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[vasiktomis]

Four-Letter-Words (18+)

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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–”

“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."