.𖥔 ݁ ˖ “INFINITE GOD”, ✝︎
cultist!hollis x athiest!fem!reader
based off of this req one of my mutuals sent me :)
(my first ever attempt at something.. kinda smutty?? may have my work cut out for me. this is your warning.)
When visiting a childhood friend at college out of state, faces and places are unfamiliar…
At a social, you’re introduced to hollis frazier; a mutual friend and spokesman for a suspiciously selective religion-oriented campus community, suddenly finding yourself being preyed upon.
Good thing you’re not easily persuaded, and hollis isn’t just a devout sweet-talker.
“Okay, so, there’s a few people I need to introduce you to.”
Your friend informs you between tokes of your almost-dead, very much burnt vape you’d been passing back and forth in the car after she’d picked you up from the airport.
“Yeah? Are they all pretentious art school assholes?” You jokingly jest, socked feet stretched onto the dashboard as you comfortably scrolled on your phone.
Your friend mutters a ‘fuck you’ in response, using a decoratively-nailed finger to flick your arm that was resting on the centre console.
“Not everyone at my college is pretentious.” She retorts, shaking her head as she veers off the freeway, towards the signage for her college, “You’ll see. My friends are all super chill.”
You drop your phone between your thighs, reaching for your half-drank takeaway cup of decarbonised Coke Zero you’d gotten an hour ago at the airport McDonald’s.
You take a sip from the soggy, lipgloss-stained paper straw, grimacing slightly - once it lost all carbonation, it just tasted like slightly stale syrup.
An hour and fifteen later, you’d reached campus - your friend of twelve years studied fashion marketing there, and had apparently developed a broad friendship group that she swore to you didn’t consist of nepotistic assholes.
You found that hard to believe, but you partly wanted to see for yourself.
“Can’t believe your work almost declined your holiday request - what bullshit.” Your friend scowled from the drivers seat, shifting the car into reverse as she pulled into an empty parking lot space outside her campus accommodation, “You should quit your big-girl job and come live with me here.”
“No thanks.” You deadpan, scoffing as you retracted your feet from the dashboard, gathering your things from the footwell, “I’d rather keep my boring corporate job than be in a lifetime’s worth of debt from college.”
“Suit yourself.” Your friend smirked, slamming the car door shut, “You can role-play being a LA nepo-baby studying fashion design here for the meantime.”
You laugh, shutting your own door and heaving your duffle bag of weekend supplies over your shoulder.
You’d only been able to negotiate three days off to visit due to your stingy manager, but that was enough for you to get a relatively good taste of college life while remaining comfortable and grateful you hadn’t chosen to pursue it.
You just wanted to go out partying with your childhood best friend, so blackout to the point where you wanted to fly over state lines to make sure none of your future inebriated actions would make their way back to your workplace.
“What’s the plan for tonight?” You ask, loitering outside of your friends’ apartment building as she fumbled for her keys.
“Uh-, probably go to a social a few blocks away at my friends’ bar, and then maybe another local dive bar after?” She suggests, finally locating the keys and unlocking the main entrance, “They don’t check ID, so-,”
“I don’t mind where we end up.” You shrug, following her into the escalator, your duffle bag now aching your shoulder - you were a chronic over-packer.
“By the way, they’re coming to mine in like, an hour for predrinks.” She adds, chipper, pressing the button for the fifth floor.
You nod, although you now had to come to terms with the fact that your delayed flight had made it so you only had an hour to do your hair, makeup and get changed.
WE’RE BETTER OFF ON THE BACK
COLD KISS, COLD KISS, COLD KISS.”
“And then there’s Becks, she studies graphic design-,” Your friend briefs you regarding each friend due to turn up to her apartment in less than ten minutes, “- She’s super cool. Like, ‘has three thousand followers but only follows a hundred people’ cool.”
You nod, pretending to retain any of the information regarding these strangers you’ll most likely only have to put up with for the weekend.
“And then,” She continues, hair coiled around a pair of hair curlers as she styled her hair cross-legged in front of a full-length mirror, “There’s Hollis - we call him Holli.”
You snicker, rummaging through your bag in hopes you’d packed your everyday lipgloss, finally having completed your outfit and makeup.
“Hollis? Haven’t heard that one before.” You comment, retrieving the cosmetic tube and opening it, plush applicator swiping over your lined lip, “Is he cute?”
Your friend’s face falters, like she were about to suggest something to you, but realised quickly that it may be a bad idea.
“Well, he is, very, but-,” She purses her lips, bracing for your reaction to her next sentence, “He’s in this.. community.. on campus, that’s to do with enlightenment and religion, and-,”
You, currently using your own iPhone camera as a mirror as your friend was occupying the full length one in the corner of the room, crane your head around to face her dramatically.
“You have a religious cult movement on campus?” You gasp, “That’s so art school. I can’t believe I didn’t predict that.”
“I don’t think it’s a cult, okay!” She defends quickly, “Don’t tell him that! He gets all weird whenever the word ‘cult’ is mentioned.”
You shake your head in evident disbelief.
“No shit? You don’t even have to explain and I already know what it is.” You put away your lipgloss, now carefully combing your fingers through your freshly-straightened hair, “How’d you even become friends with him anyway?”
“We had to do a collaborative project for one of our modules a few months ago - he studies music production,” She replied, “He’s seriously so lovely.”
You resist the urge to roll your fucking eyes into the back of your head, zipping your bag closed and wiping the spatters of setting powder that had settled on your clothing amidst your makeup routine.
“That’s the whole point - he’s probably trying to recruit you, or something.” You shiver at the thought, “I swear to god, if you end up in some shitty cult and cut contact with me, I’ll-,”
“Chill!” Your friend laughs, “He’s barely mentioned it to me. They’re pretty selective during recruitment season - they have quite a few people apply, apparently. Only a few make it past initiation, though.”
You furrow your eyebrows, intrigued, but also somewhat concerned that your best friend of twelve years was rubbing elbows with a cultist ever so casually.
“Be grateful he’s deemed you not good enough to join, then.” You conclude, pivoting behind your friend in the full length mirror, conducting the final examination of your outfit before everyone was due to arrive.
“- Bet the initiation is to slit a goats’ throat, or some twisted shit like that.”
Your friend shakes her head at your outlandish suggestion, flicking the hair curlers off at the wall outlet.
“Just let me introduce you to him, at least - if you don’t fuck with him, then you don’t have to interact with him for the rest of the weekend.”
Turning to retrieve your friends’ vape discarded on her side table, you sigh.
“- He’s easy on the eyes at least. I promise.”
“He better be, if he’s as fucked up as I have him in my head.”
“That’s unfair to say, I’ve barely told you anything about him!”
You scoff, pungent pineapple-scented smoke wisps curling from your parted lips, dissipating into the air.
“Anyone who believes there’s a fucking man in the clouds that controls all of us is fucking batshit.”
Your friend shrugs, deciding to let you see Hollis for yourself - you were always quick to judge, and it didn’t help the fact that the concept of religion and worshipping an uncertain idol proved obscene to you.
“Don’t be so harsh!” She lectures softly, standing to head into the kitchen and prepare drinks, “He’s harmless. I think.”
You hum, before trailing her out of the bedroom.
“What’s on the menu for tonight?” You grin, bounding over to the designated drinks cabinet, “What’s the vibe? tequila? vodka?,”
“I mean-, I was going to stick to ciders and then go onto spirits later, but we can start now.” Your friend playfully winks, “What flavour vodka?”
You raise your eyebrows at the question.
“ ‘The fuck do you mean ‘what flavour’ ? You’re a college student - surely you can’t afford multiples of anything.”
“Bitch. I’ve got blood orange, vanilla-,”
“Blood orange reference? I fucking love Dev Hynes. Slide me that shit baby.” You beckon with your hand, grasping at air for the bottle.
Your friend laughed, before retrieving the bottle from the cabinet as well as two shot glasses.
“When’s the last time you got drunk?” She asked curiously, dainty gold rings on her fingers clinking against the neck of the bottle as she twisted the reluctant cap off the bottle.
You hoist yourself up onto the kitchen island, bare legs swinging off the edge, feet now a good foot above the ground.
“Mm, probably, like, two months ago at that staff team building workshop that really was just a wine tasting session disguised as a piss-up.”
You answer honestly, hands braced on the edge of the counter as you recall the last time you’d been intoxicated.
“I was tipsy, though - it was tame. Definitely gonna need my fucking head spinning to listen to some cult bullshit from your music friend.”
“Think of it as like, character development. Imagine the stories you can tell when you’re back in your sad little office, hunched over your desk.” Your friend swiped, smiling as she finally popped open the lid, the sound of thin aluminium pattering across the floor.
You don’t pay attention, instead watching as she poured the translucent, malevolent liquid into the shot glasses - filling them so extremely, there was surface-tension at the brim of the glass.
“Are you trying to have me on the fucking floor before midnight?”
You wince, lifting the glass level to your lips, beneath your tongue now pooling with saliva - your bodies eager and desperate, yet silent cry for you to change your mind.
“You were the one that said you wanted to be fucked to deal with Hollis.” She justified, throwing a free hand up in the air in surrender, “We can always just have a beer instead.”
You’d rather shot straight vodka all evening than drink that piss-equivalent beverage.
You pressed the rim of the glass to your bottom lip, a threatening, glacial waft of the spirit penetrated your nose from its glass encasing, to which you saluted it with your lips.
The familiar, unpleasant burn was a prelude to ecstasy, etching a cautionary warning across your palate - a bittersweet penance for the reckless euphoria to hopefully follow, if you didn’t overdo it and end up curdled over the toilet in an hour with your fingers down your throat.
The tart citrus taste followed after, numbing the vodka’s harsh kiss against your oesophagus, likeable flavour reducing the bitter aftertaste almost dangerously - as each shot you ingested with more and more ease, the further the line blurred between pleasure and consequence.
Thankfully, your friend kept up with you - once the bottles were put out on the table along with the solo cups and mixers, paired with the Spotify blend playlist you’d both made specifically for getting fucked up, you’d reached a transcendent state.
You swore you could feel the spirit seep into your bloodstream, tendrils twisting through your veins, subduing your limbs and softening the edges of your vision - a warm flush kindling your cheeks.
It had only been ten minutes of continuous shots and occasional hyping-up to take them between each other, but it had felt like two - you two were the worst when paired together to drink.
Fast-paced lightweights, who knew their limits, but abused them - you’d survived enough nights of being blacked out to trust yourselves enough to know you’d find a way to get home the next day - the only proof of your heavily drunken endeavours being a few scrapes and bruises.
“Shit.” Your friend announces, placing the shot glass down, scrolling the notifications on her phone, “They’re here. I didn’t hear them knock - the fucking music is too loud!”
You laugh, slipping off the edge of the counter, base of your spine scraping the cool marble surface, letting yourself lean back against it to stabilise yourself.
Hearing your friend greet the people in the doorway, you immediately went back to pouring yourself another drink.
“Guys, this is my best friend from back home - we’ve known each other since forever.” She skipped excitedly over to you, a six-pack now magically in her other hand.
She walks past you, towards the fridge freezer - most likely to get some ice.
“Be nice, for the love of god.” She mutters between gritted teeth, half-jokingly, before swinging open the freezer door.
It was just past ten o’clock now. The open kitchen was now shrouded in saturated cozy ambers and pinks from your friends’ sunset lamp you’d bought her the previous Christmas.
Beers were cracked open and consumed, shots recirculated - much to your livers dismay - and small talk had began. It was here where you were truly grateful you’d speed ran about seven shots when you did. Shit was definitely working.
You found yourself perched against the edge of the kitchen island still, elbows resting against the surface behind you as you nursed a canned mojito you’d definitely overpaid for at the airport convenience store.
“What’s your instagram?” Becks was before you, working a bottle of cheap white wine between comments, seemingly equally as drunk, “I love your vibe, just- everything. I knew you were gonna be cool.”
In the span of five minutes upon meeting Becks, you’d exchanged instagram handles, tried each others drinks, and had a conversation about Supreme’s fall from fashion grace - you disagreed with this, but she argued that the quality of newer their garments begged to differ.
You mouthed to your friend, who was a few feet away conversing to another one of her friends, lifting your drink to conceal your mouth movements - “This bitch is crazy!”
She giggled, pressing her lips together as if to conceal it, but it was no use - the guy stood opposite her now pinching his eyebrows in confusion.
Your friend seemingly gave up on interacting with him after this, resorting to a friendly pat on his chest, before backing away from him and over to you.
“Becks! Darling.” She cooed, embracing Becks in probably the fifth hug since she’d walked in the apartment, but she accepted it with equal enthusiasm, drunken tanned limbs draping over each other.
“How are you both?” You both nodded, content with how the night was playing out so far, “I just wanted to say- Holli!”
She suddenly called out, peering over your shoulder to the other end of the kitchen island - to a long-haired, slender boy who had just slipped back inside after going out to the balcony for a quick smoke.
“Babe, this is Hollis! Who I told you about earlier. He does music production!” She chirped, slightly swaying herself as she pulled you by your wrist around the island to his side.
Upon being beckoned, Hollis looked up from his phone in his hand, half-lidded, seemingly darker eyes syrupy in the lowlight.
“This is my best friend! She’s fucking incredible,” Your evidently intoxicated friend babbled, her hand wrapped around your shoulders lovingly, “- And she studies fashion!”
You quickly shoot her a side-glance of utter confusion - you thought the whole ‘pretending to study fashion here like a typical nepo-baby’ comment was a joke.
Guess you’ll have to stick to this persona for the rest of the evening. Maybe it’ll be a fun game - testing your lying abilities, maybe potentially open a pathway for a scandalous double-life?
You slowly nod, quickly mulling over the white lie in your head before choosing to stick with it.
“Hey.” He softly nods, voice low and smooth - a shadowy string of sound that mellowed into a dance with the deep, low-fi bass of the background house music. “Nice to meet you.”
He was a study in contrast; silhouetted in what you could only describe in your state as loose-fitting, dark-coloured fabric stark against his milky skin.
What looked like two French braids that were possibly done yesterday, based off of the few stray strands that had unwoven themselves and fallen around his face - eyes and waterline smudged with onyx kohl, at least two silver chains flush against his sternum, the pendants unintelligible to you as of now.
“You look like you’d study music.” You uttered clumsily, drunkard focus tracing his silhouette, mind torn between admiration and trepidation.
He was, as promised, a beautiful distraction.
But also, a possible predicament.
Wolf in sheep’s clothing - serpent in the grass. A trained deceiver hidden behind a tantalising, porcelain mask of near-perfection.
“Thank you?” He timidly smirked at your strange half-compliment?, somewhat unsure how to take it, the newfound crease between his eyebrows showed - and you almost mistook him for being genuinely humble.
“I’ll leave you two to talk - I’ve got to speak to Cherry and the others!”
Your friend hurried off, eyes sparkling in a calculated manner - someone who’s plan was going accordingly - heeled shoes clacking against the floor, almost-dragging as she could hardly lift her feet.
You two revelled in the lacklustre of conversation for a minute, Hollis reaching for an unopened bottle of beer - cupping his hand over the lid and hooking the underside of one of his silver rings under the lip of the cap and popping it off in one swift motion.
You watched, slightly amused.
“Couldn’t be normal and use a bottle opener?” You motioned to said bottle opener on the other side of the kitchen island.
He grinned, lifting the emerald-tinted bottle to his lips, canines glinting beneath his lip - you squinted, swearing you saw a crucifix cemented onto one of them out of silver tooth gems.
“Too far away.” He joked, placing the bottle back down after taking a swig, “You gon’ tell me your name? Or are you just ‘best friend’?”
“Depends,” the slurring of your speech stripped away your menace - less of a force to be reckoned with, more of a challenge to be accepted, “If i tell you, will you use it to help manipulate me into joinin’ your cult?”
Your ankle falters as you lean closer to him, yet another attempt to provoke this pretty stranger that you were certain had a despicable motive.
You stable yourself just as quickly as you’d faltered, hand gripping the edge of the kitchen island.
He kept a quiet vigil - eyes crinkling at the edges with squint, body languid from the weed he’d smoked earlier.
Your statement stilled him as you’d expected, a noticeable shift in his demeanour at your straightforwardness - but his expression was one of amusement.
You were far too comical to him in your current state for him to take any sort of offence - he almost looked as if he were stifling back a mocking laugh as he lifted the beer bottle to his lips again.
He looked at you like he was watching a low-budget comedy routine, but he was too enticed by you and your approach to walk out.
Maybe it was the weed that had made him more tolerant.
“Not a cult, sweet. ‘S a support group of sorts.”He corrects, words falling close to flat - but followed by a smile, bittersweet like an unripe fruit accompanied.
Your gut churned, insides twisting into an unseen amalgamation of both intrigue and mild dread - you couldn’t tell whether it was because of his delivery, or because of the alcohol.
Either way, you’d laid out the bait recklessly, and he’d bowed his head - you’d poked the bear with the stick of provocation, and he gave in.
You look away, noticing the canned drink in your hand, what felt like your anchor in this entire situation - was now empty. You searched the table, now a labyrinth of empty solo cups and half-drank beverages.
The sound of scraping glass against a solid surface alerted you back to his direction, eyes wild with intoxicated vigilance; or lack of.
It was his beer. He nodded at you, motioning for you to drink.
“You fucking lace this, or something?” You bite back, defensively flipping your hair behind your shoulder.
He scoffed, reaching to take the beer back.
“No, asshole. I just drank from it.”
“Oh, well-” You shrugged off the unobservant statement you’d made, flippant in hopes you could play it off.
You, in some sort of act of protest, reached out for the beer - hand partly overlapping his own as you dragged the bottle back in your direction.
He dropped his hand, sliding it out from underneath yours, features still echoing playful amusement, slightly softened by the lulling effects of the weed.
You held a stare, fixed and desperate to assert control, though truthfully, you were seeking stability in his face to ward off the encroaching nausea, that had worsened after ingesting the amber liquid.
One more drink, and you’ll be barely-conscious at his feet.
Truly finding pleasure within your drunken performance targeted to bristle him, he laid it on thick; just as you had.
“Not a cult.” He huffed, and you swore he’d tutted at you, tongue rolling in his cheek, “-You jus’ gonna interrogate me? Should i walk away?”
You placed the beer bottle down, clumsily sliding it back over to him - he picked it up, stepping back from you.
In the soft, saturated glow of the mood lighting, probably made more hazy by your blurring vision, he looked like an apparition.
The beauty you’d prepared for made heightened by your intoxication, and the fact you hadn’t fucked anyone in the last three months, probably.
Pale features ablaze with colour, a paradox of tempting grace and devilish charm - except it was in the form of a stoned boy.
“No, no.” You stammered, continuing to press despite your drunken drawl, “Tell me more. About your cult. You guys do mushrooms-, and- and hold hands and shit?”
“Holli!,” Becks called out, shrill voice cutting through the buzzing music and whatever the hell was silting between the two of you, “Jasper’s got shit, needs rolling!”
Hollis smiled politely at you, before finishing the rest of his beer, turning, and walking away.
“Cunt.” You seethed, urge to throttle him and wipe the smug expression off his face with your bare hands replaced with the dire need for a cigarette.
You clear your throat, tugging your denim mini skirt downwards as if it’d cover any more skin - beginning to stumble towards the balcony door.
You’d caught your friend’s eye, motioning with your finger to the balcony to invite her to share a cigarette, to which she lifted up the remains of the bottle of vodka, shaking her head.
You claw at the balcony door handle, eventually peeling it open and slipping through - gentle evening breeze whisking your hair, brushing against your skin.
You’d enjoyed your cigarette while studying the skyline, almost entirely forgetting your interaction with Hollis earlier. Currently, you were blinded with drunken bliss, lightheaded and placid as the wind cradled you - body almost folded over the railing.
You let your eyes flutter closed, and you weren’t opposed to the idea of literally falling asleep here.
Until you heard the door squeal open against his hinges, multiple people filing out, all equally drunken, not far behind yourself.
“You gotta teach Cherry how to roll, man.” Someone jeers, “We’ve been smoking for five years and she still can’t roll for shit.”
“Practice, Cher.” Hollis’ saccharine, satiny tone encouraged, “Enjoy it.”
“You’re not smoking?” Another asked, they had yet to acknowledge you.
“No.” He informed, “Had enough already. Don’t wanna get crossed.”
“Hollis Frazier getting crossfaded? Is that even possible?”
A gaggle of laughter, the flicking of a lighter.
“Oh shit - babe, you okay?” Your friend’s taloned fingers dwindle down your back comfortingly, “Do you need to be sick? I’d prefer if you went to the bathroom, we have neighbours downstairs, and i would rather you didn’t throw up onto their balcony-,”
You shake your head, lifting your body and beginning to retreat back inside, grasping onto someone’s shoulder for stability as you weaved through the small crowd back inside.
You barely looked up, focused on keeping your feet in line.
Once inside, you clicked the door shut behind you, beelining for the sofa.
You slinked into it, back hitting the soft leather with a thud - hair draping across your face, similar to the girl from ‘The Ring’.
“Fuck.” You sighed, running slow hands over your face. You were officially on the comedown, closer to experiencing the consequences of your actions a few hours before.
“You come to join me in prayer?”
Hollis. Sat a few feet down from you, leant back - jeans low on his lips, hipbones caught in the fiery lowlight that swallowed the both of you.
Wrapped around his fist, resting now on his thigh, was a beaded rosary.
He could’ve been inspecting it out of boredom, something he’d pulled out absently from his pocket, or he could’ve actually been praying.
You weren’t sure if he was joking to rile you up, or if he had meant the invitation.
“Don’t wanna join your cult..” you muffled behind your palm, head resting in your hands, elbows propped up in your lap, “Not that stupid..”
“Why not?” He teased, watching as the silver crucifix pendant of the rosary caught the light, “Don’t you want to hold hands and take psychedelics all day?”
“Mm-mm.” You shook your head, letting your head lull back against the sofa, face pointed to the ceiling, “Not a support group.. a cult.”
Broken sentences in your state spurred him on, him also being slightly wrecked, but able to conceal it better than you.
“Mm, gotta’ prayer that might convince god not to give you a hangover.” He wrung every drop of humour from your doubt, seizing on your skepticism, fuelling his own intoxicated mirth.
You shook your head, slowly, rolling your head to the side in his direction, sleepy eyes boring into him.
“Jus’ a fashion student..” you whisper, “Not gonn’ join your fucking cult..”
Grinning lazily, reclined as you still desperately tried to deflect his playful antics, he preyed on your feigned attempt at loathing him for his religious disposition.
“S’okay, I’ll have you beggin’ to join.” He ever so casually muttered, “I’m quite persuasive.”
“I think I’d rather fuckin’ die.” You slurred out, “You’re doing a shit job.”
He exhaled, and it was only now you realised he was smoking a cigarette. Indoors.
Your friend would probably flip her fucking lid if she found out, but she was currently off her fucking rocker on the balcony smoking weed, so for now, he and his bad habits had free rein.
“You drink.. you smoke..” You point out, listing everything you’d deem typically sinful if you’d cared enough about that topic, “Not very Christian of you? is it? Bet God’s fucking pissed right now.”
A bitter, low chuckle. Tickling jocularity mixed with the cigarette smoke low in his chest, vocals brazen from the harsh toxins.
“Look who’s brought up God first.” He tuts, standing to his feet, the sound of carpet beneath shoe as he treads over to you.
You attempt to straighten up, seeing him approach you, even still refusing to yield as he impeded on you.
“My best friend.. she doesn’t see what you are.” You, all wide-eyed and, despite your attempts to make yourself appear threatening, docile, spit back, “But i see what you are.”
Yet, your body betrayed you - with each step he moved closer, you found your crossed legs tightening.
“Stubborn little thing.” He purred, the edge of condescension sharpening his words, “You don’t know me, Angel.”
Stood over you now, you tried to stand - an effort to counter him, but you’d teetered over the fine line between rational thinking and functionality long ago.
It was here, where you’d started to deeply regret those shots.
He watched intently as you struggled to regain your footing off the couch like you were Bambi on ice - defeated as you let your body fall limp back against the couch, leather sticking to the undersides of your thighs.
Hollis had decided he’d had enough of watching you struggle before him, settling in front of you, almost on his knees. Level with your thighs.
His half-smoked cigarette was resting between his lips now, knuckles skimming the expanse of your shin, testing the waters.
You simply watched. Mouth slightly agape, chest hollowing with each shattered breath, from both the alcohol churning within you and from the tiring attempts to heave your body up, only to be met with failure.
You looked bewildered. Utterly.
“What?” He muttered, hand resting over your knee as he removes the cigarette from his parted lips, stubbing it out on a vogue magazine upon the coffee table behind him - directly over the front page models’ face.
Strangely symbolic, and something your friend will be pissed about later. How it hadn’t started a fire you’d never know - both of you were too preoccupied ‘n fucked up to question it.
“ ‘Think that because im devout to my faith that i can’t fuckin’ touch you?” Hollis mutters, pupils dilated, swallowing up any traces of the hazel irises you could barely make out earlier - he was so fucking high.
“Don’t you have bible study in the morning?” You still manage to croak out, tapping his thigh with your foot, “Go home, ‘Holli’ - ‘m not changing my mind.”
As you spoke his name, it fell upon him like a revelation - he’d definitely chosen the right one.
It tumbled almost naturally from your parted lips like a daily prayer. He desired its utterance again and again immediately, like a hymn to which he wanted no end.
You’d intended it to be mocking, belittling almost. But he found it so incredibly attractive.
He had heard you loud ‘n clear, reeling back, resting on his heels.
“You’re right.” Like a switch flipped, acting as if he came to his senses at your feeble words, “Tell me to go back to my little hippie ‘cult’ again, ‘n I will, Angel.”
You separated your lips, about to deliver the final blow - sealing your separation for most likely the rest of your stay.
But you’d made a silent promise to yourself to make some lore-building, character-developing decisions that you’d regret come the next day - and this felt like a rare experience you’d beat yourself up about for not exploring.
Imagine being able to say you’d hooked up with a sexy potential cult-leader. Definitely something! but you were all about strange, rogue achievements, if it could be considered one.
And the way the crucifix of tooth gems kept glinting beneath his lip with every lopsided, boyish smirk and composed remark, you wanted to dissect this little (not little, at all actually) church boy yourself.
Before he could stand to his feet, you wrapped your legs around his torso - as you couldn’t really move anything else without your vision swirling like the room was spinning around you at a million miles an hour.
“Since you’re fuckin’ ass at persuading me w’your words..” you rasped, mustering the bravery to lean forwards slightly - enough to reach out and tug at one of his platinum braids - “- Y’can try recruit me another way..”
His head tilted at the action, eyes actively eclipsing.
The irreverence, the sacrilege in your tone weighted his gaze - you were a woman of no faith, only your own intuition.
You followed no gods, you knelt before nobody, you whispered no prayers - he did not know you, but from your speech he knew this.
He knew there were a million things you’d rather do than follow his paving. Yet, he found himself clinging to the allure of your explicit proposition - a battle between piety and desire.
Is this what coming face to face with temptation embodied felt like? Grappling with immense lust? Eve when she had reached for the forbidden fruit?
“-Why don’t we give your precious little man in the sky a good show?” You taunt between drunken giggles, head lolling backwards like your skull were made of lead.
Despite your differences regarding faith, you both remained determined.
He, to make you cry out a morning prayer he’d have the other community members recite every communion.
You? To defile, and lead astray a pious man of faith; engaging in a one-time, drunken game of torment with one who flaunted his irrevocable beauty like it were a divine endowment, straight from the fingertips of ‘God’ himself.
Both twisted in their own ways, but something you could only summarise as a heat-of-the-moment, drunken hookup fuelled by hatred and growing sexual tension.
You’d always had a thing for blondes.
“You’re so quiet now.” You pout, unlocking your ankles from around his waist, where he stayed put, “Thought you said you were persuasive, Hollis.”
“Jus’ thinkin’ about what passage ‘m gonna have you crying out.” He quipped, “But ‘m not gonna keep touchin’ you if you’re barely clingin’ on to consciousness.”
He stood now, backing away from you like he were observing a wild animal.
“If you want it that bad, Angel.. get up ‘n come over t’me.”
“You’re a fucking joke.” You retort, yet here you were - plush carpet beneath your knees, friction from the sudden impact now aching.
“Jus’ making sure you’re able to fuckin’ walk.”
It took you a few minutes, carpet fibres indenting your kneecaps - but eventually, after using the corner of the coffee table as a crutch, you stood.
“A miracle.” He muttered sarcastically, yet patient as ever, “Almost there, honey.”
Against the numbing weight of the alcohol, you actually found your feet - your gait a staggering testament to your inebriation, yet your path was set firmly towards him.
Three steps turned to six, and then ten, and then fifteen - and after what felt like five years of trying not to topple over like a fucking bowling pin, you wound up following his retreat into a bathroom.
“Managed to get you w’me in a shitty bathroom,” He chuckled softly, looking around - yet another playful jab at your expense - a spat you’d started first, but he’d quickly overtaken you in, “ ‘N you were saying I was doing a shit job at persuading you? Barely said anything.”
It was embarrassing, the way you’d committed mutiny against your sober self and your morals as quickly as you had; but you knew your friend would be in full support, and that the debrief would be fucking incredible.
“You, however..” He shifted behind you, using his heel to close the bathroom door, lock twisting, “I know you’re not from here - would’ve met you before.”
Once the door was locked, he raked a hand down you; from the back of your shoulder to the base of your spine - your hands gripping the porcelain lip of the sink.
“Pretty shitty liar.” His hand settled there, thumb pressing into the indents of your back dimples.
“God doesn’t like liars, right?” Using the reflection of the mirror before him, you lock eyes, “Bet he doesn’t like his little pets gettin’ pussy, neither.”
“Got quite the mouth on you.” He laughs breathily, “ ‘S all for a good cause, sweetheart - y’think you can travel across state for our weekly meetings?”
“Y’think you can shut the fuck up ‘n do something?” You grate, turning around to face him, “.. Probably fall asleep at your little campus club if this is the pace you use.”
“That mouth do anything else except kiss God’s fuckin’ ass?” You bark, continuing, turning your head sideways to get a glimpse of him in your peripherals - to see if he would respond to your childish antics.
Unable to decipher his face nor his expression from behind you as you swayed against the counter, practically balancing in your heels - you found yourself being manhandled abruptly.
“Fuckin’ sick of your attitude.” He mutters, your forehead now pressed against the cool surface of the bathroom mirror, “You don’t even know me, Angel - disrespect goes fuckin’ insane.”
He was flush against you now; even more so than before - lips grazing the shell of your ear, before licking a slow, testing stripe behind it - tongue hot against your prickling skin.
Your knuckles almost bone-white now, as you gripped the sides of the porcelain sink like it were a raft saving you from a dragging currant.
“ ‘Definitely going to hell.” He whispers, lips pronounced against the flesh he’d raked your hair away to expose on the back of your neck, “Shame. S’pretty - but so judgemental. Like a viper.”
He’d said this mostly to rile you up more, arm linking over your stomach, splayed hand pressing over your ribs, thumbs tracing the underwire of your bra beneath your dress.
A stranger, a mutual friend, and a potential cult member had you folded like a fucking lawn chair over a grimy bathroom sink - soap bottles and other grooming instruments clattering to the floor as your hands fumbled to steady your frame.
Forehead still pressed firmly against the mirror, fogging up from your ragged exhaling, you laughed - bitterly, lazily, the sound of someone who’d gone out looking for trouble, who’d found it, and who was facing the consequences.
Fortunately, this was best case scenario.
“C’mon, church boy.” You grit between clenched teeth, “You jus’ delaying shit because you don’t know how to fuck? Or-,”
Immediately at this, another hand snakes beneath your chin - index finger raising to your lips, pressing against them.
He was fucking shushing you.
The hand he’d planted across your stomach unfurled.
“Mm, quiet.” He hummed into your hair, a chaste kiss to the back of your head, before he shifted, cheek now pressing there, cheekbone to the back of your skull.
You lifted your head from the mirror once you were sure you could trust your body to keep you firm and upright long enough, once again glancing over your shoulder to see where he was working his hands.
Wasn’t until you felt the stale bathroom air coolly against your upper thighs that you realised he’d hiked up your skirt, denim scrunching at your hipbones.
“Y’think you can turn ‘round for me, honey?” He asked, strangely soft and polite considering the abuse you’d been tossing at him since he walked through the door.
You obey, twisting your body so the base of your spine met the solid porcelain behind you.
Doing this, you wobbled in your heels profusely - convinced at one point that your ankles would fully give way, and you’d clamber to the ground like a drunken mess.
You hadn’t yet reached that point, thankfully, before he chuckled at you, whispering;
“Take those off, they’re fuckin’ ridiculous.”
The thought of creasing your body downwards while barely being able to stand properly upright made you feel ill - in a motion sickness way; in a ‘I’m-so-drunk-that-if-i-move-too-fast-I’ll-throw-up’ way.
He noticed your hesitation, chalking it up as exactly what it was.
And then before you, he sank to his knees - your hand instinctively reaching for his hair, the other still holding onto the lip of the sink.
Your free hand absentmindedly traced the braided valleys of platinum hair - wrapping the unintentionally, loose face-framing pieces around your finger.
He didn’t look up at you yet; focused on getting you out of your footwear.
“Can barely walk in ‘em.” He muttered to himself, shaking his head like he was reciting a sick joke, “Like a fuckin’ giraffe in roller skates.”
This comparison even made you chuckle, head lolling back slightly.
Fingers worked at the multiple buckles, before he gently removed them from beneath you - the feeling of cold tile beneath the soles of your feet strangely grounding for you.
You’d dropped down about four inches, and you found this belittling. The height gap between you was already significant, but it had been made more prevalent.
He repeated the action: one hand working to undo the clasps around your ankle, the other stabilised on your shin, thumb brushing the skin beneath it.
When you were unbuckled completely, he gently kicked the shoes to the side, the clatter of platformed footwear against tile in the currently quiet bathroom startling you - head snapping to the skidding heels swiftly.
Hollis, still on his knees, looked up at you - eyes the colour of rich sin, irises blown like they were a cesspool of Eden’s secrets, where innocence drowned.
“Nothin’ to worry ‘bout, Angel.” He assured, alluding to your startled reaction to the obvious echoing emittance of noise from the enclosed space, “They’re all fucked out of their minds on that balcony. Won’t hear shit. Music’s too loud.”
You nodded, teeth latched over your lip.
He waited, giving you an intermission to change your mind; to barge past him and storm out of the bathroom, to throw more insults at him; to tell him to fuck off back to his stupid church organisation and to try and recruit someone else.
Your lack of refusal to continue and your breathing - a frantic litany - betrayed you. He’d noticed how as he dragged the hand that was on your skin to the flesh just above your knee, you’d lifted your hips from the edge of the sink where they rested.
It was a slight, sloppy movement - a slow motion you weren’t even aware you’d done - hips pushing forward ever so slightly at the blossoming touch - which you weren’t sure was offering salvation, or damnation.
Poised to either bless or desecrate; you couldn’t tell yet, he moved with intent, with calculation - like he’d mapped out how he’d wanted to handle you the second you’d been shoved before him; a deer in headlights.
His lips followed, a rosary of kisses beading across the exposed flesh of your upper thighs now; each a prayer upon an altar of desire.
He moved himself with the languid grace of a deity - in controlled fever, to the point where his greed he felt in the moment; the unbridled lust had him testing his faith.
He relished in the art that was your temptation, your pleasure - accelerated and intensified by the alcohol and weed - was both the offering and his own damnation.
Now utterly consumed by a selfish hunger, you tugged gently on one of his plaits - voice trapped in the cage of your own pride.
Begging, especially to a man of his suspected nature; was beneath you. But beckoning him with your hands was not, apparently - silently imploring him to adhere to the intensity of your need.
His contented sigh at your motion was followed by a smile against your skin - a potent display that he had already successfully dismantled your mocking words, proving your own ‘frigid church-boy’ assumptions wrong, demolishing your own carefully curated image also.
“ ‘So vicious earlier..” He tutted, moth-winged kisses, brushes of his tongue against your inner thigh like they were soft punctuations to his words, “Not got much to say now, d’we pretty?”
Your hand falls from his hair, dragging down the side of his face - settling on the side of his jaw.
You lift his face to meet yours.
“Since you wanna act smart,” You rasp, “M’gonna make sure you see my face every time you close your eyes in prayer.”
His expression doesn’t shift, but his lips part in stunned reverence, blinking up at you, dark lashes heavy - a flicker of sacrilege in his eyes now, as if he’d looked the lust in the face and considered fully enveloping in its embrace.
“Don’t look at me like that.” You snort, fingers curling beneath his chin, motioning him upwards to stand.
And he did, towering over you once before - minimal space between you.
You lean in first, tongue sweeping across his bottom lip, noses almost-bumping, lashes brushing against his pale skin, shimmering like opaline in the sterile bathroom light.
At first, you didn’t think he’d reciprocate. You weren’t sure why, but his lack of reaction left room for intense anticipation.
Eager, you dismissed his lack of reaction - now craning your head downwards and pawing at his belt, metal buckle clinking against your faux nails.
It was only when you took your eyes - diverted your attention away from his face, and towards his body - that he’d acted - craning his own head downwards also, leaning into yours.
You were mid-removing his belt when he encapsulated your lips with his own, your mouth stuttering against his as you were processing what was happening.
It was slow. Agonisingly slow - as if he were attempting to scoop out your soul from your body entirely with a kiss - canines snagging at your bottom lip, tongue pressing there after.
You felt his hand move from the sink edge behind you, now to your underwear - hooking a finger beneath the waistband.
You raise your hips again, hoping he’d take this as a sign from you of encouragement to remove them - except he didn’t - only continuing to deepen the kiss like a man starved; each small sound from you against his mouth drawing him further into a blissful stupor.
He knew exactly what you wanted from him; how unfair it was - what you thought gave you the right after how you’d treated him, blatantly disrespecting his faith, now all pathetic ‘n needy before him like you didn’t put yourself on a pedestal above him moments before.
But also, who was he to deny you anything?
But since you’d wanted to play games from the get-go, he thought he’d indulge in your original motive further.
Breaking the kiss, his thumb raising to brush away the faint string of saliva that had left you connected, practically placing it back inside your mouth - the tip of his thumb brushing your lower gums, nail against teeth.
You were confused, eyes slowly flitting open, narrowing at him - he was slightly doubled in your drunken vision, features mildly blurred, but still pretty before you nonetheless.
He looked down at himself now, at the mess you’d made of his belt - half-undone, loose but not open entirely - and buckled himself back up, intricately working his fingers against the buckle like he was getting dressed in the morning.
You were even more confused now.
Did he even want this? Shit, maybe celibacy was part of his religion.
“I am worthy,” He slowly pronounces, like he were teaching someone illiterate - voice guiding.
At the same time, dragging two fingers from between your breasts, down your sternum, stomach, and abdomen - resting them over your heat.
“What-, what the fuck?” You stifle out, a stunned laugh came strangled, “What are you-,”
“Mm-mm.” He shook his head at your incorrect answer, fingers seizing in their teasing position, over where you’d wanted them this entire time, “ ‘Not what i said.”
You huff, half in defeat, half in utter astonishment. You weren’t sure whether you wanted laugh, or to slap the shit out of him.
“I am worthy.” You reluctantly repeat, bottom lip slightly curled, eyes glimmering with simmering pettiness; what was he playing at? How could you one-up him, when he had you like this?
He placed a rewarding kiss to the corner of your mouth, kitten-licking there afterwards.
“Good.” He praised, low mewl against the skin of your cheek as he lowered his fingers further, firm, cool from the bathroom air, barricaded from your heat by the lace of your underwear.
“I am chosen.” He continues with this twisted affirmation that you’d yet to figure out; he could have you spewing the most stupid shit, a blatant humiliation ritual - and you’d yet to catch on.
You hesitate, throat constricting with the urge to disobey, to tell him to fuck off.
Your pause is enough for him to stop once more - fingers hovering over your entrance, other hand already beginning to pull back down your bundled denim mini skirt over your thighs.
He was fully intent on abruptly ending this entire interaction if you refused to cooperate. You hated how much it turned you on further.
“Fuck.” You gasp out, eager for him to reinstate his touch against you, even if it meant reciting utter bullshit back to him, “I am chosen.”
“Perfect.” He nodded, another appreciative kiss to your jawline now, “Almost there.”
He continued once more, ‘n hell, you even tried angling your hips again in an angle where his fingers would slip right inside you perfectly - but of course, it’d never be that easy.
Watching you do this, he pulled back slightly.
“No.” He softly denied, an open-mouthed, wet kiss against your lips, a satisfied hum from him after, “M’not fuckin’ you w’my fingers - that’s second date stuff f’a church boy like me.”
Still, this fucker found the room to keep dropping jokes and jests like his fingers weren’t millimetres away from being inside of you.
“Easy,” He cooed, eyes half-lidded with lust, upper cheeks a dusted pink now, a rosy blush gracing his milky skin as if he’d been kissed by the seraphim themselves, “Jus’ ride em, like this.”
He placed a hand steady on your hip, disappearing beneath the fabric of your ridden-up skirt, your heat still clothed by your lacklustre thong that you wished you weren’t confined in.
He lined up his fingers perfectly with you, gently pressing, but not too invasive - yet solid and substantial in their stance enough for you to be able to grind against them.
He squeezed the flesh of your hip, motioning for you to lower yourself downwards further on his fingers.
Moving the hand from your hip and onto your lower back, he ushered your hips forwards, and then backwards, ‘n then forwards - establishing a slow rhythm for you to acclimatise to, without overstimulating yourself straight away.
“That’s it, honey.” He accolades, watching you slowly rut against his fingers, dark lashes almost brushing against his cheeks as he looked downwards, utterly enthralled by you.
You become more confident with each motion of your hips, tension already winding inside your lower abdomen like an elastic band being pulled tighter and tighter.
“Shit,” He whispered, already feeling your seeping dampness gathering upon his fingers, fingers brushing between clothed folds, “Say it, baby..”
You place a stabilising hand over his abdomen, nails raking over his clothed chest as you rode against his stationery fingers like your fucking life depended on it.
“Say-, say what?” You whimpered, head lulling to the side as he nudged at you with his nose, exposing the side of your neck to him - throat alight with soft moans of unsolicited pleasure.
“I am blessed.” Back to repeating the affirmations, he mumbled against your neck now, nipping at your neck, lips pressed against your jugular.
Dumbed out ‘n drowning in a sea of your own intoxicated ecstasy - the nectar of your own pleasure mixed with his relentless praise, you moved your hand lower, from his abdomen to-
Still adoring the curve of your neck - lapping at the flesh there, leaving shy bruises in his wake - he gently swatted your hand away.
Instead, he placed it back on the edge of the sink behind you to help stabilise you - layering his own hand over yours - strangely intimate, spurring you on as you rode the other.
“I am- I’m blessed.” You whine out now, spine craning into a slight arch - Hollis peering over your shoulder, lips still working the skin of your neck, into the mirror.
Not only had your skirt ridden up, but so had your shirt - your provocative positioning as you arched beneath his fingers accentuating your back dimples further, small dips in your skin, adorned by two diamanté dermal piercings.
He had yet to notice those, until now - the realisation as he surveyed your reflection eliciting a muffled groan out of himself, before dipping his head back into your neck again, tearing his gaze away from the mirror.
“Damn fuckin’ right you are, angel.” He fawned, moving lower now - tongue teasingly sampling the supple skin above your breasts, littering barely-there kisses.
It didn’t matter to you what you were reciting at this point, your own building pleasure a veil separating you and rationality as you ground yourself over his fingers at a quickening pace now.
Feeling your impending climax, he curled his fingers slightly, a gentle hook motion that wasn’t too invasive, but was sure to attribute further friction and pleasure.
A small reward for being so shockingly cooperative, given how you’ve been the entire night.
Yet you were still attempting to counter him, even if it wasn’t through words - ripping your hand from beneath his on the edge of the sink, fingers curling around his wrist, urging his fingers closer to you.
Still, he remained firm - your attempted force barely moving his stature, practically clawing at the flesh of his wrist as he remained, unwavering.
You let out an airy whine of frustration - why couldn’t he just fucking give in? Is this what he wanted? To see you wrecked, begging beneath him?
He mumbled, neglecting your breasts after inflicting a string of faint, blooming, velvety magenta ‘n purple bruises across them - hooking his fingers gingerly beneath the top hem of your shirt, readjusting it gently, pulling it up slightly to cover you better once he’d finished - the material pinging softly against your brandished skin.
“So close.” He muttered, removing his hand from the sink, capturing your cheeks between his pointer and thumb, lazily catching you in a kiss, “Jus’ gonna say this last part t’me.”
“Holli-, Hollis,” You pant out, starry-eyed, irises glaciated with drunken, white-hot pleasure, waterlines threaded with threatening tears. “I’m so cl-,”
Your pace had began to stutter, each stroke of your hips against his fingers more thorough and desperate, but the pace broken with splintering, searing pleasure the closer you reached your climax.
The hand that had tried to touch him before had, instead, after rejection, braced itself on his shoulder, nails piercing skin through his t-shirt.
Your hand deviated from his shoulder to the side of his neck, unintentionally hooking beneath one of his silver necklaces - which happened to be adorned with a silver crucifix pendant - a little metallic Jesus upon it, shiny and glinting back at you.
You narrow your eyes at it, as if you and this little figure bore upon the pendant were in a silent competition over who pulled Hollis’ strings in this moment - his faith, or his swallowing desire for the stranger rutting ruthlessly against his fingers?
“Last bit, baby..” He whispered, “You’ve done so well f’me - forgive you f’all that shit you said.”
He wanted to quip that God most likely did also, but the way you were acting before him, he’d pocket that for after you’d hit your orgasm head-on - given the way his fingers were now completely slicked with you, you weren’t going to hold out much longer.
“Okay-, okay-, what is it?” You muster out somehow, eyes squinted shut as you swallow down yet another moan, suppressing the urge to recite his name over ‘n over like a forbidden verse.
Hand still clutching your cheeks, he moved your face aside slightly, lips brushing against the lobe of your ear - and you swore, with this lack of proximity, you head him whimper lowly as he ever so slightly pressed his fingers into you.
“I am to serve the greater purpose of the community.” A smirk now across his lips, a man who’d successfully baited you at your bodies own dispense into blindly saying something you wouldn’t repeat over your own dead body.
“I am to-, fuck!” You gasp, preparing pre-glimpses of pleasure - an interlude before your orgasm, tore straight through your like your soul was made of paper, “- to serve the greater purpose of the community!”
Comedically, and possibly the most well-timed coincidence ever, you came, finally - uncontrollable, incandescent ruts against his soaked fingers, now curled into you finally as a last reward for being so good for him.
As you rode your orgasm, your hand instinctively reached for the silver crucifix pendant, grasping onto it roughly - eyes sewn shut, yanking both the pendant and Hollis forward, lips blindly capturing him into a ludicrous, frenzied kiss.
He groaned into you, gravelly and amused - a smile soft across his features, removing his fingers and trailing them up the inside of your bare, now-trembling thighs - leaving a trail of your own pleasure slick against your skin.
He broke off the kiss, sealing it with a final, swift swipe of his tongue over your swollen bottom lip - wiping both his own and yours finally with his thumb, so you could both faintly taste yourself.
You dropped the pendant, crucifix thudding softly against his chest, letting your forehead plummet into his chest - breath heaving like you’d completed a gruelling marathon.
“Told you I’d convince you to join.” He grinned boyishly, tooth-gemmed crucifix on full-display now - one you’d now traced your tongue across too many times to count.
“You jus’ recited the initiation speech, pretty.”
Hell - and you hadn’t even made it to the first bar. Let alone out the goddamn door.
ALWAYS ON MY OWN, LIKE FALLING
WOW. hello. first ever kinda-smutty thing ive ever written in six years of fanfic writing lol. pls lmk how i did. im taking baby steps guys bear with me.
THIS IS CURRENTLY NOT SPELL-CHECKED. any grammar/spelling typos ignore. I’ll fix them later.
anyway this took me so. fucking. long. to write. and im lowkey proud of this, which is rare.
really hope u enjoy reading this as much as i did writing it for u guys. thank u for sticking w me even when I disappear for a few days for no reason lol.
jacobvanloon
kianamaiart
kaledo-art
snowghoul
baratheonpilled
titsay
