ＪＥＡＬＯＵＳＹ， ＪＥＡＬＯＵＳＹ—２ＨＯＬＬＩＳ
pairing: cheater!2hollis x fem!reader
synopsis: your complex insecurities don't stand a chance against a best friend who effortlessly masters the art of outshining you—both accidentally and on purpose. luckily, you have a dangerous little secret to keep you warm: hollis, the man who actually sees you, loves you, and also, happens to belong to her.
content included: cheating, angst (reader is hella insecure, your bsf is your girl so confusing), drug use (unspecified substances), smut, car sex, self-play (f&m) makeout, groping (breasts and ass), oral (f&m rec), unprotected p-in-v, creampie, impact play, voyeurism, fingering,
Not this time. Not again, you swore last time.
You need to get over all of this; you need to get over yourself.
Hollis smokes a cigarette, using the haze as a veil for his eyes as he watches you from across the table. All night, he's been doing this sort of blatant shit like this, a lingering touch, a loaded smile, and stealing glances at you any chance he could, just like a predator waiting for its chance to strike. Avoiding him all night was going to be difficult; he simply had a way of pulling you into his orbit, and you'd never really realized that he'd been drawing you in until he already had you.
Tonight, he's really pushing the limits, upset because you've been ghosting him lately, as you're trying to be a self-respecting person once again, like you'd managed for that two-month period before his tour. It was hard, and you remember it all too well, the pain of comforting your best friend about not being able to join him due to her prior work commitments, whilst also having to silently be miserable that he was leaving for an extended period of time, especially while on bad terms with each-other.
You were gonna miss him, but you knew things were getting dangerously close to becoming something neither of you had ever intended. He wore his heart on his sleeve, and you didn't want to be the reason his focus slipped right before the biggest stretch of his career.
Fast-forward to now, about a year later, and the parameters of your relationship with Hollis are earth-shatteringly different. If you had told yourself back then that the two of you would end up this far gone, this tangled up in each other, you would've never believed you could be that stupid. The whole point of pulling away had been to regain control before things got out of hand. Instead, somewhere along the way, the brakes failed entirely, and now, he was sending you unmistakable fuck-me eyes while seated beside your best friend at a table full of witnesses.
One of the many nights she'd dragged you along to hang out with her boyfriend, Hollis, and his crew of goons, the likes of which included the rowdy Roman, the loudmouthed instigator Nate, and the quietly observant Finn. In their world, showing up in pairs was practically a requirement. Every girlfriend brought a friend. Every friend became an accessory to the social ecosystem. A modern-day lady-in-waiting, a designated plus-one, someone to round out the numbers and make the optics look right.
It was a role you'd fallen into with alarming ease.
Maybe that was why being here felt so horrible.
Because despite everything that had happened, despite the lingering looks and the inside jokes and the impossible tension stretching between you and Hollis, a part of you still felt like exactly what you'd always been: the friend. The extra. The girl nobody was actually looking at.
Your insecurity had always been your most faithful companion. It whispered that none of Hollis's friends would ever dream of crossing that line with their girlfriends' best friends. That girls like you existed in a separate category entirely, useful for filling out a booth, laughing at the right jokes, and making everyone else's lives look fuller.
Yet somehow, every time you looked up, Hollis was already looking at you. He's always wanted you, always made that abundantly clear; he makes you feel like the most important girl in the world, not some interchangeable extension of one of these girlfriends.
And specifically his, who always had a way of drowning you out, subduing you, and making your shine dim in comparison.
"Y/N?" asks your best friend, waving a hand in front of your face to get your attention. "Why'd you just go ghost mode? Hellooooooo, I wanna know what drink you're getting." She looks down at the fancy black menu, the kind with embossed lettering and ridiculous calligraphy that probably costs more than it should, flipping through it like she's offended by the lack of options before jabbing a finger at one of the names. "This one. You're getting this one."
You rub your temples, the pulsing bass from the speakers hammering against your skull. You can't do this sober anymore, but the liquor at the table isn't cutting it, and you don't like what drink she picked for you — it's too sweet and cloying for the bitter mood you're in right now.
"Actually," you say, leaning in close so she can hear you over the music, "I forgot I left the rest of my bag back at my apartment. I'm running completely on empty right now."
The plan is simple. Uber back, grab your stuff, come back through the entrance. Being attached to Hollis's name came with its own set of privileges; they'll recognize you, wave you through, and you'll be back before anyone even notices you left.
Before your friend can even process the complaint, Hollis leans across the leather booth, his familiar, long-practiced gaze still locked firm right onto yours. The whole table quiets slightly when he speaks, everyone stilling for their own reasons, which has always been a truth about Hollis—he is the winner who takes it all, the revolution and rotation cycle occurring at his whims, and the center star of his own universe. Everyone else just adjusts their orbit accordingly.
"Oh, shit, I actually gotta grab some more stuff from my place anyway," he cuts in with an easy shrug like the thought's only just occurred to him. He shoots his girlfriend a quick look before turning back to you. "I'll just drive her back to her place to grab it, then we can swing by mine for the rest of the supplies. We'll be fast, like twenty minutes tops."
There's no question about why he's volunteering, so eager and willing. The way he immediately takes the opening, despite supposedly dealing with your constant indifference, makes his eagerness to get you alone a little too obvious, and you hate that you notice it, casting an automatic fear that others will too.
But again, what boyfriend would ever stoop that low? Nobody here would ever think that of anyone, least of all the top dog himself, is sneaking around with his girlfriend’s nobody sidekick. They probably see him as some kind of saint for even offering you a ride, like it’s charity or something.
Your best friend smiles, completely oblivious, entirely trusting both the boyfriend she loves and the friend who is very obviously not a fan of him, presumably you’re stuck in what feels like a nightmare, having to spend even a second longer around him than you’d ever willingly choose.
"Ugh, you're a lifesaver, babe," she beams, leaning up to kiss his cheek. "Go quick, please. The vibe is finally getting good."
You know you can't suddenly back out now without looking incredibly suspicious, so you just swallow the lump in your throat, nod, and mutter, "Oh, okay. Cool. We'll be fast."
You stand up slowly, shifting your purse higher onto your shoulder and trying not to look like you're actively reconsidering every decision that led you here.
Immediately, she turns toward you, completely unfazed. "Also, Y/N, grab my kitten flats from the back of the closet, the black pair. These Louboutins are fucking killing my arches." she instructs you, a demand that she adds about like a little note.
By this point, you're practically her unpaid assistant, having made mental notes on where all of her random designer shit is located. Her shoes, her bags, her makeup, the emergency outfit changes she keeps stashed everywhere. You have no idea when that happened, and you also have no idea in hell where those Louboutins are.
"I don't really know where that specific pair is," you admit, a sudden spike of anxiety creeping up your spine. "Are you sure it's, like, in the back of your closet or…?" She's got numerous compartments around the sprawling penthouse where she keeps her stuff, that is a considerably growing soon to be overflow.
"For the amount of stuff you borrow, you'd think maybe a PhD in keeping track of my wardrobe would’ve come with it. Guess I shouldn't expect that much, though, right?"
The casual dig stings, a blaring reminder of the old dynamic where you were just the charity-case best friend riding her coattails. She's not as bad as she used to be when you guys were up-and-coming; that was on a whole different level, but she's certainly not completely changed, and her lack of a filter when she's been drinking shows it.
There's a brief, uncomfortable pause around the table, and you wanna melt into your own skin.
Not enough for anyone to call it out, not enough for the night to stop, but enough that you feel everyone register it. Roman's grin fades slightly as he looks down at his drink. Nate glances between the two of you, clearly debating whether to say something to lighten the mood her comment leaves, then decides against it. Finn just watches quietly, because of course he does, like he's filing the whole thing away.
All the other girls are looking down at you, watching you get put back in your place. Some of the crew buffers, some friends, some random faces you’ve never even met, all end up witnessing the same thing. For some of them, it’s their introduction to you. For others, it’s a repeat offense, another reminder that they’ve already seen you get bitched around by her once before.
Your best friend doesn't even seem to realize how it landed.
Or maybe she does and just doesn't think it's a big deal.
Either way, your face burns. The embarrassment hits before the anger even has time to form, and you just nod because what else are you supposed to do?
"Yeah. Okay, I'll have a good look."
You don't wait for anyone to respond, don't give yourself enough time to overthink it. You just turn and walk away.
In the crowd of people still partying hard around the club floors and spilling out toward the entrance, you make your way ahead of him, riding the momentum of the first few steps you took when you left before him, trying to navigate through the bodies and flashing lights.
Hollis trails a few steps behind at first, letting you move freely, until the second the crowd starts getting tighter. Then, almost without thinking, he shifts forward to shield your body. Suddenly he’s the one cutting through the crowd, his height and buffness naturally creating space as he leads the way out. It's silent chivalry for his girl, subtle and in between the lines like it has to be if you both wanna keep your cover.
You stay close behind him, tucked commensurately into the space his tall, sleeper-build frame creates, following the steady pace of his steps. He glances back at you, his long platinum-blond hair falling forward with the movement, those messy, textured strands hanging over his face as he turns just enough to make sure you’re still there. Just enough to check that you’re okay.
He’d grab your hand if he could, you know that. You know he would. But with the setting, crowd and the way he’s moving, leading the way is the best he can do for now. Once you reach the valet, he waits as they bring his car around. And, to no surprise, the second you both pull away from the chaos of the entrance, he only drives a short distance down the street before pulling over.
Instead, Hollis turns his entire body toward you, leaning his elbow against the steering wheel as his attention settles onto your face. "What are you so pent-up for?" he asks, his voice dropping into that quiet, gravelly register he only uses when it’s just the two of you.
"I'm not," you lie instantly, staring straight ahead at the windshield, desperately trying to keep your guard up. "I told you, I'm just not sober enough for the table right now."
"Be forreal, what's going on?" he presses, cutting right through the bullshit with that annoying knack he perpetually displays of hyper-attentive focus. "It’s not because you’re not sober. You’ve been wearing that face all night."
He reaches out across the center console, his large, warm hand covering yours and gently squeezing. When you meet him with a heavy, stubborn silence, he shifts his weight, trying to read your downturned face.
It's a complete shot in the dark, but he hazards a guess anyway, guessing softly, "Is it because of what she just said to you at the table?"
You feel a sudden catch in your throat, completely dumbfounded at how with just one perceptive guess, he’s breaking your resolve. Because lowkey, yeah, it is about the table, but it's also so much more than that.
The weight of the secret, the exhausting performance in front of your best friend, and the sheer proximity of him finally cracks something open in you. You let out a shaky breath, looking down at your hands.
"I just… I feel weird, Hollis. I feel like an absolute piece of shit every time I look at her. She’s completely changed, she’s being so good to me, and I’m just sitting there pretending I hate you while counting down the seconds until we can be alone. It’s disgusting. I swore last time was the last time."
Hollis watches you, the usual hardness in his face softening into something entirely tender. He doesn't judge you, and he doesn't pull away. Instead, he shifts closer, his large, warm hand reaching out. He gently tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers resting against your cheekbone for a moment longer than they need to, quietly reeling you back to surface.
"Hey," he coaxes softly, his thumb brushing over your skin as he starts moving in closer, his eyes dropping to your lips. "Stop doing that to yourself."
He leans in just a fraction more, the scent of his cologne surrounding you. "Why didn't you come over two nights ago? I was waiting for you." There’s a desperate, almost fragile intensity in the way he holds your face in his sight, like he’s drinking you in to bridge the gap of those empty nights. His eyes sparkle with a easy warmth, unspooling a careful, smoldering longing that dwindles your resolve defenselessly.
"Because I'm trying to stop," you whisper, though your breath catches as his lips brush against your jawline.
“Stop?” he repeats softly, like he’s trying the word out for himself. A small, disbelieving breath slips from him, and when he speaks again, the teasing edge to his voice is still there—but so is something quieter underneath it, something almost vulnerable and needy.
“Don’t you always have fun with me, though?”
There’s a faint smile in his voice, like he already knows the answer, but his eyes give him away. He’s teasing, sure, but he’s also looking for reassurance he doesn’t quite know how to ask for directly.
And since his words don’t work, his mouth does.
It starts with a slow press of his lips against your skin, not rushed, just there. His hand comes to your waist at the same time, firm, fingers spreading wide like he needs the hold. For a second it’s tight, then it shifts, not letting go. Just easing. His thumb starts moving without thinking about it, slow, dragging back and forth like he’s smoothing something out.
His mouth moves to just under your ear and hovers, close enough that you can feel his breath before the next touch. Then he starts down your neck. Not fast. Not hesitating either. Just steady. One kiss, then another, each one a little lower, his lips barely lifting before the next.
"Missed you," he breathes against the frantic pulse at the base of your throat, his voice muffled by your skin and thick with that quiet, desperate reverence. "I got so much stuff waiting at my place for you. Everything you like. The drinks, the vinyls... even the drugs. I literally bought it all just for you. I was fucked up when you didn't show."
You try to find the strength to push his chest, your heart hammering against your skull and your stomach turning. "Hollis, stop. I told you to stop preparing all that shit for when I come through. Stop treating me like… like you're catering an entire experience for me."
"I just think you should get the best," he whispers devoutly, his mouth hovering barely an inch from yours, entirely unfazed by your weak protest. He knows exactly how insecure you are, exactly how much you crave this intent attention, and he uses it like an absolute tether to pull you right back into his orbit. He doesn't give you room to breathe, let alone back away. His large hand slides from your cheek down to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your hair to tilt your head back just enough to lock you into place.
He kisses you the way some people have sex—passionate, overwhelming, and completely uninhibited. There's no hesitation; his mouth slides over yours with a deep, open hunger, his tongue immediately prodding past your lips, demanding entry and seeking out yours with a desperate, messy intensity. He’s sucking at your tongue like he’s absolutely starving for it, acting like a total slut for you in the quiet dark of the car.
When the heat gets to be too much, he pulls back just an inch, his lips slick and parted, his breath sharp and uneven—but he doesn’t stay there. He can’t. It’s barely a second before he’s right back on you, closing the space again like it physically bothered him to leave your mouth at all. His jaw shifts against yours, not gentle about it, opening deeper and working to suck at your tongue again, like he doesn’t know how to do this halfway. There’s nothing careful in it—just pressure and wet heat and that constant, heavy pull to get closer.
Your hand comes up without thinking, catching along the sharp line of his jaw, and you feel it—tense, moving, the skin hot beneath your fingers. He leans heavily into the touch instead of away from it, letting out a low, ragged noise into your mouth, like he literally wants to be held there while he keeps going.
His hand tightens at your waist again, fingers digging in for a second before sliding higher along your side. He drags his palm hungrily up the side of your ribs, his grip firm, almost restless, and he doesn’t know where to keep his hands because nowhere feels like enough. He finally slides it up to cup your breast, squeezing firmly through your clothes as if he needs to possess every single part of you right now. Everything about him feels completely keyed up, a little out of control, like he’s not trying to hide how much he wants it anymore, just letting it show in the filthy, desperate way he moves against you.
The sickening twist of guilt in your stomach doesn't vanish, but it gets buried, heavy and suffocating, beneath the sudden rush of heat. He leaves you perfectly unstrung, breathless and aching in the quiet of the car, when he pulls back and gives you one last devastating look before muttering, "Come on."
The engine roars to life, its low, expensive rumble vibrating through the floorboards and breaking the spell. "Let's go grab her heels first. We need to be fast."
He left you entirely too wanting, so you reason you're just getting him back.
He's trying to drive, but he isn't driving straight at all—veering slightly over the line and gripping the steering wheel like his life depends on it. It’s almost a joke how badly he’s failing to keep his eyes on the road, entirely enamored and wrecked by the way you suck him dutifully. You run your tongue along his fat, swollen tip, tracing the ridges of his thick, sensitive shaft, the wet gulk sound of your throat sliding down him a filthy, unmistakable distraction that makes him let out a low, ragged groan.
He reaches down, his large, warm hand tangling in your hair to push the messy strands completely out of your face, his fingers anchoring at the back of your head just so he can look down and watch you. Under the dim, passing glow of the streetlights, his gaze is heavy, dilated, and completely fixated on the way your mouth works over him.
"So pretty," he pants in a rough, breathless growl. "Fuck, you're so pretty like this."
Hollis is a sexy moaner—not loud, but incredibly deep and guttural, the vibration of his throat practically humming through the air of the cab. He guides you with the hand still resting on your head, his thumb gently pressing near your temple, silently urging you deeper. "Use your hand," he rasps, voice cracking slightly with the strain. "Wrap your fingers around the rest of it, baby. Yeah, just like that."
You open up, taking him deep, completely fucking your throat on his length. Hollis completely loses it. His head flies back against the headrest, a filthy, breathless string of praise and desperation ripping from his throat. "Fuck, look at you," he chokes out, his hand tightening in your hair, his grip borderline feral as he presses you down, completely overwhelmed by how good it feels. "You’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect for me. I can’t breathe when you do that, baby... fuck, keep going."
The sheer size of him makes your throat ache, the thick, heavy drag of him pushing you to your limit. When you finally have to pull off to catch your breath, a slick string of saliva stretching between you, Hollis immediately leans down. He grabs your jaw and pulls you up into a messy, desperate kiss, tasting himself on your lips as he completely blows right past a red light, the tires squealing slightly as the car swerves. He doesn't even care. His entire world is shrunk down to the space between your head and his lap.
You slide right back down. You spit directly onto your palm, letting the wetness coat your hand as you wrap your fingers back around his thick shaft, jerking him with a slow, deliberate squeeze while your tongue goes right back to swirling over his wet, swollen tip.
Hollis is incredibly sexy when he feels pleasure. His brows furrow in a deep, tortured line, and he bites down hard on his bottom lip, trying to hold back the sounds escaping him as his head rolls back against the headrest. The muscles in his neck are completely corded, his chest heaving under his shirt.
As his moans grow more frequent, louder, and entirely unchecked, you feel his hips start to twitch, his pace involuntarily trying to match your hands. You know exactly what you're doing. You keep going, picking up the speed just enough to make his breath hitch, driving him absolutely crazy until you can feel him right on the cusp—his body stiffening, his voice keening up in a high, fractured whine of pure pleasure.
And right when he's at the perfect, agonizing place, you pull your hands away and stop altogether.
It's the exact way you planned things—a methodical punishment as much as it hurt to not have him cum in your mouth, an indulgence you've missed terribly, you knew it would pay off soon.
The instant you guys break through the penthouse doors and get to the bedroom, clothes are discarded in a frenzy, and he rips your bra down your body, shifting you on your stomach to smack your ass. It's their bedroom. Their sheets. Her space. And you let him hike up your hips and push your panties to the side, inserting a thick, slicked finger inside you from behind, stretching you open so fast it makes you cry out against the mattress.
He holds you still, his broad hand anchoring you by your hip bone, and then he slides down, burying his face between your thighs to eat you out from behind. The contrast is immediate and striking as the agonizingly soft texture of his hair brushes against the back of your legs, close to where he'd smacked you moments ago, while his tongue works relentlessly against your cunt, laving through your slit to nestle against your clit snugly, curling his long tongue against your most sensitive spot, flicking there in a way that has your head spinning.
"Come on," he mutters against your pussy, a low, half-amused growl vibrating right where you feel it most. "Shake that ass in my face."
"Yeah?" you breathe, looking back over your shoulder at him. "Want me to be your little slut? Put it in your face?"
He smirks against your skin, an unsaid yes, and simply allows his actions to speak for him, his grip shifting as the hand on your hip slides down to cup your ass, giving it a hard, possessive squeeze while his other hand idly rubs at the hard ridge of his print through his jeans. Encouraged by the raw sight of him, so down bad he's practically beating off to you in your face, treating you like his own personal pornstar, you roll your hips back, grinding directly into his mouth and fucking his tongue as your ass claps right in his face.
A wave of crazy, dark pride rushes through you at the feel of his tongue slapping wet against your clit while he lets out a muffled, strong groan beneath you, his eyes remaining transfixed. It’s an intoxicating thought—that this exact mouth, currently drowned in you, kissed your best friend earlier today and will probably do it again later tonight. Knowing you're the one ruining him, taking what belongs to her right in her own bed feeds your ego in the dirtiest way possible.
It’s crazy to you how effortlessly he handles the weight of you, the challenge it must be to have a face full of pussy and ass, taking the full force of your hips while his face stays buried between your thighs.
You guys have a good fight—your body moves in furious, desperate jerks as you try to escape the intensity, but he's reeling you down, asking for more, taking every last bit of fight out of you until you can't do anything but give in, and then completely collapse against the mattress, ass still arched due to his grip.
It is absolute torture. Because he has so much control this way, your body is entirely at his mercy; you can't back away, and you can't escape the overbearing, wet heat of his mouth. He moves you over his tongue easily, using his grip on your hips to pull you harder against his face whenever you try to twitch away, guiding your movements to match his own relentless rhythm. Every lazy, deep stroke of his tongue feels incredibly deliberate, driving you crazy as he uses his size and leverage to keep you perfectly pinned, taking exactly what he wants while you melt into their sheets.
As he eats you out, his massive palm comes down hard against your ass, the heavy, stinging slacks marking the rhythm of his tongue. He's a big guy, completely dwarfing you, and every single time a fractured moan slips past your lips, he lets out a deep, gravelly groan right against your cunt, like the sound of your pleasure is making him physically sick with need.
Then, out of nowhere, he hooks his hands under your thighs and rolls you over onto your back. Before you can even catch your breath, he’s hovering over you, his eyes dark and completely blown out. You know he's about to fuck all the doubt out of your head, you've riled him up enough, and it's exactly what you wanted. He brings his hand down, his fingers slick as he rubs them firmly through your soaked folds, spreading the wetness and sending a jolt straight to your core. Your clit is still buzzing and overly sensitive from how rigorously he just ate you, every nerve ending on absolute fire.
He doesn’t make you wait. With one heavy, desperate push, he full sends it, driving his thick length all the way inside you. A breathless, high-pitched cry rips from your throat as your hips slam back into the mattress, your body instantly stretching around him while he buries his face in your neck and loses his mind.
He drives into you with a heavy, unhurried rhythm that feels entirely too deep, a bully of his cock into your slick, giving walls, stretching you completely empty before bottoming out.
His eyes shut in pure, tortured bliss, his messy platinum-blond hair hovering just over your face, a few strands brushing against your cheeks. The heavy silver chain around his neck swings with every thick thrust, clinking softly in the quiet room, while the smudged eyeliner ringing his lids makes him look completely wrecked and dazed as he darkens the space above you.
In the heat of it, the old, familiar weight in your chest flares up, and you find yourself insecurity farming, desperate for the validation you only ever get when he’s this undone. You hook your legs higher around his waist, pulling his head up by his hair so you can look into his blown-out eyes.
"Tell me I'm better," you whimper, your voice breaking as he pumps away inside you, vigorous and undone. "Tell me I'm the only one you want like this. Tell me I'm yours."
Hollis lets out a thick, frayed groan, his head rolling into your palm as he shoves his hips forward again. He’s completely pussy drunk, his expression totally vacant and dazed, his usual sharp composure completely wrecked. "You are, baby," he slurs, his speech heavy and thick against your lips as he kisses you, tasting himself and you all at once. "Mm... you know you are. F-fuck, it’s only you. You know what you do to me."
He can barely keep his eyes open, his movements becoming heavier, sloppier, and entirely desperate as he locks his fingers with yours, pinning your hands to the mattress and losing himself completely in the rhythm.
"Did you think about me? All of your tour?"
He nods—he's too far gone to lie, and through the haze of his dazed expression, you see the absolute, naked truth. "Broke my heart, honey," he groans against your skin, his chest heaving as he keeps driving into you, the friction slick and loud between your thighs
Hearing that, you intentionally clench around him, your slick walls gripping his thick length in a tight, merciless squeeze. Hollis completely loses it. His eyes snap wide, a sharp, fractured gasp tearing from his throat as the sudden, intense friction threatens to pull him right over the edge. Because you're raw, every single movement is hyper-sensitive, skin-on-skin, a wet, scorching heat that feels entirely too good. His pace instantly breaks, his control evaporating into nothing as he speeds up, hammering into you with a frantic, unhinged desperation that leaves you both completely breathless.
He's so far gone, so completely unraveled by the feeling of you squeezing him, that he mutters something directly to himself—the kind of unfiltered, desperate thought usually locked deep in his own head, now slipping past his lips because he can't even think straight.
"Fuck, I’m going to ruin my whole life for you, girl. I want to." he breathes out, his voice a low, nonsensical rasp as his head rolls back, his teeth gritted in utter agony. He shifts his weight, pinning you down even harder as his mouth slides down to your chest. He buries his face against you, sucking hungrily at your breasts, his teeth grazing your nipples and his lips pulling so hard he’s leaving deep, dark hickeys all over your skin, marking you up greedily.
Even though he's fucking you quite selfishly now—completely consumed by his own desperate need to catch up on everything he missed—it still feels unbelievable. He isn't just giving you a flurry of meaningless jabs; every single stroke is intentional, giving you everything, the full weight of his size. He drives all the way in, bottoming out until you can feel the heavy thump of his pelvis against yours, stretching you so completely that a shaky sigh is forced from your lungs every time. He pauses for a fraction of a second at the deepest point of each thrust, letting you feel every bit of his thick, blistering length before drawing almost all the way out to do it again. It’s an ruinously perfect rhythm that hits exactly where you need it to, something that has your own hips rising off the mattress to meet him halfway, completely helpless under the sheer power of his weight, and you can't believe how you feel this good.
"Thought about you every night," he admits, his voice a slurred, filthy whisper between frantic, bruising strokes. "I was literally taking her from behind with my eyes shut tight, just fucking visualizing your face. I'd call her your name in my head just to be able to finish. It was so fucked up, baby... I was losing my mind out there without you."
The flood of wetness that emerges at just those words is embarrassing, and your pussy starts squelching violently, gawking open around the thick, persistent slide of his painstaking inches of length.
"Mmmh, fuck," he groans, his voice entirely fractured and breathless, "Gonna cum, baby, oh- fuck, you’re so tight."
He pushes himself up on his forearms, and gosh, he looks so incredibly sexy it hurts. His buff arms are completely tense, the veins bulging under his skin, muscles locked tight as he holds his massive frame above you. His platinum hair is a messy halo as he leans down, completely unhinged by the sight of you, and captures your lips in a bruising, deep make-out session, his tongue sliding against yours as he slams into you with an uncontrolled fury.
The overwhelming friction pushes you right to the brink. Unable to take it, you reach down between your bodies, your fingers trembling as you start touching your clit right where his pelvis hits you.
Hollis catches the movement and lets out a strangled sound. He literally can't even watch—it's so good, so entirely visual and filthy that his head snaps back, his lip between his teeth. "I'm gonna cum in you," he promises, his hips stuttering against yours, completely losing his reign on his pace. "I'm filling you up, baby, right now—"
"Yeah, do it," you whimper into his jaw, your voice desperate as your own orgasm builds. "I wanna make it up to you, Holl. Let me make it up to you..."
The mention of how you skipped out on him earlier that week completely breaks what little restraint he has left. He lets out a loud, raw keen, his body locking up as he hammers into you one last, deepest time. You both hit the peak at the exact same time, the same breathtaking moment. Your walls spasm around him in violent, milking waves as he cums, his hips pinning you flat to the mattress as he makes sure every single drop of his hot, thick release is buried deep inside you.
He stays heavy on top of you for a long moment, chest heaving, before he gently slides out. He kisses his way up your stomach, his lips warm and slick, trailing all the way up to suckle gently between your marked-up breasts.
Breathing heavily, he rolls completely off the bed after a quick kiss.
"That was fucking insane," he pants, running a hand through his messy platinum hair as he tries to catch his breath. He stands up on long, heavy legs, walks over to the closet, and grabs his stash from where he hid it, along with a brand-new pair of expensive flats. He tosses them onto the edge of the mattress with a dazed, post-nut grin. "I'll tell her I found them instead of you," he murmurs, his voice still rough and gravelly. "That way she won't be mad at you for taking so long."
As you both hurriedly get your clothes back on, checking the time, reality hits. There isn't enough time to stop at your house for the drugs without it looking incredibly suspicious because of the location. If anyone asks why you two spent so much time at the penthouse, you have the perfect excuse: you were frantically trying to find her shoes, couldn't find them, and finally Hollis had to just give you this alternative pair so you could leave. But if you spent all that time and then made a detour to your house when you theoretically already had what you needed, it would look weird.
You leave the penthouse behind. Back in the car, the high-intensity frenzy of the bedroom fades into a warm, grounded afterglow. On the drive back to the club, the vibe is surprisingly sweet and simple. The radio plays softly in the background, and the two of you fall into a nice, easy conversation about everything—specifically some new music he's been working on. You listen intently, his large hand resting over your knee, occasionally tracing circles on your skin as you talk about his tracks, with Hollis shuffling through each one for you from his steering wheel control.
You hesitate, searching for an answer from all the different beat patterns and drum machine loops he's shown you.
"You remember the difference, baby?" he murmurs, looking at you with that lazy, heavy-lidded heat, his hand sliding up to caress your cheek before cupping your jaw firmly in his palm.
You nod quietly, your heart skipping, "I think the four-on-the-floor hits harder."
He looks at you, pleased, moving in to kiss you. "I'll try it out. And maybe have you come through to give the mix a listen when I'm done."
Back at the club, the music is somehow even louder than before, the booth packed tighter with bodies and half-finished drinks than when you'd left. You and Hollis make your way back to the table together, doing your best to look normal.
It's almost unsettling how calm and collected you feel. Like you've taken something that sanded down every nervous edge in your brain.
"I found these as a good backup," you tell your best friend matter-of-factly, pressing yourself back into the booth across from her as Hollis drops into the seat beside her, looking entirely too relaxed for someone who'd just spent the last half hour fucking you out of your mind. "Hollis said we should bring them. We literally spent all that time looking for your shoes."
The rest of the group exchanges knowing glances, and the guys do their best to act clueless when they know the truth. She squints at the pair in your hands before turning her attention toward Hollis.
For a long moment, she just stares at him.
It's the kind of prolonged, unblinking scrutiny that only seems normal when someone is miles of drinks deep.
Hollis shifts under the attention, a laugh escaping him.
"What?" he asks. "You good?"
She keeps staring.
"Babe," he says, grinning now, shaking her by her shoulder a little to bring her back to life. "What's going on?"
Whatever answer she'd been trying to find in his face seems to evaporate entirely. She just lets out a hazy, breathless little giggle, her eyes dropping to his lips as she wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him straight down into a heavy, sloppy make-out session right there in the middle of the booth.
It’s a bizarre, jarring sight, especially because at that exact same moment, you shift a bit uncomfortably in your seat and feel a distinct, warm drop of him leak right down your inner thigh. You force your face to stay entirely blank, taking a slow sip of your drink as you watch your best friend work her mouth against his, the hot secret burning between you and Hollis while his own cum literally escapes you.
The night goes on, the music blurring into a loud, flashing haze. Some of the group gets into the drugs, her included, and within another hour, she is completely, utterly wasted. She’s such a sloppy mess that she finally has to be taken home and put straight to bed.
You opt to leave too, because honestly, you’re tired of having his cum leaking down your legs—it’s getting sticky, and you just want a shower. You end up piling into the first ride home together, with them. She takes the backseat to lie flat, and through the ride, you can't stop yourself from nervously looking back at her, especially because you know Hollis's drugs are pure, high-grade, hard-hitting stuff.
"Hollis, I'm worried about her," you fret, your chest tightening as you look at her limp form. "What if she's dead and we're just driving around?"
Hollis throws a small glance over his shoulder, totally unfazed by the panic in your voice. "Is she snoring?"
You unbuckle yourself and press up against the gap between the front seats, listening to her breathing. Hollis stares at the way your ass fills up his rearview mirror, your panties wet with a spot, and he's instantly turned on, uncaring about the appropriateness of the timing. He's entranced as you turn your head back toward him, your face pale with worry, and whisper, "I can barely hear her breathe. Like, what if we need to go to the hospital?"
Hollis pffts like that's unbelievable. "C'mon, baby, sit down. She's good."
The pet-name slipping out so casually sends you flying, but before you can even react to the slip of his tongue, you feel his large, heavy hand reach back and firmly cup the bare curve of your cheek, his fingers instantly finding the damp fabric of your underwear.
You completely freak, slapping his hand away as your heart leaps into your throat. You rush to clasp your hand over his mouth, your eyes wide with pure terror as you stare at him. It’s almost funny how fast you move. Even as you panic that your best friend is literally dead in the back seat, you still know your place in such an automatic, terrified way that it depresses you.
"Shh!" you hiss, your voice a frantic whisper as you glare at him, desperately checking to see if his touch and the ensuing calamity woke her up.
"What the fuck, Hollis?" you mouth, despite the fact she's resting still as a corpse. You sit back down, your heart hammering against your ribs. To think you were just sucking him off here not that long ago. It gives way to that humiliation, especially after what just happened, and you stare out the window, chewing on your thumbnail.
At the same red light he'd flown by earlier, he gets up to tap her, stretching his arm over the console to feel her pulse. He calls her name, shaking her, his tone shifting into something a little more serious. "Sweetheart?" he asks gently, to no avail. He settles back down, putting the car back in drive. "She's good," he tells you, "Just out fuckin' cold. I told her not to take that last one."
You sigh, swallowing guiltily. "I should've been watching her. Fuck."
"Hey, hey, hey," Hollis says, trying to quell your guilt and the swarm of anxious thoughts he can see surfacing. He reaches out, unthinkingly gripping your thigh: even if she's there, her being knocked out means enough privacy for him, and his thumb immediately starts to press into your skin.
"Stop, Hollis," you whisper, trying to shrink back into yourself, but he's persistent, coming up and massaging at the back of your neck with his other hand, your noted sweet-spot, his touch warm and heavy as he murmurs, "Relax, beautiful. Calm down, okay? She loves you, she knows you're a good friend. Stop stressin' that pretty head out."
To hear him flirt like this, right in front of her passed-out body, makes your stomach flip with a toxic mix of guilt and desire. It's the same unthinking attachment when you whisper, "I'm not, Holl," that familiar nickname slipping past your lips without permission, using it like she isn't right there.
He kisses you again, deeper this time, his tongue briefly catching yours. "Just needa calm you down, hm? Get you outta this head."
Before you can even protest, his hand slides right back up your skirt. His palm cups you through your underwear, and he starts rubbing against your clit over the fabric, and you like fucking melt like putty in his hands. All your anxiety about your best friend completely evaporates under the intoxicating weight of his attention.
Your hips buck and the eye contact you guys maintain is intense, a mutual pledge to your shared, dirty secret. When the light flashes green, he reaverts his attention on the road, but not without amping up the pace — he slips his hand under the lace, easing two fingers in and gliding in clean into the wet heat left behind by his earlier release, fucking inside you perfectly with his fingers in a hither motion, while his thumb locks onto your clit, rubbing wanton pleasure into it.
You try to keep silent, but the faster his fingers move, the harder it is, and small, isolated moans slide past your lips anyway, especially once you watch the way his fingers work, expertly curling inside you, determined and persistent to clear your mind. It is definitely working.
Leaning in close so his voice barely carries past the dashboard, Hollis starts murmuring some really dirty shit to you, his words low and filthy as he describes exactly what he’s doing to you while she’s asleep just inches away. It’s so bad, so completely reckless, that it sends a violent shiver right through your core. You start bucking your hips to meet his fingers, clenching hard around them, your own slickness spilling right down his wrist.
Right as you’re hovering on the absolute edge of a breaking point, your friend lets out a low, heavy groan in the backseat.
Panic spikes through you and you frantically look back over your shoulder, terrified she’s waking up—but the sheer, heart-stopping risk of the moment hits you like electricity. At that exact second, your body completely gives out, and you cum all over his fingers, your muscles squeezing him tight as the exhilarating danger of getting caught drives you over the cliff.
When Hollis takes his fingers out of you, he doesn't even spare a glance toward the backseat. He just drives, until you guys make it back. The walk into the foyer and vertigo of the elevator wakes her up, and when her eyes settle on you, she's almost mystified that you would've accompanied them. Then, her face melts into something endeared, as you stand equally as relieved to see she is alive enough to recognize faces and portray genuine expressions, and you're flooded with a wave of complicated emotion.
Inside their place, you sit at the kitchen stool as Hollis puts her into bed. You sip a glass of wine with a shaking hand, staring blankly at the marble counter, trying to drown out all the bad choices you've made, and you open your phone to book your Uber, absolutely not wanting Hollis to be around you for any longer. You opt to at-least greet her goodnight before you go, quietly making your way into their room with feelings of intense guilt and nausea twisting in your stomach. Hollis leaves right as you come in, brushing his shoulder against yours in the doorway with a subtly of dare. You sit at the edge of the bed, tapping her gently. You call out her name, your voice soft and cracked. It takes a couple of tries, but she comes to, her eyelids fluttering open heavily.
"Bug..." she calls you that affectionate nickname from your teen years, her voice thick and slurred as she reaches out a weak hand, "Yeah, bug, hey," you chuckle, rubbing at her ankle soothingly. "Listen, I'm gonna head back to my place but text me if you need anything, alright? Thanks for having me come out tonight. I... I love you."
"No... wait, you're leaving?" Her face completely falls, looking so genuinely heartbroken it makes your chest ache. "Please, please stay. Don't go yet. Just... sleep here, please."
"I should really get home, babe, you need to sleep—"
"No, hold on," she mutters, suddenly trying to fight through the heavy drug haze. She physically forces herself up, staggering out of the covers to stumble toward her closet. "I'm getting you PJs. You're staying."
"Oh, no, no, seriously, don't worry about it," you plead, trying to catch her arm, but you can't really fight her. You have always bent to her will, a habit too deeply ingrained to break tonight of all nights.
She shoves a pair of soft, oversized pajamas into your hands and collapses back onto the mattress, completely spent. Left with no choice, you step into the dark corner of the room and start getting changed. As you pull the shirt over your head, the tears finally spill over. You find yourself literally crying, aggressively wiping your eyes with the backs of your hands because the entire situation is just so deeply fucked up. You still smell like him. You're wearing her clothes. You fucked him on this bed. And now, you're gonna sleepover on the very place you cast your sin.
Swallowing down a sob, you slide into bed beside her, keeping your back to her and hoping for her to sleep before you can slip away to the couch or find a way out.
Then, all of a sudden, when you think she's finally knocked out, her quiet voice cuts through the dark.
"I'm sorry," she whispers into the space between you. You freeze. She keeps going, her voice raw. "For everything I did to you when we were younger. I was just... so insecure. I'm sorry." She rolls you over, tugging weak, heavy fingers at your shoulder until you're forced to face her.
You stare back at her, your throat tight. "What did you have to be insecure about?" you ask, the old, quiet hurt bleeding into your voice. "All the guys wanted to be with you and every girl wanted to be your friend."
You shouldn't engage in this conversation, but you're too desperate for answers not to and will lifelong crave an answer to all these loose ends that keep you invested in attention from her boyfriend.
She lets out a small laugh, shaking her head against the pillow. "That's not really how it feels, though." Her words slur together slightly. "It's weird when people wanna be your friend before they even know you. You spend your whole life wondering if they'd still stick around if all the shiny stuff disappeared. If you weren't pretty, friends with cool people, rich." She squints at you through half-lidded eyes. "Then there are people who don't have to worry about that."
She explains it very uneloquently, kinda offensive, and super wasted—basically implying that because you didn't have her status or looks, people liked you for you, and it made her jealous. She mends her words by the next second, though.
"I love you so much. I'm sorry." she professes earnestly at the end of the small tangent. You apply that thinking to your relationship with Hollis—he likes your deepness, your mind, while his girlfriend is like a picturesque, perfect social standing, perfect for the outside. You realize then, there are no winners in this game. You're all starving for something you're trying to take from the next, in a vicious, consuming cycle that'll devour at-least one of you, and thus, all. Right at that exact second, the door clicks open, and Hollis comes into the room.
He could easily sleep in the billion other spaces in this massive penthouse, but just to torment you, he walks right over to his side of the mattress. You hold your breath as the bed dips, and he slides into bed right behind her. Now, you are both literally sandwiching her.
Caught in the middle of her two favorite people, she turns her head to kiss your cheek—a clumsy, heavy gesture born entirely out of trust, loyalty, and pure drunkenness—before turning the other way to press a soft kiss to Hollis's lips out of love. Within seconds, the drugs pull her under completely, and she knocks out cold.
You lie there, staring into the dark. You can't sleep after that, and the silence of the room is pure torture.
Because Hollis stays awake. He lies there, staring at you across her sleeping body for a long, agonizing time. Slowly, he drapes his arm over her waist, but he doesn't stop there—his large hand stretches further across the mattress, resting heavily on the curve of your butt, squeezing gently over her pajamas.
You close your eyes, a fresh tear slipping down your cheek.
Before he finally drifts off, Hollis shifts. He leans over her limp form, his fingers reaching out to gently push your hair behind your ear. His thumb brushes across your cheek, tenderly wiping your tear away, before his face dips down. He catches your lips in the dark, kissing you deeply, a slow and possessive theft right over his sleeping girlfriend's shoulder.
He pulls away, his breath hot against your skin as he whispers, "I love you," and then finally pulls his hand back, rolling over so he doesn't torment you anymore. You lay completely paralyzed, staring at his back. You HATE how much you want to squeeze against him. You hate how badly a part of you wants to follow him anyway. The room falls dead silent, save for your best friend's rhythmic breathing. You roll over slightly, your hand brushing against the nightstand to find your phone, wanting to check for an Uber at this ungodly hour. But as the screen lights up the dark room, your heart stops. There, sitting right on the bedside table next to Hollis’s wallet, is a small, discarded silver hoop earring. It’s yours. The one you realized you’d lost three hours ago, right before you left the club booth to go "look for her shoes."
You really hope she didn't notice it, her bracelet placed right beside it.
___
author note: it's been a minute guys but imy all and hope you enjoy this ole' fic. i really loved making this, especially because the affair has substance which makes it fun. lmk what y'all think abt the best-friend character bc i certainlyy did base her off a couple old bsfs of mine. first time writing about being the homewrecker in a cheater!Hollis fic, so kinda nervy but all in all I think I love his piece of shit self all the same - from lizzy with love ❤
