Every motion felt too much.Too much, but not enough. The veins stood out, angry and swollen, and he swore he could feel every beat of his pulse beneath his fingers. He was hard like punishment, like guilt, like a man who couldn’t lie to himself anymore, and watchinghimselfonly made the shame hit harder. Because it wasn’thisbody he wanted to see.
It was hers.
The spray hit the back of his neck, but he wasburning. He rocked into his hand, gritted teeth bared in the steam, chasing something he didn’t have a name for. It wasn’t just pleasure, it waspossession. It was a craving tomarkher,claimher, brand himself into her skin until shefucking knew.
He imagined her under him. Above him. In front of him with her lips wrapped around the pulsing head of his cock like it belonged to her. He imagined herknowingwhat she’d done to him. How easily she’d undone every single layer of self-control he’d ever built.
The pressure coiled tighter, unbearable. Heat roared in his gut, up his spine, behind his eyes like it was trying to burn him alive from the inside out. His muscles locked, thighs trembling, teeth bared like a man seconds from breaking. And then hesnapped.
The release hit like violence. Like something stolen. His body jerked, helpless, as pleasure tore through him so hard it left his vision white and his knees threatening to give. It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t quiet. It was messy, desperate, and fucking drained him. Hot ropes painted the tile, his stomach, his knuckles. He didn't even remember the sounds he made, just the name he moaned through gritted teeth like a man being tortured.
“Holly—fuck—Holly?—”
It echoed. Off the tile. Off his bones. He collapsed against the wall, panting, shivering, shaking like it had gutted him. And still, it wasn’t enough. Not when her name was still clawing its way up his throat. Not when he came thinking of her smile. Not when he hadn’t even touched her.Maybe he never would.
Maybe this was what ruin looked like now. Alone, in a too-expensive LA apartment under boiling water, gasping a woman’s name like it meant something. He leaned his forehead against the wall, letting the water beat down on the back of his neck. Breath slowing. Pulse still feral.
He didn’t want her. He couldn’t. She was just choreography. Just a fake relationship for the cameras.
Just his last shot at a second chance.
And yet his cock twitched again, forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut.
God fucking help him.
HAMMERHEADS: MURDER LINE EDITION
Jaime
you good, brick?
Cash
bro
i just watched your rumba and i’m hard
for YOU
what the fuck
Zeke
is this like
a trauma response??
do we need to call Sully
or an exorcist
Leo
i’ve fucked people with less eye contact than that routine
Hunter
that was not a dance
