im honour of Roman dropping and doing a free concert on friday you should make a Romllis fic
Green room glow
(Hollis x Roman)
a/n: in honour of Roman dropping
cw: internalized homophobia, denial spiral deluxe, pre-show anxiety meltdown, possessive blowjob, throat fucking, mild degradation, daddy kink (obviously), roman being an absolute pathetic wreck, hollis calm and mean about it, no aftercare just vibes, weed mention
Soundcheck wrapped an hour ago. The venue's small, intimate, sold-out in minutes—but it's Roman's first real solo headline, album fresh in the world for a day now, streams climbing steady, reviews calling it "raw" and "hungry." He's pacing the green room like a caged animal, hoodie half-zipped, chain swinging, blunt long gone cold between his fingers.
Hollis is leaning against the makeup counter, arms crossed, watching him with that infuriating half-smirk. He's the reason half the beats slap—sat in the studio for months tweaking shit until Roman's voice sat perfect. Featured on three tracks. The ones blowing up hardest. Fans already shipping them in the comments, edits flooding timelines. Roman's seen them all. Heart racing every time.
"I'm gonna fuck this up," Roman mutters, stopping to stare at his reflection. Eyes bloodshot from no sleep, hands shaking. "Crowd's gonna hate the new shit live. I'm not ready."
Hollis pushes off the counter, slow, crowds into his space without touching. "You're ready. We built this set together. You know every transition." His voice is low, steady, the same tone he used when Roman was freaking out over mixing vocals at 4 a.m.
Roman laughs, brittle. "Easy for you to say. You're just guesting on two songs. If I bomb, it's my name tanking." He turns, backs against the mirror, chest heaving. Hollis is closer now, eyes dark.
"You won't bomb." Hollis's hand lifts, thumb brushing Roman's jaw casual, like checking temperature. "But you're shaking like a leaf. Need me to calm you down before you go on?"
Roman's breath hitches. He should say no. Should smoke another blunt, blast music, hype himself like a normal artist. But Hollis's thumb drags down to his throat, pressing lightly over his pulse, and Roman's already half-hard in his jeans. Pathetic.
"Yeah," he whispers. "Fix it."
Hollis's smirk sharpens. "On your knees then, romes. Quick."
Roman drops like his legs give out anyway. The green room floor is cold tile, mirror behind him showing everything—his flushed face, Hollis towering, unzipping slow. Roman's mouth waters before Hollis even pulls it out.
"Open."
Roman does, tongue out, eyes up. Hollis feeds him in steady—thick, heavy, familiar. Roman moans around it immediately, hands clutching Hollis's thighs for balance. The stretch burns perfect, throat relaxing on instinct.
"That's it," Hollis murmurs, fingers threading Roman's hair, guiding deeper. "Look at you. Big night, first headline, and you're choking on my dick in the green room like a desperate slut."
Roman whimpers, the words hitting straight to his core. Not gay. Just nerves. Just Hollis knowing how to shut his brain up. But he's drooling already, eyes watering as Hollis starts thrusting—shallow at first, then deeper, hitting the back of his throat until Roman gags.
Hollis doesn't let up. "Fans out there waiting for you to perform our songs. If they knew you're warming your throat on me right now." He pulls out just to slap Roman's cheek with his wet cock, once, twice, then shoves back in. "Bet they'd lose their minds."
Roman's hands scramble to his own jeans, palming himself desperately, but Hollis kicks his wrist away. "Nuh-uh. Hands on me. This is about calming you down, remember?"
Roman whines around the cock stretching his jaw, tears spilling, but obeys—nails digging into Hollis's thighs, pulling him closer. Hollis groans, hips snapping harder, using his mouth like a toy.
"Such a good boy when you shut up and take it," Hollis pants. "All that anxiety bullshit gone yet? Or do you need daddy to fuck it out of your head?"
The daddy slips out easy, natural, and Roman's whole body shudders. He nods frantically, throat working around Hollis, humming yes please.
Hollis's grip tightens, pace turning brutal—fucking his face in earnest now, balls slapping Roman's chin. "Gonna come down your throat, romes. You're gonna swallow it all and go on stage glowing. My good luck charm."
Roman's crying openly now, mascara probably running if he wore any, untouched dick leaking in his boxers, throbbing with every thrust. The degradation, the control—it quiets the noise in his head, narrows everything to Hollis's taste, Hollis's voice, Hollis owning him minutes before he has to own a stage.
Hollis tenses, groans low. "Fuck—take it—" and comes hot and thick straight down Roman's throat. Roman swallows greedily, choking a little, until Hollis pulls out slow, thumb wiping spit from his chin.
Roman stays on his knees, gasping, lips swollen, eyes glassy. Hollis tucks himself away, zips up casual, then crouches—tilts Roman's chin up, kisses him soft once. Tastes himself on Roman's tongue.
"Better?"
Roman nods, voice wrecked. "Yeah. Thanks."
Hollis helps him up, fixes his hoodie, smooths his hair like a caretaker. "Go kill it. I'll be side stage."
Roman glances in the mirror—lips red, eyes brighter, nerves dulled to a hum. He looks fucked-out, alive. Ready.
He doesn't say thank you again. Doesn't say what are we? Doesn't admit the glow is from more than just the head.
Just grabs his mic pack, bumps Hollis's fist on the way out.
"See you up there, bro."
Hollis watches him go, smirk soft now.
The cycle hums on—Roman pretends on stage, screams the songs they made together, eyes finding Hollis in the wings every chorus.
After, he'll crash. Spiral again. Find his way back.
But tonight, he performs like a star. Throat raw for all the right reasons.
