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oathkeeper-of-tarth · 7 months

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Moon Above And Stars Beside Her

Me, rising from the dead after a hundred years to post fic? It's more likely than you think! These specific characters were laser-targeted and lovingly crafted to activate every single one of my neurons and I am immensely grateful for them. Please enjoy the result of me endlessly rotating them in my mind ever since I met them.

Be warned that this fic is pretty much made up entirely of spoilers for Act 2 of the game.

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Characters: Dame Aylin/Isobel Thorm, Ketheric Thorm, Balthazar, Withers, and a smidge of Selûne herself Length: ~11000 words Rating: M, for canon-typical violence and sexual content

Hurt/comfort, dealing with trauma, an overabundance of righteous anger, a smidge of Came Back Wrong, and some pretty complicated and peculiar parent/child issues.

Summary:

What of the gnawing in thine holy gut, the rage clawing up thine throat? A great weight, inclined to tip the scales once more. Which way shalt thou cast it? When you had nothing else, caged in darkness, you learned to cultivate your anger like the finest of crops. And yet there seems to be so little for you to reap.

The Nightsong is no more and Dame Aylin is returned to her most holy duties. Isobel Thorm is free of her grave. How they handle their past, present, and future is, perhaps, up to them.

Also on AO3.

—

Moon Above And Stars Beside Her

"And what of thee, god-child, moon-graced, silver-blood?"

It is the Scribe who addresses you one entirely unremarkable evening, looking up from his scroll to arrest your gaze with his deathless one. They introduced him, a camp guest most unexpected, by some nonsense name you cannot even call to mind. But you would know him anywhere. And so you stop in your path, as you are bid, and listen.

"A tipping of the scales most severe: thine mother freshly spared mourning her daughter, her dark sister's triumph snatched away at the very last moment."

"You have guided these adventurers well, Scribe," you incline your head in respect and a small measure of thanks.

"I do not guide," the grave-wind voice is raised just enough to convey something resembling annoyance at a minor inaccuracy he simply must correct. "I offer what services I am bound to, nothing more."

You arch an eyebrow at him. "And yet you wish to speak to me, who did not ask any service of you."

"Yes," he responds, and leaves it at that for a few moments that feel like an eternity. A timescale he is used to, one would imagine.

"Dame Aylin. Thou art a curious creature, I admit - immortal, yet appearing in my records many times over. Moreover, thine fate stands indelibly entwined with one whose name has been freshly struck from the archives in a manner most uncommon and highly questionable."

A tension floods you as you realise he talks of Isobel, and your hands tighten into fists at your sides.

"What of her, pray tell?" It comes out more curt than you intended, perhaps, but the words are spoken before you can properly settle on them.

"She lives, and shall do so for the time that is given to her, as it is to most. And still," he nods, unnervingly calm, all taut paper-thin skin, a being of unlife if you've ever seen one, "thou wouldst cleave thine malefactors in twain and rejoice in their screams. Thou, who burnest so deeply to reflect back upon them every spear-strike, every lash, every cut, every shattered, twisted bone and sinew, every drop of blessed blood they dared spill."

You breathe in a leaden breath, knit together as you are, the divine birthright of your Mother lacing your scars with shining gold, proclaiming that the testament of your newly ended immeasurable suffering is something to be proudly displayed. You know the marks on your face glisten in the firelight much like the woven gold that decorates his skull, his sunken cheeks, as he looks upon you half-expectantly.

"I would, and I do," you can but confirm through grit teeth.

"What of thine anger? What of the gnawing in thine holy gut, the rage clawing up thine throat? A great weight, inclined to tip the scales once more. Which way shalt thou cast it?"

"I would destroy them. I would scorch the very traces of them from the world. Some, I already have - as you are doubtlessly aware, Scribe. Much like they tried, and failed, to destroy me."

"Or did they?" There is the infuriating calmness again, and a question meant for no answer, or perhaps merely a word of caution aimed at you.

His withered countenance is as utterly illegible as a weather-worn tombstone, but if this was meant to stir hated doubt in you, it does. For you have grown well aware it is not just the bright, righteous blaze of justified anger that fuels you now, but something relentless that stings and cuts you as it wants out, out, out. This is not the way of Protection, of Devotion, of measured Justice. This is not the duty you were once sworn to, the sacred oath that has resounded in the marrow of your very bones since the first breath you ever drew upon this land. No, it is something new, and yet Vengeance has served you just as well - better, perhaps - in this brief time you've been free.

"For all their infernal efforts, I have pieced myself together over and over and over again. It is my nature to do so, not a choice to be made, nor a conscious effort. Their betrayal and their sins against me are but a chapter in my tale, nothing more. My task is not done, and for as long as it is so, Dame Aylin will not stop, will not falter. You know this as well as I."

The calm of the tomb refuses to be disturbed in any way, least of all by your tirade. "And yet, along the way, a piece of thee was lost and replaced with another, ill-fitting. Many stand to win from this, as many stand to lose."

You frown as you scrounge around for a reply, and find yourself lacking one. He looks not at you, but into and through you, and it is uniquely discomfiting.

The Scribe raises his hand in dismissal, and offers solemn parting words. "A godling thou art, but no god. It is in thine nature, too, to wonder, and question, and change in response. As it is in mine to observe, and take note, and stand witness to the weaving of fate. Forget not: thou art not near as tide- and cycle-bound as thine divine moon-mother."

You are given little time to contemplate the Scribe's weighty, ominous statements. Yet another comes seeking, coveting, poaching. Craven-clever mouth full of honeyed praise for your "gift" and only ever wanting to take, take, take, all for himself.

How dare, how dare he, how dare they how DARE--

A thousand echoes of deaths upon deaths swarm and you take the vainglorious fool, lift him bodily up and--

He breaks upon your knee like a dry kindling scrap and your breaths come loud and half-choked and heaving. What was once a vile wizard is now nothing and for a moment, the briefest, most fleeting of moments, neither are you.

Until the world rushes back in, exhausting in its sheer weight. There is no glorious, triumphant rush of battle-roused blood singing through you. Vengeance didn't taste sweet. It didn't taste like much of anything.

When you had nothing else, caged in darkness, you learned to cultivate your anger like the finest of crops. And yet there seems to be so little for you to reap.

As the sounds of the city far, far below slowly fill the enchanted tower, competing with crackling magic and bubbling potions and a complete absence of words spoken by any of your present companions and allies, all you can pinpoint whirling within you is a rising despondency.

One more, and then another, and another after that, extending before you all in a line, down the endless, endless years that await you, immortal and eternal. Magus or sorcerer or ruffian or necromancer or halfwit charlatan, it won't matter much, will it? Because they will try.

Do you dare ever again let your guard down for even a few precious moments of respite, when another villain with designs on your person could be lurking, scheming just around the corner?

Worse yet, far more chilling - what if they, conniving, decide to aim their ambitions at a different target, at your soft underbelly, and come for Isobel in turn?

When you draw yourself out of the crowding thoughts and return to camp at long last, subdued, tired, painfully aware you are far removed from your usual mighty bearing, hours have flown by and the sun has already set. Isobel is there, and for a moment that is all you know. She is there, and whole, and alive, and it is all you can do not to drop to your knees once more and offer prayer upon prayer of gratitude.

She looks at you, eyes brimming with a potent mix of concern and questions, then rushes towards you and wordlessly takes you by the gauntleted hand to the small sanctuary you've carved out for yourselves in the midst of your newfound allies: a simple tent, a soft, warm rug, a comfortable enough cot. A small washbasin Isobel keeps filled with conjured, moonlight-laced freshwater.

"It was a glorious victory, my love, worry not," you rush to reassure, though even you can tell your heart is not in it. "Yet another villain slain, his devilish designs denied - as has become the habit of our merry retinue. The battle has tired my mind somewhat, that is all."

You can see the doubt writ plainly on her face, but it is no lie you tell her (never, never could you bring yourself to lie to her). It is more that… you do not know the reason yourself, or, rather, that it feels too manifold to ever encompass in simple words.

"I wish you would give yourself time, Aylin, let yourself rest," Isobel says, soft, endlessly caring, achingly perceptive, and only slightly disapproving. She starts taking your armour off piece by piece as you sit on the small campaign stool you appropriated recently, then dampens a washcloth to wipe the traces of recent battle from your face. "Please. You endured more than a hundred years of horrors I can scarcely imagine."

You grit your teeth at the mention and try, foolishly, to hide from her the tension that runs through you at the mere evocation of the thought. She palms your cheek and tilts your face to look up at her - her, standing above you and yet barely exceeding your height, though you remain seated - and oh, how you adore the sight!

Isobel frowns as she notices a scrape on your temple, slightly singed in a near-miss from one of the mage's commanded elementals. It is nothing, you want to insist, no need to fuss over it, but you know how to recognise a battle lost before it has even begun. "In Her radiance, you are made whole," she murmurs, and you feel the familiar tingling and slight warmth of the gash knitting itself closed.

Her incantations are perfect and as subtly melodious as ever. There is healing even before her spells take hold simply by the fact she is here. It is Isobel's touch that has ever been a balm when you returned from a skirmish, feathers ruffled, just as it is now when you feel burning echoes of abuse tear through you at some unintended motion or runaway thought.

Satisfied for the moment, she dips the cloth in water again, and runs it gently over you, in a cycle as regular and comforting as that of the Moon itself: brow, nose, cheek, jaw, neck, then brow again, and again. For a little while the gentle, refreshing, cleansing caress is the only thing that exists in your world, and you let go of the death-grip you only half-consciously had on her other hand.

"I confess… I hate to see you throwing yourself back into the fray like this. I understand why, and that it is necessary, but…" she trails away and pauses for a heavy moment, cloth in hand. She resumes, more determined, now scrubbing at a stubborn mark on your chin. "I wish it didn't have to be so soon. Duty or not, you shouldn't have to. You should be allowed to recover in your own time, to heal in peace, until you are ready."

You cannot help but bristle at that. "You would deem me unfit for my purpose? My duty and my self are so entwined, it is not possible to have one without the other - would you call into question a sword's place in battle?"

"Listen to yourself," Isobel snaps, harsher than you can ever remember hearing her, stopping her ministrations and standing tall to face you down, cheeks reddened. "Can't you hear what you sound like? Like a misguided Sharran, making yourself out to be nothing but a tool to be used and used and used until you are useful no more!"

You gape at her, useless, wordless. "Isobel…"

"Yes, you are the resplendent Sword of the Moonmaiden, performing great deeds in Her name… but you're so, so much more than that, and I treasure all that you are." The words are so impassioned and so openly honest you are struck silent in pure awe. Isobel, clutching a dripping, bloodied washcloth in the middle of a patched-up tent, might as well be a queen making proclamations before her devoted court assembled in a lofty palace. And oh, devoted you are, endlessly, endlessly. This can never change.

"My Aylin, my angel. You always have been, and always will be, and if it takes me years to remind you of all of these things I know you once knew, I promise I will." Her palm is back on your face, a gentle caress that soothes many wounds long invisible, never healed.

She speaks her promise as solemn as any vow you have ever made, and you bow your head to kiss her hand.

"There is no need for recklessness, after all," Isobel smiles, the slightest wry twist to it, as she tips your chin back up, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead and murmur against your freshly washed skin. "The Moonmaiden's shield is mine to wield. You know its strength, the blows it can take. Let it be a sanctuary for you as well. Give me - give yourself a chance. Slowly, step by step - there is time."

You have time, she is correct, even if you've never managed to have a very good grasp of it. All the time in the world, and then some.

Isobel does not.

You've already lost her once, had her ripped from your arms by whims of fate, or rather something far more sinister. There is no way to know, but you suspect, oh, you do. Your Mother's dark twin schemes ever on, and Moonrise, beacon that it was, surely seemed to her a provocation, Ketheric Thorm a crown jewel to be poached, and Isobel, your Isobel, a mere means to an end.

Isobel, brought back, a miracle paid for so very dearly. It would be foolish to count on another.

You stand up and reach over and almost crush her to your chest in an embrace - one she returns not a moment after completing her surprised exclamation. You hold her and hold her and allow yourself to lose track of time again.

Moonlit, timeless, subdued in her glory, you listen to Isobel recite the Words as she pours fresh milk into the small silver ritual bowl before her.

"Our Lady of Silver, whose light falls upon us all, hear me."

Her reverent voice is barely above a whisper but carries impeccably, harmonising with the gentle bells and chimes surrounding the private little altar.

"Sheltered by Your radiance, guided by Your hand, I come not to entreat, but to reaffirm."

Motes of moonlight buoyant around her dance in the rhythm of the prayer you've heard and repeated so often it feels like breathing itself. It would feel stranger not to join in, so you do, if only in your mind.

Ever-changing, ever-returning, as the silver Moon waxes and wanes, so too does life.

You lurch back into awareness in a place you have never seen before, but that you recognise without a shred of doubt. The utter absence in the dark dome of the sky above you, the storms that swirl and rage all around, the assault on your ever-heightened divine senses - the reek of the Shadowfell feels like it has sunk its claws into your lungs already. You shudder, then startle, scrambling to stand when you realise your armour is gone, your sword nowhere to be found.

Your feet are bare on the cold, cruel rock; your mind reeling, disoriented. Half-blinded by the glowing runes that encircle you, your tunic still stained with the fresh blood of your latest, very recent death, you come face to face with the two men you made the mistake of believing and turning your back on mere moments ago, in what must have been a different pocket of the dark realm.

And so, the last time you see him for what is to be more than a hundred years, Ketheric Thorm locks gazes with you and wordlessly draws a dagger. Then he cuts his palm, deep and deliberate and unflinching, and your own muscle and sinew feel the slice.

The hideous grin of savoured success on his pet necromancer's face upon witnessing your startled, pained reaction chills you to the bone. It is then, perhaps, that you begin to grasp the scope and shape of what they have in store for you.

You try to rush at them, charge and claw them into submission with your bare, bloodied hands if needs be, but the boundaries of the sickly-bright rune-inscribed circle flare up, the cage tightens around you, phantom hands grasp and wrench and restrain and keep you in place, your foes and would-be tormentors only just out of reach.

"What are you doing, you dog ?" You roar at Ketheric, your insides twisting at the sight of the dark disc newly burnished on his armour, Sharran symbols adorning his brow, his chest. "Oathbreaker! How dare you conspire against Dame Aylin, against Selûne herself! How dare you so betray Isobel--"

A heavy gauntlet smashes into your jaw as soon as the beloved, yearned-for name leaves your lips, and Ketheric's voice rises above the ringing in your ears.

"You do not get to speak her name, thief. I am the one betrayed, abandoned. By your witch of a mother who hoarded my misguided service for far too long."

Ketheric steps back and calms, somewhat - or merely restrains his rage into something crueller and colder, while you recover enough to speak.

"Shar will not help you, Ketheric Thorm. Oblivion does not heal, does not mend - and oblivion is all she offers. But what she will ask of you in return will damn you forever."

He waves a claw-armoured hand in mock-dismissal of your warnings.

"Do what you will with her, Balthazar, as long as it doesn't impede my Lady's plans. Break her, if you can. Let her rage and pace and fume and rot, if not. But I want her to know," he steps closer again, so close, almost close enough to touch, if not for those accursed hands holding you back, "when our Dark Lady's acolytes come calling, when her wretched silver-stained blood fuels the creation of an army the likes of which the world has yet to see - I want her to know and never forget: it was on my orders."

You calm your breathing enough to answer, the burning rage within you forging your words into steel - the only steel you can aim at him, for the moment. But the tides will turn, as they inevitably do. "The Moon shows many faces. Our Lady of Silver is ever-changing. You should be careful, traitor, lest the Hunter's Moon marks you as Her prey."

Ketheric scoffs, unimpressed. "Let her try! Let her come, let her send all her legions after me, when she would not lift one holy finger to help me when I needed it most, for all my decades of faith and devotion. No, you will see," the quiet conviction in him is chilling to behold, in all its sheer wrongness. "This place, this bond, will sustain me, and it will take everything from you, piece by piece, until you whine and cry and beg your moonwitch mother for salvation. And when you are met with the same merciless silence as I was, perhaps I will consider it payment enough for the precious hours of my daughter's presence you dared steal from me, interloper."

You cannot reach him to wrap your hands around his worthless, treacherous throat and wring. But the trap, the cage, is imperfect, and you spit silver-flecked blood at his face easily.

He flicks his cheek clean, all dismissal, then motions to his foul, death-reeking companion to come forward. "Start with her wings. She has no need for those anymore."

"I would be delighted, General," comes the sickening, rot-sweet voice of Balthazar from somewhere behind you, along with the deceptively gentle sound of him tinkering with his ghastly tools and implements. "How very appropriate, how symbolic, to start by clipping our little bird's wings."

You roar your rage at Ketheric's back until he is out of sight and your throat is raw and bloody and capable of nothing but a hoarse whisper. You strain and pull and beat your wings in great gusts with all the desperate force you can muster; you burn, entire, with a scorching radiance unlike any you've manifested before. But the newforged bonds persist, and drag you down, down, down, merciless, until you see and breathe nothing but dust, the magic of one of the caging runes stinging against your cheek as the sounds of what can only be termed butchery fill the stale air.

It is the perhaps unfortunate attribute of your particular strain of immortality that you are obliged to feel every wound, every hurt, every blow that seeks to lay you low. That you rise to fight again only after you have been truly felled. That your memory is one made to suit your long life - blade-sharp, exact, and infallible.

You lie there afterwards for a long, long, quiet while; unmoving, though the spectral hands loosened their grip and vanished along with Balthazar, a minute, or an hour, or a day, or a year ago. There is too much pain still, you think almost idly, feeling quite far removed from your own self. Too much for any of it to have been a killing blow.

It is the first time in your storied existence you dare to think of death as a possible mercy and wonder if you might ever welcome it.

Let all on whom Selûne's light falls be welcome if they desire.

You do not see Ketheric after that, except in gory fantasies produced by your mind's eye. But you do get to know, intimately, each and every battle he deigns to fight personally, each scrape and cut and bruise and jab, arrow and spear and sword - all unseen, but far from unfelt.

Then comes the steady stream of misguided Sharrans, would-be Dark Justiciars.

You try to speak to them, at first. Reach out. Try to make them see their terrible error while retribution might still be within their grasp.

You fail, each and every time. And each and every time you pay for that failure with a death. Some of them are more decisive about it, quick, almost merciful. Some stretch it out, savour it. Some can't bear to meet your eyes.

But all of them, in the end, do it. And you choke back to life over and over and over again, knit together anew, as the murmurings mount.

Descend to her. Look upon her. Listen to her.

Kill her.

You remember the first time you died: out on a quest taking you through a steep mountain pass, falling into an ambush, peppered by poison-tipped crossbow bolts. You remember also the slight fear, the uncertainty of what exactly would happen to you - the fact of your Moon-blessed immortality until then only a suggestion, a curiosity somewhere in the back of your mind.

You remember the gradual change into certainty over several misadventures and the ensuing determination - you were indestructible! Indomitable, as befits the Sword of the Moonmaiden, put upon this earth to enact Her will. Who would dare stand before you, resplendent, eternal, uncowable?

And you remember the long, slow slide into being utterly used to it, down in these seemingly bottomless shadows, stuck on another Sharran spear, listening to your own blood drip drip drip as the darkness grew even heavier, laced with increasingly triumphant whispers.

As we turn to the Moon, we trust She will be our true guide.

Exhaustion overwhelms even the most righteous of furies, and you fall into a fitful sleep now and then. You dream of Isobel, soft, warm, brilliant, alive, and it makes the cruelty of awakening all the worse.

Balthazar comes, sometimes, your most frequent and most despised visitor by far. He delights in letting you know how much time has passed - impossible to tell, in the umbral pocket of your prison. Regales you with tales of Sharran tyranny being visited upon the land and the people you were sent to watch over and protect and guide, your one mission and the purpose written into the very blood flowing through your veins. And yet you did nothing but fail. Precious Isobel, dead; Ketheric, lost, determined to tear down with him the world entire.

Balthazar rejoices in the disgust you cannot help but bear openly upon your face as he expounds on his experiments, hands unbound by any trace or suggestion of morality and propriety and with Selûnite victims in abundance. He crows endlessly over his successes, his sick triumphs - but oh, none as impressive as you!

He does much worse, later, and you learn you do not need a tongue to curse him.

You know nothing can come of it but even more pain and sick retribution, yet you goad the corpse-rotted bastard every chance you get. The necrotic embodiment of every foul undead creature you would have wreathed your sword in radiance for, if only it were at hand. Whom you would have longed to smite until nothing but ash remained.

There is nothing else here. Empty shadows, as befits the Lady of Loss. A void without and within, yours to fill with gnawing, searing, holy wrath. Nothing left to sustain you but the thought of a long-distant but inevitable escape and vengeance.

One day.

"I keep a tally just for you, Balthazar." You pace the infuriatingly familiar bounds of your cage, precise in your steps in order not to trigger the wretched closing in, the grasping--

He looks up from the stitching he is doing, morbid handiwork on some poor Moon-devoted stonemason he wanted you to see. "Aylin! I did not know you cared so."

"Why, yes," you bare your teeth at him in mockery of a smile. "When your little spell inevitably fails and this game of yours runs its course, I will come find you first. I will tear you apart, limb from mismatched limb, into your grave-robbed constituent parts. And then I will mince them further, until there is one rotting morsel of you for each and every hurt you have ever visited on me."

"You will find," you prowl closer, just out of reach of the necrotic claws, "I have an excellent memory."

Infuriatingly, the corpse only smiles, laughs in your face.

"I was expecting just a touch more creativity, but then I suppose that has never been much of a strong point for you moon-followers."

You scowl and swallow back a growl and want only to provoke him further, itch to make him react, to make a mistake.

"So very boring and predictable. Painfully straightforward. Laughably easy to trick."

He waves a hand and conjures a muddy image of the lost Selûnite child you were made to chase down here what feels like a lifetime ago, the perfect bait they contrived just for you.

"You were nothing, Aylin. A meat-headed little errand girl for your useless mother. I, well, I have made you into a treasure."

Balthazar's smile splits the corpse-bloat of his face. The stench makes you want to gag, makes you yearn for the duller senses of one not trained from birth to be a paladin.

"As thanks, let me leave you with a thought you will doubtlessly appreciate. Do you know, I wonder, how very little it would take for you to be freed? What little effort I had to invest to ensure your captivity? One friendly touch would break the confinement spell, a mere moment of kindness. Nothing more."

He steps forward, waving your clawed shackles into existence. Then he moves as if to pat your head or caress your face - but instead pulls at your hair, whipping your head back, and sneers.

"How lucky for both of us you will never find such a thing here. There is not the slimmest hope of reprieve, not for you."

And for a hundred years, he is right.

The Moonmaiden will never allow us to bear a burden we cannot carry.

The burning flare of indignant rage sours somewhere deep in your belly along the way. You are not of Ilmater's stock, made for the rack, proud to endure all pain, indignities, and abuse, for oh, good things would come to those who waited! With idle waiting you were long done. There was no glory to be found in suffering. No, you were made to be a beacon soaring through the sky, driving away shadows and fear and doubt, illuminating with the stark, silver light of your Mother's truth all the myriad lies your foes so loved to wield.

What have they done to you? When it might be easier to ask what haven't they, over the months, years, decades, uncountable. Tongue, eyes, wings, heart. Yours to lose, all of it, when it was never theirs to take. And then, darker still - what use it all, when your heart's love had gone already? Isobel, most cherished of all, taken so suddenly and cruelly - you always knew you were going to be painfully parted, for your nature made that an inevitability. But not so soon. Not cut so short so abruptly, when she had so much still to give, and do, and be. When you were supposed to watch her grow old and say goodbye slowly and gradually with every precious day.

You try to fill the hours between deaths with something kinder: memories of her gentle smile, her soft touch, her grace and her wit and her light. But all you can picture here among the accursed shadows is the beautiful, heartrending serenity of her laid on her bier, awaiting her final rites.

Your own words to Ketheric resound in your mind. "Dear Isobel," you whispered, reverently, words you now know fell on deaf ears, "in my Mother's care at the Gates of the Moon, no doubt, with noble Melodia by her side. One day you shall be reunited on the silver shores. One day, my mission will be deemed complete, and I will be released from my duty… and I shall be permitted to join you." A tentative, tender smile to the bereaved father, and a hand on his shoulder. Trying to meet the man's grief with your own and perhaps thus relieve both your burdens.

In a kinder world, you could have mourned your mutual loss together. But it wasn't to be. Instead - this. Instead, you, here, caged, tormented, made to carry more than just the hurts visited upon Ketheric's flesh and bone. Though in your mind it seems it has all done little to soothe his own pain, instead merely doubling it and vomiting it back into the world.

Your contemplation is cut short by a sudden agony. This in itself is nothing new - Ah, you think, Ketheric has run afoul of a Harper's blade or a druid's claws again. You know enough from Balthazar's boasting to distract yourself with dreamed-up possibilities, a comfort as meagre and thin as the rags that clothe you. As if you could will his own hurts back onto him.

No, the pain is nothing new. But there is something different about it this time - it feels like it has no end, it does not ebb, and you take such a very, very long time to die. And when you awaken again, the crushing in your chest continues, then stops so abruptly you feel like you can breathe for the first time in years. This was clearly no normal battlefield injury and it makes your entire being burn with hope that, for all the unusual suffering it is foisting upon you, it means that something shifted --

That perhaps, somehow, miraculously, even with leeching off of you, fat and silverblood-gorged, Ketheric failed. Was defeated.

That perhaps your torment is reaching its end, and soon enough some enterprising hero, a fellow Selûnite perhaps, will find themselves guided into your prison to help you pry the bars wide open--

And then, a roar. A quake of the very foundation of your unseen cell so strong it knocks you down, and a surge of darkness and fury greater than anything you've ever seen. An entire storm of shadows, howling, screaming with a thousand enraged voices, ever-wretched Shar's above all, rushing up and up and up and blasting through the black dome that stood for the sky in this abyss.

You dare not think of what this could mean: the Shadowfell pouring out its umbral essence over the world so suddenly and violently.

It is a moment, perhaps, of ultimate weakness - for a precious few seconds you had the nerve to think it might finally be over, but instead… this.

"Hear me, Mother," you rasp out against the ground stained over and over with your own blood, unable even to lift your head and address the words up high, where they belong. "Hark, Moonmaiden Selûne, Your blade is dulled, stolen. Your will delayed, undone. Your daughter… begs for Your aid…"

"I need… I pray… a boon. Bless me with Your help, so that Your bright sword can once again be lifted as an instrument against the darkness. At Your service, as I ever must be, I incur this debt gladly. Let us answer this invasion with all our might."

There is no response to your prayers. Not a glimpse of your Mother's ever-changing face. Not a single droplet of silver moonlight penetrates these shadows, and no other voice reaches your ears.

The thought rises, unbidden: is this what Ketheric meant?

There is no shadowy shroud of Shar that a moonbeam of Selûne cannot pierce. You have staked your entire being on this belief, a thousand times over. And yet not a mote of light reaches you in all your years of captivity, and you, curse you, you wonder. The swirling shadows whisper and tickle your mind and your very soul and you despise this intrusion but--

If she can, and yet she does not - does that mean she does not want to? Does not care to?

Among the wild shadowy storms and the gusting winds and lashing lightning, the silence is deafening. When you repeat your prayer, a year later, then a decade, there is still no answer.

An incredible loneliness stretches before you, a nothingness so profound and so very, very long you think you might even miss Balthazar's rancid presence.

And then, a sudden crushing in your chest again, and an agony exploding behind your eyes. Mercifully brief, as far as these things have gone before, but igniting such unspeakable anguish in you that you bellow and pound your fists against the ground until they are raw and bloody. For you know this can only mean one thing: the cycle is starting anew after all this time, and what you took for Ketheric's defeat had somehow only been a temporary setback.

As Your starglow soothes and bolsters, so we promise to aid our fellow faithful, and guide those whose path is not yet clear.

You've flown over these lands countless times, but now, as you rush forward to your long-promised reckoning, you might as well be flying over one of the hells. The ruin and desolation drains away even the heady rush of newfound freedom, the sheer relief of feeling the wind on your wings once again.

It is hard to reconcile the shadow-swollen horrors below you with the magnificence of Moonrise Towers as you once knew them, striking pillars of faith without question. Reithwin itself and the land entire have changed, twisted, in the end but a mirror to the devotion of their ruling family.

There is nothing here of what you remember, nothing left of the simple, blessed life you got but a taste of, not even an echo to be found of all that you once came to treasure alongside your beloved. Fields and orchards you helped work; vineyards you helped bless; fine, silver-wrought fountains you helped make ever-pure, all in your role as your Mother's emissary.

Ketheric Thorm, now False twice over, in whose throne room you stood in audience, promising your fealty and your aid, as recognition for his family's long list of deeds in Selûne's name.

And Isobel, his daughter, still fairly young for one of half-elven descent, but an accomplished cleric in her own right. Her mother's daughter through and through.

The first in Reithwin to stop being star-struck when faced with you, made of far sterner stuff than she might have at first seemed, and insisting on meeting you as an equal. Wise, caring, and skilled. And achingly beautiful, with a soft face and rosy cheeks meant to be bathed in the gentlest of moonlight.

It was odd, but meant to be - clearly part of some plan you happened not to be privy to, but had no desire to question.

All love alive under Her light shall know Her blessing.

Isobel, living and breathing before you, is a miracle if you've ever seen one.

Isobel, still hurt, bruised from what you are told was a kidnapping attempt ordered by her own father - you bristle, and bite it down.

"It is nothing," she insists when you belabour the point, and you want to chastise her for never thinking of herself enough, even after a century, always putting her own wellbeing last, knitting everyone else's wounds closed and leaving no salve for her own.

Instead, you take her face between your palms, trace her cheeks with tentative fingers and carefully, carefully tap into the healing magic you've ignored for a hundred years. The face of the Moonmaiden is ever-shifting - the fierce, warlike guise of martial prowess is but one of many in Her exalted repertoire, and so, too, in yours.

Then, in the privacy of the spacious upstairs room granted to Isobel as the haven's pivotal goddess-touched protector, the very embodiment of the Last Light, you do the same for the rest of her.

Her body is warm, though she complains of a coldness she cannot be rid of.

You fall before her, on your knees as if in supplication, as has always felt like the most natural thing in the world. Face buried in the softness of her bare stomach, a dam in you breaks, and you weep for the joy, the relief beyond all hope, of her real and breathing and whole before you.

She leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head, like a benediction, hands running through your hair and cradling you ever so softly until you regain yourself.

"My darling, my angel. I can hardly believe you are here."

In this, she speaks for the both of you, and spurns you to action.

"Then let me banish all doubt," you murmur, trailing kisses all the while, reverent hands on soft thighs. "I would taste of you, my love, if you allow it."

There is a fleeting moment of hesitation that was never there before as her hands and lips still. But then her shiver becomes one of anticipation as she murmurs into your ear. "I welcome it."

It is yours, then, as ever, to do as you are bid.

You wish to touch every inch of her, impress upon her again and again in a thousand kisses the affection and adoration welling within you inexhaustible. You crave to recommit to memory what you once studied and learned like the most fastidious of students. You need in a way you never have before. And she obliges - no, answers, just as eager and driven by your age-long separation, though her experience of it has been so wildly, incomprehensibly different.

The sounds you draw from her (familiar, dearly missed) are like a balm, a private song you were certain you would never hear again.

You hold her as close as is possible, and she returns the favour. Her caress is familiar, warm, healing in ways few things could ever be. After the hundred years of emptiness interspersed with biting, death-inviting pain and foul, crushing hands holding you in place, after unspeakable things visited upon your body, your person, a gentle, loving, careful touch is a treasure unmatched. The sharpness of the contrast makes your throat tighten.

"Isobel," you breathe into her shoulder, neck, and can think of nothing holier to say than her name.

She holds you entire in her gentle hands, heart and soul and body, and whispers fervent vows to never let you go, never allow you to feel hurt and harm again.

Isobel is slight compared to you, small and soft, for your strengths have ever lain in different areas. Treasured and safe in the circle of her arms, in the sanctuary of her embrace, finally, finally, you find rest.

You are back in your circle-cage, face down, limbs leaden.

The bloated corpse-face of Balthazar leers over you and you launch upwards, swipe at him, near-desperate to drive him away before he continues his wretched work. Aching to make him pay for every insult he has dared commit upon your blessed flesh.

Only to find yourself gasping, gulping down cool night air, seated on the bed in the pleasantly twilit room on the upper floor of the Last Light Inn.

You focus for a moment and effortlessly as ever manifest your wings and take stock of yourself. You know you have not escaped unscathed, unchanged, but your strong limbs are still there, as if nothing had ever happened. Shoulders wide and sturdy, downy feathers, wings. Every sleek vane and fine bit of plumage in their place, pearly white-silver and perfect.

Yet any human rosiness that used to reside there is long gone out of your skin, grey like marble, criss-crossed with precious gold. If you look down, there is a severe, pronounced crack lying right above your heart. It makes sense, of course, if you think on it, though you so desperately prefer - try - not to.

And the dream - nightmare - insists on sinking vestigial claws into you, leaving you with a burning, torn sensation between your shoulder blades.

Isobel stirs beside you, and you curse for having woken her from such hard-won and rarely granted serenity. She sits up, sleep-cottoned, and traces gentle fingers down the tensed, trembling part of your back, though you have said nothing. But Isobel, wise, insightful Isobel, always seems to know at least part of what ails you.

"One of the Flaming Fists encamped here... a traitor. Marcus," she speaks somewhat haltingly, cautiously. "We were all struck by his betrayal, but I... when I saw him, when he came for me, when he was sent for me..."

Her eyes meet yours, almost reluctantly.

"He had wings. Hideously warped, blackened, rotten things, but..."

A question is raised, a mirror of one you've asked yourself, during long hours-turned-days of morbid contemplation in your prison.

"Balthazar. He got them from that wretch Balthazar."

"And he got them--" Isobel cuts herself off, fully awake and alert and wincing at the confirmation of her fears.

You swallow, throat parched and burning as if the screams from then still scrape against it. Harvesting, he called it.

"He got them from me."

It is simply not something to be thought about. The bile of wrath rises, crawls up your throat instead, and you spit out words almost in a growl.

"He has been dispatched, I trust? The traitor?"

Isobel understands.

"He has, of course," she rushes to reassure. "Jaheira and the Harpers made quick work of him and the horrible creatures he called to his aid."

You hum, move to sit back against the headboard, then change your mind as soon as it touches your skin. "It seems I have much to thank High Harper Jaheira."

Your hand is still tightened into a fist in the coverlet, and Isobel reaches over, pries it open, to hold it ever so gently between both of her palms.

"We both do. We'll see them all come morning, exchange tales over breakfast. Outside, perhaps, in the sun, at long last." Her smile is as bright as this promised dawn, but there is a note of silver-filigree steel behind it. "We can thank her then. Make sure she knows she can count on us through whatever is to come."

She reaches over to cradle your chin, tugging you down, and kisses you softly. "Let us get some more rest, my love."

The both of you slip back under the moth-eaten but soft covers and she burrows insistently into your side, under one wing. You lie - and, blessedly, sleep - on your stomach, Isobel's arm thrown over your lower back in that perfect balance she is mastering of being reassuring while not calling too much to mind.

When we are beset with shadows, You mend our hearts with the silver thread of Your radiant loom.

You let Isobel braid your hair, one idle evening in camp. You can sense she is just as starved for simple contact as you are - her hands seem restless, even more so than usual, and flit over your back, shoulders, arms... so you let her occupy them, as she perches in your lap and peppers you with kisses, and speaks not a single word.

There is no mirror at hand to see her handiwork when she is done, but she looks pleased with herself, and with you, and you feel like this should be... enough.

But another memory stirs and inches through, of the times you knelt, crouched, sat in that glowing circle that your world had seemed shrunken to, and, for want of anything to do with your hands (now past punching, past clawing for the freedom that was out of their reach) you set to braiding your hair, as if preparing to don a helmet and march off to glorious combat. It was something to do, and pretend.

You undo the braids as soon as Isobel falls asleep.

The city, that meeting point of fates, draws ever nearer.

Isobel's cough comes and goes. Nothing as bad as the fits that sometimes awoke her while you were still in the cursed lands, but it persists, frustratingly.

"Isobel, I--" you barely get to begin to voice your concern before she brushes you away.

"Please, it's nothing. Don't worry about me, dearest."

"I find I cannot," you state simply, as it is a very simple truth.

"I- I don't want to burden you. You've enough on your plate as it is." She gives a small smile so forced you almost feel insulted. "It'll pass, I'm sure."

"Burden…? Isobel," a mess of words past her cherished name stick in your mouth, awkward, nigh indignant, and you take a moment to calm and order them. Simple and earnest is what you settle for, in the end. "Isobel, my love… You are first in my thoughts, always, you know this. I would gladly bear all your burdens if I but could, if you were to allow it - each and every one."

She frowns, shakes her head, and you hate that you seem to have somehow displeased her. "That's just it, isn't it? I don't want you to. I don't need you to. You've born more than anyone's fair share."

"Ah, but Dame Aylin is hardly anyone, is she?"

You aim your most winning, blinding white grin at her, but fail to induce the reaction you were once used to getting on a whim. No blush or giggle hidden behind a dainty palm at your deliberately overtuned charm being pointed at her, no smirk and tease in return.

No, Isobel is subdued, troubled, and, most vexing of all, everything you say seems to only serve to make it worse.

There is something new behind her eyes, too, those beautiful, wise eyes that won your heart entire the first time you met them. A darkness, you would dare call it, a shadow not unlike the curse once fallen upon the land. A question, a yearning for some understanding that never seems to come, a futile grasp for something in an emptiness that was not there before.

"Please, my love," you say with the utmost tenderness, reserved for Isobel alone, "do not hide your heart from me. You know I cherish it as if it were mine own."

"I haven't felt… myself," she haltingly begins in answer to your plea, as you step forward and encircle her, first in the embrace of your arms, then in the shelter of your wings. A treasured sanctuary saved for the two of you alone.

"I cannot… the death, it clings, I..."

She buries her face in your chest as she struggles to pick out words one by one, plucking them out like painful thorns. You let her rest tucked under your chin, restrain yourself to quietly running one gentle, slow hand through her hair.

"I am afraid," she settles on, finally, almost a whisper, hiding still, refusing to look at you. "I am afraid there is no fixing this wrongness I feel day after day, that's been… in me, over me, ever since I awoke. That something has been taken from me, and now there is no way to remove this vile mark that's been left on me instead, whatever it is. Not even by the grace of the Moonmaiden."

She shivers, and you tighten your hold on her, even as the sentence after that tears into your very heart, sharper and more jagged than any Sharran knife.

"I am afraid, most of all, that no matter how much I pray or plead, that whatever I do to try and prove myself worthy, I… cannot be. Ever again. I will never be worthy of Her light again. Or of yours."

"No," it comes out far rougher, angrier than you ever intended, ever wanted to aim anywhere near precious, beloved Isobel - not at her, never at her. But she is wrong, because it is an impossibility, unthinkable, ridiculous to even suggest. Her, treasured, cherished, held high above all in your regard, and lofty in your Mother's.

"Please, Isobel," you move a half-step back, if only to make it possible to cup her face, tilt her chin up and look at her. "Do not ever, ever think such a thing again. You could never be unworthy, not you. Not you."

The hitch is back in her laboured breath as she moves to protest, the haunted look shadowing her eyes. "How? How can you be so sure?"

And that is the question, isn't it? Your love for Isobel and faith in her intertwined, utterly certain and utterly relentless. Like the rage that sustained you through a century of torment, settled heavy and deep in your bones. You don't know any other way to feel, to be.

"I will prove it to you, I will drive away any shadow of any doubt. Her light, through me. For you alone, Isobel."

She acquiesces, at least, to being led over to the bed and sitting down. You lower the shoulders of her tunic. Place a gentle, reverent kiss on the revealed skin, trying to press in with it all the love and devotion you desperately need her to be aware of.

You lay a hand on her bare back, palm flat and flush with warm skin. The rush of joy and slight disbelief that she is once again yours to touch is still fresh, and yet the familiarity of every freckle, shift of shoulder blade, and light shiver of gooseflesh is ancient and deep and right. From the outside it is the same, perfect, unchanged Isobel. But you believe her unquestioningly when she says something is wrong.

A mere moment of focus has a silvery glow bathing the room, unwinding from underneath your fingertips and sinking into Isobel's back. She breathes in deeply, breathes out, then in again, shifting under your touch, until she seems to find at least some relief.

"Thank you, that's…" she murmurs, barely above a breath.

There is a dawning, deeply saddening comprehension rising in you - Isobel, insisting on pouring all her heart and soul into taking care of you, healing and protecting and doting on so devotedly, driven not just by your love most mutual, but also by fear. By a desperate need to prove herself worthy of Selûne's grace again, prove her return to life was not a horrifying mistake. Chasing redemption where none was ever needed, not for her, clinging to the thought like a lifeline.

"Whenever, whatever you need of me, however many times." You allow your fervour to seep into your voice as you feel your eyes burn, and continue trailing moonlight-dipped fingers down her back. "If you but say the word, I will provide what relief I can, I swear it, until you are free of any shadows haunting you, or until there is no light left in me - whichever deigns to come first."

Isobel smiles wryly, turning to steal a glance at you over her shoulder, a tiredness in her that she has only ever shown you alone. "I promised I would take care of you. And yet here you are, taking care of me. After… after everything."

She knows enough not to specify. Even this brief almost-mention is enough to make a darkness creep at the edge of your thoughts, but you swallow it back hastily, and focus only on the treasured countenance before you, on brushing stray silver locks behind her ear with your free hand.

"A fair and just exchange, I would think, if you are amenable."

Isobel hums something that is neither agreement nor disagreement, then turns to face you fully, sombre in the circle of your arms.

"I always thought that when the time came, I would be ready," she begins, slowly, as if every word was a trial. "Foolish and naive of me, probably. But I thought I knew what to expect, what I would have awaiting me, after a life of service. The City of Judgement, as awaits us all, and then, hopefully, and - I pray - deservedly, an audience in Argentil after being Claimed."

She stops, swallows, looks at you so pleadingly you cannot help but pull her back into your embrace.

"But instead…" you hold her tighter as she shudders, "...nothing. Darkness. A void."

Nothing. Like the black hole of your prison. And it seems fitting, for a moment, that fate has decided to match you in this, too.

"It is I who failed you. When it truly mattered, when it was of most consequence, I wasn't there. And you… you were lost to me. To us."

A small frown furrows her brow as she grasps around for something, anything. "I don't remember."

"Perhaps… perhaps that is for the best," you exhale, half-sick of dredging up shadows you would prefer remain buried. "My own memory is prodigious, and yet how I wish I could forget much of the past century."

But Isobel looks at you longingly, searchingly, and you oblige, at least for a little bit, calling to mind what should have been the darkest days of your long life. "For all our efforts, we were never able to capture your attackers - the cowards struck so suddenly, fled so swiftly. You were laid in state, for a while. The entirety of Reithwin mourned - the Silverbrow Priestess conducted the funeral services most beautifully. The very Moon, full to bursting, cried over it. And your father…"

Your throat seizes up. Her father, your tormentor. A wretched man you feel the two of you have to speak of, some day. The man who gave the world Isobel twice over, but selfishly, impossibly, wanted to keep her all to himself both times.

Her countenance grows steely and determined in a way you have yet to get used to. "My father was lost to me far before he died at your hand. I mourn the man I remember, not the monster you killed. A loving, kind, generous man, who should never have been capable of such horrors as Ketheric brought down upon my home, upon you. And yet... if I was all that was keeping him from such a fall, I cannot help but think--"

Isobel's voice cracks and you wonder when, in your absence-captivity, he stopped being Papa and became Ketheric. Your anger towards him tastes bitterer still.

And you think of Isobel, fleeing her own grave and the twisted visage of what was once her beloved father. Dragging her own burial shroud across a land of shadow and horror, full of echoes of a life half-remembered.

Isobel, alone, convinced of your demise, mourning you as you endlessly mourned her, both of you unknowing.

Isobel, left to desperately and single-handedly guard the only meagre surviving pocket of her childhood home, doomed and destroyed by her father's violent, misaimed grief over her own death. A pillar of light in an all-encompassing darkness and one final, crucial defence against it, without even a fair promise of hope or future to sustain her.

It sounds, at first, like a noble task you would think worthy of a cleric of Isobel's most excellent calibre. But you can't help but think it a test of devotion far too harsh, and entirely superfluous. Such incredible weight to place on any one person's shoulders. And for what?

Needed and necessary she once called herself and her efforts when you asked, insisting on dismissing it all in a way you perhaps understand entirely too well.

Perhaps, together... you, hollowed, and her, overflowing. And, in turn, her aching for something that is missing and you fit to burst with wrath and vengeance and violence. Perhaps there is hope yet, and healing to be found for both.

Together. Only ever together.

We trust in Your radiance, Moonmaiden, even when it is out of our sight.

The battle you were waiting for is over - won, by most reckonings, but not without great cost. What is left of the city now needs care and careful restoration. There are still stray cultist enclaves to root out, remnants of the illithid army, as well as mere opportunists who always show their vile selves in such circumstances. As part of an array of unexpected, colourful allies, you make short work of them all, whenever any come to light.

But rebuilding takes precedence, as does healing, and Isobel has taken point among Selûne's devoted in a way that is nothing short of awe-inspiring. The situation seems altogether more suited to her talents rather than yours at the moment, so you follow her readily, without question, and provide whatever aid you can.

It is a cycle as old as time, after all, as reliable as the phases of the Moon. Building, destruction, rebuilding - the world will always need both of you.

But tonight is the night of a full Moon, and Isobel has gone to conduct the requisite rituals with the rest of the Selûnite encampment that has been so welcoming to you. Isobel, death-touched but untainted, no matter what she may fear, will excel in whatever role they set out for her, of this you are certain.

You, on the other hand, have begged off, your own communion awaiting you elsewhere.

Your path leads you away from the outskirts of the city and up into the hills, your back turned on the Chionthar. Through remnants of farms and hunting lodges, up and up to cliff and brush and down again to sparse woodland, your steps are guided, as is your birthright.

It is becoming easier to hear Her voice once again. She does not always speak in words, but Her presence She makes felt.

And so you stop in a clearing, before a pond, crystal clear and fed by a jolly, clamouring stream. It is quiet, otherwise. Peaceful.

You dismiss your armour, letting it dissipate into motes of moonlight. You remember with a touch of warmth and immense fondness how sweetly Isobel would pout whenever she did not get to take it off you piece by piece.

The air is crisp and the water, once you touch it, is almost icy. The moonlight on your skin cleanses and soothes, combining with the chilly water into a refreshing blessing. It is the sensations of the world that you so dearly missed during your captivity, that you now allow to rush over you, all at once.

It is the first time in over a hundred years you stand and behold the full silver face of your Mother, the trail of Her Tears beside Her, and wonder, idly, if She shed any for you.

Please, you beg as you step into the pool, without shame, without words. A kinder fate for Isobel, this time.

A kinder fate for the land she still calls home.

A kinder fate for me.

The cool silver water seeps into every crevice of your being and washes away with it some ichor of darkness you didn't even know still clung to you. You lie back and let yourself float, the rush of water in your ears drowning out even the small nighttime noises of the clearing and surrounding woods. In the soft waves you hear your Mother's voice, and She sounds kind, inviting, forgiving.

Why, you want to ask, why would you allow…

There is new dampness on your cheeks, and you realise haltingly that it is tears. "Hello, Mother."

The light of the Moon is caring and compassionate, and bathes you in love. It is the only embrace She has ever been able to give you, here. It is almost enough to forget a century of sorrow and the cries that went unheard.

No more, She says.

Rest, the murmur continues, soft and sad - a familiar melancholy, though not one you would expect during a Moon so full and bright. Earned, a hundred times over. My Sword, tempered to perfection. My Daughter, put through trials undeserved. Lost to me for so long. You are welcome here. Safe. I would have you know peace once more.

"Not… not yet. There are still too many, I cannot--" You sit up, rivulets of water running down your face, following the crevices of your scars. It is unlike you to struggle so with your words. You proclaim and vow, you do not stammer and hesitate.

What would you have for yourself, then, daughter mine?

"I would seek and extinguish the tyrants, the oppressors," your hands tighten into determined fists as you channel and reflect all that has been done to you, aglow with silver, wings unfurled. "Those who would bind, capture, enslave, who would subjugate and rule another for their own gain - let them sleep with one eye open. Let them know: Dame Aylin sees their deeds and offers no mercy."

Your cause is righteous, and I bless it as my own. But a burden should be shared. And you are not the only champion at my call.

It is true, of course, and you grasp the intent, but you cannot help but bristle. You may not be the only one, but surely you are the most--

--fearsome? Reliable? Accomplished?

Doubt creeps in, that most rare and hated of sensations. There is a shift, then, into a plea for you to understand, from a mother to her child.

A broken sword can accomplish little. And even the finest steel has a breaking point. Do not too eagerly seek your own.

You sink back into the pool, water up to your chin, as if bowing in acceptance.

If you crave a task, I task you: offer aid in healing and rebuilding, and thus rebuild yourself. Worry not - I will call upon you when the time comes. But for now, shore up the bulwark within you.

A smile, a tender grace.

And let each and all know yours is a blessed union.

The last fading words leave you puzzled for a few moonlit moments. And then Isobel is next to you, bare and glowing and embracing you, holding you to herself as if she will never let go.

"Isobel," you start, a host of questions forming on your tongue, but she places a finger over your lips.

"Guided back to you, as you were to me. As I promise I will be, for as long as I can."

A shiver runs through you at the undercurrent of steel and sheer devotion in her sweet voice.

"Then I vow I will never let myself be torn from your side again. And any who seek to part us will meet a swift end by my hand."

You spoke such promises to each other once already, what feels like a lifetime ago, even though it should by rights have been nothing compared to your eternal years. It is a heavy lesson to have learned so well in breaking them, though - that no tomorrow can ever be guaranteed. Not even for you.

Not near as tide- and cycle-bound, the Scribe had said, and you wonder at the recalled words. No endless rise and fall for you, then, perhaps. No waxing and waning. No rote repetition of tragic history in this world changed and strange, but instead something altogether new, hewn by the two of you.

Isobel takes your face between both her hands and kisses you, putting a swift end to your reverie.

In response, you pick her up out of the water, twirl her around, splash the both of you back down happily. Your smile turns into a grin, then a laugh, open and simple, and her giggle is crystal-bright and utterly free of the grasp of the grave. You feel lighter than the feathers you leave behind like a snowy trail.

You hold her and kiss her again and again and again and allow yourself to lose track of time.

#baldur's gate 3 #dame aylin #isobel thorm #aylin x isobel #bg3 #fanfiction #bg3 spoilers #oathkeeper writes things #my fic #i love them and wish them all the succor in the world #cross-posted on ao3 if you prefer to read there #poor unprepared me starting the game salty that they didn't let me play my aasimar paladin staple

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vasiktomis · 2 years

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Four-Letter-Words (18+)

Banner art by @minilev - thank you so so much for all the inspiration! please check out and support their works!

Pairing: Travis Hackett/F!Reader (No use of y/n). Rating: Explicit (Minors do NOT interact). Word Count: ~11000 Warnings: Needless plot to justify what occurs. Priest kink. Abuse of power/authority. Depictions of unsafe sex. Read it on Ao3 Here! | Support me on ko-fi

Tags: Catholic guilt, Unreliable Narrator, Pining, Light Angst, Bickering, Abuse of Authority, Premature Ejaculation, Cunnilingus, Church Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Cops aren't allowed to top, Not even when they're in priest au, Loss of Virginity, Unsafe Sex, Improper Use of Catholic Rituals.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Over the course of his career, Pastor Hackett has gone to great lengths not to pass judgement on the people around him.

It hasn't always been an easy feat; in fact, he’s pretty sure one of the Lord’s favourite ways of testing him are with temptations of hatred. From the threatening bitterness of a life devoted early-on to his position in the church, to the present diminishing town and parish over the years — to the curse his niece and nephew had inadvertently unleashed onto the town — just to add further threat to their already-struggling community. There's no shortage of ammunition to keep his constitution on its toes, but he sure does his best to carry it all with at least a little poise. Everyone has their problems, he tells himself. It is what it is. It'd be pure arrogance to say God gives his hardest battles to his strongest soldiers, so the furthest Travis ventures is: at least the man upstairs made damn sure the Hacketts knew how to hunt before bringing a werewolf into their lives.

He’s done his best to be a humble man. Haughtiness came as naturally to him as it did the rest of his family, but Travis was willing to lean into the pride of having risen above it. There was no hating those altruistic kids for trying to do good for another soul, regardless of what it cost them all. Regardless of the days Travis closed the church doors early to dedicate to sleepless nights of hunting for the kid who'd cursed Caleb, who'd then passed it on to Kaylee and Chris — of bearing the failure and guilt of returning to his congregation, ignorant to the danger they were in. There was no hating the circumstance of a failing economy and the looming reality that North Kill parish might soon have to close its doors for good. One day, all that might be left of the county he'd devoted himself to are the bones of those they'd failed to save. The too-inquisitive tourists that posed too much of a risk for Ma and Pa to ignore (and he's thankful — so thankful — that his family haven't had to dispose of any churchgoers in the same fashion).

Travis had chosen this life. It’s impossible to hate the tests he willingly endured; and that's all it is.

Just a test.

You, on the other hand –

You’re difficult not to hate.

Especially during times like this.

He’s already forgotten the name and face of the last parishioner once they’ve taken their leave and you’re undoubtedly next in line. He’s known your position since the liturgy began; since the congregation lined themselves up to take part in mass and he was almost sure he’d find you remaining in your seat. Ever since you stood up, he’s been counting down how many times he’d have to run through the routine until you were the one across from him, and oh, he does not like that.

Travis busies himself with shuffling through wafers (not exactly Covid-safe, but neither are the billions of germs that have been breathed all over his hands) before either of you can make eye contact. In his periphery, you kneel — a show of devotion — and his skin crawls. Yeah, okay, alright, he might actually hate you. How scarce you've made yourself in the church lately. How lax you’ve become with your faith; and yet, here you are. Pretending otherwise.

Officially, you’re not doing much wrong. Not everyone can devote their whole lives to the church. That’s for people like him. Despite the growing infrequency of your presence, you’re still making an effort, and according to the church, this should be enough.

Not to Travis, it isn’t.

Something curdles in him at the sight of you settled before him once he’s turned around. Your gaze meets his, and he can just about swear he sees through you. Were it not for the implications, he’d call it disloyalty. Week after week, your randomised attendance flags total, impending disappearance.

One skipped sermon, and he’s scanning the pews for someone who knows you, who can tell him you might be ill today.

Travis makes an effort not to roll his jaw when he presents the wafer to you. Time slows as his pulse quickens. It feels like his blood is simmering.

Two, and the skin on his neck prickles for the entirety of the service. His words sharpen while he reads to the congregation, halfway caught between acting as an indiscriminate messenger of God and wondering ‘where are you, why haven’t you shown up, why do you keep doing this to him?’.

“Body of Christ.” He grits.

Three weeks, and he’s at least left with some sense of clarity that you might not come back. There’s an ache that comes with that thought, but he can at least convince himself to deem it liberating. Without the thought of you — without your presence — he doesn’t feel like he’s betraying his own vows. He can carry on simply mourning the loss of you with his faith intact. He can convince himself that his concerns stem only from an inability to provide spiritual guidance and not from however much time he spends staring into empty space, projecting lewd images of you because no it’s not like that, it’s not, it’s not like that–

…

Then, you’ll show up again, and it’ll all fall apart.

Your mouth opens, and Travis is certain he hates you.

“Amen.”

Liar.

You’ll come back to him without any explanation of where you’ve been. Seat yourself at the back of the room during a sermon, or place yourself in the centre of a group when he’d otherwise have the ability to speak with you one-on-one.

The only time he gets with you alone is the few seconds of communion with an entire room of people watching, all too conscious of the extra milliseconds he could favour you with by accident and cause some observant member of the congregation to wisen up to how badly he wants to be alone with you like this.

Travis’s thumb grazes an incisor, and the shiver that creeps through him is alert enough that he needs to wrap this up quickly. For a millisecond, he can feel the resistance of muscle as he presses the wafer to your tongue — and then he draws away, sharply casting his gaze over your shoulder to call for the next parishioner and have you ushered the hell away from him.

You stand and return to your seat so promptly that he nearly forgets to recite for the next-in-line, ignorant to the thoughts he is desperate to escape.

Yeah, Travis decides. He hates you. Especially during times like this.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Travis takes it upon himself to find his way to you after the service.

The sun is closing in on its midday peak and whatever frost had gathered on the lawn overnight has melted into a dewy shine he just knows he’s going to hate scrubbing out of his shoes later. The anxiety tightening in his chest is a regular occurrence, despite the cheery weather; Travis has never been a sociable man, and holding conversation with the congregation is more challenging than reciting to a silent crowd.

Today, the feeling is amplified.

An aborted effort is afforded to the usual suspect: social anxiety toward parishioners after a sleepless night on the hunt. His nerves aren’t as steeled as they could be, were he more rested. Crossing the lot, however — peering over and around groups of chatting attendees, he abandons the attempt to convince himself otherwise. He’s anxious to find you. To speak with you. To get some clarity on what’s happening, and managing to do all that without you figuring out the real depths of his investment in your business.

It might be better if you felt the same. It might be worse. He’d never know. It’s too intimate a topic to broach under the guise of a concerned priest. What he can confront you about, however, is why the hell you’ve been skipping attendance — and he fully intends to.

For your sake, he tells himself. Your sake, and his own.

You’ve stayed to socialise today. Of course, other members of the congregation have noticed your absences and take it upon themselves to do Travis’s job for him. Reason tells him they approach you from an altruistic place. Something more visceral calls it nosiness. An obstacle of dwindling time and the risk of scaring you away. Nevertheless, their conversations stagger your departure, and watching you get passed around from group to group to get brought up to speed on community goings-on, Travis can hold onto enough patience to uphold his own interactions.

One exchange at a time, he gravitates closer to wherever you wind up. It’s not ideal, but it looks a whole lot better than bee-lining across the lawn and demanding a private audience.

Finally, he’s invited into your conversation. A local couple who met through the church have you cornered at a picnic table, and he’s certain there’s a seize in your shoulders when they wave him over. A nervous, if pointed, smile lasts a fraction of a second — this one directed at him — and it isn’t until the couple resumes talking that he realises it had been a warning not to approach.

“Pastor.” He’s greeted. “We were just talking about our honeymoon. Did we tell you we went to Disneyland?”

Oh.

Travis comes to a skidding halt on the lawn.

Oh, no.

He devotes a moment to weighing up whether this is worth it, but the vacancy next to you beckons more than the hell promised by taking part in this conversation. “Okay. Yeah. Uh, Great. What about it?” He prompts, resuming his approach.

You lurch in your seat when Travis sits down beside you. “I’ll let you get the Pastor caught-up-”

“It’s fine.” The wife cuts in, and were her tone not hard enough to intimidate you into staying, Travis imagined she might have pinned you down with her bare hands if you’d attempted to leave. “It won’t take long. Honey, start at the beginning.”

Joining might have been a mistake. The next 20-odd minutes is a tag-teamed, bragging walk-through of what sounds like a living nightmare. It’s impossible to get a word in. He might have been pleased to have you trapped here with him, were it not for the aggressive display of eye contact that would have either member of the couple suddenly launching themselves across the table to grab at his attention every time he glances your way.

All either of you can do is nod through the experience while the crowd dwindles and the parking lot empties. There’s no way the lovebirds haven’t run through every activity two people in their early 30s can take part in at a children’s theme park. They have to be done soon. They have to be.

There’s a momentary lull. Finally. They’ve exhausted themselves.

Then:

“Oh, but how would you rank them, honey-”

“Maybe you can tell us all about it next week.” Travis grunts. “I’ve already taken up half your day.”

“It’s only lunchtime, Father.”

“Yeah, well I’m sure you’re both busy-”

“Not really. Anyway-”

“Actually,” You interject, earning a venomous look from the couple, “I was hoping to speak to Pastor Hackett before I leave.”

“Then I’m sure you’re happy to wait your turn.”

“There’s always next month, if you can be bothered.”

The two almost descend into giggles before it’s clear that Travis isn’t laughing along. In fact, the jab at you has him rolling his jaw in irritation.

“Enjoy your day.” Travis bids firmly, rising from his seat and doing his absolute best to clamber out of the picnic table without tripping. “God be with you both.” He gestures for you to follow, lingering a moment to watch you attempt the same.

You catch up once he’s rounding the side of the church, slowing to a stop along the path to the parsonage out back. You’ve probably seen it a thousand times, but standing here now — he’s suddenly very aware of how unimpressive his home looks. The garden hasn’t been maintained in years, and the little park bench wedged between the weeds and the outer wall of the church looks like it’s about to collapse.

No matter where he looks, there’s at least some reminder that his private life is in shambles.

Nevertheless, Travis opts to play it cool. That starts with jamming his hands into his pockets.

“What’s up?” He asks, like he hasn’t been waiting half an hour to approach you.

“That’s…heresy, right?” You jab a thumb over your shoulder, “The whole…Disney marriage thing.”

“More like idolatry.” He shrugs. “Not doin’ any harm.”

You tilt your head. Incredulous. “You mean that?”

“Nope.”

“That was hell, right?”

“Yep.”

There’s a pause. Then it’s clear you’re not going to fill the silence.

Travis bites the bullet. “You gonna talk to me about–”

“Hm?" The smile is slow to reach your eyes. "Oh, that was just a diversion. I’ll head out in a m-”

“Yeah, nice try.” He grumbles, crossing in front of you to seat himself on the pitiful little bench. An expectant look is thrown your way, and with a reluctant slouch, you comply.

It’s hard not to let his glee at keeping you here become too apparent. The corners of his mouth keep tugging.

He’s finally got you alone.

You avoid his gaze altogether, already fidgeting with your knuckles. “So you noticed I haven’t been here as often.”

“As often?” Travis raises his eyebrows. “A skipped week or two, I notice. You’re AWOL most of the month lately.”

With each word, you shrink more and more. Ashamed, maybe. Part of him wants you to be — to guilt you into returning.

Duty demands a softer approach.

He breaks away to look out across the property, alleviating the pressure of his scrutiny. “What gives?”

“I’ll try to be here more.”

“That’s not what I wanna hear. I wanna know what’s causing you to flake out.”

Another pause. He lets this one sit a little longer.

“Are you alright-?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You sigh. “It’s weird to talk about. I don’t know how to word it.”

There’s no way he’s letting you get away so easily. He has to know. Just as much as you need guidance, he needs closure. Another month of wondering when he’ll see you next is a possibility he can’t stand to think about anymore.

Incisors tap together while he considers his options. It must be more audible than he thinks, because you’re watching him now.

“How long’s it been since your last confession?” Travis, trying not to pay your attention any mind.

“People still do that?”

“Once a year, tops.”

“Ouch.”

“But you never know when someone’s gonna need it.” He defends.

“Between three and five on Wednesdays?"

Travis has no choice but to risk it with a long-suffering look. You're grinning back at him, and he has to fight to keep his throat from closing up. It helps, he reminds himself, to hate you during these moments.

It makes it easier to function.

"What, do you just like — wait in silence for hours?” You prod, and its with no absence of effort that he's able to respond sternly.

“Don’t be a smartass, alright. Just take it into account.”

”Okay. Thanks.”

Then, you're avoiding his eye again, and oh — does he hate how badly he wants your scrutiny now that it’s gone.

He hates you.

He hates how there's no arguing what this is.

Travis cranes his head to catch your gaze. “So am I gonna see you there?” He presses. “Wednesday?”

There’s no more protest in you. Just exhaustion. You offer a defeated smile. “Fine.”

Satisfied with your response, Travis settles back against the bench. “It’s a date.” He declares his victory, at least before he runs back through that phrase and his stomach performs a backflip. “But not really. It’s not a — you’ll be talking to God, not me.”

Phew. Crisis averted.

The panic doesn’t entirely dissipate with his clarification, though. Now he has something to anticipate. To look forward to. A few days more, and he’d at least have you back here again. Until then, he’d be doomed to pouring over whatever it is that you find too difficult to share with him. Anticipating the worst isn’t something he wants to have to do. He’d rather focus on having whatever resource he could throw at you to remedy the problem. If he can't do that, then at least — in the end — he'd be able to hate you for leaving.

He’d said his piece. The ball’s in your court, now.

In the meantime, he can at least appreciate your silent company.

…

“So do you have your little afternoon snack in there or what-”

“Get out.”

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Wednesday, 4:43PM.

A drained Fruit Punch Capri Sun sits beside an anxiously tapping heel, curled vaguely on the hardwood floor like a dead bug.

As usual, Travis is here alone.

He feels stupid for the lingering anticipation of your arrival despite the passing minutes.

He checks his watch. 4:43PM. Still 17 minutes remaining. That’s still 3 confessions worth, time-wise.

It’s just a normal afternoon.

4:44PM. Nevermind. He feels like he’s choking. He feels stood-up. He shouldn't have held out hope.

This isn't fair. This isn't right. He shouldn't be waiting on you like this. He should've given up 3 whole entire minutes ago.

He should be closing up. Walking home. Stopping off at his parents' to linger for supper lest he have to make the drive for yet another pre-cooked grocery store rotisserie chicken and dinner rolls. Travis had always been partial to the combo, but in recent months, Chris had begun to refer to his weeknight meal as 'The Bachelor Supreme', and despite his loyalty to the cuisine, the Pastor can't help but hear his little brother's taunts in the back of his mind now whenever he's staring down those sweating plastic bags, dissociating in the aisle-

The creak of the front door beckons Travis back to reality.

“Pastor Hackett?”

Your voice. Your footsteps, careful not to echo as you draw near.

You showed up. You showed up and his throat is suddenly parched.

In lieu of responding, Travis takes a deep breath — and holds. Anything to slow the spike in his heart rate and the beginnings of chattering teeth. He has to calm the chorus in the back of his brain singing its victory that you showed up, you actually showed up. It’s just a normal afternoon. A much-needed confession. Not anything more. It can’t be. He won’t allow it to be.

He’s just grateful to have the opportunity to provide the guidance you’ve clearly been needing. To be the leader you need him to be without the interruptions of the flock, alone, where he doesn’t have to throw his voice across the room to ensure you can hear him. Inches away from you. Silence highlighting the rhythm of the breath passing over your lips, your lips, your lips –

The knock on the opposite side of the booth jolts the priest almost entirely out of his seat.

“It’s open.” His throat catches on the last syllable, and any hope he had of playing it cool goes up in smoke.

“Can hear your foot tapping from the other side of the building.” You remark on your way in. “Thought you should know.”

He huffs at that. “What, are you seeking atonement for being a busybody?”

“No, it’s just super annoying.”

“Run through the damn routine, already.” Travis grumbles. “And you know what — make sure you start with insolence.”

There’s a shuffle as you get comfortable in the booth. “Uh, forgive me Father. It’s been…a while since my last confession.”

“Have you been reflecting outside the church? Couldn't help but notice you barged right on in.”

“I would have, Father, but a local priest was making too much noise for me to concentrate-”

”Seriously?” Travis can’t help but swivel to shoot you a glare. You’re already meeting his gaze with such delight that he immediately looks elsewhere, lest it be contagious.

“Yes, I’ve been reflecting outside the church.”

He lets the moment sober. “Go ahead.”

“I’ve…”

Travis waits a good few seconds in your apprehension. Then: “been–”

“Been–”

“Insolent–”

“Dude, come on.”

Travis shakes his head, refusing to feed your attitude. “Nope. Say it.”

“...Insolent–”

“Toward a spiritual leader–”

“Therefore questioning the Lord’s word and taking his concern in bad faith.”

A sigh escapes you, and the sound drifts over his ears like silk. “I was rude to my priest, and I hurt his feelings, and I’m sorry.”

My priest. My priest. My priest.

Travis settles in his seat. “Confession is for mortal sins. But your priest appreciates your apology.”

“Dick.”

“Language.” He shoots back, sternly. “Continue.”

There’s a pause on your end. He resists the urge to turn and study you through the latticed screen.

“I’ve been deliberately avoiding church.” You mutter. “I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right when I’m here.”

“Are you struggling with your faith?”

“Yes.”

“Did something happen with someone in the congregation?”

“No, it’s more…I dunno.”

“Go on.”

“I’ve had thoughts lately that — honestly make it hard to think of practising as a good thing. The more I try to ignore it, the more I can feel myself internalising it.”

“But you do still come here. Don’t sell your effort short. What sins have you committed?”

“Indifference. When I’m here, I’m not here for the right reasons. I don’t show up to worship anymore. God’s the furthest thing from my mind, and I don’t feel anything when I think about that.”

“Do you know what’s causing it?”

“Yeah. Avarice, I guess. Lust, definitely. The guilt that comes from not feeling any guilt over impure thoughts. Actions aren’t any different.”

A pit forms in Travis’s stomach.

“Have you been –” His throat dries up before he can finish the question. Heat creeps up from beneath his collar. “Have you – er – is there…”

“There’s someone, yeah.”

That pit turns white-hot. Indignation courses through him first. Then outrage. Something akin to a betrayal that he has no right to feel. Then, despair follows. Hopelessness.

“Someone in the congregation?” He musters, uncertain if the response would make him feel better or worse.

You fail to respond, and Travis is sure he’s been hollowed out from the inside. The latter, it seems.

He swallows. “Have you acted on it?”

“I’m worried I will.” You utter. “I think about it a lot. How it would happen."

”Can you tell me who it is?” Travis prompts, tasting metal on his tongue. “If it’s distance you need, I can intervene. We can work together to help you overcome it.”

”It’s not that simple.”

No, he’s not letting you get away that easily.

”Don’t be stupid. If being around them makes you feel like this, we can work around it.” He insists. “We could set aside one-on-one time—“

”I really don’t think that’ll help—“

”I can visit your house—“

”What? God, no—“

”I’m tryna help—“

”It’s my priest.”

…

Travis’s brow furrows.

He didn’t quite catch that.

“Come again?”

You hesitate, and something stirs in him. Apprehension.

“Uhm. It’s my — priest.”

Nope, didn’t hear it that time, either.

“Once more.”

“Travis, it’s you.”

…

“Oh.”

He’s not certain if his entire body has gone numb or if his nervous system is firing on too many cylinders for his brain to handle. It doesn’t make sense. Heat flushes his face, pooling in his ears. Something in his chest flutters, stirring a feeling somewhere between complete terror — and utter euphoria.

You want him too. You feel the same as he does. This can’t be real. This has to be some nasty prank. With that thought, the fluttering turns heavy in his gut. This isn’t a good thing, no matter how good it feels to hear you say it. It’s bad. It’s outright disastrous. Even more galling is that of all times to hear this, it had to be in a situation where he was supposed to forgive you. Advise you. Guide you through such an admission with piety in mind when the majority of his thoughts are screaming at him to start rejoicing.

How is he supposed to hear this, after everything that’s been plaguing him lately — and be expected to be fine?

Travis clears his throat. A syllable escapes him. Then breaks.

Travis clears his throat again.

“It’s not – er…it’s not uncommon for many people to — have thoughts about religious leaders. As effectively stand-ins–”

“I don’t see you as a substitute for God. It doesn’t feel like religious favour.” You answer bluntly.

No. No it doesn’t. It doesn’t feel remotely holy when he presses the Eucharist to your tongue. It’s anything but spiritual. When it comes to you, Travis couldn’t feel less religious.

If anything, he realises, it’s an impediment. He’s further from God in your presence. The spirit can be damned when he’s all too aware of the flesh. He feels like a man; just a foul, helpless, hopeless man, cursing the wafer barricading the pad of his thumb from the flat of your tongue. For so long, he’s wanted to know what it feels like. Wanted this. Wanted you.

Knowing you’ve wanted it too? He’s in trouble. This is bad. This is very bad. He needs to cut this short. Do right by you.

But — what’s it felt like, in your position? Do you also shut out the rest of the world for those few seconds when you kneel before him? Ignoring the passages he cites while you torture him with the gaze he’s now doomed to know is anything but unassuming?

You think about him. You think about acting on whatever attraction exists between the two of you. How can he possibly escape this topic when all he wants to do is remain here in this little box and indulge in –

“There was a point where I was okay with keeping it to myself. I thought it would go away, but it doesn’t –”

Have you touched yourself? Brought yourself to orgasm over the thought of him? He knows all too well what it’s like, failing to escape the intrusive images his mind conjures when he’s alone. He hasn’t fornicated with another, but he knows the imagery. The process. The desire to be alone with you like that, like this, like right now, guiding himself into your mouth and revelling in what both of you have only wondered about.

Travis can’t feel his extremities anymore. Every remaining ounce of attention that isn’t on you or his whirling thoughts is on the tingling heat gathering in his lap and the slowly emerging tension of cotton—

He can’t be doing this.

He’s a goddamn priest.

“We can’t –” Works it’s way out of his throat before he can even think to reflect on how damning those words are. “We…collectively, we-”

“I know.”

“Sometimes the best course of action — y'know, is none at all.”

“I know.”

“This is my life’s dedication–”

“I get it–”

“I feel the same.” He blurts.

Then, there's a long stretch of silence.

Fuck. He's ruined it, all of it.

“So what now?” You ask, sounding much less affected by his admission as he was yours. As if you've already retired the concept. “If this is a mutual problem, what do we do?”

Problem. That stings.

“Do I move to another parish?”

“No.” Travis answers too quickly to be impartial. It’s gut-wrenching. It’s unthinkable, the idea of you disappearing forever. “No, don’t leave.”

“Then what, Travis? What do we do to fix this?”

Fix this. You’re right to phrase it that way, but it still hurts. It is a problem.

Travis droops, resting his elbows on his knees. Were he not visible, he’d be more inclined to grip at what’s left of his hair. “We can ignore it. We know where we both stand. It’s out in the open. We can just…bury the hatchet.”

“I’m not sure if I could handle that.”

“Me neither. But we can try.” He exhales, considering the weight of your words. What could occur if this ended in failure. His days are spent serving God, and his nights are dedicated to his family. To hunting. The past few years have drained so much out of him.

It’s not fair.

He’s given everything he’s ever been asked to give. Why does he have to lose you, too? No ordinary priest would be expected to do what he does. Surely that should allow him some leeway. How can he justify letting you go when you’re half the reason he stays here?

What would be the fucking point in staying?

“Travis-”

“Don’t leave.” It’s an effort to keep his tone even.

Your gaze is fixed on him. Questioning. Reluctant. Piercing.

His thumbs smooth over his knuckles, fingers interlacing, fidgeting as if he can offset the brewing anxiety.

“It’ll be worse.” He continues, scowling at the floorboards. “At least if you’re here, then we can atone. We can still be part of the church. It’ll hurt but it’s worse otherwise. I know you’re having a crisis of faith, but believe me, if this is something that can pass with time, I wanna try it. If whatever this is is fleeting and you’ll lose interest, I need to know we tried to do the right thing.”

“You’re so full of shit.” You bite back. “You’re happy to drag both of us through this just because of catholic guilt?”

“It’s a factor.” Travis admits.

“So the right thing is preaching scripture that you don’t even practice. God, that’s so fucking hypocritical-”

“Hey — language–”

“You expect me to sit there and nod along while you lecture everyone about coveting, knowing full well both of us are doing exactly that?”

“You don’t get it. There’s more at stake–”

"Fuck you."

"I said watch your fucking language." Travis snaps, rosary digging deep enough to leave notches in his flesh. "I said you need to stay."

You suck in a sharp breath. He can practically feel the anger on you. "Why?" You ask, half-way between a whisper and a shout. "What's the point?"

“Because if you leave, I’ll follow you.”

It escapes him from a place of anger, and the way you freeze makes him feel like keeling over. Nevertheless, the grave’s already been dug. No point in stopping now. “And if you outgrow whatever this is? A few dozen people will be going without a pastor, for nothing. My entire livelihood goes up in smoke, for nothing. And you know what? If there wasn’t a risk you’d grow bored and move on, I’d actually be fucking okay with that."

He’s certain your mouth opens to reply. To agree. To put an end to this before it starts.

He needs his own closure first.

“For you, you can move on. Join another church. Whatever you like. For me, that’s not possible. It’d ruin me, and I’d let you ruin me, so long as it meant you’d keep me. So when I tell you I need to know if this is something that will pass?”

“How long, then?” There’s poison in your tone, now. “How many years? How long do you need me to have wanted you for it to feel like it won’t go away?” Wanted you. Wanted you. “The whole reason I hate being here is because it won’t go away. I mean – come on – the least you could’ve done was let me down. Told me you didn’t feel the same–”

“You want me to lie to you?” Travis bites back.

“Yes, I do!”

“Well I fucking can’t. Call me a hypocrite all you want but this sucks just as bad for me. On top of everything else that’s going on in my shithole life, I don’t stop thinking about you.”

The colour of the light filtering through the cracks has warmed. The sun is setting. You’ve probably stayed past closing time by now.

“If leaving is the only option you’ll take, then I need you to know that." Travis breathes, slouching in his seat. Defeated. "If this is the last time we see each other, at least we can have closure. Get everything out in the open like any other confession, and leave it in the past.”

Your gaze meets for a moment.

Then he breaks away again, fidgeting with the rosary between interlaced fingers lest he seek your touch. “I’ve wanted to be with you for a very long time.”

“You're an asshole.” You grit. For a long moment, you say nothing else, chewing your cheek in consideration. Then: “Elaborate. Tell me what you think about.”

...

Travis realises he has made a mistake.

“Uhh-... y’know. Being…physical, with you–”

“Physical?” He can hear the thread of amusement in an otherwise hollow tone.

“Intercourse. Sex.” He snaps. “You happy?”

A breath of laughter sounds, and a shiver immediately licks all the way down his spine, reigniting that coiling tension in mere moments. Something buzzes in his core, warm and delightful and wretched.

“You think about fucking me often?”

Every day.

The blood drains from his face, pooling in his ears and neck until they burn.

“Often is subjective.”

“Do you-”

“This isn’t dirty talk.” Travis grits. The tightness in his throat does well to undermine him. “This is repentance. Got it?”

“So if I’d had similar thoughts–” You trail, and all of a sudden the man finds himself wanting to backpedal. “It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to tell you about them?”

It’s impossible to respond. His stomach lurches. For a moment he’s so dumbfounded he’s sure his tongue has disappeared altogether. He feels clammy – like his clothes are sticking to his skin. Heat licks at his core, all but begging to allow you to keep talking.

This isn’t good.

“I need guidance, Father.” There’s something different in your tone. Something that has him shifting in his seat. “Am I supposed to tell you the nature of my thoughts?”

Fuck.

Travis swallows back a lump in his throat. No. It’s unnecessary. You’ve already stayed twenty minutes overtime. Technically, the church is closed. He doesn’t need to hear it. You’ve already agreed to leave this be. And yet – the heat coiling in his stomach and the tightness in his lap scream a different response.

He has to fight it. This is a test that he can overcome if he just maintains his composure and shit, was he always this sweaty?

Perhaps it isn’t so bad. He’s only listening, after all. It’s his duty to hear you. To forgive you. To alleviate the burden of your sin. So long as he tows the line without crossing it, he’s in the clear.

Travis smoothes clammy palms over the thighs of his slacks, doing his damndest to ignore the responding twitch of something all too eager to condemn him to hell should he pay it any mind.

“Go ahead.” He chokes.

He can feel how close you’ve gotten, and for that, he both thanks and curses the barrier between you. The pattern that partially obscures what feels like drenched skin.

“How would you fuck me?”

That has him frozen to the spot.

“How would you treat me? Are you as self-assured as usual? Arrogant?” You continue amidst his stunned silence. “Would you already know how wet it makes me when you get that stupid look on your face during mass — how much I wonder what would happen if I was the last one to leave after service?”

Travis swallows, hard. He can't help it; a thumb strays over his thigh. Grazing what remains confined against him. The barest touch, and his whole body sings more, more, more–

“Sometimes, when I wear a skirt here, there’s a part of me that hopes you’ll catch me on the way out.”

“What would happen?” He tests, holding back the plea in his voice. He’s pawing at himself now, carefully, pressing. The smallest little back-and-forth motion along his confined shaft with the pad of his thumb.

“I like to think you’d have me up against the door,” You answer, almost thoughtfully, “Lock us both in – pull my underwear to the side and fuck me from behind — fully clothed – not wasting any time.”

“Y-...You don’t think it’d go slower?”

“Not when all I want is to know what you feel like inside me.”

Jesus.

An exhale leaves him, much too heavy and hollow to go unnoticed.

“Do you want that?”

“Fuck. Yes.” Travis breathes, gripping his cock through his trousers.

“As luck would have it–”

No way. You’re not. You didn’t–

Something screeches outside; the familiar sound of scraping wrought iron and it’s with a bolt of dread that Travis realises the two of you are no longer alone.

It’s divine intervention. It has to be.

Of all fucking times, that once-in-a-year confession picked this moment.

Travis can hear you shift off your knees, no doubt aware of the third party approaching. There's a hesitation from both of you. Neither knowing quite how to cut away. Especially now, of all times.

“Wait.” He blurts.

There’s a pause. He feels your gaze on him through the screen, and he curses whoever built this place with the windows facing due North. Golden hour be damned — he’s practically glistening and there’s no hiding it. The best he can do is remain still. Keep his gaze trained on the wall ahead, no matter how much he wants to acknowledge you. What if you’re as affected as he is? He can’t know. He has another confessor waiting.

“Yes?” Your head tilts in his periphery.

There’s no telling when (or even if) you’ll be back. Not after what he’s told you.

Travis’s hands are borderline shaking when he clasps them together. His body resists; beckoned by the temptation to cross the space between you. To touch you. To banish whoever had interrupted this moment and plead with you to stay, or take him with you.

“With me.” He mutters, rolling the beads over his knuckles. “I'm sorry for my sins with all my heart. In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good, I have sinned against you whom I should love above all things.”

You catch on with the next verse, and together, you continue, “I firmly intend, with your help, to do penance, to sin no more, and to avoid whatever leads me to sin.”

He lingers on that.

How the fuck can he avoid you?

“Our saviour Jesus Christ suffered and died for us. In his name, my God, have mercy.” Travis finishes, suppressing a shiver while you rise to your feet.

“Thank you, Father.”

This is it.

He might not see you again.

“Don’t leave.” He sounds pitifully small, and he can’t bear to say anything else. When all is said and done, even if neither of you can go down this road, then at the very least he can have you close by. The clarity will make it easier. Maybe one day it’ll turn into an in-joke. Eventually, a dwindling memory.

You leave without another word, and from the sting of the door closing, Travis is sure a piece of him has left with you. What remains is quick to dab his face on the back of his sleeve and regain its composure to be properly present for the next person.

There’s a murmur outside. A passing greeting, before the door opens and someone Travis can’t even begin to bring himself to give a shit about kneels down in the place you’d occupied.

“Church hours are over.” Travis clips, annoyance biting his words. Already, he wants to follow you out.

“I know, Father, I know. It’ll only take a minute.” Masculine. Panicked. Shuddering breaths.

He tries — really tries — not to huff, head falling back until the thinning patch on his crown makes contact with the wall behind him. “Make it quick, alright."

“It’s been 6 months since my last confession.” They sound like they’re bordering on hyperventilation. Travis doesn’t even have time to prompt them before they go on – which, in hindsight, should’ve been an indicator of his company. “I’ve — I’ve been lying. I can’t stand it. I love my wife, and I love that she has...passions, but Father — I’ve lied to her. I hate Disney. I hate it so much.”

Travis is straightening back out in an instant.

“You –...uh,” He stammers, battling astonishment, “I’m sorry, wh–”

“It's everywhere. I thought that if I acted like I liked it, she'd be less intense about about it, but it's — it's fucking bled into every part of my life, Father. We’ve been wanting to start a family, but God, I don’t think I can do it. The last time we made love, and I got close – she – she told me to put a princess in her.” There’s a sob on the opposite end of the booth.

…

This is the congregation he was lecturing you about minutes earlier? This is the kind of parishioner he felt guilty about leaving behind?

No, he can’t think like that.

“I couldn’t do it — I pulled out-”

“Okay, yeah, I get the picture.” Travis interjects with a wince.

“What do I do, Father?”

This is what he chose to prioritise?

He pinches the bridge of his nose. He has to at least try. “It’s obvious you’re…riddled with guilt over this. So, y’know — in the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, I absolve you of your sin.”

“That’s it?”

Fuck this.

“That’s it.”

You might not have left the property yet. Maybe he can still go after you.

“I thought-”

“If you want a longer session, come by earlier next week.”

“O-okay. Thank you, Father.”

It feels like an eternity waiting for him to leave. Listening out for the creak of the main entry that marks Travis’s solitude.

As soon as he hears the door close, Travis is on his feet. Tearing out of the booth.

He needs to catch up to you. Fuck, he can’t let you leave.

He breaks into a sprint.

Then, almost instantly, Travis is grinding to a halt.

There you are.

Right in front of him. Bordering on sheepish. “You said to stay.” You mutter while the man resumes his approach, rosary slipping from his fingers. “Wasn’t sure if you meant now or in general-“

Without missing a beat, Travis is pulling you in by your shoulders. His mouth is on yours so fast that your teeth clink — awkwardly placed and glaringly clear he has no idea what he’s doing — but you sink against him all the same.

He’s never been more scared in his life.

It’s fucking divine.

Your fingers find his blazer, curling, keeping him from backing out of the embrace. You reciprocate, just as hurried, and when your tongue slides against his bottom lip, Travis can’t help but hum.

"Please, tell me to stop." He murmurs against you, "Tell me this is a mistake."

The only response you give is a little hitch in your breath when a tentative hand presses to your hip, and Travis’s knees go weak at the sound. Your grip on the lapels of his shirt tightens, tugging him down into another dizzying kiss, and his confidence begins to fight back the nerves. One hand joins the other, and he’s pushing and pulling beneath the material of your clothes, exploring the sensation of your skin and the curves of your flesh. Your waist. Your ribcage. The dip of your spine. At some point amidst the frenzy he's working himself into, your back finds the wall adjacent to the booth, and his body slots against yours, hard. Reigniting overstimulated, needy nerve-endings that all but beg him to keep going.

It’s wrong. It’s disgusting. You’re evil. You’re wonderful. He’s in fucking heaven. He’s failed you. He needs you.

“I’m sorry.” He pants whenever either of you break away. “I’m sorry.”

“Technically, you’re keeping me from leaving the church altogether.” You retort.

“You trying to tell me this is okay?”

You angle away, then, keeping him at bay with a palm to his chest. “You want to stop?”

”God, no — and that’s the problem.”

This is his test. Compromising for your sake. To keep you faithful. That’s what he needs to do. As long as it takes, as often as he needs to. You’re his reward as much as you are his punishment. All of it. Everything. He just needs to hear it which one it should be.

The tension beneath your palm dissolves, trailing down his front.

"Then it's okay." You tell him.

That one little permission shoots sparks down his spine. His mouth finds yours again. Enough panic has subsided that he's able to somewhat follow your lead. Acquainting himself with the act, with how long either of you can go without needing to come up for air, with the little cues you give to signal which of his touches work the best. At least until your hand slides over the cotton confines of his cock, and the shockwave it sends through him has his grip tighten considerably on the breast he'd tentatively been exploring. His blunder earns a sharp 'ouch', but with a frantic apology, it seems you haven't been scared off.

“I haven’t —” He shudders at your breath on his throat, fingers trembling at your waistband, mirroring your own trailing over his. “Can I—”

You nod as best you can, given there's so little room between you. "Gently."

Unpracticed, Travis all but shoves his way down the front of your underwear, prodding and probing blindly until his fingers are suddenly sweeping through wetness, and he almost loses it right then and there. A curse slips through bared teeth, mingling with the sigh that escapes you, and sacrificing leverage for the sake of stability, Travis presses his body flush with your own. His mouth returns to yours, distracting from the throbbing thrill of pressing his middle fingers into your cunt with the glide of his tongue over yours. The sheer heat of you – the promising tightness of responding muscles might be enough to pull him under if it weren’t for the sharp gasp you draw in, right before your fingers grip at his shoulders in a fruitless attempt to yank him closer, deeper, hips rolling forward in encouragement.

Then, your fingers are making their way back beneath his belt. Past his trousers. Separated only by his underwear, they curl around his cock and grip him hard.

"Fuck—" Travis grunts, eyes squeezing shut. It’s total bliss. No wonder there are so many agnostics. God can go fuck himself. Nothing has ever felt as good as this. The way you clutch at him. The sounds. The taste of you. The taste of you, the taste of you–

There’s a whine of complaint when he pulls out, and your hand stops its subtle back-and-forth in protest. For a moment, Travis feels as if he’s taken the lead. Insecurity marks your expression when he inspects his glistening knuckles, instinct crying out for him to follow curiosity. Tentatively, Travis’s tongue slides over the backs of his fingers. Your scrutiny pricks at his nerves while he tastes what he's coaxed from you — but God — the moment his taste buds are saturated, he wants more.

He can give you more.

He’s dropping to his knees before you can instruct otherwise, attention split between the apprehension in your eyes and the material that barricades him from you.

“Travis—” Your voice is tight. Your nerves; another indication that you’re not doing this purely to ruin him, only spur him on. “Travis, wait a sec.”

Travis’s fingers, curled around the hem of your dress, stop. He pauses. “Am I doing it wrong?”

Your head shakes minutely.

“What’s the matter?”

“You don’t need to do that.” You reply. “You haven’t done this before, right?”

“So?”

“So you don’t have to-”

“If you want me to stop, say it.” Travis angles up at you, patience waning. Almost like a warning, he's pushing up the material up over your thighs. Just enough to let him at least get a look if you say no.

There’s a flash of irritation from you. “Just don’t assume you’ll be great from the get-go.”

“Oh, this isn’t for you. This is for me.” He mutters, disappearing beneath the skirt of your dress. He’s too impatient to attempt to disrobe you. So long as he has access, that’s enough. Despite the urgency of every cell in his body crying out for him to begin the moment you’re bared to him, however, Travis holds back. For once, he knows what it’s like to have you at his mercy, and he intends to indulge.

Pads of his fingers glide over the soaked material of your underwear, fascinating himself with the heat of you and the minute hitch of your breath whenever he slides over that certain spot. You tense up when he uses just a little more force, and your want has him bordering on salivating. Shit, he wants to relieve himself of the constraint of his trousers. Take himself in hand and enjoy some semblance of what you're feeling right now. But — it would be too risky. He’s too new to this. At the very least, he can’t end this before it has any hope of starting.

He can make his own fun, regardless.

“You ever picture me doing this?” He asks, “Have you had orgasms thinking about me playing with your cunt?”

“Back to Confession?” You grunt, hips rolling with his movements, subtly guiding him through the motions you like best.

“Just tell me, already.”

You resist, stifling the breath in your lungs. The rosy red creeping up your neck gives him the answer he’s after, but that’s not how he wants it.

“Can’t shut your mouth for two minutes in any other circumstance.” He jabs. “Now you’re quiet?”

The moment he halts, you give in. "Of course I have."

Heat shoots down his spine. Delicious. Prompting a grin.

"That's more like it."

Then, he's hooking his fingers around the hem of your underwear. Tugging the material to the side. Burying his face in your bared cunt to taste you from the source.

Ignoring a gasp and the sudden grip on his shoulders as you try to balance yourself, Travis's tongue prods and swipes blindly at you, familiarising himself with the experience. The pads of his fingers are much the same; touching with as much fascination in their reverence as desire. Then, after a tentative moment of experimenting, Travis takes a breath. Drawing your scent into his throat, and a whine threatens to spill out on the exhale. His body lurches, unsatisfied. Hungry. Fingers grip the flesh of your thighs, and almost instantly his mouth is back on you. Desire takes over. His face presses against you like he can’t get himself close enough; tongue sweeping a wet trail as close to your core as it can reach while you’re still standing, following the press of his nose while he works his way back to your clitoris.

He needs this to last. He needs to experience this at least once with you.

He has to keep his head clear. Stay in control. Not pay attention to the insistent build of excitement coiling in him.

“Travis—“

He hates how difficult you make that.

His tongue sweeps over that bundle of nerves, and the shiver that runs through you has him incensed. Desperate to hear it again. He keeps his attention there; clumsily lapping, hopefully compensating for lack of experience with enthusiasm. He must hit the right mark at some point, because your fingers are suddenly combing through his hair, hips rolling against his dampened face in an attempt to chase the motion. Sheer delight has him gripping the meat of your thigh, hard — fingers curling to find purchase while simultaneously dragging against a new spot inside you, and you gasp behind your palm. The sound shoots straight to his groin, and whatever logical thought Travis was once capable of leaves him.

Travis holds you against him so close it feels like his nose might snap. He can’t tell how long its been since he took his last full breath. It doesn’t matter. Every motion leaves a new response to chase, a new spot to veer away from, a new twitch of your insides constricting his fingers and the tingling bliss of how fucking good it feels to shift his weight. To grind ever so slightly against the confines of his own trousers. Every time you tighten, his body reacts. Sympathetic. Reminding him what needs to be there instead.

No, not reminding.

Pleading.

Every throb comes heavily. Every little yearning surge of pleasure at the way your fingers graze his scalp amplified. Even without being touched, Travis knows he’s close, but whether you are is another question — and he doesn’t plan on having this end before you’re at least satisfied in some way. Maybe it won’t be so embarrassing when the inevitable occurs if you’re already seen to.

With that in mind, Travis continues on - at least until one particular stroke coaxes your hand away from your mouth, joining the other in Travis’s hair just as a breathy little moan works its way out of your throat. Fingers suddenly tug at his roots, harder than before, and he can’t help but mimic your noises at the feeling.

The pressure, the need, the insistent twitch of his cock — praying to return to your touch. Your grip doesn’t relent, and fuck, he’s so–

Fuck.

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.

There’s a far too familiar surge that crests, and he needs to put a stop to it.

He’s in too much of a haze to think of pulling away. Whatever words of protest he aims for are dissolving into a babbled groan against you the moment he tries to speak. This is bad, and it’s getting worse.

“Wait —” Travis manages to gasp, and to your credit, you release him immediately. He pulls back, momentarily relieved by the retreat of the impending point of no return.

But then, your muscles twitch around his fingers again. Seeking him out. Desperate for more — and again, he can’t control the response.

Travis removes himself from your cunt. Soaked fingers suddenly freezing in the evening air. Then, he catches a glimpse of the thread of wetness that still joins you, and that does it. There it is again.

It looms over him, trembling, desperate, delicious.

He can’t help it. An orgasm he never asked for blooms, and he’s clutching at your clothes with a bit-off curse. Whatever reaction you have goes unseen while Travis is burying his face into the material of your dress, hopeless to fight off the peak, knuckles bleeding white and teeth grit. Then, he tips over the edge, and every nerve in him is alight. Singing.

The aftershocks come quickly without the stimulation his body begs for. Release shoots through him, spilling into his briefs one pulse after the next. His orgasm wanes, but the twitching remains, persistent in the hope for more rather than totally spent, and in returning clarity Travis is grateful he at least has that much going for him.

He isn’t aware that hes been holding his breath until it escapes him in a hollow, dazed sigh.

He can feel your gaze. He knows you know. If it wasn’t from his display, then it’s gotta be from the increasingly soaked patch gathering around the fly of his trousers.

Humiliation. Failure.

Self-hatred creeps up on him, just like it always does when he’s in the afterglow.

“Did you just—“

“Yeah.” Travis cuts you off, swallowing back shame.

A hand drifts from his scalp to his neck, and there’s a flash of indignation when Travis realises you’re trying to provide aftercare.

No, that won’t do.

He’s not done. Neither of you are done.

“It’s okay.” You offer. The patience in your voice is infuriating. “There’s always — fuck — Travis—?”

Travis’s mouth is back on you in an instant, resuming his previous ministrations with a vengeance. As if he can redeem himself — as if he can impress you enough to make you forget what just happened.

Your surprise is short-lived; unsure hands bracing yourself until your body eases back into his tongue tracing over your clitoris. It's not long until your breaths begin to shake and he's confident he's gotten you back to where he needs you, completely at his mercy. Fingers wind back into his hair, encouraging more force, and hes certain of it.

His fingers push back inside you, welcomed by an insistent flutter of your muscles impatiently clutching at him.

“Ah — like that — like that—“ You urge, and Travis does exactly as he’s told, not letting up. His nose can break for all he cares. Nothing could part him from you; not like this.

Your sharpened breaths hit a crescendo. He’s getting so carried away that he loses rhythm. There’s no attempt at technique any longer. All he’s gauging now is how hard you’re holding onto him. How tight you are inside. When you’re finally clamping down on his fingers with a barely stifled whimper, he doesn’t stop. He can’t get enough until your legs are trembling, struggling to keep you upright. Then, you’re suddenly wrenching him away from your clitoris, leaving him to carry you through the tapering of your orgasm with his hand.

He slows only when the spasms subside, and then at the behest of a shove on his shoulder, Travis pulls away from you, much more concerned with flaunting his delight than catching his breath. First, however, he needs to summon the strength to stand.

It’s with a hiss that he regains his footing. Zeal, he notes, can only get him so far ahead of age; regardless of how little he’s done, really, he’s still going to be sore and stiff tomorrow — and the next day, probably.

What else he’s to expect from the future, he should have considered beforehand.

A streak of dread bolts through Travis at what feels like finality. It’s short-lived, especially when you’re drawing him in by his jaw to kiss you with just as much fervour as you had before he’d gotten you off. He’d gotten you off. He still couldn’t believe that.

His mouth is busied with yours before he can comprehend to say anything. Your hands grip at his lapels, pushing until he takes the hint and allows himself to be walked backward into the booth he'd spent the afternoon wasting away in.

The seat catches the back of his spent knee, and the poor man buckles. What might’ve been embarrassment is dispelled the moment he’s seated, when you’re shoving the blazer past his shoulders.

Once it’s off, you move in. Pressing him back into the cramped space. Reveling in the little breath he fails to hide when your weight shifts onto the backrest and you clamber forward, onto him, knees planted either side of his thighs with hardly enough space to accommodate. The soaked cotton of his trousers grazes your thigh while you position yourself. Humiliation might be fighting a better fight if the contact didn't feel so fucking good.

As much as he wants to keep going — as much as your intentions are known, he's still awfully nervous.

"You sure?" He mutters, hands lamely planted on the seat without any clue so as what to do with them right now. "It's, uh, it's messy."

The clink of his belt mid-unbuckling answers for you. Nevertheless, you glance at him while you yank at the accessory. "Unless you're carrying condoms around with you, Father, I think it won't really matter in the end. Are you?"

"Watch — ah —" Travis arches beneath you, helpless as your fingertips find his cock, tracing back and forth along strained material while your other hand works at his fly. "Watch the attitude."

"Do you want this or not?" You breathe, leaning down, lips grazing his neck, and he swallows back a shiver.

"Yes, I want this."

Your pace increases. Travis's eyelids flutter at the feeling. Good, but no longer enough.

"There's one particular word I'm looking for."

"Not happening." He grits, refusing to meet your eye lest he be inclined to give into your wishes. Even in his periphery, he can tell you're irritated. Nevertheless, the zipper is undone and he's plenty justified in gawking while you manoeuvre him out of his fly.

No time is spared. You don't lend anything to savouring the moment — not like he has. Instead, you're rushing to situate yourself in just the right spot over him — one hand bracing your weight beside his head, the other with his cock in-hand.

"Do me a favour?" You ask, earning a much too-eager nod. "Move those."

"Right." He affirms, steadying his fingers once again around the hem of your underwear. He's done this twice already now. He knows what you feel like. What you taste like. Yet this time, knowing what's to come — he's nearly trembling. The moment the material is out of the way, Travis casts a glance up at you. "Just so you know — the door's unlocked."

A breath of laughter escapes you. "Could've mentioned that before you'd gone down on me."

Then, you're sinking, taking him in inch by searing inch, and Travis's head dips back against the wall, mouth falling open in a silent groan. Silencing his own pleasure just to behold your reaction; the furrow of your brow as you settle in his lap, acclimatising to him. The gasp that catches in your throat. The aversion of a dilated gaze that has him realising he's been staring unblinking for a little too long.

A moment comes and goes. Both of you remain still. Dawning instinct to start moving, to seek out more begins to bleed into his thoughts. Awkwardness wanes. Now he just wants to make sure the two of you can finish this before another interruption occurs.

His palms find your thighs, smoothing the skirt of your dress back to access bare flesh. Naturally, organically, insistently, his fingers curl. Minutely tugging. Pushing. And yet, you don’t shift. All you do is slide your free hand beneath the band of drenched underwear. A pleasant sound hums in your throat, and Travis rolls his jaw in irritation at being so left out.

"Come on." He whines.

A particular wiggle of your hips, and you're tightening around him, unravelling that temper into desperation.

“Fuck — please.” Travis keens, gripping your thighs, desperate to find some semblance of friction. "You're killing me."

"So you do know how to be polite." You respond, punctuated with a rock of your hips, drawing a breathy moan from his throat.

“More.”

“Hands off.”

He protests when your hands pry his fingers from your thighs, guiding them up beneath the neckline of your dress to cup your breasts once more. It's not the control he's looking for, but fuck, he's not going to argue further if this is the alternative. One hand leaves his, drifting back down beneath your underwear. He doesn't make another move. Not when you shiver at your own touch. Not when you rock against him a second time.

You do it again when he remembers to hold still.

“Good boy.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

Travis slackens, mouth agape, eyes half-lidded, resigned to doing nothing but hold back while you set set a torturous pace around him, getting yourself off with his cock.

“Feel better?” You murmur.

He grits his teeth, nodding.

“Suddenly not so chatty?”

"Not taking my chances.”

“You want me to keep going?”

“God, yes. Yes.”

“You want me to go faster?”

“Yes.”

You do. Your fingers, tragically unseen behind your underwear, speed up as well. All Travis can see from this angle is his own cock, disappearing beneath the material each time you sink down and glistening with your slick when you rise back up.

“You like watching this? You thought about this before?”

“…yes.”

“Tell me.” You urge, squeezing him, increasing your pace. With each landing and ascent, he can hear the faint tap of the wetness pooling at the base of his cock. “Let me hear you."

Fuck.

“Don’t stop — fuck — shit — keep going." Travis hisses. "I want you to come. I wanna watch you. I wanna see. You have no idea how much I want —“

"Travis — I'm close —"

Travis's grip hardens, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips with bruising force. Your words hurtle him to the brink in a heartbeat, and as much as he fucking hates that you're able to do that, he can do little else but follow along. He can hold out. Just a few more seconds. He can do the same to you, he knows it.

Angling as best he can, Travis rolls his hip up into you, finding just enough extra depth to have you both gasping.

"Every day — every fucking day —" He pants, driving up into you. "Picturing this is the only thing that gets me through."

That does the trick. Just another moment with you teetering on the edge, just enough for his words to sink in — and then your back arches, the most delectable sound escaping you. Your arms are suddenly slipping over his shoulders, clutching desperately around his neck, face buried against his pulse. All rational thought evaporates, then, with your muscles clamping down hard around his cock. Everything, everything is blind euphoria. A moment of stasis in which all that exists is the two of you as you are right now; with him locked between your legs, feeling the repeated, crushing high of your orgasm dragging him to the brink of his own. Your mouth on his, drinking in desperate gasps as he makes his final ascent.

Then, he tumbles over the edge, hips stuttering in insecurity over whether to pull out and an overwhelming, primal feeling eclipsing the idea in an instant. A litany of barely intelligible chants slip from Travis’s lips, barely resembling your name, and when you collapse against him, burying to the hilt, the peak hits him.

His cock twitches within you. Every nerve in his body surges in unison, and it’s all he can do to clutch at you in a feeble attempt to ride out the release. He can’t be sure if he’s vocalising anymore — not until the rhythmic pulsing of muscles overtake the release and the deafening rush subsides enough that he can actually hear the humiliating, babbled confessions of his affections spilling from his mouth. All higher function has left him. All sense of control, gone. All he can do, all he wishes, all he’s capable of — is keeping you locked to him until the twitching subsides. Until there’s nothing else to give.

By the end of it all, he’s slumped against you, totally spent. You recovery comes quicker than his; at least he feigns as much, given the opportunity to rest his head against your chest when you sit up, basking in the afterglow with fingers combing through his hair and the occasional, contented hum.

After a while, he can feel his come start to creep out of you, mingling with previous spend and your wetness in his lap, and a twinge of guilt picks at the back of his mind.

”That was rotten of me.” He murmurs. “Should’ve asked.”

“Next time I’ll try and give you the chance to.” You reply, earning a snort.

His eyes feel heavy. Everything feels…easy, all of a sudden.

“Travis.”

“Hm.”

"Wake up — your gonna make me think you’ve actually been smote.”

"Hm?" Travis barely stirs, half-asleep in the afterglow. "Oh."

Silence stretches between you. Then:

"M'gonna have to break this to my family." He murmurs.

"Skipping town isn't an option?"

"Not right now. Loose ends. My life is over either way, but —"

"Travis." You repeat, angling to catch his gaze. "Wait until you've pulled out before you start talking about your family."