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mae-gi-writes · 1 year

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A TURN OF PRIORITIES . PART TWO | BANG CHAN

Synopsis: What happens when you and Bang Chan decide to fake a relationship for the sake of making your ex-boyfriend jealous? A turn of priorities, that's what.

PART ONE · PART TWO · PART THREE

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“We should totally go on a double date!”

You almost stumble over your feet in mid-walk, turning to send Minji a look that suggests she might have gone insane after all. “What?”

“A double date,” she chirps, an overexcited bird that buzzes with life, her tote bag in hand as you both make your way up the campus stairs, “it would be fun! Imagine going to the amusement park.”

A week has passed since the rumors about you and Chan had come about and to say that everyone was surprise was an understatement. You’d been part of the said ‘popular’ crowd for the sole reason that you had been on the cheerleading team in first year. That reputation had then followed you through till your final year. Chan, on the other hand, was completely anonymous and people were not hesitating to speak their thoughts aloud.

“Never thought he’d be her type.”

“You think he has money? Maybe that’s what attracts her.”

“If I knew I would’ve gone into Computer Science too.”

Back and forth those comments would go, to a point where you had half a mind to tell them off and give them a piece of your own mind. But Chan, the gentle soul that he is, merely grabbed your arm, gave it a squeeze, before shaking his head.

“It’s not worth it,” he always says like a priest devoting his soul to god, “trust me. It says a lot about them, it’s not about you.”

That, however, has brought about a new problem; Minji’s over excitement about the fact that you were finally getting together with the man that had been waiting for you all his life.

You don’t have the heart to tell her that it’s by far the most horrible fairytale you’re living in right now.

“When are you free?” Minji quickly scrolls through her phone to find her calendar, eyes already scanning the dates where everyone would be free from university assignments, “How about early December? That should work right?”

“I don’t know,” your heart can’t help but clamp up at the notion of spending the entire day watching Minho and Minji feeding each other stupid marshmallows from a stick, “I might not be free. I have to find a part-time job soon.”

“Please Y/N,” Minji places her palms together, eyes widening like a cat begging for food and you find it’s hard to resist her charm no matter how much you try, “pretty please? It’s my treat. I’ll pay for everything, I promise.”

In the end, you had no choice but to accept. It was either that or she would’ve invited you over for Christmas dinner with her family at her house. That simple image of you and Minho, with Mnji’s parents, in one room is embarrassing enough that you don’t even hesitate to agree.

Chan, on the other hand, isn’t too pleased about the matter.

“I don’t like amusement parks,” he complains that same afternoon. He’d decided to drop by after his biology experiments and is presently seated at your countertop as you dice the onions, followed by carrots, leeks, and lettuce.

You’re too lazy to cook an actual dinner, so you had resigned yourself to making some Chinese porridge with a fried egg. Easy and simple enough. And plus, Chan loves eating porridge.

“We don’t have to go on any,” you answer while stirring the rice, hot smoke flushing your face red. You glance at him over your shoulder, notice the stiffness in his shoulders that hadn’t been there yesterday, “what? Don’t tell me you’re not comfortable with amusement parks. They’re not that bad—“

“There are germs everywhere,” he cuts you off with glazed-over eyes as though he’s standing right there and seeing the nightmare unravel at his feet, “on the seats, in the toilet, on the railings where we queue up—“ he shudders, “no. No way. No thanks.”

“Come on,” throwing all the ingredients into the pressure cooker, you set the timer and close the lid before whipping around with determination, “you have to go. It’s part of the deal.”

“What deal?”

“The fake dating deal.”

“I said that I didn’t want—“

“You didn’t want to go to campus parties,” you interrupt him before he has a chance to speak and the way he bristles, you know you’ve won already by the guilt swimming in his eyes, “but you didn’t mention anything about amusement parks.”

Still, Chan doesn’t say anything. He looks away, picking at a scratch on the countertop that only he would notice.

“Come on,” you whine out, grabbing a hold of his arm and jiggling it around like a cat pawing its owner, “please please please. For me? Do it for me. Please—“

“Okay okay, fine!” He bats you away and you whoop in excitement. It’s too easy to take advantage of Chan’s kindness sometimes, but you love him for it, “thanks Chan.”

“You owe me.”

“Aw come on, I’m making you porridge!”

The weekend comes round all too soon and you find yourself on Saturday morning ditching your breakfast in favor of finding the perfect outfit to wear. This is a one in a lifetime chance to impress Minho and though it’s clear that he’s going out with Minji, that doesn’t mean you can’t flaunt yourself in his face and show him what he’s missing out on.

You’re debating between wearing a cute crop top without sleeves or a white shirt that can be tucked into your jeans when the doorbell rings. You pad out in nothing but your sports bra and said bottoms to open the door, only to have your best friend yelp bloody murder.

“Jeez Chan!” You quickly grab his forearms to pull him inside, rolling your eyes as you do so, “you’re such a girl.”

“Just put some clothes on,” he’s already got his face covered with his hands, turning away in such a gentlemanly manner that it makes you scoff.

“What? You don’t even have an ounce of curiosity as to what my body might look like?” You ask him, finally deciding on wearing the white shirt. Minho did have a preference for light colors, you remark to yourself absentmindedly.

Chan stutters at your question, “I—uhm—well I—“

You sigh, walk past him while tossing your jacket over his head, “you know what, don’t even answer that. I don’t want to know.”

The walk to the subway station is comfortable — as comfortable as it can be with your creamy wedge heels that you had saved for the occasion — and upon reaching the station, you only realize that it’s the end of the month when you’re greeted by a sea of people maneuvering through the tight space, pushing you and Chan away from each other as you jostle to stay close.

“It’s packed,” you remark with a huff when you manage to locate a spare ticket dispenser. Chan is right at your side, pressed up against you as you try to order two tickets as quickly as possible.

Chan groans, “I knew I shouldn’t have said yes to this outing. I’m going to regret it—“

“No,” you whip around, scowling, “you are going to have the time of your life, because you’re with me, and because we need to prove to Minho and Minji that we are the best couple this amusement park’s ever seen.”

“I don’t understand how this is related to your love for Minho,” Chan notes. The tickets are dispensed and you retrieve them from the slot before he leads you out of the line.

“Because,” your eyes scan the train schedule, identifying the right platform before moving towards it with purpose. Chan follows close behind, a hand closed around your arm, “I want Minho to regret having broken up with me.”

“Why?”

It’s only a mutter from Chan’s part and probably half-hearted at that. But it’s enough to set your veins on fire.

“Why?” You repeat back to him, eyes narrowed into slits as your mouth pulls down into a snarl, “because he fucking hurt me, that’s why. And to make things worse, he decided to hook up with my best friend.”

“You can’t choose who you fall in love with, Y/N,” Chan says gently, “maybe things weren’t meant to work out between you two. Maybe you would’ve been unhappy—“

“Oh and what would you know about dating?”

“To be honest, not much. But from what I know, I don’t think it’s doing you any good.”

“Oh whatever,” you roll your eyes, “I’m done having this conversation.”

“Okay, whatever you say Y/N.”

His quick acceptance makes your blood boil with silent rage. You hate how nonchalant he’s being about all of this. It’s obvious that he’s disconnected, for he does not understand the kind of quiet turmoil you go through every time you spot them together, laughing, having the time of their lives…

You had that too, once.

The ride to the amusement park station is quiet. Your head is adamantly turned away to the window, watch the landscape blur of trees, buildings and the city river zoom by in hopes that it provides enough distraction to calm you down. A pathetic attempt. Chan’s never been in your position, of course he won’t know how hard it is to see Minho flaunting Minji like she’s the most beautiful thing he’d set his eyes on. He doesn’t spend countless hours scrolling instagram to know where they are, what they are doing, whether she’s more fun than you ever were. He doesn’t look at himself in the mirror and wonder why in the world it wasn’t you. Why it never is.

You’re so deep in your mind that you barely realized you’ve reached your stop until you feel a nudge from your side. Glancing back to see Chan gesturing you forward, it takes a second for your legs to start moving. You fall into step behind a crowd of friends erupting in cheers and shouts, and quickly duck out of the way to find the exit.

“Y/N,” Chan’s quick to fall into step beside you, his hand reaching for your arm, “hey, can we talk—“

You brush him off, not in the mood to have such a conversation. Especially not in an amusement park, of all places.

But he’s more than persistent, grabs your arm in a firmer grip before twirling you around. His grip is firm, yet delicate. It’s only now you notice how careful he is, even when holding you.

You do your best to avoid his stare, but if there’s anything that one needs to know about Chan, it is that he’s persistent, “look, I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. I just said it because I don’t like seeing you sad and hung up on him—“

“What would you know?” You bite back. He’s hurt you, more than he must know.

The furrow in his eyebrows deepen, “I know that you’re just doing all this to get his attention, not because you want him back, but because you want to convince yourself that you were good enough, better for him than anyone else will ever be, and—“

His words cause you to double over as tears slowly dribble down your cheeks. Pushing him away with a soft sob, your body moves on its own accord to get away. You need to get away. You can’t stay here, it feels suffocating. Too many people. Too many eyes—

“Y/N,” before you know it, Chan’s arms lace around your waist, twisting you around despite your weak protests before one of his hands reach up to press against the back of your head, guiding you into the crook of his neck.

It’s enough. You let out another sob. Another, and another. And then, you’re silently crying, a steady stream of tears trickling down his shirt and causing a damp patch to appear along his chest and you have half a mind to pull away. But Chan’s grip is strong and firm, holding you still and allowing you to cry your heart out like you’ve never cried before. Not since your breakup with Minho.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you keep on repeating it like a mantra. Unsure whether that’s for Chan, or for yourself. Maybe both, “I’m so sorry—“

He shushes you, a hand smoothing over the back of your head to signal that there’s no need for talking. The action is so confident, so smooth and at ease that your muscles slowly loosen up, your body melting into his like a puddle of goo.

You’re not quite sure when your tears slowly dried up or when you’d stopped crying. What you did know though, is that Chan never let go, not once. You’re even met with slight resistance upon pulling away.

“Are you sure you’re okay? Do you want another good cry? We can just say we both got sick and run back home,” he says and despite everything, it makes a small snort fall from your lips as you shake your head, “I’m okay, really.”

“Are you sure?” Unconsciously, his hand brushes away a strand of hair sticking to the corner of your mouth, and the way his eyes swim with concern suddenly makes you a little self-conscious, warmth spreading through your limbs as you nod and say that yes, you’re fine now. It had just been a little hiccup.

Just in time, your cell phone suddenly erupts with the final Naruto soundtrack, with you quickly scrambling to find the said device nestled in your shoulder bag.

“Yes, hello?” You’re a little breathless by the time you have the phone pressed to your ear.

“Hey!” It’s Minji, her voice loud and excited over the blurry echo of people in the background, “we’re already inside! Where are you guys?!”

“Oh, we just came. We’ll be at the entrance soon.”

“Okey-dokes!” She squeals, “see ya!”

You don’t notice you’re pulling a grimace as you end the call until you see Chan chuckling, “what?” You ask him as you start for the amusement park. The crowd of people has dwindled down, the morning rush hour now past its peak time and feeling the air rush through the underground tunnel is actually a refreshing change.

“Nothing,” his chuckles grow tenfold, “you have this face when you say something you don’t mean.”

“What face?”

“That face, it’s like you’re the kid who almost gets caught doing something bad, but ultimately gets away with it.”

“And you would know how that looks like, wouldn’t you?”

“This is how you say thank you after I almost saved your life?”

“What?! Excuse me? Saved my life? That’s an exaggeration.”

It’s crazy to think that merely five minutes ago had you bawling into Chan’s neck and now you were bickering like this moment never even happened. This was one of the many reasons why you loved Chan dearly. He never held anything against you, never changed for the sake of your mood. He was ultimately, unforgivingly himself, and you loved and cherished and respected him for it.

“Come on,” you say with a half-smile, “let’s go and show them who’s the real couple.”

———-

How things have changed from the moment you left the amusement park is still a newfound mystery. Had it been the moment where Minji had forced you to hold hands with him for the sake of the photographs? Had it been on one of the roller coaster rides where you’d gripped his hand by accident and hadn’t let go, even long after you’d gotten down and was wandering about looking for the next ride? Had it been when his competitive streak got the best of him while shooting ducks with Minho as his opponent? He’d won you a small goldfish plushie as a result of his success, and Minho had sulked quietly in his corner after that, which had brought you a sense of satisfaction as you gripped the plushie to your chest.

“This is not fair,” Minho had whined as you’d started walking back towards the subway station in the direction of the cafeteria, “how come you’re so good at this?”

Chan grinned, his face lighting up like a Christmas tree as his hand unconsciously went to link with yours, “determination.” He announced.

“I’m sure this thing was rigged,” Minho had kept on mumbling while his girlfriend had tried cheering him up by smothering kisses all over his face.

You’d turned your face away, more disgusted than hurt at the display of affection, and Chan had chuckled, before tugging you closer. The surprising action got you blinking up at him as your shoulders brushed, only to jolt upon feeling him tuck a few stray strands of hair behind your ear.

“You look like you just got out of a smoothie mixer,” he’d commented with an amused smile.

“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” you’d replied snarkily, not missing the way in which his thumb would stroke over your knuckles and causing another wave of heat to spread throughout your body.

Or maybe, just maybe…it had been at that very specific moment where Minji had forced you to admire Chan’s features as you two waited at one of the diner tables, the two boys by the bar and waiting to order drinks for the four of you.

“I always thought Chan was attractive. He just isn’t very social,” Minji had said.

You whipped your head to throw her a look, “what?” This had been news to you. Minji had never batted an eye at Chan.

“Well yeah. I couldn’t just say so you know, ‘cause everyone thought he was weird,” she shrugged, “but look at him. He’s actually not that bad if you ditch the geek look.”

You had to agree with her that Chan’s glasses didn’t do him any justice, nor did the way he’d tuck his checkered shirt into his too-large jeans as though he’d bought them two sizes too big.

But…now that you looked closely enough, he did have prominent features. Almond eyes, a strong nose and jawline accenting his angles, and a mouth so plump one would think he’d gotten them done.

You snapped back to reality, “no! That’s just wrong. We’ve known each other for such a long time. He’s like a brother to me—“

The words catch in your throat when you notice Minji’s frown, “But Y/N, you’re going out with him.” Her words had sounded accusing and alarm bells started ringing through your skull.

“I—I mean, yes! Yes he’s gorgeous isn’t he? I never noticed it myself. What I meant to say was—he was such a good friend that it took me time to see it, you know, his Cham,” you had said hurriedly. Sweat accumulated underneath your armpits. God. You were such a bad liar.

That had been enough to convince Minji, but it was clear that you had to be even more careful moving forward. Then there was also the problem of having to fake a break up when…

When what?

This is the dilemma that takes hold of you with such panic that you lay in bed, head buzzing with thoughts and feelings as you stare up at your ceiling. When exactly? What had you even been trying to provenanyway?

This is it. It’s all gone wrong because you’d decided to spend time looking at your best friend like he’s a stranger. And now you’re regretting your life choices.

The whole point of this relationship had been to show Minho that you were the better one, that you were the better girlfriend. But seeing him with Minji these past few weeks have taught you that the amount of happiness you’d given him had been nothing in comparison to the way his smile widened every time Minji was around. It’s the way there’s glitter in his eyes when she smiles and the way his eyes follow her unconsciously wherever she goes. It’s the gentle touches when he thinks no one’s looking, of the way he doesn’t hesitate to be of service when she needs him.

He’s never been that caring, that doting, with you.

A pang resonates through your chest at the realization.

Yes. Minho had loved you. But not nearly as much as he now loves Minji.

Why? What’s so wrong about you that’s unloveable?

Are you that bad? Are you not good enough? Will you never be good enough?

A buzz from your phone shakes you out of your existential crisis and, still sorting through the flurry of emotions in your chest, you extend your arm towards your nightstand, make a grab for your phone before squinting at the screen.

Chan: You up? I have something to tell you.

A frown settles over your face. What’s so important that he can’t wait till you see each other in lecture later that day?

Y/N: I mean…we are seeing each other in like thirty minutes.

Chan: It can’t wait, Y/N. It’s kinda urgent. Can I call you?

You dial his number. It takes him two seconds to pick up.

“Hey,” he breathes on the other end of the line. He doesn’t sound upset, which is a good start.

“Hi,” you shift, turn to the side to press the phone to your ear, “what’s up? What’s the emergency?”

“Well…” there’s a bit of stalling on his part. You hear him shuffle from one foot to another. And then, just as you’re about to be snarky and tell him to hurry up, the next set of words causes all your blood to freeze in mid-flow.

“Someone asked me out,” he chuckles as if he doesn’t quite believe it himself. You don’t quite believe it. Who would ask Chan out? Not that he’s not dating material, just not the type that girls on campus usually go for, “a girl from my industrial design class. Her name’s Eunchae. She’s really nice—“

“Wait—Wait hold on, what?” The words blurt out of your mouth before you can stop them, “you can’t! We’re still—we’re technically still dating!”

“We can just fake a breakup or something—“

“But I still need you. We haven’t finished—“

“Y/N,” Chan cuts you off. His voice is firm, solid. Unlike anything you’ve heard before, “Minho is happy with Minji. You need to realize that.”

Shame boils through you, “oh I’m sorry, I’m only trying to cope with the fact that I got chosen over and will never be good enough,” you snap, “but be my guest, thank you very much.”

“Look,” his tone is gentle when he speaks next, “you and Minho just didn’t work out. But that doesn’t mean you’re not good enough. The right person will be there for you, Y/N. If you let them.”

In reality, you don’t give a damn about Minho anymore. You don’t even care how much PDA he and Minji display around campus because someone else has stepped into your field of vision, and that person is blissfully unaware that you might be looking at them differently.

But who are you to stop Chan from trying his shot at happiness? It’s not fair for you to hold him back merely because of a fake relationship. Something in your heart tugs wildly and you try not to choke on your own breath as scenarios of Chan and this mystery woman flash through your mind like a movie on rewind.

“Y/N? You still there?”

Chan’s gentle tone brings you back to reality and you mumble out, “yeah.”

“Listen…just forget about it. It was a stupid idea to ask—“

“Go ahead.”

Chan splutters into a pause, “Huh?”

“Go ahead. Ask her out. Make plans.” You bite your lower lip. The sting of tears blur your vision, “I’m not going to stand in your way.”

“Are you okay?”

But you don’t answer. Instead, you cut off the call and then, as if a huge weight has fallen upon your shoulders, you start sobbing into the palms of your hands.

———-

A/N: Part 2!!!!

Part 3 will be coming soon!! This is just the beginning of all the fake dating fluff that happens so chapter 3 will have a lot of that. So stay tuned!!

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pedros-mustache · 1 year

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nighthawks (19)

series masterlist || previous chapter

word count: 5.4k+

warnings: canon typical violence and weaponry, allusion to smut (creampie), language, x fem!reader

a/n: i have rEtUrNeD! thank you for your patience, for your kindness, and for your support. even if i’m the last gal standing, i’m finishing this dadgum story if it is the last thing i do.

also: i play fast and loose with some mandalorian lore in this chapter. figured i would give a heads-up in case that is important to you. 😘

DAY ONE-HUNDRED-SEVEN—LOCATION: UNDISCLOSED JEDI TRAINING CAMP

Hours later, the Sunder lands in the same place it did seventy-six days ago: on a rocky patch of earth swallowed by fog and mystery. From the open mouth of the cargo hold, you peer into the mist, imagining what lay beyond the edge of the clearing. Skywalker’s academy sits at the very edge of the known galaxy, but maybe that was always his intent. You don’t know much about the Jedi—only the rumors that swirl through the galaxy like hushed whispers—but it seems to you that the Jedi thrive on secrecy and shadow. You couldn’t pinpoint your location even if you tried.

You suppose it doesn’t matter. You are here, standing in the Sunder and on a planet you never thought you would see again. You have been afforded one too many second chances over the course of your obstinate life.

You refuse to fuck up again.

Something thuds on the cargo hold floor behind you, and you look over your shoulder. Din stands in front of an open weapons cabinet. He slowly strips himself of his armor one methodical movement at a time. Like a priest preparing for a ritual sacrifice, his mood is a solemn one. Not quite sad, not quite happy either. Sober perhaps. There is a chance that the hunt for Crik could go sour and—

You shake the thought off. It is poison to an already-feeble stomach.

Though visiting home did you well, you have yet to reconnect with the snarling girl of one-hundred-seven days ago. Something in you has quieted since returning to your birthplace. You don’t like the feeling, that tranquility in your chest. The places that once churned with anger and regret have turned peaceable and mellow. It is… unnatural. Uncomfortable.

Inhaling sharply, you wade through your clouded mind to find a spot of clarity. Now isn’t the time for introspection. Time is wasting with Crik ever on the move.

You close in on Din’s side, leaning against the weapons cabinet as he hangs the remaining portions of his armor. “What is it you’re going to say? To Grogu?”

“I’m not sure,” he says, avoiding your pointed gaze. He exchanges his tac belt for a heavy cloak, and the fabric transforms him from a warrior to a wanderer. “But I want to see him. Just in case.”

Just in case. The sense of foreboding shrouding those words brings a chill to your spine. Your mouth runs dry. Fuck, just what is it you are asking him to do? Sacrifice himself for you and your quest for revenge? It’s too much. It is all too much to ask.

Surely someone else is on the hunt for Crik; you cannot be the only one. A renown swindler, an expert smuggler—you remember Din said there are at least seven fobs with his name on them floating around the cosmos, if not more. Someone else could do this; someone else could bring him in.

But no. This is your fight, and Din offered it to you so easily, so confidently. He wants this maybe as much as you do.

“Hey.” Din touches your shoulder. You blink, and the belly of the Sunder comes into focus, as gray and cold as it has always been. Din though—Din touches your arm with a warmth that goes straight to your stomach. “It will be okay.”

“Yeah.” You step away, nodding in earnest as you hurry to tidy the floor. You shove a random boot beneath your arm then grab a scratchy blanket and throw it over your shoulder. “Yeah, I know. It will be fine.”

You move deeper into the cargo hold, further away from Din and the nerves that cling to your skin like a germ. Your arms grow heavy with the objects you collect from the floor. When was the last time someone cleaned up in here? Would a little organizing kill the man? You can barely form a path to the turbolift with the number of boxes scattered across the cargo hold. It’s almost as if the Mandalorian’s habit of decluttering and stripping the ship of any human touch was suspended. As if he were preoccupied with something—someone—else over the last few months.

On that thought, you drop your gathered items to a wooden crate in the middle of the ship. You sigh, hanging your head in remorse. It’s wrong to brush aside Din’s attempts at comfort; it’s wrong to overlook the obvious signs of his affection. But you can’t help yourself. Not when you and your mistakes are the reason he now straps on a pair of hiking boots so he can say goodbye to his son. Just in case.

It’s too much. It is all too much to ask.

The wooden crate you lean against boasts a small pile of veritable junk. In addition to the things you picked off of the floor, there are a few wayward screws and an empty holster draped over the corner. Out of curiosity, you lift the holster and find it is not empty; the weapon inside is merely small. You haven’t seen it before, and you pride yourself on your knowledge of the Sunder’s weapons cache. Not so long ago, Din made you catalog every Makerforsaken weapon in the ship and this definitely wasn’t in the small blaster container.

The weapon is small, only large enough to fit snugly in the palm of your hand. You curl your fingers around the black hilt, rubbing your thumb over the ribbed base. Strange thing, this weapon. You frown as you turn it over in your hand. It pulses with an unseen energy, like a mystic heartbeat, and all your worry about Din and the weight of what is to come, about Crik and journeying to Hoth, about your own complicated existence, vanish. The weapon catches you in its trance, and you stare back, unblinking. You find a small circle inlaid on the side with your nail. You cock your head, scratching the button as you ponder.

Across the room, Din must wonder at your sudden silence. His canteen smacks against the weapons cabinet as he turns to look for you. When he sees you, you hear him take two hurried steps forward. “No! Don’t—”

Too late. You push the button.

With a hiss, the weapon in your hand extends.

A jet black blade fringed with glowing white light cuts through the dim atmosphere of the ship. Long—sharply hewn point—heavy—alive. The weapon is bold and understated at the same time. It is haunted and holy. It is something otherworldly, sent from the heavens or maybe the pits of hell. Maker, you don’t know. You don’t know but it clings to you.

Your initial instinct is to drop the thing, to escape what is so obviously not meant for you, but your fingers tighten of their own accord. As you stare, the weapon’s power seeps beneath your every pore. You swear you can hear the blade itself singing a far away lullaby, a song of old, one that touches something deep in your heart.

Yes. Yes! it calls. Our mother, our mother.

Your heart pounds, and your ears ring. Blood rushes through your veins, potent and sizzling with energy. You cannot breathe—cannot think—as the words of the weapon flood your senses. Sight and sound merge into a pinpoint focus on the faraway language that curls through your mind.

Mother—mother—mother.

Sacred mother—holy mother—at last joined with her holy mate.

Come to us, Mother. Return to—

“Scout.” Din’s voice is low and gentle, a shepherd consoling a lost sheep. You startle, gasping for breath as his hand comes to rest on top of yours. The words which consume you begin to fade, dripping from your mind like ink spilled on blank parchment. “That’s not yours.”

You do not look at him. You cannot look away. “But—”

“Let me take it.”

Without warning, he presses the inlaid button, and the blade disappears within the hilt on a soft whoosh. In an instant, the magnetic hold of the sword is gone. The vice-like grip that held your mind releases, and you sag backwards, falling against Din’s chest. You exhale, trembling.

“What—what was that?”

“It’s called the Darksaber.”

“I heard it… singing.”

Din stiffens. The tension is subtle, but you can feel it in the way he shoves the Darksaber in his waistband with a snap. There is something wrong here, something very wrong.

Din circles to face you, his hands firm on your shoulders. “What was it you heard, mesh’la?” The concern in his voice is evident, and that concern is strong enough that you know beyond a shadow of a doubt you have opened something bigger than yourself.

You want to answer him and parse out the strange words that still ring in your ears

but—

Ka’ered enters the cargo hold. “Ready to go, Mandalorian?”

Turning your face to the newcomer, you blink away the tears rimming your eyes. Your muscles vibrate with unspent energy, your stomach a clenching pit of anxiety. You feel sick. Whatever it was you saw and heard in the Darksaber, it feels like too much for you to consider right now. There will be time later, after Grogu and Crik and righting the wrongs of so long ago…

Din isn’t so quick to sweep the moment under the rug. “Your timing is shit,” he tells Ka’ered.

Ka’ered looks back and forth between you and the angry sheen of Din’s helmet. “Did I interrupt something?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

You answer the question in unison.

Your eyes flash to Din’s, and you grit your teeth. “It’s fine. We need to get going anyway.”

You can almost feel him roll his eyes as you brush past. “Scout—”

“Mando, please. We can talk about it later.”

“When later?”

“I don’t know. Just—later.”

“I’m getting tired of all the laters. There are things we—”

A two-toned beep fills the cargo hold. Din shakes his head in frustration as he hurries to the table on which he left his communicator. He glances at the face of the tech piece then shoves it in his back pocket.

“Gods-fucking-damn-it,” he mutters. He grabs his knapsack from the floor, slinging it over his shoulder. “Skywalker is ready.”

“Then let’s not keep him waiting.”

As you prepare to slowly follow Ka’ered down the loading dock, Din catches your bicep at the top of the ramp. You look away from the unsteady doctor to meet the inexpressive helmet of your lover. You already know what he is going to say before he says it, but still, you listen.

“Later is going to come, Scout. Before we go to Hoth, you and I are going to sit down and talk. About everything.”

A tucked-away sliver in your chest flares in indignation. He can’t tell you what to do. Since day one the Mandalorian—Din Djarin—has never been able to tell you what to do. Though you love him, though you would happily kill for him, you are not his puppet. You are not his plaything. You are your own, molded by the hard work of your own hands.

Have you really changed so much in your months with him? Have you truly forgotten what it means to be fashioned out of fire and brimstone?

The ember of that faraway girl—so brash and rude and everything you need to be on this next hunt—glows in the pit of your stomach. You cling to the hot violence of your youth, stroking it between love-soaked fingers. Come on, you think. Come to life again just this once.

There—you see her—in the corner of your heart, backed between a rock and soft place. You stretch out your hand, and she snarls. Somewhere inside, you smile.

You jerk your bicep out of Din’s hand. “We’ll see about that,” you bite, your tone gone cold with disdain. You take a few steps down the ramp before tossing an upturned brow over your shoulder. “Later.”

DAY ONE-HUNDRED-NINE—LOCATION: HEGORA

Din can tell you feel out of place. Out of practice. Out of control.

You duck, you thrust, you parry, and yet—

you fail.

Time and time again, the muzzle of his gun comes to rest on the exposed flesh of your waist or the small of your back. “Dead,” he says, the word toneless. “Again.”

It is the strangest thing, this sudden change in you. You struggle where you did not struggle before. Though you fight him with the tooth-and-nail bite of the first day he met you, you are uncoordinated and sloppy. You do not think before you act, and you pay the price. With painful repetition, your back, your ass, or your knees become intimately acquainted with the soft earth.

To your credit, each time he bests you, you accept defeat without argument. You rise on trembling legs, square your center, and you fight him again. You are dogged, a typhoon struggling against the house upon a rock. You do not give up. You fight your hardest but it is as if every sliver of training he has drilled into you over the past six months has disappeared. You have reverted back to your old ways—and he’s not sure how to respond.

Since arriving at Skywalker’s academy, you have retreated into yourself. You are standoffish, bordering on cruel. During Din’s brief meeting with Grogu, you stood to the side, arms crossed, face pulled tight in a frown. You gave Ka’ered a half-hearted wave when he elected to remain at the academy to help Skywalker with his trainees; you barely said a word on the trek back to the Sunder, even after Grogu reached out to toy with the end of your braid in a kind farewell. Irritable—despondent—a mere fragment of the girl he has come to know and love.

So he elected to bring you to Hegora before facing the frigid wilderness of Hoth. It has been one-hundred-one days since Din last brought you here yet it feels like one-hundred-one lifetimes with all that has passed. It was here, though, where your partnership first began to blossom, and he is hopeful it is here he can root out whatever bitter weed is now poisoning you.

Din knocks you to the ground again with a firm elbow to the center of your chest. You weren’t looking, were distracted by something off in the distance, so he took the opening. You hit the ground with a weak grunt, your palms breaking your fall before your head can connect with the ground too. Sweat rolls down the side of your face, and you groan, angling your head back to face the sun.

“Damn,” you mutter—as though you had a chance, as though you were even trying.

Frustration worms beneath the concern cocooning Din’s patience. He grabs the front of your tunic and lifts you from the ground with a rough heave. “For fuck’s sake, Scout. What’s wrong with you?”

He tries in vain to keep the irritation out of his voice but he cannot understand this change in you. All your skill, all your focus—gone in the blink of an eye, shattered like glass upon an unforgiving floor..

You shove him away. “I don’t know. I just—” You sigh, neck drooping, eyes shut. “I don’t know.”

“Are you scared?”

Head lifting, you narrow your eyes. “No.”

Din scoffs, the irritation in his chest flaring with your obstinance. “Liar.” He flips his blaster over his wrist to return it to its holster. “There are things we need to discuss.”

“Yeah?” You brush your braid over your shoulder. “Like what?”

“Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you.”

With a dismissive wave of your hand, you step away, reaching for your canteen discarded on the ground. “I just want to get this over with, Din. I don’t want any distractions.” You take a swig of water then wipe the back of your hand across your mouth. You keep your gaze fixed on the horizon, and he wonders where your thoughts float off to.

Gently, he sets out to plead his case. You are skittish, and for good reason; he must tread carefully. Still, Din can’t shake the feeling that setting out for Hoth with so much other weighing down the hunt is a bad idea.

“We should talk—about the Darksaber, about what your father said to me on Inora, about Grogu and what’s going to—”

“No.” You shake your head and toss your canteen to the side. “I can’t do that right now. We need to get Crik.”

“We won’t get Crik if you are distracted.”

Eyes snapping to face him at last, you stab a finger in the direction of his chest. “We won’t get Crik if you are filling my head with—with other things.”

“These aren’t other things. It’s your future, our future.” He winces at the edge in his voice. Gently—gently—he can’t fuck this up for fear you will run to Hoth with your vision painted scarlet.

“I don’t want to talk about our future. I want to get Crik.”

“So do I.” He pauses to ease his tone to a caress. “But I want to know that you’re with me.”

You hesitate, and the bewilderment that twists your brow almost makes Din wish he hadn’t said anything at all.

“Haven’t I made myself clear? I’m with you until the end.”

“The end of what? This job? This year?” He steps forward to take your hand, but relents when you withdraw, shoulders pulling back in defense. He holds up his palm in surrender. “Talk to me, Scout.”

You work your jaw back and forth for a moment of consideration. Your eyes darken as a nameless emotion rises to swallow your face. When you speak, your voice is hardly a whisper, a soft breeze caught in the grass. “I’m with you to the end of the fucking universe.”

The breath in Din’s lungs catches in his throat. He grunts to dislodge the feeling. He nods. “Fine.”

“Good.” You blink, swallow hard, find a comfortable place for your feet to rest. You fist your hands and square your center. “Now fucking fight me, Mandalorian.”

Cocking his head to the side in approval, Din pulls a small blade from the belt on his waist. He flicks his wrist, and the smooth, shining piece of metal ejects with a click. “Show me what you’re made of, mesh’la.”

With an angry screech, you shift your weight onto your back heel and attack. Your right leg explodes outward as your hips rotate in a semicircle. The heel of your foot strikes Din’s wrist, and his fingers reflexively relax. The knife falls to the ground.

But Din Djarin is quick. Always has been, always will be. And this journey to Hoth will test every hard-trained muscle in his body. He needs to be ready—just like you.

As the knife tumbles to the ground and before you can resume your fighting stance, Din circles his fingers around your offending ankle. He yanks, pulling you roughly in his direction. You collapse, your forearms taking the brunt of your fall. Still, you crawl forward, desperately searching for purchase between the grass and the dirt. He grits his teeth and tightens his hold on your ankle.

“Not so fast.”

But you are quick. Always has been, always will be. And this journey to Hoth will test every hard-trained muscle in your body. You need to be ready—just like him.

Propelling your weight over your shoulders, you flip to your back, your free leg swinging as you go. The firm tread of your boot connects with his arm, and again he releases you. Grunting in frustration, he withdraws a different knife as you scramble to your feet.

A line of dirt cakes your cheek. You spit a wad of blood to the ground. Beneath his helmet, Din smirks.

Sunlight glints off of the painted blue dagger you unsheathe from the leather scabbard tied around your thigh. As if you can sense his amusement, a grin of your own captures your face. Somewhere overhead a bird caws, circling the valley, the same valley in which you sparred before.

He moves first.

Din angles his shoulder inward as he rushes forward, but you have enough time and enough wherewithal to step to your left, positioning yourself just out of reach. The corner of his pauldron catches your shirtsleeve. He catches a whiff of your perfume—a gift from your mother—on the wind. He was close, but not close enough. Fast, but not fast enough.

Reaching out, you fist your hand in the loose fabric around his neck and use the momentum of his body to jump onto his back. You cling to him like a lichen to rock, bearing down hard from your position above his head. Your legs wrapped tight around his chest, you lean hard on the back of his neck, trying with all of your strength to force him to his knees. You knock his head to the side with an errant elbow. He teeters, but does not fall.

He dips at the waist. With half of your body poised near or above his shoulders, the sudden shift throws your center of balance off of its smug perch. You gasp, and your hands release his helmet and his arm to grip his pauldrons. Din uses the change in position and the momentary fear to reach over his shoulder and locate your armpit. He grips hard, securing his hold, before throwing his hips backward and up. You slide from his back with a soft oof.

But you take him down with you. Your fingers remain attached to his pauldron, and as you fall, he tips to the side. When you hit the ground, his knee buckles beneath the weight of your body pulling against his. He falls, and his head bangs against the earth with a heavy thud.

Upper hand found, you push him to his back, setting your knees on the juncture between his shoulders and his armpits. The fine point of your dagger digs into the flesh of his neck. You grin, sweat glistening on your forehead. “Gotcha.”

He swallows past the dry patch in his throat. “Unfair advantage. I hit my head.” He sucks in air as he struggles to catch his breath. “I’m out of practice.”

You cluck your tongue in mock-scolding. “Excuses, excuses.”

“No. It’s the truth.” Gently, Din removes you from your seat upon his chest so he can sit up. “That time on Inora was the longest stretch of unpaid leave I’ve taken in awhile.”

You roll your eyes. “You need to get out more.”

“You just want to see me work in the field without my armor on.” He nudges you with his shoulder, and the smile with which you reward him is enough to steal his breath away all over again.

“Maybe.” You give a playful shrug of your shoulders, nudging him back. “A girl can dream.”

A moment of quiet passes. Din extends his canteen to you, and you drink readily. You dutifully look away when he takes his own mouthful of water. One day, he muses. One day soon.

Hegora has not changed in the months since he first brought you here, but you have changed. He has changed. The landscape still rolls into infinity, gentle and graceful and everything Din sees you becoming. The rocks remain steadfast, the treetops swayed by the eastern wind. Din is somewhere between the rocks and the trees, forging a new path, a new Way.

With you.

“Let’s hash it out then. Right now. Before tomorrow, let’s put it all out on the table.”

Din looks away from the distant grove of trees, pulled from his thoughts by your resolute voice. “Really?”

You nod. A sweaty lock of hair falls in front of your face, but you push it away. “I hate to say it—really I do—but you’re right. We have things to talk about, and we should do it before we go after Crik.

“Okay.” Bracing his elbows on bent knees, Din begins with a question. “Why have you been so angry since we left Skywalker and the kid? We’ll go back once this is all done, give him a proper home��”

You pause to peer up into the bright, blue sky. Drawing in a deep breath, you steady yourself. Din covers your hand with his gloved-palm, and you turn to look at him. Your face softens as your fingers twist to notch between his.

“I needed to dig in,” you say. “Try and find the me from before. The girl who fought so hard against everything and hated everyone.” You hang your head on a sigh. “I found her, and I thought she would help me get ready to fight Crik, but…” Twisting a blade of grass between your fingers, you shake your head. “I don’t think it worked. She’s not… me anymore.”

“No, she’s not.”

You look up. “You don’t sound surprised.”

“Guess not.” You blink, eyes wide with questions. Din just squeezes your hand. “I like you like this. I mean, I like you angry and rearing for a fight, but I like you like this too.”

“Like what?”

He hesitates then moves to cup your cheek in his palm. His thumb brushes over the smear of dirt on your skin. “You know it now, all of the things you ignored before. You are forgiven—treasured—” His heart lifts to his mouth, and he does not fight the confession any longer. “Loved.”

He swallows hard. He watches your face. He waits for you to respond.

Loved—I love you. Please hear me.

You suck in a quivering breath as tears flood your eyes. Scoffing, you shake your head and avert your gaze to keep the tears from flowing. With a laugh, you shove his shoulder. “You would,” you whisper, wiping your now tear-stained cheeks. “You would tell me you love me like this. So matter-of-fact.”

Din rubs his hand along the back of his neck, his face warm. “Can’t seem to stop forming attachments to the people who come into my life and are supposed to be temporary. First Grogu, now you…” He shakes his head on a rueful chuckle of his own. “I’ve got a type, I guess.”

“I’m not temporary, Din. I told you: to the end of the universe.” Before he can question you any further, you twist your legs to the side and angle your torso to better face him. “My turn for a question. The Darksaber, what it said to me back on the ship… What does it mean?”

“Gotta tell me what it said first.”

“It called me its mother. Sacred mother—holy mother—at last joined with her holy mate, it said. A bunch of nonsense, but…” Your brow furrows as the brief moment of amusement drains from your face. “I felt it—in my gut and in my head.”

Din leans back, resting his weight on his palms. A cool breeze whispers over the heat rising in his body. His heart thuds against his ribcage. Externally, he is relaxed, a man lounged alongside his partner. Internally, the significance of your revelation is not lost upon him. In fact, it drowns him in reality. If the hunt for Crik goes sideways, he risks losing you. Mandalore risks losing you. Suddenly, cruelly, the promise he made to you to bring Crik to justice seems foolish.

“Mando?” You wave your hand in front of his visor. “Hello?”

He snaps to attention, clearing his throat. “There is a legend. On my home planet, the Darksaber is wielded by the rightful ruler of Mandalore. This is widely accepted. But there is a legend about the Mand’alor’s mate…”

You lean close, hooked on every word. “Well?”

“I haven’t thought about it for a long time. I learned about it as a kid, didn’t think it mattered, wasn’t really sure if it was real. But then I won the saber and—”

“Din, tell me for fuck’s sake! What does the legend say?”

“The Mand’alor’s mate will rise like a phoenix from the ashes.” He continues quoting those ancient words drilled into his head as a boy. “Fire and ice, fury and forgiveness. She will be two sides to her own coin. She will rule longer than the Mand’alor himself, and she will bring an upheld peace to the clans.”

“So you think… the Mand’alor’s mate… is me?”

“If you believe the legend, then who else?”

“What about Grogu?”

“After Hoth, we’ll go get him. He can come with us.”

“To Mandalore?”

Din shrugs. “If that is what we decide. But we don’t have to make up our minds now.”

Rising to his feet, Din offers his hand. You take it, and he pulls you to standing. Your body falls flush against his, and he molds his fingers to the curve of your hips. He dips his head to press the curve of his helmet to your brow. You hum with appreciation as you wrap your arms around his neck. Your fingers find the unshorn ends of his hair, and he is home—here, with you, on the Hergoan hillside.

“You really do, don’t you?” The whisper cuts through his honey-sweet reverie.

“What?”

“Love me.”

Without hesitation, he responds. “Yes.”

The corners of your mouth pull into a girlish smile. Your eyelashes flutter across your cheekbones, and the sun shines from beneath your very skin. He is besotted. He is in love.

He reaches out to curl his finger around the ends of your hair. “My girl,” he whispers.

You laugh and roll your eyes in jest. “Your mate, apparently. Not sure we had an option to avoid all this. We might have been fated to end up this disgusting.”

Din thumbs your chin with the knuckle of his forefinger. “In another life, I’d fight fate to make you mine.”

“I still have questions.”

“I know. For what it is worth, me too.”

Sliding your hands from his neck down his arms, you peer up at Din with a sweet glaze covering your face. So unlike before, so precious now. “Kiss me,” you whisper. “Before tomorrow comes and things get desperate, kiss me.”

When your eyelids flutter shut, Din pulls the helmet from his head. He drops it to the ground, and he thinks he hears it roll away, perhaps down the slope, but he doesn’t care. He catches your face between his hands, and he kisses you. Over and over, his tongue roaming through the open cavern of your mouth. He kisses you until your knees buckle and you sink to the waiting earth.

He takes you beneath the sky, amidst the waving field grass, with your legs wrapped tight around his back. He buries himself to the hilt of you and spills himself within you because he cannot help it and you beg him (“Inside me, Din. Please. Please.”).

After you have both found release, he sucks a dark mark on the side of your neck as you catch your breath, your nails drawing idle patterns along the skin of his shoulders. “My mate,” he murmurs.

“My Mand’alor,” you reply.

When night falls, he sleeps beside you under the stars. You lay tucked between his arm and his chest and your cheek is hot on the skin of his collarbone. Hegora spins on its axis, hurtling through the universe at break-neck speed, but you are safe at his side.

He could ask for nothing more.

DAY ONE-HUNDRED-TEN—LOCATION: HOTH

Snow and ice—as far as the eye can see. Blinding whites and blurry grays, all mixed together in a cacophony of bitter cold and wind. You stand at the top of the loading dock, bundled in the winter gear you stopped to purchase on Nevarro prior to entering Hoth’s atmosphere.

You stare into the beast that is Hoth’s unfeeling climate, and the beast stares back.

Yesterday…

Letting go of the girl you were for good…

Mandalore and the saber’s mate…

His mouth on yours and his body between your legs…

He loves you…

Din loves you.

More than you are able to process overnight, but it’s okay. You have time. Surely, you have time. There will be time for talking and planning and learning the true depths of each other when your business with Crik is through. But first you must complete the one thing you set out to accomplish. Long before Din and offering yourself to the Guild, there was Jeelia.

You suck in a breath. For Jeelia—always for her.

Sensing your resolve, Din interlaces his fingers with yours. He cocks his head to the cold wilderness as a gust of wind sweeps snow up the loading dock.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go.”

NEXT CHAPTER (coming soon)

#din djarin x reader #din djarin smut #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian smut #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal smut

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janeeyreofmanderley · 2 years

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Parallels between the effects of Leprosy and Vampirism?

Reading the more recent entries I was struck by the way Mina describes and deals with her condition resembles the way people in medieval and early modern Europe dealt with leprosy.

"Unclean" was the shout along with the sound of a certain wooden instrument of which I only know the German name, with which the afflicted had to announce themselves when out in public. This way people were able to keep their distance, but also knew, that these people were in need of donations and often received them.

When Mina describes herself as unclean she likens her condition to a disease, that not only severs her from community, but also presents a danger to community. Like a poision the illness works its way through their bodies and well in medieval logic turns them into living, and horrifically already decaying, dead.

Thankfully nowadays much can be done for a leprosy paitent (yay for penicilin!) but back in the middle ages (and much later actually) all that could be done was to sent them to leprosy colonies. The patients were first kept under quarantine, the progession of their rash, the first symptom carefully watched and if the horrible suspicion was confirmed- they were declared dead.

They literally became living dead. And in their presence the priests would read and sing the final rites for them- they recieved a full Christian burial- except they were still alive and in many cases lived fo many years to come.

But to the community they were dead. Their partners could remarry. Their family would receive their inheritance. And they were sent away, now to live away from society as a leper, among other afflicted.

In many cases the leprosy colonies were actually quite humane. They were cared for by the community, a priest would read a daily mass from behind a wall, and in my local town musem we have a 16th century apparatus much like a confessional but with glass panes, through which paitents could talk to visitors regulary- we have evidence that often actually the spouses would come to visit even while already remarried for many years.

But no matter the living conditions, being sick with leprosy meant you were technically a danger to the "living". You carried in you the germ inside you which threatened to turn the people you loved into fellow "living dead", and the only way you could help them was by staying away, and becoming as dead as a breathing human could, giving them at least the freedom your dead can grant since you can't spare them the grief from it anyway.

#dracula daily #dracula #leprosy

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jonathansknife · 1 month

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More Mina!

I assume you mean more headcanons, in which case here you go! Ty for the ask!!!

Link to previous headcanons

She is around 21-22 years old during the events of the book (a baby :(.)

She feeds stray animals whenever she can.

She's a bit of a jealous person, but feels her jealousy is illogical and tries never to act on it. When Lucy got engaged to Arthur, despite how happy she was for them both, she got a bit sad and thought Lucy might tire of her once she was a married woman. She tried to hide her jealousy but it wasn't very hard for Lucy to suss out. Lucy had to gently remind her that she was already engaged to Jonathan. Mina was just like, “Yeah but that's Jonathan, he's one of us, he doesn't count.”

She, Jonathan and Lucy have all known each other their entire lives. As children they would all talk about getting married and Mina had a running joke of proposing to them both. But before she and Jonathan started courting in earnest, she secretly hoped he would marry Lucy because she couldn't imagine a lovelier couple.

She was very easily scared as a child but grew to love horror. Similarly, she cried often as a child but rarely does as an adult.

Elaborating on her OCD: she mainly has moral/scrupulosity obsessions but also has occasional episodes of distrusting her food, during which she sometimes spends several minutes inspecting each piece. This is especially the case after Dracula (not being able to taste or smell anything but rot doesn't help). Sometimes she worries that her food is contaminated with blood. For this reason, she prefers to make her own food.

Since she likes both fibercrafts and papercrafts, she really enjoys bookbinding. She also finds the process of gathering up a stack of information and binding it together satisfying on a conceptual level. She's probably made at least one fully bound copy of Dracula.

She likes rhythmic counting. She uses it as a calming technique.

She has relatively short hair (about shoulder length) because it was once cut off for purported health purposes (in the Victorian era this was a common treatment for brain fever among other things). She likes having it short.

She has creaky joints.

She enjoys really cursed food combinations that disturb the people around her. Again, especially true post Drac. I'm thinking instant ramen with chocolate syrup levels of cursed.

As a child she wanted to be a priest or an undertaker when she grew up.

Don't give her your pens and pencils if you don't like germs because they will end up in her mouth if she isn't paying attention.

Her hands are very sensitive after Dracula. She used to like when Jonathan squeezed her hands but after what happened she prefers to gently hold his hand or wrist. She often wears gloves.

She occasionally writes poetry. She especially likes sonnets.

She is not genuinely superstitious, but she, Lucy and Jonathan like to cycle through superstitions together to sort of test them out. They spend too much time in cemeteries to hold their breath the whole time, but they often hold it as they enter and leave so as not to spread the cemetery air. For a while they carried pigeon feathers because they were thought to hold off death. (This was generally thought to be a negative thing, prolonging the suffering of the dying, but they thought maybe they could “hack” the superstition and use it to their advantage.)

That's all I've got for now. If you wanted a different question answered regarding Mina (or any character), let me know! My askbox is always open and I love talking about my beloved blorbo <3

Send me character asks!

#tysm for the ask aaaa I love answering qs about Mina!!!#pls send more asks or tell me about your own hcs in my askbox #mina murray #mina harker #dracula #re: dracula #dracula daily

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saltypiss · 1 month

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What's strange to me is that some people have this idea in their head that somehow they're above propaganda because they listened to one side explain the other side's lies.

It's even stranger when the fat bulk of lies comes near exclusively from Republicans in basically every aspect.

If you don't want someone to manipulate you or have any control of your life, the first step is to find the truth, not the convenient opinion. Damn near 100% of republican beliefs are convenient opinions with no basis in facts but anecdotes and Larps. They're easy to spot, as they'll take any amount of nuance and reduce it to their limited perspective.

When a scientist or leftist can provide pages of proof with deep explainations, an R will be there to simplify it to the wrong description entirely, to suit their propaganda'd perspective. Leftists and science in general aren't so damn heavily biased in that aspect. If a leftist fucks up, you best believe a leftist will be there to kick them out. Not when R's fuck up however, they Never see one of their own fuck up, and WILL make excuses for them. Much like Leftists with Biden now-a-days. I miss when people weren't scared to criticize Dear Leader.

Seriously. Most leftists are left because the right is brutally dishonest. Many would be fine with alooot of horrid shit if R's didn't make cruelty look so damn stupid and ignorant. Example: Biden aiding Genocide.

That being said, when someone lies on the left, it will eventually come out, the truth. Same with R's, except it's always leftists debunking it, and the rare level headed R having some information they didn't decide was fake arbitrarily to suit new information that conflicts.

Point is: If you can explain your outlook and philosophy with soundbite sized explainations, you don't really believe in anything but the grift. You learn to believe in something when you're confident enough to be wrong and grow from mistakes, when you can list reasonings and examples instead of overly-simplifying everything too complex for you initially.

Because then you'll not only be prepared for new, conflicting information, but not allow yourself to be tied down to convenient opinions over objective reality.

When R's speak up, they're never confident in the idea of being wrong. Only confident in the idea they can change your opinions. This is why Youths don't listen, these people stopped growing and experimenting and learning, while Youths are actively learning about most of the world far faster than any boomer R ever could. When you're three layers behind, that's easy enough to explain, when you're 40 layers behind? It becomes Babysitting.

It's also why losers like Benny Boi Sharpie go to college campuses to "debate" teenagers. They aren't there to grow or learn, they're there to change opinions through quick and easy, convenient opinions.

Best way to put it: Republicans don't believe in Germs, because they can't see them without microscopes and y'know, science? While Reality was studied by Leftists, discovering germs, R's ignored that reality and then covid killed mostly R's because again, they're only confident in changing other's opinions. They will kill themselves in efforts to do so, much like priests of the plague spreading disease as hard as humanly possible.

Really, there's one thing leftists are confident in, and that's that R's are wrong. This was achieved through active efforts to understand, to keep qualities up, to keep spirits within reason. None of it worked. R's kept growing more white supremecist, kept being Dear Leader with Dump and his cronies, then J6th sealed that bag harder than the super glue and staples previously.

Then you look back at history and every point that the world got worse, it was an R. Anytime something horrific happens today, it's Republicans.

And then most of what you'll EVER see from them is Murderous Rhetoric. No, seriously, pull up a random conservative thread or post on any social media, within seconds, Murderous Rhetoric.

Occassionally you'll see it on the left. But you have to actively search, not pull up damn near any conservative thread, post, or profile page. Seriously. Ya'll are violent and cruel for no gain at all. Teenagers bullying kids online is the vibe ya'll gave off before J6th. Imagine now.

R's are R's because they aren't confident in being wrong, and thus, they're not confident enough to grow and learn, and that means, they'll forever be behind the times, and forever scared of every new evolution of humanity and it's technological, medicinal, or otherwise, advancements.

It really isn't left vs right, it's the ability to grow and adapt vs the inability to critically think. It's not even political, most politicians on the left are pro-genocide. The philosophy was confidence for leftists is simply more appealing than convenient opinions. This is why ya'll are shrinking further and further.

Ya'll are Larping. Leftists actually believe, and they believe so strongly because they were confident enough in potentially being wrong, to speak up and share information, debate and research, that when they were wrong? They listened, they adapted, they grew, and because of this: They never chose arbitrarily. They believed based on evidence.

R's "believe" in whatever talking head tells them to think. After every controversy there's moments of self-reflections that get cut off by the next speaking point someone else gave them. They never earned their opinions or beliefs, they only stole them. You cannot believe in another man's words unless you can back them up for yourself. And so far? It's a whole lot of Larping about Video Game Companies making women less polygonal and thus more realistic.

Again, I need to stress: The only culture war here is Republicans against Reality, new perspectives, new outlooks, new anything. Unless it's a get rich quick scheme, they'll deny it outright. Every time.

Really consider that most creators are Leftists. Ya'll lack nuance so hard ya thought Rage Against The Machine wasn't specifically about YOU. Seriously look up how much art you enjoy is Inherently Leftist. Why is this? It's because Leftists believe in hard work that spreads positivity to others, they have a message that comes from strife and experiencr to share. It's why LGBT stuff does well and Christian nonsense doesn't.

R's don't have anything in their philosophy that justifies or explains any of what's wrong in their life. They have experiences of oppression and other negativities, but haven't a single larger piece to connect it to. They weren't oppressed for being gay or black, they're oppressed under such a shitty government. They're oppressed with poverty. They're oppressed in disinformation. All of us are. But the difference is that their and our oppression makes 0 sense in their philosophy or outlook.

Leftists are primarily the oppressed, and thus their art has meaning, it came from reality and the philosophy was built out of trial and error, oppression, and active efforts to Truly Understand Why.

R's think America is dying from Socialism. and 1% of the population is somehow a bigger threat than school shootings. And "guns don't kill people" and "obama's wife is a man" None of these have a place in reality. They are simply Convenient Opinions. None of it came from experience, trial and error, it came from a Talking Head.

So, if an R has somehow read this far, the next time ya see a debate between left and right, do your own fact checking and watch as it's unequivocally shown that one side truly believes, while the other side is Larping. That one side is speaking from any amount of experience, while the other spits convenient opinions left and right incapable of changing anyons's mind hut those totally divorced from the discussion, randomly picking a side.

That's all assuming the R reading this isn't one that's purposefully spreading misinformation. For them, nothing can change that you will die with nothing to show for your life but a Larp that Will End.

Reality will keep chugging along, while ya'll act like Leftists from 2013.

#republicans #democrats #left vs right

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vasiktomis · 2 years

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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."