#(thinking about benitez) so there's this cardinal...

[plaguewormart]

Innocent

[randomfandomss]

+Bonus ✨️

[ylize]

May God grant us a pope who can do sweet vape tricks.

[misciouscave]

This post is about tortugas and tortugas only 🐢🐢🐢

[lmxpsuedonym]

[roguekaiju]

Post-Conclave Cardinal Lawrence watching edits of Pope Innocent XIV online

[sassydefendorflower]

Not me scrolling through the Conclave tag only to see no one talk about the deliberate positioning and framing of the women in this movie.

Pulling up this movie I completely expected to only encounter Sister Agnes as the one woman we see in the trailer, the conclave a space that has been kept from the female members of the church. Now, color me surprised when I started the movie and most of the establishing shots we got were focused on all the women working in the Vatican.

And it is such a deliberate choice, it does the film a disservice not to talk about it.

Because while Cardinal Lawrence is having his fifteenth breakdown during sequestering and Bellini finds the ambitious asshole within himself, Ray does all the leg work, and Bel---- we see the women work.

We see the kitchens, we see them cook, we see them stand aside. Most of the time when the Cardinals are conspiring it is the women who interrupt because they are busy working, walking, running errands.

And there is power in that.

I think it is very deliberate how often (and with such lingering gaze) the camera shows us the lives of the other half - partially to connect to the wider themes of the movie, on how Bellini asks for women to get more power but never thanks them, and how Benitez stumps them all by thanking the women preparing their meals when asked to say the prayer (considering his own probably tumultuous relationship to gender within the church).

But it also stands in direct opposition to a long tradition in story telling: servants don't exist. How often the heroes of a regency romance are "alone" because the two hand maidens and three maids don't really count.

Conclave doesn't do that.

It doesn't let us look away.

Between all the petty drama, the politics, and the real life consequences of the conclave, we never stop looking at the people doing all the work.

Yes, we follow the ups and downs of Lawrence and Co, but in doing so the movie reminds us again and again of the women working the kitchen.

And that was just such a powerful artistic choice in a movie about a famously misogynistic church... I loved it. And I had to talk about it.

[toothlickpick]

the conclave book constantly emphasizes how being a pope is basically a lonely death sentence. cardinals close to being elected pope are isolated out of respect and awe, popes can't go out to eat at their favorite restaurants or go on strolls, they're constantly targeted as the head of the church etc..

the book frames benitez as, literally and symbolically, a 60ish year old boy who has no idea what hes getting into. he stumbles to think of a name when he gets elected pope, begs lomelli to stay with him to guide him, and even the smallest papal clothes literally do not fit him because he's so tiny. he's framed with a childlike awe and openness needed to lead the church through dark and cynical times

i think another genius moment for the movie is that it frames benitez in almost the opposite direction. movie benitez is quiet and contemplative. he likes lomelli, but in the same way an angel would favor a prophet. he's the only one to care about His Holiness' turtles and see their virtue despite their apparent stupidity, which is obviously a reflection of how His Holiness saw the cardinals and the rest of the Kingdom of God. From the very beginning, he is isolated from the other cardinals, never really shown to discuss things with anyone other than lawrence. In the end when he scolds tedesco, you dont get the impression of a wise childlike figure speaking up against a bully, you get the impression of moses telling ramses to let his people go.

and in the end when movie benitez is elected pope, he pauses. he refuses to get dressed until lawrence sees him about the one issue he knows will be a problem. he comes into the papacy knowing he will make a great sacrifice, and he treats it that way.

tldr book benitez is a 60ish year old boy wearing papal clothes too big for him to fully handle, movie benitez is a man walking up cavalry hill, both are my babies, thank you for coming to my ted talk

[stopaskingme]

Further Notes on Watches

part 1 / part 2 / part 3

Tremblay

Tremblay's watch is a luxury piece. Probably a Tudor Style Fluted Bezel 41mm.

An uncommonly plain watch from Tudor. The clean face and delicate fluted bezel makes this a popular choice for people who want a luxury watch that just looks nice. it’s the newest and most expensive watch among our Conclave cardinals.

My watch friend knew he was corrupt the moment he saw the metal bracelet.

'Metal bracelets always cost more. You wear metal bracelets outdoors. If someone is wearing one indoors, they want you to notice them.’

eta: What does this tell us about his character? watch friend: nothing. He’s a basic bitch.

________________________________________

Tedesco

Tedesco's watch might be a ✨vintage 1960 Oris 671 KIF✨ (or a Clues Triomphe. We cannot agree.)

It's so generic-looking, we thought it was a Daniel Wellington at first.

A watch that one buys because of how it looks. The person wearing it hasn't seen much of the world and thinks this is what class and luxury looks like.

But then my friend clocked the bevel and alligator strap. Nevertheless, Oris is old and traditional / conservative and boring to the point of being generic. That's why it left no impression. It's devoid of character.

Oris is undeniably quality Swiss watchmaking, 'but it's easy to forget they exist because they're not creative. They don't experiment outside their comfort zone.'

My friend adds that "Anyone with a decent-paying job can save enough to buy an Oris in their lifetime. It sits somewhere above a Tissot, but below a Tudor. "

Additional note: like Tremblay, Tedesco's watch has a black dial, projecting an image of refinement, quiet confidence and charisma.

____________________________ EXTRA NOTE #1 ____________________________

Bellini's Seiko Dolce is actually swankier than Lawrence's battered Orient Bambino

The Orient Bambino is the good sourdough passed down through generations by grandma, recipe unchanged.

Seiko Dolce is that good sourdough from that one niche bakery in the cool part of the city and you can't get it anymore because it's limited edition.

Disclaimer: Lawrence's watch could also be an old model Longines; we're not 100%.

____________________________ EXTRA NOTE #2 ____________________________

Adeyemi has a watch too!

But I have to address that in a separate post because this is stupid long already.

In the meantime, please enjoy this shot of Benitez's elegant hands with his Casio watch peeking out eeeeever so slightly from his left sleeve.

____________________________ EXTRA NOTE #3 ____________________________

The watches in the movie are worn upside down

A clear example is when Lawrence tears open his toiletries at night.

If Lawrence's watch is worn correctly in the screenshot, it means he loses his temper with his toiletries at 6.30p.m.

But the scene that precedes this was so dimly lit, it had to be late at night. As late as, say, midnight...

The more obvious clue is the crown (the dial). It's facing the wrong way.

We don't know why.

I can only guess that a wardrobe assistant put the watches on for the actors and accidentally tied them as if they were wearing the watches themselves.

__________________________________________

🐢 Conclave watches part 1 / part 2 / part 3

__________________________________________

This post came to be because @purimpura, reached out to ask about Tedesco's watch ✨they even provided screenshots! ✨so this is their fault. please go give them love.

[plaguewormart]

Anyways ,, imagine Vincent finally settling into his role, finally learning how to manage the burden of being The Supreme Pontiff, finally feeling at least somewhat at ease with his life.

And then Thomas’ cancer comes back. And Thomas, the self sacrificial idiot he is, hides it for as long as possible. Vincent notices something is wrong, of course, but he fears driving Thomas away by being too much, so he doesn’t comment on how Thomas seems to be getting thinner, how his hair is shedding, or on the amount of time off he requests.

Thomas can’t hide it any longer when the date for surgery to remove the tumor comes. He sends an official request for medical leave without speaking to Vincent, and when the paper ends up at Vincent’s desk, he breaks down in tears.

Not wanting Thomas to worry, Vincent tries to handle everything himself. He doesn’t want Thomas to have to do any work during his treatment, so he takes on responsibilities that would normally not fall on him.

Aldo watches them both closely, noticing how Vincent is overworking himself, and how Thomas worries about how his health will affect the Vatican. Aldo tries to help by pushing them to do things together, but Vincent is too scared of hurting Thomas and Thomas is too scared of showing weakness.

Vincent wants to show up to Thomas’ treatments, but because he doesn’t want to overwhelm the man, he stays away - spending hours upon hours in his office as he ignores meals and breaks to take over all of Thomas’ tasks. He refuses to hire someone to take over while Thomas is away - thinking that it would mean that he is accepting that Thomas won’t return.

Vincent has nightmares every night, dreaming of Thomas dying, from the cancer - but also from gunshots or explosions as his memories mix with his anxieties.

Sister Agnes finds him at one point, as he is pacing the Vatican gardens long after sunset, his mind filled with worry and his body refusing to rest. She tries to coax him inside, and when that fails, she instead comforts the Holy Father as he cries over the uncertainty and fear he feels over potentially losing his best friend.

Ray tries to convince Vincent to let someone else take some of Thomas’ work, but Vincent refuses, and instead stays up all night making sure everything is finished. At one point Ray realizes that there’s no way to make the pope stop, and instead starts scheduling in a few hours every day where no one is to bother the Holy Father so that he can complete the work.

Finally, after months of treatment and scares, and both Vincent and Thomas losing so much weight that it worries their friends and colleagues; they finally start talking.

It all starts when Vincent tries to take a late night walk in the gardens, where he finds Thomas sitting by the turtle pond. Thomas’ red zucchetto is placed on his now bald head, and Vincent quietly approaches him.

They spend hours in the dark night - confessing their fears and hardships to each other. Thomas tells Vincent about how he feared that the cancer would finally kill him, and how he thought that distancing himself from Vincent would make it easier on the pope. Vincent tells Thomas about how he has been unable to rest because every night he sees Thomas dying.

They hold each other close, shielding each other from the cold winds that blow across the garden, their arms wrapped around each other as they watch the turtles swim slowly in the water.

The guards decide not to bother them, staying far away enough not to be able to hear the conversation, and not intervening as the two men lay back and watch the stars together.

The next morning, they wake up covered in blankets. The sun is rising above them, and at some point during the night their hands have clasped together.

No one mentions how the Holy Father refuses to attend meetings without Thomas at his side. No one questions it when Vincent requests time off every few days, and no one comments on the fact that the pope joins the dean of the college of cardinals for every visit at the hospital after that night.

When Thomas is declared cancer free, there is a party held in the dining room at the Santa Martha. No one tries to stop the Holy Father or the Dean as they leave early to retreat to the Pope’s room.

[monstrousgourmandizingcats]

i watched conclave and now I really want to know more about all the drama with cardinals, how do you find out about that kind of stuff?

Ohhhh boy. Where to even begin?

Well, to start with, a lot of the cardinals in Conclave are based on real people! Bellini is obviously Carlo Maria Martini (right down to having a surname that's a mixed drink), especially in the book, where he's apparently Italian rather than Italian-American (I love that, unlike with Lawrence, who's also Italian in the book,* they didn't change his name; Stanley Tucci is eminently capable of playing an ItAm guy named Aldo Bellini <3). Martini was a "liberal" Archbishop of Milan who for much of the 90s was widely expected to succeed Pope John Paul II but ended up stalling out at the 2005 conclave.** Tedesco has a lot in common with Raymond Burke, an archconservative cardinal who's still alive and very vocal in the media, although Burke, conversely, is American rather than Italian. (America unfortunately has a very conservative local Catholic Church in general these days.) Tedesco and Burke even look similar, right down to the campy, "muffled sounds of 'Good Luck, Babe!' playing in the distance" fashion sense and body language. Tremblay has a similar career trajectory to Marc Ouellet, who, like Tremblay, was widely respected and seen as pretty middle-of-the-road until serious scandals started coming out. Adeyemi doesn't seem to be based on or inspired by any one real person, but the virulent homophobe who isn't that reactionary otherwise is a very common type of sub-Saharan African cardinal, perhaps most prominently represented currently by Fridolin Ambongo Besungu. Like with Adeyemi, I can see Ambongo picking up steam but then imploding over the course of the next IRL conclave, although it would be uncharitable to Ambongo to assume it would be for the same reasons. And so on.

(Benitez is an ideal, rather than someone inspired by a real person or ideological type, but there are cardinals who've had similarly high-stress and altruistic career and life trajectories, like Marco Zenari, Pierbattista Pizzaballa (which is seriously his name),*** and, in fairness to him, also Ambongo, who is Congolese and is regularly physically threatened by political and paramilitary forces within the DRC.)

As to how one learns more about this, you could start by setting news alerts for some of these people's names--Matteo Zuppi, Luis Antonio Tagle, Pietro Parolin, Peter Erdo, and Victor Manuel Fernandez are other names to potentially watch--or reading some books that have been written recently about the current politics of the Church, the Curia, and the Francis papacy. There's one called In the Closet of the Vatican that is incredibly scurrilous, as its title would suggest, but a rip-roaring read if you're not too concerned about forming possibly-unfair negative opinions of some of these guys. There are also writers like Austen Ivereigh and (gag) Edward Pentin who've made whole careers of being Vatican Inside Baseball Understanders, especially since Pope Francis was elected in 2013.****

In general I'd say Conclave is a very good representation of the way these people think and act, especially the constant tension between venal ambition and genuine belief that they are participating in a divine agency in the world. The tendency in non-Catholic and even some Catholic circles is to assume that only the former is present, but people are complicated.

I hope some of this helps, anon!

*I looked it up and in the book he's called Jacopo Lomeli. I've never seen this surname before, but apparently some real people do have it.

**The Catholic Church has its own ideological spectrum and there are ways in which liberal, progressive, conservative, etc. are not very useful terms, but for broad purposes they work here.

***Patriarch of Jerusalem, the only Palestinian cardinal (cardinals are counted as "from" the countries that they lived in when they became cardinals, not necessarily the countries they're from originally; in his case his country of origin is, unsurprisingly, Italy). As you might imagine, he's been in religious news a lot lately.

****Francis, or Jorge Mario Bergoglio as he was then, is widely believed to have been the runner-up at the above-mentioned 2005 conclave, which produced Pope Benedict XVI.

[trueishcolours]

Cardinal Benitez moments I wish had made it into the film.

I was discussing Conclave with my mum and said that while it felt very fitting for an unknown actor to get his break with Cardinal Benitez, I thought the role could have been played with more nuance as he felt a bit one-note to me. Mum countered that she thought Carlos Diehz didn't have much to work with as the script 'just called for him to occasionally show up and look holy.' So I looked back through the book and found that Benitez does have a lot more varied moments which might have given Diehz more to get his teeth into if they'd made it into the film.

when he gets into a tiff with Bellini ON ARRIVAL at the Casa Santa Marta. Bellini says 'you probably shouldn't have come and now that you have come you probably can't go back' and Benitez is like 'well that's not up to you on either count, is it?'

then two minutes later Lomeli (book!Lawrence) is explaining the procedures of the Conclave and Benitez is like, 'aw heck, Bellini was right, I shouldn't have come.'

at dinner when Lomeli says, 'I must introduce you!' and Benitez is all 'nooooo I wanna just hide behind this pillar all evening because I'm shyyyyyyy'

(Lomeli trips over his own feet to reassure him both times it's really sweet. And I just think these moments of doubt help to highlight his courage. It's less impressive if he's calm and self-possessed the whole way through.)

In his conversation with Lomeli about whether or not he should vote for Tremblay, he almost accuses Lomeli of idolotry - worshipping the church rather than God! The Dean of the College! The largest cardinal!

And he says you're more likely to encounter the Holy Spirit in the victims of violence he's helped in his missions than in the Curia; he is NOT shy about throwing his experiences in people's faces and making them REAL uncomfortable if he thinks it will make his point.

(You can see the echoes of this conversation when Lawrence/Lomeli says to Bellini, 'I thought we were here to serve God, not the Curia - in the book, he's clearly taken Benitez' words on board)

After the bomb goes off and they're discussing what to do, Benitez gets up and says, 'excuse me, I guess this isn't proper procedure but I think what we should do is all agree to go back to the Sistine and elect Lomeli as pope' and it really makes you think, wow, this has NOT been the procedure but maybe it should be? If these people really were all united in desire to do what was best for the church and the world, wouldn't they just be able to sit down and openly discuss who they should all vote for instead of all this shadowy politicking? And Benitez cuts through that and it's actually this suggestion that triggers Tedesco's Islamophobic rant.

So yeah. More shyness and doubtfulness AND more fire from book!Benitez.

[conclover]

Vincent Benitez x Nun! Reader

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

Notes: Benítez my beloved.

Word count: 6k

...

Vatican City, 2024.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only, there was nothing to fantasize about.

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

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

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

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

There he was. The answer to your prayers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

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

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

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

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

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

And then he was gone.

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

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

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

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

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

He was just a visitor. Nothing inappropriate had happened.

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

It was nearing evening when the knock came.

You hesitated a moment longer than necessary before answering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a long pause, comfortable yet dangerous.

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

You blinked, caught off guard. “Different?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you both knew he would.

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hadn’t seen you. Not yet.

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

But your feet stayed rooted to the ground.

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded. “Or erase you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You met his gaze, steady. “Don’t I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

Cardinal Benitez.

Vincent.

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

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

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

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

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

Disciplined. They’d said that about him.

Now you saw just how deep that discipline ran.

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, something in him cracked.

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

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

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

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

You didn’t.

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

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

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

Thunder cracked again, louder now. Closer.

Still, neither of you moved to leave.

Nothing mattered now. Only the desire between you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is madness,” he murmured between kisses.

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

But he didn’t.

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

A shudder ran through him.

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

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

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

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

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

Thunder cracked again, even closer this time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

Neither of you spoke.

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

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

“I don’t regret it,” you whispered.

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

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

You pulled back just enough to see his face.

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

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

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

When you turned to go, he caught your wrist.

“Will you come tomorrow?” he asked.

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

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

A shared look. Silent. Charged. Nothing more.

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

[papa-inocencio]

You're totally free to decline, but do you mind doing some headcanons on benitez's relationship with lawrence? How would you think they would be different from a full open romantic relationship? This is going off track from the Canon movie, but I'm still curious. Thanks! 🫶🏽🫶🏽

I got you my friend

Lawrenitez secret third thing Headcanons

Benitez was the first to fall for Lawrence, at the time he saw it as a sort of inmature crush that would fade away.

They were constantly at each other's side after the conclave. Vincent was new to this world, and Lawrence was more than eager to teach him.

When Lawrence notices his feelings for Benitez, he was already head over heels, following him like a lost puppy.

When their thighs touch when sitting too close, or their hands brush as they walk, neither of them mention it.

They often talk late at night, sometimes until the morning comes.

Aldo one time tells Lawrence "they're dangerously close to crossing a line they shouldn't" about his friendship with Vincent.

Lawrence gets defensive over this- He explains it's nothing of the sorts, but he cannot stop thinking of it when he meets Vincent again.

Despite his best judgement, he doesn't try to change their arragement.

One night, over a cup of wine or two, they discuss the nature of relationships, and the blurry borders between them

They hold each other and dance. Benitez says "I love you" and Laawrence says it back.

Is it romantic? Yes, but that doesn't mean they're more than platonic. What they feel is also the love of God and the holy spirit, who had bound their souls.

After that, their routine and dynamic doesn't change. They just know they're each other's.

They love the domesticity they share behind closed doors.

They each live on their own appartment inside the Vatican. But it is common for the sisters to catch a sight of Cardinal Lawrence walking out of the Pope's chambers in the mornings.

They kiss each other's hands every monday to start a good week.

They share a bed when they both are sure they won't be needed in the morning.

Vincent likes holding Lawrence against his chest. And Lawrence likes playing with Vincent's hair.

As Lawrence gets older, his legs start giving him issues. As a result, the internet goes wild at the images of the Pope pushing a wheelchair with some cardinal to all his public appearances.

The apostolic castle is already equiped with all the accesibility necessary for it- so it's only natural he moves in with Vincent.

Sometimes they dare to share feather light kisses on the lips.

Lawrence feels guilty over the attention Vincent gives him now. But he accepts it.

Lawrence's last days are with Innocent holding him close and reading him bible verses.

As far as the outside world ever knows, Vincent is a solidary and kind man, who couldn't leave his best friend behind when he got sick.

Their friends inside the Curia all suspect- but they don't really know what they have. Their imaginations assume a sort of carnal intimacy that doesn't exist.

What they share... it manifest differently from what it's to be expected.

Rumors exist, but Pope Innocent has done so much for the church that it's ignored in favour of his more notable work.

Vincent and Lawrence are both sent to rest in Santa Maria della Neve under the Pope's request.

[dusknsunsetz]

actually obsessed with benitesco because benitesco has the potential of completely destroying what tedesco's view of the church itself is. i get that it's not such a popular ship in the fandom but it has so much potential its amazing. all this is coming from the point of view of someone who was born catholic, strayed from it, and is now catholic again.

i can completely imagine how tedesco's views start to sway from the moment benitez turns into innocentus. how could a man nobody knew of, who's alignment between liberal and conservative be so unknown, win the papacy? how could this random guy from kabul suddenly show up and win?????? it's ridiculous for tedesco.

innocentus, on the other hand, can understand why tedesco is so upset. he knows tedesco isnt upset because of his loss (maybe a little bit), but he also knows tedesco must be so confused with the outcome. after all, it never occured to innocentus that he could end up as pope.

i can see tedesco looking around, searching for some dirt on innocentus, but not being able to find any. a missionary, founder of a hospital, soft spoken, kind, nice, pretty-looking, everything tedesco isnt? what was he, some kind of saint?

one day, tedesco would schedule a meeting, and out of desperation, confess what hed been doing. he would confess how he's been praying for some dirt on innocentus, some sort of flaw that he could exploit.

innocentus, being himself, would trust tedesco. he would inform him of how he was born with ovaries, tried to resign once he found out, and how his predecessor didn't allow him to retire, but go forward and make him a cardinal. he knew tedesco wouldn't tell anyone.

because this sends tedesco spiraling. it baffles him, both the fact that the late pope allowed benitez to become a cardinal, and the fact that innocentus had such trust in the man he once deemed a rival. does he have no shame? no malice? is innocentus naive enough to trust tedesco, out of all people, with such an intimate secret? is he really so innocent?

tedesco's views spiral first. then his alignments. but never his faith.

this man had no focus on liberal nor conservative agendas. he could care less if the mass was done in latin, or spanish, or english, or italian. he wasnt focused on divorce, or abortion, or lgbt issues beyond what his faith commands of him. he was focused on feeding the poor, helping those marginalized communities.

this "innocentus" was a woke, socialist, open-border, peace-seeking, green technology, tree-hugging, good for nothing, liberal, intersex pope. that was his first impression.

but he couldn't help but see the face of Jesus in him. his actions, his words, his thoughts, his innocence. all Christ-like.

so he's like, maybe Christ doesnt care about politics. and when he thinks that, hes like "of course Christ doesnt care about politics!! hes literally Christ???"

tedesco sees so much of Christ in innocentus that it drives him crazy. after all, he is a man of faith. he seeks out more of innocentus, tries to get along with him, and so on. hes obsessed with innocentus.

they go from theological talks, to spiritual talks, to prayers together, to hugs, embraces here and there, the occasional kiss.

benitesco is my favorite dynamic in conclave.

[bionic-vapour-boy]

i realized how tumblr sheltered the Conclave fandom was when i went on youtube and every other video essay was saying that it was "an attack on christianity" and "woke". way to miss the point

the point of the movie is to criticize the church, and how so many people now prioritize the church (whether it is the positions those in power have, the image it has, the power one can have within it, etc. etc) over actually following the teachings of Jesus (of forgiveness, and love, and caring for others, etc.) . it criticizes the conservatives (tedesco), who would rather return to the values that they think are right than to accept an ever changing world, and to spread the love and forgiveness that Jesus asks them to. it criticizes those who have positions in power in the church and have used this power to hide the harm they have caused others (adeyemi). it criticizes those who use the power the church has to further their personal goals (tremblay). it criticizes the liberals who claim to want to include those excluded and oppressed by the church in the past but refuse to actually stand up and say/do something meaningful (bellini).

and then you have lawrence, a man who fears he is doubting god, while in reality he doubts the church, yet to him what is most important is the visuals of all of it. it has to look like he truly believes, that he truly is fit for the job, that he really is a part of this. he has to make sure that the right candidate gets chosen that makes the church look the best. and it all comes crashing down when Benitez arrives. he is the ideal. he has been there, in the most dangerous places he can be, helping those in extreme conditions, even risking his life to do so. in the book he explicitly says that some of the most important work he has done is directly helping thousands of women who have been victims of genocidal rape. and he does this as a geniune desire to help others. to act by the word of God. he is the one with the least aspirations to papacy, but with the truest connection to God, which is why he prevails at the end.

and it is what a lot of people miss about him being intersex. its not this crazy plot twist to shock the viewers, or this dei inclusion plot to own the catholics or something. benitez is, out of all the 118 cardinals in the conclave, the most fit for the job of pope. so why should it matter that he is intersex? he is what god made him after all. but lawrence is concerned. does this make him inelegible for the position? what if word gets out? how will the people react? the concern is ultimately, about the church, how it will look, how it will react. not God. and benitez does not care what people think. he is what god made him, he is happy with who he is, and he has come to terms with his intersex traits. so once again, why should it matter? and it is what the movie is trying to say. so many people focus too much on the church, on the rules that humans have made up about what is right and what is wrong, on who is allowed to be part of the curia, that they have forgotten that god truly stands for. that they care more about the genitals of the pope than what he stands for, than what he is capable of, than the good he has done. and as a catholic it has put into writing (and speech) so many thoughts and feelings that i have had for a while, especially benitez speech after the explosion.

this movie does not hate catholicism!! it loves catholicism!! its symbolism, its love and detail for the setting, the clothing, the nuns. its all so careful and loving. the people like those i mentioned at the beginning are exactly who Conclave criticizes.