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clarepreed · 5 months

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Pulseless

Story Content and Summary - 7,080 words. Paul and Andrea are home alone when she has a heart attack. Heart attack symptoms, on-site resuscitation, non-detailed mention of vomit, Stryker LUCAS 3 device.

“Are you sure you feel up to going?” Paul asked his wife. Andrea sat on the edge of their bed in her underwear and a lacy top, looking peaked and a little sweaty. “Maybe we should stay home. What if you have the flu? Or COVID, for that matter?”

“I don’t have COVID,” Andrea grumbled, raking her hand through her salt-and-pepper hair. “Or the flu. I just overdid it in the garden this morning. Damn, everything’s sore. I pulled some muscles all up and down my left side...”

Paul gave her a sidelong glance and shook his head, then pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. He knew this was ineffective; he meant the gesture to be comforting rather than diagnostic. She’d been a little stiff and pale when they’d come inside, but her ill health had only really kicked in within the last half hour. “If you say so. Will you be alright if I take a shower?”

Andrea gave him a weak smile and reached up to massage her jaw and the back of her neck. “I’ll be fine. Don’t rush.”

“Alright.” Paul leaned close for a quick peck on the lips. “Let me know if you need something.”

“Can you lean my cane over by the bed? So I don’t have to hobble?” She gestured toward the corner. “I don’t know why I stuck it there.”

“Of course, sweetheart.” Paul snatched up the telescoping cane and laid it on the bed next to Andrea. Then he hurried into the bathroom. He was fairly certain they would not be going out, but he needed a shower regardless. Before he closed the door, he looked one more time at Andrea; she was slouched, obviously uncomfortable and achy.

In the bathroom, he hurried through his shower, trying to listen in case she called out to him. He honestly wasn’t sure if she was sick or not; since their car accident, regular life activities took a greater toll on her body. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d had to miss something because she was in pain or needed to rest, but Andrea was stubborn. Most of the time, this was a quality he appreciated.

Paul was rinsing the soap from his hair when he heard the bathroom door slam open, the toilet lid hit the front of the tank, and the unmistakable sound of vomiting. Paul cut off the water and pushed back the shower curtain, dismayed to see Andrea leaning over the toilet, bracing herself on the wall and sink with shaking arms. Her cane slid along the edge of the sink and then clattered to the floor

“Ah, damn. Looks like you’re sick after all.” Paul snagged his towel with one hand and reached for her elbow with the other. “Are you okay?”

Andrea flushed and shuffled over to the sink. “I want to brush my teeth. That was foul.” She sounded breathless.

Paul hovered behind her, quickly drying himself and reaching for the clothes he’d just taken off. Andrea rinsed her mouth and brushed her teeth, looking all the while like she was agitated and in pain. Her hands shook, and she kept reaching up to rub her jaw.

He’d gotten redressed by the time she was done, and he reached for her, noting with concern how pale her lips were. “Come on. Let’s get you into your PJs and into bed where you belong.”

Andrea rubbed from her jaw down to her chest, her face contorting into a grimace. “That gave me heartburn. And God, but I have such a neck spasm…”

“I can get you some medicine for that. Both things.” Paul bent and snatched up her cane, handing it to her. Then he hooked elbows with her and walked her into the bedroom. She was breathing heavily by the time he sat her on the edge of the bed, so pale from head to toe that the scar down the side of her right leg stood out angrily. Paul laid her cane on the bed. Andrea panted while he dug through her drawers, looking for her most comfortable pajamas. “Hey, maybe we should go to urgent care?”

“No,” she gasped. “Ugh. If I… don’t have COVID now, then I will—Oh!”

Paul looked over his shoulder to see Andrea hunched forward and to the side, clutching at her left arm. He hurried over, leaving the drawer open behind him. “Andrea?”

Her eyes were screwed shut. She’d turned an even worse color, if possible. Gray. He kneeled in front of her, trying to get a better look at her face. Her lips were dusky.

“Andrea!” Paul reached out for her left hand. He’d never checked a pulse other than his own during exercise, but he wondered if he ought to try. She was moving around a lot, making pained sounds and gasping. He took a firm grip on her hand and ran the fingertips of his other hand down the inside of her wrist. He found her pulse but quickly realized he didn’t know how to judge. It seemed quick and maybe a little irregular, but he wasn’t sure.

Paul felt his own heart pound. “Andrea, I think I need to call an ambulance.”

“No!” she choked out, though she barely had enough air for the word. Pain etched her face. Her body spasmed and her hand pressed to the center of her chest. “Feels… squeezing…”

“That’s it! Where’s my phone?” Paul climbed to his feet, wildly looking around the room before he spotted his phone on the dresser. He jogged around the bed, mentally practicing the words he so far hadn’t been able to say out loud: I think my wife is having a heart attack.

He told himself: Most people survive these now, right?

He scooped the phone up in time to hear a thud, and when he whirled around, he couldn’t see her.

“ANDREA!” Paul shouted, sprinting back around to the other side of the bed. Andrea lay in a heap, her skin gray, a distant look in her eyes. As he watched, she let out a strange rattle and her arms contorted, hands rising into the air in front of her. He stood frozen for several seconds before dropping to his knees beside her, confused and terrified. “ANDREA!”

His hands shook as he dialed 9-1-1, tapping the speakerphone icon before he sat the phone on the floor next to Andrea’s head. Then he ran his knuckles down her cheek. He could hear the phone dialing as he reached for her spasming hands. Her head tipped to the side, soulless-looking eyes passing through him and her mouth sneering open.

The line clicked, and a man answered. “9-1-1, what is your emergency?”

“My wife… my wife, I think she’s having a heart attack!” He felt like he was having trouble getting enough air himself.

Calm down!

“What’s your name and location?”

Paul gave the man his name and their address, simultaneously shifting his hands to her face. He cupped her face in his hands, tipping it up toward him. “Andrea!”

“Is your wife conscious, sir?”

“I don’t… I don’t think so, actually. Her eyes are open, but she’s not responding.” Paul moved his hands to her chest and abdomen. “Andrea? She’s barely breathing! It’s more like a-a snore every so often! Not… not very often at all! Andrea, can you hear me?”

As if on cue, her chin jerked, and she emitted a snoring rattle.

“She wasn’t feeling well, and then she started having pain in her left arm—”

“Sir,” the operator interrupted. “How often is your wife breathing?”

“Twice since we have been on the call.”

“Are you willing and able to perform chest compressions until EMS arrives?”

“Oh, God!” Paul felt a flash of anguish, during which his eyes burned and sweat sprung out all over his body. “Yes! Yes, obviously! I…”

He touched her chest gingerly, groping for the right spot with clumsy fingers.

“Sir, Paul, trace the bottom of her ribcage your fingers toward her breastbone. You’re aiming for the bottom third of her sternum. Stack your hands there and interlock your fingers. The heel of your bottom hand should rest on the spot you identified.”

Paul quickly complied, nestling his hands between her breasts. The situation felt unreal as he said in a shaky voice: “Okay, how much do I push?”

“Two inches. I’m going to count along with you to get you started. One, two, three…”

The pace and the way it felt to push her sternum down toward her heart shocked Paul. Her ribcage flexed, and she let out a huff of air. He continued pumping, counting out loud with the operator and watching the effects the compressions had on her limp body. Andrea’s stomach popped and her thighs quivered with each hard thrust to her chest. Her head and feet rocked side to side.

He and the operator counted to ten over and over again until the operator said: “Paul, keep giving her compressions and counting out loud at that same rate. I’m communicating with EMS.”

“Okay! Two, three, four…” Paul breathed shakily between compressions, his eyes shifting back to Andrea’s face. She looked gone. Her eyes, usually snapping with emotion, were empty. Her lips were blue. He wanted to ask the operator why he wasn’t giving her breaths, though he vaguely recalled that might not be part of CPR anymore. Her shiny hair pooled beneath her head, though some of the strands clung to her face. As he watched, she snored in another strange, ineffective breath.

Paul hiccuped out a short sob, his shuddering breath coming too fast for him to count. He kept pumping her chest, desperate to help her in any way that he could.

“Don’t stop compressions, Paul,” the operator suddenly said.

“I know,” Paul gasped. “I won’t! Ah, Andrea! One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…”

“Paul, how will EMS get into your home?”

“The front door! It’s unlocked!” They lived out in the middle of nowhere, which meant they usually only locked up at night or when they were both leaving. Paul was afraid it might also mean Andrea didn’t have a chance of surviving. “How… long? One, two, three, four…”

“Ambulance ETA is… nine minutes. Volunteer firefighters have been dispatched and may arrive first. You’re doing a great job, Paul. Just keep those compressions at a two-inch depth and come up all the way each time.”

“Yes! One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten! One, two, three, four, five…” Andrea let out huffs of air with each compression. Paul was huffing, too, though too much adrenaline was coursing through him to feel tired. He mostly felt terror, terror that he wasn’t helping enough and that the real help was too far away.

The volunteer fire station is just down the road, Paul thought. Hope trickled through him. They can help!

“One, two, three, four…” Andrea’s ribcage protested under his hands, but he was pretty sure he was thrusting her sternum down no more than two inches. Andrea’s right leg suddenly flexed, and he almost stopped, though a look at her face told him this was more of whatever was causing the strange, occasional breathing. A growling noise escaped her, and Paul’s voice cracked as he continued counting. “…five, six, seven, eight, nine…”

She’d urinated on herself, he realized, eyeing the dark spot on the carpet under her hips. He didn’t know if that meant anything in particular, but he was glad when he realized he could hear sirens.

“I can hear the sirens!” he called out. He looked back at Andrea’s slack, ashen face. “Help is coming, sweetheart! One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…”

The sirens grew closer. Paul kept his arms straight as he drove his hands into her chest, trying to picture his efforts literally squeezing her heart in her chest and sending blood throughout her body and into her brain. This blood could—no, would—keep her alive and preserve her personality. They’d been married for almost twenty-five years, together for thirty-two. High school sweethearts. Paul wasn’t sure he remembered how to be himself without her.

He pumped and pumped and pumped, splitting his mind between his careful focus on rhythm and depth and his internal pep talk about how they would still be celebrating their anniversary together.

Andrea, however, remained lifeless beneath him. She huffed out air, made faint snarling noises, and otherwise lay there limp while he made her ribcage flex and her stomach round. Her shoulders shrugged in time with the pressure from his hands. She’d already put on earrings, he realized. The sparkly ones his sister had gotten her last Christmas.

Time seemed to crawl. Paul felt like he was stuck there forever, beating his wife’s heart while the sirens grew slowly closer. Then they cut off. An interminable amount of time, and he heard someone knock, then a voice call out from downstairs.

“SOUTH FORK FIRE, HERE FOR A CARDIAC ARREST CALL?” a man shouted.

“UPSTAIRS!” Paul screamed. He started shaking with relief, though he was careful not to let his compressions suffer. “END OF THE HALL!”

Oh thank God, finally…

He kept falling into her chest, over and over again, as he heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. Little hoarse sounds slipped out of her as he worked. The steps came down the hall and then two male volunteer firefighters entered the room and hurried over to where Paul kneeled over Andrea’s lifeless body. One was on the short side, the other tall; both were broad-shouldered.

“She had chest pains and collapsed!” he gasped out. His hands shoved down into her sternum. “Help her!”

The firefighters brought a couple of bags and cases with them, and sat them on the floor before one of them said: “Take ventilations and get the AED ready, I’ll take over compressions—Don’t stop until I tell you, sir!”

The firefighter who spoke kneeled in front of him and extended his hands until his were next to Paul’s. Then he said: “Now you can stop, sir. I’ve got her.”

Paul raised his hands and the firefighter immediately took over, gloved hands stacked where Paul’s hands had been. Paul watched the heel of the man’s bottom hand dig into his wife’s sternum, depressing her ribcage and making her stomach swell. The other firefighter was measuring a plastic piece against Andrea’s jaw. Paul watched him tip her head back, thumb open her mouth, and slip the plastic piece inside, turning it halfway around before he attached a mask to a clear, bulbous bag.

“…twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight…”

The firefighter with the mask pressed it to her face, one hand shaped like a “c” with his fingers lapped over her chin. The other firefighter paused compressions long enough for him to squeeze the bag twice. Andrea’s chest rose and fell, and then he sat the mask to the side and compressions resumed.

The tall firefighter, the one who’d assembled the mask, drew a pair of trauma shears from one of the bags and began cutting off Andrea’s shirt and bra. He cut up from the bottom hem, pausing briefly until the short firefighter raised his hands. He cut all the way up through her neckline, then snipped between the cups of her bra. Compressions resumed. Then he cut across the top of her shirt from armhole to armhole, finishing by snipping each strap. The shirt opened, and the cups fell to the sides, exposing Andrea’s breasts and stomach. Everything dipped and bulged and wobbled as the firefighter drove her sternum toward her heart

“…thirty!”

Another two breaths from the mask, then compressions resumed and Paul watched the short firefighter reach for the AED. Paul scooted back a couple more feet, then stood, uncertain what to do with himself. The resuscitation efforts were brutal to watch; her ribcage sank under the stranger’s hands, forcing her belly to jiggle and pop. The short firefighter quickly peeled the paper backing off a white defibrillator pad and smoothed it over her right breast, following quickly with another on her side close to her left breast. He plugged the pads into the machine and turned it on.

“Analyzing rhythm!” the machine called out. “Do not touch patient!”

The firefighter providing chest compressions lifted his hands, while the other quickly gave her two breaths from the mask.

“Shock advised. Charging!”

The tall firefighter leaned over Andrea, pumping her chest hard and fast until the AED let out a loud squeal and said: “Do not touch patient! Press the shock button!”

Then he lifted his hands and the other firefighter called out: “Everyone clear!”

Paul didn’t see him press the button, but Andrea suddenly jerked. It was subtle, and her head lolled to the side.

“Shock delivered. Continue CPR for two minutes.”

The firefighters switched positions and the shorter firefighter landmarked and began pumping her chest. Andrea, however, made a choking sound, followed by her eyes rolling back in her head and her arms drawing up toward her chest.

“Hold compressions,” the tall firefighter said, reaching around and pressing his fingers into her throat.

Paul’s own throat felt like his heart had risen to choke him. He waited, breathless.

In reality, he only waited about ten seconds until the firefighter said: “No pulse.”

As chest compressions resumed, Paul hunched over and gripped his knees. His mind shot to their daughters. Paige, working in England. Charla, at school in California. There was no way to get them there quickly.

This might not even be a fly in to say goodbye sort of situation, Paul thought, his eyes burning and his throat spasming. How do I call them and tell them their mother has died?

He wiped his eyes, unable to take them off of Andrea’s body. She continued to move now and then, her arms contorting, a knee bending. There was a gentle thumping sound each time the firefighter shoved his hands into her chest. His deep voice counting to thirty accompanied the thumps, along with other disturbing sounds. The operator occasionally cutting in. The whoosh of the mask that made her chest rise and fall.

She would be horrified, laid out so vulnerable on the floor, almost completely naked in front of strangers. She was sensitive about her surgery scars and the stretch marks on her belly, visible as her stomach rippled with each compression. Paul had not minded, hardly even noticed them, but he knew his opinion only counted for so much.

I’m sorry, sweetheart, he thought at her.

Then: I’ll call Jenna when I can disconnect from 9-1-1.

Jenna was his sister, and she lived only five minutes away. She might even be home.

“Analyzing rhythm! Do not touch patient.”

The firefighter performing chest compressions raised his hands.

“Shock advised. Charging.” The charging alarm sounded, and he watched as the short firefighter gave Andrea more compressions, keeping at it until the device announced: “Do not touch patient. Press the shock button!”

The bag was disconnected, and both firefighters scooted back. The tall firefighter called out: “Clear!” and reached down to push a flashing orange button.

Andrea spasmed again, her torso flinching and the motion making her hands and feet jerk subtlely. Outside, Paul heard sirens.

Chest compressions resumed, and Paul asked: “Did you leave the door open?”

“We did,” one of the firefighters said.

“Hah, hah, hah…” Air hissed out of her each time her chest was compressed. The resuscitation efforts looked rough, her body jerking and her rib cage seeming to collapse each time the man’s hands shoved into her sternum.

“EMS!” Paul heard a woman call from downstairs.

“UPSTAIRS!” he shouted.

“End of the hall!” a firefighter added.

Footsteps on the stairs and then a man and a woman entered the room. They were wearing gloves and weighed down by duffles and bags and a backboard they laid down in the hallway.

“The ambulance is here,” Paul said toward the phone.

“Alright, sir. Thank you. I will disconnect now.”

“Thank you,” he said automatically. He scooped up his phone and stood, climbing up onto the bed so that he could both be out of their way and have a better viewpoint as people crowded around Andrea.

The firefighters were assisting, the tall one performing chest compressions and the short one continuing to use the bag-valve mask while the medics were pulling things out of the bags they’d brought. One replaced the smaller AED pads with larger ones, connecting them to a cardiac monitor.

“Hold compressions,” she said. The other medic clipped a pulse oximeter to Andrea’s finger before unzipping an IV kit. “Okay. Patient is in v-fib. Continue chest compressions while I charge the defibrillator.”

Paul dialed his sister’s number. The female medic pressed a button on the monitor and a high-pitched whine kicked in behind the firefighter’s droning voice and the quiet thumping of his hands against her chest. The male medic quickly cleaned the crook of Andrea’s elbow.

“Hello?” Paul felt relief wash over him as he heard his sister’s voice.

“Jenna…” Paul whispered, his voice hoarse.

“Clear!” called out the female medic. She pressed a flashing button and Andrea’s torso jerked. The firefighters switched positions.

“Her saturation is at eighty. I’m going to intubate,” the female medic said.

“In addition to saline, administering one milligram of epinephrine,” the male medic said.

“Paul?” his sister asked. “Is something wrong?”

“Are you home?”

The female medic traded places with one of the firefighters and opened up a case next to Andrea’s head. The firefighter held onto a bag of saline, holding it up at the request of the male medic.

“Yeah, Paul. I’m home, but—”

“I need you to come over here, Jenna. Please?”

The female medic tipped Andrea’s head back and opened her mouth. First, she connected the bag-valve mask to a small oxygen tank and gave Andrea several breaths with the mask.

“I… yes, of course. Just let me tell Sara where I’m going.”

“Go ahead and bring her,” Paul said. “It’s, ah… It’s bad, Jenna.”

His voice cracked, and he sniffled involuntarily. The female medic held Andrea’s head in place as she inserted a silver scope, cranking it open and peering down her throat when a light came on. Then she picked up a wide tube and slid it down the side of the scope.

“Did something happen to Andrea?” his sister asked.

“I think she had a heart attack.” He sniffled again and swiped his hand across his eyes. “EMS is here.”

The medic withdrew the scope and carefully secured the tube with lengths of tape. Then she connected the bag to the end of the tube. “Pause compressions.”

“Paul? Paul, is she alive?” He could hear Jenna struggling to remain calm. “Sara, Andrea’s had a heart attack. We need to go over there now.”

The male medic listened with a stethoscope as the female medic squeezed the bag. “Okay, you’re in.”

“Not at the moment,” Paul said.

There was a long silence, and then Jenna said. “Okay. Okay, just hold on. We’re running to the car. I love you, okay? I love both of you.”

“She’s still in v-fib. We’re going to shock her again. Charging to three-sixty.” A whine from the device, ten more thumps, and then the female medic said: “Hold, don’t touch her. Clear!”

Andrea jerked again, her head tipping to the side and her chest flinching. This time, the female medic slipped in to start chest compressions, giving the firefighters a break. The huff of air sounded much different coming up the tube, a rattling growl with each compression.

“Administering one milligram epinephrine,” one of the medics said.

“Paul, we’re halfway there.”

“No… change,” he whispered, then cleared his throat.

“…nine, ten. One, two, three, four, five…” The female paramedic pumped Andrea’s chest relentlessly. Paul watched her ribcage sink, and her stomach and breasts shake. Over and over again, the paramedic forced Andrea’s heart to circulate blood. The male paramedic squeezed the bag every five or six seconds; Paul didn’t know anything about this equipment, but he did notice that they were no longer working off a ratio of thirty compressions to two breaths. Instead, both happened continuously. He hoped this was helping her.

“Paul!” he heard his sister say. “We’re here. Sara is going to drop me off and find a place to park the car, okay?”

“Upstairs. Central bedroom.”

“Hold compressions!” the male medic said, his voice startling Paul.

The female medic complied, leaning to see what the male medic was pointing at on the monitor. He continued squeezing the bag.

Movement at the doorway turned out to be Jenna. Her eyes were wide as she took in the scene.

“I’ll get her on a twelve lead,” the female paramedic said, reaching down to press two fingers into the crease where Andrea’s leg met her hip. “Alright, sir. Your wife has a pulse. We need to get some information about her heart, and then we will be taking her to the hospital.”

Paul motioned for Jenna to join him, though he was tempted to hop off the bed and kneel at Andrea’s side. He returned his attention to the paramedic who’s just spoken to him. “She has a pulse?”

The paramedic was already pulling more equipment out of bags, but she looked up and nodded. “Yes, sir. We’re going to do a quick check on her heart, draw some blood, and then get her to the hospital as soon as possible.”

Jenna climbed up onto the bed to sit with Paul. She was wearing what their mother would have called “house clothes” and her running shoes. She reached for Paul’s hand and squeezed it. “Good, good news.”

“She’s so still, Jenna. And they’re breathing for her!” Paul watched as the female paramedic applied electrodes with colorful snaps across Andrea’s chest, concentrated on the left side. They even applied them to her wrists and ankles. Andrea laid pale and still on the floor, her body exposed. He could hear the mask every time the bulb was squeezed, sending air to her lungs.

The medics and firefighters were having minimal, task-based conversation that barely registered with Paul.

“Get her pressure for me, will you?”

“Sat is up to ninety-four.”

“Take over bagging, please, so he can get the LUCAS ready. We might need it.”

Then Jenna said: “Sara’s downstairs. She doesn’t want to be in the way. She just texted.”

“Pressure is eighty over forty.”

“Get her on a pump for norepinephrine.”

Paul was running down a list in his mind. He needed to bring a list of her medication with them when they went to the hospital. Both of their wallets. Phone charger. Her cane, even if they wouldn’t let her get up. Just in case, because if she woke up, and it wasn’t within reach, she’d be upset.

“Alright, I’m calling her in so they can be ready.”

“Grab the spine board. We need to get her on that first.”

“—I’m calling in a potential thrombolytic or emergent catheterization candidate. Twelve lead shows—”

“Slide it in next to her—”

“Paul?” Jenna asked. He blinked. “I think something important… I don’t know…”

The male medic rolled Andrea onto her side while one of the firefighters slid the backboard beneath her. He rolled her flat again and manually verified her pulse with his fingers pressed into the crease of her thigh. Then he unzipped a bag and pulled out more equipment: a smaller backboard, and a motor head with arms.

The equipment around Andrea seemed to multiply each time Paul blinked. A small pump connecting to her IV line. Defibrillator pads, electrodes, leads. Cardiac monitor. Whatever this new device was. As Paul watched, the male medic slipped some kind of plastic strap around Andrea’s face, holding the breathing tube in place.

As he watched, the female medic stepped between Andrea’s legs, grasped her wrists, and pulled her into a seated position. The firefighters held her head still while the male medic slid the small backboard underneath her and on top of the spine board. They laid her flat again. The female medic began strapping Andrea to the spine board while the male medic took the rest of the device and clipped it over Andrea. It arched above her, with what looked like a motor head and a suction cup at the top. The medic pulled down on the suction cup and nestled it between Andrea’s breasts. He was in the middle of strapping her arms to the device when Paul realized what the device must be for.

“They’re worried her heart will stop again,” he murmured.

Then, louder: “Can I touch her?”

The male medics were packing up bags and handing them to the firefighter, but the female paramedic looked up at him. She was squeezing the bag now, her gloves hands careful and steady. “Of course, sir. We need to move her soon, but there’s time.”

Paul quickly slid off the bed and crouched beside his wife, reaching up to cover her hand where it was strapped to the machine. He realized then that she wasn’t wearing her rings and decided that was for the best. His other hand reached in to brush her cheek above the plastic tube holder.

“Andrea. Sweetheart. It’s Paul.” His traitor eyes watered and spilled over. He cleared his throat and wiped his face on his shoulder. “You’re in good hands. You’re going to go to the hospital now. Jenna and Sara are going to drive me to meet you in their car, okay? I’ll bring your cane. You won’t need it in the ambulance, so don’t worry. Listen, I’ll talk to the girls. I’ll make sure they come to visit, okay? That’s what our savings are for. Don’t worry about anything. I love you. Jenna and Sara love you, too. The girls love you. Your brother loves you. I know… I know you love us, too. We’ve had a good life and we’re going to have more time, okay? Thank you.”

He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d thanked her, but it felt right. Maybe it was just something that needed to be said, so he would feel more at peace if she didn’t make it. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was having a hard time imagining her coming home again.

Paul leaned in and kissed the back of her hand.

“Your family is going to drive you to the hospital?” the female medic asked. “Good. We’re about to move her downstairs to the gurney, okay?”

“Thank you,” Paul told her. He wanted nothing more than to stay with Andrea, but she didn’t need him right then and he was about to be in the way. He stood reluctantly. “Is there anything you need me to do?”

“We’ve got her, sir. Thank you for asking.” She turned her attention to the other responders in the room. “Mac, take her head for me. I’ve got the bag and the monitor. Phil, is it? Take her feet. Miller, spot for me. We’re getting her out of the room, down the hall. Then the spotter needs to go down the stairs. Then Phil with her feet. We need to keep her on the wall side and leave me room on the other side, okay?”

Paul didn’t hear the responses because he was moving off to the side, hastily gathering up Andrea’s cane and gesturing for Jenna to follow him. He scooped his wallet off the dresser. “I’ve got shoes by the door. And her purse should be in the kitchen. That’s all I need. I can pull up her medications in the Walgreens app.”

They stood in the corner, watching as the female paramedic picked up the monitor and looped the strap over her head. Then the others lifted Andrea on the spine board and quickly but carefully carried her out of the bedroom he shared with her.

“Do you need me to call the girls?” Jenna asked, as they stood in the hall, watching them carry her down the stairs. His sister-in-law Sara moved into view, hurrying to open the front door and then looking up at Jenna with wide eyes. She had Andrea’s purse looped over her shoulder.

“I might,” Paul said. “I don’t know. It should be me.”

Jenna started to answer him, but an angry alarm sounding from the cardiac monitor distracted them both.

“Keep moving!” the medic barked. “We’ll check her at the bottom. We’re almost there!”

They fed her around the last turn, and then quickly laid the spine board on the gurney. Paul froze on the upper landing, his free hand clutching the bannister. His other hand gripped her cane in a white-knuckled grip.

“V-fib on the monitor,” she said, handing the device off to Mac, who nestled the monitor next to Andrea’s legs. “Start the LUCAS, but check the leads before we charge!”

Mac adjusted the piston arm of the device, verifying it was even against her chest. Then he reached up and turned a dial. The machine spewed out air and shoved the cup down into Andrea’s chest twice in rapid succession. Then it continued pumping at a fractionally slower rate. Paul couldn’t help but stare in shock, watching as the machine performed precise chest compressions on his wife. The cup slammed down, depressing her sternum and ribcage and forcing her stomach to pop. Then it recoiled, allowing her body to return to its normal state for a split second before the sequence repeated.

One of the firefighters took over the bag after a brief conversation with the female paramedic.

“Leads and electrodes still in place,” Mac said.

“Alright. I’m administering a milligram epinephrine. We’ll let it circulate for a minute and then analyze.”

Nn-hit nn-hit nn-hit nn-hit…

The machine worked Andrea like a rag doll, swaying over her with each pump. It was both more efficient and more savage than the manual compressions, and Paul knew the sight and sounds would haunt him, even if Andrea pulled through.

“Oh God,” he gasped. “Don’t be dead, please, please don’t be dead…”

Jenna suddenly grasped his hand, pulling it off the bannister. “Don’t watch, Paul. You don’t have to watch!”

“I can’t do anything for her but watch…”

Nn-hit nn-hit nn-hit nn-hit…

“Charging to three-sixty.” the female medic pressed a button on the monitor. “Everyone back, we are not stopping the device to shock.”

The firefighter disconnected the bag and stepped back.

“Everyone clear, administering shock.” She pressed the shock button and Andrea jerked, her body twitching harshly in the grip of the CPR machine. “Shock administered. Administering 300mg IV amiodarone…. Alright. We’re going to load her and analyze again before we drive.”

The firefighter reconnected the bag, and the crew turned the gurney toward the door.

Nn-hit nn-hit nn-hit nn-hit…

Paul pulled away from Jenna and hurried down the stairs. He stumbled out into the foyer in time to catch sight of Andrea’s face. She looked pale, her glassy eyes open again. From that angle, the CPR device was brutalizing her chest, thumping hard into her sternum. Her breasts wobbled and her stomach rounded and jiggled. Paul slammed his feet into the worn out trainers by the door, hurrying out after the crew working on his wife.

They got her down the front steps easily, then down the walk to the driveway. The CPR machine continued to beat her heart for her without pausing, the sounds echoing off the nearby retaining wall.

“I’ve locked the front door,” he heard Jenna say behind him.

“I’m going to get the car,” Sara said. “As soon as the ambulance pulls out of the driveway I’ll come up and get you. I’ve got her bag. The engine is parked on the street so we don’t have to worry.”

“Thanks,” Paul mumbled, distracted. They were loading Andrea into the ambulance, the LUCAS relentlessly hammering away at her. The last thing he saw before they closed the door was Andrea’s abdomen rounding mid-compression.

The firefighters hurried down the driveway toward their truck. Mac slowed long enough to speak to Paul: “We are taking her to McCormick General. Park at the ER lot and enter through the visitor entrance. Tell them her name and your relationship. They have an internal waiting room for families. She’s in good hands, right? I’ve got to go, but we have her.”

Mac jogged up to the front of the ambulance and climbed in. Soon, the lights and sirens roared to life, and the ambulance drove away.

It didn’t take long for Sara to bring the car around, but Jenna grabbed his arm anyway, holding onto him like he might collapse any second.

“Are you okay?” she asked him, leading him to the front passenger door. “You look like you might pass out.”

“She might be dead, Jenna.” He let her buckle him in. He still had a vice grip on Andrea’s cane, so she didn’t try to take it from him. “They just drove off with that… thing, that thing pumping her heart. I can’t call the girls and tell them that, Jenna! I can’t… I can’t…”

Jenna shut the door and climbed into the back. “I’m so sorry, Paul. Go, Sara. Drive as fast as fast as you can safely manage.

Later

“Paul Greene?” A surgeon stood at the front of the waiting room, calling his name.

Paul stood slowly and felt Jenna do the same beside him.

“Mr. Greene, come with me. Your family can come with you. There are plenty of chairs. We’re going just down the hall to a family conference room.” The surgeon held the door for them and then walked quickly to regain the front position. She kept talking, filling up any silence Paul might have used to ask after Andrea. He wondered if that was on purpose.

The surgeon led them into a small conference room, with several chairs, an oval table with two tissue boxes in the center, and a coffeemaker and water cooler in the corner.

“As soon as you have a seat,” the surgeon said, “I have an update.”

Update, Paul thought as he dropped into a chair. He still had Andrea’s cane, though he’d folded it. That sounds potentially positive.

“I need to tell you first, Mr. Greene, that Andrea is alive.”

“Oh thank God,” he blurted, slouching forward in his chair and covering his face with his hands.

This is why she wanted us sitting.

“She was successfully resuscitated shortly after arrival. Then she was immediately taken for cardiaccatheterization, rapid revascularization, and percutaneous coronary intervention. We simultaneously treated her with therapeutic hypothermia.” The surgeon raised her hand. “That’s a lot, and I’ll explain it in layman’s terms. You’ll be given literature shortly. We cooled Andrea’s body temperature down once she was resuscitated, and we will keep her there for twenty-four hours. This treatment reduces inflammation in the brain. Then we took her into the cath lab and threaded a catheter into her heart. We used a laser to quickly restore blood flow from one part of her heart to another. Then we put in a stent to open her coronary artery.”

“When will I be able to see her?” Paul asked.

“Shortly after we are finished here. I do need to prepare you. Only one family member is allowed in the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit at a time. You will need to wear a mask and wash your hands. Andrea is connected to multiple monitors and an IV pump. A ventilator is breathing for her. She is unconscious and will feel cool to the touch.”

Paul nodded, though if he’d been asked to repeat any of that, he would be sorely pressed to do so.

There was a brief silence, and Jenna asked: “What’s her prognosis?”

“That depends on the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. She has been somewhat responsive at times, which is promising.” The surgeon clasped her hands on the table. “Andrea is in a very fragile condition, Mr. Greene. There is a chance she will not leave the hospital. Do you understand?”

“I… yes, I do.” Paul deflated.

“Her brain,” Jenna said. “He wants to know if there’s a chance she’ll be herself.”

“Yes,” the surgeon said, her voice firm. “Yes. There is a chance.”

Days later

Paul sat in his usual seat by Andrea’s hospital bed, a book in his hands. The book was upside down and open somewhere in the middle. His eyes were on Andrea.

Each day, she was surrounded by less and less equipment and paraphernalia. First to go were the cooling blankets, though those were replaced by rewarming blankets before those went. Then, even better, was the ventilator, replaced by a nasal cannula. While Andrea didn’t seem able to wake up, she was breathing on her own. He didn’t know what much of the equipment was, but anytime something disappeared, he took it as good news.

She had color in her face now, and muttered and moaned when the nurses came in to evaluate her. She’d even swatted at one who squeezed her shoulder.

Paul sighed and closed the book. Both of their daughters had arrived yesterday, and he’d taken the time to brief them before they saw her one at a time. They’d both come out in completely hysterical and nearly inconsolable, so he’d sent them home with Jenna.

Now it was just Paul and the hospital staff. And Andrea, in whatever measure that he still had her.

Paul rubbed his eyes again and looked up at her. Then he froze.

Andrea’s eyes were open, and she appeared to be focusing on him.

Paul stood, letting the book slide out of his lap. “Andrea?” He reached for her hand, taking it between both of his.

Her brow furrowed and her eyes watered. She closed her eyes briefly, a tear sliding down her cheek before she reopened them.

“Oh, don’t cry, sweetheart. I’m here. You’re in the hospital. The girls came to visit yesterday, and I’ll have Jenna bring them back, okay?” Paul reached out and wiped the moisture from her cheek. She leaned into his touch, and he felt his own eyes water. “You know who I am. Don’t you, Andrea? You know who I am!”

Her fingers twitched in his hand, and now he was the one crying.

“Oh, I’m happy to see you, Andrea! I love you so much. And don’t worry, okay?” Paul leaned in and pressed a kiss to her temple. “I brought your cane.”

#resus writing #cpr resus #female resus #medical drama

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leonardcohenofficial · 2 years

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here’s the NYtimes interview with alan alda reflecting on the fiftieth anniversary of M*A*S*H (text below the cut)!!

By Saul Austerlitz Published Sept. 16, 2022 Updated Sept. 17, 2022, 1:10 p.m. ET

When we think of the default mode of much of contemporary television — mingling the tragic and the offhand, broad comedy and pinpoint sentiment — we are thinking of a precise mixture of styles, emotions and textures first alchemized by “M*A*S*H.”

Created by Larry Gelbart and Gene Reynolds, “M*A*S*H” aired on CBS from 1972 to 1983. (It is currently available to stream on Hulu.) Over the course of its 11-year run, it featured alcohol-fueled high jinks and other shenanigans alongside graphic surgical sequences and portrayals of grief, blending comedy and drama in a fashion rarely seen before on television. Set among the doctors and nurses of a Korean War mobile surgical unit, “M*A*S*H” made use of the mockumentary episode decades before “The Office” ever tried it, featured blood-drenched story lines long before “The Sopranos” and killed off beloved characters without warning well before “Game of Thrones.”

The “M*A*S*H” series finale, titled “Goodbye, Farewell, and Amen,” remains the most-watched non-Super Bowl program ever broadcast on American TV. The heart of the series was Alan Alda, who played the acerbic and devoted surgeon Hawkeye Pierce throughout the show’s more than 250 episodes and also wrote and directed dozens of them.

The actor revisited “M*A*S*H” in a video interview ahead of the show’s 50th anniversary, on Sept. 17. Alda, 86, who was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease in 2015, discussed famous scenes, the series’s battles with CBS (“They didn’t even want us to show blood at the beginning”) and why he thinks the audience connected so deeply with “M*A*S*H.” These are edited excerpts from the conversation.

How have you been feeling?

Good, thank you. You mean with regard to Parkinson’s or the Covid or what?

All of the above, I suppose.

Parkinson’s I’m on top of. And I haven’t come down with Covid yet.

What does it mean to you to know that people are still interested in “M*A*S*H” 50 years later?

I got the script submitted to me when I was making a movie in the Utah State Prison. And it was the best script I had seen since I’d been in prison. I called my wife and I said: “This is a terrific script, but I don’t see how I can do it. Because we live in New Jersey, and it has to be shot in L.A. And who knows? It could run a whole year.” To go from that to 50 years later, it’s still getting, not only attention but it’s still getting an audience, is a surprise.

What kinds of conversations did you have with Larry Gelbart before the show began?

With “All in the Family,” I think the door was open to doing stories about things that really mattered. So when I got out of prison and went down to L.A. to talk to them, the night before we started rehearsing the pilot, I wanted us all to agree that we wouldn’t just have high jinks at the front. That it would take seriously what these people were going through. The wounded, the dead. You can’t just say it’s all a party. And we talked until about 1 in the morning at a coffee shop in Beverly Hills.

Do you feel there was a shift over the first season away from the booze-fueled humor of the early episodes?

Yeah, there was. Partly because people who were submitting story lines thought that that’s what was wanted. Larry Gelbart rewrote most of the shows the first season. Midway through the first season, there was a show called “Sometimes You Hear the Bullet,” and that was a real turning point. Because in that show, a friend of Hawkeye’s shows up among the wounded, and he dies on the operating table. That’s the moment where McLean Stevenson [as Lt. Col. Henry Blake] says: “There’s two rules in war: Young men die, and then Rule 2 is there’s nothing you can do about it.” Something like that. [The exact quote: “There are certain rules about a war. And rule No. 1 is young men die. And rule No. 2 is, doctors can’t change rule No. 1.”]

The network was furious about this. Some guy in charge of programming said, “What is this, a situation tragedy?” Soon after that, we were getting more popular. And the more popular you get, the less they complain.

Was CBS also concerned about the language used to tell these stories?

The most striking example to me was early in the series. Radar [Gary Burghoff] is explaining to somebody that he’s unfamiliar with something. And he said, “I’m a virgin at that, sir.” With no sexual context. It was just that he’d never done something before. And the CBS censor said: “You can’t say the word ‘virgin.’ That’s forbidden.” So the next week, Gelbart wrote a little scene that had nothing to do with anything. A patient is being carried through on a stretcher. And I say, “Where you from, son?” And he says, “The Virgin Islands, sir.”

Early in the show’s run, Gelbart and Reynolds went to South Korea and recorded 22 hours of interviews with doctors, nurses, pilots and orderlies there. How did those interviews make their way into story lines for the show?

We had reams of transcripts of those conversations. I would go through them looking for ideas for stories. And I could see that the other writers were doing the same thing, because there’d be circles around sentences and words. Sometimes one little phrase would spark the imagination of one of us, and that phrase could turn into a story.

Larry and Gene went to Korea at the end of the second season, and they got a lot of material for stories. But they had also found that we had, by paying attention to the lives that they lived, we had made up stories that were very similar to things that had actually happened.

People may not remember that you directed 32 episodes of “M*A*S*H” and wrote 19 episodes. How did you start getting interested in writing and directing?

At the end of the first season, I wrote a show called “The Longjohn Flap.” I borrowed the idea of “La Ronde,” but made it long johns instead because it was reflective of what their lives were like in the cold. I had been trying to learn writing since I was 8 years old. I wanted to be a writer before I wanted to be an actor.

Were there story lines that you thought “M*A*S*H” hadn’t quite tackled yet that you wanted to bring into the world of the show as a writer and director?

When I wrote, I tried to find out a little bit more about each of the characters. Who is Klinger [Jamie Farr] really? What was underneath — I almost said, what was underneath the dresses. [Laughs.] What was underneath the wearing of the dresses? Who was Margaret [Loretta Swit]?

I see on the internet that people assumed that because I was politically active, trying to get the Equal Rights Amendment passed, that in my writing I was trying to make political points, too. And I wasn’t. I really don’t like writing that passes as entertainment when it’s really propaganda. I want to hear a human story.

The unexpected death of Colonel Blake (McLean Stevenson) in the Season 3 finale, “Abyssinia, Henry,” remains one of the biggest surprises in television history. What was it like to shoot that sequence?

Gelbart showed me the scene. I think [it was] the morning of the shoot. I knew, but nobody else knew. He wanted to get everybody’s first-time reactions. And it really affected Gary Burghoff on camera. I think everybody was grateful for the shock.

It shocked the audience, too. I had a letter from a man who complained that he had to console his 10-year-old son who was sobbing. But it was one of the ways for the adults in the audience to realize that another aspect of war is that things happen that you don’t expect.

Was there ever a point when you got tired of fighting the Korean War on TV? The old joke is the show lasted almost four times as long as the actual war.

Around a year before we finally ended it, I felt we were getting toward the end of our ability to be fresh every week. I started suggesting that we do a final movie-length episode that really could end it. First of all, we were getting too old to play these people. And after you tell stories about a group of people 250 times, it’s hard not to repeat yourself or say things that sound like they’re supposed to be funny but aren’t really.

What did it mean to you to have Hawkeye leave Korea scarred by the death of a child in the final episode?

You just described exactly what I wanted to do with all the characters on the show. I was looking for stories, each in a different way, that showed how everybody left the war with a wound of some kind. Everybody had something taken from them. And Hawkeye was just one of them.

Earlier in your career, you had been on another great military comedy, “The Phil Silvers Show,” also known as “Sergeant Bilko.” What did you learn about acting from your pre-“M*A*S*H” TV work?

The first thing I learned on the “Bilko” show was you have to know your lines before you go in for the day’s work. I had come from the stage, where I would learn my lines during rehearsal. And the first thing they did is say, “OK, you’re up for your phone conversation,” where it’s a page of dialogue. It was an eye-opening experience. [Laughs.] I staggered through that.

Why do you think the audience connected so deeply with “M*A*S*H”?

Aside from really good writing and good acting and good directing, the element that really sinks in with an audience is that, as frivolous as some of the stories are, underneath it is an awareness that real people lived through these experiences, and that we tried to respect what they went through. I think that seeps into the unconscious of the audience.

They didn’t even want us to show blood at the beginning. In the pilot, the operating room was lit by a red light, so you couldn’t tell what was blood and what wasn’t. Which, once we got picked up, was ditched.

And giving us a feel for the circumstances that the real people had to go through, so that you could see that the crazy behavior wasn’t just to be funny. It was a way of separating yourself for a moment from the nastiness.

You can’t get as harsh as it really was.

Correction: Sept. 16, 2022 An earlier version of this article described in error the viewership statistics for the series finale of “M*A*S*H.” It was the most-watched non-Super Bowl program ever broadcast on American television, in terms of total audience, not the highest-rated non-Super Bowl program. A rating refers to the percentage of TV households that watch a program. The “M*A*S*H” finale remains the highest-rated program, of any kind, ever broadcast on American television.

#mash #alan alda #M*A*S*H #tv: mash #happy reading!

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yakuzacanons · 4 months

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If the yakuzacanons lord would be so kind.. Perhaps some NSFW HC's for Majima? I know you mentioned some kinky stuff prior and how people expect him to be the 'king of kinks' but he's just very experimental and open.. Is there anything he REALLY enjoys doing and prefers to do in an NSFW setting? Thank you!!

I RISEEEEE from the grave, COVID has been defeated and of course we are back with a Majima post FIRST and foremost because he is WHAT? My favorite blorbo. HCs coming right up bossman, have a good one! NSFW below the cut, if ur not 18 I will shoo u with a giant broom, go on git.

As previously stated, Majima is often thought of as the king of all kinks but the truth is he's just really open minded. He hasn't got some sex dungeon hidden away somewhere or anything like that but if you suggest something to him, chances are he's willing to give it a solid try.

Majima's only steadfast rule when it comes to sex and kinks is he will NOT do knifeplay. For a man who is so intrinsically tied to his use of knives, it's often surprising that he refuses to use it sexually. His logic? Knives are for slicing up people you don't like. That's it.

Having said that, he isn't not against BDSM as a whole and inflicting or receiving pain in a sexual manner. Majima has a lot of loud energy but he's not necessarily a top or a dom.

The only specific caveat with BDSM for Majima is that he doesn't enjoy being tied up very much and prefers to tie up his partner. If he really trusts you, he will let you tie him up but he will need some aftercare the first few times.

Majima is the king of praise, receiving and giving. If you have a praise kink, Majima is perfect for you. Down with things like roleplay and costumes as well. Mildly interested in waxplay but also doesn't really fully understand the appeal? Mostly wants to try it to find out what the appeal is, honestly.

Fair warning, he's a bit of a biter. Generally speaking, he's got an oral fixation and will kiss and/or bite literally anything and everything on you, including literally pulling clothes off you with his teeth. He's pretty into receiving that kind of treatment too.

Out of all the boys, Majima is the one that is most likely to agree to pegging. He won't bring it up himself so it's something you'll have to decide you want to do rather than wait for him to suggest it.

Also one of the few of the boys who's down to be blindfolded, which is kind of ironic given he's already missing one eye. Would much rather blindfold you though, if he's being honest.

#majima megaphone moment #yakuza #ryu ga gotoku #yakuza headcanons #yakuza imagines #ryu ga gotoku headcanons #ryu ga gotoku imagines #goro majima #majima goro

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shina913 · 1 year

Text

Flowerworks | KNJ

Flowerworks

Pairing: Namjoon x Fem!Reader

Rating: M (SFW)

Genre: Exes; pure angst; fluff

Warnings: a lot of angst; pining; meet-cute; suggestive language; missed opportunities; vague infidelity

Word count: 4,241 words

Summary: “The love you had in your past...unfinished, untested, lost love...seems so easy, so childish to those who chose to settle down. But it’s actually the purest, most concentrated stuff.”

A/N: This story was inspired by an anthology series that I had binged while I had Covid back in January this year. For a while, I've been wanting to do a rendition of that but I wasn't sure which member to 'cast.' But Indigo has such a great inspiration so I've revisited this draft and thought Namjoon would be the perfect angsty main character here. Also, Kelly Price's rendition of As We Lay was a good inspo for this as well, except it's got none of the spicy stuff and you're left with all angst!

A/N2: I've never been to the UK or Europe 🤡 so a lot of this is just talking out of my ass hoping it would make for an interesting backdrop. I apologize for any geographical inaccuracies. This isn't the first time I've mentioned Juan Luna in my fics--I just thought, wouldn't it be cool if Namjoon studied Filipino impressionists🤪. Anyway, hope the story still lands! 💙

“Thank you so much for the presentation, Dr. YLN. It was so refreshing to hear a new take on a subject that’s so rarely…uhm, what’s the word…”

“Discussed? Thought of?” You finish their sentence for them. You smile warmly at a young journalist who was covering your lecture as part of a feature piece they were doing for a magazine. After the program ended, they decided to come up for a side conversation.

“Yes, that’s right,” the journalist says. “Your perspective is so fascinating to me. I mean–when we were in grade school, these lessons were just so repetitive and boring. It’s practically a bird course,” they chuckled.

“Right, because you’re supposed to just fly right through it?” You joked. You, too, had that impression when you were much younger.

“Your research style is so much more interesting. I was elated to find out that you’re the historical consultant on that ‘Ilustrados’ series!”

You tried your best to stay humble but deep down, you were still pinching yourself about getting to work with a major studio and top-tier production team. “I saw it as a great opportunity for us history and literature majors to flex a little, you know?” Then you caught yourself and laughed. “Oh my god, that sounded so nerdy,” you flushed.

“Not at all! Don’t be too modest,” they giggled. “I think it’s great that we get to give stories like this a new angle.”

You smiled and mouthed your thanks.

“I’m curious, do you remember what or who inspired you to pursue history as one of your fields of expertise?”

You grew flustered then blew out a quick breath. “Wow, uhm…nobody’s ever asked me that!”

“I don’t have to include it,” the journalist adds.

Your brows furrowed. “Include what?”

“That story that’s written all over your face,” they say with a knowing look.

“Oh, well…I think I’ve always been on track to study literature in some shape or form. That was my chosen major in college. Pursuing a career in history, however…was a happy accident,” you recall fondly.

They smiled excitedly. “Please tell me more,” they urged.

You stifle a grin. It was one of, if not the most unforgettable time in your life. If you could ever capture lightning in a bottle–that was the moment to do it.

You began, “He was an art history major spending a year in France while I was a language and literature major spending a semester in London. I met him while on holiday at a cafe in Paris–”

“Hang on! I think I’ve heard this story before!” They interject.

You give them a confused look. Up until this moment, you’ve only spoken about him to your former flatmate and a couple of close friends. “Y-you have?” You ask slowly.

They let out a soft chuckle. “I’m sorry, I’m kidding! Is that real?”

You laughed. “Yes, yes it is!”

“You know, most people are like–we met in college, lost touch for a while, then ran into each other on the street years later and had coffee.”

“Well…it does sound like quite the Hallmark movie plot, huh? The place we were at was certainly the perfect backdrop for it,” you smiled at the memory. “But, as unbelievable as it sounds, if it weren’t for him sparking my…” You cleared your throat, “...Enthusiasm in the subject and history in general–I wouldn’t be in this position today.”

It was indeed a serendipitous time in Paris, which began as a casual encounter over drinks, then eventually led to hours of exploring historic art districts with him. The day trips around the city certainly brought your interest in history to a whole different level.

“W-what happened to him?”

You shrug your shoulders. “After my break, I had to return to London. He wanted to come with me but he had some travel commitments with his fellow students. We agreed to meet at my place but–it just…didn’t work out for some reason.”

The journalist listened intently, indulging you in your story.

“I don’t know what happened. I thought we had a great connection. I mean, wasn’t that as perfect an opening to a relationship that you can get? Back then, I would go back and forth trying to think about how different it felt for me than it did for him.”

For a moment, you felt yourself slip again. But as you had done for the past several years, you smiled and shook your head to brush the memory aside to lock it away. Then, at your most vulnerable, you can unpack it again. You wave them off, “Anyway, that was such a long time ago, though!”

“How long?” They ask curiously.

“10 years,” another voice answered.

For that fraction of a second, your heart drops to your stomach, and you’re afraid to look up. This has to be another figment of your imagination. Still, you couldn’t help thinking about the times you wished to hear that voice again.

The journalist steps aside to clear the path. You finally peer up, blinking a few times to assure yourself that this was real.

There he was, standing in front of you–your lightning in a bottle…Namjoon. He had the biggest smile on his face and it was just as warm and bright as you remember it.

Suddenly feeling that they’ve intruded in a special moment, the journalist excuses themself and thanks you for the lovely conversation, promising to send you the initial draft of their feature via email.

As stunned as you were, you managed to string some words together. “I can’t believe it’s really you.”

“Hello, YN,” Namjoon greeted you as he moved closer.

“H-hi.” You were shocked to hear how calm your voice sounded when all you wanted to do was melt into a puddle.

You both stand in front of each other not knowing whether to shake hands or hug. Before you knew it, you were throwing your arms around his neck to embrace him. You feel his warmth envelop you, hearing him sigh faintly into your hair.

“It’s been a long time,” you say after pulling away. “Weren’t we supposed to meet in London?”

//FLASHBACK

When you met in Paris, he was only one of the handful of patrons who spoke English at the cafe. You don’t know how exactly your conversation began, but he started spouting some facts about craft beer as opposed to wine–and tried to convince you that one was better than the other.

After a few spirited arguments, you agreed to settle things…back at his flat, which was a block away from the cafe. Your worked out your differences in opinions in bed, eventually agreeing to disagree after he made you orgasm.

He later confessed that the spontaneous debate was a pickup tactic from him. He thought he was being clever but never expected you to offer up some valid points. But you told him that you thought he was cute so you were all-too-willing to be reeled in anyway.

Though you were on break, he was in the middle of his school term and had to spend time traveling within the city to check out recommended sites to fulfill his course requirements.

He invited you to come with him on a day trip to check out the former studio of an artist who turned out to be instrumental in their home country's rebellion. You were apprehensive but came with an open mind--and you never regretted it.

You spent the evening at his place once more...and a few more times after that. Your favorite thing was waking up next him in the mornings, exchanging innocent kisses in bed that always escalated to the point where one or both of you would end up moaning each other's name.

But when you weren’t in bed, you spent many hours just talking. He was so passionate about his studies as much as you were about yours. The way he spoke about art, its origins, and inspirations was so reverent, it was fascinating to experience a drop of his enthusiasm.

The day you had to return to London was difficult, not just for you but for him, too. He and a few of his fellow students were supposed to travel to Rouen and spend a few days there to check out some impressionist exhibits recommended by their teacher. He planned to take the ferry to visit you right after.

When you arrived at the train station, he noticed that he lost his phone somewhere between the ride from his flat to this point. You dug into your bag and retrieved an old receipt where you wrote your number and address down. He took it and slid it in between his book that he carried with him. Then, on the week that you were supposed to meet, the borders shut down.

//END FLASHBACK

“I’m sorry I’m late.”

“Mm-hm…you better be,” you respond wryly.

He rubbed at the back of his neck sheepishly. “I, uh…missed my alarm then, got caught up in the border lockdown. Before I knew it, I was stranded in Normandy for a bit before the school managed to make arrangements to get us back to Paris then back home.”

You’ll never forget it, since you, too, were stuck in a foreign land so far away from family.

“How come you never called?” It was a question that niggled at you for years.

He chewed at his bottom lip helplessly. “In the midst of all the chaos, I misplaced my book–the one where I kept that receipt where you wrote down your information.”

That all sounded too easy and far-fetched. But in the week that you spent with him, it wasn’t that hard to believe. He nearly left his passport behind at the bar that first night before going back to his flat; Once, he got off at the wrong stop after mixing up north and southbound trains.

You sighed. “Well…you’re here now. That’s all that matters, right? How did you know I’d be here?”

He smiled wistfully. “I saw your picture in one of our e-newsletters I get at work,” he answers. “I normally send those straight to my trash but something told me that I needed to take a look at it and…I’m sure glad that I did.”

That made your heart flutter. You made a mental note to thank the university’s Communications team for convincing you to do a headshot to promote the lecture series.

“Do you live around the area? Are you local?”

He shook his head gently. “No. I made the trip out here because I wanted to come see you.”

Your mouth falls open at his confession. “O-oh.”

“I wondered if I could take you out for dinner? There’s a bistro that I passed not too far from here. U-unless…you’ve already eaten–”

You snorted loudly then interjected, “Oh, please–you know I could always eat!” He laughs hysterically.

******

“Have you ever gone back?”

His eyes flick up at your question but the look he gave told you that you didn’t need to clarify it further.

“Mm-hm,” he answered affirmatively before adding, “Not as often as I’d like, though. And you?”

“Yeah,” you reply. “Actually, a year after travel restrictions eased up, I went back right away.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Really?”

You nod and look at him enigmatically. “I went straight to Villa Dupont.”

Remembering the area so clearly, his lips twitch at the thought. “Luna’s atelier?”

You nodded again. He sat back on his chair then interlocked his fingers behind his neck before he tilted his head against them. “Wow. That’s…amazing!”

“What can I say? That’s where my career started,” you quipped.

“And here I was, thinking that I was such an idiot for taking this beautiful girl on the most boring, mind-numbing walking tour of Asian impressionist artists.”

You both laughed, but those walks with him were one of the best memories of your time there.

“Anyway, I came back a few more times after that for my doctoral dissertation. And now here I am, giving lectures on it.”

The look on his face showed pride and admiration. All those hours you spent talking, you both shared your dreams and hopes for the future. You both had your head in the clouds…just two kids trying to justify the relevance of your respective liberal arts programs.

“That’s amazing. Consider me envious,” he says in jest. “You’re traveling around the world…and living your dream.”

You wave him off. “It’s not so glamorous. These days, I’m happy if I get to squeeze in some personal time. Usually, I get to a place, spend most of my time working and…” Your eyes drift down to your left hand, picking up your drink, “...then I have to get back to my family.”

He follows your line of vision. It wasn’t the first time he’s clocked in the piece of jewelry you’ve worn for a number of years now. He noticed it when you took the menu from the host after they sat you down at your table.

He hadn’t asked about it then, nor did you ask him about the ring that he wore on his finger when he moved his wine glass to the edge of the table when the server returned to pour him a glass of red wine.

You cleared your throat. “So, what else have you been up to these days? Are you just calling up former lovers?” You teased him.

A low laugh rumbled within his chest. “I’ve only ever had one former lover,” he held up one finger and stared. It was so unnerving, you had to break eye contact first. “Then, I got married. Really quickly…to the first girl that I met a year after I got back from France.”

You couldn’t hide the shock written all over your face. “Wow,” you managed to say. “That’s…” You try to think of a word that didn’t sound too reproachful.

“Crazy? Impulsive? Yes. I was really young and I thought the world was ending. I just didn’t want to lose anybody again.” he trailed off.

You and your husband were together for five years before you even thought about getting married. Maybe you were unconsciously holding out hope that you’d run into Namjoon again.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and smiled sadly at the thought, but that was quickly interrupted by the server bringing your dinner to the table.

******

You go through the rest of dinner talking about your most recent work and him sharing some of his more recent projects. When the server returns to dish out your plates, they ask about dessert. Namjoon declined but immediately looked at you.

“Oh, no thank you,” you declined politely.

Namjoon’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Who are you? I could have sworn that moelleux au chocolat was calling your name,” he teases, remembering your favorite treat that you indulged in while you were together.

“Shut up,” you laughed. “We’re not 21 anymore. You can’t…eat chocolate cake just like that.”

“Not even in bed?” The soft crinkle in his eyes deepened as he smiled cheekily.

You try to put aside those memories of chocolate and him. You cock a serious eyebrow at him, his expression unchanging. “Nope, not even in bed.”

You fall silent for a bit. Then he asks, “How many kids do you have?”

“Two girls. You?”

“I have a son,” he answers.

“Must be blissful to just have one,” you commented, polishing off your wine.

“Oh, trust me,” he says, picking up the bottle to pour you another glass but you hold your hand up, feeling like you’ve had more than enough for the night. “He’s still a handful, though.” he laughs, proceeding to empty out the rest of the bottle’s contents into his glass.

“But he’s my handful, so…” he trailed off, setting the empty wine bottle on the table.

“Are you and your wife still together?” You thought maybe the question was out of line but curiosity was getting the best of you.

His expression turns wistful. “We live under the same roof, let’s put it that way. She’s a great woman, a good mother. And I don’t deserve her.”

You smiled sadly at him, then stared at him silently. You begin to question why you even decided to come with him. Perhaps it was all a big mistake.

And yet, even though it's been so long, your memories of him were so incredibly vivid that you could just reach your hand out and you'd feel them. Feel him.

“What are we doing here, Namjoon? Why did you show up at my lecture? What did you hope to achieve?”

“Honestly?” His eyes flicked downward and he began to fidget with a loose thread on the table cloth.

“When I found out that you’d be in town, I booked a room within five minutes.” He chuckled. “I didn’t even care if the rate was ridiculous…”

Then, his gaze lifted back to your face. “I was hoping that we could pick up where we left off."

Your hand instinctively clutches at your chest. Your heart was beating so fast, you were afraid that it would just burst out of it.

"For 10 years, I imagined what our life would have been like. And if I ever saw you again, would I feel the same way about you? Would you feel the same way about me?”

You purse your lips and lean in closer. “You didn’t need to book a hotel room to find out if we still love each other…” You paused, then gave him a small smile. “Because clearly, we still do.”

His lips curved into a smile and the dimples in his cheeks grew deeper.

“For 10 years…Just the idea of you, knowing that you existed and that you were in my life…I held onto those memories and they got me through some tough times.” Your throat tightens but right before your tears fall, he reaches across the table, holding his hand out, beckoning you to put your hand in it.

After some hesitation, you acquiesce. He gives it a gentle squeeze, then brings it up to his lips to kiss it. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

******

You took a leisurely walk by the avenue and into a small pub a few blocks away. You shared a few more drinks and stories. For hours, you caught up with each other’s lives.

You excitedly talk to him about your new television project while he enthusiastically describes recently studying works by the late Yun Hyong Keun, even developing a friendship with his family.

Art was Namjoon’s pride and joy. His eyes, though the corners were now wrinkled with laugh lines several years later, still lit up the same way when he talked about his passions and the things that he loves.

When one pub closed, you moved into another. And when that closed, you moved your conversation to a park bench, right outside of your hotel by the waterfront.

It was a little after 5:30AM and daylight was breaking through the horizon. Most of the town’s commercial avenue was still asleep, save for the cafes that were gearing up for a new day for early-morning patrons.

When you sat down next to him, he lifted his arm up, inviting you to sidle up closer to him. And you did. You basked in his warmth and rested your head against his chest. You caught a whiff of him…cinnamon and coffee mixed in with faint traces of lavender-scented fabric softener. Even though you felt fatigue set in, you couldn’t close your eyes. You crane your neck up to find him sitting still with eyes closed while the sunrise kisses his face. Now, how could you possibly miss that?

******

You head back into the hotel and go up to your respective rooms only to retrieve your things so you could check out and head to the train station.

“You don’t have to take me, really–”

“I know I don’t have to but I want to,” he insisted.

You laugh at him. “You’ve gone and rented out a room that you didn’t even sleep in. Now you’re saying that you’re going to take the train with me, see me off at my stop, then transfer at a station that’s completely out of the way for you?”

He laughed in return. “It sounds so crazy when you put it that way but…yes, I want to do all that.”

You shook your head at how ridiculous that was. “Joon…”

“Please? Just let me do this,” he all but pleads.

You wanted to protest again but instead, when you open your mouth, a yawn escapes you.

“Look at you…that’s like, the fifth time in a row you’ve yawned,” he snickered.

“Spare me,” you chuckled with a slight eyeroll. “I know we barely slept when we were together. Now I can barely keep my eyes open.”

“Dawn is for lovers…and bakers,” he adds with a grin while his eyes peered up at a bakery that had just turned over its ‘open’ sign on the front door.

Your cheeks flushed with warmth. “You always had a way with words.”

“Things haven’t changed much,” he replied as you made your way out of the hotel to catch a cab together.

******

Hours later, the train approaches your stop, and you begin to gather your things.

“Thank you,” you say to him.

He smiled wordlessly then dipped his head down. You didn’t stop him and instead, met his kiss halfway. Warmth bloomed within your chest when your lips brushed against each other’s. In an instant, you had traveled back in time…back into his embrace. It was like coming home.

The train comes to a halt, making you bump against each other. Pulling away, you stare at each other with half-lidded eyes. Both your pulses raced but ironically, there was a calm that washed over you.

Neither of you said anything for a few beats until a smile broke through his lips. It’s so infectious that you do the same. He leans in again and plants a soft, lingering kiss on your forehead. You find yourself squeezing your eyes shut.

When he lets go of you, he looks into your eyes again. “We should do this again.”

His invitation was so unexpected that it knocked the wind out of you. You give him a small smile and a nod. “Sure, just call me.”

“I definitely will. You know, since I have my phone with me now instead of an old receipt,” he says.

You gather your things and off-board the train hand-in-hand. You put your luggage down then faced each other on the platform.

“So…have a good life!”

Your comment tickles him. “‘Have a good life’?” he echoed. “That sounds like something people say when they won’t see each other again.”

You didn’t really mean anything by it. You thought it sounded better than saying, ‘That was fun,’ or ‘Take care.’

You chuckled at him and shrugged. “You never know what could happen between now and the next time we see each other again. I could die; you could hit your head and fall into a coma; another border lockdown could happen, or…maybe one of us decides that they want something else,” you reply casually.

He took a step to narrow the gap between you. “I’ve always loved your wild imagination,” he says, tucking a few strands of your hair behind your ear.

You grinned at him. “So you’ve told me.”

His expression turned serious. “Well, none of those things will happen. We’ll see each other again.” he promises, keeping his eyes locked with yours.

You nodded softly and gave him a small smile. “Alright.”

His smile grew wider and you tilt your chin up to kiss his lips again before his train home arrives on the other side of the platform. You watched him board and saw that he sat by the window seat, his eyes still on you.

True love in its absolute form has many purposes in life. It’s not just about bringing children into the world; or romance or soulmates or even lifelong companionship. The love you had in your past...unfinished, untested, lost love...seems so easy, so childish to those who chose to settle down. But it’s actually the purest, most concentrated stuff.

For years, you imagined what it would be like to see him again. To learn that things hadn’t changed and that spark between you was just as bright and electric as when you first made eye contact.

And while you were happy to learn that he still felt the same way, just like any spark, there’s a brightness for a few seconds…before the wind blows it out. Like a firework that shoots up into the sky, bursting into different colors, only to fall back down as smoke and ash. Like a bolt of lightning, crackling through the storm clouds, followed by a loud thunderclap and a burst of rain.

Up until the last few hours, you realized that something this good can only last for so long.

You had your beautiful moment with him. And that’s how it will always stay in your heart.

When the train rain pulls away from the station, you feel a twinge in your chest. You blew him a kiss and stood there silently until he was far enough away from you.

He waved at you through the window then turned to look straight ahead.

“Have a good life, YN,” he whispered to himself.

Crossposted on AO3 | Main Fic Masterlist

You’ve reached the end! Thank you so much for reading!

If you loved it, please comment, reblog, or send me feedback! 📩. I love hearing from readers! If you didn’t like it so much, I would still like to hear about it. Help me become a better writer! 💜

Tagging: @internetjunkdrawer @deepseavibez @itdoesntmatterwhy @joonschocochip @yu-justme @e-cm

#bts fanfiction #namjoon x reader #namjoon angst #namjoon fanfiction

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yukipri · 1 year

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Question for any folks who have experience with Batuu Bounding/Disneyland!

I'm going to Galaxy's Edge for the first time very soon, and I'm both extremely excited but also terrified I'll do something wrong. I've been wanting to go since it was first announced, and I'm not sure when I'll get another opportunity so I want to make this count!

I love dressing up so of course i want to try Batuu Bounding (dressing up in-universe), but my personal sense of what counts as costumey or not is extremely skewed. Adults are technically not allowed to wear costumes inside Disneyland, but people are also encouraged to "dress like a local" when visiting Batuu, aka Galaxy's Edge, aka Star Wars land. This creates a very gray zone on what counts as a costume and what is Batuu bounding.

I've tried to do a ton of research on my own, reading the official rules, blogs, and even reddit, but would appreciate any feedback, especially if you have personal experience! Note, I'll be going to Disneyland, aka Disney West, aka Anaheim, California.

So my question: Do you think they'll let me in with these outfits?

Technically I'm following their guidelines:

-Not attempting to look like any official character

-No robes/cape (just a scarf that can be adjusted)

-No weapons except lightsaber (yes, it's the Visions one from Lop & Ochō. I'm Japanese, I thought it fitting I get the Japanese lightsaber lol)

-No hard armor—except the back of glove plates, which are really small and I think I've seen people with those? After receiving advice on Twitter, I'm just gonna leave the gloves off entirely, better not to risk it plus they're gonna be uncomfy anyway

-Nothing dragging on ground

-No costume pieces; both of the above outfits are a combination of traditional Japanese-style, J-punk/rock, alternative, and natural cotton/linen fashion, all of which I wear regularly as part of my daily wardrobe (see what I mean by "my sense of what counts as too costumey is extremely skewed" LMAO)

-I know they have a "no masks" rule, but mine is a COVID mask, and they allow those right? If the outer mask protector is too costume-y, I can defs take it off, but I ain't going without any mask.

-My "I am not a cast member" item is the jetpack backpack, but idk I don't think I look like a cast member

I was gonna make the black dress one main but I think I liked the second one with vest and kama more (let's see if I can tolerate wearing pants all day lmao). Everything is layered, can easily mix 'n match tops/bottoms, I have a few other color variation tops I can mix in too. I also think Cali is gonna be way warmer than I'm expecting so I may shed layers. For now I'm thinking of making my main day the second one, except instead of a green shirt under the green vest, I'll wear a black one.

Also, note that while my True Mandos leather patch is skewed on the green outfit in the above photos, it'll be properly attached on the day of. I just wanted it lightly attached for a quick try-on photo, but it can securely attach via pins on the back! (also yes, that is a mini Fennec-inspired light-up Greeblie <3 )

Also a few more closeups:

The empty strap thing is a harness to carry a Droid Depot droid, which I have a reservation to build on the first droid. The casings holder thing on the strap that makes it look like a bandolier are kyber crystal holders. I also have an empty leather holder for a detonator soda can and yet another kyber crystal holder on my belt. After getting advice on Twitter, I'm going to put all of these in my bag when I enter the park to reduce how cluttered I look at the entrance, since they're technically all things to carry stuff I will be buying inside the park but do not yet have.

I have a giant mythosaur brooch on my scarf, but it's not solid metal, but a resin-metal mix. I think it should count as a "pin" and not armor.

The thing on my left arm is a decked out Magicband+. I still have no idea how to use it but I hope it will be intuitive ^ ^;

(yeah, so many Etsy sellers have received my money over the past half year that has passed since I started planning for this trip lmao)

I also received feedback on Twitter that my lightsaber sheath looks too much like a katana which may trigger security, so I'm going to be making a little end cap for it to make it look blunter. It's a nice Pixel blade attached to an expensive Proffie lightsaber, so I do want to protect it, and hope a blunted endcap will make it clearer that it's a lightsaber.

I'll probably only bother with the droid carrier + lightsaber + kyber crystal bandolier on one of the three days I'm there, so I can travel lighter on my other days!

I'm really hoping I'll get to talk to Boba/Fennec/Din on at least one of the 3 days I'm there, which is one of the reasons why I've got so much Mando stuff on (in addition to just, trying to make a "bounty hunter" look, and also eyyy Mandos). Idk if it's too subtle or if they'll ignore me bc I'm trying too hard sobs

So yeah, with my aforementioned modifications, do you think they'll let me in?

Any feedback, opinions, or even general advice for a first time visitor to Batuu would be immensely appreciated <3

Thanks so much!!! ;A;

#YukiPri rambles #YukiPri selfie #Batuu #Galaxy's Edge #Disneyland #Batuu Bounding #Bounding #Star Wars #I want to perform well at my vacation at Disneyland which I know is both a normal thing to want and possible to achieve #I want a Good Grade in Star Wars Fan visitor lmao sobs #also if u want to be amused u can see all 3 of my boys making cameos in the bg #it was freakin' COLD today so no they did not get to go out onto the catio and they were not happy bc I was out there takin' pics with mum

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savage-rhi · 17 days

Text

*inhales deeply*

LET'S GET DANGEROUS....

I know I don't owe anyone anything, but I want to be transparent about why I've not been as active lately.

My recent job loss and the discrimination that contributed to said loss had me severely depressed. After coming down a little from survivor/PTSD mode, I needed to take space from everyone and everything. I am starting to feel better, thankfully.

I have been performing odd jobs in my neighborhood so that I am good on cash for bills and housing this month and part of next month. Beyond that, I don't know what to expect.

I am still working on my Ko-Fi shop. This is one of those things I jumped right into thanks to survivor mode, and I didn't account for everything as thoroughly so I'm taking my time with it.

I did speak to a few legal advocates and a couple of lawyers during these past few weeks. Here's the good, bad, and ugly:

Good: Yes, there was illegal discrimination at play. My place of employment didn't handle things the way they should've regarding my excused absences related to disability, and they contributed to emotional duress and screwed over my education prospects.

Bad: I didn't have a paper trail for everything, but I had enough to prove that I did what I was supposed to do on my end when it came to adhering to my place of employments processes. There is sadly nothing that can be done about the third party health insurance company that played a role in screwing me over.

Ugly: Even with the pro-bono stuff that was offered, I'm looking between 20,000-35,000k out of pocket if I wanted to take this to the highest.

Folks...I do not have 20-35k lying around nor the emotional bandwidth to go through a trial/suit. Yes, GoFundMe is an option if I was dead serious on dragging these fuckers dicks through the dirt, but guys, honest to god, I'd rather that 20k-35k go to the following:

Keeping a roof over my head and food on the table until I have stable employment

Ensuring I can afford medical care for my disability, and afford new tests that I'm going to need for long-covid issues

Help me stay in my graduate courses/obtain my therapy licensure

Use it to help out other disabled folks in similar situations

I have closure that I was indeed wronged, that I did everything on my end to the best of my ability, and these dehumanizing assholes aren't going to rob anymore of my energy or time than they already have.

I have appointments to see if covid has fucked up or contributed to anything more serious that hasn't been addressed. I have a secondary PCP now cause of health concerns that have gotten worse. My fibromyalgia flares have been more chaotic since catching covid in January and I'm still figuring out what my new baseline is with that.

Spring Term of my graduate studies started last week, and I'm getting as much as I can done so I have more free time.

I am trying to find motivation to work my fanfics, drabbles, interacting, etc. It's been hard with everything.

My former employer is trying to get out of unemployment benefits and I've been battling that on top of the other stuff.

I need time to rest (like hibernate) and I haven't had the opportunity to do that.

Thank you again to everyone who has checked in on me, asked me how I've been, sent something positive, or donated. I'm sorry I haven't had the hit points to get to everyone individually, but I am trying and I am grateful for the compassion and appreciation.

If you still want to donate before my Ko-Fi shop is up, you can donate at these places:

PayPal: [email protected]

Kofi: KitchenRaptorJ

CashApp: $JayRex1463

If you don't have the means, that's a okay. Take care of yourself first.

If you want to send me comfort things (Ardyn Izunia, Higgs Monaghan, Karl Heisenberg, dinosaurs, dragons, etc.) like art, fanfic, etc. my way, that would be wonderful and I am open to that. I'm still open to a friendly hello or check in, just know I won't respond right away.

Now that all is said and done...

#magenta #magenta is my safe word for venting #i need a vacation at some point #like a quick trip to the coast for a few days in a run down motel or spending the night in my car on the beach with a thing of malibu rum #and a bar of dark sea salt caramel chocolate and the sickest pair of shades known to man with a cigar hanging out of my mouth #please do not ask me to elaborate more on the lawyer stuff it was already a clusterfuck to begin with and i don't have the spoons to comb #over all the little details of what was told to me just know i tried and was dead set on getting answers which i did earn in the end #seriously though i do love you guys that privately DM'd on here and off and asked if im alright even if i didn't say anything back #thank you for being kind #please extend that kindness to yourself as well

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flashyourgreeneyesatme · 2 years

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Sick as a dog. <Bradley Bradshaw x reader>

This is my first published piece of writing but my baby, Reese Withoutaspoon aka @greatbigshiningstar is sick with Covid, and I want to make her feel better even if I’m not where near her. Love you doll hope you can imagine Roost with this.

I hope you enjoy and anytime any one of you are sick just remember Bradley would buy you your favourite soup and cut your bread exactly the way you like it!

pairing: Bradley Bradshaw x (f)reader

word count: 1846

warnings: Mentions of feeling and being sick, Bradley’s awful dad jokes, way too many curse words and sexual references (if you really squint hard enough – haha hard)

summary: The reader is home sick from the flu she got from work (can be whatever job you want I’m not going to explicitly describe what job she does) and wants to just curl up and die. Will Rooster let her be alone? No! He protect. He attack. He’s got his baby’s back! Just a cute little drabble of Bradley looking after her.

Pain. Pain is all I could feel, coursing through my body and destroying everything in its path. It's like if you gave the basic flu weapons and said, 'have at it!'. Now all I can think about are cartoon germs with machine guns shooting at my immune system until there is nothing left to destroy. Now, I'm an averagely smart person I obviously know that they don't have weapons and aren't shooting me from the inside but right now if you told me to stand up straight and count to ten, I'd be doing the macarena and wouldn't even notice the difference. I go to cuddle my pillow until I realise, I'm not even in bed I'm in my car and have been since 3 pm. 4 hours in my car just sitting there. No music. No phone. Just sitting. When did I get home? How did I get home? Did I accidentally kill anyone on my way home? I guess we'll never know.

I decide that I need to go inside and curl up and live my life in a quarantine-like staycation where I will not be talking to anyone, my best friend will be my cold bathroom floor and kid's drowsy cough medicine because I only like the strawberry flavour and apparently adult medicine manufacturers thought Let's make it taste worse than their own vomit and make them take it 3-4 times a day. Yeah, no thanks I'm okay with my kiddie medication, maybe that's why I'm always asked for parenting advice by new mums in the pharmacy. By the time I actually am able to get my dead legs out of the car, it's been 27 minutes and I stumble into my shitty home like a newborn deer learning to walk. All because of Jaida from work.

That bitch Jaida can get the flu, have a few sniffles and get on with the day. But puts everyone else at risk. Like okay, Jaida you've got a good immune system we get it! She gets to continue her day whereas I am reenacting the exorcist when I even try to drink water. How is it fair? I enjoy my job. I want to be at my job. I unscrew the top of the medicine bottle and simply drink it like it's an energy drink, the door to my bedroom opens and I just lay on the bed.

Suddenly I hear the front door open once again. All this time I've been thinking about myself when I forget I share this shitty home with my amazing boyfriend who has such an important job and if he gets sick, what if he can't go out on a flight and countless people die because of it? Okay nope, he's not allowed near me it is decided I am going to reenact another film, Contagion.

"Honey I'm home!" I hear the naval officer yell throughout the house. The silence is deafening in response. He starts whistling about as if his version of echolocation will be able to locate me within the house. I stand up to back myself against the door so he cannot enter which feels like the biggest task I've ever completed. I hear him try to push the bedroom door open and fail imminently. "Why are you up against the door? Are you naked? You know I don't mind it's nothing I haven't seen before." He goes to push against the door once again.

"I'm not naked. I'm sick." I weakly croak out just enough for him to hear.

"Okay? So are you going to let me in or?" His voice is laced with confusion, boy take a hint, I love you but not happening.

"I'm not letting you in because if you get sick you might not be able to work and if you can't work then Mav might personally send firing jets to shoot me." He can tell there's a frown on my face even behind the oak door. By now I'm sitting on the floor leaning against the door because all my energy is drained. I hear Rooster's knees drop to the floor and look to see him looking through the gap at the bottom of the heavy door and hear a little giggle. "Fuck off it's not funny!" I can't help but laugh which causes my chest and throat to hurt more. "I'm dying of influenza in here and you're laughing about me. Some widow you'd make Bradshaw." Again a fucking giggle easily escapes that man's mouth.

"Right then if you're dying might as well get some things I've been meaning to say for a long time but never had the courage to say." He sighs and sits with his back to the door as I am also doing. A light tension fills the air. "You're a stupid bitch and I hate you. You're ugly too."

"Right now I want you to get sick you dickhead." I lightly hit the door soon realising that hurt my whole body more than I reckoned.

"Then open the door all you have to do is open the door and let me get my karma." His voice sounds tempting. He's got that charm that could sell the internet to an elephant. Not sure if that makes sense but I'm feeling like dumbo on wine right now so I don't really mind if my idiom makes sense or not. That man knows exactly what he's doing. Is it reverse psychology or is it gaslighting either way it's super enticing. I push myself off the floor and open the door. "Ah, a hideous monster!" He yells as I open the door. Bradley sees the upset and frustration on my face and knows I'm about to slam this door in his face. "Wait no! I'm sorry!" Allowing him to walk into our shared bedroom felt illegal to me. I keep my distance from him baking away as far as I can go before hitting the bed that stood in the centre of the room. "Am I not allowed to be near you?" I shake my head in response.

"I'm not getting you sick dude that would fucking suck! And you're a child when you're sick so I'm not willing to play nurse. Love you, not that much." Rooster puts his hands up in a surrender-like fashion and stays where he is. His dark brown eyes scan me up and down. "Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm a dying puppy." My lips form into a pout.

"I want to look after you. That's all I want. I won't come near you I promise." His fingers form into a cross behind his back.

"And how do you propose that you can look after me without coming near me." I'm sceptical about his methods.

"Get into bed." A little smile forms on his face.

"I don't see how having sex is going to help bud." Scoffs pass his lips as he has given up with my bullshit. Before I can even process what is happening his long arms have been placed onto my shoulders and pushed my back onto the mattress. A small yelp escapes my lips. "I have no energy for this." I feel the mattress consume my weight as I sink in slowly but surely.

"Get under the duvet and I'll be back." He's off! The room is suddenly quiet as I give in to his demands and get settled under the heavy duvet which I can't decide if it's too hot or too cold for it. The first noise I hear is the fumbling noise of the cupboards and then the slamming of them. Instead of Bradley coming back to the room the front door once again opens and closes. I want to get up and see where he has gone but this bed has grown more comfortable by the second and not to my recollection my eyes start to close and I doze off.

I don't know how long it's been while I've been sleeping but I am slowly awoken by the smell of rich chicken wafting its way from the kitchen. My eyes slowly open and I am alerted by Bradley's figure standing in the doorway. My body does a small tense reaction to his terrifying stature. "Hey, sleepysauras. Temp check!" He works his way over to my still comatose body and sticks a thermometer into my mouth. A hmmm noise comes from my chest as I feel the cool plastic on my tongue. "Okay! 101*. You, little lady, have a fever."

"That's mean." My eyes roll around my head.

"I made cheddar broccoli soup. Just for you. Because I love you!" I stick my middle finger up at him. His laughs fill the house as he goes to fetch the amazing-smelling soup from the kitchen. The soup enters the room before he does as he is holding it out at an arm's length. "So I don't have to come near you!" Weak fake laughs come from my mouth. The tray is set on my lap and the bread is cut my way. "Even though I'm pretty sure it's a felony I cut it horizontally because you're sick and I have to spoil you." I try not to break out into a smile and or cry because it is so stinking cute. "Now eat it up."

"Yes sir, Lieutenant Bradshaw, sir!" I give him a small salute. He goes to leave, "What you're not going to spoon-feed me as well?" He stops in his tracks and does a little 180* spin on the spot. The speed of his run could be considered inhuman, he could put the flash to shame. Instead of simply walking around the bed as a normal person would, Bradley leapfrogs over my side of the bed to his side. The metal spoon is lifted from the white ceramic bowl into his hands.

"I'm going to be honest with you I have already taster tested a lot of this soup. For your protection of course." My head shakes up and down in a mocking gesture.

"My hero!" Rooster's lips move closer to the spoon, which holds the cheddar broccoli soup, and lightly blows on it. Aeroplane-like noises advance from the aviator's lips as he spoon feeds me like a child. "It's nice." Dark brown eyes squint at my choice of words. "It's delicious, Gordon Ramsey would be proud!" Pride fills his expression as he seems very impressed with his amazing cooking. As I demolish the food in front of me my stomach churns only slightly enough to make me gag but not to be physically sick. Rooster goes white as a ghost in front of me, not very well-known fact is that Roost is a huge Emetophobic. Reassurance washes over his pale complexion as he realises I wasn't going to throw up.

My anxieties of not wanting to get him sick are gone as I open up the duvet for him to get underneath with me. He willingly does so and joins our bodies together. The warmth from his body and his arm wrapped around me sends me back to sleep.

I hope you enjoyed!

#bradley bradshaw x reader #topgun #bradley bradshaw

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vasiktomis · 1 year

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Four-Letter-Words (18+)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just a test.

You, on the other hand –

You’re difficult not to hate.

Especially during times like this.

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

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

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

Not to Travis, it isn’t.

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

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

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

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

“Body of Christ.” He grits.

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

…

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

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

“Amen.”

Liar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Today, the feeling is amplified.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

Travis comes to a skidding halt on the lawn.

Oh, no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then:

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

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

“It’s only lunchtime, Father.”

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

“Not really. Anyway-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nope.”

“That was hell, right?”

“Yep.”

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

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

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

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

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

He’s finally got you alone.

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

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

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

Duty demands a softer approach.

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

“I’ll try to be here more.”

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

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

“Are you alright-?”

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

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

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

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

“People still do that?”

“Once a year, tops.”

“Ouch.”

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

“Between three and five on Wednesdays?"

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

It makes it easier to function.

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

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

”Okay. Thanks.”

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

He hates you.

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

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

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

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

Phew. Crisis averted.

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

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

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

…

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

“Get out.”

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

Wednesday, 4:43PM.

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

As usual, Travis is here alone.

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

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

It’s just a normal afternoon.

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

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

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

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

“Pastor Hackett?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, it’s just super annoying.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He lets the moment sober. “Go ahead.”

“I’ve…”

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

“Been–”

“Insolent–”

“Dude, come on.”

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

“...Insolent–”

“Toward a spiritual leader–”

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

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

My priest. My priest. My priest.

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

“Dick.”

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

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

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

“Are you struggling with your faith?”

“Yes.”

“Did something happen with someone in the congregation?”

“No, it’s more…I dunno.”

“Go on.”

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

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

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

“Do you know what’s causing it?”

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

A pit forms in Travis’s stomach.

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

“There’s someone, yeah.”

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

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

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

He swallows. “Have you acted on it?”

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

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

”It’s not that simple.”

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

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

”I really don’t think that’ll help—“

”I can visit your house—“

”What? God, no—“

”I’m tryna help—“

”It’s my priest.”

…

Travis’s brow furrows.

He didn’t quite catch that.

“Come again?”

You hesitate, and something stirs in him. Apprehension.

“Uhm. It’s my — priest.”

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

“Once more.”

“Travis, it’s you.”

…

“Oh.”

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

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

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

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

Travis clears his throat again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He can’t be doing this.

He’s a goddamn priest.

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

“I know.”

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

“I know.”

“This is my life’s dedication–”

“I get it–”

“I feel the same.” He blurts.

Then, there's a long stretch of silence.

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

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

Problem. That stings.

“Do I move to another parish?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not fair.

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

What would be the fucking point in staying?

“Travis-”

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s a factor.” Travis admits.

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

“Hey — language–”

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

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

"Fuck you."

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

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

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

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

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

He needs his own closure first.

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

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

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

“Yes, I do!”

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

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

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

Your gaze meets for a moment.

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

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

...

Travis realises he has made a mistake.

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

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

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

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

“You think about fucking me often?”

Every day.

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

“Often is subjective.”

“Do you-”

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

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

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

This isn’t good.

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

“Go ahead.” He chokes.

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

“How would you fuck me?”

That has him frozen to the spot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus.

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

“Do you want that?”

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

“As luck would have it–”

No way. You’re not. You didn’t–

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

It’s divine intervention. It has to be.

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

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

“Wait.” He blurts.

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

“Yes?” Your head tilts in his periphery.

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

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

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

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

He lingers on that.

How the fuck can he avoid you?

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

“Thank you, Father.”

This is it.

He might not see you again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Travis is straightening back out in an instant.

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

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

…

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

No, he can’t think like that.

“I couldn’t do it — I pulled out-”

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

“What do I do, Father?”

This is what he chose to prioritise?

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

“That’s it?”

Fuck this.

“That’s it.”

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

“I thought-”

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

“O-okay. Thank you, Father.”

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

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

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

He breaks into a sprint.

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

There you are.

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

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

He’s never been more scared in his life.

It’s fucking divine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You trying to tell me this is okay?”

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

”God, no — and that’s the problem.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He can give you more.

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

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

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

Your head shakes minutely.

“What’s the matter?”

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

“So?”

“So you don’t have to-”

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

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

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

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

He can make his own fun, regardless.

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

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

“Just tell me, already.”

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

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

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

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

"That's more like it."

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

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

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

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

“Travis—“

He hates how difficult you make that.

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

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

No, not reminding.

Pleading.

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It looms over him, trembling, desperate, delicious.

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

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

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

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

Humiliation. Failure.

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

“Did you just—“

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

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

No, that won’t do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, I want this."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Come on." He whines.

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

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

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

“More.”

“Hands off.”

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

You do it again when he remembers to hold still.

“Good boy.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

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

“Feel better?” You murmur.

He grits his teeth, nodding.

“Suddenly not so chatty?”

"Not taking my chances.”

“You want me to keep going?”

“God, yes. Yes.”

“You want me to go faster?”

“Yes.”

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

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

“…yes.”

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

Fuck.

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

"Travis — I'm close —"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Travis.”

“Hm.”

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

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

Silence stretches between you. Then:

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

"Skipping town isn't an option?"

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

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

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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