Commissioned [completed]

Chapter 14 - Priest Porn

You were absent-mindedly adding detail to your blushing bride in the drawing room. It was black and white, no think, no finicky mixing. Or were you too minded? Too thinky?

To ignore what was happening around you would mean somewhat staying as you were. But that ignored your life's philosophy of living in truth, digging to better understand, knowing people, and painting more than images.

In truth, you were—scared. Scared of what you might find if you looked too hard.

"Caro Pittore," came a coaxing dark voice through the door.

The way he called for you, it was damaging and... comforting. He called to your soul. You hated it. Or maybe hated that you didn't hate it nearly enough. You had enough on your plate, with Sodo giving you an existential crisis without considering what Papa did to you.

"Papa?" You responded.

There was a pause before the door opened. Papa was in his suit once more; without his hat, he was back to being human. He paused again when he saw you.

You didn't think you were wearing anything particularly nice. Everything you had was covered in paint.

"Uh, Pittore... yes, uh, Sister has said that you may hold your sermon today or tomorrow," he seemed unable to look at you any more.

"Sister has game, not giving me any time to prepare," you said out loud, in thought. "Fuck it, sign me up for tonight, Papa."

"If you're sure, ______?"

He couldn't look at you, so you released him from your gaze and went about painting in dress details. "Yeah, in this case, I don't think I can polish it. It will be rough, but I'm not a priest—sucking at sermons doesn't call my worth into being."

He didn't say anything for a while, just stood with his hands folded behind his back. From the corner of your eye, you were measuring his posture. A leaned back; everything he did had flow, like he heard the room's tempo and breathed it.

"I.. put you in a very fucking uncomfortable position the other night, ______, I don't remember a hell of a lot of it. If I grabbed you or..." he shook his head, "I am fucking sorry."

"You were drunk, Papa. Understand if you did something I did not like, I carry ghost pepper around for my protection," you washed out your brush and caught him watching you.

He swallowed, "I hope I never fucking pissed you off."

"You're going to have to behave then, huh?"

"Yes, Papa," finally, his wicked grin returned when you laughed. "What do you have for tonight, Caro? You want to go over anything with me?"

You hummed in thought. "It's a bit jumbled," you reached into your pack and grabbed your notebook. "Simple, present argument, anchor in mythology, add philosophy," you shrugged, "I doubt I'll be bringing anything groundbreaking to the table." You pass over the book with your scribbled notes.

"You understand this?"

"What?"

"Your handwriting is fucking atrocious."

"Oh, thanks, Papa; what? Do you write strictly in calligraphy?"

"You wouldn't believe how far into someone's sheets a well-penned letter will get you," he winked.

"Oh? Maybe I don't want to fuck someone who judges my penmanship; I'm an artist. I'm good with my hands in other ways."

He sucked in a breath, and you looked away. Just talking to each other was different then. You shoved your hands into your pockets, and he refocused on your written work. "No Christian fan fiction about riding donkeys?"