Aunque sea en la imaginación

“You’ve heard the rumors,” Archibishop Wozniak declared, his tone thick with contempt. “She isn’t one of us, and she doesn’t even pretend to be. That, perhaps, is the most dangerous thing of all. How can we allow someone like that to lay hands on our sacred art... let alone work within these walls?”

Thomas said nothing, but his silence was thunderous. His jaw tightened, the muscles twitching beneath his skin, and his fists clenched at his sides with barely contained anger.

“She doesn’t belong here,” Wozniak continued, his voice rough and unyielding. “Her attire, her demeanor… it borders on scandal.”

He was right. You were scandalous. Bold, irreverent, intoxicatingly out of place. But it wasn’t just the judgment in Wozniak’s voice that set Thomas off... it was something else, something hidden behind that pious disdain. Like he’d looked at you too long. Like he’d noticed the curve of your body. And maybe Thomas was imagining it. But even that possibility made his blood run hot.

“You’ve made your discomfort clear,” he said finally, his voice surprisingly even. “But she is here at my invitation. That should be enough.”

“With respect, your Eminence, I only question the message it sends. A woman like that—”

Thomas’s gaze snapped toward him.

“A woman like what, exactly?” Thomas cut in, his voice sharper now. “She’s… unconventional, yes. But she’s done more to preserve what’s sacred in this place than any of the men who’ve walked these halls.”

“You seem unusually invested,” Wozniak said, his brows lifting ever so slightly.

“I’m invested in the integrity of this place...” Thomas replied, his tone flat, almost mechanical. “...And in seeing the work completed without unnecessary interference.”

“Of course,” Wozniak’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Still… one might question whether this is about the work, or about the woman doing it.”

“Careful,” Thomas said, his voice low and deliberate as he stepped away from the window, his movements almost predatory. He crossed into the candlelit center of the room, and the gleam of silver from the crucifix at his chest caught the light, adding a sharp edge to the moment. His voice dropped even further, quiet but laced with an edge to it. “She is here because I allow her to be. Because I want her here.”

“Eminence,” Wozniak’s tone turned cautious. “You’re walking a dangerous path. We all know the signs. Temptation wears many faces. You of all people should know that.”

“I do,” Thomas replied, his voice low, carrying the weight of countless battles fought before. “I know it all too well.”

“It’s not only that,” Wozniak pressed. “You risk your name. Your position.”

“I risk nothing that matters,” he said finally.

Wozniak’s brows furrowed, the first signs of unease creeping into his expression. “You’re not thinking clearly—”

“I’ve never been more clear!” Thomas cut in, his eyes darkening, an unspoken intensity in them now.

Wozniak took a cautious step back, visibly unsettled. “You’re willing to throw away everything... for her?”

“No,” Thomas replied, his voice steady but final. “I was already leaving. Long before she arrived. I’ve lived in silence for years, doubting every prayer I ever whispered. She just gave me a reason.”

Wozniak’s face hardened, frustration creeping into his voice. “Thomas. This is not you. I can’t let this happen to you.”

Thomas tilted his head slightly, as if the words amused him. But there was no real smile on his face. Just a quiet finality in the way he stood, unflinching beneath the weight of his concern.

“You’re mistaken,” Thomas said, his voice steady but carrying a quiet conviction. “This is exactly me. Perhaps the truest version of myself I’ve allowed to exist in years.”

“You’ve given your life to this place. To the Church.” Wozniak stepped forward, a note of urgency creeping into his voice. “What do you intend to do?”

Thomas glanced toward the door, then back at him. “Nothing scandalous, if that’s what you’re so afraid of. I have no intention of letting anything undermine my position while I still hold this office. The Conclave requires my leadership. I will carry out my duties. I will not tarnish the reputation of this Church. You have my word.”

“I respect you, Thomas,” Wozniak exhaled, his shoulders sinking just slightly with relief. “I always have. That’s why this… hurts to see. I truly hope you’ll find your way back. That you’ll remember who you are.”

The weight of Wozniak’s words hung in the air, but Thomas remained silent, unwilling to reveal even a sliver of the truth gnawing at him. Instead, he reached for the crucifix at his chest, his fingers grazing it lightly as if to hide the chaos that burned inside him.

“I’ll pray for you, Thomas. Whether you want me to or not.”

...

The eve before the Conclave was an unbearable quiet. The air was thick with anticipation, the kind that always settles in before a storm. Every corner of the Apostolic Palace was alive with whispered preparations, but for Thomas, it might as well have been a tomb. Tomorrow, the cardinals would arrive, and he would be sequestered, hidden away from the world. Which meant: no more you.

The thought gnawed at him, a relentless ache in his chest that he couldn’t escape. He knew this day would come: the day the Conclave would begin and you would soon leave. But now that he was mere hours away from being cut off from everything that mattered, his willpower faltered. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t face the endless days in that cold room with no sign of you.

His heart hammered in his chest as he moved through the palace, stopping only briefly to glance into rooms, checking the quiet corners he thought you might be hiding in. His mind was already spiraling, images of you flashing through his thoughts. The urge to find you grew stronger with each passing moment. He needed to know you were still within reach before the walls closed in on him.

“Where are you?” he muttered to himself, his voice low, like he was speaking to the dark corners of his mind. He didn’t care if anyone saw him like this. He needed you more than he had ever needed anything in his life. It wasn’t just desire, though. No. It was the suffocating sense of losing you.

He passed through the chapels, each room blending into the next as his search became frantic. Time was slipping away, and every moment without you felt like a small death. He could already imagine the hours stretching out ahead of him, endless and painful. The Conclave would start, and that would be it. He’d be lost in the sea of politics and ceremony. No time for the burning hunger inside him that had grown since the moment you first stepped into his life.

...

You stood alone in the gardens of the palace, a rag in hand, brushing centuries of dust from the base of a statue near the colonnade. The work was simple. It was a way to stay unnoticed, useful, and, more importantly, to stay in Cardinal Lawrence’s good graces. The morning sun dappled through the trees, warming your arms as you pulled off your apron and folded it over one arm.

Footsteps broke the quiet behind you. You turned, expecting another worker, perhaps a wandering priest. But it was him.

Cardinal Lawrence. No, Thomas. He stepped out from the shadowed archway and into the light. The sunlight caught on the deep black folds of his robes, the color absorbing everything around him. He was fully dressed in his usual garments, but there was something different in the way he wore them. The red belt that should’ve been perfectly tied was hastily knotted. You could notice one end twisted and trailing just slightly out of place. He’d come here quickly. Or carelessly. Or both. He looked like a man who had made a decision and was ready to suffer for it.

“Thomas,” you said softly. “I was wondering when I’d see you again.”

He came to stand before you. Close enough to steal your composure and close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him through all that black cloth. His eyes lifted to yours with dangerous intensity, and the weight in them nearly stole your breath.

You had seen him before, but never like this. Never outside, never in the light. His eyes were blue. Sharp like the edge of a blade catching the light. In the dimness of the chapel or the shadows of his office, they had always seemed distant, unreadable, hidden behind the flickering candlelight. But now, in the open, beneath the sunlight, they were alive. They reflected the light, a shimmering ocean of blue that seemed to pull you in with every glance, like you were drowning in them. And there was no escaping them now. They held you like they were peeling you open with a single glance.

He reached for you and pulled you into a tight embrace. It was raw and urgent. His arms locked around your waist with desperation, dragging you against him like he feared you’d disappear if he let go. Your body collided with the heavy press of his robes, the cotton whispering between you. You felt his wild heartbeat beneath the sacred black. And for one moment, you wondered if anyone had ever held him like this before.

“I’m happy to see you too,” you murmured against his chest.

His breath caught. You felt it ripple through him, the tremor beneath the surface. Not from weakness, but restraint. Your hands slid along his back, finding the ridge of his spine beneath the mozzetta. Even through the layers of heavy fabric, he trembled under your touch like a man barely holding himself together.

When he finally eased his grip on you, his hands didn’t drop. Instead, they slid down the curve of your arms, slow and heavy with intention, until they reached your wrists. There was reverence in the way he held you, but also something darker, like he was claiming you in silence. It wasn’t a lover’s touch. Not yet. It was the kind of hold that said mine without speaking, sealed with pressure and presence.

His gaze locked onto yours again. There was no gentleness in his expression, only a dangerous mix of reverence and starvation. Like a man who had spent too long denying what he wanted, and now wasn’t sure he could stop.

His grip tightened around your wrists. It wasn’t hurtful, but it was enough to make your breath hitch. And then, you saw a flicker of shame in his eyes. Awareness or guilt, it was hard to tell. But it changed him. Softened him. Slowly, his fingers loosened, sliding from your wrists to your hands, where they threaded through your fingers instead.

“I want to be alone with you…” he said at last, his voice low, frayed at the edges. He was nervous despite the authority he usually wore like armor.

The simplicity of it made your breath catch. You blinked once, then again. Not because you didn’t understand, but because you did. There was nothing casual in the way he said it.

“Thomas…” you said, the words barely escaping as heat bloomed across your cheeks. “You’re serious.”

His thumbs moved in slow, grounding strokes. His touch was gentle, but his eyes told a different story. They were stormy with longing and restraint, with everything he wasn’t sure he was allowed to say.

“Come with me,” he said, barely more than a whisper. Then, after a pause, softer, almost stumbling, he continued. “To pray.”

But the words didn’t land like they were meant to. They hung in the air, not as an invitation to piety, but as a shield in case you pulled away. And yet, the look in his eyes told the truth. He wasn’t thinking of religion. He was thinking of you.

The silence stretched between you, charged and fragile, until finally he let your hands go only to take one of them again, gentler this time. You let him lead you through one of the side corridors you hadn’t walked before. Neither of you spoke. You could only hear only the soft echo of your footsteps, the whisper of your breath and the distant cooing of doves.

He led you through a narrow archway, past an old wooden door that creaked open to reveal a small hidden chapel. The scent of incense still lingered faintly in the air, mingling with candle wax and old stone. A single stained-glass window spilled soft blue, pink and gold light across the pews, and in that dim glow, he looked almost unreal.

You stood at the threshold, uncertain, your eyes drawn to the altar and the paintings of demons and martyrs behind it. You hadn’t stepped into this place for belief. And he must have known that. Still, he walked forward, releasing your hand only once he reached the first row of pews. He didn’t sit. He knelt. And there was something deeply vulnerable about it. He glanced over his shoulder and saw you still standing there, unsure of what to do.

“Come,” he said quietly. Not an order. But close.

You stepped forward slowly, your footsteps echoing on the stone floor. As you reached the pew, you paused. He turned toward you slightly, hand extended, palm open. Waiting.

You took it and he guided you down beside him. You didn’t kneel at first. You sat. And maybe that was its own kind of confession. You weren’t here to pray. Not like he was. You were here because of him.

Thomas didn’t flinch. If anything, he seemed to draw strength from your presence, like something in him had finally clicked into place. He looked ahead, toward the crucifix mounted above the altar, his lips moving in silent prayer, though you couldn’t hear the words.

You watched him for a while. His profile, sharp and beautiful in the stained-glass light. The rise and fall of his breath. The quiet war waging behind his blue eyes. Here, the colors in his eyes came alive.

You weren’t sure how long you sat in silence, watching him, your hands folded loosely in your lap. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. But you could feel the tension in his frame, the way he leaned ever so slightly toward you, as if afraid you'd vanish the moment he blinked.

And then, without warning, he turned to you again. Closer now. He raised one hand, not urgently, but with that same quiet authority you’d felt since the moment you met. His fingers curled softly around your arm, like a silent command. It was a featherlight touch, but you felt the meaning behind it. He needed you near. That was the prayer.

“Kneel.”

Your breath caught. His voice filled the space between you like a second heartbeat. And maybe it should have unsettled you, this expectation of obedience... but instead, it pulled at something deeper inside you.

You didn’t break eye contact as you moved to kneel beside him, the polished wood of the kneeler firm beneath your knees, pressing through the thin summer fabric of your clothes. The pew creaked under your shifting weight as you aligned your knees with his.

His hand hovered, just above your cheek, fingers trembling slightly before they finally touched your skin. The pad of his thumb brushed just beneath your eye, as if trying to memorize the shape of you with reverence instead of hunger. But the hunger was there. Coiled behind his restraint.

“You shouldn’t have followed me,” he murmured, even though you both knew it was he who led.

His hand moved lower, trailing along your jaw, slow and deliberate. You felt the weight of his gaze on your lips, the breath between you growing shallower by the second.

Then, his hand moved to the base of your neck in an undeniably possessive way. His thumb brushed your throat like he could feel your pulse there. And for a moment, his lips parted, like he might kiss you. Right there, beneath the gaze of Christ and saints and centuries of silence. But he didn’t.

He leaned in close enough that you could feel the heat of his breath, and still, he held himself back by a thread. The tension in him was unbearable. His jaw clenched like some part of him was begging for the permission he wouldn’t allow himself to ask.

“I’ve thought about this,” he said lowly. “Far more than I should.”

You looked at him then, not like a Cardinal, not like a man of God, but as a man undone. Torn between piety and possession.

Your hand lifted without thinking, brushing against the curve of his shoulder, slipping just beneath the edge of his short cape. His cassock was warm beneath your touch, and you felt him shiver, not from cold, but from the unbearable ache of being this close.

When you didn’t pull away, he let out the softest breath, almost like a prayer. And then his hand moved again, sliding to the small of your back. He didn’t kiss you. But God, he wanted to. And you felt the torment of that restraint in every part of him.

You didn’t know how long you knelt there, but time had warped. It didn’t feel like a moment. It felt like surrender.

Thomas’s breath had grown shallow. You could feel it now against your cheek, warm and uneven. His hand at the small of your back held you firmly and then it slid upward, over the curve of your spine, slow and aching, tasting the exposed skin behind your not so modest attire.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, not to you, not really. It felt like he was saying it to the chapel itself. To the saints watching from the frescoes. To the God he still clung to, even now.

And then his lips grazed your temple. Not a kiss. Not yet. Just the ghost of one. A breath of contact, nothing more. And in that moment, kneeling in the hush of a chapel beside a man breaking everything he believed in just to be near you, your body responded as if he’d pressed you against the altar. If there was a line between sin and salvation, neither of you cared where it was anymore.

Then, with a slow and deliberate exhale, he pulled back. His hand slipped from your body like a final caress, and he rose to his feet with the quiet grace. He walked to the front of the chapel with reverent steps, each one echoing in the stone like a heartbeat. At the foot of the altar, he paused. Then, slowly, Thomas raised his arms to the toward the crucifix that loomed over you both, gilded and watching.

“Forgive me...” he said again, and this time the words were not a murmur. “...for I am about to defile what I once served.”

“Come,” His voice cracked just slightly, and then he turned to face you. “Don’t make me say it again.”

You rose on unsteady legs, your knees aching from the long time they had been bent. He watched you as you approached, each slow step drawing you closer to him. And with every movement, his eyes followed you, blue and burning, darkening with something that trembled between longing and damnation. As if each step you took undid another thread of the man he was trying so hard not to become.

When you reached him, he took hold of your waist with quiet certainty. His hands were firm, as though he were positioning something sacred. He guided you gently, but without hesitation, until you were seated on the edge of the altar, the cold stone a sharp contrast to the heat building between you. You sat in the center, legs drawn close to him, breath shallow, heart pounding beneath the thin layer of fabric that covered your body. He stood before you in the robes of his office, but nothing about him looked holy now.

Then, with a final, nearly imperceptible step, he was right in front of you. His thumb traced a slow line beneath your jaw, tilting your face just enough that you had to meet his eyes.

“Don’t move,” he commanded, his tone lower now, the space between you shrinking with each passing second.

Thomas didn’t speak again. He simply stood before you, his gaze anchoring you in place like a quiet command. His hands, still trembling with barely-held restraint, hovered just above your lap, the soft folds of your dress spilling over the edge of the altar like holy water. Then, without a word, he reached forward. His fingers brushed the hem tentatively at first. Then lifted the fabric slowly, reverently, as though unveiling something too sacred to rush.

Your breath hitched at the closeness, but you stayed still, feeling the cool air against your legs, the warmth of his fingers grazing your skin. But then he hesitated. Too long. His touch faltered, his gaze flickering away from you. So you helped him. Slowly, deliberately, you reached down and pulled your panties, lifting it just enough to expose what he’d been craving so desperately and denying himself just as fiercely. The proof of your want laid bare before him in the flickering candlelight.

He didn’t speak. Instead, he looked down at you, his gaze unreadable, almost as if he was contemplating the consequences. As if he were weighing his vows against the undeniable truth of your body before him.

The air in the chapel grew heavier, charged with an unspoken tension as Thomas carefully removed his cape, the fabric sliding from his shoulders with a quiet rustle. With a practiced, almost reluctant motion, he unfastened his belt, letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud, its absence marking a subtle shift. Even though his movements were slow, calculated, you could almost taste the need beneath the robes.

"You may not believe in what I believe," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I have never been more certain of anything in my life than I am of this… of you."

For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. Words felt too small, too fragile for the gravity of what hovered between you. So instead, you shifted. Deliberately, you opened your legs wider, the motion unspoken but unmistakable. An answer. A permission. A way to help him make the decision he was already aching to make.

He reached up slowly, fingers trembling, and found the top button of his cassock. It was the first of thirty-three, one for each year of Christ’s earthly life. The fabric was stiff at the collar, starched into ceremonial severity. His thumb pressed against the button, the pad of his finger rough from decades of turning pages and holding prayer beads.

Click.

With each button he undid, there was a small pause, a whisper of fabric parting, the quiet rasp of layers loosening. The line down his chest opened gradually. There was no undershirt, just bare skin, pale and thin. A soft trail of chest hair followed the line of his sternum and you could appreciate the quiet map of age: a faint scattering of sun-flecked blemishes, the hollow between his collarbones and the slight sag at his ribs. And resting over it all, still hanging from his neck, was his silver crucifix. The cross caught the candlelight in a way that made it look both sacred and somehow out of place, like it was caught between sin and surrender.

By the time he reached his waist, his hands had steadied, as if he couldn’t contain himself anymore. The rest of the buttons came undone faster, until the final one slipped free at the base of the cassock, near his knees.

And there you saw it, he wore nothing beneath the cassock. What kind of cardinal was this? Wasn’t he meant to be wrapped in layers upon layers of secrecy, each one designed to conceal this very part of himself? But no. He stood before you exposed, stripped of shame, offering the very part of himself he was never meant to reveal.

The cassock remained, draped from his shoulders like a mantle that refused to fall, its weight still anchoring him to who he had been. But beneath it stood the true man, laid bare before the eyes of God, ready to claim you entirely for himself.

Slowly, Thomas leaned forward, one hand rising to caress your cheek, the other hovering above the sacred altar. His eyes locked with yours, wide and reverent, as though he were watching an angel come undone before him. He no longer looked like the man cloaked in pride for resisting temptation. That weight had fallen away. Now, he seemed free and ready to savor every forbidden moment.

He stepped closer, the fabric of his cassock brushing against your skin like a whispered prayer turned sin. The air between you grew heavy, incense and breath mingling, clinging to every inch of bare flesh that was no longer hidden from heaven. His fingers slid down from your cheek, tracing the line of your jaw, then to your lips, reverent and sure, as though mapping sacred ground. His lips found yours in a kind of holy hunger. And when he kissed you, it was not the kiss of a Christian man, nor of a penitent man, but of someone utterly human, starved and unashamed.

When he finally broke the kiss, it was like pulling away from a drug. His lips lingered a breath away from yours, his warmth still radiating against your skin, and you could feel the tremor in his fingers as they cupped your jaw. His breath, ragged and shaky, fanned across your face, carrying the scent of something deeper. Something more primal.

"I’m going to make you mine, and I’m never letting you go." He whispered against your lips.

The possessiveness in his voice sent a shock through you, igniting a spark you didn't even realize was there. You weren’t just some fleeting desire. No, this was deeper, more consuming. It was as if he was marking you, branding you with the weight of his need, staking a claim on you that went far beyond the physical. You didn't question it, though. But how could he keep you all to himself if you weren’t his personal plaything? A cardinal with a girlfriend was forbidden, something no one ever saw.

His gaze, locked on yours, was fierce and dark, pupils blown wide with need. His hand slid down from your face to your neck, fingers grazing the soft skin there, and he could feel the pulse beneath his touch. It was as if your heartbeats were now in sync, and with every thrum, you felt the weight of his claim.

His cock found your entrance in a kind of holy hunger, a slow, deliberate press that felt like a prayer in reverse. The moment it touched you, you felt it. You felt him, deep inside you, as though the simple act of fucking you had somehow pulled him from the heavens and into the realm of the mortal world. His thrusts were slow but insistent, at first moving with a tenderness that contrasted the hunger underneath.

You could feel the tension in his body, the tightness in his muscles as if he was barely containing himself. His breath was uneven, hot against your neck, and you could taste the urgency in him. It was sharp, desperate, as if every second of restraint was a battle he was losing. His hand, rough yet gentle, slid down your thigh, pulling you closer, pressing your body into his. The silver cross at his neck swung gently with the motion, its cool weight grazing between your bodies like a relic caught in a storm. With every thrust it shifted, like a glint of sacred metal between two sinners too far gone to care.

He’d meant to be gentle. Very gentle. But his inner demons whispered otherwise, possessing him like a man starved by years of puritan restraint. This was his true self, laid bare and unraveled. And if he was to make you his, you had to know exactly who you belonged to.

And then he saw it, how you growled his name between ragged breaths, making it clear you had no desire for gentleness or care. What you craved was directness. Brevity. Violence. Just like he did.

"Who would’ve thought you were such a believer?" he murmured, eyes locked on yours as he kept thrusting in and out. "Worshipping me like that."

You gasped in response, your voice mixing with the creaking of the altar until the chapel echoed back the sounds of your skin against his in an erotic crescendo that left you both embarrassed and breathless. He moved like a man who had waited lifetimes for this moment, who had buried desire beneath scripture and silence until it pulsed through him like a liturgy rewritten in flesh. And you? You had once walked away from the Church, and now here you were... lost in its most forbidden embrace, with the cardinal himself.

He growled your name as he moved, a raw sound that echoed through the chapel, carried on the still air like something blasphemous. The name he had once spoken in the quiet of his bedroom, he now cried out like a litany, like it alone could save him. It was a desperate sort of sound that reminded him that this would be the last time he would be joined to you like this. The last time your skin would meet his in this sacred way before they sequestered him.

Rather than swallow the knot rising in his throat, he let it burn through him, pouring it into his body, into the way his fingers gripped your hips. Harder. Nails digging into your skin with a desperation that bordered on violence. He needed to leave something of himself behind. A mark. A wound. Proof that, for one blasphemous moment, you were his. Even if it would all be taken from him come morning.

And you answered him without words. You didn’t need them. Your hands curled against his chest, nails raking down over the muscle until you felt the skin give. He hissed at the sting, but didn’t stop you. He leaned into it. Welcomed it. Your mark, carved over his heart, as if to say remember me. As if you could brand yourself into the flesh beneath his robes and follow him into the Conclave, where your name would never be spoken, but your memory would haunt every silent prayer. For every night he’d sleep alone, surrounded by marble and men who knew nothing of this, he’d feel the echo of your touch where you’d scared him. Where he let himself be claimed. Where he stopped being only God’s.

Let her stay. Let her be mine. Just once. Listen to me, Father.

He prayed silently for time to stop. For this moment to stretch on forever, for your body to stay joined against his, for the warmth of your skin and the tremor in your voice to drown out the call of duty.

But even as the prayer formed, he felt his body begin to falter. The trembling in his limbs wasn’t from exertion alone, but from the sheer weight of what he had done. What he had tasted. What he had denied himself over years of control. Denying every human want, every ache, every instinct had left him brittle beneath the surface. And now, having touched you, tasted you, loved you in the most carnal way, he began to crack.

His legs gave out first. He leaned heavily against the altar, breath catching in his throat, heart thudding like it was trying to escape his ribs. He closed his eyes, chest rising in shallow waves, his cock throbbing against his will inside you.

You touched his shoulder gently, fingers brushing the damp curve of his neck. His skin was flushed, burning with effort, with shame, with love. He turned slightly toward you, his face drawn, blue eyes shining with surrender.

“This is too much,” he whispered between deep breaths, his thrusts becoming sloppier and more erratic.

Too much for a man who’s spent his life trying not to feel.

He looked at you like he was memorizing you all over again, carving the lines of your face into some sacred corner of his soul. And then, without a word, he reached for your wrists and pinned them above your head, pressing them against the cold stone behind you. There was still possession in every movement, a quiet insistence, as if he needed just one more mark, to prove that you were his.

He wanted to fill you, with his cum, yes, but more than that, with the love he felt for you. He moved sloppier this time, but reverent in every motion, like your body was the scripture he’d spent his whole life misreading. Each thrust was an offering, a confession in flesh. He wanted you to feel what he couldn’t say out loud. That you mattered more to him than Heaven ever had. That your body, your breath, your hands on his skin meant more than the voice of God echoing through a thousand empty cathedrals.

You could feel it in every desperate press of his hips, in the tremor of his hands as he gripped you like he was afraid you might be ripped away by some divine hand. He didn’t care if this was blasphemy anymore. This was the truth he would go to his grave worshipping.

And when he finally spilled inside you, it wasn’t with a cry of release, but a groan that trembled on the edge of grief and pleasure. As if giving you this part of himself was both his highest act of devotion and his final fall.

“I love you,” he choked out against your skin, his voice breaking like something sacred inside him had finally shattered. “More than the God I’ve bled for. More than the Church that owns my name. And I will burn for it in Hell... smiling.”

His body trembled above yours, slick with sweat, the last tremors of release still shivering down his spine. He stayed inside you, buried to the hilt, not ready to break that last, trembling thread of connection. His hands remained where they had gripped you hardest, fingers twitching like he didn’t trust himself to let go. His forehead pressed to your shoulder, lips barely parted, breath still coming in uneven gasps against your skin.

You felt the slow thud of his heart against your chest, fast at first, then gradually calming, like a storm finally giving way to silence. His eyes, those impossibly blue eyes, looked at you not with lust, not now, but with something different. He looked… content. As if in giving himself to you so completely, he found peace, but not in God. In you.

You reached up and gently touched the spot where your nails had broken skin, just above his heart. He flinched slightly but he didn’t stop you.

“Will they see them?” you whispered.

You laid there, still joined, your bodies cooling against the altar. The stone beneath you was unyielding, unforgiving, but the space between you was enough to warm you up.

“They’ll see everything,” he exhaled, a sound that was almost a laugh, but far too broken to carry humor. “But not the marks. Only the absence of me.”

“Then let’s leave,” you whispered, your lips brushing his ear. “Let’s walk away from all of it. Together.”

The scan isn't the best but i do love the look, i might try to take some photos outside later so the differences in the paper and ink can be seen.

...

Asmodeus. Satanas. Lucifer.

Those were the names that haunted you through your childhood. The Church made sure they lived in your bones, not just your mind. You were taught to fear them not as myths, but as lurking truths: ever-watching, ever-waiting. And you believed it. You believed that as long as you kept your head bowed, your hands folded and your heart clean, those names would never find you.

But childhood faith doesn’t survive untouched. And time is a slow kind of exorcism. As you grew older, the demons stopped lurking in shadows and began to take on different shapes. Their horns dulled, their wings tattered. They started looking like people you knew. Like people who asked questions. Like people who didn’t quite fit in the compressive lines the Church drew. And eventually, they started looking like you.

They said doubt was demonic. Questioning? Heresy. A soul that wandered was already halfway to damnation.

So the exile began. Quietly, at first, with sideways glances and closed doors. Until one day, you stopped trying to go back.

You can’t even remember the last time you stepped inside a Church. You’ve handled sacred things, yes. You’ve laid your hands on marble saints with their fingers broken off, cleaned centuries-old dust from sorrowful Madonnas, restored bleeding crucifixions whose colors had long faded into time. But you never stepped into a sacred place since then.

And now, here you are.

The Apostolic Palace. The seat of papal power.

For other workers that came in here, this was a privilege, something to talk about to other people. But for you, to walk back into this place, even for work, is to be swallowed by the very structure that once spat you out.

But you try to remind yourself that you’re not here as a guest. You’re here for a reason. They need you to repaint some frescoes for the big days at head. You simply finish your job and then you leave, making as little contact as possible.

You walk calmly now. But where you’re going, no one wanders by accident. Once you enter through the ancient doors of the Sistine Chapel, a known fear grows inside you. Not of death, or violence, but of being seen. Truly seen. Not by God, but by men who claim to speak for Him. The kind of men who once named you impure and then locked you out of the house they say was built for all.

And for a moment, despite everything, you are disarmed. Art has always been your weakness, your defiance, your salvation. Even here. You recognize every brushstroke. You see the craft beneath the beauty. The labor beneath the sanctity. For a breathless instant, you forget the cruelty this place hides behind stained glass and sanctified marble.

Then a voice cuts through the silence, interrupting your thoughts.

“You seem to be lost.”

A shadow falls across you, drawn tight against the brilliance of the frescoed saint. You turn to see his figure stand in stark contrast to the light. The black of his robes absorbes every gleam, making his presence all the more imposing. He is tall, but not imposing in size. It’s his gaze that commands. Calculating, unblinking. You’ve seen eyes like his before and there is something coldly familiar about them.

His attention lingers on your outfit. It’s not scandalous, not quite... but it’s a stark contrast to the controlled world he inhabits. There’s a flicker in his eyes, something almost imperceptible that flashes too quickly to grasp. Was it desire or disgust? You can’t tell. Maybe it's both. But then, before you can think about it any depper his expression tightens, the mask of control sliding back into place.

He steps closer. You can feel the shift in the air, the weight of his presence pressing down on you. The air tightens and you notice that he smells faintly of incense.

His voice breaks the silence, but it’s low, as if meant to be heard only by you. “Not lost, then?”

As he speaks, his hand rises to brush a loose strand of hair from his face. The movement draws your eye. That’s when you see it. The cross. The power. He is a Cardinal.

You open your mouth to respond, but the words catch in your throat. The silence between you stretches, as oppressive as the grand walls around you.

“(Y/N), isn’t it?” he says, tilting his head slightly. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you. Your work, of course…”

“You have?” you manage to say. Your voice sounds softer than you meant.

“Yes. But it’s not the art that interests me most.” He smiles. This time, it reaches his eyes in an almost affectionate way. “It’s the hands behind it.”

“R—Really?”

You hate the way your voice breaks. You hate that it echoes. Being surrounded by paintings of saints, martyrs and angels, you couldn’t help but feel exposed. And then there was him. Maybe he wasn’t truly prying on what you thought he was. Maybe his words were harmless, just polite curiosity. But still, his presence stirred something in you. You didn’t want to talk about your life. Not with someone like him.

“You see,” he says, his gaze never leaving you. There's a flicker of something subtle in his expression, like a glimpse of vulnerability slipping through. “You could say I’m something of a fan of yours.”

His voice is steady, but unmistakably genuine. That alone throws you off balance. If the situation hadn't already felt surreal, this was the final, unnerving touch.

“A fan.” The words leave your lips hollowly. A sickening recognition coils in your gut, the hairs on your arms standing on end. He knows you. He wouldn’t be hefe if he didn’t know exactly who you were. But why this sudden interest in you? Had he read your resume?

He sees the tremble in your stance, the way unease coils in your limbs like you’re afraid of him.

“I haven’t even introduced myself,” he says then, stepping back just enough to let you breathe. “Cardinal Lawrence. Thomas. Dean of the conclave.”

Thomas. A name too ordinary for a man like him. It feels false on your tongue when you repeat it. It’s too soft, too human.

But he smiles, as if enjoying the sound of his name coming from your lips.

“I look forward to our collaboration,” he says, voice low and rich, like a secret meant only for you. “We’ll be seeing quite a lot of each other.”

You simply nod, unsure of how to respond to that. His voice didn’t hold any malice, yet you couldn't help but feel tense in his presence.

If he were anyone else, someone outside this place, someone not draped in centuries of patriarchal power, you might have liked him. He got some interesting looks after all. But no, he was the embodiment of everything you fled.

“I’ll be here for the week,” you say, your voice a bit steadier this time.

Thomas studies you for a heartbeat longer. You can feel it again. The weight behind his eyes, as if he’s reading past your skin.

But just as he seems about to speak again, a quiet sound breaks through the distant hush of the palace. There was a subtle cough and the soft echo of approaching steps.

He glances toward the sound, then back at you, something like disappointment ghosting across his features.

“I’m afraid duty calls,” he says, the words laced with reluctant finality. “The conclave doesn’t organize itself. Cardinals must pretend they still matter.”

He gives a wry, almost conspiratorial smile, but it doesn’t last long. Then his gaze returns to you, heavy and lingering, as though he’s savoring a moment that’s just between the two of you.

Without breaking eye contact, he raises his hand to the cross at his chest, an unconscious movement, but one that betrays the tension beneath the surface. It's a subtle, self-soothing gesture, as if to steady himself, as though the weight of his own desire is almost too much to bear.

“I do hope to see you again soon,” he murmurs, the words soft but dripping with something you can’t quite place.

And with that, he walked away with slow, measured steps, the way men like him always did: composed, unreadable, wrapped in a performance of piety. But beneath the robes, a fierce, consuming desire was burning inside him, threatening to crack through his controlled exterior.

You turn back to the frescoes, trying to focus on the cracks in the paint, the worn lines you were brought here to fix. But your gaze keeps drifting. There was something about the way he looked at you. It was too intense, too knowing. And, damn it, it wasn’t just his appearance. It was the authority he carried. It commanded attention without a word. You hate how it kept tugging at you, how it settled in your chest like heat. It pulled at something inside you, something you didn’t want to name.

You tell yourself it was just the intensity of the encounter, the sheer surrealism of being spoken to by someone so high up in the Church’s machinery. That’s all it is. That’s all it is.

...

The encounter had not left Thomas untouched.

Now, sitting in the quiet comfort of his bed, he found himself staring at the crucifix mounted on the wall above it. Its silver shine caught in the candlelight, glimmering faintly.

How many years had he looked at this image and felt nothing? And now, in the quiet aftermath of your presence, it almost felt absurd. It was an empty symbol, unable to compare to the stirring that still lingered inside him.

He had faced temptation before. Doubt. Anger. Pride. All the usual devils the Church warned against, wearing familiar faces. He had conquered them with confession, with fasting, with long hours spent alone in candlelit chapels, whispering prayers into the silence. But lust… that was a different kind of beast. One that refused to be tamed so easily.

He glanced down, his pants tightening with an uncomfortable urgency. His pulse hammered like a relentless rhythm he could feel in his chest.

This isn’t just attraction, he thought, a wave of realization washing over him. This is hunger.

He had tried to suppress it the moment he knew you were coming. He tried again now, with every ounce of willpower he could muster. But the image of you refused to leave him.

The flicker of hesitation in your voice, the nerves you worked so hard to conceal, the way you said his name. He had noticed everything. He had memorized it without meaning to.

He closed his eyes and took a breath, long and hollow.

He would see you again. Of course he would. There was still time. The restorations would take days. There would be more conversations. More meetings. More glances.

God forgive him, but he craved those moments.

Slowly, Thomas sank back onto the soft pillow, his eyes shutting tightly as if to block out the temptation threatening to consume him. But your voice lingered in his ears. You weren’t flirting. You weren’t even trying. And somehow, that made it worse.

He imagined what it would feel like to take your hand under the pretense of admiring your technique. Something professional. Just enough to feel the heat of your skin. Maybe he’d lean in to look at your brushwork, and your shoulders would accidentally touch.

His jaw clenched as the thought lingered too long, spiraling into something more erotic. He thought of the way your skin peaked through your not so modest attire. Of how it might feel to have you in his bed right now. Of the things he would do to you if you were here. He would not be able to control himself.

His lips twitched into something dangerously close to a smirk, the edges of it laced with dark thoughts. His hand unconsciously moved to his chest, fingers tightening around the cross as if the sacred object could quell the growing pulse of desire within him. Slowly, almost without thought, his hand drifted lower. A bit of release wouldn't hurt him, would it? He thought to himself as he pulled his zipper down. He tightly shut his eyes, biting down on his lip, as his hand traced slow movements at the tip of his cock.

His lips escaped your name a few times as his hand moved faster, his movements becoming slowly more desperate. He really needed you. To feel your body against his. To fuck you until his doubts would go away. To fuck you so mercilessly in his bed until the cross above it would fall. God. How much he wanted you. To see you naked. To have you on all fours trembling for him. To fill you with his cum.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re the Dean of the Conclave, he reminded himself. You are supposed to be above this.”

He would see you again. Soon. And next time, he wasn’t sure he’d be quite so composed if he was thinking about you in such way.

...

He had a plan. To avoid you at all costs. To keep his mind clear, his thoughts guarded. To preserve some semblance of the discipline he had spent decades cultivating.

But the more he tried, the harder it became. He was doing his best. He told himself that every morning, like a prayer... but his admiration for you was beginning to cloud his judgment. More than once, he caught himself drifting from his duties, walking the halls with no real destination… only to find you there dusting ash from a long faded mural. Reverent in your work. Oblivious to him. At least, he hoped you were.

He began to notice patterns. You always started with the demons, never the angels. You hummed softly when you worked on the smaller statues, but never the paintings.

And Thomas found himself drawn to these things. Addicted, almost, to the small rituals of your presence.

He told himself it was curiosity. That it was his responsibility, as Dean, to ensure the restoration was proceeding with care. That it was only right to oversee the process personally. But he knew better. Deep down, he knew. He was following you.

He hated this weakness in himself. This quiet unraveling. He didn’t just want to be near you. He wanted to know everything. Where you lived. What you dreamed of. What you feared. What your hands would feel like pressed against his chest. He wanted to know your favorite color. The first painting you ever restored. Whether you preferred tea or coffee. He wanted to know what made you laugh, really laugh, and what you looked like when you thought no one was watching.

It was madness.

And it was growing.