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The arena smells like hot metal and fresh paint. Rigging lines hang in loops above your head, and somewhere off to the left a drill sang and then died, then started up again.
“Watch your step,” The stagehand says, gesturing at a cable run. “Papa’s already here. Soundcheck was earlier. They’re… particular about the dressing rooms.”
You give them your best smile. Polite. Practiced.
Inside, your stomach did the opposite.
Frater’s direction had been simple.
Go. Ask these. Come back with answers. Do not make me do this myself.
It was a formality. The Ministry had to be the informed of all the new wonderful things Papa V was doing on this tour, much to Frater’s chagrin. He sent you to do it because you are a good worker bee, always wanting to prove your worth to the Ghost Project.
You tuck the folded paper of questions into your pocket and follow guide along the front of the stage. They pointed out marks on the floor in neon tape, showed you where the mic stands would live, where the pyrotechnics would flare.
“New layout,” they said. “Bigger walkways. More—”
They made a vague gesture that meant more everything.
You write a few notes down on your notepad. Most likely none of it would be used in the article, but you want to show you were paying attention.
Backstage is all narrow corridors and laminated passes. The guide checks your credentials, nods at a security guard who didn’t nod back, and stops you in front of a door with a small plaque.
PAPA V.
“Give it a minute. He just came in.”
You’ve yet to see the new Papa, outside of the marketing material sent to Ministry headquarters. You remember the album insert of him, seated in his grand papal robes to be placed on the back of the album. A regal, cold throne fit for an evil space emperor.
You wonder if he’ll have a throne in his dressing room.
“Send them in.”
The door opens.
The makeup artist brushes past you on their way out, kit in hand, leaving behind the sharp scent of setting spray and powder.
You step inside.
The dressing room is smaller than you expected. No throne. Just a worn leather chair facing a mirror lined with bulbs, a rolling rack of black, purple and sparkly fabric, and a side table cluttered with water bottles.
Papa V sits in the chair, one leg crossed over the other, his posture relaxed. From what you’ve heard, he always wears the mask, and this interview is no exception. It sits atop his face, casting a shadow across his green eye. His white one shines, just as bright and unsettling as Frater’s. Curly black hair curls just slightly at his ears, and when he sees you, he smiles.
Teeth. All of them.
"My brother sent you with questions, is that right?" His voice is smooth, far more pleasant than you were prepared for.
You nod, fumbling for the folded paper in your pocket.
"Yes, Papa. For The Ministry Times."
He gestures to a chair that wasn't there a moment ago, or maybe you just hadn't noticed it. "Sit. Please. I've been looking forward to this."
You're not sure if that makes it better or worse.
You unfold the paper and smooth it against your knee.
The first question is harmless enough. Something about the creative direction of the new album. Papa V answers it easily, gesturing with one hand as he speaks about it being a rollercoaster, much like life. You’re up sometimes, you’re down, you have intense feelings throughout.
The second question is where it starts.
"How do you feel your approach to the role compares to your predecessor's more… uh, spontaneous style?”
Papa V's smile doesn't falter, but something shifts in his posture. Just a fraction. His fingers tap once against the armrest.
"My twin had his strengths," he says smoothly. "I have mine."
You move on.
The third question is worse.
"Some fans have expressed concern that the new production feels more polished than passionate. How do you respond to that?"
His jaw tightens. Just slightly.
"Passion is not missing from this production, I assure you.”
You nod, writing nothing down.
The fourth question makes you wince before you even finish reading it.
"Do you think the Ghost Project has lost some of its edge under your leadership, or is this a natural evolution?"
Papa V doesn't answer right away.
He uncrosses his legs. Leans forward. His hands fold neatly in his lap, but his knuckles are pale.
"Did my brother write these himself," he asks quietly, "or did he have someone else do it for him?"
You hesitate.
"He… provided them, Papa."
"Of course he did."
His smile returns, but it's thinner now. Sharper.
"Ask the next one."
You clear your throat and read the fifth question, though your voice wavers slightly.
"Given the increased… I’m, focus on theatricality, do you… do you feel the message of the Ministry has been diluted in favor of spectacle?"
Papa V doesn't answer immediately. He leans back in his chair, one hand draped over the armrest, the other resting on his thigh. His legs are no longer crossed; they are spread just enough to draw your attention, though you try desperately not to let it show.
The silence stretches. You can feel his gaze on you, steady and assessing.
Your eyes flick down to his crotch. The light catches on his belt buckle, shiny batwings that draw your gaze to the laces of his pants.
"Are you just going to stare, sweetheart?"
You swallow thickly, looking up to see him watching you with that same sharp smile, head tilted slightly.
The feeling that overcomes you reminds you of how you were seduced to join the Ministry in the first place.
Cardinal Copia on stage, hips rolling with obscene confidence against his snake cane through a particularly spicy performance of Jigolo Har Megiddo. The lights. The smoke. The way you’d clutched your chest, dizzy with the realization that devotion could be felt in the gut, in the thighs, in the throat.
"I—" You falter, heat rising to your face. "I wasn't—"
"You were." He shifts in his seat, one hand sliding up to cup himself through his pants with no hesitation or shame, just a slow, deliberate squeeze like he’s testing how much of this you can take.
"It's alright," he says. "I don't mind." His gaze drags over your face, unhurried, possessive. "Keep looking."
You don’t move. You can’t.
Papa’s hand keeps moving, unhurried, the kind of touch that’s meant to be seen as much as felt. Every shift of his wrist drags your attention back to his lap, to the obscene ease of him doing this while you sit there with a notebook like you’re still pretending this is an interview.
You swallow. Your throat clicks.
He lets you look for a long second, like he’s giving you time to decide whether you’ll bolt.
"Do you want me to show you?” He asks, fingers hooking at the edge of his waistband. Not moving yet. Waiting.
You should say no.
You should stand up, apologize, flee back into the chaos of the hallway with its laminated passes and busy work.
Instead, you nod.
Papa’s eyes catch on your face, bright with satisfaction, and you think that this could be punishment as much as indulgence. He slowly unhooks his belt, letting the buckle fall to the side. Fingers work the laces. This is your chance to say something, anything.
And then, he’s free.
The head of his cock is swollen, precum already leaking from the tip. His hand wraps around himself, thumb dragging over the slit with a lazy confidence that makes your mouth go dry.
He doesn't look away from you. Not once.
"Come closer," Papa coos, "I want you to see what you've done."
You sink to your knees without thinking, the notepad slipping from your fingers to land forgotten on the floor. Frater’s carefully crafted barbs scatter like ash. Crawling forward, closing the distance between you and Papa V's chair like this is all that matters. Like this is truly why you are here.
"There we are," he murmurs, voice low and honeyed. "Much better."
His free hand reaches out, fingers curling under your chin, tilting your face up so you have no choice but to meet his eyes. The paint makes him look inhuman, but the heat in his gaze is anything but.
"Open your mouth," he says. Not a question.
You do.
Your lips part, and Papa's thumb traces the curve of your bottom lip. His cock is inches from your face. V breaches your mouth slowly, the thick heat of him pushing past your lips and sliding deeper until you can hardly draw breath around his fullness. Your jaw aches almost immediately from the size.
"You know," Papa starts, voice rough with pleasure, "my brother didn't know what he was doing, sending you here." His thumb strokes along your jaw as if to soothe pain he’s causing you. "Did he think you'd come back unchanged? That you'd walk into his office with your little notes and answers?"
He pulls back just enough to let you breathe, and you gasp around him, spit-slick and desperate.
"Poor thing," he continues, that sharp smile cutting into corners of his mouth. "He sent you to interview me, and look what you're doing instead." His hips roll forward again, slow and purposeful, watching your eyes go hazy. "On your knees. Mouth full. Ruined.”
You whimper, and the sound makes him groan low in his throat.
“You think he'll be able to look at you the same way after this? Knowing you came to his brother and knelt?"
The thought should shame you. Instead, it sends a bolt of heat straight through your core. You squeeze his thighs, one act of defiance or contribution. You’re not sure which.
It was enough to make him finish with a shuddering groan, his release spilling hot and thick across your tongue. You swallow it all without hesitation. How else to show your devotion? You sink back on your knees, wiping the spit from your soiled lips.
“You're not gonna tell him, right?" There’s fear in your wrecked voice. What would Frater think? Could he blame you for giving into the temptation that he preaches?
"No, sweetheart. I won't tell him. It'll be our secret."
But even as he says it, he already knows that when you walk back into Frater's office, when you sit across from him and try to deliver your careful, professional recap of your time here, your cheeks will burn. You'll stumble over your words. Your hands will fidget with the edge of your notepad, and Frater will notice.
He'll see the flush in your face, the way you can't quite meet his eyes, and he'll wonder what happened in that dressing room that you're not telling him.