afterparty (hollis x roman)
based off this video
boyliife | m/m | drunk clingy roman, caretaker hollis, bathroom handjob. DENIAL.
A/N: i feel like this is totally a different kinda roman from my other fics hope thats fine.
cw: alcohol/weed, messy handjob, roman’s brain is fighting for its life
wc: 1.1k
The afterparty's a blur of neon lights and bass that rattles roman's teeth, but he's clinging to hollis like the room's spinning without him. Which it is. Roman's three shots, two blunts, and god-knows-what-else deep—show adrenaline crashing hard, leaving him loose-limbed and stupid. Hollis has one arm slung around his waist, half-carrying him through the crowd like it's no big deal, like roman's not currently nuzzling into his neck and mumbling shit about how the set was "fucking biblical, bro."
"Chill," hollis mutters, voice low and amused, breath hot against roman's ear.
He's buzzed too—eyes a little glassy—but he's steady, always is. Roman hates how hot that is.
Hates how his hand keeps sliding up hollis's shirt, fingers tracing the warm skin of his stomach like it's muscle memory.
"You're gonna get us mobbed if you keep groping me in front of the groupies."
Roman snorts, or tries to—comes out more like a whine.
"Fuck the groupies. You're my ride home."
He presses closer, thigh bumping hollis's, and yeah, okay, he's hard. Has been since the encore when hollis grabbed his mic stand and looked at him like he wanted to devour the whole stage, roman included. Not that roman's thinking about that. Bros don't think about that.
Hollis laughs, low and rough, steering them toward the bathroom at the back of the club. It's one of those single-stall deals—dim, graffiti-scratched mirror, lock that barely works—but it's empty, thank fuck. He kicks the door shut, flips the latch, and suddenly it's just them, the muffled thump of the afterparty seeping through the walls like a heartbeat.
Roman slumps against the sink, legs wobbling, and tugs at hollis's shirt. "C'mere. Missed you on stage."
It's bullshit—he was right there, but roman's brain is soup, and hollis smells like sweat and cologne and that one weed strain that always makes roman's mouth water.
Hollis crowds in, hands on roman's hips, pinning him to the porcelain. "Missed me? You were eye-fucking me the whole set."
His thumb digs into the waistband of roman's jeans, casual, like he's not sending sparks straight to roman's dick.
"What, the crowd not enough?"
Roman's laugh is breathy, desperate. He grabs hollis's face, pulls him down into a kiss that's more teeth than finesse—messy, open-mouthed, tasting like tequila and smoke.
Hollis groans into it, one hand sliding up to fist roman's hair, tilting his head just right.
It's easy, always is. Like they've done this a hundred times (they have—in vans, green rooms, the sticky floor of clubs just like this).
Hollis kisses like he owns you, tongue lazy but demanding, and roman melts into it, hands roaming under hollis's shirt, nails scraping down his back.
They break apart gasping, foreheads pressed together. Roman's hand drifts lower, palming hollis through his jeans, and hollis hisses, bucking into the touch. "Fuck, romes."
"See? Not gay," roman mumbles, half-laughing, but his brain's screaming.
*What are we doing? This is just fun, right? Bros help bros out. Doesn't mean anything.*
His thumb circles the head of hollis's cock through the denim, and hollis's eyes flutter shut for a second, that soft vulnerability cracking his chill facade. Roman wants to bite it, own it, ask *what are we?* like some lovesick idiot. But no. He's not that guy. This is just... release.
Pressure valve after the show.
Totally normal.
Hollis's hand covers his, squeezing once before shoving it away. "Nuh-uh. My turn to take care of you." He drops to his knees—*fuck*—right there on the grimy tile, and roman's brain short-circuits.
Hollis looks up at him, eyes dark, smirk sharp.
"You've been a mess all night. Clinging like a koala. Let me fix it."
Roman's jeans are yanked down in one motion, boxers following, and cool air hits his dick—hard, leaking, embarrassing how fast he got here. "H-hollis—"
"Shh."
Hollis wraps a hand around him, slow stroke that makes roman's hips jerk.
"Look at you. So fucking needy."
He spits into his palm, slicking the way, and starts jerking him off proper—twist at the head, thumb pressing just under, rhythm filthy and knowing. Roman's head thunks back against the mirror, a whine ripping out of him.
The door rattles—someone trying the handle.
"Occupied!" hollis yells, voice steady as steel, but he doesn't stop.
If anything, he speeds up, free hand gripping roman's thigh to keep him spread. The footsteps shuffle away, and hollis chuckles, low. "Hear that? Whole party's out there. Any one of 'em could bust in and see you like this. Falling apart for me."
Roman's hand flies to his mouth, biting his knuckle to stifle the moan. *Not gay. Just... helping a bro.* But god, hollis's hand feels like sin—calluses dragging perfectly. His thumb swipes the slit, collecting pre, and roman's vision blurs.
"F-fuck—gonna—"
"Not yet."
Hollis stands in a fluid move, crowding roman back against the sink, their hips slotting together.
He unzips himself one-handed, dick springing free—heavy, flushed, mirroring roman's—and wraps them both in his fist. Roman's brain whites out at the friction, the heat, hollis's breath ghosting his neck. "You first. Come for me, romes. Show me how bad you need it."
It's the *need* that breaks him.
Roman's always the wild one on stage, the flirt, the chaos—but here, pinned and stroked like he's hollis's to unravel, it's too much.
His hips stutter, chasing the pressure, and he comes with a choked sob—hot, messy, spilling Ara hollis's knuckles.
Hollis works him through it, murmuring "good boy" into his hair, and roman clings like a lifeline, nails digging into hollis's arms.
Hollis follows seconds later, groaning low, painting roman's stomach. They stay like that, panting, sticky and spent, the afterparty thumping distant like a dream.
Hollis cleans them up with cheap paper towels, casual as ever, but his touches linger—thumb brushing roman's jaw, soft kiss to his temple. "You good?"
Roman nods, zipping up with shaky hands. "Yeah. Just... bro stuff." *What are we?* The question claws at his throat, but he swallows it. This is fun. Temporary. He's not gay—he likes girls, tits, the whole thang. Hollis is just... convenient. Safe.
Except nothing about this feels safe anymore.
Hollis slings an arm around him as they slip back into the crowd, roman tucked against his side like he belongs there.
"C'mon, let's get you home before you start humping my leg again."
Roman laughs, but it's hollow. In his head, he's screaming.
*What the fuck are we doing?*
But he doesn't ask. Can't. Instead, he leans in closer, breathing in hollis's smoke-and-sweat scent, and pretends it's enough.
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