as he is, though you do occasionally pass him in the halls when the abbess has need to seek his counsel. you don't think much of him, what can you think really of a man who still holds traditional values close to his heart despite the pope himself being progressive.

and then there was the vape, always in his hand or on his person, a billow of smoke following him around like he was a some sort of dragon. it at times made you miss smoking, not cigarettes as those were as readily available as prayers, even in the convent. but rather you missed weed, it was not something you often smoked but you missed the feeling of being high nonetheless.

the months passed, seasons changed, you gradually saw more of the cardinal as you went about your daily duties. sometimes you would be asked to take things to his office, those days were nice as you had the chance to wander through rome, see happy families, couples, watch little children laugh in glee as they ran about.

it warmed your heart, to see the good of humanity, the love that we all share and hold close to ourselves, something that makes the very fibres of our being.

it was those days that you often saw more than a fleeting glimpse or a foggy pass of tedesco, even if you were handing the papers to someone else who worked for him. you would often see him at his desk, glasses perched on his face as he read, a small glance spared your way as you handed over the papers, a polite smile on your face in return.

he was handsome you supposed even if his morals were off putting. the greying hair working in his favour, the sparkle in his eye still there as if he was nothing more than a mischievous boy who had been running amok in the yard. he did his job well though, you could not deny him that for all his flaws, he cared about the church and his flock, perhaps a little too much you thought.

the seasons kept changing until it was finally summer again, the warmth of the sun mingling with the chirp of insects and the cool afternoon breeze. it was then that a group of your sisters passed by, all giggles and hushed whispers as they hurried across the courtyard. what caught your attention though was the slightly dazed look in their eyes, you knew that look and you had no idea how they even managed to get some.

you followed after them in hurried steps, catching them just as they entered a room, your voice low and hushed as you asked where they got the weed. it startled them at first to be caught, begging you not to tell the abbess, though if you knew the abbess then she was already aware, nothing passed by that woman, not a single speck of dust made it by without her notice. after some reassurance though they calmed and told you, let you know they had a dealer, an older woman who grew it for some extra money on the side, and promised to get you some the next time.

it was a few weeks later when there was a knock at your door, at a time before bed and after nightly prayers. one of the sisters you had caught before standing there and pressing a small ziplock bag into your hands with a smile before she disappeared back down the hall. it was pre-rolled you realised as you stared down at the joints in the bag, thankful as you had nothing to grind with.

you slipped out later that night into the dark, passing through the sleeping quarters and out past the courtyard to a small secluded place in the far garden. lighting the joint and taking a hit.

you don't know how you didn't hear him, maybe you were too in your own world, happy to have this small moment or perhaps he was just light on his feet when he wanted to be, either way you were soon face to face with cardinal tedesco. both of you staring at each other as smoke left your mouths.

"i did not think anyone would be here" he mused as he stared at you, eyes flickering to the joint between your fingers.

"neither did i" you replied as you swallowed.

there was no point in trying to hide the joint, he had already seen it and if you were going to be punished for it then so be it. you don't know what compelled you, perhaps it was the fact that he hadn't immediately starting ranting at you, or perhaps it was the way his gaze lingered a beat too long on the joint, but you held it out to him. blinking up at the man who just raised a brow before slipping his vape into his pocket and gently taking the joint from you.

the two of you smoked in silence, passing the joint back and forth between you as you stared up at the night sky, watching the few twinkling stars you could see and the planes that flew with their blinking lights. the occasional glance at the cardinal as you smoked.

perhaps he was more handsome than you realised.

it became a semi-regular thing after that, once a month you and tedesco would meet in the garden, sit under the tree and share a joint. it wasn't until you had all been called to the vatican that the relationship between the two of you progressed any further.

it was nearing the beginning of winter, your sisters and you packed onto a bus, excited murmurs and giggles as you passed through rome and into the vatican. there was an important meeting for the cardinals and the nuns were required for help, setting the tables for meals, cooking, making sure everything ran smoothly in all honesty.

it was the fourth day into the week when you had enough time to slip away, everything being wrapped up earlier than the previous days, you finally had some time to yourself. you snuck out, exploring the apostolic palace before a hand encircled your wrist, gently tugging you back.

"sister, you are where you shouldn't be" tedesco's voice filled your ears as he grinned down at you.

"sorry, i must have gotten lost" you smiled innocently as he laughed at your answer, tugging you away to a secluded corner.

you lit the joint as you both huddled together, a new feeling of secrecy and excitement between you both from doing something you shouldn't be. you were almost pressed together as you smoked, your eyes looking up into his as he spoke, low and hushed, the two of you giggling over things the other cardinals had said and done over the days until the joint was finished.

you would blame the weed if caught, but really you wanted this, his lips pressed to yours as your fingers gripped his cassock, your head dizzy with excitement and need. the feeling of his tongue against yours as he licked over the roof of your mouth making your knees buckle, choking back a whine as you lapped into his mouth and pressed impossibly close to him, the two of you making out. his hands gripping your waist before sliding down to cup your arse, gently squeezing and letting out a soft groan into your mouth before parting.

"we shouldn't have-" you started talking as you stared up at him and swallowed, the taste of him in your mouth.

"what is one more sin?" he grinned before it became something softer, a look in his eyes that shouldn't be there and a softness in his touch as the back of his hand ran over your cheek, "god will forgive us" whispered as he pressed his lips back to yours, gentler this time.

the urgency was gone now, leaving something else in its place as he cupped your jaw and angled your head up, the kiss slow and gentle, loving. something that it shouldn't be, something that should never have happened. yet here you were in his arms, kissing him as if he was your husband not god, as if you both hadn't given your lives away to something greater, something that entangled you both and wouldn't let you leave.

you could both have this moment though, this little something that you shared in stolen moments while hidden away from the world. a small amount of time where it's just the two of you and you can be something close to lover, something even closer to a husband and wife, but also nothing at all.

because who were really? who was he? the two of you could never be, you were both taken, lives given to something else, married to the same man who watched over you now with nothing but love in his heart.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

The Keys Of Heaven [Chapter 1: He Will Come Again In Glory]

A/N: I've had this idea since I saw Conclave in October, but I never imagined it would coincide with an ACTUAL papal conclave 😅 Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoy "volcano fic" at long last!!! 🌋❤️

Series summary: Three years ago, Father Aemond Targaryen performed a miracle. Now he is a cardinal, a media sensation, and a frontrunner to be elected pope. You are a nun who has been brought to Vatican City to assist with the papal conclave. But when your paths cross by happenstance, you must both reckon with your decision to join the Catholic Church...and what you want from the future.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), references to abuse and violence, volcanoes, bodily injury, death, peril, scheming, pining, some drugs/alcohol/smoking, Catholic trivia you never asked to learn, kangaroos!

Word count: 6.6k

🦘 A very special thanks to my Aussie slang consultant @bearwithegg (any mistakes are mine) 🦘

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @lauraneedstochill @ecstaticactus @neithriddle

🗝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🗝️

“Are you responsible for the koi?” a man asks.

You whirl, spilling pellets of fish food across the pebble pathway, sand-colored tuff made of volcanic ash. Cardinal Targaryen is standing there, and of course you recognize him immediately. His hands are clasped behind his back, his head is tilted thoughtfully to the side. He wears a gold cross, a zucchetto upon his still-blonde hair, and a cassock, scarlet to symbolize the blood a martyr is willing to shed for the Faith; it has exactly thirty-three buttons, one for each year Christ spent on earth. You grin proudly. This is a promotion, an escape from doing the washing in a basement full of spiders. “I sure am, Your Eminence!”

“Including that one?” He points: by the edge of the pond, a large red-and-white koi is floating with dull, dead, lidless eyes.

“Oh no,” you moan, taking a closer look. “No, no, no, it’s rooted. This is not good.” You turn back to the cardinal. “Please don’t tell Sister Augustina. She already thinks I’m an idiot because I don’t know how to work a fax machine.”

Cardinal Targaryen chuckles. “A fax machine?”

“I didn’t think people still used those.”

“I didn’t either.” He’s still watching you closely. “Have we met before?”

“I don’t believe so, Your Eminence.” You saw him arriving at the Domus Sanctae Marthae this morning—rolling his luggage, handing over his phone, sequestering himself from the outside world—but it was other nuns who tended to him, not you. You had been assisting Cardinal Bogdi Marcu of Romania, who probably has first-hand experience with stegosauruses and mastodons.

“You remind me of someone, but I can’t recall who...” Cardinal Targaryen studies you for a little longer, then beams benevolently. “Well, the Lord commands us to be compassionate, and so I will help you hide the evidence and spare you from Sister Augustina’s wrath.”

You should protest—surely this is beneath him—but you are so overwhelmed with gratitude that for a moment you forget this. “Oh, bless you!”

As the cardinal scoops the deceased koi out of the pond with two large, cupped hands, you use your fingers to dig a makeshift grave under a lemon tree. It is December, and the Vatican Gardens are not dead but slumbering, the air cool and the sky grey, the soil soft and dark and damp as you burrow until you hit the impassible layer of clay beneath. Cardinal Targaryen lays the koi to rest in the trough, then together you hastily inter it. When the hollow has been filled and the dirt smoothed, he looks around the nearby flower beds for a large stone and finds one, places it atop the koi’s clandestine crypt, and stands back, admiring his work.

“Now you will escape all suspicion,” he says.

“Thank you, Your Eminence.”

“You may call me Aemond.” He bows his head in greeting, holding his hands behind his back again. His speech is formal and measured, crafted in English-taught boarding schools, just a ghost of Mediterranean inflection like the lingering pink of a sunburn. “I’m Cardinal Targaryen of Greece.”

You tap your own left cheek, indicating his scar. “I know who you are.” But you would even if it wasn’t for his mutilation, his eye that was permanently stitched shut. Three years ago when he was thirty-eight, the same age you are now, Aemond commandeered a fishing boat and saved a group of fifty tourists from a volcanic eruption on Santorini, where he was a priest at the Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist. He instantly became a pop culture phenomenon—news interviews and televised sermons, statements on current events and viral memes—and was made a cardinal soon after. Miracles are so rare in the modern world; those who wield them must be elevated to prove the magic still exists.

You give him your name, and the cardinal—you cannot bring yourself to think of him as Aemond, too informal, too intimate—surmises: “You’re here for the conclave.”

That is sort of true. “It’s such an honor.”

“Hm.” He is scrutinizing you again, his remaining eye sharp and blue and fascinated. “Are you certain we haven’t met before?”

“I don’t know where we would have, I’ve never been to Greece.”

“Perhaps on one of my diplomatic missions. The Philippines, Indonesia, Colombia, Japan, China, Bangladesh.”

You smile. “Never been to any of those either.”

“You’re from Australia.” Your accent makes this apparent. He’s touching his chin, he’s determined to puzzle it out. “Which part?”

“Up north in Queensland, originally. But I’ve mostly lived in Sydney for the past fifteen years.”

He shakes his head, mystified and frustrated by it; not much eludes him. “I visited Sydney once but it was forever ago, I was just a kid.” He is still thinking. On other pathways through the gardens, red dots of cardinals are walking off their flights from six different continents, murmuring solemnly to their colleagues or lost in the solitude of prayer. “How was this arranged, you traveling to the Vatican?”

And so you tell him the most abbreviated version: Mother Maureen Ashwell of the Sisters of Charity of Australia wrote to Sister Augustina, a friend for decades, a pen pal of sorts, and asked if she could use you. When the cardinals convene each time a new pope must be elected—ten years since the last conclave, or twenty, or thirty—there is a great need for labor, and particularly the labor of women, anonymous and thankless and uncomplaining: washing, cooking, serving, scrubbing, safeguarding, the endless, ever-patient matrilineal caretaking. Sister Augustina acquiesced, and so you flew to Rome with another nun from your convent, Sister Rhaena, who is very young and very in awe of everything all the time. Whatever affection Sister Augustina has for Mother Maureen has not translated to you. She scowls, she huffs, she loathes how you fold clothes and make beds. When Rhaena playfully tried to give her the nickname of Sister Tina, she received a pair of cuffed, ringing ears in return.

As you speak, Cardinal Targaryen gazes at you fixedly; and then his jaw drops open in amazement. “Dear God,” he says, his remaining eye wide and starry. “You’re the girl from the beach.”

~~~~~~~~~~

How old must you have been? It comes back like sandbars revealed by low tide: you are around nine, and Aemond perhaps twelve, and you meet when your parents have—separately yet providentially—planned family vacations to Sydney for the same week in December, when the Northern Hemisphere is shivering and the South is in the early days of summer.

You drove ten hours south from Toowoomba, he flew over nine thousand miles east from Athens, and you fall into step together on wet sand that collapses into the shape of your footprints. And while your respective siblings are elsewhere—getting slathered with marshmallow-white sunscreen, being fished out of the rough waves—you and Aemond build sprawling sandcastles and decorate them with seashells, and make banners out of dried seaweed impaled on pieces of driftwood, and share the picnics your parents packed: you have Vegemite or tuna sandwiches, meat pies, Tim Tams, Granny Smith apples, and Illawarra plums, while Aemond contributes soft triangles of pita and a platter of accompaniments, tzatziki, hummus, other spreads made of feta cheese or eggplant or fish, the cold crisp relief of a Greek salad wet with olive oil.

You find each other each morning of that week, an infinitesimal eternity. He is the first boy you see as a man—his shadow tall, his voice patient and wise—and there is a powerful pure drive to be close to him, a phantom longing for something you don’t know exists yet. You make him smile and laugh; he loves the way you say sanger instead of sandwich, and esky instead of cooler box, and togs instead of bathing suits, and defo instead of definitely. You tell Aemond you want to move to Greece with him. He tells you he wants to marry you one day. He weaves you a ring made of seaweed greener than any emeralds, but you leave it on your nightstand before going to sleep and wake to find that your mum has thrown it away because it smelled like the ocean, salt and sun and eons of lives coming full circle in the depths.

On your last night in Sydney, the four parents arrange to have dinner together at a pizza place by the boardwalk, and you hear them chuckling as they make light, patronizing exchanges: too bad long-distance phone calls are so expensive, awfully sad for them to have to say goodbye, kids have such short memories, they’ll get over it. As Aemond leaves with his family—he’s the last one out the door, glancing back at you again and again—you watch him vanish into the inky darkness and the glare of the streetlights, and from a little black radio beside the till there is a song playing, maybe Dylan or Joel or Springsteen, one you’ve never been able to remember well enough to find again.

And when you arrive home after an impossibly long day of driving and open your suitcase, the seashells you hid in the bottom have been jostled and crushed until only the dust of them is left, and the loss hits you, sharp and deep, and you begin to sob so loudly your mum comes running, thinking you must be bleeding to death.

~~~~~~~~~~

He finds you where you are plating the antipasto to be ferried to the cardinals—cured salami and prosciutto, tomatoes, olives, pepperoncini, artichoke hearts, ribbons of fresh basil, and cubes of provolone and mozzarella glistening with olive oil—and tells you to follow him. You want to listen, and you have to anyway; in the Church all men outrank all women, and the distance between a cardinal and a nun is particularly vast, a transcontinental flight, the depth of an ocean.

You step away from the plates, looking back at your compatriots. Sister Augustina is glaring at you, bruise-blotched hands gnarled but steady, eyes like a basilisk’s. Sister Rhaena’s lineless face is alight; Tell me everything he says! she mouths, as if Cardinal Targaryen is a celebrity she’s had tacked to her bedroom wall since she was in secondary school...and actually, that might not be too far off the mark. The other three nuns you find yourself working with most often—Sister Penny from the U.K., Sister Nuru from Kenya, and Sister Helvi from Finland—watch you leave with puzzled, transfixed stares.

At first you’d found it impossible to use his given name, but now that you remember him, it’s very difficult not to. You have to remind yourself that you are not alone, not children on a beach where roos hop in the rust-fire dawn; you are in the midst of one hundred and six cardinals, plus a few who are eighty or older and therefore ineligible to vote, yet have nonetheless come to lend their wisdom to the deliberations. Some of their faces you know, many others you don’t, even after hours of research before your arrival in Vatican City.

You say as you trail Aemond uncertainly: “Cardinal Targaryen...?”

“Sit,” he orders when he reaches his table, pulling out a chair. You peer back at the nuns again. Sister Rhaena is exuberant; Sister Augustina looks like she’d enjoy burning you at the stake. You drop sheepishly into the red velvet chair and shrink under the intrigued gazes of the four cardinals who are seated with Aemond. You recognize Cardinal Orlando Almazan of the Philippines and Cardinal Luckson Louissaint of Haiti, whose large dark eyes roll to Aemond as he sips his wine and smiles to himself. Aemond tells his allies as he sits down beside you: “This is Sister Sydney.”

“Welcome, Sister Sydney!” booms a chubby man in his fifties, a warm perpetual flush in his full cheeks, salt-and-pepper hair, a short tidy beard.

You titter and bow your head, deferential. Your hands are clasped together in your lap, resting uneasily on the white wool of your habit. “Thank you, Your Eminence, but that’s not actually my name.”

“Are you from Sydney, Sister?” Cardinal Almazan asks; he is a small quiet man who is easy to lose in a crowd. He is presently doling out lollies and bikkies with labels you’ve never seen before; he must have brought them with him from the Philippines. He slides one over to you. Jelly Straws, the colorful package reads.

“We met there as children,” Aemond says. “About thirty years ago. And we hadn’t seen each other since.”

“C’est pas vrai!” Cardinal Louissaint exclaims as the others chatter incredulously. “Really? Is it possible? And now you find that you have both come to the Church by different paths? Incroyable.” He introduces himself with a broad grin and another curious glance at Aemond.

“How fortuitous for the Lord to bring you together again,” Cardinal Almazan says. He tells you his name and gestures for you to open the Jelly Straws.

“Yes,” Aemond muses, almost like it’s an afterthought, as if divine intervention hadn’t occurred to him. While you’re still hesitating, he rips open the Jelly Straws and takes a green one for himself, crystals of sugary coating snowing down on the table. “Mmm. Watermelon.”

“Aemo, give me a mango one,” the loud salt-and-pepper haired man says, holding out an open palm. And you recall abruptly, like something shattering against the floor: Did I call him that on the beach? I think I might have.

Aemond tosses him an orange Jelly Straw, and then tells you, pointing at the man: “Kazimierz Nowak of Poland.” Then he indicates to the last attendee, fluffy brown hair and round glasses, composed, bookish, mid-forties, the second-youngest cardinal here in the dining hall of the Domus Sanctae Marthae, the residence of the cardinals for the duration of the conclave. “Shane Campbell, American by birth, now serving in Mongolia.”

“Easiest assignment,” Cardinal Nowak mutters as he tears open a package of Sky Flakes, and the other men chuckle.

“Kazi, you are being rude again,” Cardinal Almazan scolds him, but he’s smiling. Unfamiliar snacks rotate around the table: Fudgee Barr, Kopiko, Super Stix, Hello Panda. Cautiously, you take a pink Jelly Straw from the package and pass the rest along. It tastes like strawberries, sweet and summery, golden sun beating down like it has in every other December you’ve ever lived through.

Cardinal Campbell tells Kazi: “I would happily die by arrows or being roasted over a gridiron if it would at last win me your esteem.”

“You could just lose four fingers like Jake,” Kazi suggests. He waves to a cardinal at a nearby table: Jacob Green, a Brit serving in Iran. You know his face; last year his capture and torture by a militant group was widely publicized, as well as his commitment to remain in Iran after the Church paid a hefty ransom and arranged for his safe release.

Cardinal Campbell holds up his hands and ponders them. “Which fingers could I spare?”

“Start with the ring fingers,” Cardinal Luckson Louissaint says. “You won’t need them.”

You all laugh, and Rhaena appears with plates of antipasto, including one for you. She cannot disguise her excitement; she is glowing with it, she is beaming, she almost drops Aemond’s serving on the floor as she goes to set it in front of him. “Thank you very much, Sister,” Cardinal Almazan murmurs as she scurries off again.

The men begin to eat. They speak with great familiarity and have nicknames for each other: Aemo, Kazi, Lucky, Lando, Cam. You pick up your fork and peer nervously around the dining hall. Many cardinals are watching you now, some amused, some fond...but others are frowning.

“Eat, Sister, eat,” Lucky urges you. He is short and round and has a gruff voice and hands calloused from the sort of work most cardinals abstain from. “You are in the right place, I promise. This is the kids’ table.”

Cardinal Orlando Almazan, Lando to his friends, appears startled. “I’m sixty.”

“That’s mid-twenties in cardinal years,” Kazi says. “Hey, Lando, did you ever watch that show I emailed you about?”

“Oh, it was awful.” He spears a chunk of salami with his fork.

“What show?” Aemond asks.

“Cribs,” Kazi says, and the others snicker.

“So wasteful!” Lando laments. “All those bedrooms, bowling alleys, movie theaters, garages for ten cars...all I could think about was the good those resources might do elsewhere.”

Kazi sighs. “You can’t look at anything without seeing orphans.”

Lando opens his hands. “And is this such a failing?”

“Well, it’s not very interesting.”

Lando grins. “Interesting men make poor cardinals. We figured that out in the 1500s when they kept murdering each other.”

“Might be a good tradition to revisit,” Lucky jokes, but in a very low voice. And he nods towards a table across the room, where several cardinals are glaring and hissing conspiratorially amongst themselves. You recognize some of them, older men with forceful fields of gravity: Bernardo Ferrari of Italy, Florent Auclair of France, and Matej Jahoda of the Czech Republic, a favorite to be elected pope.

Kazi says: “Jahoda thinks he is entitled to lead the Church because atheists killed his family.”

You are horrorstruck, a palm pressed to the white wool over your heart. “Did they really?”

“Prague Spring,” Aemond tells you, a phrase that carries with it vague connotations from Modern History in secondary school: 1960s, Eastern Bloc, Soviet invasion, self-immolations, tanks and smoke in the streets.

“It is very sad, what happened to his people,” Lando says softly.

“Yes, of course, but you cannot buy the Chair of Saint Peter with tragedies,” Lucky replies, then winks at Aemond. “Although perhaps you can earn it with miracles.”

“It wasn’t a miracle,” Aemond demurs, as he is expected to. To agree would be sanctimonious, prideful, unholy. No cardinal may campaign for himself, nor be seen to covet the papacy. It is disqualifying to be perceived as ambitious; and so those who want it most become good at pretending.

Cam leans across the table to whisper to Aemond: “Jahoda calls you The Cyclops.”

Aemond smiles as he crunches on a hunk of cucumber. “For something to be a monster, you have to be afraid of it.”

You take shy nibbles of your antipasto. On the other side of the dining hall, Cardinal Jahoda rolls his eyes and glowers at you and Aemond, then turns to say something you can just barely hear to his companions: “He will do anything for attention.”

“What was that, Cardinal Jahoda?” Kazi shouts across the void, and a hush ripples through the men dressed in red, the women in white or blue or black—depending upon which order they belong to—skittering soundlessly on the outskirts as they fetch water and wine and bowls of pancetta and pea risotto, the next course. Over one hundred souls wait to see what will happen next. The lines have been drawn and the frontrunners are no secret: the conservatives favor Jahoda or Leopoldo do Carmo of Portugal, the moderates are split between Jacob Green and Gideon Saati of South Sudan, and the liberals by and large are planning to vote for Aemond when the cardinals are locked in the Sistine Chapel.

Slowly, Cardinal Jahoda rises to his feet. He is an imposing man with iron-grey hair, broad shoulders, and large hands that could have gone to war if he’d chosen a different vocation. His voice is not gravelly like Lucky’s, but clear and deep and colored with a strong Czech accent. “Brothers, this is a time for reflection and solemn prayer, not fraternizing.”

Aemond stands. Enraptured gazes follow him, eyeglasses are put on; some cardinals smile, others glare, others only observe, opening their hearts to be swayed in either direction. “Cardinal Jahoda, surely you do not believe that our sisters are fit to prepare our meals but not to share them with us.”

Jahoda is dismissive, as if Aemond is a child to be shushed. “Ah, you do nothing with pure intentions. Do not pretend you care for her.”

“You are upset,” Aemond says with mock earnestness, and there are chuckles in the audience. “Perhaps you are lonely and in need of better company. Perhaps you would like to invite one of the other sisters to join your table.”

“God has ordained different roles for us. I would not presume to alter them.”

“And this is the thinking that has left our Church in such a precarious state,” Aemond says, and there is a chorus of responses: groans and objections from the conservatives, cheers and water glasses thumped on the tables from the liberals, the moderates splitting the difference. “You would not presume to question anything, and so you are content with an institution that stands still as the world keeps moving.”

“The Holy Father, may God rest his soul, was a progressive,” Jahoda counters, sparring with words like blades that clang together and slice just millimeters from the blue shadows of veins. “And for all his triumphs—serving the poor and the destitute so faithfully, welcoming with open arms migrants and refugees—he failed to strengthen the Church. Millions around the world are leaving Catholicism to become Evangelicals. The Vatican is deeply in debt. Recent press coverage of the Holy See has been marred by misinterpretations and vagueness, mixed messages, claiming to champion human rights while enabling China and Russia—”

“Concessions must be made if we are to have inroads to reach the people of these nations.”

“And so you would negotiate with tyrants.” Jahoda gives Aemond a hard, searing look, as if this is a betrayal. “Appeasement is not the solution to our problems.”

“Neither is alienation from modernity! We can choose to challenge ourselves and our Faith in order to meet the needs of the time we live in and reinvigorate the Church. We can explore the possibility of ordaining female deacons, we can extend blessings to same-sex couples, we can make celibacy optional for our priests as so many other religions have done already, we can do more to protect the climate which will in turn save countless human lives, we can allow the divorced and remarried to participate in communion!”

But this is too much: the conservatives are jeering and the moderates look startled, as if a fire alarm has just gone off. The liberals are gamely trying to drown out the opposition with cheers, applause, bangs of fists and water glasses against the tables. The nuns clutch their rosaries. You exchange a glance with Rhaena, who stands nearby carrying a bowl of risotto she’s completely forgotten about. She is mesmerized by Aemond. She mouths to you: Can you believe him?

You can, but you can’t; he’s exactly the same as the boy from the beach, he is so different, he is still watchful and clever, he is sharper and bolder and scarred.

“Brothers, brothers, please!” Cardinal Blaise Seaborn is pleading. He is the dean of the College of Cardinals, responsible for summoning them for the conclave and presiding over the proceedings. He is eternally flustered, his hair in disarray and his cassock rumpled. “We can discuss these matters in the general congregations tomorrow. Now is not the time. You’ve traveled so far and you must be exhausted. Please, I implore you, take your seats and finish your meals that the sisters have worked so diligently to prepare.”

Jahoda waves a hand flippantly as he lowers himself back into his chair. “You cannot understand, Cardinal Targaryen. But it is not your fault. You do not have the wisdom. You’re just too young.”

And as Jahoda retreats, Cardinal Auclair leaps up from the same table and strides to the center of the dining hall. He is tall and lean like Aemond, white-haired since his thirties, fiendishly quick, a fox, a peacock, a mercenary. No one would ever vote for Florent Auclair to be pope; it is well-known—yet never said aloud—that at home in Paris, there is a widow he has taken a special interest in and three children that share his aquiline nose and small, icy eyes. But this does not mean he is impartial. In your corner of the room, Lucky is drumming his knuckles heavily on the tabletop. Kazi passes you a half-eaten Choc Nut.

“Your Eminences,” Auclair begins with a sweep of his hand. Cardinal Seaborn peers around as if searching for someone to stop this, as if it isn’t his job. “The Holy Father was known for his humility and his gentleness. Let us now bring balance to the Church with a leader who is strong, and experienced, and attuned to the ancient history of our Faith. Not an idealistic youth.”

“I wonder about this fixation upon age,” Aemond says, and all eyes snap back to him. Cardinal Seaborn looks on wearily, feebly. “We believe in a Savior who redeemed the world at thirty-three, but a man at forty or fifty is not fit to lead His flock?”

Auclair is incensed. “You compare yourself to Christ?!”

“You pretend to know my mind!” Aemond thunders. “And the gifts that God has bestowed upon others. There is no greater arrogance.”

Auclair mocks venomously: “What is the saying? He who enters the conclave as pope leaves it as a cardinal.”

“And I have voiced no such aspirations.” But he has led Auclair into the trap of speaking them to life, and now they are loose in the air like fireflies and no one can forget them.

Auclair switches to Latin, and Aemond follows him seamlessly. Then Auclair pivots to French, a language that many of the cardinals have at least some proficiency in, and Aemond hesitates; you have the impression he can understand most of what is being said, but Auclair talks so swiftly—surely this is intentional—and Aemond stumbles over his words when he tries to defend himself.

Lucky surges up from the table and meets them in the middle of the dining hall, assailing Auclair with a deluge of French. Aemond gracefully retreats. As the emperors stand back, the gladiators bloody the floor. Now the cardinals are in uproar, a deafening rumble of palms and fists against the tables, an incomprehensible storm of languages. Kazi and Cam are bellowing to cheer Lucky on. Lando looks at you, smiles placidly, shrugs, takes a bite of his risotto.

“Cardinal Louissant, please!” Cardinal Seaborn begs. “Please, Brothers, let us return to our seats! This is no way to honor the memory of the Holy Father!”

The cardinals fracture away from each other, Auclair returning to one side of the room, Lucky to the other. Auclair hisses at Aemond as he withdraws: “Even your hero Saint Thomas Aquinas agreed that pride is the most reprehensible of the seven deadly sins.”

Aemond says: “And fortunately for you, Your Eminence, lust is the least.”

“Le salaud!” Auclair roars, and again the cardinals erupt into chaos. “Le crétin, la bête!”

As the dining hall is engulfed in jeers and laughter and applause, Aemond stands by his chair and sips his wine, cool, composed, too statuesque to be human. You gaze up at him and think: What happened to that boy from the beach? Cardinal Seaborn physically places himself in Auclair’s path to stop him from crossing the midpoint of the room. Sister Augustina is crossing herself.

“You still need one more miracle to be a saint, Targaryen,” Auclair seethes as Cardinal Ferrari coaxes him back to their table. “Surely that is what you dream of. No throne on earth is high enough for you.”

Aemond does not reply. He sits as if no one has said anything and eats his risotto, neat but famished forkfuls. Lucky, Kazi, Cam, and Lando give him encouraging thumps on the back. In return, Aemond flashes them a sly, crooked smirk. Then he turns to you. “Tell me about the work you’ve done with the Sisters of Charity of Australia.”

It’s a command, not a request; still, you deny him. You stand, casting a wary glance at Sister Augustina, who is lurching towards you on jolty, arthritic legs. “I really must go serve dinner with the rest of the sisters, I’m only here in Vatican City with Sister Augustina’s blessing and I fear she is dangerously close to revoking it.”

Aemond’s companions wish you goodnight, but he’s not quite done with you yet. “That’s not why I did it,” he says, indicating to the seat he led you to. “To prove a point.”

“I know, Aemond.” And you should have called him Your Eminence or Cardinal Targaryen, but you didn’t, because he’s not just a cardinal. He’s your friend.

As you depart, Aemond picks up a pack of chocolate-flavored Sky Flakes from the table and offers them to you. “Bikkies, right?”

You grin. He remembers. “Too right.” You take the Sky Flakes; you’ll share them with Rhaena tonight.

But when dinner is over and the dishes have been cleared, Aemond finds you again, this time at the threshold between the dining hall and the corridor that leads to the stairwells and the elevators. The Domus Sanctae Marthae—Latin for Saint Martha’s House—is essentially a hotel, built in 1996 by Pope John Paul II for guests to Vatican City and to house the College of Cardinals during a conclave. It can accommodate one hundred and thirty-one souls in small, spartan rooms: no televisions, no radios, no computers, no cellphones, no worldly distractions, no undue influences upon the cardinals’ meditations. They are to listen to the whispers of God, not journalists, not family or friends, not bribes or threats or pleas, not even the crowds of faithful Catholics that gather in Saint Peter’s Square with handmade signs and flickering candles.

Aemond asks, spotting the plain iron medallion hanging from your throat: “Who are you wearing?”

“Saint Agatha.”

“Bona of Pisa would have been better. The patron saint of travelers. Or perhaps Mary MacKillop, the patron saint of Australia.”

“Yes, Aemond, you’re very smart.”

He chuckles and watches you, and even when he doesn’t say anything you feel no instinct to leave; this is unfinished. His hands are clasped behind his back again, as if he is afraid of what he will do with them if they are untethered. A scarlet torrent of cardinals lumber past as they journey to their rooms. Rhaena, curious but not wanting to intrude, loiters a ways down the hall as she waits for you.

“I still remember saying goodbye to you, isn’t that mad?” you tell Aemond. “We were with our families at that pizza place, and it was dark outside, and as you left it was like you vanished into the white glow of the streetlights. And there was some song playing...I don’t know, I’ve never been able to find it again. But it was sad, and I think it had a harmonica.”

Surely he thinks you’re a bit gone for holding on to that moment from almost exactly twenty-nine years ago; maybe he’ll even think you’re making it up. But instead, Aemond gazes off into the Red Sea of cardinals—a lava flow, a bloodrush—and then after a while he comes back to you. “It’s a Bruce Springsteen song,” Aemond says quietly. “It’s called Atlantic City. If you look it up when all of this is over and we’re no longer sequestered, I think you’ll discover you recognize it.” And as you stand there, speechless and thunderstruck in your spotless white wool, he begins to leave. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Sydney.”

“Defo,” you reply; and when Aemond blinks at you, stunned, you smile.

He smiles back, touches the gold cross that hangs from his neck, turns away from you and is lost in the gore-red current.

~~~~~~~~~~

Everyone agrees he is smart, but how far has that gotten him?

He has leapt from one island to another: born on Nisyros, educated at British boarding schools and seminaries, and finally assigned to Santorini, and it is here that he waits to become someone. The Church has been the refuge of superfluous sons for two thousand years, a throne that requires no inheritance, a ladder to material comforts, security, status, power, fame, immortality for those who climb high enough. And what is the price you must pay? A relatively painless sacrifice when one considers the rewards: you may not marry, you may not have children, you may not experience romantic love if you are still under the belief that such a thing exists.

He came to the Faith through his mother, Irish by birth and always yearning for somewhere that was cool and wet and green. But perhaps its roots cannot thrive here in the dry air and volcanic soil. Of Greece’s ten million inhabitants, only one percent are Catholic, and while that number grows with each new wave of refugees from Lebanon, Syria, or Iraq, he finds himself languishing in scenic Mediterranean irrelevance. At the Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist, he ministers to sunburned tourists and dozing old people. He has a plan, but it’s happening so slowly; and patience is a virtue but he has no illusions that he possessed many of those.

It’s summer, hot and glaring and the height of tourist season, when he feels the earth shift beneath his feet as he is ruminating on his disaffection at the Old Port of Fira. Across a narrow strait of the Aegean Sea, he sees the sky change color above Nea Kameni, an uninhabited island and popular site for hiking and sightseeing. Because he was raised on Nisyros, he knows what signs foretell an eruption. Because he’s been on yachts with his boarding school friends—sons of dukes, daughters of prime ministers, bottles of vodka and MDMA pills—he knows how to sail.

It’s late in the day, nearing dusk, and so most of the tours are already back; but there is at least one group left on Nea Kameni, and he knows this because he can just barely see their boat moored to the dock and thrashing on suddenly murderous waves. And then the crater of the volcano explodes, and smoldering rubble pours down onto the dock, and the boat is crushed and they are stranded. He can almost hear their screams. He can imagine the lethal red heat of the lava that will soon be swallowing them like Jonah was wrenched into the belly of a whale.

For the very first time in his life, Aemond could almost believe in God, in divine intervention, in miracles; because in the scorching black plumes of poison rising from Nea Kameni, he sees the white of the smoke when the College of Cardinals has elected a new pope.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Should we have a cuppa?” you ask Rhaena as you place a kettle on a hotplate in the small kitchenette. A corner of the ground floor of the Domus Sanctae Marthae has been set aside for the nuns, each bedroom containing two single-sized beds; you and Rhaena are roommates.

“That’d be lovely.” She sighs as she sits down at the table and rips open the package of chocolate-flavored Sky Flakes. She looks exhausted, shoulders slumped, eyes puffy.

“You alright?”

Rhaena nods. “I’ve just been flat out since the second we got here. And I still have another load of washing to get done tonight. Did you see those spiders in the basement?”

“Oh yeah, heaps of them.”

Rhaena shudders, then perks up when she takes a bite of a Sky Flake. “These are good though.”

“I’ll help you with the washing.”

“Is he like you remember?” she says, and you know who she means. Light floods back into her face; gravity lessens in her bones. She is sitting up straighter. She is entranced. “Was he the same way as a boy? So clever and fearless and magnetic?” Then Rhaena gasps and glances worriedly at the third nun in the room, whom she had forgotten about: Sister Augustina is at the opposite end of the table, collapsed with her head resting on her forearms, her body eerily motionless. She’s always doing this.

You smile. “She’s asleep, Rhaena. She can’t hear us.”

Nonetheless, her voice drops to a whisper. “She won’t stop hitting me.”

“I’m sorry.” You pull back your sleeve to show Rhaena the discoloration of a bruise left by one of Sister Augustina’s clawlike hands. “Keep your distance as much as you can. I’ll try to distract her.”

Rhaena gives her unconscious tormenter one last mistrustful look. Despite Sister Augustina’s mortal faults, you have compassion for her. Wrath comes from pain, a vivid red like stoked flames or fresh blood, and something terrible must have happened to her: a lost loved one, a suffering nation, betrayal, rejection, abuse. But she’s still in the Church, she still has faith, and you find that beautiful. She wears a black habit and a medallion depicting Saint Zita, the patron saint of servants, housekeepers, and lost keys.

Rhaena prompts you: “Well?”

Her question still burns in your skull, low like embers: Is he like you remember? “It’s difficult to explain,” you say slowly. “Sometimes he’s just like that boy from the beach. And then in other moments he looks like a stranger.” He is cunning, he is prideful.

“He would make an extraordinary pope, don’t you think?” Rhaena says wistfully as she nibbles on her Sky Flake. “He’s so well-versed. He’s young, he’s charismatic. And he’s performed a miracle. The lava stopped when he held up his hands, that’s what the tourists he saved told the reporters. What other cardinal can say that? Who else could claim to have been chosen by God?”

Your reply is vague, and not only because you’re supposed to believe God alone will decide who the next Holy Father will be; you aren’t sure how you feel about Aemond being pope. “We’ll have to see what happens.”

“And we get to witness it...right here, where Saint Peter founded the Church two thousand years ago...” Rhaena is in awe of your good fortune, Sister Augustina and the spiders and the endless chores notwithstanding. “What was it that you said to Mother Maureen to convince her to send us to Rome?”

You haven’t told Rhaena the real reason why you’re here. It would hurt her, you think; you are like an older sister to her, or perhaps even a mother, a resurrection of the one she lost to a postpartum hemorrhage when she was a girl. Engraved on her plain iron medallion is Saint Jerome, the patron saint of orphans and abandoned children.

So you lie. “Papal conclaves are so rare, maybe once every ten or twenty years. I won’t have many more opportunities to see one. When the Holy Father passed, Mother Maureen and I were discussing it, and I mentioned how fascinated I’d always been by the process and how I would love to assist with a conclave someday. And she made a call to Sister Augustina that same night.”

Rhaena smiles warmly. “Mother Maureen is so kind.”

She really is. “We are very fortunate to have her.”

You pour boiling water into two cups with one teabag each—Yorkshire Tea, of course, brought in your luggage—and let them steep. Then you turn to contemplate Sister Augustina, still sleeping.

“Don’t,” Rhaena pleads.

You smirk guiltily. You can’t bring yourself to exclude her. It’s not the right thing to do. “Sister Augustina, would you like some tea?” you ask loudly. She doesn’t stir.

“Leave her alone,” Rhaena begs you. “She’ll just find something to snap at us about!”

You try again: “Sister Augustina!”

She still doesn’t move. Now you and Rhaena are perplexed; it’s never been this difficult to rouse her before. You go to Sister Augustina and prod her shoulder, then scream as she spills bonelessly across the floor.

She’s dead.

[moltisantiii]

Okay... So what if... Hypothetically... I was currently writing a Pre-Conclave Tedesco story about a woman he meets at his Church who makes him question his whole career... With this vibe...

...Would any one care to read it ?

[conclover]

Vincent Benitez x Nun! Reader

Warnings: +18, reader is a nun, referred to as she/her, afab, first time for him, explicit sex, no use of protection, religious kink, corrupting a pure soul.

Notes: Benítez my beloved.

Word count: 6k

...

Vatican City, 2024.

Within the cloistered walls of the Apostolic Palace, behind layers of secrecy and ceremony, the Conclave was about to begin.

You’d been through it once before, enough to keep your nerves steadier than the young sisters flitting like sparrows through the polished corridors. Still, it wasn’t like you had much to do this time. Mother Agnes, ever cold and calculating, had assigned you a role so vague it felt like exile.

“Logistical, clerical, and medical assistance to the cardinals,” she’d said, her voice flat, her eyes sharp. Which was just another way of saying stay out of the way.

You hadn’t liked her from the start. She could smell the thoughts you weren’t allowed to speak. She didn’t tolerate even a flicker of impropriety, especially not from the nuns who’d earned reputations for piety and restraint.

So, while the others labored, cooking for the crimson clad cardinals of the Church, scrubbing every marble surface, preparing the Sistine Chapel for its sacred task, you sat alone like a ghost in a narrow room that barely deserved to be called an office. A table, a chair, an old crucifix, an almost dying potted plant and a dusty window that overlooked the courtyard below.

From there, you watched the sea of red silk and age roll in. You couldn't hear them from your window, but you could read their gestures. Some embraced like old friends reunited after decades. Others clustered in quiet corners, heads close, lips barely moving. A few smoked on the edges of the patio, taking their last worldly pleasure before the spiritual lockdown began. You didn’t judge them. Not exactly. But truth be told, there was no one worth watching.

You’d taken your vows long ago. However, they didn’t cauterize your imagination. You were human. You were still allowed to think things, weren't you? You could still play in the shallows of fantasy without drowning.

Only, there was nothing to fantasize about.

The cardinals, many whispered to be papabile, were like ancient relics draped in red. Not just in body, but in soul. Their minds were locked in some century that even medieval popes would have found embarrassingly outdated. There was no beauty in them, no spark. Nothing to draw the eye, let alone the heart.

Until someone knocked. It was a soft and almost too polite tap, followed by a voice that didn’t match the rest of the aging choir.

“Forgive the intrusion, Sister. I know you must be busy during these... stressful days.”

You turned too quickly in your chair, spine straightening, fingers instinctively reaching for a pen as if you'd been working and not staring through the window as if there was nothing else to do.

There he was. The answer to your prayers.

A cardinal. Yes, the robe confirmed that. But younger than the others, and striking in a way that was hard to look at directly. He possessed the kind of beauty that didn’t beg for attention, but commanded it all the same. He had dark brown eyes, steady and unblinking, as if they saw more than most would ever admit. His hair was black, thick, and just long enough to hint at rebellion before discipline caught it. He was clean shaven, his jawline sharp, his mouth unreadable, neither smiling nor stern. There was something about him, not just his looks, but the way he carried silence like a blade.

“Oh, please,” you said, smiling too fast. “It’s no bother at all.”

Your fingers fumbled slightly beneath the desk, betraying your nerves. He stepped inside, and for the first time in days, your breath caught in something more primal, more dangerous. And God help you, you didn’t want to stop it.

He stepped further into the room, the heavy door closing behind him with a hush of wood on stone. The silence that followed was charged. You could feel it settle between you like incense smoke, curling into the corners.

“I’m Cardinal Benitez,” he said with a modest nod. “But you can call me Vincent.”

You hadn’t heard of him before which was surprising, really. Seeing someone like him here? That was unusual. He didn’t carry the same weary air of authority that clung to the others. He seemed quiet, observant, almost too composed. Thoughtful, maybe even incorruptible. And far too handsome for someone wrapped in vows.

“I'm Sister (Y/n),” you replied, forcing your voice into steadiness. “Assigned here to assist as needed, though I’m afraid there hasn’t been much need.”

He offered a faint smile, the kind you feel more than see. “A pleasure to meet you, (Y/n).”

His gaze wandered around the small room, taking notice of all of details. There was something about the way he looked, like he saw more than he should. It unsettled you, not in a threatening way, but in a way that made you want to shift in your skin.

“You see,” he began, stepping closer to your desk with such unhurried calm that your nerves flared in response, “I wasn’t able to find the entrance to the Conclave. I wonder if you might point me in the right direction.”

“Of course,” you said, standing way too quickly. You moved to the window and gestured toward the far end of the courtyard, where the great doors were just beginning to swing shut. “If you head back through the corridor you came from, you’ll find a staircase leading to the main patio. The doors are right there.”

He stepped closer as you spoke, just near enough to blur the line between propriety and proximity. And in that moment, something inside you shifted.

A memory stirred, long buried beneath layers of obedience and habit. You saw yourself in college, before the veil, standing barefoot on the edge of a summer lake, a textbook under your arm and a boy’s name caught between your teeth.

You’d chosen the veil freely. But not without ghosts. And now, one of them had walked through your door. Or something achingly close.

“I appreciate the help, Sister,” he said, voice low and smooth. “These halls twist on themselves.”

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

He didn’t linger. Just turned with quiet efficiency and made his way to the door. He paused briefly with his hand on the knob and glanced over his shoulder. Then he smiled again, wider this time, with something playful tucked beneath it.

“Expect to hear from me again soon,” he added, pausing just as he pushed the door open. “I’m all new to this place. I’ll be sure to keep you busy.”

You let out a soft laugh, a sound that surprised even you. “Well, I suppose I’d rather be needed than forgotten.”

His gaze lingered a moment longer than it should have. Not inappropriate. Not quite. But enough.

“Then I’ll make sure you aren’t,” he said.

And then he was gone.

You sat back down, but the room felt smaller than before, as if his presence had left something behind, like a weight you didn’t know how to name.

Through the dusty window, you caught sight of his silhouette crossing the courtyard with quiet urgency, his robe trailing behind him as he disappeared through the door.

You could still feel the echo of your own reaction, the heat of it, the way your body had remembered a life it was supposed to have forgotten. The lake. The barefoot days. The touch of a man's fingers brushing your body during late-night parties.

That part of you was long gone. Or it was supposed to be.

You folded your hands tightly in your lap, as if to bind the thought before it spread.

He was just a visitor. Nothing inappropriate had happened.

And yet you knew yourself too well. You would look for him again.

...

“Cardinal Benitez thanked us sisters for the delicious meal. He even included us in tonight’s prayer,��� Agnes exclaimed, her eyes wide, clearly thrilled to be seen.

“How thoughtful of him,” one of the younger sisters whispered to you, trying and failing to contain her excitement.

“Yes... quite unusual for this place,” you murmured, more to yourself than to her. Your voice carried a note of skepticism. “Where did this cardinal come from, anyway?”

The young sister leaned in, delighted to have a reason to gossip. Her words came rehearsed, like a story she’d already told the others too many times.

“Well, he came from a mission in Afghanistan. After he got injured, I think. He’s a brilliant theologian. And very, very disciplined.”

You nodded, absently. Disciplined. That word clanged around in your head like a dropped chalice.

You told yourself you’d be professional. That this was kindness, not chemistry. Curiosity, not temptation.

But if he was as spiritually strong as they claimed, if his discipline matched his celibacy, then there was nothing for you to do. Nothing but let the moment pass.

And yet, as the sun began to dip behind the courtyard wall, you found yourself adjusting your veil in the mirror by the door. Smoothing your habit. Combing your hair in a way that let just a little more of it show than it should have.

...

It was nearing evening when the knock came.

You hesitated a moment longer than necessary before answering.

When you opened the door, there he was again: Cardinal Benítez. He was standing there with that same composed air, though his cassock was a little dusted at the hem, like he’d been exploring the place for too long.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he said.

“Not at all,” you replied, stepping aside before he even asked to come in.

He entered with no air of entitlement, only quiet gratitude. “They’ve begun to seal off some of the entrances. I was nearly locked out of the palace.” He offered a wry smile. “I was hoping you might show me a not too obvious way back to my room.”

You could’ve pointed him to the corridor immediately, but instead you motioned for him to sit, unable to resist the pull of just a few more minutes in his presence. “Of course. Just a moment.”

You reached for the small map Mother Agnes gave you, unfolding it across the table. As you leaned in, he sat beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours ever so lightly. You both noticed this.

“There,” you said, finger hovering over the intricate map. “This path will take you behind the chapel. No one watches it this late.”

He studied the map, but you could feel he was studying you, too.

“How long have you been stationed here?” he asked, curiosity taking over him.

You shrugged. “A few years. Long enough to know most people in this place aren’t as polite as you.”

He gave you a genuine smile. “I’ve learned kindness goes further in places where power speaks too loudly.”

There was a long pause, comfortable yet dangerous.

And then, perhaps to break it, or perhaps to test something, he said, “You look different today.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Different?”

He tilted his head, eyes tracing the edge of your face with a gentleness that felt deliberate. His gaze lingered a second too long near your veil, where a few strands of your hair had slipped free.

“Softer, maybe,” he said at last. “Like something’s been lifted off your shoulders.”

“Maybe. I think I forgot how much this place can take out of you before you came here...” you smiled, though it felt like a confession.

He didn’t answer right away. Just let the silence stretch until it almost trembled.

Then he said, “It’s easy to forget who you were, isn’t it? Especially in a place like this.”

You nodded. “But it’s harder to ignore who I could be.”

Another silence followed. This one heavier, more suffocating. His eyes lingered just a fraction too long. In that fleeting moment, you knew he felt the same way.

Then, as though pulling himself back from something dangerous, he straightened, ready to escape this situation.

“Thank you, Sister,” he said, his voice softer now, almost reluctant. “You’ve been more helpful than you know.”

He turned to leave, and just before stepping out, he paused at the door.

“I’ll try not to get lost again,” he said.

But you both knew he would.

...

Just as night began to devour the last of the light inside the palace, your thoughts returned again and again to your conversation with him. You swore you’d seen it: a flicker in his composure, a quiet tremble behind the strict lines of discipline he wore like armor.

"Enough of this nonsense..." you told yourself, tossing in your narrow bed. You couldn’t sleep with your mind pacing like this. You needed air. Stillness. A sky without frescoes.

With a sharp exhale, you dressed quickly, your movements sharp and purposeful. Hands tucked deep into your pockets, you slipped out into the night. You just needed a short walk to shake him loose from your thoughts.

You drifted toward the side courtyard, where the moonlight spilled like silver paint across the polished floors. The fountain murmured in the center, its soft voice the only thing breaking the silence.

When you heard another noise you stopped, heart skipping a beat.

There, beneath the arches, half cloaked in shadow, sat Vincent.

He wasn’t praying. Just looking up at the sky as if trying to get an answer from God.

He hadn’t seen you. Not yet.

You told yourself to turn back. That if you stayed, you might get tangled in the way.

But your feet stayed rooted to the ground.

When he noticed you he didn’t startle. He wasn't surprised. Instead, he simply looked at you for a long moment.

Then, quietly, as if afraid someone might hear him, he spoke. “You couldn’t sleep either.”

It wasn’t a question. Just a quiet truth shared between two people who no longer needed to pretend they weren’t thinking the same thing.

“No. I thought some air might help.” You took a seat beside him on the bench, the space between you shrinking with every passing second. “You’re not like them,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

His lips curved into something that wasn't fully a smile. More of a sigh. “No. And I try not to forget that. But sometimes it feels like this place is made to change you.”

You nodded. “Or erase you.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The fountain filled the silence between sentences, and the floor beneath your feet seemed to hold the echoes of things you weren’t yet brave enough to say.

Then he turned toward you more fully, his eyes searching yours in the dark.

“What did you give up?” he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

“Everything,” you replied, your throat tight. “But… it’s been harder than I thought to give up on everything.” The words lingered in the air between you, heavier than you expected. “You?”

He was quiet for a beat too long, his gaze momentarily slipping away, as if shyness had taken hold of him.

“A life I think about more often than I should... recently,” he said, his voice softer now.

And there it was. A confession. A door that had been opened. His vow of celibacy was now at odds with the pull you had unknowingly set in motion.

Neither of you moved at first, as if recognizing the shift would make it real. But slowly, almost cautiously, his hand brushed yours where it rested between you on the bench. Not a grab. Not even a touch, really. Just the suggestion of warmth. The line between accidental and intentional blurred. And you didn’t pull away.

“If I asked you what you miss the most...” he began, his voice trembling ever so slightly. “Would you tell me?”

“Being seen,” you said. “Maybe not just that. Being touched.”

His eyes closed briefly. As if the weight of your words touched something raw inside him.

And when he opened them again, his hand found yours firmly. Not by accident.

You both looked down at the contact, as though the weight of it was more than either of you could fully understand.

“I shouldn’t,” he murmured, his voice low and strained.

You tilted your head slightly, your gaze steady. “Then don’t,” you said, pulling your hand away from his with a quiet, deliberate motion.

He turned to face you, surprise flickering across his expression as he saw you move your hand away. “You make it sound easy...”

You smiled, slow and just a touch dangerous. “It’s not. But maybe it doesn’t have to be impossible.” And with that, you moved your hand back to his, your actions a clear contradiction to the words you’d just spoken.

His thumb brushed gently along your knuckle. The motion was barely there, but it felt like lightning.

“You have no idea what you’re saying,” he said quietly, but there was no conviction behind it.

You met his gaze, steady. “Don’t I?”

He studied you. In the dim moonlight, his face was softer, less cardinal, more human.

“You’re a dangerous temptation,” he said, his voice a mix of admiration and caution.

“You’re the one who wanted to touch me,” you replied, a slight smirk curling at the corner of your lips.

He looked down, shaking his head slightly, but didn’t let go.

“You came out here to forget about me,” he said after a beat, his voice softer, almost contemplative.

“And here we are…” you said, your words trailing off as the weight of the moment settled in.

And then, silence again. However, it was no longer awkward. Now it was filled with unspoken things.

His thumb continued tracing slow, absent-minded circles on your knuckle, as if his hand hadn’t quite received the command to stop. His eyes held yours, conflicted and burning with desire.

“I should go,” he whispered, but didn’t move.

You leaned in just slightly, enough to bridge the gap without closing it.

“Then go,” you said, your voice low, dangerously so.

You watched his eyes flicker to your lips, the brief glance heavy with everything unspoken.

And then, like a decision made between heartbeats, he leaned in. The movement was slow and intentional. His free hand rose, hovering near your cheek, waiting for permission, maybe. He touched your face with the back of his fingers, reverent, like he was afraid he might harm you if he held you too firmly.

And then, your lips met his. They were warm and tentative at first, as though he was unsure, as though he might pull away. But then, when desire finally overtook him, something shifted. The kiss deepened, and in that moment, the hesitation between you both vanished.

The hand at your cheek curved into your jaw. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. His breath caught.

The kiss deepened, slow and quiet, but laden with everything you’d sworn to deny. Everything your vows had demanded you forsake.

You weren’t even sure which one of you reached for the other first, but suddenly your legs were tangled, and your bodies leaned in too close for holiness.

He broke the kiss, his breath shallow, and looked at you with a flicker of worry in his eyes.

“This…” he murmured, almost to himself. “This can’t happen.”

But his thumb was still on your lips, tracing the echo of what had just happened between you.

You closed your eyes, a shiver running through you. “It already did.”

He exhaled shakily, his voice strained. “God, help me.”

You smiled, though the weight of it made your chest tighten. “Maybe He sent me.”

He answered with a bittersweet laugh, caught between joy and regret. His hand slipped from your face, but he didn’t move away.

“I really need to go,” he said, this time with a little more conviction, as though trying to convince himself more than you.

You nodded, the silence between you thick with unspoken things.

And this time, he actually stood. But before he left, he bent forward, his breath warm against your skin, and pressed a final kiss to your lips. The softness of it lingered, a quiet goodbye that felt like a promise. Then he disappeared into the corridor, his figure swallowed by the darkness of the night.

You sat alone on the bench, your fingertips resting where his lips had been. And for the first time in a long while, your heart was anything but still.

...

By morning, the palace had resumed its mask of solemnity. Light filtered through stained glass like softened judgment. The sisters moved quietly, purposefully, as if trying not to disturb the weight of the decisions being made behind sealed doors.

You had dressed early, already feeling the veil a little tighter around your face. The habit heavier. You told yourself you wouldn’t look for him. You didn't want to cross that barrier. But you did.

Cardinal Benitez.

Vincent.

He was in full vestments now, red trim sharp against the black of his cassock. He stood with a group of cardinals, nodding to something a bishop said, posture straight, expression serene. Untouchable.

He didn’t look your way. Not even once.

You passed by with a tray of documents and kept your eyes forward. You didn’t stop. Didn’t falter. But your chest burned with something sharp and hollow.

Last night had happened. You’d kissed. You’d touched. And now… nothing?

Later, during midday prayer, you saw him again. He bowed more slowly than the others. Folded his hands with deliberate reverence. Not once did his gaze drift to yours.

Disciplined. They’d said that about him.

Now you saw just how deep that discipline ran.

...

When the silence of the convent deepened, and the last bells had long since rung, you found yourself walking the halls once more. Past the courtyards, past the garden gate. You walked aimlessly, as if your feet could lead you somewhere far enough to escape the ache in your chest. You were searching for a place to cry, a place to forget him once and for all. You didn’t want to see him again. Not after he had been avoiding you so deliberately, keeping his distance like a wall between you both.

But he was already there, quietly seated, head bowed in thought. His attire was understated, almost casual: a plain black shirt paired with matching trousers. The only clue to his vocation, the only symbol marking him as a man of the cloth, was the white clerical collar nestled at his neck, stark against the dark fabric. You noticed it had come loose, sitting slightly askew, not just from the wear of the day, but from something deeper. A weariness not merely of the body, but of the soul. The kind that seeps in when long held convictions begin to waver.

He looked up when you approached, his gaze meeting yours with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat.

“I was hoping you’d come,” he said, voice low, almost reverent.

You hesitated. “You didn’t even look at me today.”

“I couldn’t,” he admitted, his voice rough, frayed at the edges. “If I had…” He trailed off, the silence heavier than words.

You took a step closer, your heartbeat quickening. “You kissed me. And then you disappeared.”

Vincent nodded once. “Because I knew if I let myself… I would’ve done more.”

You took another step toward him. "And what are you doing here, Vincent?"

Distant thunder rumbled over the Vatican rooftops, as if God Himself knew what was about to unfold. The air felt charged, thick with the weight of unspoken words, as if the heavens themselves were holding their breath.

His eyes met yours. They were hungry, tormented, impossibly alive. Moonlight silvered the edges of his profile. He looked less like a man stripped bare by something he could no longer resist.

You sat beside him, closer this time. No space left for pretense. No polite distance.

He turned to you slowly, like a man stepping willingly into the fire, fully aware of the pain waiting on the other side.

“Don’t tempt me,” he said, but there was no strength in the plea. Only desire dressed in guilt.

You reached up, your fingers gentle, deliberate, brushing a loose strand of hair from his face. The touch lingered just long enough to draw a breath from him.

“I think we’re well past that,” you murmured, your voice barely more than a breath between you.

And then, something in him cracked.

His hand was on your neck before the breath even left his lips, pulling you into him with an urgency that had been building for days. His lips met yours harder this time. There was no caution now. No careful silence.

Your hands tangled in the fabric of his shirt, dragging him closer. You felt the heat of his body, the tension in his arms, the battle he was losing so beautifully.

He broke the kiss only to press his forehead to yours, breath ragged.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, his voice a plea, raw with the weight of everything that hung between you. “Please.”

You didn’t.

Instead, your hands slid down his chest, fingers slipping under the loosened edge of his collar. His skin was warm. Forbidden.

You kissed him again, this time slower, deeper. He groaned softly against your mouth, the sound escaping him not in pleasure, but in surrender. The edge of his self-control was unraveling thread by thread.

His hands moved too, hesitant at first, then firmer, bolder. Tracing the curve of your waist through your habit. Feeling the shape of you beneath the vow.

Thunder cracked again, louder now. Closer.

Still, neither of you moved to leave.

Nothing mattered now. Only the desire between you.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were swollen, his breath shallow. He was still so close you could feel the warmth of his breath on your lips.

“This… changes everything,” he said again, as if trying to convince himself to stop.

“Then let it,” you whispered into his ear, your fingers threading through his hair with quiet urgency.

Your fingers slipped inside the neckline of his shirt, brushing his bare chest. He didn’t stop you. Instead, his hands came to rest at your hips, then slid around your back, pulling you gently into his lap as if he’d been holding that thought all day.

The movement was agonizingly slow, dragging on with the weight and inevitability of sin itself.

His hands gripped your waist now, unsure if he meant to keep you there or push you away. But his mouth found yours again before the choice could be made. All the silence and self-denial ignited in the heat of it.

You felt his discipline breaking under your touch, and your own vows cracking under the weight of need.

Your hand cupped the side of his face, thumb running along the line of his jaw.

“This is madness,” he murmured between kisses.

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Then stop.”

But he didn’t.

Instead, his hands slid down to your legs, gathering the folds of your habit, fingers trembling in the way. Your lips moved from his to his jaw, then lower, tracing the soft, forbidden path down his neckline.

A shudder ran through him.

You shouldn’t be doing this. Getting him all hard in the house of God.

But his hands were beneath your habit now, brushing your bare thighs, his touch unsure but hungry. He looked at you like a man seeing something he was never meant to touch, but unable to look away.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he said, voice hoarse.

“But I want you,” you answered, without hesitation.

He pulled you closer again, your bodies pressed together now, no more barriers in the way. You felt the tension in him. His restraint pushed to its limit as he guided your face back to his, kissing and licking you with all the desperation of a man who had prayed this away and failed.

Thunder cracked again, even closer this time.

You pulled your habit above your head, your veil still holding in place but some strands of hair had slipped away.

And that broke him. Seeing you naked, your body fully expossed against the moonlight was all he needed to make a decission. Yet his hands were still. He was frozen. Taken aback by your actions. This was maybe too much for him.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly, tracing a finger along the sharp line of his cheekbone, your touch feather-light.

“I’ve never…” he began, then stopped himself, his jaw tightening as if he were ashamed. “I don’t really know what to do.”

“That’s fine,” you murmured, taking his hands in yours and guiding them to your body, steady, sure. “But just a few minutes ago,” you added, your lips close to his ear now, “you didn’t seem like someone who didn’t know.”

The silence snapped like glass underfoot as he reached for you, his hands no longer hesitant, no longer bound by the invisible lines he'd drawn around himself. There was urgency in the way he touched you. The ache of something long denied, something that had lived too long in the shadows of silence and shame.

His touch was clumsy, awkward, desperate, as though this was the last thing he could do before he got erased by God's wrath. He squeezed, groped, as though your presence was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

Guilt flickered in his eyes, dark and heavy, as though the very act of touching you was tearing him in two. He looked like a man unraveling, a broken soul clinging to what little solace he could find.

Despite his lack of experience, there was something intoxicating about the raw attention he gave you. Every touch, awkward yet fervent, held a depth of feeling that left you breathless. The tension between his desire and his guilt hung heavy in the air, but you couldn’t deny the pull. The thrill of being the focus of his turmoil, of having him all hard and throbbing for you.

But you wanted more. You longed to see him unravel completely, to watch as desperation consumed him, his trembling voice pleading to God for salvation as the fire of carnal desire overtook every last shred of his restraint.

And so you leaned in, the stiff fabric of his clothed erection brushing your fingers, your breath a whisper of sin against his ear.

"Is this what you pray for?" you murmured, lips ghosting over the trembling line of his jaw.

His wide, panicked, starved eyes clung to yours like a drowning man to driftwood. You smiled knowingly, like a serpent offering Eve the forbidden apple.

"You poor thing," you cooed as you let his size spung free from his pants.

You slowly moved your hips to his lap again, the pressure of your crotch sending a shiver through his entire body. You felt his member twitch behind you and it was already soaking wet for you. And if it hadn’t been night, you might have seen the flush burning across his cheeks.

"Have you been thinking about this in your alone nights?" The words dripped from your tongue like honeyed poison.

His breath hitched. It was sharp, ragged. He almost choked on the edge of control. He could barely contain the sounds spilling from his lips, the moans breaking free like prayers he no longer knew how to hold back. But to you, they were no burden. They were a reward. A melodic symphony for your ears.

"God," he gasped, his voice hoarse with guilt and desire, taking the name in vain without meaning to.

You smiled, cold and wicked. "Keep Him out of this," you lifted your hips just for a second to place his member in your entrance. "He’s done nothing to save you tonight."

With one swift movement, his size filled you completly. Oh. How much you had missed this feeling.

Vincent, on the other side, was panting, his chest rising and falling in uneven waves, as if the very air had turned too thick to breathe. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. They hovered midair, useless, desperate. And then he looked at you. Just looked. Like a starving stray that had finally been offered something warm.

He was trembling and obedient, waiting for your command, anything to make the ache inside him stop. And once you started thrusting in and out of him, his hand flew to his mouth. He bit down against the palm of his own hand, muffling the sound, trembling from the effort. But even in his silence, you heard him. The way his body shook. The way his eyes begged. It was delicious.

It didn’t take much effort for him to come undone, his cum filling your inner walls with no warning. In another situation this might have frustrated you as you might have wanted the game to last longer. But not here. Not with him. Here, his ruin was enough to satisfy you.

...

You laid against him, the marble bench cold beneath your knees, his hands a warm contrast against your skin. Your habit was laying on the floor, his shirt partially undone, the collar wrinkled, the breath between you still uneven.

Neither of you spoke.

The courtyard felt impossibly silent now, as if even the statues had turned away. The rain hadn’t come yet, but the air was swollen with it.

You shifted your head against his chest, felt the beat of his heart beneath your cheek, steadying but strained.

“I don’t regret it,” you whispered.

His fingers traced you gently, a trembling warmth that sent shivers through your body.

“I do,” he said softly. “And I don’t.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face.

He looked older now, not aged, but worn. Like something sacred had been cracked inside him. Not broken. But no longer untouched.

He exhaled deeply then reached up to fix your veil, gently tucking a few strands of hair back into place. The intimacy of it struck you more than the sex had.

You rose first, putting on your wrinkled habit. He followed, slower, adjusting his collar, fingers clumsy now that adrenaline had ebbed.

When you turned to go, he caught your wrist.

“Will you come tomorrow?” he asked.

“Do you want me to?” Your words hung between you, teasing, probing.

He hesitated just a beat, his breath catching in his chest before he nodded. “I’ll be here. After compline.”

A shared look. Silent. Charged. Nothing more.

Then, like a shadow dissolving into the night, you vanished through the hallway, leaving behind only the echo of your absence, and the weight of everything that had just passed between you.

[celestiamour]

conclave had me like this every time he came up on screen i love him so much god help me

Some Vincent Benítez x f!reader??? Imposible love?

No? Really none?...

Oh... Ok.

[celestiamour]

‧₊˚✧ ❛[ slowly ]❜

ft. vincent benitez x f! reader — conclave

╰₊✧ life as a nun is quiet and simple until a cardinal from kabul shows up┊1.7k words (part two coming soon!!)

contains: typical misogyny in the church, reader is a nun and mentioned to be queer, vincent is so sweet

➤ author's note: i know this fic didn’t score very high on the poll but it was the first one i promised and also carlos is literally torturing me with how hot he is like omfgggggg

it’s a lonely and difficult existence being a nun, expected to be living in an image of the virgin mary, being as pure and sinless as she was, following her example of living free from earthly desires, and being wholly dedicated to god. ever since you’ve devoted yourself to the holy father, you’ve found yourself forever silent and holding your head down, always being seen and barely heard, speaking in nothing but hushed whispers when spoken to, and being especially reserved in the presence of the cardinals you were sequestered with.

it’s the first time you’ve ever been present in the process of a conclave, and you’re honestly hoping for it to be your last. you hate the thought of being even more trapped than you usually felt in the literal sense, and you would be stuck here until the new pope is elected. if you’re lucky, it would only be a few days as it usually is, but knowing the ambitions of this year’s major candidates, you weren’t going to be holding your breath anytime soon. 

each passing second, each minor interaction with these men, from taking their electronics to serving their meals to cleaning their rooms, makes you more timid. sister agnes mentioned you didn’t need to be more shy, but knowing you were stuck here serving them made you want to run until you were long gone from vatican city. 

you couldn’t stand it, the way they looked at you, as if you were lesser than or just some glorified maid. sure, some like dean lawrence were polite enough to say a word of thanks, but others like cardinal tedesco treated you dismissively like you weren’t worth a second of his time. either way, you avoid them like the plague and try your best to remain hidden in the shadows where you wouldn’t be bothered (although they still occasionally call out ot you to request for you to perform a service or errand for them, and all you do is give a taut smile and accomplish it as quickly and efficiently as possible so that you can be left alone once more).

most hours of the day, you grip your hands together in prayer to ask for strength from above, but you hate to admit that it’s impossible to ask for something from a god whom you weren’t even sure you believed in with every passing day. 

dedicating your life to faith was not your calling, it never was. you always knew this, but you had believed it would be the easiest and most convenient way to escape from the overwhelming pressures and expectations of life set by the people around you. you were too cowardly to stand up to them and blaze your own trails, so you took the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, using an exaggerated connection to god as a reason to leave and not spend the rest the rest of your life in the suburbs with a man you barely knew or cared for. you can only hope that the lord could understand your actions and forgive you if he was out there, taking your devotion for the rest of your mortal life as penance. it’s not like you saw a future for yourself outside of the stained-glass windows of the church anyway.

“sister, would you mind showing cardinal benitez to his room?”

“i thought all the cardinals were already situated?”

“well, it appears there was one who wasn’t on the list, the cardinal of kabul.” the tone of your superior was a bit sharp, like she didn’t like not knowing what was happening yet knew she had to follow orders without question. “due to his unexpected last-minute arrival, his room is quite a ways from the others, and since it’s his first time here, i would hate for him to get lost.”

your purse your lips together and nod, as she gave you instructions on where he will be staying for the duration of his conclave. she wasn’t joking when she said it was quite a ways from the others, it was in an entirely different building all together and nearly the entire corridor was just for storage. as sister agnes made her departure, you curtly bowed at the mysterious man, “this way, please.”

the busy sounds of the main area slowly faded out to nothing but footsteps and a single suitcase’s wheels dragging across the floors. he seemed friendly enough, and rather humble for a man of his status. vincent benitez, you learned his name was as you made small talk about his origins, apparently ordained a cardinal in pectore, which was why no one knew about his arrival, and he had to take public transit to the vatican. you were tempted to ask if it bothered him he didn’t get the same fanfare and attention the other men did when their planes landed, but decided against it since it seemed too personal. besides, he seems like the type of person who prefers to be out of the public eye’s fanfare unless necessary. 

despite this conversation you’ve been holding with him, you haven’t dared to look him in the face yet with your gaze never raised past his waist. he’s the cardinal of kabul, but his accent seemed to be spanish, and while he was dressed in the appropriate robes, his rochet reached his feet and was a tripping hazard. 

you unlocked the door of where he would be staying, opening it to reveal a dusty bedroom which hasn’t been cleaned in quite some time. approaching a nearby desk, you ran your finger along the surface and tutted at the evident gray powder picked up, “oh dear, i’m so sorry, the room is in worse condition than i could have predicted.”

“no worries, i’m just glad to have a roof over my head to protect me from the weather— and air conditioning! italy is especially warm during this time.”

you can’t say you’re surprised about his low standard of living, most of the others would have thrown a fit if they saw they were staying in this state. “still, it’s unfit, and i would hate for you to get sick from breathing it in, so i’ll fetch some supplies and clean it as soon as possible.”

 “is that alright? i can do it myself, you’re probably very busy—“

“no, i insist, your eminence!” cleaning the room would probably take you about an hour, which is an hour spent away from anyone else and an hour spent in peace. 

“please, please, call me vincent,” he insisted with a chuckle at your meekness, holding onto your shoulders so that you would look at him, “and don’t be so afraid of me, i don’t bite, i’m just another sinner like everyone else.”

when you finally lifted your head to look him in the face, you found yourself starting to melt at the sight with heat rushing to your face. he has the kindest eyes you’ve ever seen, not the formal eyes of cardinal lawerence or the diminishing eyes of cardinal tedesco, but soft-hearted brown eyes which saw you as more than what you were. he’s so handsome too even with his weary smile lines and crows feet crinkling around his eyes, his age adding to his charm in your opinion.

although you wouldn’t dare say anything out loud, of course. even if you were only human and it was completely natural to feel attraction, you needed to remember your vocation and the shame that would follow you like a ghost for the rest of your life if you allowed yourself to give into temptation. it’s not like a man like him would be interested in someone as plain as you anyways. 

“r-right, well— um, vincent, lunch with the other cardinals will be starting at any minute now, will you be able to manage without a guide?”

“i think i’ll be able to figure it out, thank you.”

you were hardly able to think straight during the entire duration of the cleaning session, finding your mind drifting off to thoughts about the new inhabitant of this room rather than the room itself. you couldn’t help it, you were so curious about this mysterious man and wished to know more about him. from what little you knew about him, he seemed to have led an interesting life, especially since there weren’t any current cardinals ordained in pectore aside from him that you knew of.

that’s all it is, by the way, if you must know. curiosity, nothing more.

over the next few days, you often found him exploring the grounds when he wasn’t in the sistine chapel voting with the others, memorizing every detail from the brushstrokes of the historic paintings to the carefully chiseled swirls in the base of the pillars. most of the time, he would feel your watchful eyes from afar and noticing you, always flashing an enchanting smile and inviting you to come out from wherever you were to join him. he always has interesting or insightful to say, and also always finds something to compliment you. once it was your hair peeking out from under your veil, once it was how gorgeous your eyes looked when the sun hit them just right, no matter what it was or how insignificant it seemed, it made you blush and want to hide in the shadows at how flustered you became. it’s surprising how you would often roll your eyes at the compliments of men since they seemed disingenuous with ulterior motives (regardless of how obvious your occupation was), but every word he said seemed to be from the heart.

you haven’t felt this way in ages, not since you’ve taken your vows. it was like high school again, when you felt your heart fluttering when that cute nerdy guy next to you in class would ask you to be his valentine or when your pretty friend would spoon-feed you some of her strawberry ice cream. it’s so childish and improper, especially to feel such a way for an older man, but could you really be blamed? you’re sure god would understand, vincent is one of his creations after all, and a beautiful being at that. besides, you didn’t intend for these feelings to come to light anyway. after the conclave was over, he would go back to his home, and you would go back to yours, never to see each other again.

that’s what you told yourself and believed, trusting that you would go to confession once it was all over and put it all behind you.

until he became the newly elected pope and asked you to stay in the vatican with him. 

tagging (from this post): @iamletssssss @jetless @princess-popia @alexisabirdie @tabbycat-trashcan @moonlight-sonata99

[celestiallure]

CARLOS DIEHZ X READER!!!!! ITS A NEED NOT A WANT I NEED IT MORE THAN AIR

ITS IN THE WORKS (if anyone wants a tag for the finished product just comment/reblog)

there's a carlos/reader fic on ao3 too by an anonymous creator here, it's a dream come true I love it

[alexisabirdie]

This one is very good. Read it.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64886797