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vasiktomis · 2 years

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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."

He’d expected this to feel worse. He's ruined his life, and all he can feel about it is...tired. Tired and relieved.

You cup his jaw in your hands, and the man nearly melts. "One step at a time."

"Probably should pack my bags."

"Towel might be nice, first."

Irritation blooms. "I told you—"

You cut him off with a short kiss.

"I'd be partial to a shower."

Travis stops in his tracks.

Considers it.

"Yeah. Okay. Shower works."

#im so sorry to be putting this in the quarry tags #travis hackett #euaveri stuff #legit cannot thank anna enough for all the delicious artwork holy moly

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writer59january13 · 11 days

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I feel in führer rated and envious...

entrapped within webbed wide world

weft as a rump pulled stilts skein

at warp speed exhibiting my heroic trumpian wiles

cuz he (johnny come lately) a then exemplary hedonist, narcissist, and polygamist dons

comical, farcical, illogical, lunatical...

offal dolled up endearing guise,

when inconvenient truth broached

particularly determining paternity, no matter countless progeny sport windblown

swiftly tailored mimicked matted coiffure of mine

resembling hirsute trademark

of appalling though revered forty fifth president,

nevertheless harried hair styles in tandem with fabrications riles the madding crowd - myself included

into frenzied orgasmic state, no matter yours truly upholds voluntary penitential platonic marital modus operandi suddenly as one celibate sexagenarian absent physical intercourse intolerable as hemorrhoids or piles analogous to flat footed yardbird schlepping miles

joining the long line of exiles.

Vice president of United states gifted with maiden name Harris, whose surname same as mine

one I feel like a proud boy to profess,

cuz ma late polymath papa jack of all trades

self taught handyman skills as an A1 roofer who repaired and raised the entire roof from stem to stern

never contracted shingles, nor did his prodigal son - yours truly - me experience the bane of painful rash that can appear as a stripe of blisters that wraps around the side of the torso and caused by varicella-zoster virus (VZV), the same virus that causes chickenpox, hence Preparation H best over the counter ideal balm to ameliorate painful rectal itch

and thwart bummed out uneasiness,

enjoying consummated adultery

avoiding using uncomfortable prophylactics (prickly prohibited topic dejure) though riding bareback

doth severely aggravate, complicate, impregnate, and vitiate

surrogate domestic policy

putting a modern spin on Anna and the King of Siam

with intent to create aery vision of utopia,

where videre licet barenaked ladies essentially gamely frolic in the autumn mist fomenting one after another

to tease out rock ribbed ready erection

with premature ejaculation for excitation

Harum-scarum fidelity be damned

bordello supplants "city on a hill"

buzzfeeding playboy bunnies

with fourteen carrots to squire then politely escort each to their respective boudoir in a blatant, explicit effort to foster and grow caliphate at the expense of electorate qualm impossible mission to keep brood of squired earthlings in the balance portends especial ominous nightmare if Project 2025 implemented

also known as the 2025 Presidential Transition Project, constitutes a political initiative published by the Heritage Foundation that aims to promote conservative and right-wing policies to reshape the United States federal government and consolidate executive power if the Republican candidate garners majority of votes

making first day on the Somme feel like kindergarten tussle as anarchy rears up across United States of America pitting (olive him nonetheless) despicable unnamed despot wannabe

analogous courtesy unsettled Leviathan surfacing from the deep cyber sea

against cherished inalienable constitutional rights buoying

the land of the free and home of the brave renting the country asunder, with incendiary vitriolic rhetoric, which similar fate befell Vietnam thanks be partially to hydrogenated, and promulgated American foreign policy. as highlighted below to recaptcha wretched colonialism. The (shameful – my input) about United States' foreign policy in Vietnam was shaped by several factors, including the Domino Theory, the Vietnam War, and the legacy of the war: The Domino Theory The U.S. foreign policy after World War II was based on the idea that if one country fell to Communism, the surrounding countries would follow, like dominoes. The Vietnam War The U.S. supported South Vietnam against North Vietnam, and fought in the war directly. The U.S. trained and assisted South Vietnamese forces, and conducted ground operations, river and canal patrols, and more. The war was costly and divisive, with estimates of over 3 million Vietnamese deaths and around 58,318 American deaths. The legacy of the war After the war, the U.S. imposed a trade embargo on Vietnam and severed ties with the country. The U.S. believed that Vietnam had violated the Paris Peace Accords and had not accounted for American prisoners of war. The embargo lasted until 1994. Normalizing relations In the 1990s, President Bill Clinton began normalizing diplomatic relations with Vietnam. Today, the U.S. and Vietnam have a relationship that includes maritime security assistance, and partnerships between Vietnamese universities and U.S. higher education institutions. The United States' foreign policy in Vietnam was shaped by several factors, including the Domino Theory, the Vietnam War, and the legacy of the war: The Domino Theory The U.S. foreign policy after World War II was based on the idea that if one country fell to Communism, the surrounding countries would follow, like dominoes. The Vietnam War The U.S. supported South Vietnam against North Vietnam, and fought in the war directly. The U.S. trained and assisted South Vietnamese forces, and conducted ground operations, river and canal patrols, and more. The war was costly and divisive, with estimates of over 3 million Vietnamese deaths and around 58,318 American deaths. The legacy of the war After the war, the U.S. imposed a trade embargo on Vietnam and severed ties with the country. The U.S. believed that Vietnam had violated the Paris Peace Accords and had not accounted for American prisoners of war. The embargo lasted until 1994. Normalizing relations In the 1990s, President Bill Clinton began normalizing diplomatic relations with Vietnam. Today, the U.S. and Vietnam have a relationship that includes maritime security assistance, and partnerships between Vietnamese universities and U.S. higher education institutions. Before concluding this poem, I wanna hammer home, and nail laughable personal misperception of suspecting that roofers specifically plagued with shingles constituted from the following materials. Asphalt: A traditional choice for homeowners, asphalt shingles made from a fiberglass or paper mat covered in tar and granules. Composite: These synthetic shingles made from a combination of materials, including recycled materials, slate, laminate, and wood. Wood: Wood shingles and shakes made from logs of trees like Western Red Cedar, Cypress, pine, or Redwood. Some pieces are treated with preservatives or fire retardants.

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medsbase · 1 year

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getoswhore · 3 years

Text

‘ REPUTATION! — tomura shigaraki.

☰ ft : incel! tomura x f! bimbo! reader

+ synopsis : there's a big frat party going on the day a major project is due, maybe the incel of the school wouldn't mind a deal. | est. 1.2k wc

cw/tw : sws + quirkless/college au, shiggy is creepy, dry humping, shiggy drools, humilation(?), shiggy slander. shiggy premature ejaculates.

the tight clutch you have on the hem of your short pink skirt is out of annoyance, disgust, and discomfort. just sitting near him was already enough, but working with him on a project in his dorm room made you want to gag.

the cans of monster engulfing the small trash can that was barely noticeable in the corner of his room, the pitiful amount of figurines and collectibles that all stood on his cluttered desk alongside candy wrappers and stains of skeptical dried up liquids, the piled-up dirty clothes stacked on a peeled leather chair, and even to the odd smell that lingered in his room, which reminded you of a sewer on a hot day.. or maybe of a wet dog?

you couldn't figure it out and didn't want to.

honestly, out of all the students in the classroom, you end up with the naturally nastiest, weirdest, and quietest one, shigaraki? but, he was smart.. maybe the smartest student out of the entire class– college, but that doesn't make up for your discomfort.. and he can tell you were beyond uncomfortable in his presence, but honestly, he couldn't care about what you were thinking or feeling.

he just wants to get this art project over with.

"i can finish this off. you can leave." the sound of his raspy voice crushing through the thick awkward silence there was made you flinch slightly. it was like the first time hearing this man talk, ever.

your eyes flicker towards him as your glossy lips pucker and your brows furrow at his offer, which sounded like winning buzzers to your ears but you knew you had to stay. and honestly, that was the only thing you knew about this project.

"as much as i want to, shigaraki, but mr. aizawa said that this project is a.. uh.. whatcha ma call it?"

"collaborative?”

"oh, yeah! that weird word! a col-lab-o-ra-tive project and i don't wanna get in trouble for not doing it with you. so, i will stay, sadly.." you say highly. having to break down that big word for your diminutive brain as your sharp pink nails tap at your blank piece of paper in front of you. and that blank piece of paper was was supposed to be filled with notes hours ago.

shigaraki looked at you as if you had a rotting fish for a brain, your thoughts equally foul..

"okay then," shigaraki mutters, twitching his dried-out eyes back to his own paper.. that was filled with crucial notes, "it's not like you were doing anything anyway," he grumbles low into his baggy sweater, not audible enough for you to hear.

"hm, what was that?” you asked mindlessly and he simply ignored you.

you huff in annoyance seeing how he clearly dismissed your question but your head tilts softly to the side, keeping your beaming eyes on his side profile, and your face was contorting the longer you stared at him.

his greasy and unkept pale hair that looks like thick ropes swaying softly around his withered face. his dull crimson pupils in dying need of eye drops scanning over his paper, which they sat above baggy and wrinkly eyelids that drooped in exhaustion. his few deep dry scars that dragged over his right eyelid and the left side of his lips.. those thin uneven lips.. cracked and dried out.. always making it tempting for you to slide over your cheery lip bomb to him.

yet, that small mole under the right side of his lips you thought was..

cute.

“what?” his annoyed face snaps over towards your curious one. your eyes widen slightly at his bitterness, making you pout, your chest to puff upwards and your bare legs to cross over each other out of defense. it was hard for shigaraki to keep his irritated eyes connected with your magnified ones when your skirt traveled upwards from the sudden lift of your leg. though, he could still see the smooth skin of your fleshy thighs in his peripheral view..

“nothing.” you hiss out, but this unwanted tension was quickly overruled by the buzzing of your pink phone across from you.

it was like a magnet.

your head snapping over and your manicured hands reaching out for it and without hesitation, you picked up the dazzling phone without looking at the caller id.

"hey sissy! what are you doing?!" the pitch of your voice made shigaraki cringe. but his perverted eyes took this chance to glance down at your thighs for a better look as you twirled with your hair and mindlessly spoke with your friend about something that went through one of his ears and out the other. the only thing he picked up was,

"party?! can't project. after school. mm, why not? can't make it then.. but maybe.."

you kept babbling on about something he did not care about, at all, he was too focused on your thighs that we're suddenly being more exposed to.. him? the grip he had on his dull pencil tightened the moment he noticed your delicate hand playing around with the hem of your skirt, pulling the soft fabric up higher and revealing more of your skin to him.

wait.

what.

shigaraki's poppy-colored eyes darted up to yours and he almost choked up on his saliva. you were gazing at him with just the right look of heat in your eyes to make a strong pang shoot between his legs that very second. that look of ardor was glossed heavily in your gaze, a chemistry of passion and need, a seed of love, an invitation for him.

you didn't just look at him, you looked into him.

it made his numbing brain wonder why you're gazing at him with such a ravishing intent? it made his brain stutter with questions, but the moment you pulled in your bottom glossy lip by your teeth, only to let it bounce back down into place, shigaraki's brain flat wired.

"okay, i'll see you then.” you hang up the phone with a tedious smile displayed as you began to play with your exposed collar bone lightly as your other tapped softly at your thigh.

"so, shiggy– mind if i call you that, right?" the playful smile you presented to him made his head nod unknowingly.

“good, well, maybe we can work up that offer you said? and i'll pay you back in return?" you flicker your alluring eyes up at him as he just ogled at you with his mouth slightly agape.

"hm? what do you say? it would be very sweet of you if you did," you push yourself forward into his personal space, a hand sliding up his slim thigh to squeeze at. the sudden touch made shigaraki's usual slouch to be replaced by a stiff mannequin pose. "and i'm sure you don't want to give up such a deal, with me." the warmth of your breath layered against his lips; you were so close to him, practically crawling in his lap.

shigaraki was having a hard time forming the right words without them sounding all jumbled up, and it was never a great sign when his conversation-to-be is sounding witty in his head, but he managed to choke out, "w-what, are you trying to do?" he croaked, unfamiliar with a woman's touch.

you giggled sweetly, leaning back with a small pouty smile.

"what do you think, silly? you said you can finish the rest of this alone, yeah? so, you do this for me and i’ll make you cum.” you coo, as the grip you have on his thigh moved over to his groin to show him by what you meant more clearly, as if he didn't get the hint already. and you can feel the obvious tent pressing up against the buckle of his black jeans.

“mm, seems like your up for the offer, huh?"

you tease him, giving his hardness a soft squeeze only for him to buck his hips slightly up into your touch. it made you giggle seeing how sensitive he was and the boggled look in his eyes.

you can see he was visibly sweating, bad, all out of nervousness. his face was so flushed with heat it looked like he was going to have a stroke. hell, he just might because one of the prettiest girls in the entire school is touching him and not just touching him, rubbing his erection. it was like a wet dream he always had with you and he tried biting the inside of his cheek to check if it was because this surely can't be real, right?

a pretty girl like you wouldn't be touching a worthless guy like him.

right?

"sooo?" you squeeze his bulge harder, and this made him realize this was all so very real. it made his head spiral for a second as you felt around the outline of his cock and you were pretty impressed, almost shockingly impressed. the feel of his girth was overwhelming in sheer mass and the small thump you could feel every time it twitched made you unintentionally rub your thighs rub together.

"y-yes, i can finish it. you do whatever you want." the desperation in his voice to finally be touched by a woman is so embarrassing and you can feel him already softly humping against your palm for more friction. it was quite a sight to see and you wanted to see a little more..

even though you were holding back the acid-like vomit in the back of your throat for even touching him. you gulped it painfully down and easily slid into his lap, ignoring that pungent musk radiating from him. the moment you firmly planted your plush ass against his crotch, feeling his impressive erection prodding against your cunt through the soft fabrics of your panties, he let out a pitiful moan. it was so pitiful, yet, so pleasing to hear a man be so desperate for a simple touch from you.

you can tell he's never had this type of contact from a woman– contact from anyone in general. and shigaraki stingily savored this sensation of you rubbing your clothed cunt against his stiffness.

you could feel your velvety walls clench around nothing, cunt fluttering at the friction against your puffy clit as his rough, callused hands suddenly glued themselves to your thighs, squeezing, cupping, and massaging every inch of them. the rough feeling of his hands and the tight grip he has on you made you feel, appreciated..

as his adventurous hands roam around your skin, they fumble at the hem of your skirt and greedily moved it upwards to see more of a view. his mouth watered, seeing the cute little pink panties your wearing that pressed up against his aching bulge. this feeling of this was as if he could perceive your sins through the electromagnetic spark that crackled when his skin connected with yours.

your glossy lips curl as you coil your fingers around the small white buttons of your uniform and slowly began to unbuckle them. shigaraki's rosy eyes beamed straight up at each pop of those little buttons. each one popping open revealed more of your chest, and all the way down to your tummy.

he caught the drool that almost dribbled out from between his lips the moment your breast bounced in front of his face. the sight of your soft and round flesh was something he's never thought he will ever admire.

you smirk, shooting a playful wink at him as you took one of his hands to place on one of your soft breasts. the look on his face was just astonishingly funny to you. it was as if he was a little boy receiving a present he's been longing for on christmas.

and this present made him feel like he was going to cum.

“oh, fuck.” and so, he did.. this sight, this friction between the two of you was too much. so much, it made his eyes clench tightly together and his hips to buck up against you; embarrassingly creaming himself in his tight pants with a hot load of fresh cum, the drool he thought he had swallowed back now dribbling down the fat of your thigh.

the whine he let out as the greedy hold he had on your hips tightened, squeezing at your soft flesh as a safe haven. your jaw almost dropped, already feeling his sticky load seeping through the seam of his jeans.

he is so sensitive you thought, and the whine he let out as he came made you beam. you could still feel his cock throbbing, the excitement he was feeling was unreal, and you couldn't help but grind your hips against his as a brutal tease.

“pfft, i knew this would be easy.. you really have never touched a woman before!” hearing you say that with a tedious giggle split his already whittled ego apart. being an average twenty-year-old male in college without the experience of a woman always poked fun at his manhood. but now, hearing it come from a preppy, idiotic school girl like you, who's always made fun of him silently in the back of class with your friends really pissed him off.

“you really are a loser, huh?”

you giggle some more and this set him off the edge internally.

“well, i made you cum, sooo, finish the rest of this? mkay, you weirdo?” you hit at his thumping chest softly before fumbling out of his lap, quickly fixing yourself up.

shigaraki’s breathing is still heavy as he's still struggling to come down from cloud nine. his heavy eyes hood, watching you collect all of your stuff together in your small pink purse. he breathes out, still, in shock that a pretty girl like you made him cum like this.

“anywhore, tell anyone about this, i’ll cut your balls off. i don't want anyone knowing i was touching an incel like you ‘n ruin my reputation.” you chirp out, unknowingly you're making a hatred in his heart for you to deepen.

“wait, wait!” the strain in his voice was harsh, it was as if he was cumming again. your brow cocked up at him, “i’ll do all of your projects for the rest of the year if you—”

“no! perv.. well.. maybe.. i’ll think about it.”

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kimberlylam1997 · 4 years

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movingaze · 4 years

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vasiktomis · 2 years

Text

Enclosed Spaces (18+)

Pairing: Travis Hackett/Gender-neutral Reader. Solo. Rating: Explicit (Minors do NOT interact). Word Count: ~4000. Warnings: Sexualisation of a cop (yuck). Passing mentions of gore and violence. Depictions of paranoia. Read it on Ao3!

Tags: No use of Y/N. Light angst. Self-hatred. Masturbation. Pining. Premature ejaculation.

There’s a particular sense of dreariness in diners nowadays, Sheriff Hackett has decided.

It wasn’t always like this. Back before smartphones and the internet — hell, even cable TV — before technology and fast tourism had made damn clear how cut-off from society old communities like North Kill were, Travis had spent his adolescence looking forward to breakfast outings wedged in vinyl booths with his family on this particular stretch of forest road. Even in his youth, it was decades past its zeitgeist, but as a rare treat offered by parents who prided themselves on self-sustainability, he and his brothers had once loved coming here.

The Hacketts were an introverted people by nature, but they held the respect of the county-folk for their dedication to keeping North Kill from being wiped off the map. As time passed and the population dwindled, only the most well-established locals seemed to persevere. Businesses rotated through owners almost yearly. One brother was born. Then the next. Travis's family, while ever-changing, were among the only constants he knew. Them, and this meagre little diner, nestled in the trees.

It was always the same.

Bobby, forever the baby, would be shoved between Ma and Pa’s elbows while they traded conversation with whatever locals stopped by to chat. Chris, while closer to Bobby's age, suffered enough middle child syndrome to boost him half a decade to keep up with Travis. On their side of the booth, the two of them would brag to each other in the hopes of catching the attention of pretty wait staff. 'A copperhead bit me once while I was hunting with Pa, but I was too strong and the poison gave me powers. I have the tooth, still.' Chris would almost yell to him over the table, both of them fixated on the 20-something that leaned across them to top up Ma's coffee.

“He’s so cute.” The waitress would coo at Bobby, not even sparing his competing older brothers a glance while the kid carved yet another crayon into the tabletop, fingers and chin caked with grease and maple imitation.

Those moments were the only instance Travis could recall hating one of his own.

The years came and went. Times changed, but out as far as they were, the routine didn’t. Pocket money and independence turned the spot into a hangout in a pinch. Tourists came through in increasingly modernised cars and wardrobes while their little town — if you could even call it that — drew further and further out of time. Architecture dulled. Classics became white noise.

Family breakfasts dwindled in adulthood, but Travis still frequented for the 24-hour service that shift-work had forced him to appreciate. It was familiar. Quiet. That same side of the same booth, in the same dingy little diner. It had become an especially common habit for him in recent years to hang around the place after clocking off. Ever since Silas had been on the run, it was a handy spot to eavesdrop on late-night chatter when one had otherwise silence awaiting them back home. If there wasn't some muttered tip to follow up on, there was at least the clatter of plates. Some casual wave. A ‘hey, Sheriff’ — hell, even a drunk to ferry home — or lock-up, behaviour permitting.

In the present, there's no better reason to be here than you.

There's you, bearing a welcoming smile, returning to his booth like clockwork while the hours pass in the night to top up his coffee. You, who combats the loneliness and dreariness of this out-of-time place with ill-fitted enthusiasm and daily anecdotes ranging from boring to bizarre. Something about you teems with stubborn, relentless, fascinating life, and when there's nothing else to observe in the room, Travis takes great pleasure in simply existing in your proximity.

He doesn’t speak to you. Not in a familiar sense. Small-talk is a hard habit to break out of when you’d been working here so many years and all he’d grown accustomed to trading for your words were unamused hums and taciturn, one-word responses. He likes to think that despite the lack of chatter, however, your short interactions had stacked enough familiarity over all this time to transcend conversation. Even if he wouldn't dare to ever address you by your first name, Travis likes to think you enjoy having him around.

At least, that’s what he tells himself every time you linger at his table, slowing the stream of coffee from the pot to enquire about his day and he chokes out a curt reply that gives you absolutely nothing to work with. It’s what he tells himself when he barely returns your smiles, far too concerned with family business, work, and nerves to regard you until it’s too late. When you’re already tending to another patron or shuffling menus or cleaning tables. Gaze captured by your retreating form only when the pressure of your attention is no longer on him.

Existing in your proximity is doable. Comfortable. Talking to you, on the other hand; he can't think of anything more terrifying.

Tonight — however — is a little different.

It’s almost sundown when Travis is finishing up. Bobby and his parents are waiting on him to prep for tonight’s hunt. Chris and the kids are most likely sedated and chained up by now.

You’re tugging the ties of your apron as you approach, signalling the end of your shift, and his heart sinks in relief at the prospect that you’ll be home instead of here for the full moon. Unfortunately for the both of you, that weight shifting off his shoulders looks a whole lot more like annoyance on him.

Despite his refusal to match your energy, you seem to hold out. “You need a top-up before I head out for the night, Sheriff?” You ask, beaming bright enough that he can barely stand to meet your eye until you’re finally faltering.

Travis’s jaw rolls. Words jam on his tongue. Silence. At least until he averts his gaze to the setting sun out the window and stands from his seat.

“Making sure you’re the one getting the tip, huh?” He grunts. A breath leaves you. Polite laughter. He’s almost dizzy at the sound. “I’m headed out, too. I’ll, uh— I’ll walk you out.”

He overtakes you on the way to the door, maybe a little too briskly while you stop to grab your things from behind the counter. It feels almost like it could've been an evasion if he willed it, but you're catching up as he slows to escort you out. His intention is to be gentlemanly; commit to the absolute bare minimum of courtesy — maybe even catch a whiff of whatever shampoo you use while you're close enough.

Fuck his life that a group of 5 just so happens to walk through the door as soon as he opens it, ignoring the two of you completely on their way past. Travis's molars grind. Whatever. Maybe that albino shit might scare some manners into them if they stay out too late.

His failed attempt has him distracted enough that he forgets his intention completely and walks outside first, only just remembering to hold the fucking thing for you once you’re already outside.

The summer air offers no reprieve from the heat crawling up the back of his neck while you follow him down the steps, gaze flickering at him in his periphery. It's a battle not to turn his back to you when he slows to a stop in the parking lot — to just pretend you don't exist for a few seconds and claw back a little dignity.

Jesus fucking Christ, he hates himself.

He rifles through his wallet for whatever note seems appropriately sizeable enough to communicate a job well done without seeming like he’s playing favourites among the staff, and half-expects you to disappear the moment the cash is in your hand.

You do not.

“Thanks." You mutter, shrugging a shoulder. The act of giving you money while you're not in uniform almost feels dirty. He's on the verge of asking for it back before the two of you continue on your way. "You, uh, you walking me to my car?"

The curious tilt of your head has Travis frowning. Then, he realises he’s been meeting your stride in the opposite direction of his patrol car.

“Is there a problem?"

"No, you're welcome to." There's amusement in your tone. "Safest 30 steps I'll ever take."

"Sure."

Christ, why couldn’t he have been born with a little of Chris’s charisma? Why does walking you across a parking lot have to be so painful?

“You headed back to the station tonight?"

“Nope.” Fuck. Elaborate, dumbass. “I’m — Out. Off. For the night.”

In the corner of his eye, your gaze wanders elsewhere. The prickling in the back of his neck eases.

“Got any plans?”

“Family business.”

“Which one?”

That almost makes him chuckle. “The hunting one.”

It wasn’t strictly a lie.

“Anything after?” You ask.

“All-nighter. Bastard we’ve been after’s migrated back up North from the sounds of it."

“Sounds pretty elusive."

“You don’t know the half of it.” The corners of Travis’s mouth tug.

For just a moment, while you’re rounding the driver's side of your car and the two of you slow to a stop, he’s finally able to trade a friendly expression with you.

Silence stretches between you for a moment, a little more comfortable now that you seem to be the one searching for your words. With the tables turned, watching your gaze flicker to meet his — then away — then back again — he decides it’s…cute, when you do it.

That smile blooms across your face once more, now trained firmly on him.

“Maybe I’d like to.”

A pit forms in Travis’s stomach. Blood drains from his face. He sobers in an instant. Your words echo through his thoughts, sharpening with mounting anxiety. What exactly were you trying to say? You were interested in hunting?

The smile still lingers on you, and what felt like amusement moments ago has suddenly warped into something harsh and mocking. Did you know what they were hunting? Were you probing him for information?

“What makes my time any of your business?” He snaps, ignoring a pang of guilt at such a confrontation. Perhaps he was being too paranoid. Perhaps you were none the wiser. Just curious. Less sense than caution. He made an effort to ease up at the sight of your brow furrowing. “I think it’s wiser that you get in your car and go drive home.”

You’re pulling the door open. Not quite able to slip into the drivers seat when Travis’s palm presses into the chassis, using whatever presence he could just to make sure you were listening. “Maybe another night, then.”

Another night?

Anxiety turns to panic.

“Don’t let me catch you out here after dark." He insists, voice hardening. "You’ve got no idea what you’re doing.”

“I meant…—“

“I don’t care what you meant. I’m telling you to drop whatever it is you’re hoping to get out of this. No ‘another night’.” Travis grinds out. “Go home. Do I make myself clear?”

The ensuing pause is dreadful.

“Yeah.” Eventually cuts from between your teeth. Your eyes flash disdain at his order. “Sorry. Won’t happen again.”

Travis notices far too late how close you’ve become until you slip out of his shadow. Maple scent disappears with your presence as you get into your car, avoiding his gaze now. His hand still rests against the chassis, preventing you from leaving. He leans down.

He needs to be certain you’re hearing him. He needs to know you’ll be alive in the morning.

It’d be overstepping to offer his number. Let you know you can call on him for help outside work hours. He'd be there in a heartbeat if you asked, if not for the implications.

“I’m flagging your licence plate.” Is all he can offer in lieu of a assurance. “I see your car anywhere between here and my family’s home? May god help you.”

The mortification is clear enough to have him content. You’re not pleased to say the least, but his point is well and truly across. It's fine; it's better this way. There's safety in distance, and he can always compensate with a more generous tip tomorrow.

Travis pushes the door closed the rest of the way, molars grinding at the empty smile that broadens on you.

He’s upset you. He knows it, but he can’t be faulted for steering you clear of the hunt. For keeping his family safe.

Maybe another night, then. That phrase sticks out to him while you start the car and back out of your space. He’d have to keep a closer watch on you if you planned on challenging his warning more than once. Another night, then. You'd never shown an interest in hunting. Why would you do such a thing, if not out of nosiness? Malicious curiosity? Spite, even. It made less sense the more he replayed it. What was that if not an invitation to–

...

An invitation.

Oh. Oh, no.

Travis goes rigid, watching your car pull out of the lot. Hands frozen on his hips. Gawking.

Had he not been on display to the entirety of the diner, he might’ve thrown something. Started kicking the tyres of his patrol car.

You were making a fucking pass at him.

Shit. Shit!

You’d shown an interest in him. In him. In being with him. Off-duty, outside work hours. At night. Recreationally. And he’d just torn you a new one for it.

Fucking piece of shit. Fucking loser. Over and over while he trudges back to his own vehicle, the conversation flickers through his thoughts. How many more ins had you given him prior to today? How many fucking chances?

The sun's half way past the horizon. He doesn't have time to reflect. He has to table this for now. As much as the realisation claws at his insides, he has to focus on the hunt.

Maybe if he kills that kid tonight, he can look forward to making amends.

That's the final reflection he allows himself before shoving the though to the back of his psyche, where it can't bother him.

_____________________________

It does bother him, as it turns out.

It haunts him through the night while he searches for Silas in the undergrowth. The White Wolf hasn't made an appearance tonight and the trail is cold, and while his failure is spelled out by undisturbed frogs and crickets chirping late into the night, the Sheriff is almost relieved. The incident outside the diner and the replaying memory of it deafens him to the ambience. If he's being stalked by the werewolf, he's far too distracted to know it.

Finally, the sun rises, and Travis is once again out of time. Another month to add to the record of the family curse. Another month of Ma's ire and Pa's hard-won, past-his-prime lectures. Chris and the kids didn't deserve this. Especially the kids.

He has to get back to the station in a few hours. Pretend he hasn’t been wandering the woods all fucking night. He has to clean off. Decompress. Take just a little time to reflect on what he’d said to you — on how the fuck he could hope to set the record straight when the mere knowledge that he’d held your interest was trying his stomach in knots.

If he couldn’t work up the spine to speak to you before, he's got no hope in hell of approaching you now.

The moment he’s back in his flat, Travis bee-lines for the bathroom, ignoring hunger and exhaustion and the temptation to retrieve the 6-pack from the fridge along the way. The blood he’s worn to cover his scent on the hunt isn’t so obvious against the black of his uniform, but it acts almost like a sponge, soaking fresh stains over his skin, incriminating him in the light.

He doesn’t bother to let the water run hot before he steps into the shower fully clothed, barring his shoes. The half-minute of icy spray does well to remove whatever rusted pigment his clothes might gain once dry. Momentarily, the chill of the water is enough of a shock to his system that he stops mulling over what happened in the parking lot.

It doesn’t last. The self-loathing seeps back in right while the water pooling around the drain runs copper and crimson. Another night of fuck ups. Another month of cursed loved ones and the overtime it took to keep them safe. Some small part of him protests; maybe they’re asking too much of him — maybe it isn’t fair that it all falls on his shoulders. With Bobby’s disabilities and his parents’ ages, though, who else can keep everyone safe?

He’s ashamed of himself for such a sentiment. And yet —

He feels just as cursed.

To be free of the favours and the corruption and the secrecy — the fucking paranoia that settles over every conversation that someone might know, or find out. He fucking wishes he could spend a moment in that diner with a clear enough head, just enough to be capable of holding a conversation with you.

Maybe he's shifting the blame too much. This has been going on so long that he can't be sure if he was terrified of you before Silas came to the county. It's possible that even if the Harum Scarum hadn't rolled into town, and there'd been no fire, and no witches, and no werewolves — he'd still be sitting in that little booth.

The water begins to warm, and Travis reluctantly disrobes in the cubicle, unbuttoning and peeling off his drenched uniform. Shame hits from a new angle once his trousers are discarded. He’s half hard in his periphery. A frequent state he’s left in while you’re on his mind. While he’s at his booth, thanking his lucky stars to be covered by the table while you wipe down tables, bent at the hip, reaching for too high glasses, body stretching, waist cinched by an apron perpetually dusted with coffee grounds and sugar. While he’s seated at his desk in a silent police department, combing social media for your image despite your unanswered friend request and the access that just fucking accepting would give him and fuck—

He blew you off.

One fucking window of opportunity left wide open to reciprocate a now obvious flirtation, and he’d spent it trying to intimidate you instead.

God, he's repulsed by himself. Even in the wake of the hurt and the gore, he's still suffering an erection. Even when his hands have scrubbed the mask of blood off his face and the smell of rotting flesh is all but washed away, he's still left in disgust.

What if he’d thrown caution to the wind and allowed you to come along tonight? It was quiet. You'd have survived. He'd have had you trudging through the brush, armed to the teeth. Would you still have been interested after that? Would you have pitied him, or laughed at him for his monthly routine of dousing himself in werewolf’s blood, and failing to track a freak show attraction who couldn’t even speak?

On the other hand, what if he’d taken this one night off? Had the common sense to tell you 'tomorrow night, I’m available' ?

Why were you drawn to him in the first place? Did you feel sorry for him in that empty station, in his empty patrol car, in his empty flat? Was it the uniform you liked? Or had his hope that your mutual little routine of small talk affect you as well?

Maybe, somehow, you took him at face value and liked what you saw.

Travis stiffens at the thought. A twitch from below beckons his attention once more. He presses a forearm against the cubicle wall, shifting his weight, contemplating.

Then, he gives in. Takes himself gingerly in-hand and basks in the relief of touch, thoughts clearing, envisioning the potential your interest might have had before he ruined it.

Do you find him attractive? Do you steal your own furtive glances when he isn't taking his own, ignoring the thinning hairline and the way his ears stuck out — or do you like that, too?

Heat licks up through his spine with an experimental pump. Body reacting emphatically to what he's testing.

Travis slackens with a sigh as the tension in his shoulders lessens. Nerve's spark elsewhere now, begging to keep his attention. His forehead comes to rest against the tile beside his wrist, and swallowing back a hesitation, he builds into a rhythm.

Did you want him to fuck you? Did you think about that at all before today? He ventures to hope you’re kind enough not to mind the only experience he has to show for himself is a handful of one night stands dotted few and far between. You’d be patient, and he’d make it up to you. He’s nothing if not dedicated. He’s all too happy to learn.

A scene he's imagined before takes shape on the backs of his eyelids. If you’d let him, he’d take you in your workplace. Late hours of a weeknight. Unlikely that anyone should enter, but always a risk that you could be caught. He’d have you against the counter, apron bunched around your waist. Right now, though, he can’t decide which image he prefers. Bending you over the counter-top or having you spread on your back atop one of the tables. Would you let him, anymore, after how he treated you?

Maybe some fucked-up, fictional version of you might find retribution in sex. Shit, he likes the idea of that. Foregoing verbal apology in favour of physical satisfaction. Something electric buzzes through his nerves, core tightening with a particular throb that simultaneously warns and sings. He's already close, and slowing strokes do little to lessen his momentum.. He has to make the best of the time he has.

Travis changes the scene. His patrol car. Behind the wheel. Sitting back, helpless beneath you while you rock in his lap. Taking what you need from him. Paying no mind if he’s already finished— overstimulated, trembling, slacks a stained mess from how much of him has spilled out of you. It’s only fair, after how he behaved. He transplants the image into as many scenarios as imagination will allow: his office, his couch, his bed. Arms draped around your rib cage, cheek pressed to your sternum. Feeling you make yourself come around him, over and over, flushed from exertion, not letting up until the score is settled and forgiveness is earned.

When you’re finally done taking what you’re owed, you give way to sweetness again. Fingers scratching gently through gelled back hair. Lips ghosting over his forehead. Murmuring praises. Telling him how well he did.

It's the thought of being held by you that brings him undone.

The surge comes too soon, catching him off guard, choking the air in his lungs. He’s emptying into his fist already, bliss and humiliation dragging him through an orgasm that lasts nearly as long as his performance. Whatever hasn’t been spent on the tile wall coats his knuckles in residual little twitches.

The image of you evaporates, and a nearly inaudible curse slips through Travis's teeth.

He doesn't want to leave the cubicle. What he wants is to savour the waning warmth. Enjoy what he can of the afterglow before clarity and guilt creep back into his mind.

Even if you did want him, the truth would change that.

He’d blown you off, but at least you weren’t privy to what he’d done. What he was doing. So long as he kept you at bay, the height of your disappointment would only stem from his refusal.

Fuck. He couldn’t convince himself of that.

At some point, he’d have to decide whether or not he’d be content to remain in the stasis of that booth, in bitter silence, or clear the air. Admit wrongdoing and hope that you’d find his incompetence charming, so long as he hadn’t completely dashed his chances.

The prospect alone terrifies him.

He didn’t want to think about it anymore. He’s so fucking tired.

At least there’s a 10 hour stretch of shift work between himself and that confrontation.

At least there’s still a few minutes of hot water left.

...

He can work with that.

He's got another round left in him.

#i know. i know.#please do not perceive me objectifying another middle aged cop #travis hackett #the quarry

243 notes · View notes

punkscowardschampions · 3 years

Text

Edie & Liam

aleeunayzhun: anyone else think the ‘monster’ addition was totally unnecessary and has taken away from what was a mildly intriguing ARG concept beforehand?

aleeunayzhun: 🙄 back on the trail for a new rabbithole to fall down

level26: Yeah, axed it for me

aleeunayzhun: the paranormal route can be alright if it’s done right but usually it ain’t and then it’s a cop-out, PM definitely didn’t think where they were going with this

aleeunayzhun: the ones that rely on the real world but twist it are always scarier to me, no one ever has the balls to stick with it, to not throw in some bullshit ghost jumpscares to get the idiots with

level26: creepypasta is where it ends up with barely no exceptions

aleeunayzhun: mhmm

aleeunayzhun: and no one has shanked their mate over anything on there in time

level26: got a few I’ll volunteer if the next 🐇 is more of this or promo again

aleeunayzhun: If one more shitty band thinks throwing out some binary or morse code makes them any less shit, I’ll join you

level26: dednah tfel neve t'nia ylbaborp yeht

aleeunayzhun: imij erew yeht hsiw yeht

level26: 👅💔🍆💔🎸💔

aleeunayzhun: 💔 they reckon hot groupies hang about on reddit

level26: trolls are their groupies, they can only be fuelled by edgy r/hate 🤘

aleeunayzhun: awh, r/hate is only a degree away from r/love after-all

level26: just like that, a plotline that’d be less crap than [whatever this ARG we’re slagging off is called]

aleeunayzhun: not gonna start my annoying beg promo in here quite yet but how hard was that, really

level26: us both being spam bots is still a better twist than the monster did it

aleeunayzhun: Привет, дорогая, хочешь увидеть мои сексуальные фотки? Hажмите ссылку СЕЙЧАС! [‘Hello dear, do you want to see my sexy pictures? Click the link NOW!’ And a link to god knows what lmao]

level26: NO soundcloud rapper link?! 💀 what an r/cockblock

aleeunayzhun: how’d you guess 😏

level26: my paranormal powers kicked in, clicking that link must’ve leveled me up

aleeunayzhun: advert for communism? 🤔🤫

level26: find me and my sick beats on r/motherrussia

aleeunayzhun: MK Ultra is definitely taken by about 1000 other shit DJs

aleeunayzhun: and is the poorly executed plot of several other ARGs I’ve also given up on

level26: KM Extra is my personal fave shit DJ, really doing something

aleeunayzhun: the fact I genuinely know who that is 😷😷

level26: I noclipped into his set at [somewhere she would have heard of even if she’s not been] talk about an eldritch location

aleeunayzhun: you must’ve felt like the only player in a crowd of NPCs 🧟‍♀️🧠💀🧟‍♂

level26: close enough to the review I would’ve left

aleeunayzhun: I’ll leave it

aleeunayzhun: I know the coordinates

level26: I’ll 👀 out for it

level26: you on moscow standard time or one of the other 10?

aleeunayzhun: I’m the Russian spy, I hack you, comrade

level26: ❤️ tôi cũng cam kết với chính nghĩa cộng sản ❤️ [with some link to the Communist Party of Vietnam because we’re saying we’re as committed to communism]

aleeunayzhun: [links to the Communist Party of Ireland to be like obvs we have both worked out we’re actually from here

level26: cracked the code, like, full props to KM Extra

aleeunayzhun: Only in Dubo would that shit fly

level26: they’d eat his head off outside the pale, yeah, galway’d be having none of it

aleeunayzhun: what they got but a bunch of rocks though

level26: easy pick for the murder weapon

aleeunayzhun: you’d never get far enough in the guinness factory to drown someone in a vat 💔

level26: could do if you got a job as manager and closed for essential maintenance

aleeunayzhun: 💡

aleeunayzhun: won’t do no harm to the taste

level26: iron boost if he’s bleeding heavily when he goes in

aleeunayzhun: delicious and nutritious

level26: ARG coming soon from guinness

aleeunayzhun: bastards better give credit

level26: they can have it, we’re not short of ideas

aleeunayzhun: and you ain’t heard nothing yet

aleeunayzhun: not making it that easy for the wannabe PMs with none of their own

aleeunayzhun: 🔐the real ones

level26: fair play, given enough freebies out in this thread

aleeunayzhun: 🤐

aleeunayzhun: [later on though definitely some way to contact her privately but in a way that you’ve got to work it out of course]

level26: [at least then we can switch to y’all’s names ‘cause I can’t think of a username for the life of me lol]

Edie: [You can add it later and change it, it’s fine lol]

Liam: 🔓

Edie: 1 🔑 for 1 💎

Edie: Suitably impressed

Liam: if I knew anywhere that loaded a 💎 into the gun I’d be off but what’s impressive about a swollen and green ear

Edie: Impressive, no; but good footage for the game? Absolutely

Liam: I’d do it here to have time to mess about with all the lighting and angles

Edie: you’re 🎥

Edie: not enough have actual artistic merit so fair play

Liam: but thinking about it, recording the conveyor belt of a trainee stabbing holes in screaming babies ears all day could have some merit to it, maybe I should get myself up

Edie: you can buy anything and everything from bezos

Edie: live your dreams

Liam: putting my dreams on tape would be worse than the monster reveal

Liam: cheapest jumpscares and effects

Edie: not to mention outing yourself to the whole thread, not just me

Liam: how many teachers would crawl out the woodwork if there was a mass reveal

Edie: to offer you the school’s stellar mental health services

Edie: the one nurse phoning it in

Liam: find my dad lurking on the thread too, that’d be a trip

Edie: unexpectedly wholesome

Edie: I’ll start hiding caches where my dad hides his stashes

Edie: unintentional rhyme

Liam: bars 🎼

Edie: @ KM Extra

Liam: Fachtna to his ma who thinks he’s a saint

Edie: Oof

Edie: ARG concept no. ? the horror of the Irish language

Liam: my ma would be 😱 if I went and hugged her for not doing me that wrong

Edie: not the audience we aim to 😱 really

Liam: too easy

Edie: almost as easy as your name to spell and say

Edie: you even from here 👽

Liam: wouldn’t take enough working out to set you as a test, records are basically lying about

Edie: nothing relating to school is a challenge

Liam: just getting that nurse to give a shit

Edie: if she reckons she’s 👀 it all…

Liam: front row of our intended audience

Edie: splash zone

Liam: she’s never off her phone, spy like you won’t have no problem hacking it

Edie: her nudes = actual monstrosity

Liam: dunno what Mr Doyle sees in her

Edie: yeah, he’s such a looker himself, like

Liam: his wife used to be pretty fit

Edie: don’t matter when she explains how and why people cheat

Edie: psychobabble gets ‘em off every time

Liam: if they taught psychology nobody’d be off each other or learning anything then

Edie: sounds like any other standard schoolday

Liam: that's what they’re getting up to in your class, is it

Edie: as cliche as the monster, yeah

Liam: 🔥🏫

Edie: hear hear

Edie: got to make the endless fire drills worth it one day

Liam: can’t miss me standing in line or not

Edie: then I won’t

Liam: next false alarm I pull

Edie: + 💎

Liam: + 👀

Liam: dont have to hate every cliche

Edie: not the good ones

Edie: all about how you use or misuse them

Liam: can you overuse eye contact

Edie: I can

Liam: I can make a kubrick stare work however many takes you wanna do

Edie: you don’t think I’m a one-take 🌟

Liam: I’ve not shot you

Edie: 🤯🔫

Liam: I’m not a one-take 📷📹

Edie: is that a brag for not suffering from premature ejaculation?

Liam: do you need that reassurance

Edie: I don’t know

Liam: I’ll think about other unsexy shit if your eyes start getting to me too much

Edie: Ha, yeah right

Edie: just don’t think about the 🔥

Liam: 🚒 buzzkill

Edie: 🚓 cockblock

Liam: 🚑 scene stealers

Edie: 🛸 out of here

Liam: before you can get stuck there as a 👻

Edie: Purgatory is preferable to that place forever

Liam: stay alive and it’s simple to get out of 🏫

Edie: I’ll leave my bag behind

Edie: 1st rule and only, really

Liam: don’t really need a pile of textbooks

Edie: I doubt that’s what you carry

Edie: I know I don’t

Liam: I can get more of what I do and I bet you could too

Edie: Bars

Liam: 😏

Edie: You’ve promo’d him a lot if you ain’t him

Edie: KM, like

Edie: bit sus

Liam: you said you know who he is, you know I ain’t

Liam: maybe I love him or some gay shit

Edie: none of his tracks sound like love songs

Liam: guess he don’t love me back

Edie: Oh honey

Edie: lock him in when you set the fire

Liam: he can keep spitting out those fuck yous til the end

Edie: dedication ✊

Liam: and +++ for morale

Edie: what a lad

Liam: love triangle is a cliche too far, take a deep breath or something

Edie: bit possessive

Liam: directors are dicks

Edie: and the heartbroken

Liam: yeah, couldn’t be kind to you if I wanted

Edie: I’ll survive

Edie: you’ve given me the heads up, I’ll give you the 👀

Liam: respect killing me with your 👀 and taking him for yourself

Edie: who could blame me

Liam: my ma as I’m dead, like

Edie: true

Edie: i’ll avoid her at the tescos

Liam: 🛒 dash

Edie: got a selection of my own

Edie: [picture because the random crap you would have in the barns lmao]

Liam: [a picture of one he stole at some point that’s on fire or been blown up or whatever]

Edie: 👏

Edie: what else can we 💥

Liam: got any barns you don’t use

Liam: or 🚜 stuff

Edie: loads

Edie: if you’re lucky, I’ll leave another 🔑

Liam: got another ear to put a 💎 in, luck’s gonna run out beyond it

Edie: sounds like some gay shit, you should

Liam: 👌

Liam: [pics when we’ve done this because of course we have, casually raiding either your mother or sister’s jewellery stashes here like]

Edie: Oh

Edie: actually looks kinda sick

Edie: you’re welcome then

Liam: I’ll send the footage when I’ve edited it

Edie: I look forward to it

Edie: I can’t give you any clues

Liam: what makes you think I need em

Edie: [idk how to differentiate but clearly the clue to where you live needs to be much harder to find and then decode lmao]

Liam: [awkward when he blatantly already knows where you live]

Edie: [do not even need to do the work, whoops]

Liam: [convincingly pretend you are though please]

Edie: [thank god he’s not a murderer even if he is a stalker, just giving out this info willynilly]

Liam: [not your stalker, it’s FINE]

Edie: [oh dear oh dear]

Edie: I’ll know when you work it out

Liam: yeah, I’ll show up 📷📹🌾

Liam: or send a 📦💣 if you wanna take things slow

Edie: you decide

Edie: I’ll shake all the packages extra hard

Liam: cancel the real 🐇 I thought about

Edie: animal cruelty is lamer than bed wetting

Liam: never even tipped a 🐄

Edie: they’ll appreciate it

Edie: anyway, if you did, punishment is letting them kick you in the face so you lose in the end

Liam: head injury’s a win if I get caught for the 🔥🏫 or being seen staring in your window

Edie: 😍🤤 just serial killer things

Liam: pretend I didn’t say KM’s gonna be my 1st victim

Edie: I’ll never feel special otherwise

Liam: you don’t feel special knowing I cracked your code

Edie: if anything, it makes you look smart and me not smart enough

Liam: you’re smart enough that I wanted to

Edie: I’m not going to ruin it with a cliche jumpscare now

Liam: me either, you’re smart enough too to see me coming

Edie: and you’re tall, so I hear

Liam: dunno where from, my dad’s not

Edie: he’s definitely your dad?

Edie: I may as well accuse your ma because I’m already avoiding her for the whole killing you thing

Liam: don't act like it which probably means he is

Edie: ha, real talk

Edie: I think you might be taller than mine

Edie: he’s 6’2

Liam: ha, I am

Edie: you’re the tallest person in school, possibly town

Edie: definite 👽

Liam: taking their time parking the ufo and picking me up, typical dad

Edie: did they forget ET or leave him here on purpose

Edie: he was fucking annoying

Liam: if I looked that much like a ballsack I’d understand

Edie: 😂

Edie: least you’d get to get fucked up with baby Drew Barrymore

Liam: baileys on cereal does taste sick, always down for that

Edie: yum

Edie: what do your fingers look like

Liam: [a video of his hands from lots of angles like hello]

Edie: hot

Edie: you can call me Elliot

Liam: or just call you instead of home

Edie: 😎 so smooth

Liam: what’s my ma gonna say, get back, talking to you is smarter

Edie: I’ve got time to set up the voice distorter so you’re not disappointed by the lack of crEEEEeeeEPpPPpyyyyYy vibes

Liam: and I’ll have loads of time to hear how you sound without it when I stake your house out

Edie: I’ll be sure to be loud

Edie: and not chat total inane shit with my family

Liam: you got your own room

Edie: technically not

Edie: but there are other rooms and places to crash in, when I wanna be alone

Liam: there’s my excuse to zoom in creeEEPpILY close 👀 when you’re not

Edie: very awkward and even ruder if you confused me for my sister

Edie: no one’s done that for ages

Liam: how were they ever doing it

Edie: we’re both the white ones, they just didn’t know which was which

Liam: can’t be a hard code to crack, not gonna be confusing you for anyone

Edie: good

Edie: it was pretty annoying

Edie: and I’m already your second victim as it is

Liam: partner in crime, or groupie to mine if you’re not getting actively involved, but still standing at the end

Edie: hope you’re writing some of these down

Edie: ‘cos I’m not gonna be your groupie

Edie: got my own scores to settle, own havoc to wreak

Liam: don’t need to write down I don’t want you to die, I’ll remember

Edie: it rhymed though

Edie: I’ll steal your lines then

Liam: write as many songs about me as you want, be your groupie til I get 🛸✌️

Edie: [send your music links because you ain’t]

Edie: give me a sec to do yours but pretend any of these are about you

Liam: this is you

Liam: serious

Edie: yeah

Edie: if I was gonna lie I’d have done that a few steps ago

Liam: I’m gonna lie they’re all about me

Edie: that’s what serious meant

Liam: it meant I’m impressed and you’re downplaying how smart you are

Edie: you can be my hypeman and overplay it

Liam: [does by uploading this edited ear piercing escapade with whatever song of hers we like and fits the vibe playing in it, giving her credit because we’re not a heathen and also putting on his stories that he’s listening to these tracks and hyping them how you can]

Edie: [so 😍 over this but trying to be chill somehow and somewhat even though we’re extra af anyway]

Edie: maybe I do wanna be your groupie

Edie: what do you want from me

Edie: like, I owe you and I want to give you something too, ‘cos

Edie: talking to you IS interesting

Edie: and not just because I could be talking to my ma or someone else really boring instead just ‘cos you are

Liam: [for real though her views would definitely go up cos the vibe is he knows loads of people through his sister but also through his weird vids and the raves and stuff he goes to now too so]

Liam: all I want’s to keep talking to you, for as long as you’re into it

Liam: people don’t unless we’re off our faces, like

Edie: my notifications are popping off rn

Edie: I know what you mean though, everyone’s too scared to say or do anything when they don’t have something to blame it on, like being stupid or weird or whatever the fuck actually matters

Edie: more than being bored and alone

Liam: dunno what they’re more scared of, what they wanna ask or how I’m gonna answer, least I know what the topic’ll be

Liam: every convo I have is a loop

Edie: all anyone ever cares about and knows is the headlines

Edie: as if there aren’t countless hours minutes seconds before and after the big events they all 👀 and 👂

Liam: work out sweet for you as a headliner

Edie: Getting them to talk about what I’m doing instead of whatever my parents and the rest of the fucking fam did or do is the goal

Liam: with me hyping you up, no bother, keep knocking out hits and I’ll promo em with no trace of binary or morse code

Edie: and you make films

Edie: I wasn’t sure if you were pissing about at first

Edie: every other person in that thread is an aspiring filmmaker so

Liam: did put me off for a while

Edie: Yours aren’t going to be bad Blair Witch ripoffs though

Edie: I can say that much without seeing

Edie: even the stuff you’ve sent today is dope

Liam: do you wanna see

Edie: yes

Liam: [link her cos I doubt all the weird shit is just there chilling on your insta or whatever]

Edie: [just casually watching all of this nbd]

Liam: siht ekil kool annog weiver ruoy

Liam: или, может быть, это

Edie: hoặc tôi có thể làm như thế này [‘or I could do it like this’]

Edie: si ffuts ruoy kniht i looc woh edih annaw tnod i tub

Liam: ba mhó an spraoi é a cheilt agus a lorg go pearsanta [hide and seek would be more fun in person]

Edie: If you’ve worked out where I live like you say

Edie: be fair and count to 100

Liam: you reckon you made it that easy do you

Liam: be cool if you added some 00s to that and gave me a fair chance

Edie: no, you could still be anyone

Liam: someone to be scared of, yeah I probably am

Edie: Do you want me to be scared of you

Liam: nah

Edie: Good because I’m not and I never promised I was a 🌟 so

Liam: 🤩 with or without promises

Edie: How have I never spoke to you before

Edie: so weird

Liam: I wouldn’t have known what to say to a girl like you

Edie: You seem like you’re coping fine to me

Liam: from behind a keyboard I can cope with anything

Edie: You’re not afraid of me either

Liam: not yet

Edie: What do you think I’m like?

Liam: smart, creative, nice to talk to and look at

Edie: then you’ve got nothing to be afraid of

Liam: I’ve got nothing, that’s bang on

Edie: I’m not trying to take anything from you

Edie: but I could throw those compliments back to you x 10000

Liam: you don’t like possessive, I ain’t gonna tell you what to do

Edie: I didn’t say that

Edie: you could claim better than a soundcloud DJ though

Liam: been waiting to hear that compliment specifically

Edie: 😏

Edie: You look like you’d be a fuckboy

Edie: that’s what I thought

Edie: you’re that good-looking

Liam: if I was the game’d be making you think I wasn’t, which is kinda where we are

Edie: True

Edie: so I’m that dumb or you’re that good, what are we going for?

Liam: you’re smart enough to play dumb, I don’t think I can aim for god tier puppet mastery of anyone’s emotions

Edie: I can see the appeal of that

Edie: closing you eyes to thing you don’t wanna see, to see the things you do

Edie: but mine are wide open

Liam: I ain’t mad, there’d be no appeal to yours being closed, unless you drop bars in your sleep too

Edie: you’re gonna find which window is mine and find out, yeah

Liam: wake you up before you name drop KM as it’s MY thing

Edie: that’s your man, I can respect it

Liam: exclusivity is a + for you then, I’m taking notes

Edie: I don’t really know

Edie: everyone’s lame

Liam: I’ve been there, yeah

Edie: I can’t fake enthusiasm for the sake of it

Liam: it’s a shite idea, doable or not

Edie: I don’t intend to

Edie: 🤞

Liam: can’t think why you’d have to

Edie: I won’t make you promise

Liam: what’ll you make me do

Edie: I want you to show

Edie: and be real and not just go ghost after this

Edie: but I don’t know if you will and I know you might

Liam: be a short afterlife, we don’t get american summers

Edie: we both got the capabilities, but I can promise not to stalk you if you like

Edie: if you want to stick to usernames and anonymity

Liam: not working out where you are to prove I can and a face in the window haunting wouldn’t even impress any dads lurking on the thread

Edie: Alright but I’d be more inclined to keep a secret if you asked opposed to all the dads

Liam: I wouldn’t wanna keep anything we do secret

Edie: Yeah?

Liam: if this is a scam I’m falling for everyone’ll see why and if it’s not I’m gonna document everything

Edie: I won’t ask for your credit card details even once

Edie: This is… different

Edie: isn’t it

Liam: you can have my ma’s, you’re avoiding her and the big tescos

Liam: I don’t know what this is, I wasn’t expecting you at the end of any of those links

Edie: It IS the least she could do

Edie: If I had a guess, you weren’t it

Edie: Even though you mentioned Dubo, it isn’t that small of a town

Liam: ha, how livid you’d be if I was another american coming here for the culture

Edie: not close enough to st patrick’s that I was worried

Liam: how did you feel

Edie: I thought no way it was you at first

Edie: and then I couldn’t believe it was you

Edie: and then that I should’ve known you sooner

Edie: what about you?

Liam: I still can’t believe it’s you, I would’ve tried to chat to you sooner if I knew this is how it’d go

Edie: I’m glad we are now

Edie: and I’ve not fucked it up

Liam: if the small world’s not fucked it up, you won’t

Edie: like you said, be shit if you were in America

Liam: be crap if you were anyone else from school, like you said

Edie: If it was anyone else from school

Edie: this convo would be well over by now

Liam: it’s the longest I’ve had for years

Edie: It’s all so surface level, right

Edie: fuck that

Edie: I wanna know more about you, I don’t care if I shouldn’t just say that

Liam: what do you wanna know

Edie: Hmm

Edie: Do I only get the one question?

Edie: Because I’ll think more carefully if so

Liam: nah, there’s no limit on it

Edie: Cool

Edie: so how was your day, and what were you doing just before you went on the forum?

Liam: [send her a video of some rave or whatever you were at because it’s summer bitches]

Liam: + 3-4 hours sleeping

Edie: Lucky

Edie: where’d you sleep and where’s the weirdest place you’ve got + 3-4 hours sleep before?

Liam: [send her some of the blooper-esque stuff you cut out to make it look more fun than it is, cos we know you’re usually bored]

Liam: home, I can’t 💤 in random xD places but I could call your dad short and maybe have him in a fight

Edie: that’s hot

Edie: he could’ve been there and you coulda tested that theory

Edie: but I wanna be there when you do

Liam: you’d have a shite view from the stage with lights blinding you, can’t let on how talented you are while we’re there

Edie: 😶

Edie: he’s not old so it’s not on a par with animal abuse lameness

Liam: and if I get carried away you can stop me

Edie: can I

Edie: + skill points

Liam: 🎶 works on monsters

Edie: have to find a way to get you home before the 💤 hits

Edie: so cute 🥺

Liam: mine or yours

Edie: 😳

Edie: I’ll protect you while you sleep, see if you can at mine

Liam: I can’t if you’re 👀

Edie: that might be a problem

Liam: how long can you not blink for

Edie: [send a vid of an attempt]

Liam: can I keep this

Edie: ‘course

Edie: use it if you can

Liam: when you write a song about me it’ll need a vid

Edie: I’ve started

Edie: I think by the time you find me, it’ll be done

Liam: people who don’t know you are gonna think I edited your eyes that colour

Edie: hashtag they’re real 😏

Liam: the girl who said she had an operation as a kid’s the real you

Edie: 😂

Edie: they were going rouge and I’ve repressed those memories

Liam: what were you doing before you logged on

Edie: not at a rave, sadly

Edie: I was masterminding a sabotage though, trying to anyway

Liam: don’t leave it there giving me no details

Edie: it isn’t even bad ARG plot worthy

Edie: but my sister has her gross boyfriend over and I need to ruin their fun, obviously, because they are unbearable

Edie: easiest way to do that is make them babysit the twins because there’s nothing fun about 9 year olds

Edie: so I convinced ma to go out on a date, but I still need to get my brother out the way and he’s a massive nerd who never goes anywhere so I’m stumped

Liam: we could have fun with it, gotta be a route to go down that’s not just ripping off the shining again

Liam: a nerd how, he’s on mastermind and his subject is _

Edie: 🪓 is just a prop, honest

Edie: bones, not in a cool way

Edie: History, all that old shit

Liam: [obviously find some kind of obscure af exhibit or book signing or something that he’d potentially be interested in and send her the deets because sleuthing is what you do boy]

Edie: OMG but genuinely

Edie: you are too good at this, I’ll have to keep you around

Liam: stashed with the 🪓

Edie: if you fit

Edie: He’ll actually go to this, for sure

Edie: 🐓🚫

Liam: keep what you figure’s useful and chop off the rest 🧩🧟

Edie: 😋

Edie: what an offer

Edie: and I do need to keep busy so I can’t be asked to step in

Edie: not that I’d say yes

Liam: busy like with a 🧭

Edie: go on

Liam: [god knows what scavenger hunt he’s sending you on gal that he apparently just has ready at the drop of a hat but here we are]

Edie: [live your best nerd lives]

Liam: [really hope these clues aren’t something he was gonna torment your sister with, because no thank you]

Edie: [lmao i hope it wouldn’t translate so easy ‘cos imagine]

Liam: [it definitely wouldn’t but a hardcore blag happening here regardless, I like to think you were actually coming up with this for her while you were pretending to work out her address that you already know]

Edie: [that’s a solid shout ‘cos yeah that is a thing lol]

Edie: [definitely sending you the demo of this song at the end as a prize because we’re beyond 😍 now]

Liam: [likewise even though he’s trying to downplay how 😍 he is to himself rn because it’s so weird that she’s Rio’s sister and that he actually also likes her in her own right so we’re fully !?]

Liam: [nevertheless trying to think of something creepy but cool he could send to her house so she knows he knows where it is and that we think this demo is amazing obviously, maybe it’s lots of other people’s shit musical endeavours like KM that we’ve set on fire and otherwise destroyed in creative ways like you’ve slayed the competition gal since cds and tapes are back baby idk]

Edie: [I wonder if I can find something like that to post hmm to pinterest I go]

Liam: [love the visual of you just sneakily dropping off a massive box of melted plastic without anyone seeing you]

Edie: [you’re clearly good lmao, I was thinking we could do a convo with Billie between this and the next one though]

Liam: [good idea boo, I’m up for that]

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