contains: situationship, smut, (p in v) (f receiving) ‘sub!hollis’, unprotected sex (don’t let that man hit raw.) etc
a/n: #ogsknowhalfthelorebehindthisfic (hollis is not that much of sub in this he’s js listening to reader 😣)
you’re on your side in bed, one leg tangled in the sheets, cheek half smashed against your pillow, scrolling through your phone like any other pathetic girl who swears she's over him.
the room's dark. too quiet. the hum of the fridge down the hall might as well be screaming, and the clock reads 1:07am, the time of night when every stupid decision feels justified by loneliness.
you haven't spoken to Hollis in three weeks.
twenty two days, if you're counting.
you told him you were done. told him to lose your number, forget your name, go fuck himself and anyone else dumb enough to fall for his pretty mouth and his perfect face and that sad little smirk he always wore like armor.
because it wasn't just that he stood you up.
it was that he did it again. and again. and again.
every time you waited, every time you cleaned your room and lit a candle, ordered his favorite food, checked the time again he didn't show.
no call. no text. just silence.
like you were the secret.
so you stopped waiting. stopped hoping. stopped answering.
your thumb hovers over his name in your recents, just for a second. just to see it. just to remember what his contact photo looks like sharp cheekbones, mouth half open, hand in his hair like he didn't know you were taking it.
you throw your phone on the other side of the bed.
this is so fucking stupid.
you close your eyes, try to sleep, but it's no use not when your body's buzzing with a hunger no one else has been able to satisfy.
not when you can still feel his fingerprints on your thighs like they branded you. not when your chest still aches from all the things he never said never even tried to say.
because Hollis Frazier wasn’t a boyfriend.
he was a secret. a situationship. a half assed, backseat rendezvous built on mixed signals and late night “you up?” texts
you weren’t dating, hell, you weren’t even officially together. but goddamn you both liked each other.
every time you saw him, your chest clenched, words tangling up in your throat like they were too scared to fall out. every time his hand brushed yours, it sent a current straight to your gut.
neither of you wanted to say it out loud, because that would mean something.
something with rules, expectations, boundaries none of which either of you were ready for.
so instead, you danced around it those stolen looks, those half smiles that lingered just a second too long, the way your voices dipped lower when you thought no one was listening.
but under it all, there was fire. and you both knew it.
you just didn't want to admit it yet.
he'd call you, and you'd come running.
he treated you like an afterthought in public barely made eye contact, kept you out of the conversations, always acted like you were just a thing that happened once.
he was attentive in the way that made your head spin. always knowing what to give, asking if it felt good, if you wanted more.
he'd pull you into his lap and kiss you slow like he had all night to ruin you. he'd press his hand against your lower stomach and whisper "you feel so fucking good don't run from it."
he'd hold your hips down and make you stay still while he licked you into oblivion.
and he never, ever came before you.
sometimes twice. sometimes three times.
he treated you like his whole fucking world when he was inside you looked at you like you were the only thing that ever made sense.
and then he'd leave. or shut down. or change the subject when you got too close.
you told yourself he was broken. that he didn't know how to be soft outside of sex.
but the truth was worse: he just didn't want to try for you. and still you miss his hands. his mouth.
that desperate sound he made when he was close. the way he used to fist the sheets like he was trying not to fall apart while he was inside you.
no one's touched you since.
no one's ever been able to make you cum the way Hollis did. no one's even come close.
your hand drifts under the waistband of your sleep shorts. just to see if it'll help. if you can pretend hard enough.
your fingers don't curl the right way. your wrist's too slow, too fast, too not him.
there's no weight behind it. no hands on your hips. no lips on your neck.
you rub your clit in slow, tight circles and try to summon his voice-
"you gonna cum for me again, baby? just like that? yeah, look at me. don't look away."
it's almost enough. but not really.
you squeeze your eyes shut. trying to pretend your pillow is him. that his voice is in your ear again. that his hands are sliding up your thighs and under your shirt, rough, greedy, perfect your stomach coils. your toes curl. and just when you're almost there your phone buzzes.
it's nothing. a notification. a sale from a store you don't shop at anymore.
but now it's in your head: the possibility.
what if you did call him?
would he still come over?
would he touch you the way he used to?
your hand's still in your shorts.
and the more you try to talk yourself out of it, the more your body betrays you. you roll onto your back and grab the phone. light floods the room as the screen lights up.
you don't give yourself time to think. you hit call.
it rings once. twice. three times.
"yeah?" his voice is low. tired. the kind of scratchy that sounds exactly like his morning groan when he used to wake up right next to you.
"do you wanna come over?"
you stare at your phone like it betrayed you, then toss it face down on the bed again.
your heart's still racing. your skin's burning. your stomach's doing that fluttery, ashamed, dangerous thing that tells you this is absolutely a bad idea.
you pull off your sweater. and wait.
it's ten minutes later, and you're still pacing.
you've straightened the throw pillows. put on lip balm. changed your shirt. changed it back.
you even checked your reflection in the hallway mirror twice.
then, finally, there's a knock.
three sharp raps. not rushed, not tentative.
like he knows he shouldn't be here, but also? he doesn't care.
Hollis Frazier. standing on your porch like this is something he does every night. like he didn't disappoint you over and over again. like you didn't swear you'd never let him back in.
he's in a black hoodie, hood down, hands shoved deep into his pockets. eyes soft. mouth unreadable.
"hey," he says, voice low.
you stare at him. just for a second.
it's barely a greeting. but you step aside, and he walks in without another word.
he leans against the wall near the door, shoulder slouched, one foot crossed over the other. you're across the room, back against the edge of the couch, arms folded tight across your chest.
he's the first to break it.
you roll your eyes. "i look like i just rolled out of bed."
you bite your cheek to keep from smiling.
"you've been okay?" he tries.
you don't even blink. "mhmm."
just that. no emotion. no elaboration.
and that tiny, clipped sound makes his jaw twitch.
he doesn't say anything. just shifts his weight against the wall.
"so," he says, eyes dragging over you,
"what've you been up to?"
"you want to make small talk?"
he shrugs again, trying to play it cool, but you see the flicker in his eyes. the hesitation. like he doesn't know where he stands with you. like he came here thinking he might get laid, but now he's wondering if he walked into something heavier.
you push off the couch a little, not walking closer, just standing straighter.
"what, you want me to tell you about my week?" you say. "wanna hear how i haven't been able to sleep? how i think about you all the time? how i have to fight the urge to call you every goddamn night?"
he swallows hard, but says nothing.
"or maybe you want me to ask you about your week. see how many girls you've had in your bed since me. if you've replaced me yet."
his mouth opens. then closes. no words come out.
you sigh. a long, frustrated, tired sound.
your hand scrubs down your face, dragging over your mouth, and your voice drops low and blunt.
"i didn't call you over here at 1am to talk, Hollis."
thick, charged, dangerous.
a slow smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth.
not cocky. not smug. just faintly amused.
because that line? it sounds like him.
like something he would say when he used to call you at this exact hour, voice rough with want and soaked in assumption.
didn't call you to talk, babe. open the door.
he doesn't say it out loud, but he's definitely thinking it.
then he pushes off the wall.
takes one slow step forward. then another.
he closes the distance between you in four strides. his eyes flick down to your mouth, then back to your eyes. he pauses just for a second.
it's immediate and consuming, like biting into something overripe. too much. too sweet. like he's been waiting weeks for this, dreaming about your mouth, aching for your taste.
your back hits the couch. his hands bracket your hips. his mouth is greedy, desperate, tongue sweeping deep like he's starving and you're the only thing on the menu.
you gasp, hips rolling against his without thinking, like your body's trying to speak before your mouth can.
he groans into your mouth.
it's clumsy and perfect. familiar and reckless. lips sliding, teeth clashing, breath catching in each other's throats.
you nip at his bottom lip, pulling it between your teeth. he shudders.
and you realize he still wants you.
even now. even after everything.
you break the kiss just enough to whisper against his mouth
you grab his hand and lead him there.
the hallway feels too short and too long at the same time. every step echoing the heavy silence between you, your fingers still looped around his. not intertwined. just holding. like you're guiding a dog back into a room it knows all too well.
when you get to your room, you don't flick the light on. you want the dark. want the shadows. want to pretend this is just another dream you'll wake up aching from.
you let go of his hand once you're inside. he stands there like he's not sure what he's allowed to do watching you. waiting.
you nod toward the bed. "sit."
he doesn't argue. just moves, slow and quiet, and lowers himself onto the edge of your mattress. his legs spread slightly.
elbows resting on his thighs. he watches you like he's starving. like he's afraid to blink.
you take a slow step toward him. then another. then stop just between his knees.
you reach for the hem of your shirt.
you pull it up, slow, dragging it over your skin like you're peeling off old armor. when it clears your head, you toss it aside without looking where it lands.
you're not wearing a bra.
Hollis's eyes drop immediately.
you catch the way his chest rises sharp inhale, like it hurts to see you like this again. like memory is physically caving his ribs in.
you hook your thumbs into the waistband of your shorts. his eyes follow the movement.
"hands to yourself," you say.
his jaw flexes, but he nods.
you slide your shorts down. your underwear goes with them, slow, over your hips, your thighs, until you're completely bare in front of him.
he drags his eyes up your body like he's memorizing every new inch, every shift, every breath.
"you're so..." he trails off like he can't find a word worthy enough.
you smirk, just a little. "i know."
and then you drop to your knees.
he watches you jaw tight, breath shallow and after a second, he reaches for the hem of his shirt.
peels it off in one clean motion and tosses it aside.
you glance up, eyes dragging over the sharp lines of his chest, the cut of his abs, the way his ribs flex when he exhales slow and deep like he's trying not to lose it already.
then you reach for his belt. undoing it in a few practiced flicks. he breathes harder when he hears the soft click of the buckle, his hands curling into fists against his thighs.
you pop the button on his jeans, drag the zipper down. he lifts his hips slightly when you tug at the denim. you don't ask him to.
you pull his jeans down slowly, inch by inch, knuckles grazing the smooth skin of his thighs, each deliberate movement a tease. his cock presses eagerly against the fabric of his boxers, already heavy and thick, flushed with heat.
your eyes lock with his, dark and wide with hunger, and your hand presses flat against that hard, pulsing heat through the thin cotton. he groans soft, low, a sound trapped just beneath the surface and then bites his lip hard, like he's trying to stay controlled, to be good for you.
carefully, you slide his boxers down too, freeing him. his cock springs out, hard and flushed, veins standing proud, leaking clear slick at the tip. you let your fingers ghost over the length, slow and reverent, wrapping your hand around him.
"still easy for me," you murmur, voice husky and low.
he exhales shakily, the sharp inhale barely audible. "you have no idea."
your fingers start with a single, slow stroke, then another, your palm wrapped tight around him, feeling him twitch and throb beneath your touch. his eyes flutter shut, lips parting with a breathless sound. you watch, a slow, dangerous smile curling your lips.
then, just like that, you stand.
his hands twitch, reaching for you with desperate need, but you shake your head sharply.
his jaw clenches, teeth grinding as he obeys, sinking back onto the mattress.
there's fire in his eyes, the kind that promises both surrender and challenge.
you don't wait. you climb into his lap, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. the moment your bare skin brushes against his, a sharp inhale escapes him. his hands hover near your thighs, trembling with want, aching to grip you, to claim you but he doesn't dare move without your permission.
you reach down, lining him up carefully, the tip teasing against your slickness, pressing just enough to feel that delicious, stretched tight burn. the sound he makes a soft, strangled moan rings in your ears, raw and desperate.
then you sink down, inch by agonizing inch, savoring every stretch, every tight pull around him. his hands ball into fists beside him, nails digging into the sheets. his head falls back, neck bare and exposed, a broken curse falling from his lips.
"fuck," he pants. "you still feel the same. still the tightest fucking hell-"
you roll your hips, grinding slowly, savoring the slick friction, the control. his hands jerk involuntarily, like he's fighting to hold back, desperate to grip your waist.
you slap one of them away with a sharp look.
"no. you don't touch me unless i say so."
he groans loud, chest rising and falling rapidly, sweat beading at his temples, glistening on his jawline.
"please," he breathes, voice raw and trembling. "please, baby-"
you still your movements, locking eyes with him and glaring.
"i.. fuck.. i’m sorry," he gasps, eyes filled with want and something deeper. "bad habit."
"you're gonna break it," you snap. "you don't get to call me that anymore."
you lean close, face barely inches from his, breath warm on his cheek.
your hips start moving again, slower at first, then harder rough and relentless, fucking him like he's a memory you're desperate to burn away. he's gasping, lips parted, head tilted back to watch you. his hands twitch near your hips, pulled magnetically by the rhythm of your grind.
you pause briefly and say firmly, "you can touch me."
his hands close around your hips immediately, steadying you, grounding you.
he's usually the one calling the shots rough hands, filthy mouth, always in control. but not tonight. his grip is firm but careful, a silent promise to follow your lead, not the other way around.
you grind harder, feeling every slick slide, every slick stretch as you ride him. his breath hitches with every thrust of your hips, each curve you carve against him. his mouth opens, a moan torn from his throat, raw and desperate.
he's lost in you completely.
"i’m sorry," he pants between shaky breaths, voice broken but earnest. "i know i was a dick. i know please, let me stay just tonight please-"
you slow your pace just enough to let him catch his breath, your hands resting on his chest.
"why should i let you stay?" you demand, voice low and sharp.
he swallows hard, eyes never leaving yours.
"because i’m sorry. because i miss you. because no one feels like you. because i still think about you every fucking night."
your fingers dig into his skin, nails grazing over muscles as you start moving again, faster this time. rough. determined. no softness here just power and need.
he gasps and shudders beneath you, hips twitching, chest heaving. you can feel his cock pulsing inside you, desperate and stretched to the limit.
your legs tense on either side of him, gripping him tight as you push him deeper with each brutal thrust. his hands hold you firmly in place, helping you keep pace, the steady pressure of them on your hips igniting a fire deeper than words.
your body twists, sweat slicking your skin, heartbeat roaring as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through you.
"give it to me," you whisper, voice low and breathless, more plea than order but still, he listens.
he shudders violently, gripping you tighter, moaning your name like a prayer.
and then you both fall over the edge him filling you with hot, shuddering cum as you ride out your own roaring orgasm, legs trembling, breath ragged and desperate.
you collapse into each other, bodies slick and spent. his hands slide up your back, gentle now, pulling you close.
his lips press to your shoulder soft, like a thank you. then your collarbone. then, finally, your mouth. a slow, lingering kiss, different from the ones before. not desperate. not demanding. just... tender.
you let him have that, too.
your hand presses firmly against his wrists, sliding them down your skin, down your back, easing them away. he looks up at you, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, but you don't break eye contact. you need to own this moment your moment.
slowly, deliberately, you slide off him, the cool air hitting your heated skin. you flop back onto the bed beside him, your body still humming with electricity, your chest rising and falling with unsteady breaths.
for a heartbeat, you both just lie there skin barely touching, but the space between you charged like a live wire.
then he shifts, careful, like not wanting to break whatever fragile line you're both walking, and moves closer. his arm snakes around your waist, pulling you gently toward him.
he looks up at you with those eyes the ones full of regret and something softer, something desperate.
"let me stay," he whispers, voice low, trembling.
"you want to stay?" you ask, quiet.
he nods frantically. "yes. fuck, yes."
there's a beat long enough for your words to curl into the air like smoke then he moves. quick. determined. dropping to his knees like gravity itself ripped him down.
his hands find your thighs, fingers rough, greedy, and he yanks you to the edge of the bed with a force that leaves your back arching off the sheets.
all you feel is the cold air between your legs and the blistering heat of his breath as he settles in, face level with everything he's been dying for.
he doesn't start slow. there's no warm up, no teasing flicks. he dives in with a hunger that borders on violent. tongue wide, mouth open, nose pressed firm against your clit like he's trying to bury himself in your body. like he won't stop until you're trembling.
you gasp. legs twitching. your breath stutters.
"shit-" the word tears out of you, unplanned, high and sharp.
his hands grip tighter, holding your thighs spread. locking you down. you couldn't pull away if you wanted to. you couldn't run. you can't even buck your hips he's anchoring you like this is how he makes it up to you. this is how he earns the right to stay.
this isn't gentle. this is frantic. apologetic.
worshipful in a filthy, ruined way. like he's starving and you're the only thing that's ever fed him right.
"don't think this means i forgive you," you manage, voice strained, trying to sound unaffected. superior. the words taste thin even as you say them.
but he groans into your cunt, and the vibration alone punches a moan from your throat. his tongue circles, then flattens, then sucks hard, like he wants your clit bruised by the time he's done with it. every flick makes your thighs jerk, your breath catch your power fray, little by little. you want to glare down at him, to look him in the eye and keep that edge of dominance, but your head falls back, vision swimming.
his voice is wrecked, shaky through the slick between your thighs.
"God... look at you," he breathes. "i don't deserve this. i don't deserve you like this."
you don't answer. can't. not right away.
because he doesn't stop. he doesn't even slow down.
one hand releases your thigh, slides down to your entrance two fingers pushing in deep, curling, finding the spot that makes your stomach seize and your mouth drop open in a silent, choked cry. he knows your body too well. knows exactly where to press, how to stroke, how to break you.
he pumps them hard, fucking you with them while his mouth works like it's a goddamn mission. no rhythm break. no mercy. just heat. wet. noise. pressure.
and you trying so fucking hard not to break. not to beg.
your knees start to tremble, trying to close, to pull away from the overstimulation, but he's stronger. he groans, pushes your thighs wide again, locking them there like he dare you to try and shut him out.
you try to move, to push yourself up, but your limbs feel heavy, useless. you're stuck spread, exposed, helpless against the slick chaos building between your thighs.
your hips roll into his face on instinct, chasing more, chasing friction, chasing anything that might relieve the ache that's twisting you inside out. your moans get louder, wrecked, needy in a way you didn't want to sound.
he groans again, louder, cocky, because he knows. he knows you're folding. he knows your control is slipping straight through your fingers like the slick pooling beneath you.
"say it say i’m the only one who gets you like this."
you grit your teeth. trying to hold out. pride's flickering low inside you, but his mouth is a wildfire unrelenting, consuming every last inch.
and then he sucks. hard. right as his fingers curl. and your whole body lights up like a power line snapping in a storm. you cry out, hips jerking, thighs shaking around his head as the orgasm slams through you messy, mean, blinding.
your whole body's trembling, chest heaving, lips parted in shock. you don't even realize you're babbling his name until he growls it back into you like he's drinking every syllable.
"Jesus Christ," he pants. "you're so fucking beautiful when you cum."
and still he doesn't stop.
he slows, yes, but not to let you breathe. he laps through the mess, tongue dragging up and down your slit like he's cleaning you with his mouth, savoring the taste like it's the only thing keeping him alive.
you collapse against the mattress, legs splayed, mind scrambled. but he drags a finger through your slick folds and slides it back inside like he's testing if there's anything left to squeeze out of you.
you flinch, hips bucking. your clit is pulsing raw, spent and still he kisses it.
you lie on the bed, chest heaving, every breath still shaky and heavy.
after a moment, he sinks down beside you, close enough that your skin almost touches.
he turns his face toward you, lips wet, eyes wide like he's trying to read every line of your exhaustion, every word you won't say.
you shift, muscles trembling, your body still humming with aftershocks. slowly, you crawl back on the bed, collapsing onto the pillows with a soft grunt. the sheets are damp beneath you, your skin sticky, your breath shallow.
Hollis slides in beside you like he's not sure he's allowed to. like getting too close might make you vanish. but he can't help it. his eyes are on you wide, unsure, full of something he rarely lets show.
he lays on his side, one arm tucked under his head, the other just barely brushing yours. watching you. waiting.
"are you gonna let me stay?" he whispers.
you pause. eyes on the ceiling. the words hang in the air like smoke.
his lips twitch into a smile. just a little. but it's real.
and when he reaches for you this time, you don't stop him.
he slides his arm around your waist, pulls you closer like he needs to feel your pulse against his. like he's not entirely convinced you're still here. his forehead presses lightly to yours. his breath fans across your lips.
soft. slow. so achingly gentle it almost hurts. like he's trying to make up for every other sorry he didn't say, every apology tangled in silence.
his thumb brushes over your cheek, and despite everything, your body slides into his like it's the only place that still feels familiar.
you don't say a word. don't have to.
because sometimes words aren't enough.
you just lie there skin slick, breaths tangled, the air thick with everything left unsaid.
just this raw, fragile, and enough for now.
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