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ghostchems · 5 months

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smoke break - papa emeritus iii & sibling of sin

you find solace and a private place to smoke when you are caught by the new papa.

author's notes: cranked this out because i was feeling pretty similar to reader here! hence the teensy lil break from here and discord. good thing i could turn it into some 2k words of terzo sads :') there also be some weed smokin' and cuteness. ao3 link

The high, arched window is cracked and a cool breeze seeps into the secluded hall. You’re perched on the alcove with your knees up to your chest, a joint between your fingers that is carefully angled out the window crack. This is a deeply personal ritual of yours when life becomes too much: too much gossip, too many expectations and responsibilities, too much everything. A Satanic Ministry that is a firm promoter in personal freedom is not immune to drama and tension. You take a drag of the joint, filling your lungs with smoke before giving a shaky exhale, leaning your head against the wall. You love it here — you truly do. It’s the first place you’ve ever been able to be yourself. But even the most perfect of worlds can be exhausting.

Papa Emeritus the Third would be departing for his first tour in a few weeks and everyone was in a tizzy over it. Overworking themselves to ensure every aspect (the costumes, the lighting, the finances, etc.) of his debut are perfect and in turn, causing some ruffled feathers. You truly want to be involved but you don’t want to fight for a spot among those that have already asserted their place. So, you’ve drifted away from the rehearsals and the planning meetings, finding yourself in this particular alcove a few times a week to come down from the craziness of the day. Things are changing, so much potential for the ministry and it scares you. You’ve never been here for a transition like this and the influx of new recruits that usually followed. The idea of all this to do culminating in even more members that would change the make-up of the clergy you’ve grown so used to makes your head spin.

“Sorella.”

Your hazy eyes dart up from your lap and land on Papa’s face, his eyes narrowed with the paint around them dark and angled. He is scowling, holding his hand out for the joint. You scramble to hand it to him, your words catching in your throat as you shrink beneath his gaze. Papa is dressed in his robes and mitre, his stature tall and threatening. The sharp, golden nails on his glove prick your fingers as he takes the joint from you, examining it between two fingers. Your chest tightens, certain that you’re in trouble despite the usual lax rules when it comes the marijuana. You’ve never come face to face with the new papa before but if he is anything like Secondo you are expecting a fiery temper. Instead, he brings the joint to his lips and takes a long drag from it. Your jaw nearly drops. None of the higher ups typically indulge in such decadence in this casual a setting.

Papa sighs deeply and hops up onto the alcove, his feet dangling off the ground as he removes his mitre and sets it beside him. Your eyes are glued to how his raven hair spills out from it and he quickly smooths it back into place before taking another drag of the joint.

“What are you doing in this sequestered hall of the abbey, Sorella?” His voice is smooth and friendly, giving you uninterrupted eye contact even as he hands you back your joint. You feel the smoothness of his leather gloves this time, taking the joint back and forcing your body to relax.

“Just needed some space.” You murmur, averting your eyes away from his piercing gaze. Surely Papa has something better to do than speak to you, right?

“Mmm, I understand. Everyone seems to be on these days, don’t they?” He gives you a knowing look, his lips quirking into a grin. Ah, now you see it — his charms that have swept away your fellow siblings. And now you find yourself drifting off into his allure.

“Yes, Papa, and all for your tour debut.” He nearly winces at your words.

“Not for me — for the Ministry.” Papa’s eyes crinkle and there’s a hint of bitterness in his voice. Your brows knit together, confused by his response. Then you start to get a better look at him and notice how exhaustion seems to radiate from him despite his cracked paint hiding the bags beneath his eyes. You’ve always seen Papa Emeritus as some larger than life being but seeing the Third in such a light tugs at your heartstrings. He is probably being worked to death and the expectations for success are much more pressure on him rather than the siblings of sin who are fighting over supporting him. You take a quick rip and extend the joint back out for him to take. He hesitates, then takes it and brings it to his lips.

Of course, you could be reading into things too deeply but you are familiar with his particular look of weariness.

“I’ve sat in on a few rehearsals. I think it’s safe to say some of the excitement is because of you.”

Papa’s expression softens as he puts out the joint on the window sill and flicks it out into the grass. He leans his head against the wall just as you had done and closes his eyes for a moment. Oddly comfortable silence falls over the both of you.

“It’s, eh, quite something, isn’t it?” His head lolls and tilts toward you, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Still, there are times it is difficult to be… present.” It’s hard not to smile back at him, his change in expression infectious.

“Well, I come here to feel like myself again every so often. And to smoke.” You let your own feet dangle off the alcove and wiggle in closer to him. Your gaze falls to his robes, intricate gold designs along the soft black fabric and the bright purple sleeves poking out from beneath, the urge to touch it growing stronger and stronger.

“Go on, dolcezza.” Papa’s voice drops to a low whisper, his eyes taking in the details in your face. You are fully feeling the high now, immediately reaching your hand out so your fingers can brush along the lace details of his sleeves without a second thought. He inches in closer to you, extending his arm out so you can tough even more, his shoulder firm against yours. Papa’s eyes are glued to you as you start to grow more confident, touching the golden grucifixes on the front of his robes. A purr rumbles up his chest and you feel it beneath your fingers. You lift your head and your eyes meet, a breath catching in your throat. Papa leans forward and presses his forehead into yours, a quiet moment passing between you until…

You giggle. You watch his eyes crinkle with glee and he laughs along with you. It's such a surreal moment but a funny one, nonetheless. You can’t shake how boyish Papa looks when he laughs, a contrast to how deathly serious he usually looks in his paints. The laughter starts to peter off, back to slight giggles as you lean back to your side of the alcove. Papa gives an amused exhale, book ended by a few quiet giggles. He bunches up his robe at his waist and dips his hand into the pocket of his pants. Papa gives a quiet grunt and extends his legs, stretching out so he can actually get his hand into his pocket and your eyes dart to how his shirt underneath his robes ride up his stomach, exposing a dark happy trail. It feels sinful to see so much of Papa but you can’t look away, mesmerized by his bare skin. He ends up pulling a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket, seamlessly pulling one from the box and lighting it, setting the carton and lighter on the sill.

“I may have to steal this little ritual of yours, sorella.” He purrs with the cigarette between his lips, then takes a deep drag. “There aren’t many places for me to hide away from the eyes of Sister.” Papa’s eyes dart around the hall dramatically before giving another laugh.

“It’s all yours, Papa.” You don’t mind sharing, especially with him. It’s an odd feeling, to have your inhibitions completely stripped, overcome with a hazy high and buddying around with the most high-ranking member of the clergy. You’ve never exactly thought of a Papa being hip or spending much time with random siblings of sin **but the Third seems far more open to it. It makes you feel special. It makes you feel like he might be something special. “What will you do while on tour?”

“Oh, it is much easier to slip away when off premises.” His smile only widens. “In preparation for this role, I spent a lot of time traveling to different branches of the ministry, touring con il mio fratello… we got into a lot of trouble.” Papa chuckles as he gazes at his lit cigarette. “I could easily barricade myself in my hotel room if I truly need some me time.” You laugh, deep and hearty, and seeing his face light up from your response makes you blush. He’s charming. He’s funny. He’s loose. You can’t help but be more excited for his tenure as Papa now that you’ve seen exactly how he is. But even now, you can see his smile falter, his gaze falling back to the empty hallway.

“Papa!” Sister’s voice booms down the hall and he grits his teeth. It’s like he could sense her presence. He quickly taps out his cigarette and flicks it out the window, then jumps off the alcove.

“Eh, I guess I should not have dipped out of the budget meeting.” He shrugs with a weak smile, his robes falling perfectly back into place. You pick up his mitre for him, the weight of it heavy in your hands, handing it to him while your fingertips touch. The weariness is back in his eyes, the creases on his forehead and his frown lines more pronounced than before. You almost say something, your brain processing at a slower speed due to the weed, wanting to ask if he’s okay or needs help but you end up holding your tongue. Is it your place to ask him such things? You start to spiral in your own mind until he snaps you out of it with his smooth voice. “Until our next relaxation ritual.” He places his mitre atop his head and the transformation back to Papa Emeritus the Third is complete.

“D-don’t forget to take breaks, Papa. Everyone needs them.” You had to get it out and you almost regret saying it just from the way he eyes you after. He holds out his hand and takes yours, his thumb stroking the back of it.

“Call me Terzo, dolcezza.” But he says nothing of the breaks. And you know why — he can’t commit to taking them. Not now. Not when the weight of the ministry is on his shoulders. Not when he’s been preparing for this his entire life only for his individualism to be squashed by leadership.

Papa gives your hand a squeeze and then lets you go, his robes billowing behind him as he walks briskly to where Sister had been calling for him. So elegant yet so rushed. You look down beside you and realize he’s left his carton of cigarettes. He’s too far away now to get his attention, so you pick them up and examine them. You realize there is no discernible branding, the carton all black with some golden art deco lines. When you pop the lid open you find neatly packed rolls, obviously rolls he made himself.

You make a mental note to make sure you have them if you see him again at the alcove…

But something tells you you won’t.

#and i come bearing gifts!#papa emeritus iii #papa emeritus iii x reader #terzo #terzo x reader #ghost fanfic #ghost fanfics #ghost band fanfic #ghost fanfiction #uhhh uhhhhhhh #it's only been a week and i already forget the tags i use lol

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sasster · 7 months

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Blow Out

Can you believe no one asked who his doctor is?

[Here’s the doc!]

Trollkind is remarkably advanced across a variety of fields, but all that galaxy-spanning innovative thinking must have stopped just outside the doors of every medical waiting room. The one the purple blood sits in is no different than any other one on or off of Alternia.

The fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling buzz in time with a bare gray wall that seems to pulse with the heart rate of a patient circling the drain. If not for a television that droned on some news channel rattling off its heavy dose of fleet propaganda, muffled by distance, and the sheer veil that covered his face, it would have all been entirely too much for Retcon to handle. It is all quite the scene for the waiting room’s three denizens; The one receptionist and the two worse for wear psions awaiting their teal blooded savior to deliver them from their respective agonies.

In the furthest possible seat from the other two, Retcon fidgets idly with a loose string that juts out from the uncomfortably firm chair he occupies. He works hard to focus on the diluted voice that comes from the television, but can’t seem to make the information fit into his head in a way that even pretends to make sense. To say nothing of the tinnitus like ringing that has plagued his ears for the last handful of days.

In some attempt to prevent feeding into his migrane, which interestingly throbs at the same pace that the lights and wall move, he delegates his attention to the loose thread that he twirls around his index and middle digits. He allows this to be his tether to the breathing waiting room.

Across the room, suddenly louder than the droning of the news channel, the receptionist belts out an unintelligible string of words. Through the filter the ringing in his ears has become, it sounds more like someone in the middle of drowning calling out for help.

Retcon’s attention stays on the stray string. He coils it around his fingers tight enough that their tips begin to pale from the lack of blood flow.

The receptionist speaks again, an even louder version of her best impression of a fish out of water, but an anchor on the TV says something about a rebel syndicate taken down a few days ago and issues a warning to anyone that has ever rubbed elbows with them.

The lights buzz louder.

A door opens.

A conversation joins the choir of noise that slams into him like a truck, about five hundred miles away, at the receptionist’s desk.

Now someone somewhere in the room sighs.

Not being paid enough for this, the woman then says something that sounds suspiciously like someone shouting “Webcam,” from the bottom of a well.

He winces at the sound and focuses instead on the light gray the tips of his fingers have become.

Miraculously, a familiar voice strikes through the white noise that the world has become.

“Ten forty-nine?”

Within a second of his identification numbers hitting his ears, Retcon’s attention snaps up to find the source. Partially obscured by the sheer of the veil, he can just make out the shape of the doctor, staring directly in his direction with a smile on his face.

“There he is, come on back with me.”

He stands.

Somewhere between ten seconds and three hours pass in how long it takes him to traverse the twenty-five feet that separate him from the doctor.

Alaska waits patiently; his unwavering smile makes it impossible to tell how long that wait actually is. In the meantime, he does turn his attention to the news broadcast very briefly before giving a thoughtful hum and switching the channel to something a little easier on the brain.

Soft instrumentals fill the waiting area, quickly alleviating some of the pressure building up behind Retcon’s eyes.

When he does get to the doctor, a hand claps gently over his shoulder and leads him the rest of the way to the examination room and onto a table.

The doctor takes his own seat on a very lively rolling stool that he scoots over to the counter his bag is on and starts to dig into it for his equipment. “Talk to me, Retcon,” he says from within the depths of the bag.

“It’s too loud in here.” The psion manages, indicating the harshness of the much brighter light in this room than the previous one.

“I can’t exactly work in the dark here,” he replies, wheeling back over to him to hand off a pair of light filtering glasses. “Did you lose the last pair?”

Retcon nods and lifts his veil just long enough to put the glasses on and drops it again.

“Is that better?”

“It’s better.”

“So, I take it you overdid it again?” The question is more like a statement of fact delivered with a soft chuckle.

He does not wait for a response as he starts to set his instruments in a prep tray next to him. Odds and ends Retcon wouldn’t be able to name in his right mind, let alone his current condition, clang into the metal tray despite the doctor’s best efforts to lay them in gently.

Retcon winces.

“I think I broke it again.”

“You think?”

“I definitely broke it again.”

Alaska nods, his demeanor does not shift. He takes a second to inspect the blade of a tool that Retcon does not know the name of before turning to fully face him again. “Do you remember what I told you that your limit is?”

“Twenty, twenty-five. Depending. I could get away with thirty if I don’t do them all at once.” He recites what must have been his mantra for the last couple hundred sweeps as easy as breathing air. “More if I spread it throughout a week.”

“Right. How many did you do this time?”

“Fifty.”

“Fif--” The doctor swipes a hand over his own forehead, the motion largely conceals it if his expression shifts on any perceptible level. “Fifty? All at once?”

He nods.

“You definitely broke it.” Alaska echoes his earlier sentiment.

Retcon swings his legs idly and watches the floor pulse toward and away from his feet, choosing the nausea that comes along with it over tuning in to the lecture he is about to receive.

The chiding will no doubt be a gentle one, but when you’ve been someone’s patient for long enough, after the first half century, the lectures start to sound the same. They always seem to sound to the tune of: You’ll fry your brain. The device does not have the memory for that. We really need you to stick to these restrictions. Are you listening?

Are you listening?

Retcon is brought back by the doctor snapping his fingers just within his field of view.

“Ten forty-nine, can you hear me? Remind them of your limits next time.”

“Can’t you just make it stronger? That’s what they want.”

Alaska’s gaze turns into a sympathetic one.

“We’d both like it if I could just slap a fifty petabyte block of memory in your head, but the technology’s not there yet Retcon,” he starts, gentle hands moving to assist him in laying back. “Frying your brain every couple of perigees doesn’t look good on applications for funding towards it, either.”

The doctor wheels his chair over to the usual blindspot, and quips something obligatory to Retcon before pushing a needle into the soft spot behind his earlobe. Retcon hardly reacts as the sharp pain starts and then subsides, his head flooding with a numbing agent he must have heard the name of some sweeps ago.

“I need you to help me help you, alright? Now, hold still.”

#coko writes sometimes #retcon #uhhh #long post #uhhhhhhh… thankies spec for helping with typos and grammar edits :3 #uhmm… yeah!#you guys know that doctor guy!!!

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