#inside the sistine chapel???

[verifiablebot]

i may not have a wikipedia page for any of my known ancestors but i AM related to the preacher in baton rouge that was arrested for having church services during covid lockdowns and being generally unhinged ✌

[cannibalistic-vampirefag]

my body is a temple and homie was I raised catholic

[mcromwell]

I love tumblr because the response to art in the tags is like

- wow this is great

- art

- cool art

- good art tag

- I WANT THIS PAINTED ON THE INSIDE OF MY EYEBALLS LIKE THE SISTINE CHAPEL

- cool art

- love it

[kyshosmd]

BAD DOG — stanley snyder x top!male!reader

sypnosis: in which stanley snyder, prodigy marksman, is down bad for his general.

cw: general!reader, reader is bigger than stanley for plot purposes, age gap, kind of obsessed and perverted stanley, stanley acts like a nymphomaniac cause i said so, nasty degradation but not too bad, a bit too smutty for dr stone fandom tho. this is before the petrification incident happened, more perverted thoughts than plot

author's note: i warned you btw! this is totally self-indulgent. i can't write for shit. since stanley's an obsessed freak why not channel this into a fic yay !! whored stanley snyder out woo hoo! who cares if it's ooc, all smuts are kinda ooc. you never know what might happen when you bend a character over cause that has never happened btw <3

Stanley Snyder had always been a little bit... wrong. Not in a tragic, misunderstood way— in a "this guy would absolutely jack off to a voicemail you left him by accident" kinda way.

At twenty-four, Stanley was already a full-blown cautionary tale. He was an unhinged sharpshooter, attack dog and whole menace to society, the sniper prodigy who could kill a man at two miles and look pretty doing it. Cigarette perpetually dangling from his pretty lips, purple lipstick always just a little bit smudged, amber eyes gleaming with the kind of feral intensity that made people nervous. He walked around like he was one bad day away from blowing something up.

And you, General Y/N, were the poor bastard who accidentally turned his psychosexual mess of a brain into the Sistine Chapel of daddy issues.

You didn’t even have to try. A pat on the shoulder. Or a rough "Good work, Snyder."— and Stanley's suddenly so damn hard.

Every little scrap of validation you threw his way got hoarded like some deranged dragon hoarding praise instead of gold.

Stanley didn’t want to date you. He wanted to worship you. He wanted to be your fucked-up little trophy soldier, sitting at your boots, begging for scraps of attention like a mutt you forgot to neuter.

When you barked orders or even rudely growled something like "Move your ass, Snyder," he damn near came on the spot. So desperate he'd chew through concrete if you told him to. God forbid you actually praised him in front of the others — he’d spend the whole night hard as a rock, grinding into his mattress like a filthy little pervert, choking on miserable need to hear you say it again, and again, and again.

In the dark, in the silence, cigarette smoke curling around his twitching fingers, he’d press his hand between his thighs and would pretend it was your hand. Would pretend he wasn’t three brain cells and a bottle of whiskey away from breaking into your office and licking the inside of your kevlar vest just to feel close to you.

It was pathetic. It was disgusting. But...it was kind of everything he ever wanted.

Stanley Snyder probably wasn't in love. This was probably obsession. Obviously you weren't aware of your subordinate's freakfest.

It started with good intentions.

You, seasoned silver-fox general and occasional bringer of mercy, had decided to treat the younger soldiers to a night off — a little "Congrats on not dying this week" reward. Simple. Harmless. Just a few drinks, a little music, some cheap-ass bar food. Nothing could have possibly go wrong.

Unless, of course, you were Stanley Snyder.

Stanley had zero chill on a normal day. Tonight, he was five shots deep, emotionally unstable, and laser-focused on you like a guided missile made of daddy issues and desperate horniness.

He posted up at the bar first, looking cool— cocky even —cigarette tucked behind one ear, jacket slung over one shoulder. He looked... devastatingly good. And he knew it.

Because the moment he spotted you — slouched against the wall in plain clothes, drink in hand, muscles straining under the lazy fall of your jacket — Stanley decided, right then and there, that he was gonna be the worst version of himself for you.

He stumbled over, grinning way too wide, drink sloshing in his hand, and planted himself against your side like he belonged there. Pressed full-body against you, casual as a cat rubbing its head on its owner’s shin.

"Gen'rul," he slurred, his drawl sticky-sweet and loaded with all kinds of filthy implications, "you always look this good, or'm I just too drunk t'function?"

You blinked down at him, a little thrown off — because you were used to people being into you, sure — But Stanley Snyder? Stanley Snyder, golden boy, deadliest marksman alive, face like a fallen angel Stanley? The same Stanley who acted too cool for literally everything was now pressing his cheek against your chest like he was seconds from purring?

Yeah. You didn’t expect that. Not even a little bit. After all, you had no idea what was brewing in that filthy mind of his for the last few days.

"Y'know," Stanley mumbled against your shirt, voice all low and ragged, "ain't just 'cause you're my boss. I mean, it helps, yeah, but — fuck, you're stupid hot. Should be illegal."

You grabbed his wrist before it could slip even lower, but he just whined under his breath — honest-to-god whined — and looked up at you with eyes so glassy and adoring it was almost tragic.

And he wasn’t stopping. Oh, no. If anything, the resistance made him worse.

Stanley's hips shifted against yours, grinding subtle and slow, the alcohol making him sloppy and shameless. His hand trembled against your chest like he was dying to tear your clothes off with his teeth, if only you'd let him.

"C'mon, boss," he pleaded, voice cracking sweet and pitiful, "lemme be good for ya. Lemme — fuck, lemme make you feel good. I'll do anything — anything you want — I'm good with my hands, swear it, I—"

His mouth just kept running, a messy stream of filth and begging, like he didn’t even care who heard.

"Sir please," he whined, tilting his head back until you could see the flushed, vulnerable stretch of his throat. "Spit in my mouth, tie me up, ruin me — fuck, please, just lemme—"

You stared down at him, stunned into silence. Because holy shit.

You knew Stanley was weird. You knew he had issues. But this? This was... This was totally next level.

And maybe it was the liquor talking. Maybe it was the way his body molded to yours like he belonged there. Or maybe it was the way he looked up at you— like you were God, salvation, and damnation all wrapped in one— that made you think, Maybe... just maybe... he deserves a little reward.

You leaned down, voice dark and low right against his ear,

"Get on your knees, soldier."

And Stanley collapsed. Dropped so fast it was like he'd been waiting for you to say it his entire goddamn life.

Big, bloodshot eyes staring up at you with absolute worship, hands trembling on your thighs, lips parted on a breathless, "Y-Yes, sir..."

you lost whatever scrap of mercy you had left.

You dragged him out of the bar without a word, your hand tight around the back of his neck, steering him like a misbehaving mutt. Stanley stumbled after you, half-drunk, eyes wild, lipstick smudged down to his chin, and looking so goddamn happy about being manhandled you thought he might actually start drooling.

You didn’t stop until you found the back alley — dark, half-hidden by the noise and neon haze of the bar. Just private enough, and just filthy enough.

You slammed him up against the wall with a grunt, and Stanley whimpered, grabbing fistfuls of your jacket like he couldn't stand not being plastered against you.

"S-Sir—" he gasped, and God, the way he looked at you — glassy-eyed, flushed, mouth open like he was starving — You could’ve done anything to him. Anything.

Instead, you leaned in, your voice a low growl against his ear, "Look at you. Fucking pathetic."

Stanley shivered, hips jerking like your words alone could make him come undone.

"N-Not pathetic, sir," he breathed, but even as he said it, he was pawing at you desperately, grinding his slim hips against your thigh like a bitch in heat. "J-Just wanna be good f'you..."

"Yeah? This what good boys do? Get drunk and act like little whores?"

You yanked his belt open with a rough snap, and Stanley moaned — an honest-to-god whine, high and needy, his knees buckling slightly.

"Slut," you hissed, palming him hard enough to make him sob. "You’re fucking useless like this. Look at you. Can’t even stand up straight, can you?"

"I-I’m sorry, sir—!" he gasped, hips twitching helplessly, eyes squeezed shut like he was about to cry from how good it felt already. "’M tryin', I swear—"

"Trying what? To embarrass yourself?"

You shoved him back against the wall again and unzipped your own pants— and Stanley’s entire body twitched, breath hitching when he caught sight of what you were packing. His hands fumbled at your waistband like he was desperate to help, desperate to serve, desperate to be ruined.

When you finally pushed into him, hard and fast — too fast, too much — Stanley choked on a sob, clutching your arms like he was gonna fall apart right there.

"S-Shit, sir— it’s— it’s t-too big— fuck," he hiccupped, legs trembling, trying so hard to take it even when he was visibly overwhelmed. You gave him no mercy. Not an inch.

You railed into him— rough, relentless, every thrust pushing pathetic little whimpers and "I'm sorry, sir!"s out of him like a prayer.

His lipstick was completely ruined, smeared down his chin, and tears were starting to slip from the corners of his pretty amber eyes — but he still arched his back, still sobbed "Yes, sir!" every time you barked an order into his ear.

At one point, when you spit harshly onto his tongue — just to see if he'd take it — Stanley fucking moaned like you’d given him the meaning of life. He swallowed it down without hesitation, breathless and desperate, begging, "More, sir—please—"

"You’re disgusting," you snarled against his throat, biting hard enough to leave bruises. "Fuckin’ sick little thing. You love this, don’t you? Love getting used like the whore you are?"

"Y-Yes, sir!" Stanley cried, hips jerking uselessly against yours. "Love it—love you—need you—please don't stop—"

He was babbling, barely coherent, tears smearing black down his flushed cheeks, clawing at your back like you were the only thing tethering him to Earth. Completely fucking broken.

And when he finally came — ruined, sobbing, breathless — it was with your name falling off his lips like a desperate prayer, his whole body wracked with trembling, twitchy aftershocks. He looked like a debauched whore more than a respected soldier covered in tears, bruises and not a surprise— cum stains all over him.

Guess you didn't mind taking care of him for a while.

[supernotnatural2005]

Lovin' You

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: It’s that time of the month and Dean is there to save the day.

Word count: 1.1k

Warnings/tags: FLUFF! Dean is a hero! Menstruating, mentions of blood (nothing graphic) Dean is an actual sweetheart! I want one 😭

AN: Just a little wishful thinking for those doom and gloom moments us ladies get once a month 🫠 i hope this can be a pick me up for those times 💕 Gif not mine (found on google)

Dolly was the inspo behind this one 😉

Main Masterlist

You groaned as another sharp pain twinges in your lower abdomen, curling further into yourself as if that would somehow lessen the relentless ache. The hot water bottle pressed against your lower belly was practically scalding your skin, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Anything was better than the pain currently wreaking havoc inside you.

Menstruating sucked.

Nestled in a fortress of blankets and pillows, you had tried to make yourself as comfortable as possible, but comfort was a foreign concept right now. Even the TV, which Dean had so thoughtfully set up in the room to distract you, barely held your attention.

Your phone buzzed in your weak grasp, drawing your attention. The screen lighting up with a picture you’d taken of Dean crossing his eyes goofily the last time you pointed a camera at him. The sight alone brought a tiny smile to your face as you answered, lifting the phone to your ear while suppressing another pained whimper.

It honestly felt like someone had taken up a chisel inside your uterus and was attempting to recreate the damn Sistine Chapel.

“Okay, I got light flow, heavy flow, extra wing support, night support—” Dean’s voice came through the speaker, listing off the brands as well. His voice was too serious for the matter, like if he was reeling off a list of supplies for a damn spell, and you had to bite your lip to keep from giggling despite the pain.

You’d run out of everything—tampons, pads, even your emergency stash. Between constant hunts and general chaos, your usual monthly toiletry restock had completely slipped your mind. But this particular cycle was hitting you like a freight train, leaving you barely able to move.

So, Dean—without hesitation, without complaint—had gotten dressed, laced up his boots, and headed to the store. No questions asked.

Sure, most guys knew about periods. Some were even cool about it. But not all of them wanted to hear the details without making a face or pretending they were about to pass out.

Dean Winchester, however, was a rare breed.

He never cringed or acted grossed out. If you needed something, he got it. If you were in pain, he listened. And, as if that wasn’t enough to make your heart swell, in the especially bad months—when you woke in the middle of the night to find you’d bled through your pyjamas and onto the sheets—Dean never got mad. He never looked at you with anything other than concern.

Instead, he’d scoop you up in his arms, carry you to the bathroom, and help you clean up while murmuring reassurances in that deep, gravelly voice of his. Then, without hesitation, he’d strip the bed, toss the sheets in the wash, and settle you back in a freshly changed bed like it was nothing.

Whether it was the years of hunting and being desensitised to blood or just the way he loved you—completely, without hesitation—it only made you fall harder for him.

“—or what about these? Super Soakers?” Dean drawled, snapping you back to the present. You could practically see him squinting at the box, brows furrowed like he was trying to crack some ancient hunter lore.

“I mean… I’m pretty sure they do the opposite of what you need, but hey, they claim to absorb up ten times more than the last version.” He let out a low whistle. “Damn. If these things were around when I was a kid, Sammy could’ve used ’em as flotation devices.” He sounded genuinely impressed, and that time, you couldn’t help but giggle.

“Just my usual, please.”

“Alright, alright, no Super Soakers,” he muttered, still sounding way too fascinated. More rustling followed, then—“Aha! Got ’em.” The sheer triumph in his voice was like he’d just bagged the biggest salt-and-burn of his life.

You rolled your eyes fondly. “Congrats, champ. You wanna do a victory lap?”

“Tempting, sweetheart,” he quipped. “But I think the ladies in the aisle might start throwing coupons at me in appreciation.”

You shook your head at his ridiculousness, but you adored him for it.

You were still in the exact same curled-up position when Dean returned, two stuffed grocery bags in hand and a bag of your favourite chips clenched between his teeth. He kicked the door shut behind him and dropped the bags onto the foot of the bed.

Slowly, wincing, you sat up. “Did you buy the whole damn store?” you asked amused, rifling through the bags.

Maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe it was the pain, but the sheer volume of products he’d brought back almost made you cry. He hadn’t just grabbed your usual brand—he’d picked up damn near every similar product on the shelf, as if he was preparing for the apocalypse of all periods.

And the second bag? Overflowing with your favourite snacks, along with his, because of course he wasn’t suffering with you without the proper provisions.

Dean shrugged, flashing you a wink as he kicked off his boots and shed his jacket. “Maybe. But now you ain’t gotta worry about running out for a while. And this—” he lifted the snack bag with a proud smirk “—is so we don’t have to leave the bed.”

Your eyes welled up, and you tried to blink the tears away before he could notice.

But he always noticed.

“Hey, hey, no.” His face softened immediately as he rounded the bed, settling next to you, hands warm as they cupped your shoulders. His thumbs rubbed gentle circles against your skin, his touch grounding you. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Did I get the wrong ones? I swear that’s what you said, but maybe you were cutting out, and I—”

You silenced him with a soft kiss, cradling his scruffy cheeks between your hands. He let out a small, surprised sound before melting into it, his arms instinctively winding around you, pulling you in. When you pulled back, his green eyes searched yours for an answer.

“I love you, Dean.”

His entire body relaxed. His shoulders dropped, and that rare, completely unguarded expression softened his face. He looked at you like you were the most precious thing in his world—and you were.

One hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear with infinite tenderness. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

He kissed you again, slow and sweet, before easing back against the pillows and pulling you into his arms. His warmth immediately engulfed you, his scent—leather, soap, a hint of motor oil—comforting you more than anything ever could.

His hand slid over your abdomen, his palm pressing softly against the ache there, radiating the kind of warmth that soothed more than any hot water bottle ever could. He was your rock, your safety, your home.

“You good?” he murmured after a beat of comfortable silence.

You nodded, burrowing into his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart.

“Good,” he sighed, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head. “Now c’mon, let’s eat enough junk food to make both of us sick, and then pass out watching that show you like about Friends or something.”

You let out a watery chuckle, “You mean Friends?” You corrected him. It was your ultimate comfort show, one Dean’d had to endure many times. Though he wouldn’t admit it, he’d gotten hooked on it himself.

“That’s the one.” He hummed, stroking your side with the tips of his fingers. You closed your eyes and melted against him. Even through the pain, wrapped up in Dean’s arms, you’d never felt luckier.

AN: So this was a short one, but what I'd give to have my own Dean in these God awful times 😭😍. It’s giving Priestly vibes in Ten Inch Hero (if you’ve seen the movie) but i went with Dean on this one. Hope you enjoyed 😘

If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊

Dean Winchester Tag List:

@bettystonewell , @nancymcl , @happyfxckinghorrors , @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter

@tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2

@deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown

@jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @cevansbaby-dove @shadysoulangel

@piptoost @star-yawnznn @deansimpalababy @megara0224 @hobby27

@idontwannabehere7 @maddie0101 @kr804573 @shadysoulangel @mrs-nesmith

@zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess

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@impala67stellawinchester @youroldfashioned @bonbonnie88 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @bejeweledinterludes

@rach5ive @ladysparkles78 @globetrotter28 @kayleighwinchester @amberlthomas

[diazsdimples]

After the lightning, Buck downloads just about every weather app he can find. He doesn’t tell anyone - because he knows they’d immediately become concerned - he’s terrified of thunderstorms. If it’s forecast to be rainy, he’ll check, double check, and triple check that it’s only rain, and not a storm too. What he doesn’t know, is Eddie’s done the same thing.

The first storm happens a couple of months after Buck goes back to work, and he's ready for it. It's one of their nights off, so he gathers all the blankets in the loft, makes himself a little nest with his laptop, a hot water bottle, and some noise canceling headphones and he hunkers down for the night. He's just squeezed his eyes shut after the first flash of lightning when his phone rings. It's Eddie. Initially he doesn't want to answer, because he doesn't want to have anyone asking him how he is right now, but he also knows Eddie will just keep on ringing until he picks up. So he does.

Not once during that call does Eddie ask how Buck is. He immediately lauches into a long tale about Christopher's new crush, which turns into a story about the main characters on the telenovela he watches and "how the fuck have they not figure out they're in love yet", and finally they end up debating the pros and cons of having a smart fridge that shows you what's inside without having to open the door. Buck hangs up feeling a little confused, wondering what the occasion was for such a call, but the storm has passed and he didn't have a panic attack.

The next storm is in the dead of winter and Buck has been watching it brew for days, his anxiety mounting as it builds. He's planning on doing the same as last time, but then Eddie invites him over for dinner. It's not their usual night, and Chris is away with his grandparents in Texas, so Buck is a little confused but he says yes nonetheless. He's looking forward to some time with Eddie - the two of them have been toeing the line between friends and something more ever since the lightning, with long lingering touches and late night phone calls. When he gets there, Eddie has ordered them pizza, there's a case of beers on the coffee table, blankets on the couch, and a new sound system that looks like it could blow the windows out of the Sistine Chapel if given half a chance.

They have a really nice evening and Buck manages to ignore the way the clouds are churning outside, how the wind picks up and rain begins to splatter against the windowpanes. He's comfortable on the couch, with Eddie a warm line against his side from how closely they're pushed together. When the room lights up from the first strike of lightning, Buck jumps. He looks around wildly, just barely fighting the urge to clap his hands over his ears as the thunder booms. Eddie looks up from their movie, and turns up the sound on the TV until the thunder is inaudible. He places a hand on either one of Buck's shoulders and gently guides him down until he's settled against Eddie's chest. Eddie's arms wrap around Buck, holding him from behind and Buck can feel the fear slowly receeding.

"It's okay," Eddie whispers in his ear. "I've got you. You're safe."

The storm rages outside, but Buck doesn't panic. He's safe, in Eddie's arms, and though he might jump and his breathing might speed up every time there's a flash, Eddie strokes his arms and pets his hair and finally, almost nervously presses a kiss to Buck's forehead.

"Is- is this okay?" he asks Buck, so quietly that if it weren't for the fact that his lips were brushing Buck's ear, Buck wouldn't have heard it.

"Yeah," Buck replies, burrowing closer into Eddie's chest as his heart blooms with love, the warmth spreading down to his toes. "I'm safe."

[thaern]

Thomas/Lomeli throughout the book: Wow, despite dying inside I have maintained an image of calm and serenity before the conclave unfortunately that is winning me votes although God knows I'd rather die

Thomas/Lomeli every time he interacts with Benitez being unable to shut his mouth, having emotional outbursts, yelling at him, fantasising about his youthful body and black hair and flirting with him in the Sistine Chapel itself: Well shit

[balrogballs]

Best-boy Finarfin

today’s (well, yesterday’s) sketches and ficlet for @spring-into-arda B2MEM music prompt, featuring Finarfin and a bonus Baby Finfin. Prompt lyrics included “I’ll tend to the flame, you can worship the ashes”.

Sketches are very rough for this one, apologies, but I was on a train and even Michelangelo did not paint the Sistine Chapel sat inside a Great Western Railway stopping service.

When he was knee-high, Finarfin had been Baby Finfin. Best-boy Finfin, eats-his-vegetables Finfin, easy-bedtime Finfin. He was content with unsolvable equations, and if bedtime was bedtime, then fine. In a way, he has not stopped being Baby Finfin.

Baby Finfin never really had anyone to play with because he was a baby and everyone was much, much older than him, and sometimes he would sit sulkily at the window all day long, stubbornly counting out the seconds. Sometimes he would tire of that, and so he would stomp back inside and build himself a house of wooden blocks and tell himself that it was just as good as racing horses in the fields outside like the big boys did.

It is much the same today.

Finarfin the Penitent lives half-awake as always, uneasy and inbetween, the lonely god of an empty world. Ponds and shallow hills and bedroom-shrines, dusk and dogged determination. He commissions statues to be carved from the steadiest stones and tells himself they are likenesses. In the face of loss he tells himself there will be a gain, that he will see everyone again. He puts mirrors at the end of most hallways in the palace, and is confident in their ability to reflect reality whilst providing the illusion that he is not alone. Finarfin sweeps up ashes and tells himself it is incense. He airs out empty rooms.

Dreams, however, persist. In Finarfin’s dreams there are miraculous returns, done things undoing themselves and it is fuelled by one of these dreams that he makes an effort to befriend his wan-faced granddaughter. Celebrían is as lonely as he is here, and their odd little friendship is dictated not by their blood tie but by their twin desires to tow lost ships back to their lonely shore.

“Arwen is a little like you,” she says. “Always sitting by the window waiting for people to return. Just like that, big-eyes and pout, my very-good girl.”

They look at each other and shudder. The fear of the left-behind steams up the mirrors, and they clasp their hands and tell themselves it is not foresight masquerading as hindsight but in fact the other way around. All their lost things would rise drenched from the sea, Finarfin tells himself, and there will be such glad cries all around. All will return. That other shore is only meant to contain them, not keep them. It is a repository, not an archive, this Middle-Earth.

Most of the time he thinks about the past. What happened then happens now in his mind, slippery and pervasive, piling up yeni after yeni. He turns old sequences over and over in his head, kneading the edges smoother and smoother until it is only rides-on-shoulders and stuck-in-apple-trees. He waits and watches, and knows that one day his future will come sailing sluggishly oversea, heads cast down, and on that day he, Finarfin the Penitent, will be magnanimous and benevolent and forgiving.

Until then, he is six-years-old with starfish hands, baby Finfin, best-boy Finfin pressed nose-to-window. He sits quietly, counting down the seconds till familiar faces crest snowcapped hills, and break through the bated blur of his breath.

[mettatonblog]

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.

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 Benitez. 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—hungry, tormented, impossibly alive. Moonlight silvered the edges of his profile. He looked less like a cardinal, more 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—hungry, desperate, searching. 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 eyes—wide, panicked, starved—clung to yours like a drowning man to driftwood. You smiled, slow and knowing, 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—raw, trembling, beautiful in its surrender.

"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—long and low—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, the movement slow, deliberate. “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.

[howisthepope]

Do the cardinals get to eat during the conclave (or leave the chapel to sleep/eat)?

I am not sure if they can eat inside the sistine chapel but they only spend some time there. They do go outside to eat and sleep in the Casa Santa Marta. It's really mainly the vote casting and some prayers that happen within the chapel

They are still cut off from the outside during this time so are not allowed devices or anything even when they're out of the chapel. No telephone or TV and any vatican staff that encounters them, are not allowed to speak to them to avoid outside influence

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Lisa Zengarini and Devin Watkins at Vatican News:

The Cardinals present in Rome have agreed to begin the conclave on May 7th, 2025. The date was set on Monday morning by the approximately 180 cardinals present (just over a hundred of whom are electors) gathered for the fifth General Congregation in the Vatican.  The conclave will take place in the Vatican’s Sistine Chapel, which will remain closed to visitors during those days.

What happens during the conclave?

The conclave will be preceded by a solemn Eucharistic celebration with the votive Mass Pro Eligendo Papa, attended by the Cardinal electors.

In the afternoon, the Cardinal electors proceed in a solemn procession to the Sistine Chapel, where the Conclave begins to elect the new Pope. At the end of the procession inside the Sistine Chapel, each Cardinal elector takes the oath as prescribed in paragraph 53 of Universi Dominici Gregis. Through this oath, they commit, if elected, to faithfully fulfill the Munus Petrinum as Pastor of the Universal Church. They also pledge to maintain absolute secrecy regarding everything related to the election of the Roman Pontiff and to refrain from supporting any attempts of external interference in the election. At this point, the Master of Pontifical Liturgical Celebrations proclaims extra omnes, meaning that all individuals who are not part of the Conclave must leave the Sistine Chapel. Only the Master himself and the ecclesiastic designated to deliver the second meditation remain. This meditation focuses on the grave responsibility that rests upon the electors and the necessity of acting with pure intentions for the good of the Universal Church, keeping only God before their eyes.

Once the meditation is delivered, both the ecclesiastic and the Master of Pontifical Liturgical Celebrations leave. [...] All election procedures take place exclusively in the Sistine Chapel within the Vatican Apostolic Palace, which remains completely sealed off until the election is concluded. Throughout the election process, the Cardinal electors must refrain from sending letters or engaging in conversations, including phone calls, except in cases of extreme urgency.

[...]

How many votes are required to elect a Pope?

To validly elect a new Pope, a two-thirds majority of the electors present is required. If the total number of electors is not evenly divisible by three, an additional vote is necessary. If voting begins on the afternoon of the first day, there will be only one ballot. On subsequent days, two ballots are held in the morning and two in the afternoon. After the votes are counted, all ballots are burned. If the ballot was inconclusive, a chimney positioned over the Sistine Chapel emits black smoke. If a Pope is elected, white smoke will billow out of the chimney. If the electors fail to reach an agreement on a candidate after three days of inconclusive voting, a break of up to one day is allowed for prayer, free discussion among voters, and a brief spiritual exhortation by the Cardinal Proto-Deacon (Cardinal Dominique Mamberti).

The Papal Conclave to elect a new pope to replace the late pontiff Pope Francis will begin May 7th. We may know who the new pope will be before Mother’s Day.

See Also:

AP, via NewsNation: Conclave to elect a new pope will start on May 7 as cardinals get to know one another

[thepastisalreadywritten]

Conclave: How a Pope is elected

From the voting of cardinal electors to the burning of ballots in a cast-iron stove dating back to 1939, here’s a look at what happens inside the Sistine Chapel during a papal election.

By Tiziana Campisi

6 May 2025

“Eligo in Summum Pontificem”

(“I elect as Supreme Pontiff")

These are the words printed on each ballot that the 133 cardinal electors will use to choose the 267th Roman Pontiff.

The ballot is rectangular, with the top half bearing the Latin phrase and the bottom half left blank for the cardinal to write the name of their chosen candidate.

The ballot is designed to be folded in half — a detail prescribed by the Apostolic Constitution Universi Dominici Gregis.

Ballot Distribution 

Each cardinal elector receives at least two or three ballots, distributed by the ceremonial officers.

Then, the senior cardinal deacon draws lots to appoint three scrutineers (to count the votes), three infirmarii (to collect votes from ill cardinals), and three revisers (to verify the count).

If any of those selected are unable to fulfil their roles due to illness or other reasons, new names are drawn in their place. This stage is known as the pre-scrutiny.

Before voting begins, all non-electors — including the secretary of the College of Cardinals, the Master of Papal Liturgical Celebrations, and the ceremonial officers — must leave the Sistine Chapel.

The senior cardinal deacon then closes the doors, opening and closing them only as needed, such as when the infirmarii go to collect the votes of ill cardinals and return.

The “Room of Tears”

Once a Pope is elected, he will be led to the "Room of Tears," a small room next to the Sistine Chapel where he dons the white papal vestments for the first time.

The Voting Process

Each cardinal, in order of precedence, writes the name of their chosen candidate on the ballot, folds it, holds it aloft so it is visible, and carries it to the altar. There, a chalice is placed with a plate covering it.

Each elector says aloud, in Italian: 

"Chiamo a testimone Cristo Signore, il quale mi giudicherà, che il mio voto è dato a colui che, secondo Dio, ritengo debba essere eletto".

(“I call as my witness Christ the Lord, who will be my judge, that my vote is given to the one whom I believe should be elected according to God".)

The cardinal then places the ballot on the plate and uses it to drop the vote into the chalice, bows to the altar, and returns to his seat.

Cardinals who are present but unable to walk to the altar due to illness give their folded ballot to one of the scrutineers, who brings it to the altar and deposits it in the same manner, without reciting the oath again.

Unwell Cardinals voting from their rooms

If any cardinals are too ill to be in the chapel, the three infirmarii visit them with a tray of ballots and a sealed box (previously shown to be empty, then locked with the key placed on the altar).

The top of the box has a slit where the folded ballots can be inserted.

Once the votes are cast, the infirmarii bring the box back to the chapel, where it is opened in front of the electors.

The votes are counted and added to those already in the main chalice.

The Count

After all votes have been cast, the first scrutineer shakes the chalice to mix the ballots.

The last scrutineer then counts them one by one, transferring them into a second, empty container.

If the number of ballots doesn’t match the number of voters, all ballots are burned and a new vote is held immediately.

If the count is correct, the ballots are opened and read.

The three scrutineers sit at a table before the altar.

The first reads the name written on a ballot and passes it to the second, who confirms the name and hands it to the third, who reads it aloud for everyone to hear and records the vote.

If two ballots appear to be written by the same person and bear the same name, they count as one vote.

If they show different names, both are invalid, though the overall vote remains valid.

Once all ballots have been read and the votes tallied, the final scrutineer pierces each ballot with a needle through the word Eligo and threads them together with string.

The ends of the string are tied in a knot, and the ballots are stored for safekeeping.

The Required Majority

To elect a new Pope, a two-thirds majority is required.

For the upcoming conclave on Wednesday, May 7, that means at least 89 votes are needed out of 133 electors.

Regardless of whether a Pope is elected, the revisers carefully verify the count and check the notes made by the scrutineers to ensure everything was carried out correctly.

After this, before the electors leave the Sistine Chapel, all the ballots are burned in a cast-iron stove first used in the 1939 conclave.

The scrutineers handle this with help from the College secretary and the ceremonial officers, who are summoned by the senior deacon.

A second stove, installed in 2005, is connected to a chimney visible from St Peter’s Square.

This is where the chemicals are added to colour the smoke: black if no Pope has been elected, white if one has.

If two votes are held in succession, the ballots from both are burned together at the end of the second round.

Voting Rounds and Spiritual Pauses

Voting occurs four times daily — twice in the morning, twice in the afternoon.

If, after three days, no candidate has been chosen, voting is paused for one day of prayer, informal discussions, and a brief spiritual exhortation by the senior cardinal deacon.

Voting then resumes.

After every seven additional rounds without success, another pause and exhortation follow — first by the senior cardinal priest, and later, if necessary, by the senior cardinal bishop.

If still no Pope is elected after 21 votes, a final pause for prayer, dialogue, and reflection is observed.

At this point, voting continues — but the cardinals may only choose between the two candidates who received the most votes in the previous round.

Even then, a two-thirds majority is still required, and the two candidates in question are not allowed to vote.

Ahead of the conclave: The “Room of Tears” and Sistine Chapel

6 May 2025

Take a look inside two important rooms tied to the election of a new Pope: the Sistine Chapel and the "Room of Tears," a small room next to the Sistine Chapel where he dons the white papal vestments for the first time.

[certifiedfae]

just wanna say that in Conclave there’s a close up of this specific part of The Last Judgement by Michelangelo (a tiny part of the entire paintings covering the inside of the sistine chapel) and when i was a kid we had a deck of playing cards with famous works of art on them and my favorite one was the card with this exact section on it. i mean clearly it was disturbing but it was my favorite out of the whole deck, i don’t really know why. i don’t know what that means but it sure is interesting to me

[samuhelll]

sam’s office. his office is split into two parts: the waiting room outside and his office deep within the belly of the not-insurance office, not-laundromat.

the waiting room. immediately outside the building, plastered over the storefront windows, are painted-on-or-stenciled ketchup-mustard letters. CROKER INSURANCE AGENCY. LIFE IN A JAM? GOTTA HAVE SAM.

inside smells vaguely of laundry detergent. there’s vaguely ecclesiastical music warbling from mysteriously unseen loudspeakers. there are too many dentist waiting-room chairs here than there ever are people, but that’s because sam’s generous. a water cooler sits off to the side. also: a perpetually sputtering keurig machine with a weave basket of k-cups.

something like a receptionist’s desk looms towards the left wall with an out-of-date noodle-spiral phone. does anyone even work here?

his office. sam’s shameless. sam’s tacky. walk through the front door, and in your face: cocoa herringbone floors with a velveteen runner cleaving up the room. an airport runway. at the end of this is a large walnut desk — think the headmaster of an english prep school — peppered with a plastic business card holder, brochures on grief, and a novelty thank-you-mug-turned-pencil-holder. behind that, a presidential half-oval wall lined with art that may or may not belong in the sistine chapel. impossibly tactless? sure. impressively audacious? absolutely. no arched ceiling, but he has wallpaper frescos.

where the half-oval turns into a straight wall on either side are fake, ornamental gates coated in 90s-faux-gold stickers. they don’t function.

a recliner sits closer to the door. this is off-limits. walmart framed photos artfully decorate each jewel-ficus wall, all of them featuring him with presumably happy clients, not too much, not too little. he has a bookshelf featuring texts in tens of different languages. can he read them?

also, it’s too dark in here. like he’s afraid if he installed more lights, you’ll start seeing all the cracks and tacky sheen. there’s a pocket to the right with a floral couch-armchair set and a nightstand.

a stained-glass window divides his office from the waiting room.

-

tl;dr: think of sa//ul good//man’s office, but instead of WE THE PEOPLE and lawyerly, it’s tastelessly phony religious.

also, please see zaffyr's art on sam's office. full size here.

[crmsnmth]

Was It Real?

Hesitant and wanting, I stare at the bedroom door waiting for the moment when she slips inside into the dim light of flickering red candles my humming bird heart is breaking free of the rib cage

And when she finally steps in, all my anxiety falls to the floor faster even then our clothes My eager hands follow suit around her flesh marking every blemish to be kissed and proven beautiful

Shhh, don't say a word I let you control me, if not just for this silk night I feel your teeth and wait for you to rip my jugular out tear at my throat with perfect ivory

an insomniac's dream

Her fingers are the touch of god and I worship at her altar her wingspan covers the room as my mouth tastes the softness of her skin it's paint by numbers on her tattoos let me use my tongue has her brush

painting the Sistine chapel right there upon those flawless thighs She is the girl of all my dreams the kind that I may have just invented for myself

[countriesgame]

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