Chapter 7 #2
His sockets widen like I slapped him, but he doesn’t move when I saunter over. He’s lounging on his own chalk point, pretending to be casual, arms folded across his ribs like some afterlife bouncer.
I hold up my bleeding finger, smile wide. “Say ah.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Darlin’, I don’t do church sacraments.”
I don’t give him a choice. I press my bloody fingertip right between his teeth, dragging it down the ridge of his jaw. The streak glistens in the candlelight, sliding into the cracks of his grin.
Skully freezes. Then tilts his skull toward me, sockets hooded, voice rasping low. “Oh, fuck me. You’re serious.”
“Dead serious,” I whisper, leaning in until my nose brushes cold bone. “Drink it in.”
He chuckles, breathless. “You’re gonna be the death of me. Haven’t I died enough?”
I kiss him. Right on the teeth. Lips against enamel that’s not even enamel anymore, just polished bone. And somehow? It’s hotter than half the men I’ve ever let put their tongues down my throat.
“Blood offered,” I murmur, pulling back, lips sticky. I return to the center of the circle. My pulse is hammering, my thighs slick under my nightgown. “Now, for the binding…”
I start pulling out the items that we bought for the binding; duct tape, rope, lace, string, and ribbon. Anything that can be used to wrap them up, stitch them together, make-believe muscle and skin—my own DIY necro-lingerie line.
I spread the haul across the floor symbol like a surgeon laying out scalpels. Duct tape, rope, lace, string, ribbon—all glitter-spattered, smelling faintly of vodka and my perfume. It’s not a spell book, but it might as well be.
“Bonehead first,” I declare.
He stomps to his place in the circle, chest puffed like he’s waiting for a medal.
I grab the rope—thick, coarse, hardware-store chic—and start winding it around his ribs.
The fibers scrape bone, catching in the grooves.
He makes a delighted noise, low and booming, as I cinch tighter, winding him like a prize pig at a county fair.
“Pretty smash?” he asks, peering down at himself.
I tug the knot hard, my face inches from his chest cavity. “Prettiest smash,” I purr. Then I shove a stretch of lace across his pelvis, knotting it like lingerie on a Halloween clearance rack, before covering the rest of his skeletal form. “Now you’re dressed for the occasion.”
Bonehead thumps his ribcage proudly. A rib pops loose and dangles like an ornament. He beams.
Next is Skully. Of course, he’s lounging against his chalk mark like he’s backstage at a dive bar. “Well?” he drawls. “What’s my look, sweetheart? Leather? Or do I get the bondage special?”
“Shut up,” I mutter, grabbing the duct tape. The roll shrieks as I peel a strip, slap it across his clavicle, then another around his bicep. Soon I’m winding it around and around, making a patchwork of multi-colored shiny flesh across his body. It squeaks with every pull, tight, shiny, ridiculous.
He tips his skull back and lets out a low whistle. “Oh hell, I look like RoboCop got laid off.”
I smirk, pressing the tape down flat, my palm sliding over the ridges of his ribs. “Sexy RoboCop,” I correct. “And if you don’t shut up, I’m taping your jaw shut next.”
His sockets flare with laughter. “Kinky. Almost makes up for the lack of dick.”
I slap another strip right across his pelvis. “Temporary fix.”
Finally, Marrow. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken, just watched me through the candlelight with sockets dark and hungry. When I turn to him, ribbon in my hands, he lowers himself to his knees like I’m a priest and he’s begging for absolution.
“Beloved,” he murmurs. “Dress me.”
The ribbon is crimson, satin, smooth between my fingers. I wrap it slowly, reverently, crisscrossing it over his ribs like I’m lacing a corset. Each pull draws him tighter, each knot a promise. The red gleams in the candlelight, stark against ivory.
He exhales a sound that isn’t quite a moan, more like the memory of one. “The arterial red…how it clings to me like veins reborn.”
I swallow hard, cheeks flushed, thighs pressing together. “Fuck,” I whisper. “You’re poetry in bondage.”
When I finish, he bows his skull low, crimson ribbon glistening across his bones. “Now, I am yours.”
The circle shimmers faintly, like the chalk is humming underfoot. Three skeletons bound in lace, tape, rope, and ribbon. My blood drying red across their skulls.
“Perfect,” I murmur, dizzy with the sight. “My own bone boy band. Bound by craft supplies and lust.”
The candles flicker. The air tightens. The circle hums, chalk vibrating under my knees. Something seems to be listening now, and I know what it needs next.
A kiss.
One for each.
“Step up, boys,” I croon, voice syrupy and cracked. “Mama’s gotta lock this down.”
Bonehead lumbers first, rope squeaking around his chest, lace barely clinging to his pelvis.
He lowers his skull to me like a giant puppy.
I grab both sides of his jaw and plant my mouth right on his teeth—hot, wet, tongue slipping into the empty cavern like I’m Frenching a jack-o’-lantern.
His skull rattles in my hands, and he groans like a truck shifting gears.
“Sealed,” I whisper, breathless, wiping spit off my chin. “Good boy.”
He thumps his chest, rope straining, sockets glowing like sparklers.
Next is Skully. Still wrapped in duct tape, smirking like he’s about to roast me even mid-ritual.
I fist the tape across his chest, drag him down, and press my mouth to his grinning jaw.
The kiss is messy, tongue against cold bone, blood still smeared along his teeth.
His sockets flare wide, and for once, he shuts up.
When I pull back, my lipstick streaks the silver tape.
“Christ,” he mutters, voice ragged, “that was dirtier than anything I did alive.”
“Consider it a perk of undeath,” I purr, smacking his taped ribs.
Finally, Marrow. Always Marrow. Kneeling already, crimson ribbon cinched across his bones like veins I tied on myself.
He bows his skull, sockets locked on me.
I cradle his face in both hands and kiss him slow—long, reverent, my lips staining the ribbon where it crosses his mandible.
My blood and spit mix, painting him redder.
He trembles under my touch, the ribbon vibrating faintly like it’s alive.
I swear to all things spooky I must already be in heaven. It’s all so weird, chaotic, and probably illegal. Yet…I’m so fucking down.
The circle shudders beneath me, a low hum that rattles in my ribs. My lips are still wet from Marrow when the air sharpens, and I feel it deep in my bones: blood isn’t enough.
They need my lust. Given freely.
Bonehead moves first, of course. He drops to his knees at the chalk edge, rope squeaking, lace flapping, sockets glowing like lanterns.
His massive hands engulf my thighs, spreading them wide, reverent and clumsy all at once.
He strokes up and down, bones rough against silk, every touch too hard but somehow perfect.
“Soft,” he rumbles, awe vibrating in his ribcage. “So soft. Smash soft?”
“Yes,” I gasp, clutching his rope-bound shoulders, thighs trembling under his touch. “Smash soft. Don’t stop.”
Skully sidles in next, duct tape squealing as he crouches at my other side.
He drags one bony fingertip up my arm, slow, deliberate, leaving goosebumps in his wake.
His sockets tilt, wicked. “Christ, listen to you. Moaning like a girl in Act One of a slasher flick. You’re not supposed to get to do that. ”
“Final girl rewrite,” I pant, arching as Bonehead’s thumbs press higher. “Slutty edition.”
Skully chuckles low, then pinches my nipple through the thin nightgown, tugging until I cry out. “That’s it. Scream. Call it method acting.”
And then Marrow glides behind me, crimson ribbon whispering against my skin as he folds me back against his chest. His hands trace my waist, my stomach, moving lower until his bony digits press between my thighs, right where I’m aching.
Cold and precise, stroking gently, reverently, like I’m something holy.
“Beloved,” he whispers in my ear, velvet smoke in his tone. “Give in. Let your pleasure seal us. Let your climax be the covenant.”
Their hands move together—Bonehead clumsy but eager, Skully sharp and teasing, Marrow slow and worshipful. Each stroke and pinch winds me tighter, until I’m trembling in their grasp, every nerve ending screaming.
“Yes,” Marrow croons, voice deep and sure. “Come for us, darling. Bind us with your fire.”
“Louder,” Skully urges, sockets glittering. “Let the whole neighborhood know you’re fucking baptizing skeletons.”
Bonehead just pounds his chest, grinning. “She is strong! She is ours!”
That does it. My head tips back, my mouth open in a raw, broken cry as the orgasm rips through me, sharp and blinding. The chalk flares red under me, the candles gutter blue, and the whole room shakes like something ancient just answered.
I collapse forward, gasping, hair wild, nightgown twisted. The circle smokes faintly around us, chalk burned into the carpet like scars.
And then—bones crack.
Not breaking—forming.
I lift my head just in time to see Bonehead’s massive frame shudder, rope and lace snapping as thick muscle knits itself across his ribs.
It’s fast, violent, obscene—tendons snapping into place, skin rolling wet over bone, his chest rising for the first time in centuries.
He gasps, ragged and raw, then grins down at me with a mouth full of real teeth and lips pink with blood.
“Holy shit,” he booms, flexing, voice deeper, meatier. “Smash breathe now!”