All characters depicted in
Neon Hunger
are fictional and over the age of 18. This story is a work of imagination intended for mature audiences only. It contains explicit content, psychological themes, and adult situations. Any resemblance to real people, places, or events is purely coincidental. The narrative explores complex dynamics and should not be interpreted as condoning or promoting harmful behavior. Reader discretion is advised.
The Hudson looked lazy that afternoon, brown and sluggish under a heavy sky, its surface rippling here and there where a stray breeze touched down. The sun had weight--dull and oppressive, soaking into skin like syrup. The whole park felt dazed.
People were scattered across the patchy grass in poses of heat-induced surrender: yoga grannies moving like tired birds; a couple on a shared towel, half-eating, half-fucking with their eyes; a headphone girl cross-legged, nodding off beneath a hoodie despite the sun.
No one looked at Skye.
She wasn't built to draw attention like this. Not here. Not in this heat.
She drifted across the concrete barefoot, leaving behind a trail of apathy and heat shimmer. A sun-bleached canvas bag sagged from one shoulder. Her sunglasses--plastic, cracked, crooked--sat like a dare on her head. The black tee was hacked off with scissors and barely clung to her ribs, hem curling upward like it knew how little it mattered.
She hadn't dressed for seduction.
She'd barely dressed for existence.
She picked her spot: half-buried in shade, half-roasting in sun, river dragging itself along beside her like something dying slow. She dropped her towel--threadbare, stained, the memory of blue--and collapsed onto it like a crime scene.
One slow breath. Then the strip.
She peeled down the cargos like shedding dead skin, revealing inked thighs, long and milk-pale, bruised faintly in places where touch had once landed too hard. The bikini bottoms underneath were electric blue, small enough to be a joke, the elastic biting into her skin like teeth. When she moved, they shifted--riding up, hinting, outlining her pussy in a way that was both accidental and entirely deliberate.
Next, the shirt.
She lifted it off in one smooth motion, catching briefly on the barbell in her brow. Her tits bounced free for a second--pierced, full, damp with heat--before she yanked the neon pink tube top back down. It didn't help much. It clung like a wet napkin, nipples punched out through the fabric like they were trying to escape. The top was a size too small. Maybe two.
She adjusted, sighed, rolled her neck like a bored animal in a cage. Then stretched. Long and full. Her ribs flared, her belly hollowed, skin stretched taut across bones like silk over wire. A quiet, satisfied noise slipped out of her. She dropped back onto the towel with an unbothered grunt, one arm slung over her eyes, the other across her stomach.
One knee bent. Her hips slouched open. Her bikini cut in tighter. Sunlight smeared her thighs, her stomach, the swell of her breasts. Her ass peeked out from the towel like punctuation. Hair spilled around her like static. Sweat beaded on her collarbones. Sand clung to her calves. Piercings caught stray light. She didn't pose. She didn't preen. She existed like an invitation no one had the balls to open.
The heat dug in. The bottle of sunscreen sagged in her bag like a lazy dare. She reached for it--stopped halfway.
Let the sun take her.
The sky above was an idiot shade of blue. The river glittered like broken glass. Kids screeched, somewhere distant. A Bluetooth speaker choked out Britney Spears.
Nobody cared. Nobody watched.
So she let herself fall inward.
Back into memory.
Back into Marcus.
The bruises were fading. But not fast enough.
Ghost-fingerprints on her hips. A claw-mark down her thigh. The bite he left at her neck--almost gone. Almost.
Like he'd never touched her.
Like she'd made it up.
Sometimes she wondered if she had. A glitch. A hallucination. Too much E, too little sleep. Too many hands. Too much skin.
But then she'd roll and feel the deep ache--the one hidden in the hinge of her knee, the shadow in her ribs--and it all came back like static.
Marcus had fucked her open.
Not just body. Soul.
And now?
The empty stretch of time where a message should have been.
Not even a drunk text.
Not even a lazy "u up?"
Not even a crumb.
It wasn't like she was starving for attention.
If anything, she was drowning in it.
Men clung to her like burrs.
Unwanted, unremarkable, inevitable.
Dean was the easiest.
The lowest-hanging, slimiest fruit.
Her roommate's on-again-off-again. Dealer. Pervert. Opportunist. The kind of guy who'd hump a warm slice of cantaloupe if it blinked at him. He'd show up uninvited. Hard before the door even shut.
He didn't speak. Just grunted. Grabbed. Pulled her back onto the futon or counter or floor. Yanked her panties aside. Jackhammered like he was angry she let him. His sweat stank. His breath was beer and bong water. He always finished the same way--loud, pathetic, unloading hot across her tits or her belly or her cheek. Claiming territory he'd never own.
Then, out of breath, he'd dig into his jacket, pull out a baggie of molly or ice or something uncut, and press it into her palm like it made things square.
She didn't want it.
She wanted the knowledge. The ammo.
Because when her roommate spat barbs--about Skye's flat chest, her Hooters gig, her shitty paychecks--Skye would just smirk.
Knowing her man had choked out her name ten hours earlier with his dick buried in the wrong girl.
Then there was Nico.
Golden boy. Sweetheart. Savior.
The one who treated her like she was made of glass and moonlight.
He took her to rooftop dinners under fairy lights, bought her overpriced coffee with her name spelled right, gifted her hand-stitched notebooks and silver charms "just because."
He thought she was untouched.
A hurting little virgin or almost, that Nico could save.
And Skye let him think it.
She'd let him brush his knuckles over her knuckles, let him tuck a strand of hair behind her ear like it meant something, let him pay for every meal, every drink, every Uber, and then reward him -- maybe -- with a shy kiss on the cheek.
She loved it.
Loved how he blushed.
Loved how he said goodnight like he was afraid to break the spell.
Loved knowing exactly what happened after he dropped her off.
Nico, alone in his sleek, cold apartment bought by his hedge-fund parents.
Nico, washing his hands twice, brushing his perfect teeth for nobody.
Nico, settling into his home office ergonomic throne of a chair, pulling down his carefully ironed designer pants, Nico jerking off desperately his sad little dick, scrolling through Skye's Insta for something -- anything -- to fill the hollow ache she had carved into him.
She could almost see him: red with effort, diligently pumping hard to her blurry selfies and tongue-out mirror shots, spilling into his fist while whispering her name into the dark like a prayer.
And still thinking he was a good guy.
Still thinking he was saving her.
And then -- there was Tesla Boy.
Jesus, Tesla Boy was the worst.
He was almost
too
pretty. He knew it. That's what made it worse.
And then -- there was Tesla Boy.
Jesus, Tesla Boy was the worst.
He was almost
too
pretty.
The kind of beautiful that made waitresses linger too long at the table, that made other guys flinch and look away.
Tall, sculpted like a Calvin Klein ad, straight white teeth he loved to flash at his own reflection.
He knew it, too. Knew it like gospel -- the way he looked at himself sideways in every window they passed, like he was the answer to some woman's desperate prayers.
Like he was the prize.
The gift.
The endgame.
At first, Tesla Boy had courted her the way he thought women wanted -- expensive dinners, sleek rooftop lounges, gifts boxed in that stiff luxury-paper smell.
The first few times, he even pretended to listen to her talk. Told her she was different. Special. Asked if she liked oysters, leaned in close across tiny marble tables under gold light.
And then, like a switch flipped, the pretence vanished.
The texts came late now -- after midnight, after the club, after the bottle service girls went home.
"u up?"
"slide thru"
"want that pretty ass over"
And when she was lonely enough, bruised enough, she'd respond w
"omw"
.
Because it was easy.
Because he was pretty ad cutout.
Because she felt like this time it will be different, maybe.
He'd usually do her in the back seat of his matte-black self driven car, the leather seats creaking under them, her face pressed against the tinted window as he shoved into her -- fast, mechanical, selfish -- finishing inside of five minutes, barely pretending to notice her.
Other times he'd drag her up to his cold, soulless high-rise, stripping her, without bothering to lock, bending her over the back of his ridiculous Italian leather couch, his thrusts more about punishing the space than touching her.
She'd fake it, of course.
Clenching and gasping in the right places, biting her lip, letting her eyes roll back.
All while staring down the couch, at the dust and cobwebs his maid didn't bother to get, wondering how the fuck she ended up here again -- letting some beautiful boy milk himself onto her like it was a debt she owed.
Then -- came the grunt, and Tesla Boy would pull the condom off, landing his rich load onto her lower back. Dangerous game, as he was afraid semen would stain the couch, or -- god forbids -- his precious car seats. He would always have Clorox wipes on hand, giving his furniture the attention, she never even strived for.
While she showered, he'd get busy, checking his phone for new DMs or lovingly gazing at his own abs -- reflected in the black mirror of flatscreen TV. The asshole would often not even bother to venmo her money for the ride, and she hated both reminding him, and the fact that she had to.
Sex wasn't connection.
It was currency.
It was punishment.
Marcus had been something else. Something real.
And now she couldn't stop remembering.
Couldn't stop aching for it.
Like a phantom limb she didn't know she had until he tore it off.
Her mouth felt dry. She needed something cold. Something sharp. Groaning, Skye pushed herself upright, squinting toward the vendor cart wobbling at the edge of the walking path.
The guy running it--old, sweaty, his jersey damp and stretched--perked up at the sight of her, eyes crawling across her tits and the sliver of ink above her bikini line.
She fished a crumpled ten from her bag and shoved it between her tits, then wandered barefoot toward him. The gaze followed her like grease.
"What can I get you, sveethurt?" the man asked, voice thick with accent and pervy joy.
"Vanilla." Skye shaded her face with one hand. "And a Diet Coke."
He handed both over, fingers lingering too long. "Nice nails," he said, nodding toward her long acrylic claws. His eyes flicked from the silver glint of her nipple ring to the faded ink that screamed "RUIN ME" above the glittery blue of her bikini.
"On de house," he said with a grin that split his face like a knife.
She gave him a crooked smile, tucked the money back into her top, and walked away.
