Ghost’s hands are in my hair, tightening, guiding my head up and down his shaft. He’s rougher than usual, desperate, and when he comes it’s with a deep groan, flooding my mouth. I swallow it, licking him clean, dazed and greedy, then twist to see the others: Bones with that wolfish grin, Hatchet red-faced and sweating, Honeymonster’s hands shaking as he jerks himself faster and faster.
When Hatchet finally loses it, he goes rigid above me, eyes rolling back, every muscle in his body clenched. The warmth fills me, spreads outward, and the feeling is so all-consuming I almost miss Bones’ lips at my ear, whispering, “You can let go now. We’ve got you.”
And I do.
They catch me easily. Always do.
I come so hard I forget my own name, the world reducing to static, every nerve ending lit up and burning. My thighs clamp around Hatchet, and I can vaguely hear myself crying out, but it’s someone else’s voice, someone else’s body. The aftershocks go on forever, wave after wave, until I’m wrung out and limp, gasping for air and seeing stars.
Bones holds me through it, pressing soft kisses to my temple, murmuring nonsense. Hatchet collapses at my side, still trembling, and Honeymonster strokes my hair, his huge handgentle as a lullaby. Ghost slides down next to me, cool and solid, and for a while, we just lie there, all tangled up, no one letting go.
Later – much later – we’re tangled together, skin to skin, breath slowing. Hatchet lies heavy and warm at my side, Honeymonster’s hand stroking my hair with surprising gentleness. Ghost’s presence is cool and solid near my shoulder. Bones keeps me anchored, thumb tracing idle patterns like he’s counting my heartbeats.
I’m the first to break the silence. “So, uh,” I say, voice scratchy, “what’s for breakfast?”
Honeymonster laughs, a deep rumble in his chest. “You. Again.” It’s not even a question. “But first, we nap.”
HOLLOWED OUT
U Turn Me On - Lølø
Nightshade
Iget out of bed.
I don’t remember deciding to move – only the sudden need to be anywhere except still. My feet hit the floor hard, bare against cold carpet, and I pace the length of the room like a caged animal that’s learned the exact limits of its enclosure. Three steps. Turn. Three back. Again. My hands keep coming up to my hair, fingers threading through it, gripping hard enough to sting my scalp, then dropping uselessly to my sides.
The first sound reaches me mid-stride.
Not a word.
A breath torn loose.
I freeze with my hand braced against the wall, knuckles whitening as pressure builds behind my ribs. The wall is thin. Thinner than it should be. Every sound comes through wrong – too close, too intimate – like I’m standing on the wrong side of her skin.
It should be me.
She makes another noise, sharper this time, and my head tips back before I can stop it, throat exposed, jaw locking as something hot and violent coils low in my body. I drag in a breath that doesn’t help. My pulse is everywhere – thudding in my ears, my wrists, my throat.
She isn’t whispering.
She isn’t holding herself back.
That’s what breaks me.
I press my forehead to the wall and let the vibration of it bleed into my bones.
She’s meant to be mine.
The bed next door creaks – slow, deliberate – and I know exactly what that rhythm means. Someone swears softly. Another sound answers it, louder, unfiltered. Her voice fractures on it, and my hand slams flat against the plaster without permission.
I don’t recognise the sound she makes.
Or maybe I do, and that’s the problem.
It’s relief.
It’s release.
