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chaotic-orphan · 5 months

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Intoxicating Fear (VII)

The Great Escape

Part one here

Continued from this part here

*~*~*~*~*

Kit tied Ambrose up with duct tape. It wasn’t the best thing to restrain Ambrose with, if he really wanted to secure Ambrose the only thing to do would be to tie up his mind. Or use power dampeners.

And as it happened Kit wasn’t able to do either of those.

So he tied Ambrose’s hands behind his back, and duct taped his mouth but Kit was pretty sure Ambrose could use his powers with eye contact alone so he wrapped a long sleeve t-shirt over Ambrose’s eyes and went to his phone.

If Superhero got here by the time Ambrose woke up, he could sort it. He’d have power dampeners and Kit would finally be free of him. Once and for all.

Kit saw his red eyes flash up at him from his phones black screen, and felt nausea climb up his throat at the sight.

It will go away with time, Kit reassured himself, just like the blue does.

Time was of the essence now; he could worry about his fucking eyes later.

Kit unlocked his phone and went to his contact list again. He glanced at Superhero’s name and clicked it. Sure, enough Ambrose’s phone started ringing, bad moon rising echoing around the house again and Kit hung up.

That’s okay.

Ambrose doesn’t know Superhero’s civilian identity, so he was fine.

Kit scrolled down to Superhero’s real name and clicked the green call button.

Bad Moon Rising.

Kit froze in his home. There’s… there’s no way Ambrose knows— there’s no way he forced Kit to tell him was there?

No. Kit was just being paranoid. He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t.

He knows he wouldn’t. He could never betray Superhero like that…

Kit went down to Other Hero’s name and pressed call and Bad moon rising started playing again.

Fucking FUCK!

It’s fine. It’s fine. Everything’s okay. Come on. The Agency’s number is online he could get that, and call and he would be fine.

Kit opened his browser and tapped the search bar. The screen dimmed and a parental control password came up.

A six-digit code.

Kit glared over at the unconscious Ambrose and wanted so badly to kick him in the face. He couldn’t just leave Ambrose here, could he? What if he woke up and got out and used some innocent civilian as his own puppet?

It wasn’t very heroic of him, but Kit honestly didn’t care.

He just wanted to get to Superhero.

Superhero would know what to do. He always knows what to do.

Decision made, Kit grabbed his jacket and keys and left his useless phone and walked out the door.

Or he would have.

If the second he walked out the door he didn’t get an eardrum shattering headache that made white flash behind his eyes and brought him to his knees. Kit cried out, backing up and once he was back in the house the pain stopped and Kit could breathe again.

He let out short, useless pants trying to ground himself and make sense of what just happened, even though he already knew.

Kit got to his feet again, and this time he ran out the door.

It was like a fire alarm going off in his brain, paralysing him. His breath stolen from his lungs and he couldn’t breathe, choking on air like a fish out of water.

Kit scrambled desperately back towards the house, his vision turning black at the corners of his eyes like a vignette as he dragged himself over the threshold of his apartment and collapsed, wheezing. Greedily gasping in gaping breathes and choking on them, his lungs screaming at him for depriving him of oxygen.

Kit started crying.

He sobbed, which didn’t really help the breathing matters, out of pure frustration. Ambrose had let him free. Given him hope that he could somehow win and the whole time, the whole time he knew it didn’t matter if Kit overpowered him, because Ambrose had already ensured that Kit could do nothing even if he was unconscious and incapacitated.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, crying, glaring at Ambrose, but eventually he got hungry, and made his way to the kitchen where Ambrose’s breakfast was waiting for him. Still a bit warm, Kit took some bacon and pudding and sat down with his back to his front door staring at Ambrose because he couldn’t do anything else.

Kit began eating.

*~*~*~*~*

Ambrose stirred within the hour. Groaning and shifting, trying to get comfortable. Then he mumbled something incoherent behind the tape on his mouth. Kit just watched him come to terms with his situation and wondered what kind of sick satisfaction Ambrose got from watching Kit struggle and try to get his bearings.

Ambrose inclined his head, staring directly at Kit even through his makeshift blindfold.

Is all this really necessary? Ambrose asked, voice in Kit’s head.

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

Kit.

“You’re a fucking bastard, Ambrose. How does it feel to be the one on the back foot?”

I don’t know, Kit. Tell me. How does it feel? Being free. Being so close to escape and yet so far?

Kit clenched his hands into fists and grit his teeth, leaning forward from his place on the ground and wrapping his hands around his knees.

“I guess we’re both stuck like this until you undo whatever you did to me.”

Ambrose relaxed in his stance.

I can sit like this all day.

Kit said nothing.

Or I could always make you untie me, Kit. You don’t want me to force you to free me, do you? Do you really want everyone you love to die by your hands?

“I think you’re threatening me because that’s all you can do. I got something right, didn’t I?” Kit said. “Covered your eyes, do you need your eyes to compel me to do something? Or your voice? Or your hands?”

I think you’ll go mad before you wait me out, Kit. I’m willing to wait, silent and restrained. Want to see how long you can go without speaking to someone? I don’t mind.

Against his better judgement, Kit stood and walked over to Ambrose and yanked the blindfold off. Ambrose stared up at him grinning, dark eyes smug. Kit didn’t waste time going gentle with Ambrose’s gag. He ripped it off and smiled as Ambrose winced, his lips even more red than usual.

“Thank you,” said Ambrose with a smile. “You can untie me now.”

“Untie yourself, you dick.”

“I made you breakfast Kit, come on now. Don’t you want to leave the house?”

Kit’s hands crackled blue sparks up his left arm to his shoulder, glaring down at Ambrose who grinned up at him. “Ooh. Careful, Sparkles. You might hurt yourself there. Your eyes are almost the same colour as your blood.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Kit yelled, feeling the currents run through his hair. Red sparks flew from his usual blue angry and pulsing and dangerous, the red wrapping tight around his fist like a force of its own just begging to let Kit use it to hurt Ambrose.

Just to wipe that stupid smirk off Ambrose’s face, it would be worth it…

“Scary. Go on, kill me,” Ambrose said, leaning forward, closer to the sparks than safety would grant. “Go on. You could do it. You could kill me, if you wanted to.”

Kit froze at that. Kit didn’t kill.

He didn’t kill.

He wasn’t a murderer he was a hero.

“I won’t sink to your level,” Kit said, his voice echoing static with the sound of the sparks flying. The electricity ran from his body in an instant, drained and dissipating. Kit stalked to the kitchen and grabbed a knife from the knife block before storming back and kicking Ambrose onto his stomach.

“Harder,” Ambrose said with a strained breath.

Kit dropped down to his knee, dropping his other knee onto Ambrose’s spine and smiled at the grunt of pain Ambrose let out. Then he cut the duct tape around his wrists and got off Ambrose, keeping the knife in his hand as he went and leaned against the door.

“Now get this fucking thing out of my head.”

Ambrose got his hands under him and got to his feet. “I never ate breakfast,” Ambrose said instead, taking the last of the duct tape off his wrists and heading to the kitchen. Casual as if being tied up is an everyday occurrence. “Do you want an egg?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Ambrose shrugged, grabbing the oil and pouring it into the frying pan. “That’s not an answer, but I’ll make two anyways.”

“Get this thing out of my head!”

Ambrose turned slowly. Dark black eyes settling heavy on Kit, cold and threatening.

“In the course of my nap, have you forgotten what I can do to you?” Ambrose asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. A piercing screech rang out in Kit’s mind, and he screamed, hands flying to cup his ears and stop the unmerciful ringing, pounding tight in his brain as if every blood vessel was being stretched and contorted and pulled and twisted, trying to get away from the sound.

The screech got louder the closer Ambrose got to Kit, and louder and louder until it was unbearable— white flashed behind his eyes and Kit was on his knees, screaming for relief, bent double and crying at the floor. It didn’t stop when Ambrose’s boots came within Kit’s sight line. A cold, lithe hand reached down and grabbed Kit’s chin tilting it up. The moment Ambrose’s cold hand made contact; the screeching stopped.

Kit was panting, brain and eyes still fuzzy from the aftereffects of the mental assault. Ambrose tilted Kit’s head all the way back, until he was sitting upright on his knees. Panting and shaking, exhausted. Brain caught between a frenzy of anxiety and a tired induced sloth, like trying to wade through a swamp.

“I could keep you on your knees like this forever, Kit. Like a pretty little statue, something to stare at, something that doesn’t speak or think. Just a dazed little angel, would you like that?”

Kit swallowed the lump in his throat and sniffed, his nose running from crying and screaming. In answer he reached a hand up, pulling at Ambrose’s hold but Ambrose grabbed his wrist before it made contact and bent it back on itself.

Kit hissed out a breath through his teeth, glaring through pained eyes at Ambrose who just smiled down at him.

“Let go of me!” Kit grumbled pulling his head back. Ambrose twisted his wrist more in reply and Kit cried out, trying to yank his hand free, jerking back. Ambrose’s grip didn’t relent, in fact, he tightened his grip on Kit’s face, pinching his cheeks together with one hand.

“Kit,” Ambrose sighed, stepping forward, forcing Kit’s body to bend back uncomfortably. Kit’s head moved with Ambrose’s hand and Ambrose put more force on bending Kit’s wrist back. “If I let go you have to promise to be good.”

Kit pinched his lips together, but Ambrose didn’t let him. He squeezed Kit’s cheeks until his mouth formed a crude ‘o’ shape.

“Uhck-you agh!” Kit cried as Ambrose twisted his wrist further, tightening his grip until it turned bruising. Kit struggled and tried to back up, but his head hit the wall and he was trapped between Ambrose’s body and the wall.

“Oh-kay,” Kit managed, furious, embarrassment flooding his cheeks.

Ambrose smiled, said, “good,” and true to his word Ambrose released him.

Kit’s head bobbed forward immediately, wrapping a hand around his wrist and rubbing it soothingly. Ambrose just went back to the kitchen, whistling, not even entertaining Kit’s glare following him. Kit got to his feet, the world tilting slightly as he stood but he ignored it going to the bathroom and slamming the door.

Angry red eyes found Kit’s in the bathroom mirror. Kit’s hand went out quick, too quick to think and the next thing he knew his fist had shattered the reflective glass. Broken shards fell onto the sink and the tile with a glimmering tinkle, so Kit punched the mirror again, and again.

He would have done it again, if he could, if it wasn’t for the cold rinse of Ambrose’s power flooding through his arm stopping his fist from punching the mirror until he broke his hand. Instead, Kit turned and opened the bathroom door against his will, stepping out into the living room to see Ambrose setting up Kit’s first aid on the table.

Kit’s feet dragged him to the table and forced him to sit and hold out his hand for Ambrose to inspect.

“I hate you,” Kit declared, a furious childish part of him wanted Ambrose to know that.

“I know Kit,” said Ambrose, taking his wrist delicately, the same wrist he had tried to fold in on itself not two minutes ago. “Seven years bad luck to break a mirror.”

“Fuck you,” Kit replied emotion colouring his voice. Ambrose’s touch was tender on his hand as he inspected it for damage. Shards of glass were sticking out of his hand that was steadily streaming blood onto the table.

“I’m going to have to take the glass out to bandage your hand,” said Ambrose, dark eyes dragging up to Kit’s face. Ambrose’s expression twisted into one of pity, as if he could actually feel human emotion and it somehow made Kit feel worse. Kit’s heart hammered against his throat as Ambrose reached over and wiped fresh tears from Kit’s cheeks. “It’s okay, Kit. I’ll make sure it doesn’t hurt.”

Kit didn’t even realise he was crying until then. Frustrated, helpless tears were streaming sad and steady down his cheeks. “Please just let me go,” Kit whispered, half leaning it Ambrose’s hand. He couldn’t do this anymore. Ambrose sighed, rubbing his thumb soothingly over Kit’s cheeks.

“If you want, I can make you go to sleep while I do this?”

Kit sniffed, blubbering like an idiot. He didn’t want to be forced to sleep again, he hated that groggy feeling of waking up after it, completely unaware and vulnerable.

“No,” said Kit eventually. “No, I’ll stay awake.”

“Okay,” Ambrose cooed, drawing his hands back and going to the first aid kit to pull out tweezers and the disinfectant. “I’ll make sure you don’t feel a thing.”

True to his word, Kit didn’t feel anything as Ambrose worked. Not the disinfectant that would have stung. Not the glass being plucked out of his hand and onto the table. Not the bandage as it was tightened around his hand.

Ambrose moved with graceful fluidity, like this wasn’t his first time. Kit just watched him work in silence. If he imagined hard enough, he could be Superhero or Medic stitching him up after a fight with another villain. A friend looking after him telling Kit that he’s an idiot, and why did he punch a mirror. The thought made Kit’s heartache more than his hand would have.

“Okay,” said Ambrose with a smile, a genuine small happy smile. “You’re all done. How’s that feel?”

On Ambrose’s question, feeling flooded Kit’s body and he clenched his hand and opened it again. It was tight enough to hold and loose enough to have full range of motion.

“It feels good, thank you Ambrose.”

The words escaped Kit’s mouth before he registered what he said. Wide eyes went to Ambrose’s dark ones, but it wasn’t the smug pride he saw there. Ambrose smiled sympathetically at Kit and nodded.

“You’re welcome, Kit. How about you go get some sleep? I’ll clean all this up and we can go back to hating each other after.”

Kit nodded numbly. He was exhausted and deflated at his almost escape, he should have known Ambrose would have thought of everything Kit would do. The only way to defeat Ambrose properly would be to kill him and Kit knows he would never do that.

He couldn’t take someone’s life.

So, he stood and walked to his bedroom, shutting the door and collapsing onto his bed. Kit curled up under the covers and cried until he fell asleep.

*~*~*~*~*

Continued here

The Orphanage (plz lemme know if you want to be added or removed <;3) — @nameless-beanie @andithewhumper @annablogsposts @whatwhumpcomments @whumpasaurus101 @0eggdealer @rejectedbytheempty @princess-bubble-blossom @sleepy-pearl @n3rv0usn0v4 @whumpatize-me-captain @mj-or-say10

*~*~*~*~*

Hello, it’s orphan this is a sneaky PS that I am in the process of moving my work here to a new, primary account @patchworkorphan because I stupidly made this blog a secondary one

I am uploading my backlog of posts to that new blog, updated and edited shocking!

Okay thank you for reading, have a good day, watch the late late toy show! It’s officially Christmas!! okay bye!

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xxmiixyxx · 3 months

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Fanart for @oprhan

I insanley love your intoxicating fear series girlie !!!! Like it’s totes my absolute fav story to reread !! Genuinely can’t wait to see what happens next like I hope hero/kit gets justice one dayyy 😭😭

#this is galgurl btw lol this is just my art acc #miixyart #my art #fanart #intoxicating fear

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romeopoem · 4 days

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third night in a row i’ve taken melatonin and gone to bed at a reasonable hour, and the third night in a row i’m gonna fall asleep thinking about all the ways someone could violate me while i slept (difference this time is i’m going to bed knotted + filled with cum lube)

#i’ve also been increasing the amount i take each night #and i like to think it’s someone doing it to me and i have no idea the dose is increasing and i wonder why im getting tired so quickly #until one night i take enough that it knocks me out enough you can do whatever you like without fear of me waking up #ftm nsft #nsft puppy #ftm puppy #puppy sub #trans nsft #ftm sub #romeo.txt #intox kink #cnc intox #cnc somno #cnc k!nk

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terrence-silver · 9 months

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Can you do one with violent sex with drunk old man Terry? Beloved get’s apreenssive cause she already knows what’s coming for her when she sees drunk old man Terry stambeling late night into the house

---

Scorpions are 100% unpredictable.

They will sting you, even if they kill themselves in the process.

Several species of Scorpion have a courtship ritual that appears to walk a fine line between wooing and attacking. A male Scorpion will lead a female on a dance-like walk, known as a promenade à deux, holding her by the pedipalps (large claws). During this waltz, males have been observed stinging their partners;

--- Idle trivia pounded through his mind even as he stumbled over the manor's threshold, shoulder rubbing against the frame of the door, leaning on it as he attempted to maintain balance. He knew you'd be waiting. He knew it. You always waited for him. Even though it was three in the morning, little loyal devoted thing that you were, he knew you would be right there, diligently expecting his return and he isn't wrong. He's never wrong as he hears your voice call through the darkness of the lobby, undoubtedly alerted by the sound emanating from the hallway. He wasn't exactly trying to be quiet. Wasn't exactly trying to be sneaky or discreet. He wanted you to realize he was coming. Oh, did he ever.

-”Terry! You’re back!”-

He sees your form emerging through the shadows, seeming worried, moving at a brisk pace, arms extended, reaching towards him like he needed any fucking help. He was old but he wasn't a fucking cripple. He wasn't handicapped. He was more capable than you were at your green age. More agile. Stronger. Thirty years back, he'd show you a thing or two about endurance. Real power. Real damage. He clicks his tongue, brushing you off, stumbling wordlessly forward. Your brows shoot up, overshadowered with concern, like you were confused with the gesture --- hurt and attempting not to show it, right before trying again, stubborn in your devotion. He knew you would do that as well. So predictable. Everything you did was sweet, stupid and predictable. The fact that you were eager to him coming home, even though he was coming him in a state...it ached so much he could feel his skin shiver. His jaw goddamn nearly trembling. -”Terry, let me help you, please!”- You grab his forearm, tenderly, doing so without asking, stepping in front of him, cutting his space of movement off. Now, that he doesn't appreciate. -”I don’t need your,”- Terry seethes, not caring how inebriated he sounded, his words laced with hiccups. -”Or anyone’s help!”-

Maybe that would give you a hint to keep your distance.

-”You’re not doing well.”-

You remark, ever so politically correct and caring of his fucking feelings, trying to avoid calling things by their proper name. He wasn't doing well? No. Correction; he was drunk. Plastered. Shitfaced. A lesser man would be crawling all over the floor by now, but he? He was no lesser man. He still had enough tenacity in him tonight to smite you for even giving a damn what he was up to. Terry reaches forward, not bothering to give you a warning, snatching your wrist and squeezing on the gentle flesh. -”And who do you think is to blame for that, huh?”- He slides forward, face to face, until he was certain you could smell his breath; Perfect. Be repulsed by it. You should've been a smart little robot and gone to sleep by now. Instead of your disgust, though, against all anticipation, he's met with profound grief. You yelp. -”You’re hurting me!”-

-”Good.”- Terry coos, feeling his gut grow warm at the notion.

It was either that or all the whisky in his Limo's minibar.

Possibly a little bit of both.

-”You deserve a cruel tutelage.”-

He murmurs, looking you up and down, his eyes finally landing back on your face. Your mouth partially open in shock. Eyes befuddled and lost. Sharp intakes of breath burdening your chest with a visibly panicked pace. Fear is palpable. -”Do you want to know why I’ve been getting shickered up tonight? Do you really?”- He chuckles, feeling the bitterness coil inside of him like a wildfire. He's been drinking because of you and here you were, acting the saint. All worried and concerned about him. A patient paramour, waiting for him to come home. You should've ran. Should've ran while you had the chance. Now, you were faced with the scorpion and he was about to prick. Then again, what was he thinking? You, running? Where? How? As if he'd let you go. As if he'd let you get away. You shake your head, your teeth gritted with pain, not knowing the answer to this question. Ever naive. Ever dumb. With his fingers still wrapped around your wrist, he drags your forward, further into the dark lobby and down the foyer. You squeal in surprise. -”For the past thirty years, my life’s been bullshit.”- He confesses, chuckling at the notion. No, really. It was complete and utter tripe. You sound distressed even as he pushed you forward, like you wanted to dissuade him. Convince him his life wasn't wasted in a feeble attempt to console him.

Figures.

-”Terry!”-

Your voice is horse and he shakes his head, leading you down the corridor by force. Force is just about the only language you and your pigheaded attempts at pity would understand right now. -”Shrinks, reinvention, pills, damage control, living up here —”- He taps the edge of his own forehead as he lists everything that came to mind off in a haste. -”Those schmucks I’ve kept around.”- He digs his teeth into his lower lip, feeling particularly infuriated at the thought that he's wasted time with a bunch of mimes when he could've had you instead. But, you weren't in his life then, were you? You only came into his life recently. Fucked everything up. -”John.”- He adds, reaching a door, grabbing its handle. Another person he loved. Another person that fucked everything up. Just like you did. -"Denying myself every impulse! Everything that ever made me happy! For what?"- Terry slings the door open not caring if it hit the interior room's wall with a loud thud, pushing you forward and shoving your back inside. You stumble forward. Terry shuts the bedroom door behind himself. The loudness of the sound resonates. -"Did anyone ever say 'Thank you'?"- He murmurs, looking at you. He could've had you. Ten years ago. Twenty. Thirty. When he returned from Vietnam, or even before. If only you were older. Born earlier. Instead, he was there idly wasting his time trying to shed his skin and reinvent himself into a happiness that wasn't even born yet. If that wasn't the biggest irony of his life, he didn't know what was.

Yeah, he drowned the conclusion in a bottle.

What else was there to do?

Let it drown him instead?

-”And you come into my life when its about to end.”-

The scorpion pricks when he saunters forward, fingers coiling into your hair, hardening into a fist, pulling your head backwards and trapping you like that. You moan in pain. Your hands attempting to grab at his own hand, peel him off somehow. Your knees coming up helplessly, trying to put distance between you and him. Your expression fading into a blur. There was four of you in front of him and he'd fucking break all four tonight. -”Legs. Open.”- Terry growls his order, pushing your thighs apart. Placing his own leg between them as a barrier, right before he thrusts on the mattress behind your back. You fall limp, bouncing ever so slightly, hips parted, just as he liked them. There's no finesse to the act. It is crude. It was meant to be like that. He grabs you by the shoulders, holding you down with his weight as he grips the hem of your blouse, dragging it forward and ripping the fabric, splitting it where the buttons connected, sending them flying like bullets ricocheting off of the floor. You shriek. Hands coming up to conceal your chest. -”Why? Couldn’t? You? Let? Sleeping? Dogs lie?”- Terry feels his own voice coming out like a growl and no, there would be no mercy. He grabs both of your arms. Away from your torso, pinning them over your head.

-”Why did you have to poke the bear?”- He breathes furiously, close enough to sense your nostrils flaring hot breath as you exhaled and inhaled at a rapid pace. You blink, protesting. About to defend yourself.

-”I didn’t, I —”-

-”You did!”- He cuts you off, insisting, seething through lips pushed together firmly. You know what you did, and now, you would bear the brunt of the consequences. Determined fingers pull down his zipper and he feels himself hard before he's ever even done anything, even though he was certain the potent mix of tonight's Cognac will have him cumming quickly and sloppily inside of you, spilling a mess of anger, desperation, inebriation, his own age and desire inside of you like a hot flood, that's a chance he's willing to take as he starts stroking, preparing himself, unkind to his own flesh, kneading back and forth to the point of it being almost painful. -”You made an old man happy. That’s war.”- He grunts, never looking away from you, because there was nowhere he'd be rather looking in the whole fucking World. You did, you know? You really did. You made him happy. Profoundly, unbelievably happy. Terry Silver never liked ironies he had to endure on his own back, and him finding the love of his life at nearly seventy years of age was an irony that made him want slam his fist into the wall into he bled. -”I should finish you for that.”- He nearly spits as he throbs into his own fist, leaning forward, until his face was between your legs, split apart by the presence of his knee. Removing his own thigh as a barrier, he leans down, licking you and humming. Pleasure mingled with a half-growl.

-”But, I love you!”- You plead, this time, through a hiccup of oncoming sobs.

You try to squeeze your legs shut, but not before long, the head of his cock is massaging your flesh, up and down, up and down, preventing you, slipping into your loose, slippery, wet slit. -”See! That right there! That’s exactly the problem!”- Terry finds time to be analytical and smiles somewhat bitterly, letting go of where he was holding you, below your knee, wiggling his index finger and smiles somewhat bitterly, amused by how critically the point was flying over your head right now. And yet, he was the drunk one. -”I don’t have the time left for that shit.”- He thrusts as he speaks, pushing into you, groaning. He loved you too. Loved you more than a mosquito craves blood, but that crap wasn't anything that he could actually live to its fruition. How did you not realize that? If he ever fucked his children into you, he'd be dead before they ever went to school. You'd be far from middle aged by the time he would be turning centennial. How the fuck was that not a cause for grief and wrath!? It would be easier if he simply never cared for you. If you were some warm body. Someone he was compensating with loads of cash. Favors. Trips. Garden cocktail parties. By kickstarting your inane, idiotic business or something. They all wanted a business kickstarted nowadays, but not you. You were actually in it for love and you made all of it for free and fuck you for that. For making it ache like a motherfucker.

The Scorpion's out to kill.

-”This right here! This is just about the only thing we have time to do.”-

He feels himself growling, rutting into you, sweat trickling down his forehead, heated by the alcohol. By you. Gesturing to where his cock connected with you for emphasis. Yes. Sex. Validly, he couldn't start planning anything concrete with you because he didn't have the decades necessary to pull it off. Fucking you until he physically could for as long as he still could was believably all he had left and he'd utilize every moment like it could be his last, because it could. It could be his last. Maybe if he just dropped dead from a stroke while still inside of you, it would be a perfect way to go. Sure. He was always meant to die on the battlefield, but dying with lodged inside of living heaven incarnate was a step up the figurative ladder. Yeah. Sex was all he had. -”That’s not true, Terry! No!”- At this point you're crying and something lurches in his gut. For a second, he thinks it is arousal, seeing you like this, and then he recognizes it as the putrid, horrendous swell of regret. He finds himself slowing down, nearly growing limp inside of you. Not true? What else was there? Could he have a family? Could he be with you all of his life? No. This was the winter of his life. You were a spring turning summer. That's why he was drunk. That's why not even a whole private cellar worth of bullshit would help numb him.

Because you came too late.

And there was nothing in the world he could do to change that crap.

-”You don’t get to decide what’s true and what isn’t when you’re the one getting pounded.”-

He threatens you, or at least he tries and for a moment or short-lived glee, arming himself with a sort of barb he never gets to use to the extent he wanted to use it and he isn't certain if the saltiness of sweat from his scalp was running down his cheek or if he was silently crying too, without making a sound, the rage deflating along with his body and he slips out of you with a moist popping sound, entirely flaccid and soft, his shaft leaking cum over his fingers and unto the bedsheets crumpled from the onslaught as he practically falls over, or rather, lets himself fall in a half-embrace, holding you for dear life, feeling you return the hug, ragged sobs shaking against him, his cock twitching painfully. Fuck sake. Your care would get him off faster than what he just did to you. Humiliation, indignity, yearning and wrath mixing, he wants to hold you like his and squeeze you until your bones crack and turn to dust under his vice grip and this very bed becomes your funeral shroud. Instead, he just lays there, inhaling your scent, his lips finding it in themselves to touch the nuzzled spot of your neck, peppering it with saliva ridden spots, licking you, finding that even now, like this, disheveled, shitfaced, unbuckled pants, he was still happy.

Desperate, but happy.

-"You know that bullshit fable,"- He slurs, feeling his eye lids grow heavy.

Voice heavy with desire and intoxication.

You no longer fight. Wiggle. Struggle. You're perfectly still. Listening.

The bedroom dark, suddenly achingly quiet.

He swears he can hear you gulping and swallowing.

-"When the Scorpion pricked the Frog crossing the river on its back, the Frog asked why and the Scorpion answered he had to, because its in his nature. They both sank."- Terry doesn't see your face, but he hears you sniffling --- your breathing and heartbeat stabilizing and he nuzzles even closer --- needing to be closer like life itself depended on it, chuckling, hand squeezing itself around your waist. He doesn't know what he was trying to say with that or what he'd conclusively add to it as he closed his eyes, finding your warmth soothing from the sudden dizziness and the profound headache he knew was coming, but he figured, that if you and him sank, at least you'd sink together --- and he'd be capable of that. He'd be capable of piercing himself on his own venomous needle after he was done with you. There was nobody Terry Silver would rather sink with.

Nobody else he'd ever allow you to sink with but him.

#terry silver #cobra kai #old man terry #kk3 #terry silver x reader #terry silver x beloved #tw; dub con #tw; dubious consent #tw; non con #tw; inhebriation #tw; drunk sex #tw; age differences #tw; generational gap #tw; angst #tw; fear of mortality #tw; the realism of an intoxicated older man having sex and it ending somewhat messily because hey nature does its thing

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asktheheirofslytherin · 5 months

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Have you ever gotten high on weed

I have not. I generally dislike the sensation of intoxication. I enjoy knowing I am in full control of myself at all times. To lose myself would be akin to the death of myself. The soft hum of a glass of wine or liquor is one thing, but the mere idea of drunkenness or the state of being "stoned" is truly unsettling.

#voldemort #lord voldemort #harry potter #tw: alcohol #intoxication #fears #aversions #prescheduled volding

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ctorres74 · 7 months

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[It just barely drags himself into the room with Cesar and Sun. He stands, leaning all his weight on the doorframe and staring at the two.]

C.cesa.r. p.put. hhim do.wn .,

Adam!!! I was just a-a-about to call you down :) Who's this little guy?

#[They raise the shivering thing higher for Adam to see. Something gnaws away at them in the back of his mind...]#[...but they're far too intoxicated by primal and unending fear to care.]

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chaotic-orphan · 3 months

Text

Febuwhump: Day Four

“Obedience” — @febuwhump prompt!

If this doesn’t have Ambrose’s name written all over it >:)

Intoxicating Fear — part Xi

Read part one here

Continued from here

TW: forced to obey, mentions of SH, SH implied and referred to, mentions of scars, past Whump implied, past sh implied, past sh inferred, kidnapped Whumpee, captive Whumpee, sadistic whumper,

*~*~*~*~*

Kit walked out of his room a few hours later, looking worse off than before he went in, but Ambrose didn’t question him as he walked over to the kettle and filled it with water. He just sat at the table, watching him as he moved about, doing his best to ignore Ambrose’s stares.

Ambrose had Kit’s phone in between his thumb and index finger, using his fourth finger to twirl it slowly, in a controlled motion over itself and back again.

Kit took a mug out from the cupboard above the counter, spooned three spoons of coffee into a cup clanging the metal spoon into the mug and turning to face Ambrose. He was wedged in the corner, crossing his arms over his chest as he shrugged and asked: “what?”

Ambrose smiled, “what do you mean what?”

“Don’t play coy, Ambrose,” Kit said with a groan, wiping a hand down his face. “It doesn’t suit you. I can hear your cogs turning in your brain.”

Ambrose’s smile turned coy, “isn’t that my power, Mallory?”

Kit scoffed and turned, throwing his hands in the air.

“Whatever,” he mumbled to himself as the kettle boiled, the switch flipping up as the water rumbled soothingly within. “I’ll probably find out soon enough anyway.”

Ambrose’s smile fell when Kit turned his back, his eyebrows drawing together in quiet contemplation, whether to broach the subject or not.

“I’ve been thinking Kit,” Ambrose said after a while.

“Uh-oh,” said Kit, stirring his coffee.

Ambrose smiled, despite himself, at Kit’s inability to shut up sometimes. Kit turned again, steaming hot cup cradled between his palms as he regarded Ambrose with an impassive expression.

“Should I be worried?” Kit asked, taking a tentative sip.

Ambrose let out a soft laugh. “No. It’s actually something that could benefit both of us,” said Ambrose. Kit’s eyebrows shot to the ceiling, then immediately pinched themselves down into a frown, suspicious and on guard immediately.

“I know,” said Ambrose. “You have every right to be skeptical, but I think… after recent events that we should consider a way to do things more effectively.”

Kit’s lips curled back into a snarl, like that of a stray dogs. “You mean you want to be more efficient in how you torture me?!”

“No,” Ambrose said, dark eyes meeting Kit’s light ones, bright with anger. “I think we should be able to have a conversation without getting defensive.”

Kit scoffed, rolling his eyes to the sky. “I wonder, god, gee Ambrose, you’re right. I wonder why the fuck we can’t be civil with each other. It’s a real head scratcher, huh?”

Ambrose’s voice took an edge to it and Kit’s mockery fell vanished in their throat.

“There is no reason we can’t both somehow get along.”

“I don’t know, Rosy,” Kit said, which drew a cutting stare from Ambrose. “Somehow getting along with my torturer is not on my bingo card this year.”

Ambrose laughed. He laughed a moment too long at Kit’s outburst, before he settled his gaze on Kit again and his entire expression went blank like the fucking psychopath he was.

“I could take every single freedom from you, Kit,” said Ambrose, voice full of sadistic promise. Kit swallowed hard, and covered it up with a sip of his coffee. “I could have you on your knees right now begging me to hurt you again—“

“You would just love that wouldn’t you?” Kit snapped. Ambrose inclined his head at Kit, a warning, so Kit shut up.

“The truth of the matter is that I don’t want you to be some drooling, half formed thing,” Ambrose said, leaving the phone on the table and getting to his feet. Kit’s expression faltered for a moment, fear flashing across his features before schooling them neutral again.

Ambrose approached slowly. Kit took an unconscious step back but was quickly reminded that he was standing in the corner of his kitchenette and silently cursed himself for cornering himself.

“I want you to struggle and fight me, otherwise you wouldn’t be as entertaining,” he said getting closer and closer. Kit tightened his grip on the mug to stop his hands from shaking. “I want you to have your free will and be, well, Kit, because you are the most fun I’ve ever had.”

Kit swallowed, wanting to look away but too scared to do it. “Glad to be of service.”

“See?” Ambrose said, eyes bright and voice brighter as he stood in front of Kit, forcing Kit to stare up at him. “You just can’t help yourself.”

Something flittered across Ambrose’s face that Kit couldn’t quite identify. “Your defiance is what makes you so fun, but, it’s tiring subduing you all the time.”

Kit didn’t dare speak, no matter how much he wanted to. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled when Ambrose put his hands on the edge of the counters boxing Kit in more. Ambrose leaned in, teeth bared in a wolfish smile as Kit’s eyes widened and he leaned back awkwardly to try and keep some space between him and his tormentor.

“See? That fear,” Ambrose whispered, as if he was saying a prayer, eyes searching Kit’s face and drinking in every last detail, every minute wince or flinch or hint of discomfort. “You just can’t bury it no matter how hard you try to hide it from me. It’s commendable really, but, this doesn’t have to be just me benefiting from this relationship.”

“Relationship?!” Kit breathed with a scoff, disgust written across his face and lacing every syllable. “I want nothing to do with you!”

“But wouldn’t you enjoy your life a bit more if there were days where I didn’t have to wrestle every piece of your defiance from your body?”

The words left Kit speechless. His chest rising and falling in time with Ambrose’s. The thought of not having to worry about Ambrose’s power invading his mind sounded too good to be true, so foreign. How long had it been since Kit didn’t have to worry about Ambrose torturing him for fun? To worry about what he was going to say in case it flipped a switch in Ambrose’s brain and made him hurt Kit.

Kit was tired. He was exhausted. Life before Ambrose seemed like a dream, not a reality. He missed being ignorant. He missed not having to be terrified every day.

Ambrose got his answer when Kit’s shoulders dropped.

“See? You want it just as much as I do.”

Ambrose leaned back, backing out of Kit’s space and allowing him to stand properly again. Kit’s eyes dropped to the floor as shame flooded his system.

Deferring to a Villain?! Who was he? He was so weak, how could he kid himself into being a Hero when he couldn’t even fight a Villain for himself?!

“What do you suggest?” Kit asked, voice quiet and broken. How could thoughts of freedom take this much life from his body?! The guilt burned red up Kit’s neck, but he couldn’t not concede. He was exhausted. He just wanted a little semblance of normalcy, and if that price was whatever Ambrose named then so be it.

“Your… obedience,” Ambrose said. The words hit Kit in the chest harder than a kick from a horse. His head snapped up, eyes locking onto Ambrose’s in accusation.

“You want my consent to hurt me?!” Kit barked out with a humourless laugh. “No. Absolutely not.”

Ambrose rolled his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. “Would you just hear me out before making a judgement?”

Kit grit his teeth behind closed lips and nodded.

“I was thinking about it all. The amount of power I have to use to subdue you everyday, not letting you use your power, not letting you leave the house. It doesn’t all happen naturally. My power’s working overtime 24/7 with you. It’s getting exhausting.”

Kit’s eyes narrowed but he said nothing. Oh boo-fucking-who, he thought, torturing someone takes effort, poor Ambrose.

“So I came up with a proposition if you dare to consider it. I will leave you alone for most of the week,” he said, and Kit’s heart stuttered to a stop. It must have shown on his face given Ambrose’s smirk. “I will pop in sometimes, only two or three times a week. All I ask if that you obey this little schedule change without fighting me.”

Kit’s words came out breathless, “so you do want me to consent to being tortured,” he said, an unreadable expression screwing his face up tight.

“Think of it more as consent to not being tortured as you are now,” said Ambrose taking a step closer, closing the gap between them again. He placed a hand on Kit’s cheek, thumb hooked under his chin and tilted Kit’s head up. Dark eyes searching Kit’s. “Don’t you want to be free of me, even if just for a little while?”

Kit’s bottom lip trembled. He did, he wanted it more than anything. He wanted to have some kind of normal life even if it meant agreeing to this outrageous condition. He missed his life, he missed Superhero and his job. He missed grocery shopping and late nights with his friends. He missed being able to make decisions for himself.

“What else does obedience entail?” Kit asked, spitting the word obedience as if it was some monstrous creature.

Ambrose’s eyes shined a little at the question. “It means that when I do come and see you, you drop everything. You can still fight me, still defy me, curse me out do whatever you need to — but you simply accept it.”

Kit worried his bottom lip, eyes going faraway as he considered Ambrose’s proposal. Ambrose stepped away again, turning to lean against the opposite counter in the kitchenette. He crossed his arms over his chest again, regarding Kit as he mulled everything over.

“I can see you’re conflicted, Kit, so let me sweeten the deal,” that got Kit’s hesitant eyes back on Ambrose. “If you agree to this, I won’t attack another Hero.”

It seemed as if all air left Kit’s lungs, like an anvil had fallen from the sky and landed on Kit’s shoulders weighing them down suddenly. This was Ambrose’s ultimate cruelty. Appealing to Kit’s heroic nature, forcing him to be a martyr and shoulder the burden of Ambrose’s torment to save other heroes, the people he loves. His friends, hell, at this point his family.

Kit swallowed hard. He didn’t want to be heroic, he didn’t want to shoulder this unfair burden. He didn’t want to protect everyone from this torture, he wanted… he just wanted to be left alone.

If you agree to this, I won’t attack another hero.

Which really was a double edged sword.

If you don’t agree to this, I will attack another hero. Take another Hero hostage, do everything I’ve done to you and more. Break them, and when they break I will let you know that it’s all because you didn’t take my deal. Then Ambrose would probably present the deal to Kit again and Kit would take it, the guilt forcing his hand.

“I can have a normal life?” Kit asked, not meeting Ambrose’s gaze.

“Semi-normal, but I can’t see why not,” Ambrose replied.

“And I’m guessing I can’t tell anyone about our little arrangement?” Kit asked, voice mutinous. Ambrose stepped closer and put a hand on Kit’s shoulder. Kit suppressed a flinch, he hated Ambrose touching him. Kit glared up at Ambrose.

“If you like I can make you forget about it all until you see my face, then you could really live a life.”

“In ignorance,” Kit spat, batting Ambrose’a hand away. “No thanks. I’d rather know what’s coming than be caught unaware again.”

Ambrose smirked. “Fine by me.”

Kit licked his lips, passing his coffee cup into his left hand before extending his right to Ambrose. “Fine then. Deal.”

“Ah,” Ambrose said, holding up a finger, “I think we should try this out before you accept.”

Kit’s eyes narrowed and let out a soft tch of disapproval. He knew Ambrose wasn’t going to make it as easy as he made it out to be.

“You’re already reneging on your deal,” Kit said, looking to the side and taking a long, slow sip of his coffee. Ambrose stepped back again to lean against the opposite counter.

“I’m not, just consider this a test,” said Ambrose thoughtfully, rolling the words around his mouth thoughtfully before speaking. Kit rolled his eyes and set his mug down on the countertop with a dull thud.

He shrugged his shoulders and said: “fine. What do you want me to do?”

Ambrose’s eyes lit up in that eerie way they did when he got an awful idea to further humiliate or caused Kit pain.

“Let’s start with something easy,” said Ambrose simply, slipping his hands into his trouser pockets. “How about… sit?”

Kit scoffed and walked towards the chair beside the table. Ambrose’s voice stopped him again with a soft, “Ah.”

“What?” Kit demanded. “You said sit. I’m going to sit.”

“I didn’t say sit on a chair, Mallory.”

Kit’s eyes burned as well as the tips of his ears, shoulders bunched up. He clenched his fists at his sides and turned to face Ambrose again.

“What? You want me to sit on the ground? Like a dog?”

“Your words,” said Ambrose with an innocent smile. “Not mine.”

Kit grit his teeth, glaring up at Ambrose and keeping eye contact as he bent his knee and dropped to the ground. He planted his butt firmly on the ground and crossed his legs.

“Now,” Kit spat. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic.”

“Good,” said Kit, moving to get to his feet again. Ambrose pressed a boot down on Kit’s ankle to stop him from getting up. Kit clenched his fists tight but settled himself back onto the ground.

“I didn’t say you could get up, Mallory,” Ambrose chides, removing his foot from Kit’s ankle.

Kit crossed his arms across his chest in a huff like a child throwing a tantrum but he didn’t care. He didn’t care what Ambrose thought of him.

“You’re such a dick,” said Kit, grumpy.

“Look at you, you’re adorable. Are you pouting?”

Kit bared his teeth up at Ambrose in reply. “Okay, you can stand up now,” said Ambrose.

Kit scoffed and remained stubbornly on the floor. “Fuck you.”

Ambrose shrugged theatrically. “Fine, I guess I was expecting too much of you when I proposed my deal.”

An obvious ploy for Kit to protest, but still Kit couldn’t do anything but protest. The thought of freedom… it was too enticing to say no to.

“Wait,” Kit grumbled, casting his eyes to the floor as his mind screamed at him for obeying Ambrose at all. Of his own free will!“Just… wait.”

Kit swallowed hard and got to his feet, still not meeting Ambrose’s hungry stare. “Kit,” Ambrose said, but Kit still didn’t look at him.

“Kit, look at me.”

Kit felt his blood flood his cheeks with humiliation as he raised his head to meet Ambrose’s gaze. His hands were shaking, with anger or frustration or shame Kit didn’t know, but he knew they were shaking and that he didn’t want them to.

“Show me your scars,” said Ambrose.

Kit took a step backwards, as if Ambrose had just assaulted him. His lips curled up and he cut his hand through the air as if to say enough.

“No,” Kit said, voice thick. “No.”

Ambrose tilted his head to the side. “Will I have to say everything twice, Mallory?”

“You are fucking loving this aren’t you?” Kit hissed, throwing his hands up in a helpless sort of gesture. “Whether I agree to your deal or not it doesn’t matter because you still get to hurt me like this. You’re fucking sick. You disgust me.”

Ambrose stared at Kit’s emotional outburst like one would judging the weather from their bedroom window in the morning. “Do I have to say it again, or are you flat out refusing?”

“Fine!” Kit snapped, voice higher, almost hysterical. Kit reached up to grab the collar of his shirt and hoisted it over his head to reveal his back, not taking it off all the way. He turned his back to Ambrose and said: “that one on my left shoulder? That’s from a nasty run in with Other Villain when Another Hero called for aid on a mission. I got it from his fucking scythe if you can believe it—”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“Here,” said Kit, turning again and shrugging his shirt back on before lifting the bottom of it to reveal the scar just above his hip. It wasn’t one but three. “Villain’s whip,” Kit told Ambrose. “It stung like a bitch but she only ever caught me once with it.”

Kit flung his shirt down and grinned at Ambrose. “There, Rosy. I showed you my scars. I obeyed your fucking command. Are you happy?”

Ambrose hummed in the back of his throat. “We must be spending too much time together, Mallory. You’re starting to understand the power of words.”

Kit’s eyes narrowed into slits. “You learn to when your freedom is limited by them.”

Ambrose didn’t say anything for a moment. He pursed his lips together, taking his hands from his pockets.

“Perhaps the deal was too premature,” Ambrose said. Kit’s heart skipped a beat in his chest, his throat suddenly dry at the prospect of losing his chance at a semi-normal life again. “I’m sorry Kit,” said Ambrose. He meant it too, because he turned to go but Kit’s hand shot out before he could stop himself and grabbed Ambrose’s arm stopping him from leaving.

“Kit?” Ambrose asked, looking down at the hand on his arm then at Kit’s face which was hidden behind his hair, his head tilted down.

“Okay,” Kit whispered. “I’ll show you… you just… you have to use the right words.”

Ambrose stiffened under Kit. “Which are?”

“You said show me your scars. The scars on my arm? They’re not mine,” Kit continued in that same grave, self-hating voice. He raised his head to meet Ambrose’s black eyes with his own haunted gaze. “They’re yours. I didn’t earn them, they mean nothing to me. My scars are mine, wholly mine. I got them.”

Kit ignored the way his voice cracked and let Ambrose go, rolling up his sleeve. “Not these. I didn’t get these, they were forced on me, much like you are. So there. Have I passed your fucking obedience training, or do you want me to bark?”

Ambrose couldn’t help but be a little impressed at Kit’s speech. He didn’t even look down at Kit’s arms the whole time that Kit spoke. He was too focused on the spark of defiance that defined Kit in his mind. The way it left a strange sort of glow to Kit’s features, made them brighter, more animated and life like. As if fighting back the rage he wanted to scream at Ambrose was going to energise other parts of his body.

He didn’t tremble once. He didn’t shake. Everything he said he was certain of, and he didn’t fear any retribution because of it. Ambrose wanted to see more of it, not less, and he feared if he kept Kit isolated and locked away from life forever that spark would dwindle down into nothing. He could search the entire planet ten times over and never find something like it again.

Ambrose smiled. “No Kit. You proved that you can do what you say.”

Kit’s eyes went to Ambrose’s with that same delicious conviction. Ambrose stuck his hand out and Kit shook it.

“I think we have a deal.”

*~*~*~*~*

Continued here

The Orphanage roll call (tag-list, lmk if you wanna be added or removed <3 ): - @nameless-beanie @andithewhumper @annablogsposts @whumpasaurus101 @0eggdealer @rejectedbytheempty @sleepy-pearl @n3rv0usn0v4 @whumpatize-me-captain @sunshiline-writes @burningkittypoet @honeyed-euphrates @sacredwrath @theonewithallthefixations @acer-gaysimpstuff @m3rakii @xxgalgurlxx @princess-bubble-blossom @blood-enthusiast @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @andtheysaidspeaknoww @dutifullykrispyland

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widowshill · 2 days

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Touch Prompts: r/v/b and 51. sitting on the other's lap? please and thank you!

TOUCH PROMPTS!

"Eyes on the road, eh, Collins?"

Roger flexed his grip, new Italian leather noisy against the warmth of the steering wheel, and eyed up the pair on the passenger side: Vicki's dark hair fighting to be free of that old scarf of hers, her husband's arms around her in lieu of safety restraint and his lap serving comfortably for a seat. Mrs. Devlin was much too modest to be terribly daring with the top down, but there was forgiveness to be had in the blur of a Stingray at top speed, glancing touches that no one would ever notice (except, of course, their responsible chauffeur), her laughter and other sounds lost in the growl of the engine, the battering of the wind.

"You and your wife are purposefully distracting me," Roger muttered, deciding at length that the curve up ahead was worthy of his attention, and thinking — though he knew better than to say so — that the old beach road was paved in that same red yarn of fate... but at least Burke's rusted '52 had the decency of bench seats.

Louder, less smooth, more liquor, then — he'd told him a hundred times to get that damned axle fixed — but the maddening grin on Burke's face was the same as it'd always been as he pulled Vicki tighter, and reminded Roger that he'd wanted to drive his car so badly, so he'd better enjoy it. Vicki was as suitably unhelpful as her husband: giggling, now, and Roger knew without looking that Burke had touched her where she was most ticklish – there, soft, under her left ribs – where her blouse had come untucked and hinted skin. Roger bit at the inside of his lip and clung to the wheel, knuckles white under driving gloves, eyes narrow beneath tinted shades. No disguise to fool Burke, of course, who laughed — and Roger clicked his tongue.

"You might have bought a car with room for three, Devlin."

"There's room." As demonstration, he went to his wife's neck who played, contentedly, with the thick locket-chain there — that old, dark Collins pendant. David’s hair. The Collins brides. Roger felt doeskin cling to the damp of his hands, his pulse jump. He laid on the gas, and the car leapt.

"Roger?" Vicki was watching him, now, still holding that necklace, eyes fixed to his hands, then to his face. The scarf had come loose (Burke must have been playing with it) and brown, brown hair swept across her forehead, into her eyes, stuck to her mouth. She wasn't giggling now. "Roger, do you want Burke to drive?"

He shook his head, made some flippant comment or another that her husband had too much on his mind. He'd feel better once they got past those trees, before Burke noticed where they were — past that stretch of boardwalk where Evans... but by then Burke had raised his head. Roger could see his elbows shift as he changed his grip on Vicki's waist, iron, from the corner of his eye; doubtless, too, that muscle twitched in his jaw where it always did.

"Slow down, Roger."

"Burke —"

"Do it."

Roger worked the gear shift, and did as he was told — for once quiet; Vicki, wordless, laid her head back against Burke's shoulder and closed her eyes, both of them, seemingly, in wait. But Burke said nothing further, though he didn’t loosen his grip; all was still as the miles passed, the weathered roadside cross fading in the rearview, the corvette sleek and black as an oil slick on the empty road. And then, when they were nearly to the crossing, Burke stirred. A kiss to Vicki’s forehead; adoring, to the back of her hand; to her bare shoulder that had gotten a little pink in the sun. Roger exhaled and — he noticed — so did Vicki.

Summer, he reminded himself. He could smell the flowers blooming, lilac perfume, Fifth Avenue cologne. Vicki had gotten tired of fussing with the scrap of nylon and tied it around Burke's neck instead, and her obliging husband undid a few buttons to show it off. After another mile or two Roger noticed a hand on his thigh: not Vicki's, Burke's. As if, somewhere on the stretch, he'd decided his lap was full; there wasn't room enough for ghosts.

#i'm sure he's only mildly intoxicated. have no fear burke.#tortoisesshells #➤ meme responses. ┊ boo !#➤ roger collins & victoria winters & burke devlin. ┊ to know how it ends‚ and still begin to sing it again.

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