Commissioned [completed]

Chapter 8 - fuck yes, new shirt

Your eyes adjusted to waking. You felt like a crinkled sheet of paper crumpled to the couch. Your shoulder was silently flipping you off for letting some masked man butcher it. In your waking view was said monster. He was in an armchair across from you, legs on the armrest, head on the other, breathing softly in rest.

You took in his shape, small, thin. So full of rage, and still, sort of cute... and the way he had moved on stage last night, the things he'd done with his tongue. Nope, we would not think of him like that. You just had a newfound, unexplored mask kink; he was just some guy who happened to wear a mask for unknown religious reasons. You got up too quickly, and he startled awake, ready to stab something.

"What, what's going on?"

"Sorry, go back to sleep; I'll see myself out." Your stomach grumbled, and you remembered you hadn't eaten the night before.

"You're just going out there?" He dragged himself into sitting, fighting off rest, wiping his hand under his mask, coming to lean his elbows on his thighs. "Aren't we going to talk about last night? And you're hungry; you should do something about that."

"No, nope, I realised I don't want or need to know whatever last night was. You know, and that's what matters. I'm here for another two or three weeks, keep an eye out for me, and I'll go home good as gravy."

"Gr-avy?" His grey mouth pulled.

"You're right. I am hungry," you laughed with all your usual masking and started wrapping up the dagger with a painting cloth. "I'll get something on the way back to the motel."

"You're in real danger, ______."

"Don't pretend you care, Sodomiser." You didn't look at him as you placed the blade in your pack.

"I don't—"

"Then I dunno, I'll call you if something happens? So you can come... do whatever you do to people like that. You have a number?"

"You're being a bit of an ass," he rolled his eyes, "give me your phone."

You unlocked and passed over your phone.

"Cute," he looked at your lock screen. You and Marie at a theme park, wearing something stupid on your head, posing in likely promiscuous ways. He tapped away and handed it back. "You want a shirt? I'll trade you."

"Why.." and you looked down; it was still crusted over with blood. You sighed. "Yeah, are you sure?"

"I happen to like the smell of your blood. I am trading up."

"Huh, don't think I needed to know that, y'could have said anything else, but you went with that."

"I'm nothing if not honest," he flashed his teeth, stood and stretched, looking dishevelled from the armchair. After his ostentatious stretch, he crept for the bedroom.

He didn't need to stay there last night, but he had. He'd stay there to watch over you; it had made you feel safe and cared for. You didn't like it.

He returned with a black dress shirt, "I don't know whose this is," he admitted. "Yours now, though."

"As long as one of the ghouls or Papa isn't going to tackle me for it," you shrugged, accepting it before tugging off your shirt to toss yours at his head.

"Careful with those stitches—" He caught the shirt without a hitch. "If they missed the shirt, they would have come looking for it already." He lifted the bloodied side of your shirt to his mouth and grinned darkly beneath the cloth.

"Shall I leave you alone with your new shirt, huh?" You gave a challenging brow, buttoning at the oversized black shirt. It smelt of incense, aftershave and leather, as did most things in this church. Still, it gave you a nagging feeling it was Papa's. You were trying not to think about his pleading voice last night. How willing he was to share to get a piece of you. You swallowed.

Sodo was watching your fingers button the shirt; he leaned back in his chair, looking close to how Papa posed for you in the drawing room. "Who said I had to be alone?"

"Me," you laughed. You stood with your overalls dangling beneath your new shirt. It was a look. "I'll see you around, Sodo." You patted his shoulder, walking past him towards the door, and he groaned.

"Call me anytime, _______, even if you think you're just being paranoid. Okay?"

"Sure," you got to the door.

"Say it."

"I don't take orders, Sodo," you replied softly, stepping into the hallway.

You heard a quiet "—asshole," behind the wood of the door.

***

"Nice shirt, caro Pittore," came a voice as you hit the main hallway, your hands deep in your pockets.

Your heart squeezed wrongly hearing Papa's voice. "It is, actually," you liked the way it flowed around your frame seemed like really nice material. "Yours, I presume?" You turned to see Papa rumpled and ungroomed in the clothes he'd worn last night. You didn't allow yourself to stop in your tracks and instead walked a little way to greet him. His eyes were half-lidded and tired, and his mouth paint was smudged to one side. He smelt of weed, alcohol and incense. His hair, you felt your hand reaching to push it from his face but pulled it back in time.

"Yeah, keep it; I can only fucking imagine what Sodo did with the first," he smirked with exhaustion, "ghouls get that way around blood." He chuckled to himself.

"Blood...?" You got a sinking feeling that he knew something, but then you remembered the pad you'd borrowed from Papa the night before, "oh, yeah," suddenly you were blushing madly. And you never blushed.

"I am sorry about last night. I pushed a professional boundary of yours; it will not fucking happen again," his voice was croaky from smoke inhalation. He leaned against the wall of the hallway.

"No, it's... I don't know what happened. I made some really interesting choices I shouldn't have made last night." Something in you lowered, disappointed that he'd not ask again, but it was right. It was as it should be.

"How's that worldview after being with a ghoul? Must have been an interesting experience as a non-believer," he wasn't jeering or smirking. He was gentle.

"I.. don't know what to think," you said honestly. "I.. drank too much...I'm...not thinking about it." The dagger, the hand, the grey of Sodo's hand matching his mouth, makeup that certainly didn't smudge. Your skin had no grey paint from where he'd bitten you.

"I understand. You know where I am if you need to talk about anything. I am Papa, after all; a crisis in faith is kinda what I'm all about."

"I believe in nothing," you passed off.

"And I'm sure that brings you comfort; it's stable, reliable, and if you were to see something that fucked with that belief..." he shook his head with empathy. Before you realised what you were doing, you combed his hair back with your fingers then. He froze, leaning into your touch, eyes fluttering shut.

"I'm going to be okay," your hand dropped, and you stepped away as if you'd burnt yourself. "I hope you enjoyed your night, Papa."

"I..." he swallowed, "Yes, I did, Caro."

"Good..." you dragged yourself from his gravitational pull, "good, I'll see you next week, Papa."

"Next week..." his brows softly drew until he could shake it off, "Yes, yeah, I'll see you then. Please look after yourself until then, Caro."

"No promises, I am extremely clumsy," you grinned, brushing off his sentiment.

"Please?" He called softly.

"Papa, I will do my best," you bid, walking away. That church was going to be the death of you.