“hollis! wtf kind of house keeping do you have? i can’t find my undies!” — perv roommate! hollis x traveling reader blurb
for the second time this month you’d touched down in la again. another one way from atlanta, two checked bags and a slightly scuffed baby pink suitcase. fatigued body still settling from directing the latest opium campaign shoot. the bright ass city lights shoot past the uber’s window as she spews some nonsense about her overweight cats as you head straight to hollis’s crib. he’d graciously offered the guest room months ago like it was nothing. “stay whenever, i got space. plus im barely home anymore.” he said over text, and you took him up on it easily because his spot in the hills is massive, pretty quiet, no nosy neighbors, and he never charges you shit even though you know he could.
you let yourself in with the code he gave you, drop your duffel in the familiar room with the big windows overlooking the spacious yard. everything smells faintly like the cigs he’d sworn he was quitting and that cologne he wears. you unpack quick, tossing bras and thongs into the top drawer like always. exhaustion hit as you strip down to nothing, shower off the plane grime, and fall into the crisp sheets in just boyshorts because it’s hot, hollis isn’t even home at the moment, and you’re just too tired to even care.
morning came slow. the sunlight pouring in through the big ass windows hollis bragged about loving so much. you doomscroll for a few minutes before getting up for another shower to start the day—ignoring the fact that it’s 2pm but you get in late so it’s acceptable. digging through the draws, you reach for your usual random tee, micro skirt, and a thong or boyshorts. vs pink had a sale last time you were in la so you were digging for the pale pink boyshorts that had angel in rhinestones across the butt and it’s gone. not in the drawer, not on the floor, not tangled in the sheets. you check your bag that you’d messy packed? nothing. maybe you forgot them in atlanta, or phoenix—somewhere, right?
now you seemed to notice. this keeps happening though. every trip. a pair disappears. sometimes two. always the cutest ones, the expensive ones, or simply the ones with soaked through stains from being around sexy ass vixens everyday that coincidentally never made it to the wash. you start paying attention. the rest of your clothes are untouched. jewelry still there. cash still there. just the tiny undies vanish and aren’t seen for weeks when you visit your nasty best friend in the city.
six steps down the staircase and you could already tell hollis is in the kitchen, shirtless in sweats, pouring peppermint tea into the corny enderman mug you’d bought him along with other shit for christmas a few years back. he looks up, eyes dragging slow over your bare legs before he gives a soft smile. “morning, superstar. how was the flight back?” i saw you on the camera, hauling ass like you weren’t at the homestretch already. ” he laughed at his own joke. immediately, you snap, “hollis! what the fuck kind of house keeping do you have? i can’t find my undies!”
he freezes for half a second—barely noticeable if you weren’t staring him down—then laughs, like this whole interaction was truly amusing to him, leaning back against the counter. “housekeeping? girl, i don’t have no damn housekeeping. told you that months ago. it’s just me. i’m conceded but i still have time to clean up.” he’s not even attempting to deny anything, just admitting there’s no one else here who could take them.
“then who the fuck is stealing underwear out of all things in this house, hollis?” you retorted, hand already on one hip. he shrugs, tosses his phone aside, leans back on his elbows. “maybe they just walk off on their own. you leave ‘em lying around looking like that, shit gets tempting. all the frills, the different colors… but i definitely have a thing for those pink ones…the boyshorts or whatever you call them. they always smell so good after you been running around….”
so many lewd thoughts swirled around your mind. to the point where you didn’t know whether to be disgusted or turned on. and you were both. “you’re stealing my panties, hollis? seriously?” he licks his lips, doesn’t even flinch. “stealing’s a strong word. borrowing. appreciating. whatever.” the loudest eye roll came after his comment. “you’re a disgusting pervert,” you whisper, lowering your tone because you know you don’t sound as mad as you should.
but he’s standing there all innocent, muscles flexing against the center island as he calmly sips his tea, and you were adjacent to him feeling that weird heat crawl up your spine because part of you wonders how long he’s been sliding your panties off the pile when you were asleep and clueless down the hall.
later that week you’re in his pool, floating on a raft in a tiny black bikini—you’d styled a vixen in to wear on set—now it’s yours because it looked too good not to keep. hollis is “working” on the patio, laptop open, beats thumping soft through the speakers, but you catch him watching every time you adjust yourself to even out the tan. his eyes linger on the wet fabric clinging to you, on the strings tied at your hips that could snap with one tug. his breath quickening as he hoped one wrong move would send even a sliver of your goodies spilling out.
you pretend not to notice, but your stomach flips because you know. you fucking know he’s got your missing pieces stashed somewhere—maybe in his nightstand, maybe wrapped around his dick when he’s jerking off thinking about you running around his house half-naked and giggling on the phone with your homegirls. the thought should piss you off. it does piss you off. but it also makes your thighs clench underwater.
so without fail you “accidentally” leave a fresh pair on the bathroom counter after your shower—classic grey calvin’s and minutes pass before you hear his footsteps pause outside the door longer than necessary. you smile in the mirror, steam fogging the glass. by morning they’re gone too.
he never admits it. never will. just keeps playing the perfect host—making you late-night snacks when you’re editing cuts on your laptop in the living room, brushing past you too close in the hallway, blaming “ghosts” or “bad packing habits” every time another pair disappears.
an: he would 100% be the complete opposite but a girl can dream