#my explanation: conclave

[sableeira]

the only thing that could possibly make Harrow the Ninth better is Augustine vaping instead of smoking

[e-electra]

y'all get my vision?

[cannibalspicnic]

Honestly, one of the funniest parts of Conclave is Bellini cutting Lawrence off to say, "I know what simony is!" because I had to pause and look that shit up, and I know I'm not the only one.

[airandangels]

my favourite part is the possibility that they're not just looking for tips on how to complete and turn in their ballot cards, they're learning about how to expose your rivals for simony

Conclave (2024) // Conclave (2025)

[howisthepope]

Frequently Asked Questions

Pope Poll FAQ

How is the pope? Elected

Who is the pope? Robert Francis Prevost, going by the papal name Leo XIV

Can I be pope? Probably not

Trans pope? Female pope? Other flavour pope? that's going to cause an antipope to rise up. Schism or move on

Who are the frontrunners to be pope? See my post here or check out the tag #papabile

Will you be posting about the conclave? Yes

What happens during a conclave? Explanation here

When does the conclave start? The conclave will start on Wednesday, 7 May 2025

Can the Cardinals exit the Cum Cave? Only for a good reason

Can we resurrect the pope? Necromancy and witchcraft don't tend to go over well with the catholic church

Did JD Vance kill the pope? I don't know. you'll have to ask him personally.

How do I become pope? Please follow the instructions on this handy wikihow article

What is an antipope? An antipope is someone who claims to be pope in opposition to a legitimately elected pope

[antonivs]

Aldo Bellini's cross: an analysis

As we know, each cross in Conclave has a unique design and meaning that reflects the character they're designed for.

The main symbol on Bellini's cross is the pelican. According to many ancient legends (pre dating Christianity) the pelican was believed to pierce its own breast with its beak to feed its offspring with its blood, so early Christians adopted it as a symbol of Jesus Christ sacrificing himself for mankind.

The most immediate explanation is that the pelican represents Bellini: he's the righteous cardinal who doesn't want the papacy, who sees it as a burden that will most likely destroy him, but who, at the same time, feels like he has to become Pope in order to prevent Tedesco from winning. In other words, he feels like he has to sacrifice himself in order to save the Church.

However, the quote engraved on the back of the cross reveals something more, something deeper. The quote comes from a hymn written by Thomas Aquinas in 1264, titled “Adoro te devote”.

Pie pellicane, Iesu Domine, / me immundum munda tuo sanguine.

Good pelican, Lord Jesus, / clean me, the unclean, with your blood.

It's a prayer TO the good pelican from the point of view of a sinner who feels unclean, impure.

And that's how Bellini constantly sees himself: as unworthy, as dirty. His whole character is built around this sense of shame, self loathing and self-doubt, which he must shoulder alone and which is at the centre of his (torturous?) relationship with God.

The quote is hidden on the back of the cross, it's private, it's for Bellini's eyes only, his shame is between himself and the Lord, the only one who can save him, who can clean him.

And of course you can read this however you like but it's definitely one more thing to be added to the list of gay undertones in Bellini's character.

One last thing (and this is probably my biggest reach but indulge me): I noticed that in the scene where Bellini finally admits his shame to Lawrence his cross is facing backwards.

This movie is so meticulous with its details and symbolism that I'm almost 100% sure that it was made (or left like that) on purpose.

In the scene Lawrence (and the audience with him) is finally given access to Bellini's inner turmoil. Bellini is baring those parts of himself he's so ashamed of to the person he cares about the most, so it's only fitting that his words and actions are accompanied by this subtle, yet powerful symbolism.

[traitorleech]

you know what i love about conclave (2024)? the way language is used. i'm not talking about the book because as far as i understand they speak italian unless they recite some latin scriptures or speak english. no, i'm talking about the film. i read somewhere that sergio castellitto translated many of his lines to italian and since ralph fiennes speaks italian as well he humoured him, but i always prefer a in-universe explanation.

i mean, it only makes sense that lawrence and bellini speak english with one another (i actually would have liked to see tremblay speak french since he's from quebec but i digress). it also makes sense that benítez blesses the dinner in spanish (and if i understand correctly it's mexican spanish and not spain spanish). but what i think is more powerful in the film as opposed to the book (since lawrence is italian in the book) is the way tedesco and lawrence talk to each other. because lawrence will make an effort to speak italian to be polite (and i appreciate that because i too will try and talk to someone in their native language if i speak it or in english if i don't because i don't assume folks speak german), so whereas i get the feeling that lawrence is trying to be polite, tedesco occasionally switches to english too, but only to tease lawrence, in my opinion, or emphasise a point. it feels like a powerplay, really. one that tedesco is winning.

on the other hand, there's a scene in the book after lomeli's/lawrence's homily when he bumps into tedesco, the latter, before the mass with the homily took place, having complained that lomeli/lawrence won't read his homily in latin but rather in italian, when tedesco remarks that he disagrees with what lomeli/lawrence said in his homily. and lomeli/lawrence stone cold counters that tedesco might've preferred it (referring to the contents, presumably) if it had been in latin. that was such a devastating blow for tedesco, i was howling. because it's canon that tedesco's latin is dogshit.

[air-mechanical]

I watched Conclave and yes, what a great film, 9/10

A visual feast. Each scene is clean and sharp and bright and economical. The scenes aren't machine gunned at you - they're allowed to breathe.

No dumbing down. No over the top explanations.

Sister Agnes.

Lawrence 'I absolutely don't want to know anything about anyone so don't investigate, don't gossip, don't tell me anything. Please. Thank you. Sorry for raising my voice.' spending the entire film investigating, conspiring, and sharing juicy unethically obtained information with everyone.

Sister Agnes and Lawrence and the photocopier.

Lawrence elegantly and brutally knocking out the competition without meaning to.

Bellini 'I want to be Pope like I want a hole in the head, but I'll reluctantly listen to my friends and grudgingly take the job only if it stops the bad guy getting it' wanting it so badly it hurts his soul.

Benitez simultaneously being a cool and warm balm. A fresh approach to solving lingering problems. The answer to Bellini's and Lawrence's prayers and doubts.

Little aquatic friends who like to escape.

[shoujo-wizard]

some of u may have noticed tht I recently saw conclave 2024, u may have also noticed I am gnawing at the bars of my enclosure abt two particular old men in this old man yaoi movie & i want to write a fic abt them but idk what, something fluffy & no smut bc I don't feel like it & my brain hasn't been nice to me lately anyway

perhaps an AU bc I don't know enough abt catholicism or the Bible to set something adjacent to canon, a one shot is all I've got in me at this time, maybe... maybe seaside town AU? Lawrence has retired from a vaguely academic career & moved to a seaside town somewhere to spend his remaining days, the town isn't large & its economy is even smaller & its residents r majority a similar age to Lawrence & it is a quiet existence. Then the old man who owns & runs the only bookstore passes away, it is shuttered for a few days but then is open one day with no explanation & a new man now owns & operates the bookstore, a younger man in his mid 60s has inherited the business it seems he is (u guessed it) Benitez

I like where this is going but lmk what yall think of this concept

[sergiosimptellitto]

Manipulate

Timoteo - Non ti muovere

no explanation needed

Mansplain

Franco Elica - Il regista di matrimoni

This man is a movie director, working at such an oversaturated male industry he would mansplain everything to you.

Manwhore

Salvatore Bellastella - Il tuttofare

I won't elaborate further, read my fics, watch the movie or just see the picture attacher below and tell me that this man is not a SLUT

Manhandle

Arturo - Il grande cocomero

Only if it was health related, like an anxiety attack, but if you allow him he will also carry you everywhere

Gaslight

Frank Patérno - Mafia inc.

The scene where he straight up convinces a man not to shoot him, his persuasion at court and trying to disuade the policemen of his arrest, an icon.

Girlboss

Geoffredo Tedesco - Conclave

My precious babygirl has never done anything wrong in his life and I will die on this hill, my beautiful baby :3

[conclaveconfessions]

forgive me father for i have sinned, conclave has a vice grip on my brain and i have started watching 90s ralph fiennes movies like a man on a mission and scrolling thru stanley tucci’s tiktok and after several ao3 fics i have come to realize i:

1.) want to fuck those old men

2.) want the old men fuck each other #slay #oldmanyaoi

3.) find present day stanley tucci really attractive?? ive never been into a bald celebrity before but theres smth abt him that he keeps barging into my gooning sessions railing lawrence /tedesco/both. i think theres a psychosexual explanation for whats happening to me but i need to be absolved first

I absolve you

[runeruinrequiem]

aether & ash - genesis.

Route: Sukuna & Choso - Combined (Introductions)

Word count: 5.6k

Warnings: Mentions of blood & parental death. Slight sexual/suggestive language.

Masterlist

Erythraen Academy was massive.

That was your first thought upon arriving at the institution, a sprawling stronghold nestled in a jagged mountain, carved into the stone itself as though it had always been part of the landscape. Like a slumbering beast waiting to awaken. The academy loomed against the sky, its towers piercing through the clouds like obsidian claws.

It looked like a castle, but it was so much more.

The maze-like corridors stretched deep into the mountain’s heart, twisting and turning in ways that made even the more seasoned students lose their way. Narrow staircases wound up into shadowed ceilings, disorienting and certainly a heavy workout. You’d bet you could hit your 10,000 step a day goal just by going from one class to another. Even the land surrounding the school beyond the ancient iron front gates was massive - a dense sea of towering evergreens, their rough bark nearly black as the night sky, pressing in close like a crowd of silent, shadowed onlookers.

Erythraen was so big that it boasted not just one, but four libraries, each a source of knowledge likely older than the academy itself. There were far more books than the shelves could hold - haphazardly stacked on tables, in corners, and even on the floor, as you had quickly come to learn. Some were so old that their leather-bound spines cracked at the slightest touch, their pages brittle as dried autumn leaves. You feared they’d turn to dust the second you brushed against them.

There was so much to see, so much to learn.

And, of course, there were the Six Great Houses.

You had been sorted into House Nocturne your first night. You decided quite quickly that it was fitting, considering your parents were shadow mages.

But your sorting had not been normal.

Typically, all first-years gathered at the end of their first week, deep within the Whispering Woods, where the ceremony took place in a cavern. The Eclipse Conclave conducted the ritual each year.

Headmaster Delacroix had explained it very briefly to you while he was doing your sorting assessment.

“We give the first-years a week to adjust to the Academy,” Headmaster Delacroix had said, his words both calm and practiced, as though he had recited this explanation countless times before. (Truthfully, he had. He’d been Headmaster for nearly as long as you had been alive.) “They can explore, ask questions, meet the heads of each house and familiarize themselves with each of the houses. It gives them the chance to see where they feel they belong. Testing the waters, so to speak.”

As he spoke, he retrieved a crisp handkerchief from the pocket of his deep navy coat, dabbing away the thin line of blood beading along the fresh cut on your wrist. The cloth was already stained in places. You didn’t want to linger on what the stains were from. 

For a moment, he turned away, rootling through one of the drawers in the heavy oak desk behind him. He seemed to find what he was looking for, pulling out a small tin and opening it, before handing something to you. A bandaid.

He offered a lopsided smile alongside the bandaid. “My apologies. I’m afraid I’m no good with healing magic. I was sorted into House Aether, you see.”

You nodded wordlessly, taking the bandaid from his outstretched hand. Peeling it open with your teeth, you applied it to the now-cleaned cut. Your eyes flicked up to watch him as he reached for a small glass vial, empty save for the few drops of your blood now swirling within it. Without hesitation, he added a pinch of translucent powder, the substance carrying a scent that was faintly sweet, like dried lavender and crushed petals.

You hesitated before asking, curiosity gnawing at you. “So, once the week is up… what happens?”

The headmaster didn’t look up as he carefully swirled the mixture, observing how the powder dissolved into the blood. “After that, myself and the Eclipse Conclave oversee the sorting process. I’m not sure how familiar you are with them, but they’re essentially the highest governing body within our world. Think of them as… our government.” He waved a hand dismissively before striding toward one of the many dust-covered bookshelves lining the room. He plucked a second vial filled with a clear liquid from the highest shelf and returned to the desk.

“They assign each first-year a series of tasks, one aligned with each of the six houses. These tasks aren’t long or difficult, but they give us insight into a student’s strengths and weaknesses. How they approach a challenge, where they excel, where they falter.” He paused, uncorking the vial before continuing. “That, paired with what we observe of their personality and, of course, the bloodletting ceremony–”

“The what?” You couldn’t stop yourself from cutting in, your head tilting slightly as you regarded him with narrowed eyes.

Delacroix chuckled, unfazed by your interruption. The sound was warm, almost amused, as he poured the now-red powder into the vial of murky water. It clouded immediately, tiny motes of color swirling like ink in the ocean. Sealing the glass, he gave it a gentle shake before setting it aside. With a gesture to the vial, he explained, “The same thing I’m doing now. Nothing invasive, as you can see. Just a small cut on the wrist and a drop of blood mixed with that very same powder you just saw me use, straight into some water from the cavern. That’s all it takes.”

You frowned slightly, watching the liquid swirl. “But… how does it help narrow things down?”

The headmaster picked up the vial again, giving it another shake. “You’ll see for yourself in just a few moments,” he said, glancing up at one of the many antique clocks above the fireplace. “But, essentially, when a student’s blood is mixed with this special powder - which is rumored to be made from fragments of each house’s mascot, mind you - and then combined with the cavern’s water, the mixture will shift in color.” He turned back to you, his lips quirking into a knowing smile. “The water will take on the color of the house that the student is most suited for. Usually, by the time we reach that step, we already know what the outcome will be thanks to the trials and such.”

You had hummed thoughtfully, considering it. “Alright… then why does the water have to be from that specific cavern?”

At that, Delacroix had laughed - a full-bodied chuckle that shook the desk he was leaning against. He wiped a stray tear from the corner of his eye before setting the vial back down. “Oh, my,” he sighed, shaking his head. “It doesn’t, actually. Not anymore. Really, we could hold the ceremony anywhere. These days, it’s more tradition than necessity. A bit of symbolism to keep the ritual alive.”

You had no more questions after that.

Not because you weren’t curious, but because, when your gaze drifted back to the vial, the murky water had begun to shift. The swirling liquid darkened, deepening into a rich, velvety purple.

House Nocturne.

That all being said, you weren’t a first-year. New, yes, but not in the same wide-eyed, eager way as those stepping onto campus for the first time. Your education had been far from the structured, house-sorted traditions of Erythraen Academy. Your parents had preferred homeschooling - not the kind where a child sat at a kitchen table with textbooks ordered from some online shops, but something far more refined. With their wealth and status, they had the means to hire only the best private tutors. Esteemed scholars, masterful shadow mages; people whose names carried weight in the magical world. They had spared no expense in ensuring that their only child received the best education possible.

Then, just one month after their disappearance, the letter arrived.

A formal invitation from Headmaster Delacroix himself, bearing the wax seal of Erythraen Academy. A full-ride offer. No cost, no conditions - just a place at the Academy, should you choose to accept. The explanation had been simple: he and your parents had once been classmates, friends even, during their time at the Academy. While he had respected their decision to homeschool you, he felt a responsibility to ensure your education continued.

You didn’t really believe that was the full truth.

And so, at twenty years old, you found yourself bypassing the first two years entirely, stepping straight into your third year like a ghost slipping into a body that was never meant to be theirs. Something entirely too weird, too wrong, too out of reach.

Erythraen, from what you had gathered, was less of a school and more of an institution. It was something between an elite finishing academy and a university. Most students were over eighteen, already well-versed in the basics of magic. The Academy wasn’t for novices; it was for those who sought mastery. Some trained for powerful guilds, others prepared for a life spent beyond the veil - the fragile boundary separating the magical world from the mundane.

None of that was why you were here.

No.

Your parents had vanished on Samhain. You had been out that night, indulging in an attempt at normalcy, celebrating Halloween with your few mortal friends. When you returned home at two in the morning, the house had been silent in a way that sent ice curling down your spine. And then you saw it.

The sigil.

Carved deep into the dark oak floors of your family home, its spirals and runes fresh, still humming with what you knew to be residual magic. Shadows were burned into the floral design of the living room wallpaper, their twisting forms unnatural, impossible to scrub away. A stain left behind not by hands, but by something else.

As terrifying as it had been, you knew, deep in your bones, that your parents weren’t dead. You felt it, an ache in your gut that refused to fade, a certainty that stole your sleep in the weeks that followed and kept you grasping at every lead, every whisper of an answer.

Your parents had always taught you to trust your instincts.

"Trust your instincts. They will take you further than your eyes ever will."

And your instincts had led you here.

Like a bloodhound on the scent, something inside you had pushed you toward Erythraen Academy, whispering over and over that this was where you would find answers. You had ignored the headmaster’s invitation at first, letting the letter sit untouched on your desk while you exhausted every other option. But after your hundredth dead end in a row, frustration had boiled over and you had given in. You had scrawled out your acceptance, apologizing for the delay and asking for further details.

Eight months, two weeks, and five days ago, the headmaster had sent you the invite.

Six months, three weeks, and six days ago, you had sent your acceptance letter.

Six months, three weeks, and five days ago, the headmaster sent you all of the details you needed.

Three weeks ago, you arrived on campus. You had been sorted quickly, since you had missed the initial sorting deadline for the first-years. 

Three weeks later, you still hadn’t interacted with the other students. Which was fine. You weren’t here to belong.

It was for the best.

You weren’t here for “lifelong friendships” or, “the challenges of the mind, body, and soul” that Headmaster Delacroix had waxed poetic about in his second letter (the official welcome correspondence, which he later apologized profusely for, calling it a formality).

No, none of that mattered to you.

You were here because something in your life had gone terribly, inexplicably wrong. Because your gut refused to let you rest. Because your parents were missing, and you would claw through the very fabric of reality if it meant finding out what happened that night. The Conclave deemed it a Samhain ritual gone wrong. You knew better.

If, along the way, you happened to learn some new tips and tricks? All the better. But so far, most of the third-year curriculum was a laughable review. It was all things you had already mastered under the strict tutelage of your private instructors long before setting foot on campus.

Fortunately, Professor Delacroix had granted you special permission to skip any lecture or class you deemed unnecessary, so long as you passed every exam with flying colors. A fair trade, really. It freed up your time, allowing you to focus on what actually mattered to you.

Which was why, instead of wasting away in a lecture hall, you were sitting in the Abyssal Archives - one of the four massive libraries that the Academy boasted, and by far the oldest.

Found within the Hall of Shadows, deep in the same labyrinth-like tunnels that housed House Nocturne’s sanctum, the Archives felt more like a forgotten relic than an academic resource. Towering shelves loomed in the dim candlelight, threatening to spill over into precarious, ceiling-high stacks of ancient tomes and scrolls. 

It was an easy place to lose track of time. Too easy. You had already spent far more hours here than you should have, combing through brittle pages, chasing the whispers that tugged at the base of your soul.

But if there was any place on campus that might hold the answers you sought, it was here.

The sigil from that night burned in your memory with an unnatural clarity, etched so deeply into your mind’s eye that even if you hadn’t copied it down over and over, you were certain you would still see it, pulsing behind your eyelids every time you closed them.

You just needed to find the damned thing.

Somewhere in these ancient texts, buried in a book of arcane knowledge, there had to be a match. A reference. Something.

And once you found it, you’d have your first real piece of the puzzle.

You had been poring over the books for hours. So long, in fact, that the candlestick you had lit to help you read had burned down to a stub - twice. The milky white wax dripped lazily onto the tarnished brass holder, pooling beside the stack of texts you had yet to sift through. Your eyes stung, dry and scratchy from too much time spent scanning dense archaic script under the dim candlelight. Honestly, you appreciated the commitment to the aesthetic, but you couldn’t help but wish that Erythraen would invest in some damn lamps.

Maybe it was time for a break. A few minutes to stretch your legs, rest your eyes, get some water, soothe your parched throat. Just a quick walk, you reasoned, already pushing back from the heavy wooden table.

And then…

A giggle.

A fucking giggle.

The soft, breathy sound echoed through the supposedly empty library. You stilled, pulse kicking up slightly.

What the fuck?

You narrowed your eyes, tilting your head slightly, as if the shift in angle would somehow sharpen your hearing. Another giggle followed - then hushed, hurried whispers. A rustle of fabric. And then - 

A wet, slick noise.

Oh, hell no.

Your lip curled in disgust as realization dawned.

With an irritated growl, you snapped the book shut and slammed it against the desk with a resounding thud. “Hey!” You shot to your feet, voice cutting through the dimly lit expanse. The giggles and whispers immediately stopped. “Go somewhere else for that shit.”

You were not about to endure the horrors of someone’s makeout session - or worse - while trying to unravel this Gods-damned mystery.

A beat of silence. Then the frantic shuffle of feet, hurried movement deeper in the Archives. A door slammed somewhere deep within the stacks, and you exhaled. Shoulders sagging, you dropped back into your seat. Flicking the book open again, you rubbed at your temple, muttering under your breath.

Finally.

All was well…

…Until it wasn’t.

A pair of hands slammed down on either side of your book, caging you against the desk.

You froze.

Slowly, your gaze dropped to the hands bracketing the pages. Large, calloused, with thick veins coiling beneath sun-bronzed skin. Broad palms, long fingers, tendons flexing subtly under the skin as their grip tightened against the wood. The forearms were strong, roped with lean muscle, leading up to thick biceps. 

Two thick black bands encircled each wrist like manacles. Your breath hitched.

Slowly, veeery slowly, your gaze trailed upward, following the path of powerful arms to broad, well-defined shoulders, then to a chest that was, frankly, unreasonably built.

Jesus fucking Christ. Who had muscles like that?

Your head turned.

A smirking face hovered far too close for comfort, crimson eyes locked onto your own. Sharp angular features, a wide, slightly crooked nose, pink hair that was tousled in a way that suggested either pure carelessness or intentional dishevelment. You already knew why it looked like that.

Full lips, pulled into a smirk that teetered on the edge of a sneer, parting just enough to reveal sharp, pearly-white teeth. A pair of black gauges adorned each ear, glinting faintly in the low light. Slits marked his eyebrows, cutting through his sharp expression like battle scars. Dark, inked lines decorating his face, bold and unmistakable.

"Can I fucking help you?" You scowled as you glared at the stranger, irritation prickling in your veins.

Your hostility only seemed to amuse. His smirk stretched wider, sharp teeth flashing under the dim library lights.

"I dunno, brat. Can you?" His voice was low, teasing, even, as he leaned in closer. Close enough you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. His eyes, half-lidded and lazily predatory, flicked over your face before trailing down your neck, lower still, to your chest–

Yeah, that was enough.

You leaned back sharply, twisting your body away from him as much as possible without falling out of your chair. Your scowl curled into a sneer. "If you have nothing better to do than be a menace, please kindly leave me alone."

A swat of your hand knocked his away from your book, but all you earned was a loud scoff.

A moment later, the wooden chair beside you scraped against the floor, the screeching noise splitting through the library’s quiet. You winced.

Then, he flopped into it, the poor chair groaning under his sheer size. Honestly, you wouldn't have minded if it just collapsed under him. You didn’t even know the guy, but you already knew he deserved it.

But unfortunately, it held.

You could feel his eyes on you as he propped his chin against his hand.

"Why should I?" His voice was a deep gravelly purr, the kind of tone that might have made you swoon if you were in literally any other situation. But right now, it only made your teeth clench.

One of his large, calloused hands reached out, fingers barely brushing against your hair.

Your scowl deepened, and you slapped his hand away. He chuckled as he withdrew, like he found your irritation amusing.

"Because I'm busy and don't enjoy interruptions," you bit out.

That earned you another laugh - well, more of a scoff, really.

"You shittin' me right now?" He tilted his head, expression darkening when you didn't react. "You were the one who interrupted me, brat."

You physically could not hold back your scoff. "Oh, my bad, why don't you take your hookups to the dorms and not the damn library if you're so concerned about being interrupted?"

That earned you a shrug. "More fun."

Oh Gods, this guy–

You decided against giving him the satisfaction of a response. Instead, you forced yourself to return to the book in front of you, eyes flicking over the words, trying and failing to slip back into focus.

Minutes passed.

Time blurred together as you finally found your rhythm again, sinking into the text. The silence might have been bearable, if not for the unwavering stare burning into the side of your face.

Fucking creep.

Finally, he broke the silence. "Haven't seen you around before," he mused, voice casual now. "But you're too old to be a first-year."

And then, he reached out and flicked your ear.

Your patience snapped.

With a sharp slam, you shut your book again, knocking his hand away a third time with even more force.

"That’s because I'm not," you said, teeth gritted. "I'm a third-year."

Before you could continue and tell him in plain terms to piss off, he cut in smoothly, "Which House?" You narrowed your eyes at him. He raised both hands, palms up in mock surrender, but that insufferable smirk never wavered. "I'm just curious," he drawled. "Don't get your panties in a twist."

You could feel your blood pressure rising.

"House Nocturne," you spat, each syllable dripping with irritation.

And just like that, his smirk stretched impossibly wider, like the fucking Grinch’s heart growing three sizes.

"Ooooh," he drawled, eyes glinting with unrestrained amusement. "You're the new student Headmaster What's-His-Face told me about!"

You might have ignored his blatant disrespect toward the Headmaster, if not for what came next.

"I'm Ryomen Sukuna." His expression turned razor-sharp as he leaned in closer. "Head of House Nocturne."

“Oh, fuck you.”

After enduring several more minutes of relentless grilling from Sukuna, his questions veering between infuriating and downright inappropriate, you’d finally excused yourself from the suffocating atmosphere of the Abyssal Archives.

Not that he made it easy.

“What are you doing here instead of being in class?” he’d asked, lounging in that creaking chair like he owned the place, eyes flicking over you with far too much interest.

When you didn’t answer fast enough, he added with a smirk, “If you’re gonna skip, why the hell would you do it in this dusty old crypt?”

And then - your least favorite of all, tossed out with mock innocence and a glint in his eyes that told you he was anything but - “Wanna make it up to me for interrupting earlier?”

Absolutely not.

The second there was even a shred of space between his constant teasing remarks and questions, you stood, muttered something that vaguely resembled an excuse, and left before he could trap you in another round of questions you had no desire to answer.

The air outside the archives felt lighter, less stifling. You rolled your shoulders and stretched your arms above your head, sighing gratefully at the sensation of your joints popping and muscles loosening. A slow walk through the quieter parts of the building helped ground you, and by the time you made your way to the kitchens, the scent of warm bread had fully distracted you from the encounter.

You snagged a quick snack and something to drink, leaning against the expansive counter for a few moments to collect yourself. You checked the time and sighed when you realized classes had already ended for the day.

Which, unfortunately, meant the Abyssal Archives would no longer be the secluded, peaceful haven it had been earlier. The odds of it still being empty were slim. Students would be trickling in soon, if they weren’t already there - studying, chatting, and worst of all, lingering.

You grimaced at the thought. The one thing worse than dealing with Sukuna was dealing with other people while also trying to avoid Sukuna.

Still, with a deep breath and one final sip of your drink, you turned and headed back toward the archives.

At the very least, you figured you could squeeze in a bit more digging.

You couldn’t help but feel surprised the moment you stepped back into the Abyssal Archives.

Sure, there were a few students scattered across the room now - curled over ancient tomes at the desks scattered throughout the room, tucked between the looming shelves, whispering in hushed tones - but it wasn’t nearly the crowd you had expected. You’d been bracing for the worst: a packed library full of noise, distractions, and not a single seat to spare. Instead, it was...manageable. Quiet, even.

Then again, maybe you shouldn’t have been so shocked.

Most of the students present were faces you had seen in passing within Nocturne’s sanctum. Which, in hindsight, made sense. The Abyssal Archives were far from the main halls of the academy. It was far more likely that students from the other houses favored the closer, better-lit libraries aboveground.

Even more surprising was the sight that greeted you when you reached your table: everything was exactly as you had left it.

Your heart gave a little leap. The book you’d been combing through earlier was still lying open, spine slightly cracked from wear. A loose stack of scrolls remained undisturbed, your notes still wedged between them. Even the old candlestick you’d lit before your encounter with Sukuna was still burning steadily, its wax having barely dripped down the side. No one had touched your things.

You hummed in relief, sinking back into the high-backed chair with a sigh. Maybe your luck was turning around. Maybe you could actually get something done this time.

That hope was short-lived.

A throat clearing broke through the stillness, and your eyes slowly lifted in mild irritation toward the source of the sound.

Another student stood at the opposite end of your table. He wore all black - fitted black jeans and a snug crewneck t-shirt that clung to his body like a second skin, the fabric soft-looking but stretched slightly at the shoulders and arms. His hair, ink-black and thick, was tied up into two sharp, spiky ponytails jutting out on either side of his head. 

He had a pale, almost sickly complexion that contrasted starkly against the dark circles under his eyes - purple like bruises, as though he hadn’t slept in weeks. The shadows clinging to his face only made his eyes stand out more: large, heavily lidded, and a deep, near-bottomless brown that shimmered faintly under the candlelight. But it was the tattoo across the bridge of his nose that really caught your attention - a single black line that slashed horizontally beneath both eyes.

He didn’t say a word. Just stood there, watching you, waiting.

You raised a single eyebrow, tilting your head just slightly as you stared him down, silently waiting. If he was going to barge in and interrupt you, the least he could do was get to the point.

He hesitated for a beat, then offered a sheepish grin that tugged lopsidedly at his mouth. “Sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt,” he said, though the nervous pitch to his voice suggested otherwise.

Now both of your eyebrows were up, your expression morphing into a sharp, unimpressed look that clearly translated to: Are you sure about that?

He laughed, quiet and a little awkward, rubbing the back of his neck as he broke eye contact. “Okay, I do mean to interrupt you,” he admitted, shoulders hunching slightly as he reached into the pocket of his jeans. “But only because I was asked to.”

From the pocket, he pulled out a slightly crumpled, folded piece of paper and held it out to you.

You didn’t move right away, eyes flicking between him and the paper before you finally reached out and took it. As you carefully unfolded the note, he continued speaking.

“My cousin asked me to give this to, and I quote, ‘the girl who comes back to this desk,’ which I assume means you.”

You glanced down at the note, your stomach twisting in irritation as you read it. The words were scrawled hastily in aggressive, almost illegible handwriting, written with more ego than effort.

Text me if you feel like making it up to me.-Ryomen Sukuna

Of course, he included a poorly drawn winky face and his number, as if you’d be falling over yourself to respond. Your lip curled into a sneer as you folded the note back up with exaggerated care, briefly entertaining the idea of setting it on fire with the still-burning candlestick nearby.

You turned your gaze back to the man in front of you, tone dry as desert air. “Thank you,” you said, then added, “I don’t believe I caught your name?”

This time, his smile was softer. No arrogance, no smirk, just a gentle expression that immediately set him apart from his cousin. “I’m Choso Kamo,” he replied. “I’m in House Umbra, but I usually come down here to help out in the Archives. Sorting, filing, that kind of stuff.”

Ah. A life story you hadn’t asked for, but compared to Sukuna, Choso was practically a gift. Quiet, polite, maybe a little awkward, but leagues more tolerable than his shitty cousin who thought a winky face was flirting.

You slipped the note into your pocket, fingers curling just slightly around the paper as if that alone might crush the smug energy radiating off it. The urge to set the damn thing ablaze was strong, especially with a perfectly good candlestick still flickering within arm’s reach, but incinerating it in front of Sukuna’s cousin probably wouldn’t win you any points. 

No, better to save that little act of catharsis for later, once you were safely back in your dorm and far away from prying eyes. Maybe you’d even toast a marshmallow over it, for dramatic flair.

You gave Choso your name, and he smiled again; soft, genuine, and so incredibly unlike his cousin.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” he said, and at your subtle raise of an eyebrow, he clarified, “It’s not every day we get a student starting late into the term. And even then, it’s never someone who isn’t a first-year. Word travels pretty fast around here.”

That actually pulled a laugh out of you. “Surprising, considering how huge this place is.”

Choso nodded in agreement, lips curving into something a little more amused. “Yeah, I know, right? But gossip? Gossip is one hell of a drug. And in a place like this…” He gave a small shrug. “People tend to overdose.”

You huffed a laugh through your nose. Okay, you decided, I like this guy. It was baffling, really, how someone so approachable and chill could be related to a human migraine. Somewhere along the family tree, something had to have gone hilariously wrong. Or right, depending on how you looked at it.

He spoke up again. “Sorry, I just… couldn’t help noticing. You seem really focused on runes. Is there a particular one you’re looking for?” He looked at you with wide brown eyes, equal parts curious and earnest, like a puppy who’d found something new and shiny and just had to know what it was. It was… honestly kind of endearing.

You hesitated for a moment, wanting to brush the question off with a polite deflection. But then you remembered what he’d said earlier, about how he helped out here, in the Archives. And if there was even a chance he could make your search easier…

“Actually, yeah,” you said, leaning back slightly. “I’ve been digging for weeks, but I haven’t found the right one yet. I was wondering if there’s anything like an encyclopedia? Something that catalogs all the runes and symbols?”

Choso’s expression lit up like you’d just asked him to show off his favorite collection. “Yeah! Totally. We’ve got a couple of reference texts that cover pretty much every recorded rune, even the obscure ones. Give me just a sec, I know exactly where they are.”

And before you could so much as blink, he turned and darted into the labyrinth of shelves, vanishing between two aisles with a fluidity that reminded you of the very shadows that lingered in the Archives.

It didn’t take Choso long to return - less than a few minutes, in fact - and when he reappeared, he was carrying a stack of three massive tomes, each one thick enough to be used as a doorstop or a blunt weapon. The leather-bound covers were cracked with age much like most of the other books in the library, the gold detailing faded and flaking, and the metal clasps on the sides gave soft clinks with each step he took. They looked absurdly heavy. And when he dropped them onto the table in front of you with a resonant thud, the weight of them made the candle flame flicker.

But what surprised you most was how effortlessly he had carried them. His gait had been relaxed, casual even, like he’d been toting around feather-filled pillows instead of books that could absolutely double as weapons. Your eyes flicked to his arms, noting the strength hidden beneath the sleeves of his shirt. Definitely a sleeper build. Subtle, not showy, but solid. You quickly looked away before you got caught staring.

“These don’t really get used much,” Choso said, brushing his hands off on his jeans. “Each of the other libraries has their own set, so if you want to take them back to your dorm, you totally can. Nobody’s going to miss them.”

You nodded, already feeling the stirrings of hope bubbling in your chest. A lead, finally. “Thank you so much, Choso. Seriously. I really appreciate it.”

He gave you another of his warm smiles. “No problem. I’ll let you get back to it, but if you need anything else, just let me know. I’m here every day after classes end.”

You nodded again, mentally filing that information away in your ‘Useful People to Know’ folder. Choso turned and strolled off, presumably to resume his unofficial duties - since, to your knowledge, Erythraen didn’t actually have any formal librarians. Just a haunted castle full of old books and people like him who clearly liked it enough to keep it all from collapsing into chaos.

You turned your attention back to the stack in front of you, pulling the top book from the pile and opening it slowly, careful not to damage the delicate pages. The scent of old parchment hit you immediately. You exhaled, then leaned in, eyes scanning the first page as you resumed your search.

Maybe this time, you’d find something worthwhile.

[syaal]

I just found out that in the Korean translation of Conclave for some reason Benítez is balding and sports an actual beard??? Like the translator saw that enticing lock of hair and just plucked it from his scalp and plastered it on his chin i mean this is character assassination i'm not even joking

Also they left out the bisexual representation part and made it look like Lomeli was almost asexual? I mean asexual representation is nice but this is just weird... even apart from the obvious explanation of widespread homophobia this is weird let my repressed old man keep notice hot people who are his coworkers and be triple guilty about it

[omgpurplefattie]

first lines meme

Thanks for the tag, @momosandlemonsoda.

Rules: share the first lines of ten of your latest fanfics (or up to if you have less!) & tag 10 people.

I'm going in reverse chronological order, so most the recent will be first.

The Seagull and the Turtle (Conclave 2024)

The cats of Rome had witnessed humans doing bizarre things for a long time; sometimes as housecats, sometimes as ferals that lived in the ruins and the abandoned gardens, or watched the humans while perched on roofs. This is not their story.

Wie die Blagen (Mysterious Lotus Casebook)

Eines Tages erschien ein Lotuskübel auf dem hinteren Deck des Lotuswagens, wo Li Lianhua sonst seine Pflanzen zog und seine Hochbeete pflegte.

The World of the Morning After (Word of Honor)

Ye Baiyi could have sworn he’d fallen asleep on a bolster of lilac brocade; when he woke in the wintery pre-dawn, there was a living, breathing person beneath his cheek.

No Discussion Needed (Mysterious Lotus Casebook)

"There are two men in your bed!!" Di Feisheng hid his head under the blankets. Before Li Lianhua's return, nobody would have dared invade the Lotus Lodge at the ass-crack of dawn and screech accusations.

Cherish the Day (Mysterious Lotus Casebook)

The second year after they had found him, Li Lianhua had to spend the anniversary of the East Sea Battle in his pod.

Scaredy Cat (Mysterious Lotus Casebook)

Li Lianhua was sitting on the front porch of the Lotus Lodge comforting his cat when he felt what might be the first onset of one of his monumental headaches. He hadn't had one of those in the months since he had returned from Nanyin with silver hair, a cowardly Indian hunting cat and not enough explanations for his men who had grieved him for three years, so that would be one more thing they would demand a reckoning for.

Welcome to the Lotus Cat Café and Yarn Shop (Mysterious Lotus Casebook)

Of all his recent achievements, Li Lianhua was the proudest of having learned to Tunisian crochet. Knitting was easy; crocheting was probably even easier. Cats came absolutely naturally to him, and making coffee and baking? Eh, you just had to follow the recipe. Trust the process. One of his favourite tee-shirts showed a lotus flower with the slogan TRUST THE PROCESS, and he had a large sign of it in the yarn room where he would advise customers about their projects. Trust the process; follow the instructions until the pattern emerged. Never keep the yarn too tight, and never try to second-guess yourself.

Come-Back (Mysterious Lotus Casebook)

It was a warm night in late summer, shortly after qixi festival, in the third year after Li Lianhua had left them standing by the shore of the East Sea.

A Very Lotus Autumn (Mysterious Lotus Casebook)

"You're not serious!" Li Lianhua declared when Fang Duobing offered him his bargain. "This is what farmers and markets are for. Division of labour. Professional agriculture as the base of a nation's wealth. The invention of civilisation by the gods, handing the knowledge to mankind so we could prosper." He stared at the pond. It was brown and ominous.

The Pear Blossom Wedding (Mysterious Lotus Casebook)

It was their last evening in their courtyard at the Argyrokeles colony; most of their belongings were already packed up, but the big lotus pot with the tiny seedlings from Artemisia was still soaking up the last of the evening sun, with the red aloe vera from Jin Mantang’s bungalow sitting on the rim, like a watchful lapdog. He hadn’t talked about it with Li Lianhua, but Fang Duobing suspected that the pot was much more important than it looked. All that talk about old pots -- and then the captain brought a pot as the only keepsake from the case.

I'll just tag ten random people from my list:

@atthelamppost @evergardenwall @thatswhatsushesaid @bettercostume @lena221bee @fealiniel @la-muerta @tirlaeyn @yletylyf @neverwalka1one

Only if you want to, of course!

[conclaveyaoi]

do you have any favorite bellini and/or sabbadin headcanons

this is a GREAT question that I hadn't thought of until now. I think that at the moment I have more vibes instead of full-on HCs but let's see:

I. Aldo and Giulio being a established couple before/during/after the conclave drag race: I mentioned this briefly in another post which was inspired by their physical closeness throughout the film. I watched it so many times and it was only when I was making my silly little edits that I noticed this. It's the type of thought the more I think about the more it makes sense in a big-picture way. These two have the exact personalities to be the type of clergy members who fuck on main, have long-lasting relationships with others and don't have issue with the hypocrisy. not that this means sabballini is this amoral, asinine mastermind duo, I don't see them like that at all. in fact one could argue they try to fight for more progressive change in the world than many so-called liberals but with different tools and within an incredibly convoluted system, god bless indeed. but anyway returning to the romance itself, who am I to judge, though? politicians do the same. there are several gay people living well while keeping a private life due to survival or just to make their lives easier in their own sociopolitical contexts and not being out on instagram doesn't make any of these people less gay or inferior. It makes complete sense to me how their romantic, sexual relationship was the best option for both of them and they have lived like this for quite a while. I like the idea of Sabbadin pushing so hard for Bellini (there's a joke here somewhere) not just because they are so (rightfully, in my view) passionate about not letting Tedesco win but also because that's his lover who wants to stand up for the liberals and spark change in this extremely outdated and decaying institution! Sabbadin is always returning to this idea of "we" which is very campaign manager of him but also Imit can be so romantic. They're a team! We're winning this election together, mio topolino (they're not winning but they kinda are). When it ends, they realise how exhausted they are and just. Basically spend a weekend in bed. They need to sleep. And fuck lazily. And sleep some more.

II. I think Aldo holds a lot of tension on his shoulders and I can see Giulio massaging him late at night as they whisper ideas to each other. Aldo happens to mention Tedesco in a sentence, scoffing, and Giulio notices his shoulders getting more tense and says something like "let's avoid that name after 11. It's not good for you" very softly. Aldo complies.

III. I think Aldo has textbook average general anxiety and he gets lost in his head more often than not, which means that he can be quite oblivious and sometimes careless in the relationship whereas Giulio may be full-on spiralling/stoically struggling but is checking in with Aldo, not ignoring him. I think he's just better at communication and displaying affection. Aldo struggles more with the former but he's great with the latter once he gets a break from spiralling. I think he gets feral in bed (haha) after he's been through some stress and Giulio loves not knowing when that switch is gonna turn on or not. It keeps things fresh.

IV. Aldo being the more experienced one with theology due to his extra years (just a 5-year gap, though) so he's the one recommending literature to Giulio. They email each other often when they're not having a romantic getaway in Rome.

V. They just decided early on to meet in Rome on main given that's the easiest explanation route. Nonetheless Aldo has found ways to visit Milan, on top of the events they would have to attend together, because it's a lovely city. One time he was there during fashion week and Giulio laughed at him being unable to look away from the twinks. He swears Aldo blushed.

VI. Giulio being the stubborn one when sick, not Aldo: this might sound unexpected but I think that Aldo is very decent with taking care of himself regarding food/maintenance. He might be spiralling but he won't lose his appetite over it. I wonder if Giulio is the kind of person who goes "have you eaten? good" when he hasn't, smokes 3 cigarrettes and he sort of eats some parmesan, calls it a meal, goes to bed hungry wondering why he's hungry (totally not giving this trait of mine to him, I'm so not hungry right now). This of course means he gets sick more often than Aldo and I think Aldo would shine in this type of situation. Needing being needed. Phantom Thread yaoi (which also works for lawrellini but the different I see here is that Giulio is more open to receive than Thomas who is in this epic depression spiral, unreachable). He's stubborn as hell, mumbles stuff about italian politics during a high fever, called his office to say he's staying in Rome for a few days to go to the doctor when in fact the doctor is just Aldo tucking him in and making soup. No smoking.

VII. Giulio giving Aldo blowjobs to ease the stress during the conclave: this one is self-explanatory methinks. Aldo got so stressed eventually he refused, saying he couldn't let himself have that pleasure. Catholic mindset: feel shame over pleasure and overjoyed with suicidal martyrdom. He was lying though. He was actually so embarrassed since the first voting he couldn't face someone he cared for, that was too painful. Giulio saw right through it. "Isn't it ironic that I never really wanted for myself until I lost the vote?", Aldo says ashamed and Giulio holds his hand, "it's only human, Aldo".

VIII. Maybe they never said "I love you" to each other: Variations, yes but never the typical romcom grand gesture three words. They say it in other words, through quotes, through gestures. Making coffee in the morning and taking it to bed, that's their version of grand gesture.

IX. Aldo admiring Giulio's down-to-earth, strategic, comfortable-in-his-own-skin personality and that's what made him fall in love (even though he doesn't use this term): He attributed it to him being younger at first but then he noticed Giulio was more at ease in highly stressful situations than much older people. Certainly always more than him. It was cool and sexy and he only seemed to get more fiery when Tedesco was speaking and to defend Aldo which turned out to be even cooler and even sexier. Giulio is so much like a dog.

X. Aldo liking to kiss Giulio's birthmark. It was unconscious until one day Giulio went "you always kiss me there" and when Aldo got nervous not knowing what to say and about to apologise, Giulio went "don't apologise, I like it. It's your tradition". So he kisses him there before bed every night they get to be together.

I wrote all of this at 1am so there's a slight chance this makes no goddamn sense. I have more individual bellini and sabbadin thoughts too but let's start with this :)

[mllemaenad]

I really do not understand why Varric is the one pursuing Solas. I mean, I understand the Doylist explanation – Varric is a beloved character who will now have featured in three separate games, as well as multiple novels and comics.

But the Watsonian explanation is not clicking. I did my homework. I sat down and read The Missing, but that did not help at all. In fact, I have now considered my Inquisitor and am completely confident that Dirthara Lavellan's plan for dealing with the Solas problem would absolutely not be "send the ageing viscount of Kirkwall on a months long wild goose chase, with the apparent end goal of ... talking Solas out of his plan".

First, I don't see why Varric would be the most likely person to be able to reach Solas. The Inquisitor herself seems the more reasonable option.

Second, Varric is viscount of Kirkwall, a city-state notorious for setting itself on fire if you take your eyes off it for five minutes. I appreciate Alistair had a few adventures in the graphic novels, and there was that time Maric got lost in the Deep Roads but ... broadly, heading up the "Stop Solas" taskforce is a whole separate responsibility that does not seem to be something you should allocate to a man who has the Worst City in Thedas to rule.

Third ... seriously, the plan is to find Solas and have a chat? That's it? It's clearly it. All through The Missing, they keep noting that they don't really know what they'll do if they actually stumble across Solas. And the backup plan, to which Harding occasionally alludes and at which Varric consistently baulks, is to stab Solas until he stops moving. That one ... also doesn't inspire much confidence.

At this point, I'm not sure what Solas's plan entails or exactly what the outcome will be. I'm not even 100% sure I'm opposed to it. I recognise that the narrative is telegraphing that this is bad but, eh, they say that about blood magic too, and my feelings on that are much more complicated.

Surely, instead of chasing Solas all over the map like a fantasy Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?, we should be researching what his scheme entails, and potentially how to disrupt it. There have to be options other than this. We have a game series littered with elven scholars like Merrill, accomplished mages like Dorian or Morrigan, thoughtful rebels like Briala or Anders and ... we're ... not ... going to do anything with that?

In both Origins and Inquisition the set up established that there was a solid plan that unexpectedly failed: the Battle of Ostagar in the former and the Conclave in the latter. While I was not a fan of how many of its established plot lines Inquisition chose to just blow up instead of actually resolving, I at least understand how both scenarios led to a rag tag band who should never have been responsible for any of this saving the world. Dragon Age 2 was about the systematic failure of government in Kirkwall and, again, Hawke is forced to act as the people in power utterly refuse to do anything reasonable at all.

Here, my question is – why are we doing it like this now, before we have to?

Ah, well. Maybe it will become clear in time. I may look back on this post and laugh.