1 - 20 of 36 Works by perpetutism
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Summary
Assorted scenes, ordeals, and establishing shots, with Papa and friends.
LATEST CHAPTER—Parasitic
Phantom's first tour begins to compound.Copia & Phantom, angst, anxiety, disordered eating
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A twitch of the fingers, a flick of the wrist. A slight flex in the forearm. Every little motion, somewhere along the golden chains, translated to something significant. His fingers refused to cooperate. He swung too much, then too little, and not a tap of the foot or a muttered beat came to much use.
It takes practice to be Papa. Like many things, this goes best with a little help.
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Looking over her glasses, Sister repeated, “Call me?”
“As in—” he took a deep breath. “Well, now that I know what—who you are, I figured…”
Copia asks a question, and tries to navigate the answer.
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“Just the… revealing-ness?” Copia asked, his voice too high to be casual. “That is all?"
“Catch the sun through the window and they'll set light to the curtains,” Dew grumbled.
In the weeks preceding a new touring era, certain creatures question whether they have to wear those things all the time...
Series
- Part 2 of Domesticus
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Aurora grabbed it by its hind legs and leaned back. She stood, sock in one hand, teddy in the other, and gazed into its glass eyes, faded orange and a little scuffed. It was a black cat, soft and floppy. Heavier than her own bunny rabbit. Old, by the looks of it, and well-loved, but by who, she didn’t know.
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She’d asked the older ones whether Papa had been like her, long before the title of Papa became his. She asked whether he’d broken down in the dressing room after every early show, clamped his hands over his ears whilst they rang, watched his dress shoes blur through a haze of tears. Whether he’d understood it.
Something was never quite right about Sunshine Ghoul.
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In the shadow of an excommunication, two Sisters of the Lord find solace in grief.
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He knew what dose to give a Ghoul—more or less. He’d fed her the medicine by hand. She had locked eyes with him for every little pill on her tongue, and each drawn-out swallow made Perpetua throb. If his pockets hadn’t been full of Viagra, he might have brought himself fresh underwear.
Haze and her Papa play a game.
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On another day, he would walk in further; on another day, the mask, on or off, would be of no consequence. Politeness or a lack of it does not matter between him and Frater Imperator. It has been years since he’s had to think about how he moves, how he speaks. Comfortable familiarity grows weak in the face of something so new. No matter how hard Dewdrop tries to uphold it.
What happens on tour doesn't stay on tour.
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“Ghoul, if you ever have a wander past the employee of the month display…” he pointed to himself, chest puffed out. “I am a regular. I have, ah… privileges. Leeway, if you will. And full control of the Ghoulie budget. For you lot,” he clarified, waving a hand. “It is uniforms, food, and instruments, mostly, but we can squeeze out a trip to IKEA.”
The newly-appointed frontman finds his band members—all three of them—disheartened in the wake of Papa III's reign. It's nothing that can't be fixed by a change of scenery.
Series
- Part 1 of Domesticus
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Perpetua bites his lip, tasting paint. He lets it go with a flush of shame. In its place, his hands grip the skirts of his cassock, and he gets the absurd urge to rip it off, to expose the limb that's caused all this trouble. To tell Copia everything.
One day, perhaps. Or another life.
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A hush had fallen over the room—Dew’s voice and spiked scent of worry had caught the pack’s attention. Perpetua noticed this and folded his hands together, resting them over his crotch, shifting from foot to foot. His casual disregard vanished into self-consciousness.
“Stomach hurts,” he said, as if that would explain it all.
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Two times Cirrus Ghoul's pyjamas go missing. Neither case lasts long.
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Much as Aether revelled in the wake of grandeur, he always got a thrill from knocking it down a peg.
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Now was not the time to ask who; not whilst Copia would bring it to life with his weak, cracking voice, tugging himself deeper into what might not be reality. Not when he had to fight for his breath on every panicked whimper.
In a midnight hotel room, Copia’s growing paranoia reaches new heights. Aether’s solution comes with an unwanted side effect.
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He lowered the microphone to his mouth, and when he spoke, his voice came out raspy. Nobody in the audience would care about that. He could say anything up here—anything at all, and he would be met with cheers, with love and admiration raining down on him like the golden confetti rained down on them…
When inspiration strikes, and all that. Into the mic, Papa Perpetua said, “How’s that for a golden shower?”
Perpetua's on a journey of discovery, and Dewdrop gets caught in the splash zone.
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It was only after he’d left that he tore it from himself for good. He’d tucked it away, bandaged up tight like his chest, cut from him like the curls he’d shorn with a borrowed knife. He was nobody now, without his convent, without a soul he knew. His clothes were stolen and his face was only ever looked upon as a stranger. It hardly mattered that his name had left him too.
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Through the eyes of four chrome masks, he was watched. Like he was watched by the blinking lights of the city’s towers, from shadowed ground-level roads to the clouds they swam in, and the papers that passed from boy to man on crowded pavements, clutched against a briefcase—they were pasted to derelict glass, left to sink to mulch in the puddles of exhaust, his face and title and legacy a melted splurge of ink.
A phantasmic figure haunts the skies of Meliora’s night. Jury’s out, to the man who saw it, on whether Meliora exists at all.
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You’re okay, she could have said, like she’d heard the others mutter into Aurora’s ear on other nights like this. Like she’d been told herself when she’d screamed her way into this realm, blistering and bloody. You’re safe—I have you. Nothing will hurt you here.
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"Looks like you took quite a hit." Omega left this open, gauging Terzo's response. The half-finished sentence screamed caution; he was toeing a verbal line, careful not to cross it.
A misplaced step onstage makes for a difficult evening for Papa—for better or for worse, his Ghouls are never too far away.
Series
- Part 1 of Fleeting Stars