notes on terzo and socialism/shepherding || char. study
𝖈𝖔𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖝𝖙: i'm working on a fic that centers around terzo before, after, and while becoming the next papa. which made me think again about his shift from a frankly capitalist vision of what "the city of meliora" could be, to a disillusioned socialist that has probably never wanted to be a leader the way the clergy expected him to.
I am not going to get too deep into why Papa Terzo was, quite objectively, a true socialist, but I am going to talk a bit about what I think he might have been like as a cardinal.
Here is how Bishop Necropolitus II speaks about Terzo's time in Kraków.
Now, what you need to know about Poland and many other regions that used to be occupied by the Soviet Union: most of them positively lost their minds over the idea of American Capitalism. The atmosphere of the 80s and 90s over there was full of idealising USA, secretely listening to American music, watching Hollywood films, all that jazz. These pro-capitalist sentiments still linger, especially since they have been marketed as synonymous with democracy.
Would it be so surprising for a young, world-curious, cultured young man such as Terzo to find himself under the influence of those ideas? Especially given his close friendship with Necropolitus. Kraków is ancient. It has housed entire generations of dreamers, poets, artists, revolutionaries.
(...) We would sit down to studying exciting Futurist manifestos, sketched the blueprints of utopian metropoles, spiked with shiny skyscrapers stabbing at the heavens belly... Wantonly swollen zeppelins would to carry our gospel of indulgence to the farthest corners of the globe to summon and enslave.
After the fall of the Soviet Union, people scrambled to re-imagine their countries anew. Through trial and error, as you can imagine. And all grand shifts call for blueprints, so I'm not even surprised that Terzo and his bishop gravitated towards the ideas left behind by pre-war visionaries. Of course such influences, especially once twined with inspirations like Metropolis and the Futurist manifestos, would result in Meliora as a concept—a place that rewarded ambition, merit, one's will to survive and create. Glorious individualism, I'd say. Perfectly fitted for the dreams of a young idealist that wanted to believe that most people were naturally good and therefore not eager to abuse their power once placed in a land of opportunities.
So what happened?
The papacy, of course. I think Terzo had always been more or less aware of what the role of Papa would technically ask of him, but he probably also hoped to take one more of a companion-guide role than a cult leader one. People were supposed to distinguish good and bad on their own.
I don't know what exact events might have caused him to become so disillusioned. Was it the realisation that many people don't want to make the effort of bettering themselves and fighting for their own greatness? Or that organised religions tend to abuse the trust of their flock and use it for their own gain? We don't know. But I think that experiencing the behind-the-scenes of how organised religions operate + what the Clergy expected of him probably played a major role in that change.
Going from “The Pinnacle to the Pit” is not the punishment it was meant to be. It is freedom to struggle against injustice, to march with crowns and sceptres. Here in the pit, we are all royalty now.
Papa Emeritus III is not here to lead. His journey is your own. “Majesty” is not the state that only belongs to him. He is merely the mask, the path into the fire where he has already been.
The introduction to Meliora itself states plainly: it is no longer a mission of leading people to Satan (we see you, Peepaw Primo), but an attempt to nudge them towards their own self-discovery and, through it, freedom, despite the rot and challenges of the world. At least that's what I think Terzo would have wanted.
So the original vision of Meliora-the-city-of-those-who-reach-for-greatness remains in fragments, but is no longer so individualistic. "We are all royalty now". I think "THE LIGHT BELONGS TO THE PEOPLE" is one of the most empowering quotes Ghost has given us (and it's a shame that it seems to be barely known?), and it's the very thing that made me realise, "Holy shit, Terzo's an actual socialist".
[ Great post thread on that + what the vision/concept of Meliora as a place might have evolved into, by the way. ]
I don't know if pre-papacy Terzo had ever believed in Lucifer or the Devil as an authentic, supernatural entity—but we do know that Papa Terzo (bitterly) recognised humanity's only true god to be money (ref. the previously linked post). And we do know that he was deeply aware of all types of corruption, especially political and religious.
But he never actually grew resentful of the people (the flock) themselves. Instead, his entire papacy ended up being about encouraging them to survive difficulties, to push through the unfairness of the world as equals, all the while dealing with one's individual struggles. But no longer with some singular solution for everyone, or a world where only the most ambitious and determined individuals win.
Like I've mentioned in the last screenshot, I think becoming the face of the Clergy had forced Terzo to realise that there was only so much one person—no matter how clever, or assertive, or driven—could do or change once faced with entire systems and organisations.
But if the Light belongs to the People, then the solution is to shield and carry and use it as a community.
let me know if you want to be tagged ♡ (make sure to specify whether you'd like to be a part of my general tag list, the one for worldbuilding and hcs, or just the one for a particular fic/character!)
Ao3
summary: Perpetua texting you from tour. Because of course he would, the little attention-sucking vampire he is.
warnings: they do get a little filthy at the end i guess, but for most of y’all that’s mild like sunday prayers. mdni.
word count: 843
notes: so. that damned envelope, huh? it might have caused me to delve back into my tour fic and excavate some parts that won't get used in the final version. and toss them around a bit and stitch them into something for y'all. 🦴🍏🦷
ᯓ⛧⋆₊*.⁺𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙
They vary in form. It would be difficult to find any long, bleeding heart type of sonnets (he doesn't have much time for those) but it's not like he needs them to make your chest ache.
They arrive daily, not necessarily around the same hours; the timing is semi-steady during the European leg, but then just ends up scattered all over the place once Ghost begins touring America and timezones start properly colliding.
Yet, the nature of his messages never changes. They may not be long but each one is intentional, thought through, never lazy. He checks on you, of course. Asks about your day and whether you’ve managed to take care of yourself — “You haven’t overworked yourself again, I hope.”
Many of his texts read like pocket-sized letters: careful, capitalised, deliberate in their word choice. Sometimes they're from the venues, pre- or post-ritual.
The Nameless tried harmonising during soundcheck. It was awful. I think they’re trying to mock me. I’ll send a clip when I stop wincing.
or:
Tonight they screamed louder than ever before. Made me believe I might be destined after all. I kept looking for your eyes in the crowd like a fool.
Other times, he focuses on whatever surrounding they’re currently haunting.
The moon was red at the edges tonight. I thought you might have liked it. I tried to take a picture but it didn’t do it justice.
or:
Oslo’s cold. I keep thinking about the warmth of your hands. You’d hate the way the wind chews at the collar.
To some of them, he attaches photos from wherever they’re playing next: a stray cat curled under a church step in Łódź; the way a canal bends in Amsterdam, golden with early morning; the smudged interior of a backstage mirror in Tampa.
Each image is picked carefully, like he’s gathering the world bit by bit just to give it all to you later, pressed into text like a collage.
But — and as we know, there is always a good but there — there are also the other ones. Curled into lowercase, either due to stage rush or just his own impulsivity. Or mischief.
my hotel room smells like your perfume. can’t tell if i imagined it or you’ve hexed me. might have to steal something of yours next time.
or
should have argued with them to let me bring you along.
They’re sly, improvised, too fast to have been rehearsed but too precise to deem careless. Perhaps typed mid-step, mid-meal, or right before curtain call.
And the deadliest ones are those that end with <3. Like the silly glyph is meant to veil the filth it punctuates.
wish you’d been backstage tonight. low lighting. too many corners. would’ve kept you quiet. <3
or:
the nameless say hi.
i say: if you’d been here tonight you’d be dripping with it right now. i wouldn’t even let you clean up.
And then, thirty seconds later:
<3
Gods below preserve you if you manage to attend one of the rituals (and who are we kidding — he would arrange that himself). Have fun walking the next day. Have fun not getting distracted.
And if you miraculously manage to do so, the little <3-ended missive of doom is still going to hunt you down — ruin your peace. Eventually.
you’re still thinking about it, aren’t you. <3 if you come to me next week i’ll make it worse. or better. depending on whether you like crawling out of dressing rooms again. <3
or:
still remember the sound you made when you came with your mouth full of me. sweetest chorus i’ve ever heard.
play it back in my head like an encore. <3
They come at odd hours and always manage to catch you off-guard. You never quite know which version of Perpetua you’ll be getting— the composed one, with velvet syllables and properly punctuated fondness, or the one that sends you wild little messages that grin and bite like fae, only to semi-apologise by handing you that makeshift heart at the end.
He doesn’t really send photos of himself, though his ghouls might (usually blurry ones, taken suddenly, or with his reflections caught in some surfaces). He doesn’t mind, he just doesn't fully understand the appeal of selfies. He thinks there are enough official photos of him out there anyway.
He might bug you for photos of yourself, though. Nothing indecent — he just misses your face.
Still, you may bring up the unfairness of this arrangement. Most of the times, he’ll probably brush it off or have to disappear before forming a proper response.
But... one of these days, when you are, of course, focused on something else and immersed in your duties, mind busy with anything but touring antipopes for once—
Your phone lights up. You unlock it and open his messages.
The preamble makes you raise your brows:
Well, beloved. You may win this once. I’m feeling generous today.
The photos that follow make your eyes widen and your face burn.
And, right after, as if he hasn’t done enough damage:
i keep getting torn between wanting to write v like an absolute fucking menace, claws and teef galore, a cross between unnamed scp and some sort of incomprehensible "be not afraid" human-ish abomination
and being like
this is a man deeply traumatised by the catholic church, actually. we shall now see him step over all the boundaries that have been weighing him down and become a version of himself he accepts and is celebrated for by many. even if that includes funky freddy krueger claws. especially then.
some united clergy of ghost (ghurch...) headcanons that just make sense to me || worldbuilding
summary: i think about the ucog/the ministry/the tobias-made satanic church and the way it could possibly function as a legitimate religious organisation just a bit too much. below's a collection of more or less random headcanons from my giant pile of made-up lore. kind of a relative to my post explaining the way clerical hierarchy works. but this time entirely ghost-centric and focusing on the church as a functioning religious organisation.
notes: in this post i refer to the united clergy of ghost in multiple ways; "the cult"/"the church"/"ministry"/the abbreviated ucog.
[ᯓ⛧⋆₊*.⁺𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙]
administration/structure
It doesn't consist of just the HQ + handful of abbeys (it's kinda canon already, since we know that the Cracovian branch exists). Instead, the Ministry is spread all over the globe in the form of archdioceses, dioceses, parishes and cloisters, many of which are much older than the main branch established by Sister Imperator.
The aforementioned segments used to be their own religious institutions before joining the Ghurch — and they didn't join all at once, it was a gradual process (with the Ministry of Linköping being one of the first ones). Other Satanist cults have been joining in the more recent years. It's all conducted similarly to how irl cults sometimes merge to gain wider access to potential recruits, presence in different regions, etc.
Some countries have no archdiocese. Instead, they house a handful of dioceses, or simply just one. In that case, the dioceses are not part of any larger provinces and report directly to the Unholy See, rather than to a metropolitan archbishop [reference/explanation of how that could work].
In certain regions, such as the Bible Belt, it's not unusual for local members of the UCoG to form village-/town-communes, self-sufficient and providing a bit of a cultural bubble for local Satanists to be able to (more or less) safely function in. That does, however, make it easier for the Ministry to indoctrinate these communities, providing them with their own radio stations and newspapers (crediting @textsfromhannibal for this idea because the portrayal of a multigenerational conservative Satanic family in one of her fics has sparked Many Thoughts In My Brain <33).
different approaches, inner conflicts, heresies
The Church's diversity means that some of its branches don't have much in common — besides general devil-worship, clerical hierarchy, universal rites and laws. This tends to result in religious discourse, infighting, forming of opposing political circles and schools of thought.
It's not unusual for some or the more charismatic/recognisable leaders to gain in popularity, their interpretations of the catechism attracting their own followers.
There have been multiple attempts at fracturing in the past. Sects being banished or splitting off on their own; self-declared prophets disavowing papal authority; rogue bishops openly challenging the Ministry's decisions, etc.
It's the duty of the main branch and Papa's closest circle to deal with these problems, recognising genuine blessings from the Pit in contrast with manmade delusions. It's still part of the political play, partly, but at the same the Ministry does have some genuine prophets/Satan's mouthpieces (canon as far as we're concerned — Sister Imperator has been mentioned multiple times to have visions and be able to directly communicate with the devil).
As is the case with any major religious organisation, the UCoG laws and regulations remain ever-changing to make managing the branches easier and to ensure that they function more or less in sync with one another.
common vs local characteristics
Some of the shared aspects of the Ministry (enforced globally) include: major holidays/celebrations, sacraments, the traditional cardinal make-up, basic mass formula, consistent clerical hierarchy, the expectation for all clergy to have at least a basic grasp on ecclesiastical Latin (as you can imagine the fluency levels differ depending on rank), some common phrasing (usually in Latin and used amidst the clergy).
The colours attributed to each clergy group remain largely consistent, though the Ministry is not against giving the uniform a personal spin (within reason), so for example the way the mozzetta of a Romanian bishop is decorated will probably differ from that of a Mexican bishop.
Other differences that are permitted include: regional rites and local observances that have been given the Infernal See's official approval + local symbols that don't directly mirror the "traditional" Satanic ones (example: the Milanese branch doesn’t just have a serpent for its patron, but the city's own biscione instead).
general church politics/some loose ideas
The Church's visibility in a given region is largely dependent on local culture and political scene, hence why many branches operate from behind a façade.
Some of the abbeys, regular churches and episcopal sees are located in regular religious buildings, more often deserted and refurbished by the Ministry rather than built from scratch — but many have made their home in abandoned and repurposed townhouses, hotels, libraries, cinemas, operas and school buildings.
For example: in the wonderful fic by @anamelessfool, the Cracovian Diocese is registered as a hotel in order to evade the local government's restrictions (I love that idea and will yap about it at any given opportunity).
In my own fic, Campania doesn’t even have its own diocese because of how much of a hold Catholicism has had on the region's cultural identity. Despite many previous attempts, something would always get in the way of the Ministry establishing a more solid presence in the region, and so instead of having its own branch, Campania (along with Abruzzo and Molise) has to answer to Lazio/the Roman branch.
There are conservative factions within the Ghurch. It is what it is. (You'd be surprised how regressive many famous roots of modern day Satanism are!)
For the cult's own safety, it takes a little more than just signing up at your local convent/abbey/diocese in order to join the clergy. Depending on the branch, you may even have to sign a non-disclosure agreement.
WOMEN AND AFAB PEOPLE ARE ABSOLUTELY PERMITTED TO PURSUE PRIESTHOOD. In theory. In practice, not every branch is equally enthusiastic about it, lol.
Just like the Catholic Church, the Ministry, too, has its own seminary schools, which obviously train the clergy. You can’t become a priest nor an abbess, let alone a bishop, without getting the proper education first.
.⋆♱ random ex-catholic priest perpetua hcs because i can.
[ᯓ⛧⋆₊*.⁺𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙]
yes he can speak latin. in a way. ecclesiastical because it was required but he's probably picked up some vernacular and classic along the way, too, out of the sheer interest of it.
he actually tried learning aramaic in an attempt at getting closer to the "core" of the faith (most assume aramaic was the language jesus spoke and taught in). did it work or has he retained much? uhm, no.
got found out and got shit for listening to ozzy and other "ungodly and disturbing" music multiple times.
not a virgin, has probably had his awkward first with someone he's never seen again and later on has slept with a fellow seminarian.
probably wore contacts and/or shades and/or maybe even a damn eyepatch to avoid unnecessary questions and suspicion.
yes, he had to change parishes at least twice after getting accused of being possessed or directly related to the devil. not as much of a stretch as he thought back then.
has had a fascination with reliquaries since childhood. didn't fully understand how they could be sacred or definitely contain that specific long-dead saint's bones for real, no lie, though.
has a strained relationship with "nearer my god to thee". no notes here, it is what it is.
and a strained relationship with his body, still. all those "eldritch" additions and character creation he can do as papa now has probably been of some help. easier to reclaim one's vessel through comparison to demons (if all your life you've been accused of being one) than martyrs.
still gets that uncomfortable itch to kneel in front of the altar if he happens to visit a church. it's not a personal struggle, it's resisting a trained response. he'll get better at it as time goes on.
does he own at least one of his old rosaries? has it been disassembled and is it in the process of being put together to make something new, even if he doesn't yet know what exactly? maybe.
Ao3
[ᯓ⛧⋆₊*.⁺𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙]
summary: Papa V is not enjoying V Day as much as one would perhaps imagine. Luckily, a perfectly dull secular holiday following a successful music video premiere might just get better thanks to the visit of a special someone.
warnings: absolutely none! (sorry?)
word count: 2,745
note 1: this is extremely mild. the reader is hinted at being a part of the upper clergy. could be read as vincentverse-adjacent (beloved rosia stans shall get their special version if they so demand). and yah, the title is a hozier ref.
note 2: y'all i knew i would fail to write, let alone post it, on valentine's day. but then i started (around two days ago), and then it felt like a waste to just stop and throw this away. not to mention i'm trying to murder my writer's block.
Discontent has been following him like a shadow since morning, nearly subtle enough to ignore, just the right amount of persistent to keep shrouding V’s day.
It doesn’t have any particular flavour to it, nor a singular source—which, tragically, makes it all the more difficult to brush off.
Because it doesn’t claw, or sting, or even accuse. Instead, it simply lingers.
It keeps pace.
In theory, nothing has gone wrong. Quite the opposite.
The music video’s premiere has detonated exactly as it was meant to; the numbers are climbing, the comments blooming, the feedback almost embarrassingly complimentary, not to mention the fans dissecting every second frame with ardent enthusiasm.
His inbox remains a merciful desert (save for the thirty-ish e-mails he refuses to open and considers, for now, clergy spam).
There’s been no frantic calls from the Ministry, no last-minute venue-related tragedies. Tonight’s ritual is set to proceed without interruptions. All the gears are turning. All the lights are green.
But it’s the little things.
The curtains in the hotel suite are drawn, but the pale February sun seeps around their edges anyway, washing the room in a diluted gray that feels neither comforting nor properly bleak. Just… flat. It flattens. In a weirdly dissecting, needling way.
When he'd woken up, the sheets had smelled clean, like industrial detergent specific for those places that host many guests at once, but remember none of them. But something about the texture had irritated him immediately, both too stiff and too synthetic.
He’d shifted once. Twice. Finally shoved them down to his hips in silent annoyance, staring at the ceiling with petulance that only irritated him further.
He knew, he knows, that the staff had done nothing but their jobs. He knows he should be grateful. But that does nothing to soothe the irritation.
He had risen with a headache that felt like a thin metal band drawn around his skull, tightening with patient cruelty. It hasn’t split him open but it has persisted. It's steady, a needling pressure behind his eyes that now makes the winter light feel invasive.
His knee is clicking again.
It’s not enough to alarm him, but it sure as hell does the job at reminding him that he has been standing under lights night after night, throwing himself into ritual with an intensity that refuses to age as gracefully as he pretends to.
Click.
A faint, treacherous punctuation.
He rolls it experimentally.
Click, again.
“Wonderful,” he mutters to the empty room.
He considers reading. The book rests on the desk in the corner, ribbon marker poised mid-chapter.
He walks over to it, sits down, ignores the knee.
Stares at a singular page for too long before admitting that the words refuse to stay still long enough in his mind to be worth the effort.
His brain feels like it has been wrapped in wool, or worse. Heavy. Sluggish.
He could smoke—he wants to smoke, the urge flickering briefly—but he cannot while touring. Not if he wishes to preserve his voice, and definitely not if he wishes to maintain the pretence of effortless stamina.
He could sleep, but sleep feels like surrender, or weakness. Like admitting that something is wrong when everything is, by every objective measure, gloriously right.
Perpetua exhales through his nose.
He wonders if Copia has seen the numbers. He probably has. The buzz around the premiere has been loud. It hums through social feeds and Ministry halls alike.
A piece of him still thinks, will forever think and perhaps be correct, that he does not compare to his twin’s musical legacy.
Yet in this case, he recognises that for Copia it’s not the artistic quality that matters as much as the attention. At least right now.
He wonders if his brother is angry. If he’s annoyed, perhaps in a way similar to his own discomfort. Or entirely different, but still—close enough in nature for V to imagine the feeling stretch like an invisible thread, across forests and state lines, and bind the two of them in something, despite the lingering quiet and left-on-read messages.
The thought drifts in uninvited, as it so often does. He can almost hear his brother’s silence from across an ocean.
He tells himself he should not care. Knows himself well enough to understand that he’s going to, anyway.
The headache pulses in agreement.
He presses the heel of his hand against his brow and exhales slowly through his nose, as if he can physically expel the worry.
He fails.
Instead, he moves to the window. The glass is cool beneath his fingers.
Outside, the weather stays decent. Clear enough skies, no threat of another cancellation. That alone feels like a small mercy.
He knows the spectacle will rip him open and fill him with something indescribable and wonderful. That is simply how these things are. But for now, the dull winter light stays relentless.
There is an ache beneath the headache, subtler but more biting; a sense of displacement that no clear skies, no glittering premiere can quite disguise.
It is Valentine’s Day. Thousands of miles stretch between him and home.
He had known the date was approaching. Had marked it with a private, almost amused acknowledgment when the schedule was finalised. It had seemed trivial then. Maybe a bit sentimental. A secular indulgence. It does not feel trivial now.
His knee clicks again as he shifts his weight. He scowls at it like it has personally offended him.
The man reflected in the window feels like a child who has been handed everything he asked for and still wants to go home.
The ghouls had burst in earlier after a knock so brief it he could have as well imagined it.
Chatter first, then glitter. They crowded the doorway, and he couldn’t help but let out a quiet, confused laugh. The headache had receded for a fleeting second under their sheer affection.
One of the cards had been nearly mangled—clearly fought over before presentation—its edges bent, doodled over, annotated. The other was pristine by comparison, though aggressively adorned with rhinestones and signatures of different shapes and sizes, fighting for the limited space. There was also a heart-shaped box of chocolates. And an absurdly large bouquet, thrust into his arms before V could blink.
His hands had filled quickly—with the cards, the bouquet, the box—and his heart had followed suit.
And, last but definitely not least, there was the invitation, direct as any simple business proposal within his new Church.
“Collaborative fun,” Haze grinned sweetly, nodding as if the innuendo was entirely obvious.
“She means fucking,” Dew supplied helpfully.
Before the concert, if V dared. After, if he still had the stamina.
“You’re incorrigible,” he’d told them, smiling.
They’d preened under the praise.
He had thanked them profusely. Kissed a cheek, booped a nose, squeezed a shoulder, promised nothing explicitly, but left the door open in a way he has been trying to master—suggestive without binding himself to an outcome.
And then he had retreated, softly closing the door.
Now the bouquet sits next to the abandoned book on the desk, an explosion of colour against the muted hotel palette. The chocolates remain unopened. The cards lie side by side against the lamp; he has read them both twice already. The mangled one makes him smile.
His phone rests near his hand. He could call. The time difference is inconvenient but not insurmountable. He calculates it automatically: Europe is several hours ahead. You may already be deep into evening obligations or perhaps have carved out a quiet space in anticipation of his message.
Either way, he misses you with a physicality that surprises him. The way you would smooth your thumb beneath his eye if you saw the tension there. The way you would tell him, without condescension, that headaches are not moral failures. The way you would tease him for sulking over hotel linens while simultaneously ordering better ones next time.
He leans back in the chair and closes his eyes.
For a moment, he allows himself to feel it fully: the homesickness, the irritation, the low thrum of pride and fatigue tangled together. That fucking headache.
The shadow does not vanish when acknowledged, but it becomes less amorphous. Or something. It feels like one of the dramatic wisdoms he'd find scrawled in the margins of one of the older Satanic scrolls you'd taught him how to handle. Or in his own notebook, maybe.
You’d be proud of him for that, Perpetua thinks. Or tease him for it. Either way, what bliss.
“I am not pathetic,” he murmurs to the empty room, as if daring it to contradict him.
He rolls his knee again. Click.
Later on, he will lean into the lights, the buzz, the theatrics of ritual, the swell of thousands breathing as one. The headache will likely dissolve under the heat of it, burned away by adrenaline, and he will become larger than the room, larger than the doubt, larger than the distance.
But for now, in the thin winter light of a foreign city, he hopes to survive the discomfort of missing home more than usual.
Minutes pass, or perhaps only seconds; time has a way of warping in hotel rooms. It has become viscous, stretched thin and slow, clinging to him like the headache behind his eyes.
He is still hovering near the window when the knock comes.
It’s neither the polite tap of room service not the chaotic pounding of ghouls eager to deliver their gifts.
It’s just three raps, but he exhales tiredly anyway, already weary of whatever performance might be required of him next.
“Coming,” he calls, voice steady enough.
His knee protests when he moves. Click. The headache pulses once in irritation at the shift in light as he crosses the room.
He runs a hand over his hair, smooths the front of his sweater out of habit, though he is in nothing ceremonial—just black trousers, dark sleeves rolled carelessly to his forearms. Civilian enough.
He composes his face, or assumes he does, because expressions still refuse to obey him sometimes.
If it’s the band again, he will endure whatever glittered ambush they have devised next. If it’s hotel service, he will apologise preemptively for whatever they believe he requires.
Another knock, slightly softer this time.
He opens the door. And the world—quite frankly—misfires.
For a second he thinks his mind has fractured under the pressure of distance and winter light.
You stand there in a simple dark coat, nothing ecclesiastical about you; your hair is loosened by travel, the faint flush of cold still clings to your cheeks. There is a smaller bouquet in your hands; it's deliberate, almost understated compared to the floral beast currently colonising his desk. At your ankle sits a modest suitcase, the handle tilted toward you like a conspirator.
The hallway hums with the distant sound of an elevator. The world continues.
And Perpetua just stares.
His brain, already wrapped in wool, refuses to process what his eyes insist on. For a fragile second he considers that the headache has finally tipped him into hallucination and this is the logical result of irritation and longing and too little sleep.
He says your name more like a question, and in response you smile in that particular way that feels victorious. Like you’ve just commited a crime most delightful.
“Glorious leader,” your greet him with faux gravitas. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
He does not answer. He simply blinks.
You tilt your head slightly, amusement flickering in your eyes.
“V,” you prompt gently. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
“You’re—” His voice falters, uncharacteristically thin. He clears it. “Right, sorry. Please, come in.”
Your smile turns gentler, reassuring, and something in his chest gives way. The headache recedes, not fully, but enough that he notices the absence.
He steps back automatically, making space without quite realising he has done so, and you cross the threshold. Perpetua closes the doors behind you with deliberate care.
You halt in the centre of the room and turn to him first before setting anything down. The bouquet shifts in your hands; dark roses, and not dark roses, but he will make sure to decipher the rest of it later.
“Thank you.” He accepts the flowers automatically, still dazed.
For a moment, your gaze travels over him with unhurried assessment, noting the rolled sleeves, the slight pallor, the tightness around Perpetua's eyes.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, though the protest lacks conviction.
“I’m aware,” you agree, entirely unapologetic. “Which makes this infinitely more satisfying.”
He laughs then, the sound soft and incredulous.
He steps aside briefly to set the bouquet carefully beside the larger one on the desk.
“I watched the premiere before boarding,” you say from behind him, smile shining through every word. “I’m so proud of you.”
The words land somewhere warm in V’s chest.
He turns and reaches for you, hands settling at your waist, thumbs pressing gently into the fabric of your coat as if to test solidity.
“You planned this,” he says.
Your arms hook loosely around his neck, the gesture near-instinctive by now. “But naturally.”
Your palm shifts, pressing lightly against the base of his skull where you know tension usually gathers.
For a heartbeat, Perpetua simply looks at you, tilting his head towards your touch. He realizes, in that small silence, that the shadow which has followed him all day has retreated a full step.
“You’re tired,” you state, as if having read his mind.
He huffs a soft laugh. “I’m fine.”
You lift your brows.
“Really,” he insists, brushing it away with a small shake of his head. “It’s nothing. A headache. Bad sheets. Existential melodrama.”
You don’t look convinced, but you don’t press either. Your thumb strokes once at the base of his skull.
“You’re overstimulated,” you hum. “And you haven’t rested.”
He could lie. He considers it. Instead, he shrugs one shoulder.
“It’s Valentine’s Day,” he says, as if that explains everything.
“So it is.”
“You flew all this way,” he adds, as if to redirect. “For this?”
“The flock will survive a few days without my hovering.”
He smiles faintly. “You delight in hovering.”
“I do,” you agree, one hand moving to trace the skin under his eye now. “But I also delight in surprises.”
He leans into your touch without thinking.
You take that moment to study him up close once more, calculating whether he needs silence, space or grounding.
He solves the dilemma for you.
His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you closer.
He bends, pressing his mouth to yours with a softness that carries relief. Your lips are tinged with the faint chill of winter air. Your thumb brushes over his cheek and you can almost feel the beginning hum of a purr begin somewhere deep in his chest.
Once you break for air, he rests his forehead against your shoulder, then nuzzles into your collarbone.
“You have impeccable timing,” he mutters.
Your other hand moves from his nape to stroke over his locks. “I know.”
“You could have warned me.”
“And ruin the spectacle?” You shake your head. “Never.”
He lifts his head, studying you with renewed clarity. “You flew across an ocean to ambush me on a secular holiday.”
You smile like a crime again. “I flew across an ocean because you sounded restless on the phone last night. The holiday was convenient.”
He huffs a breath that almost becomes another laugh.
The tiredness is still there, woven into the corners of his eyes, the way he holds himself, but it is no longer devouring him. It’s become manageable, he realises with no small relief. Even his knee, traitorous thing that it is, fades from immediate awareness.
“You've probably just saved the day,” he sighs, moving his hand to cradle your chin, drawing you even closer.
Your eyes flutter briefly, a lazy smile curving your lips before you press them to his. “Mhm. That was the intention.”
The ritual still awaits, with all of its physical strain. The charged silence between him and his twin still lingers, unspoken hurt and something more complex flickering somewhere distant. His knee will likely click again. The winter light is not going to change. Sensory troubles are unavoidable.
But you're here now. And as he kisses you once more, longer this time, with a low, relieved sound in his throat—he thinks, with a quiet certainty, that the day may, indeed, be salvageable.
let me know if you want to be tagged ♡ (i've got a general tag list, one for hcs/worldbuilding, and one for just fics. make sure to lmk which one you'd like to be tagged in!)
on penance and confession booths in the satanic church || worldbuilding (questions/discussion)
i know of this fandom's... fascination with confessionals. i know where it comes from. and no, i am not going to materialise behind your chair and devour your femur bones for writing/drawing confession booth smut — but i think the topic is worth exploring and asking some questions.
i'm guessing many of you might not have been raised in any particular christian congregation and confession booths are a naturally intrinsic part of the catholic church's "aesthetic", as well as fantasies pertaining to its clergy.
it has been said multiple times that the ministry of ghost is something akin to the catholic church in reverse. that would obviously mean that they'd have confessionals, too, right?
well... not necessarily. see, i think it's important to understand just why they are so fundamental for the "catholic aesthetic" — because it's not about the booths. it's about the sacrament they represent.
let's talk about penance.
the catholic church's most favoured weapon is shame. if you asked me about the most harmful sacrament, i would say reconciliation every. single. time. because it's not about reconciliation, it's not about getting you back on god's good side — that is all smoke and mirrors, that is the explanation and excuse they offer. in reality, it is the sacrament most directly meant to call you to heel and remind you why you're not worthy of god's grace.
because, you see, the sacrament does not begin in the booth but way before you step into it: it begins with recalling your sins. often weeks' worth of them, depending on how often you attend. essentially you're supposed to "catch" as many as you can to then confess, which will leave you trying to remember every single bad thing you might have done, every now and then, just so that you don't forget and are able to properly unburden yourself from your sins later on.
that is a form of mind control, by the way.
sins come not only in the shape of acts, but also in the form of actions you might have as much as considered. sin might sneak up on you. might disguise itself as a good thought or feeling. despite what many may think, sin is difficult to categorise. that is on purpose. if you cannot clearly categorise sin, anything can become it. that is how they teach you to craft your own rod to flog yourself with in the name of their dogma.
anyway, you've got your sins more or less counted, you're ready to confess. you approach the booth with the knowledge that the man that sits inside has the power to decide whether you'll be forgiven or if you've finally crossed the line and god has decided that that's enough, you've tested his patience and he actually hates you (and you'll burn in hell). in order to prevent that, you have to remember and confess as many sins as you can, then hope with everything you have in your bones that the big man upstairs will mercifully let it slide again. your actual soul is on the line. (i'm sure my fellow ex-catholics can confirm just how nerve-wracking the entire process is, especially after you realise you've forgotten something but you're long past confession.)
that is emotional control.
naturally the next step is repentance, a little pat on the head you get for tearing yourself open. "we're letting you off the hook easy, you just have to say this prayer thrice over, and then pray the rosary five times in the upcoming week" — and it feels like doing so little after you've laid so much on the line.
of course it's never been about giving you an actual clean slate, because the cycle goes on forever.
can you see how all that ties back to shame?
now, that being said — why would the satanic church have confessionals?
i am asking this without malice or judgement, just pure curiosity. because as we all know, most (if not all) branches of satanism circle back to the idea of shamelessness. even the more modern ones tend to shame only the actions that harm others as a result of one's self-indulgence. luciferian principles are based in freedom of thought and action. the guilt and shame i've described above, the religious sort, is the opposite of that. catholic shame promotes passivity. how is that luciferian?
so that leaves me with a question for y'all... consider this a bit of a worldbuilding inquiry: if you assume the satanic church has confessionals, what exactly are they for? other than fornication lol. are the clergy and laity supposed to confess the sins they've failed to commit? that's still quite similar to the catholic version of the sacrament, but perhaps there's a reason. or is it a space for anonymous divulgence of woes and dilemmas, for asking for guidance and advice?
alright, that's all. i am, as per usual, just here to look too much into worldbuilding and tell y'all random facts about catholicism.
