Post-coital Panic Ch. 04
Dive into the steamy world of “Post-coital Panic Ch. 04,” where passion and vulnerability collide in a powerful exploration of desire, intimacy, and self-discovery. Join our characters as they navigate the aftermath of a night of passion, facing their fears and desires in an unforgettable journey. Perfect for readers seeking raw emotions and captivating storytelling—don’t miss the thrilling next chapter!
a/n: So, I totally forgot I hadn’t posted this here. I think I was saving it for another double chapter, but I’ve been severely unmotivated and everything’s since come to a halt. Someone just commented on the last chapter and was like “I’ve been waiting for months” and when I looked at the end of Ch.03, I was fully expecting to see the end of this chapter. Smh. Anyway, no real smut, mostly plot and introspection. You should know my chapter routines by now.
TW’s: Graphic-ish descriptions of violence.
“I’m headed there right now, man, hand to God! Wha–? I’m religious enough! Henry, seriously, I know where it is, I’m coming. Yes, yeah, I know. I know, I’m sorry!”
I appreciate anything that disrupts the banality of a day, whether its impact be negative or positive. Depending on the life a person curates for themselves, everything becomes banal after enough repetition. Rearing children, a career born of passion, hobbies, drunken revelry, sex, violence. People are remarkably adaptive if there’s habitual exposure to the same stimuli, which is why growth hinges on change. Newness and rarity are invaluable, and I’ve become a collector in that broad category. Anything can be new or rare, regardless of a fictitious number it’s been assigned. Both tangible objects and–
“I’m so fucked.” Kit’s earlier enthusiasm over the Performante is nowhere to be found. He raps the butt of his phone against his forehead. Mild self-flagellation. His friends are disgruntled by his continued delay.
“Your friend?” Pointing out the obvious is enough for Kit to be forthcoming. Were I anyone else, even that wouldn’t be necessary. With me, he feels the need to wait for conversational cues. Unless he’s irate.
“Nah, what makes you think that?” It’s a lighthearted barb, and he often relies on them to deflect. This one is followed by a genuine answer. “Henry. I was supposed to get off the boat with them this morning.”
Henry Lionel Puckett, twenty-eight. Graduated ‘summa cum laude’ from Harvard Law as of one year ago, engaged to Sarah Mabel Canady for that same length of time. This is his bachelor’s trip before their autumnal wedding. What can’t be gleaned off social media can be bought or dug up in other, more complicated ways. Fortunately, a troupe of Americans on holiday don’t require the latter. Kit’s in attendance out of pure obligation to his closest friend.
He’s deeply terrified of open water. Regularly seasick as well. Those details were discovered through organic interaction, which is more rewarding. Even more rewarding than that, when Kit deigns to share it himself.
“Генри очень важен, раз вы сели на корабль ради него.”
I denote Henry’s importance, since he was willing to board a ship at all for his sake. It can be taken a number of ways, but given Kit’s general hotheadedness, he latches onto an imaginary slight, that I could be suggesting he’s anything other than strictly heterosexual with his lifelong friend. When embarrassed, the top of his ears flush.
“He’s my friend.” He stresses the platonic nature of their relationship. “Best friend. He’s getting married, and this is a bachelor’s trip. It wasn’t his idea. We were supposed to go hiking, camping at Yosemite. His fuckbuddy from Harvard put this stupid shit together. I can…deal. I’m fine.”
Yesterday evening, Kit’s eavesdropping revealed to him my purpose for being aboard the ship. Far less frivolous than a bachelor’s trip. Learning of a plot to end anyone’s life, let alone an influential member of parliament, would usually warrant…melodrama. The likes of which require cleaning up. Instead, less than an hour later, I found him wooing a socialite at one of the onboard lounges. He’d made no moves to expose an imminent crime, nor did he seem particularly bothered to be in the proximity of one. Carrying on as normal. While he grew tense at my appearance in the elevator, bursting with nerves on the forced march to my room, he didn’t express any true fear until the terrace.
In the presence of a recently discovered killer, Kit was more terrified of something as timeless and insensate as water. A sea that’s only crime is existence, unaware of the innumerable civilizations birthed and deceased at its border. The sea doesn’t kill, man just often fails to survive it. I, on the other hand, do kill. I do it with intention. I’m good at it. Realizing that meant next to nothing in the face of Kit’s blind, primal fear was refreshing. He’s an oddity in many ways, and instead of feeling written off, I appreciated the newness of it.
That’s all to say, ‘fine’ might not be as true as he wants it to be.
I was undecided on how to proceed, as he’d become a potential leak. There was no logical reason to let him live, and I should have done exactly as he feared. Except, what a tremendous waste it’d be. Kit’s generated more activity in a withered limbic system than I’ve experienced in months. Whereas a shiny, new toy loses luster in a matter of hours, my interest in him hadn’t yet dimmed. There was too little I knew, and what I did know, those idiosyncrasies hooked into me like ten fishermen casting in the same puddle. When he braved the terrace, shaking and green in the face, it was difficult to rationalize his death as merely plugging a leak.
“I don’t care what you do.”
To preserve their life, anyone can say anything. Babbling pitiful, nonsensical things. They swear on their silence, promise tripple what I’d already been paid, or fumble out the names of estranged children and a neglected spouse. Kit’s declaration was flat, a toneless fact. He wasn’t trying desperately to convince me of it, nor was he bartering for another breath. He really, truly didn’t care so long as he believed himself safe, which he did at the point of saying it. His subsequent actions and behaviors upheld that.
Kit is upbeat, reactive, and headstrong. It was surprising to see such apathy from him. Normally, that genre of person would care very much. I expected him to be loudly, recklessly moral.
“Прекрасно? Have you managed to digest a single meal while aboard the boat, or they’ve all been regurgitated?”
Rephrasing, Kit can be reactive, but not always. He’s adept at forcing himself to take such comments in stride, calculating a response instead of blurting out an angry, defensive refute. Now is one of those moments, as a sly grin spreads across his face. His smiles are always marked by a flash of even, clean teeth. Bright eyes crinkle winsomely at the edges.
He slides his tongue between said teeth, curling it suggestively, “hey, I kept your dick down, didn’t I?”
Objectively, not accounting for personality, Kit’s pleasing to the eye. Young, symmetrical, and fit. Checking those three boxes are enough to deign a person attractive, give or take some cultural standards. Golden skinned. Cognac eyes thickly lashed, a slit running through the tail of his right brow where a childhood folly developed into scar tissue. Bronzey, shagged hair that seems to settle in a style whether he means it to or not. Depending on preference, his personality is intense enough to either repel or magnetize those around him. He reminds me of the yappy, affable Spitz that subsisted off the Khrushchevka residents’ hospitality. Nipping at the ankles and gouging up the shoes of those who bestowed it any attention, though endearing enough to largely avoid reprimand.