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would u make a pt 2 of that nett fic were she ends up leaving him but like a while later sfter the fame he sees her again and yeah
Of course! I'm actually already writing the second part of this fic. I'm just trying to decide between the two endings I have in mind. But yes, she does end up with him, and after some time, things change a little.
Tags: Friends of lovers, codependency, emotional exhaustion, anguish.
Fem!reader × Gunner.
MY BOY
He ain't a man and sure as hell ain't honest.
You had always held the theory that Gunner was born with clenched fists and a furrowed brow, ready to fight the world before he even knew how to speak.
Your earliest memories with him are stained with dirt on your knees and the smell of rust from the park swings. If someone pushed him, you would stand in front of him, small but fierce, yelling until the other kids backed down. And if some bigger kid tried to mess with you, Gunner didn't yell; he simply threw himself at them with a blind fury that scared everyone except you. You looked out for each other. You were two halves of the same shield against the rest of the world.
For years, you were the only person on the planet who knew his soft side. The Gunner who would rest his head on your shoulder in silence and let you play with his hair when things at his house became unbearable.
𓆩𓆪
The streetlamp lights flickered with an electric buzz that had already become part of the background noise of your lives. Gunner’s beat-up car engine rattled softly as it cooled down under the night sky, but neither of you had any intention of getting off the hood.
You shared a pair of worn-out earphones. The cord hung between you, swaying slightly whenever either of you moved. You sat cross-legged with your back pressed against the windshield, feeling the cold metal of the car through your clothes, while Gunner loosely drummed his fingers on his knees to the beat of the music.
For a moment, everything felt the way it always did. The same boy you had shared scraped knees and whispered secrets with was sitting right next to you. But the atmosphere felt different tonight, charged with a strange tension between the two of you that made the air feel heavier. Every time your shoulders accidentally brushed, a sharp shiver ran down your spine.
Suddenly, the song changed on the player. Gunner stopped moving his fingers. He stayed still for a second and then turned to look at you.
In the dim light, his dark eyes shone with a new intensity, one you had never seen in all the years you had known each other. His brow wasn’t furrowed, and his fists weren’t clenched for a fight. He looked strangely helpless, almost exposed.
"Y/n," he said, and his voice sounded lower than usual, barely competing with the whisper of the music in your ear.
"What's wrong?" you asked, trying to keep your voice casual, even though your heart had already begun to race in your chest.
Gunner reached out his hand and, with a slowness that didn't match his usual clumsiness, intertwined his fingers with yours. His palm was warm and a bit rough. He looked at your joined hands for a moment before locking his eyes onto yours again.
"I was thinking... that I don't know how to do this anymore," he confessed, letting out a short, nervous laugh that took you by surprise. "I don't remember what it's like to live without loving you. Not like this."
Your heart stopped for a millisecond. You knew exactly what he meant, because you had been carrying that same weight in your chest for months, holding back the urge to cross the invisible line separating you.
"Gunner..." you started to say, but he moved a little closer, closing the distance on the hood of the car until you could feel the heat radiating from him.
"I'm serious. I'm sick of pretending we're just the same old friends," he continued, his gaze dropping for a second to your lips before returning to your eyes with an almost desperate urgency. "You're the only person who matters to me, Y/n. The only one. If you're not here, I have nothing."
When his lips finally found yours, the outside world seemed to turn off completely. It was a slow kiss, clumsy at first from years of restraint, but it quickly filled with a deep sense of relief. It tasted like the night, like youth, and like a silent promise that, from that moment on, it would be the two of you against everything else. In that instant, with his hands cradling your face as if you were the most precious thing he had ever touched, you allowed yourself to believe that everything was going to be okay.
Your friends hugged you excitedly when they found out: "Finally, Y/n. He is crazy about you. You're the only person capable of calming him down. If anyone can make him grow up, it's you." And at first, everything seemed to prove them right.
The first few months were a perfect bubble. You remember whole afternoons driving aimlessly, singing songs at the top of your lungs with the windows down, or him taking you to your favorite fast-food place just because you had a bad day. Gunner looked at you as if you were the only bright thing in his dark world. He made you feel invincible; he made you believe that love truly had the power to change someone.
Until the small details started to ruin the view.
It was a transition so subtle that at first you blamed yourself for being "dramatic." It started with insignificant promises he forgot, calls he never returned, and that strange ability of his to camouflage the truth with a charming smile. Gunner was a pretty liar.
It all began one Friday afternoon at the movie theater. You had been planning the date all week. Gunner was holding the giant bucket of popcorn while you waited in the concession line, laughing at a joke you had told him. But when it was their turn, his attention completely drifted to the girl serving them.
It wasn't obvious, and that was the worst part. It was the way his voice dropped a tone, becoming huskier, more magnetic. It was the smirk he gave her while ordering the drinks, maintaining a steady, deliberate gaze that made the employee instantly blush as she handed him the change. Gunner even took an extra second to thank her, subtly brushing his fingers against hers as he took the cups.
You felt a cold knot in your stomach. You were right next to him, holding his arm, and to him, it felt like you had become invisible for a minute.
You didn't say anything in the hallway, but the tension walked with you. Once inside the theater, with the lights already low and the movie trailers flashing on the giant screen, you turned to him in the dim light.
"What was that out there?" you asked in a whisper, trying to keep your voice steady.
Gunner settled into his seat, turning to you with an expression of absolute confusion that almost looked genuine.
"What's that, beautiful?"
"With the popcorn girl," you snapped, looking him dead in the eye. "You were flirting with her right in front of my face, Gunner."
He let out a soft, low chuckle, as if you had said something cute, and shook his head while placing the drinks in the cup holders. "Flirting? Of course not, babe. I was just being nice," he said, and his voice sounded so damn sincere that for a split second you doubted your own eyes. "Come on, you know I only have eyes for you. Don't be silly."
Before you could argue back, before you could tell him you weren't crazy, Gunner leaned in toward you. He cut the physical distance and, with that innate ability he had to disarm you, gently took you by the back of the neck.
He left a slow, warm kiss on your cheek, right at the edge of your jawline, and then slid his lips down your neck in a soft caress that sent chills down your skin. The scent of his cologne flooded your senses. It was his way of fixing things: numbing your doubts with physical affection, using his charm as an eraser for his mistakes.
"I love you," he whispered in your ear, his warm breath brushing your skin before he went back to his seat and fixed his eyes on the screen, as if nothing had happened.
You froze in your seat as the movie music began to play. The warmth of his lips was still trapped on your skin, but for the first time, it didn't make you feel loved. It made you feel stupid.
You looked at his profile in the darkness of the theater, watching him eat popcorn with total peace of mind, and a bitter truth began to force its way into your mind: Gunner wasn't going to change. He was just learning how to lie better.
𓆩𓆪
The thick, hot air of the party clung to your skin, mixed with the thumping music that made the floor vibrate beneath your feet. Gunner had left you alone for a moment to go to the bathroom, warning you with his eyes not to move from the corner of the bar.
Not even two minutes had passed when a guy from school approached you. The conversation was casual, barely an exchange of words audible over the noise, but the situation changed when he, in an all-too-familiar gesture, reached out his arm and put a hand on your shoulder to lean in and speak into your ear.
You didn't have time to pull away. You didn't have time at all.
A shadow crossed the strobe light and, before you could process it, the guy went flying backward, crashing into a low table. Gunner had thrown himself onto him with animal fury, fists clenched and teeth gritted, landing a clean blow to his jaw. The crash of shattering glasses unleashed screams all around you. Gunner braced himself to strike again, his eyes completely wild.
"Gunner, stop! Enough!" you screamed, getting in the middle and pushing him back by his chest.
It was like flipping a switch. At the touch of your hands, the savage rigidity of his muscles yielded slightly. He looked at you, panting, and the haze of violence in his eyes cleared just enough for him to recognize you. Without waiting for the other guy's friends to react or for security to catch them, you grabbed his hand firmly and dragged him toward the exit, pushing your way through the stunned crowd.
The car ride was a dead silence, broken only by the sound of his heavy breathing and your hands gripping the steering wheel with anger. When you finally parked in front of your house, you turned off the engine and flooded the cabin with a suffocating stillness.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" you snapped, turning to face him in his seat. The adrenaline from the party had turned into pure frustration. "He was just talking to me. You can't go through life demolishing anyone who comes near me, Gunner! This is sick."
He didn't yell at you. Instead of defending himself or getting angry, he shrank into his seat, pulling his knees up to the dashboard.
"He was touching you," he muttered, and his voice, which ten minutes ago was a threat, now sounded broken, strangely small.
"It was a shoulder, Gunner! A damn shoulder! You embarrass me when you get like this, you scare me," you let out, your voice trembling with anger.
That was when you saw the glint of tears in his eyes. In the dim light of the car, tears began to stream down his cheeks, thick and fast, while his bottom lip trembled. He covered his face with his hands, letting out a muffled sob that filled the space between you.
"I'm sorry, seriously, I'm sorry..." he sobbed, sinking deeper into the seat, looking so helpless it was ridiculous after the scene at the party. "I just can't help it, Y/n. I feel like I'm going to lose you. Everyone wants to take away the only good thing I have. If you leave, I'll die, I swear. I don't know what to do with myself when you're not around."
You stood frozen, your words dying in your throat. You watched him cry with that childlike desperation, and the familiar weight settled back into your chest. He was an ugly crier, but a pretty liar; he was using his tears as a perfect shield so you would forget the blood on his knuckles and end up, once again, holding him to calm him down.
The anger burning in your chest evaporated in a second, replaced by that well-known wave of guilt he knew how to trigger so well. Seeing him like this, so broken and vulnerable in the passenger seat, completely dismantled your defenses.
You let out a long sigh and leaned toward him, closing the distance.
"Hey... look at me," you whispered, running a soft hand over his wet cheek to brush the hair away from his forehead.
Gunner lowered his hands slowly, revealing his reddened eyes shining with tears. He had the look of a little boy who had just been scolded for breaking his favorite toy, scared and desperately seeking your approval.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell at you," you said in a sweet voice, caressing his jaw with your thumb. "It's just that I get scared for you, Gunner. I don't want anything bad to happen to you. But I'm not going anywhere, okay? I'm here. I'm always here."
Hearing your words, relief transformed his face. He leaned into your touch as if your hand were his only refuge in the world. He slid across the seat until he rested his head on your shoulder, hiding his face in the crook of your neck while his arms wrapped around your waist with an almost possessive strength.
"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, mommy," he muttered, his voice muffled against your skin, seeking that absolute protection that only you gave him. "Don't leave me alone. Don't let them drive me crazy."
Feeling his warm breath against your neck and the weight of his body seeking you out softened you completely. In that moment, the toxicity of the party was forgotten. You let yourself be wrapped in the illusion that you were his salvation, his anchor. You hugged him back tightly, kissing the crown of his head and letting that sweet, bittersweet warmth fill your chest, convincing yourself once again that as long as he was in your arms, you could protect him from everything. Even from himself.
𓆩𓆪
The moonlight barely peeked through the slats of the blinds, drawing silver lines across the messy sheets of your bed. It was past midnight, and the silence of your room was broken only by the hiss of the alcohol-soaked cotton on Gunner's skin and the sound of his breathing, which was gradually calming down.
He had arrived an hour ago, tapping on your window with bloody knuckles and the same stray-dog look he used every time he destroyed something.
"I'm almost done," you murmured, concentrating on the cut on his lip. Your fingers moved with almost surgical precision, a routine you knew by heart.
"I missed you today," he said, his voice husky. He was staring at you with that total devotion that always managed to make you forget your anger. "Seriously. All day I was thinking about how I wanted to be here, with you. With no one else."
You gave him a soft smile, wanting to believe him. Wanting to convince yourself that the suspicions that had been lingering in your mind all week were just your own paranoia. You finished cleaning the wound, set the first-aid kit aside, and almost immediately, Gunner grabbed your waist to pull you toward him.
The mood changed in a second. The tension of the night turned into something thick, warm, and urgent. Gunner laid you back on the mattress, climbing on top of you while his hands searched for your skin underneath your t-shirt, desperate, seeking to erase the disaster of his day in your body. His lips moved down your jaw, kissing you with an intensity that left you breathless. You gave yourself to the moment, closing your eyes, seeking that connection that made you feel like everything was worth it.
He dug his hands into your hips, pulling you toward him as he let out a muffled groan against your ear. And then, just as clothes were starting to get in the way and the pace was quickening, the illusion shattered into a thousand pieces.
"Ah... Vanessa..."
The name floated in the bedroom air like a bucket of ice water.
You went completely rigid underneath him. Your eyes snapped open, staring at the ceiling. It took Gunner a couple of seconds to realize you had stopped entirely, that your hands were no longer around his neck, but were pushing against his chest with a cold force.
"What?" your voice came out as barely a whisper, empty, devoid of any emotion.
Gunner froze over you. The dim light wasn't enough to hide how the color drained from his face and how his pupils dilated with panic.
"No... no, babe, wait," he stammered, pulling back a bit, his hands shaking. "It wasn't... I didn't mean to say that. I swear I don't know why I said that name. I was thinking about some stupid school thing, seriously, Y/n, look at me."
You sat up in bed, running a hand over your face as your stomach churned with disgust. The puzzle pieces clicked together all at once: the subtle lies, the glances you caught in passing, the gut feeling you always tried to suppress. He was a pretty liar.
"Get out, Gunner," you said, pointing at the window. Your voice was shaking, but not from sadness—from a dull, exhausted fury. "Get the hell out of my house."
Instead of moving, Gunner collapsed. He dropped to his knees on the floor right next to your bed, pressing his hands against your legs as tears began to stream from his eyes at an alarming rate. He started to cry desperately, sobbing so hard his shoulders shook.
"No, please, Y/n, don't do this to me!" he begged, his face drenched and his voice broken, playing the victim entirely. "It was a mistake, I swear on my life. I'm messed up in the head, you know how bad I've been these days. If you leave me now, you're going to destroy me. Don't leave me alone, I can't handle this."
You shifted on the bed to get away from his touch, feeling a mixture of pity and disgust. You stood up, determined to kick him out of your life that very night, tired of carrying the weight of his demons.
"I don't care anymore, Gunner. It's over. I'm not going to keep putting up with this. Leave."
But he didn't leave. Gunner stood up from the floor, his eyes wild with tears, intercepting you before you could reach the door. He grabbed your arms—not with violence, but with a possessive desperation that pinned you in place. He leaned in close, pressing his forehead against yours while his sobs brushed against your skin.
"If you walk out that door, Y/n... I swear I'll hurt myself," he whispered, and his voice no longer sounded broken, but carried a manipulative coldness that froze your blood. "I don't care what happens to me. I'll wreck the car or go find those guys from the pool hall to let them finish me off. You decide. If you leave, it's going to be your fault. Don't leave me alone."
You stood static in his arms, your breath shallow and your eyes fixed on the darkness of the room. The trap had closed perfectly around you. You looked at his face covered in tears and dried blood, feeling the last trace of illusion die inside you, leaving you only with a bittersweet, suffocating emptiness.
You knew it was a lie, you knew it was his worst manipulation, but the fear and the childhood chains were stronger. You didn't leave. You stayed right there, in silence, letting him hold you while he calmed down, trapped in a room that now felt like a prison, knowing you were condemned to stay there and take it.
Context: They are high school exes who "hate" each other, but in reality, they just needed to be locked up together to forget their problems.
7 Minutes in Heaven.
The music vibrated through the living room walls, but in the kitchen, the atmosphere was cold enough to freeze anyone.
You were leaning against the granite countertop, holding a red cup with a drink that had almost no ice left. At the other end of the counter, Hollis was talking to a group of people, but his posture was far too rigid for someone who was supposedly having fun.
Emma -your friend- leaned toward you, pretending to look at their phones to play it cool.
"If you keep looking at him with that 'I want to commit a crime' face, people are going to think you still care, Y/n."
"I'm not looking at him," you replied immediately, shifting your gaze to the ceiling. "I'm analyzing the terrible paint job in this house. It's a visual crime."
"Right, you always say that when you look right where he is." Emma commented with a teasing smile.
At that moment, Hollis said goodbye to his group with a light laugh and walked straight toward the drink dispenser, which was conveniently just a couple of steps away from you. Roman followed closely behind him, rubbing his temples with a exhausted look on his face.
"Excuse me, royalty," Hollis said, with that half-smile that always managed to grate on your nerves. "I wouldn't want to interrupt your important work of ignoring the entire world."
"Don't worry, Hollis," you replied, giving him a falsely sweet smile. "Your mere presence is already a big enough interruption to my peace of mind."
Roman let out a theatrical sigh and looked at Emma, who just rolled her eyes.
"See what I mean?" Roman said, pointing at the two of you with his cup. "You haven't even been in the same square meter for five seconds and it already looks like you're going to draw swords. Get over high school, please. It's been years."
"I am perfectly over it, Roman," you said, taking a sip of your drink. "It's just that some people never learn to mature. The haircut changes, but the fifteen-year-old boy attitude stays."
"Oh, look who's talking, the one who still uses the same defensive sarcasm when she gets nervous," Hollis fired back, taking a step closer to the counter and staring straight into your eyes. "What's wrong, Y/n? Does it bother you that I share the same air as you?"
"It bothers me that you waste it."
Emma huffed and took you by the arm, while Roman placed a hand on Hollis's shoulder to push him in the opposite direction.
"Enough," Emma declared. "Let's go to the living room. You two need to interact with normal people."
"I second the motion," Roman agreed, looking at Hollis with annoyance. "If I have to hear another passive-aggressive remark from you two, I'm going to throw myself out the window."
While you and Emma walked away toward the living room, Hollis and Roman walked in the opposite direction toward the hallway. Hollis, far from being affected by their venomous exchange in the kitchen, had an insufferable, satisfied smile plastered across his face.
"Did you see how she looked at me?" Hollis asked, taking a drink from his cup, still staring down the hallway where you had gone.
Roman frowned, stopping dead in his tracks with an expression of pure confusion.
"Are you talking about the 'I hope you choke on ice' look? Yeah, man, I think everyone within a three-meter radius saw it."
Hollis let out a low chuckle and shook his head, leaning against the wall with an air of absolute victory.
"No, you don't understand at all," he said, lowering his voice a bit. "She still loves me."
Roman stared at him blankly for three long seconds. The level of Hollis's delusion and the arrogance with which he said it was, officially, the last straw. He inhaled deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"You guys are crazy," Roman muttered. "The two of you are completely insane and you're dragging me into your psychosis."
Without giving Hollis time to answer, Roman turned around and walked purposefully toward the living room. He spotted Emma immediately; she was sitting on one of the large couches, staring at her phone with the same exhausted expression. Roman dropped heavily into the empty space next to her.
"I can't stand them anymore," he growled by way of greeting.
Emma didn't even look up from her screen, she simply nodded.
"Did he just say something stupid?"
"He just assured me that Y/n still loves him based on a look of lethal hatred." Roman rubbed his face with his hands. "They have so much built-up tension they're going to blow this house up."
Emma locked her phone and looked at him sideways.
"Tell me about it. Y/n has been insisting all night that Hollis is 'visually and emotionally irrelevant' to her, but she knows exactly which corner of the house he's in at all times. They're too proud to make the first move. If we leave them alone, they're going to end up killing each other."
Roman rested his elbows on his knees, staring at an empty spot on the floor. Suddenly, a spark of pure mischief flashed in his eyes. He looked up and scanned the living room.
"Hey... a lot of people are already calling Ubers, aren't they?"
"Yeah, in less than an hour it'll just be the usual group left," Emma confirmed, frowning. "Why?"
Roman turned to her with a nearly machiavellian smile.
"Because we're going to suggest playing spin the bottle. And we're going to make sure, by divine intervention or pure cheating, that the bottle points exactly at those two idiots for the seven minutes in heaven challenge."
The surprise on Emma's face quickly dissolved into a conspiratorial smile.
"I like the way you think, Roman."
"I'll handle spinning the bottle," he added. "You make sure to shove them into the coat closet. And Emma..."
"Yeah?"
"Get the key. We're not letting them out in seven minutes."
By the time the party dwindled down to about ten people, the group had crowded onto the living room rug. In the center of the circle, an empty beer bottle awaited its fate.
You and Hollis were sitting almost opposite each other, a distance they considered "safe," but one that allowed them to keep glaring at one another.
"Alright, you pair of party poopers!" Roman announced with a suspiciously bright smile, rubbing his hands together. "The rules are simple: the person who spins the bottle picks the dare, and the two chosen go into the coat closet for seven minutes. No exceptions, no cowardice."
"How mature, Roman. What's next? Playing tag?" you commented, rolling your eyes.
"If you're scared, just say so, Y/n," Hollis provoked from his spot, crossing his arms smugly. "Though I get it. I'd also be terrified of the bottle pointing at me and having to spend seven minutes with someone so insufferable. It would disgust me to be locked in there with you, honestly. I'd rather get bitten by a raccoon."
"Disgust? Please, Hollis," you shot back immediately, leaning forward. "The disgust would be mine. Having to breathe the same stagnant air as you for seven minutes in that dark closet is literally my definition of Chinese water torture. I'd rather lick the floor of this living room."
While the two of you kept up your heated argument, completely absorbed in throwing daggers with your eyes, Roman exchanged a quick glance with Emma. With a swift and perfectly practiced motion, Roman spun the bottle in the center.
The bottle spun rapidly several times over the wooden floor, slowly losing speed bit by bit.
"...it's just that you don't even have the vocabulary to hold an argument with me, Hollis, that's why you always resort to the same old teasing about..." you were saying, gesturing with your hand.
Clack.
The bottle came to a complete stop.
The base pointed straight at Hollis. The tip pointed directly at you.
A dead silence fell over the group. Emma suppressed a triumphant laugh, covering her mouth with her hand, while Roman let out a dramatic whistle.
"Well, well, well," Roman said, jumping up from the floor. "Looks like fate has a pretty twisted sense of humor. To the closet, you two resentful lovebirds!"
You froze, looking at the bottle and then at Roman.
"No. Way. Absolutely not going in there with him. Roman, spin it again!"
"That's cheating!" Hollis protested, though his face had also gone slightly pale as he processed the situation. "I don't want to go in either! I demand a lawyer and a change of opponent."
"Rules are rules," Emma declared, grabbing your arm firmly and forcing you to stand up. "We don't want cowards in this game. Move your butts."
Between Roman pushing a Hollis who was pretending to put up physical resistance, and Emma dragging you, the two of you ended up in the hallway facing the narrow door of the coat closet.
"This is ridiculous," you grumbled, crossing your arms as Emma opened the door, revealing a small, dark space packed with winter coats that smelled of dampness and perfume. "Seven minutes? I swear if he makes a single sarcastic comment in there, I will suffocate him with a scarf."
"And I swear if you try to murder me, I'll scream so loud I'll ruin your eardrums," Hollis replied, stepping into the closet with a deep sigh of resignation.
"Have fun!" Roman called out with an angelic smile.
Emma gave you a final little nudge into the closet. You landed so close to Hollis that your chest almost brushed his. The door slammed shut, plunging you into near total darkness, broken only by a thin sliver of light beneath the door.
Click.
The sound of the key turning in the lock echoed with terrifying clarity.
"What the hell?!" you exclaimed, banging your fist against the wood. "Hey! Why did you lock it?"
Behind the door, Roman's voice carried perfectly clear to both of you:
"It's to make sure you don't cheat and sneak out early!" Roman shouted. "Hey, guys, since these two are going to be busy suffering... how about we all go to the kitchen for more alcohol? I got incredibly thirsty."
"Yeah, great idea!" Emma's voice chimed in, intentionally moving away. "Don't let the love—I mean, the hatred consume you! We'll be back in seven minutes!"
"Emma! Roman! Open this damn door right now!" Hollis yelled, pounding on the wood right next to your head.
But the only sound they got back was the sound of the group's footsteps fading down the hall, followed by the faint murmur of the music from the living room. They were completely alone.
The darkness of the closet was nearly absolute, broken only by the thin line of golden light slipping beneath the door. The space was so cramped that the scent of Hollis’s cologne—that blend of wood and citrus that, to your frustration, was still exactly the same—invaded your senses immediately.
You tried to take a step back to gain some distance, but your back instantly hit a row of hanging coats.
"Careful, royalty," Hollis’s voice whispered in the shadows, noticeably deeper and closer than usual. "We don't want you destroying someone else’s coat inventory."
"If you weren't occupying three-quarters of this closet with your massive ego, I'd have room to move," you snapped back, crossing your arms over your chest like a shield.
You stood frozen, trying to focus your eyes in the dark. Even though you could barely make out his features, you knew perfectly well he was looking at you. You could feel the intensity of his eyes locked onto you.
"What are you staring at?" you blurted out, raising an eyebrow defensively.
A low, husky chuckle was heard, the kind that used to give you goosebumps in high school. Hollis leaned a few centimeters forward, closing the small gap separating you.
"Me? Nothing. Just making sure you don't try to suffocate me with a scarf, like you promised out there," he joked, though his playful tone carried a hint of nervousness. "Although... with how close you are, it almost feels like you're looking for something else."
"Oh, yeah? And what's that supposed to be?"
"I don't know. The shallow breathing, the locked gaze..." Hollis let out a half-smile that you could guess from his tone of voice. "What's wrong, Y/n? Do you want to kiss me?"
"Kiss you?" You let out a dry laugh, even though your heart gave a treacherous leap. "Please. I'd rather swallow glass. It would completely disgust me."
"Oh, come on. Don't fake it," he insisted, taking an almost imperceptible step that caused the tips of his shoes to bump against yours. "In high school, it didn't disgust you that much. In fact, I'd swear you loved it."
The air in the closet felt like it turned to lead. The mention of high school fell between the two of you like a block of ice, instantly freezing the banter.
"That was before you decided it was an excellent idea to swap spit with someone else behind the gym bleachers," you said. The words left your mouth heavy with a resentment you had tried to bury under layers of indifference.
Hollis visibly tensed in the darkness. His playful stance completely crumbled.
"Are we on that again?" he asked, and this time his voice held no trace of mockery, only deep frustration. "Y/n, I've told you a million times. Nothing happened the way you think you saw it."
"I know perfectly well what I saw, Hollis!" you hissed, keeping your voice low just to stop the people outside from hearing, even though you wanted to scream inside. "I saw that girl practically on top of you. I saw you holding her waist. What was I supposed to think? That you were teaching her CPR?"
"You should have stayed two seconds longer instead of running away!" he shot back desperately, taking a step that eliminated any free space left between your bodies. "If you had stayed, you would have seen that I pushed her away immediately. She kissed me, Y/N. I didn't even see it coming, and the second I reacted, I pushed her off. She was hysterical because she had just broken up with her boyfriend and... and she did something stupid. But by the time I turned around to look for you, you were already gone."
You ran out of air, feeling the heat of his chest crashing against yours with every agitated breath.
"You broke my heart, Hollis," you confessed in a whisper, and for the first time in years, your shield of sarcasm cracked completely. "The next day you tried to act like nothing happened, and when I wanted to talk about it, your stupid pride made you shut down. You told me if I didn't trust you, it wasn't worth keeping it going."
"Because I was hurt that you thought I'd be capable of doing something like that to you," Hollis admitted, lowering his head, almost brushing his forehead against yours. "I was a proud idiot, I know. I should have gone after you, I should have begged you to listen to me. But I assumed you hated me... and I guess it was easier to let you hate me for something I didn't do than to accept that I had lost you forever."
Your eyes widened. The sliver of light from the floor illuminated his eyes, which shone with a painful honesty you had never seen in him before. They were so close you could feel the trembling of his hands near your arms, torn between touching you or keeping his distance.
It was as if the ground shifted beneath your feet. For years, that memory—the silhouette of Hollis with another girl in the shadows of the bleachers—had been the foundation of your anger, the armor you wore to protect yourself from how much you missed him. But now, seeing the painful honesty in his eyes just inches from your own, that armor completely shattered, leaving only an overwhelming emptiness.
"Did you really... not kiss her?" you asked, and your voice, stripped of all sarcasm, sounded small, almost broken.
"Never," Hollis answered without a second's hesitation. His hand, shaking, rose slowly until it caressed your cheek with a gentleness that stole your breath away. "I could never have done that to you, Y/n. I loved you too much. I still..."
You didn't let him finish.
All the accumulated frustration, the side glances from tonight, the years of silence, and the pain of the misunderstanding exploded in a single impulse. You leaned forward, trapping his lips in a hungry, desperate kiss.
Hollis let out a muffled breath against your mouth, as if he had been waiting for this moment for an eternity. His hands immediately traveled to your waist, pulling you into him tightly, erasing any trace of space between your bodies. The kiss wasn't soft or slow; it was a torrent of pent-up emotions, a mix of relief, apology, and the undeniable physics of two people who had never stopped belonging to each other.
You clung to his shoulders, burying yourself in his warmth while he cradled you against the closet wall, completely ignoring the coats surrounding you. The outside world, the party, and the timer simply ceased to exist.
In the hallway, the silence was absolute, broken only by the distant music from the living room. Emma looked at her phone screen, where the timer had just hit the zero-second mark of the mandatory seven minutes.
"Done," Emma said, pulling the closet key from her pants pocket with a smile. "Time's up. I'm going to let them out before they end up killing each other in there."
She took a step toward the closet door, but before she could put the key in the lock, Roman's hand intervened, firmly catching her wrist.
"Wait," Roman whispered, with a sharp look.
"What are you doing?" Emma asked, frowning. "The seven minutes are up, Roman. We fulfilled the deal."
"Emma, please. I know Hollis, and you know Y/n," Roman explained, tilting his head toward the closet door. "Those two are stubborner than a mule. If we open the door right now, they're gonna walk out pretending nothing happened, fix their clothes, cuss us out, and go right back to ignoring each other the rest of the night just to keep their stupid pride intact."
Emma looked at the wooden door and then at Roman, hesitating.
"So what do you suggest? Leave them in the dark?"
"Exactly. They need more time," Roman insisted with a knowing smirk. "They need the confinement to make them desperate enough to stop acting and speak from the heart. Let's go get another round of drinks from the kitchen. If they're still screaming at each other when we come back, we'll open it. But I bet you whatever you want that right now they aren't having such a bad time."
Emma was quiet for a second. Then, noticing that from inside the closet there were no more bangs or furious complaints to be heard—but rather a suspicious and total silence—a satisfied smile spread across her face.
"You're right," Emma concluded, putting the key away again. "Let them suffer a little bit more. Let's go get that alcohol."
The space that before felt suffocating and narrow now seemed like the only place in the world they wanted to be. The metal hangers rustled softly as Hollis adjusted you a bit more against the closet wall, moving his hands under your thighs to lift you up and making sure you were comfortable amidst the sea of winter coats.
"What do you think you're doing?" you murmured against his lips as you felt him lift your dress trying to look at your panties, which were already starting to get damp from the kisses he had given you earlier.
"What? It's what I've wanted to do since the party started. I love how this dress looks on you, but I like what's underneath it even more." You felt his words tickle your stomach; for the first time, you didn't want to use your sarcasm to protect yourself from his comments, you just wanted it to happen.
"You're an idiot, Hollis," you replied, though your fingers tangled gently into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him back. "An idiot who owes me a much longer explanation when we get out of here."
"I'll give you all the explanation you want... after I make you mine again." A low chuckle escaped your lips; you felt an excitement just like those high school years, as if you were doing something forbidden, hidden away from the rest of the world.
One of his hands moved away from your thigh to start unbuttoning his trousers, while he began leaving wet kisses starting from your jawline down to your neck. Your hands gripped his shoulders, feeling the anticipation of his words pulsing against your chest. You couldn't see anything due to the darkness of the closet, but you could feel him pushing your panties aside to position himself at your entrance, sliding slowly inside you. You immediately let out a sharp moan, which he instantly silenced by joining his lips to yours again.
"Shh, you don't want anyone to hear us, right?" he whispered against your lips. You could feel his victorious smile against your mouth, but he wasn't helping much; he buried himself inside you with a torturous slowness that made you involuntarily arch your body at the deep and perfect invasion. The pleasure was so sharp that another involuntary moan escaped your throat, but he gave you no time to process it, sealing his lips with a hungry, deep kiss to drown out the sound.
As time went on, Hollis increased the pace, his movements becoming deeper and steadier, his pelvis crashing against yours with a wet sound that echoed off the wooden walls. You felt like you were losing your senses; every thrust made you tremble from head to toe, and your breathing became erratic, searching for air between his desperate kisses.
"God, Y/n... you're so tight, you're going to drive me crazy," he groaned against your neck, losing his composure as his fingers dug into the flesh of your thighs, lifting you to take him even deeper.
You tried to bite your lip to keep from screaming, but the feeling of him filling you, of that hot and perfect friction, pushed you to the brink. A muffled whimper escaped your nose as your nails dug into Hollis’s back, searching for an anchor in the middle of the storm of pleasure.
You could feel the pressure building in your core, a wave of heat that threatened to drive you mad. Your eyes shut tight as the friction became unbearable, an ecstasy that forced you to arch toward him.
"Hollis...!" you gasped, but your voice was lost in a broken sigh as you felt the shock of the orgasm rushing through you. Hollis let out a guttural groan, burying himself in you one last time with desperate strength as his own body tensed, releasing himself inside you.
Both were left panting, joined in the shadows, hearts hammering against their chests. Silence returned to the closet, broken only by their catching breaths and the residual heat of their surrender.
They were just finishing fixing their clothes when a murmur of footsteps and muffled laughter began approaching down the hallway. Emma's voice cut clearly through the wood.
"Well, it's been almost thirty minutes. If they're still alive, it's a miracle. Open it already, Roman."
Hollis and you stepped away from each other reluctantly, trying to act normal while looking into each other's eyes with a spark of shared mischief in the dim light. The pride and quick wit that characterized you both returned in a split second, but this time, you were playing on the same team again.
Cw: Drug use, explicit sex content, dirty talk, unprotected sex.
Dealer Fem!reader × Buyer!Rommulas.
ADDICTION
For Roman, control wasn't a preference; it was a necessity. In his world, depending on others was always a risk, but there were certain comforts he wasn't willing to give up. The "powder" was one of them. It wasn't a simple addiction; it was the fuel for his sleepless nights, the spark that kept his mind sharp while he planned his next moves.
That was why, when his trusted dealer vanished from the map overnight—leaving behind rumors of a hasty escape or a tragic end—Roman's annoyance was immediate. The cheap substitutes that flooded the city corners weren't an option; he didn't put just any garbage into his body, nor did he lower himself to deal with low-life criminals who grew nervous just by looking at his shadow.
It was an old acquaintance from the business who, after seeing his obvious discontent, slipped him a piece of paper with a single handwritten detail: a phone number and an alias.
"He's the best." he had been assured in a whisper. "But he has strict rules. He doesn't show his face. They call him ghost."
Roman didn't like mysteries; he liked to know exactly who he was dealing with, measuring his rivals and allies with a single glance. However, the scarcity was pressing, and curiosity—a rare weakness in him—began to gain ground.
That night, sitting in the leather armchair of his half-lit office, with an untouched glass of whiskey on the desk, Roman stared at his phone screen. The cursor blinked in a completely empty chat. He typed a single word, simple, waiting to see what kind of ghost would answer on the other side.
[New Contact: Ghost]
Roman: Hello.
Ghost: Who gave you this contact?
Roman: A mutual acquaintance. My usual provider had to... retire from the game. He told me you handle the best powder in the area.
Ghost: I don't vouch for recommendations if I don't know who they come from. But I'll make an exception this time. Clear rules: No calls. No meetings. No questions. How much do you want?
Roman: I like that you're direct. I want 15 grams to start. If the quality is good, we'll be very good partners.
Ghost:: We are not partners. I am your provider, you are the buyer. Nothing more. The price is 1,200.
Roman: Fine. Where do we meet for the exchange?
Ghost: We don't meet. Tomorrow at 8:00 PM, leave the cash inside a black bag behind the dumpster in the alley on 4th Street. If the money is complete, I will send you the coordinates of your package ten minutes later.
Roman: And how do I know you won't just keep my money and disappear, ghost? I don't usually trust ghosts.
Ghost: My reputation speaks for itself. If you don't trust it, find someone else. You have until tomorrow at noon to confirm if you accept the conditions.
On the other side of the city, the bluish glow of your phone screen hit your face in the darkness of the room. The closed curtains isolated you from the outside noise, creating the perfect environment to focus. Obviously, you knew who this Roman guy was. Your contact had already warned you that an important guy would message you; he had assured you that he was a steady buyer with deep pockets, but with a big warning: he was extremely demanding and used to having things done exactly his way.
The problem for Roman was that he had met his match. You were exactly the same. Your motto had always been "my merchandise, my rules," but you knew perfectly well that in this business, the big client usually thinks "my money, my rules." Reading his short replies, you knew immediately that this man would be a headache. However, you couldn't ignore the numbers: asking for fifteen grams right off the bat on the first contact showed he wasn't playing games. It was going to leave an excellent profit.
The phone vibrated on your sheets, interrupting your thoughts.
Roman: Fine, I accept the deal.
A small smile formed on your lips. You knew that, despite his arrogance, you had secured a perfect buyer. You set the phone aside and began to prepare the package with your usual flawless precision.
The next night, Roman's punctuality showed. The alley on 4th Street was dark, barely lit by the reflection of a distant streetlight. Right at 8:00 PM, Roman's silhouette crossed the corner. He didn't stop to look around to avoid raising suspicions; he walked with a firm step to the dumpster, dropped the black bag with the 1,200 in cash, and left immediately, heading straight to his car to avoid running into any local crazies.
He got into the vehicle, closed the door with a sharp thud, and the engine came to life, isolating him from the outside cold. Exactly ten minutes passed. At 8:10 PM sharp, his dashboard screen lit up and his phone chimed with a notification.
Ghost: Go to this address, you'll find your package inside a cookie tin. [Shared Location]
Roman arched an eyebrow when he saw the map. The marked address was only three minutes away, on a slightly more lit but deserted commercial street at that hour. He drove fast, parking half a block away. Getting out of the car, he walked toward a specific spot next to a closed shop; there, on top of a clean trash bin, was the metal tin with old Christmas designs. A ridiculously effective camouflage.
He took it, returned to the car, and, once safe inside, opened it. Beneath a couple of papers meant to add bulk, the sealed bag with the fine white powder gleamed. Roman took the bag between his fingers, assessing the texture and purity at a glance. He let out a long sigh of relief; the quality was impeccable.
He looked at the empty cookie tin and then at his phone. "Ghost" not only worked clean, but moved fast. Roman typed one last message before driving off.
Roman: Excellent quality. You have a steady client, Ghost. I hope the exchange is more personal next time.
You were already far from the area, watching the confirmation on your screen while counting the cash you had already picked up from the first spot. Seeing his insinuation of "making it more personal," you let out a silent laugh.
Exactly three months passed. In that time, Roman had become the perfect buyer: always on time, paid to the penny, and no longer argued with your indirect delivery methods. However, through the screen, the tension between the two had grown. It was no longer just a transaction; it had become a game of push and pull. Roman remained fascinated by the identity of this mysterious "Ghost" who maintained such a strict distance.
One night, while you were cleaning your workspace, the phone vibrated with the custom ringtone you had assigned to him.
Roman: I'm almost done with the stuff from last time.
Ghost: So fast? Didn't I just give it to you 6 days ago?
Roman: What? Do you care about me now, bro?
You smiled ironically as you read the "bro." It amused you greatly that he assumed with such certainty that you were a man. You typed quickly, keeping your usual dry tone.
Ghost: Nah, I don't care. I'm just surprised you finished it so quickly.
Roman: Yeah, I shared it. But hey, better for you, right? More profit.
Roman: But this time, I want to see you. It's been a long time. I'll pay you more to meet in person.
You paused for a moment, looking at the screen. Normally you would have blocked anyone who insisted so much on breaking the rules, but Roman's audacity amused you. You decided to tempt him a little.
Ghost: If it's 15 as usual, it's 1,200. How much would you pay me for the exception?
Roman: I didn't think you'd agree so easily. 2,000 for the same 15 grams, how does that sound?
Ghost: I wasn't going to accept, but I got curious to see how much you were willing to pay to see your favorite dealer. I think you've lost your mind from the use, but I don't care about the extra cash. I accept. I'll send you the place tomorrow.
On the other side of the line, a smile filled with pure satisfaction formed on Roman's lips. He had finally done it. The mysterious ghost on the phone had yielded. In his mind, Roman was already imagining the person's profile: probably a weird, sullen guy, maybe a haggard addict with the look of living in the slums who hid out of pure paranoia. He amused himself with the thought of seeing the terrified look on this "boy's" face when he saw who he had been dealing with all this time.
The next night, the atmosphere was heavy. Roman was waiting in the agreed alley, a dark, secluded place where the street light barely reached. He wore his usual impeccable elegance, holding a lit cigarette between his fingers while impatiently checking his phone screen.
The echo of light footsteps broke the silence of the alley. Roman looked up, expecting to see a guy in a hoodie appear, but his eyes widened slightly when he saw a girl walking with total composure toward him. Her steps were firm, confident, and under the dim light of the street lamp, her presence was commanding; she looked straight out of a modeling magazine, completely contrasting with the filth of the surroundings.
Roman, assuming she was a civilian who had taken a wrong turn in such a dangerous area, lowered his phone and let out an arrogant, protective smile. He couldn't help but hide the immediate attraction he felt upon seeing her.
"Hey, mami. Need something?" he asked in a smooth, drawn-out voice, convinced she was a lost girl who needed help. And if she needed it, he was more than willing to give her all the attention she wanted.
You stopped a meter away from him, looking him straight in the eyes. Your favorite buyer was finally face-to-face with you, completely defenseless against reality.
A half-smile drew on your lips as you pulled a small, neat metal box from your coat.
"Sure. I need my money," you replied with a firm voice, extending the box toward him.
The cigarette almost fell from Roman's fingers. The confidence with which you spoke, the exact words, and the delivery box made all the pieces click in his head in a second. The coldness of the messages, the absolute control of the business... it wasn't a haggard guy. It was her.
The surprise left Roman completely speechless for a few seconds. His mind, usually quick and calculating, tried to process the clash between the cold "bro" of the screens and the stunning woman in front of him. He dropped the cigarette to the ground, crushing it with the tip of his shoe without taking his eyes off you.
"Ghost?" he managed to say, with a half-smile of incredulity, while his gaze swept over your features. "Wow... I certainly didn't expect this."
"Less talking and more business, Roman," you said, keeping the box extended. "I'm in a hurry. I don't like staying in the same spot for more than five minutes, and you already wasted one processing the information."
Roman let out a low laugh, truly captivated by your untamable attitude. He pulled the stack of bills with the agreed 2,000 from his coat and handed it to you, deliberately brushing your fingers as he made the exchange.
"It's a shame. I thought for that price I could buy you a drink and get to know my provider better," he commented suggestively.
"The extra price was just for the ticket to see my face. The show is over," you replied with a sly smile. You quickly tucked the money into your jacket, turned around, and walked away down the alley, vanishing into the darkness of the night as fast as the smoke you were named after.
Roman stood there, watching the place where you had disappeared. He was completely fascinated.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
From that night on, the game changed completely. Roman no longer messaged you just to restock; he became a constant presence in your notifications.
Roman: I must admit the merchandise is excellent, but the packaging exceeded my expectations.
You read the message and left the phone face down on the table. You knew perfectly well what he was trying to do, and though you had to admit Roman was a highly attractive man with a dangerous magnetism, your golden rule was to keep your distance.
Days passed, and the messages kept coming.
Roman: Are you that busy, Ghost? Just want to know if you're available for a big order this week.
Ghost: Friday at the same time. Choose the usual drop-off location.
Roman: So sharp. Are you always this cold with your favorite clients?
Ignored. You would let hours, sometimes days, pass before responding only to what was strictly necessary. But Roman wasn't one to give up easily; the mutual indifference only fueled his obsession with breaking your armor.
A month after their first in-person encounter, Roman decided to change his strategy. He cited you at a luxury penthouse on the top floor of an exclusive building in the city, a private place where he had total control of the environment. When you arrived and the door opened, the mood was dimly lit, with soft music in the background and a bottle of expensive liquor on the coffee table.
"You're on time," Roman said, wearing a black shirt with the first few buttons undone, looking dangerously relaxed.
"Always. Here is your stuff," you said, placing the bag of powder on the table.
Roman took the package, but instead of putting it away or paying you immediately, he opened the bag and poured a perfect line onto a glass surface. Then, he looked at you intently, those dark eyes full of intentions.
"Join me tonight," he invited, extending a small rolled note to you. "Let's enjoy this together. It's on the house."
You took a step back, crossing your arms. Your posture was firm.
"I don't consume with clients, Roman. It's a strict rule. I collect my money and I leave."
"Come on, Ghost" he insisted, taking a step toward you, closing the distance until you could feel the heat radiating from his body. His voice dropped to a magnetic whisper. "You already broke your rule about not showing your face. What difference does one more exception make? Besides... I know I'm not indifferent to you. I can see it in your eyes."
Your gaze held with his. The air in that room was thick, charged with a heavy, dangerous tension that you had been ignoring for months through the screen. Roman was right about one thing: danger attracted you, and having him so close, challenging your limits with such sweeping confidence, was beginning to make your defenses falter.
You looked at the line on the table and then returned your eyes to him, a slow, defiant smile appearing on your face.
"Alright, Roman..." you said, uncrossing your arms and taking a step forward, catching him completely in his own game. "You win this round. But don't get used to it."
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
You took a deep breath before tilting your head. Upon inhaling the thin line of white powder, you felt a sharp, electric sting racing through your nasal cavity, heading straight for your brain like a bolt of cold light.
Moments later, the world began to shift. The tension in your shoulders dissolved, replaced by an euphoric lightness. You felt a sudden, liquid warmth spreading from your chest to your limbs, tinting your cheeks with a soft flush. The air in the room grew denser, richer, and the friction of your own clothes against your skin began to feel dangerously stimulating, awakening a latent spark of desire in your belly.
"Shit... this is... perfect," you whispered, feeling the heat swell within you. Roman, who had been watching the process from the shadows, immediately caught the shift in the atmosphere. He saw how your pupils dilated until they devoured your irises and how that clouded gaze, charged with a mixture of euphoria and hunger, settled upon him.
A crooked, predatory smile appeared on his face; it was a look he knew all too well, the one that preceded chaos.
"I see you're already in the right place, ghost," he murmured with a voice vibrating with anticipation, setting his liquor glass down on the table. "That look tells me you don't just want to talk anymore."
He approached you with slow strides, enjoying the way your body seemed to react to his presence, intensifying the heat already consuming you. Finally, he sat beside you, gently taking hold of your wrist.
"Come here," he murmured in a husky, drawn-out voice.
When Roman pulled you toward him, you didn't resist. Sitting on his lap felt strangely natural, as if the power dynamic you had shared for months over screens was finally finding its physical resolution.
"You took too long to agree, ghost" Roman whispered against your skin, his voice deep and heavy while his hands, firm and warm, gripped your waist.
Your fingers tangled in his dark hair, pulling it back slightly to look him in the eyes. Despite your blurred vision and the distortion of the city lights pouring through the massive window, the intensity with which he watched you was sharp. You were no longer just an alias on his phone; you were the woman who had kept him under control for months, and now he had you right where he wanted.
"I told you not to get used to it, Roman. And you don't need to call me ghost anymore, just call me Y/n," you said with a slow smile, feeling the prickle of adrenaline rush down your spine before leaning in to find his lips.
The kiss was chaotic, fueled by the rush of the high and pent-up desire.
Roman pushed you down against the couch, his hands working with an almost violent desperation to strip away your clothes. When he took off your panties, he only had to use one hand to tear them completely apart, your thighs were finally exposed, he dropped between your legs, his dark gaze taking in your dampness.
"You're going to regret having spent so much time hiding from me." he growled, before burying his face between your legs.
You felt her hot, wet tongue trace a searing line from your mound of Venus to your clitoris, sucking with a force that made you back arch and pulled a breathless groan from your throat. While his tongue played with your clitoris, his hand moved up to squeeze one of your breasts, massaging it while his tongue worked relentlessly, driving you to the edge in a matter of seconds.
"God, Roman..." you gasped, burying your fingers in his dark hair as your body trembled violently from the overstimulation. Your eyes rolled back, feeling every movement of Roman's tongue like an electric shock bringing you to the absolute limit. Far from slowing down, he increased the pressure, using his fingers to open you up even more while his tongue worked with an almost animalistic precision, relishing how you unraveled in his hands. Roman thought he would never feel as alive as he did in this moment, devouring the woman he had chased in the shadows for so long. He felt a surge of absolute dominance; he didn't want to be gentle, he wanted to possess you completely, with no filters or barriers to hold him back. He stood up with quickness, shedding his pants to stand bare and ready, his long, hard member throbbed at the sight of how wet you were for him.
"I'm not using anything, Y/n. I want to feel all of you" he commanded in a low, haunting voice, his gaze locked onto yours as he forced your legs open wider than necessary, lifting one of your thighs to hip level.
Without giving you time to process the intensity of his words, he positioned himself over you and pinned your wrists against the couch with one of his hands, rendering you immobile. With a slow but brutally deep thrust, he buried himself in your wetness, filling you completely in one go.
"Look at me... I want you to see exactly who claims your pussy," he growled, moving into a frantic, possessive rhythm that stole your breath away. Roman felt like his head was going to explode; the heat inside you was so suffocating and perfect that he only wanted to lose himself in the chaos. His movements grew more erratic, each hard thrust driving deep into you, marking his territory with every clash of his hips against yours.
"You're mine... only mine, damn it," he panted, his voice breaking as he gripped you tighter, almost painfully, forcing you to feel every bit of his power.
You could barely articulate words; your mind was a whirlwind of colors and intense physical sensations. Your legs wrapped around his waist, driving for more friction as the pleasure hit you in waves. "Please, don't stop," you pleaded, feeling your clitoris rub against him with every stroke, drawing you closer to an inevitable, shattering climax.
"I'm going to finish inside you, little bitch. I'm going to leave you so dirty that no one else is going to want to touch you but me," Roman murmured, his voice cracking with raw lust as his thrusts came fast and reckless, penetrating to your very core.
"I don't need anyone else when I have you," you weakly murmured back, abandoning all pride, your head thrown back and your body convulsing as you felt the world give way. He didn't slow down, his hips slamming against yours with a raw sound and with one final, violent surge that knocked the air right out of you, he let out a stifled moan, his voice cracking with as he began to plant wet, desperate kisses on your neck. Finally drove all the way in, spending himself deeply inside you while you both crashed into a messy, trembling climax on the fluid-stained couch.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
The light of dawn filtered softly through the curtains, illuminating the room after the storm of euphoria and sweat. The silence was thick, broken only by the quiet breathing of the two of you. You felt heavy, wrapped in the silk sheets, while Roman kept his arm around you, pulling your side close against his chest with an unexpected tenderness.
"Hey... look at me," he murmured, kissing your forehead gently, his voice regaining its professional calm, though still laced with a trace of exhaustion. "About a few hours ago... what I said... don't take it too seriously, Y/n. It was the high, the alcohol... the heat of the moment. Just a loss of control."
You looked at him from the corner of your eye, merely nodding in response to let him know you understood he hadn't meant the rough words literally, though it hadn't bothered you at all. Seeing that you were just as tired, a small smile formed on his lips before he adjusted himself to rest by your side.
"Get some rest now. You did a good job last night," he murmured softly, making sure you were comfortable.
"But, just a warning," he whispered, his voice a little raspy as his fingers gently stroked your shoulder. "Don't go thinking this will be the only time," he teased with a wicked little smile on his lips.
The only thing you could do was let out a amused huff. Well, it looked like you had finally found another kind of addiction that you were starting to like.
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–Part1.
Student Fem!reader x Piano Teacher!Hollis.
The Winter Sonata
What happens when London’s most unattainable pianist claims you as his fiancée in front of everyone who judged you?
The clock ticked down relentlessly, counting the hours remaining until the most exclusive night in London, and the city had dressed itself entirely in silver and white. Outside, thick snowflakes danced under the golden glow of the streetlamps. Inside, two completely different worlds were preparing for the exact same moment. On one side was your small, slightly chaotic apartment.
The radiator hummed loudly, and the bed was completely buried under a mountain of discarded clothes. You rushed from one side to the other with a hairbrush in one hand and a tube of lipstick in the other, your heart doing little flips against your ribs. Every choice felt monumental. Should you wear the classic white dress that made you look like a proper conservatory student, or something a bit bolder to match your personality? Soft music played from your phone, but your mind was playing a completely different tune: the deep, resonant bass notes Hollis had played right beside you. You checked the time for the fifth time in ten minutes, accidentally smudging your eyeliner, and let out a frustrated groan mixed with excitement. You weren't just getting ready for a concert; you were getting ready to stand before the man who had completely upended your routine.
On the other side, the atmosphere was the absolute definition of stillness.
Hollis’s apartment was spacious, minimalist, and perfectly orderly. The only sound was the crackle of a burning fireplace. He stood in front of a full-length mirror, his expression as calm and unreadable as ever, though his fingers moved just a fraction of a second faster than usual as he fastened the silver cufflinks on his white shirt. He shrugged into his tailored tuxedo jacket, smoothing down the lapels with care. Everything about him screamed the image of the perfect maestro London expected him to be. Yet, as he reached for his watch, his gaze drifted to the window, watching the snow fall. For the first time in his entire career, he wasn't thinking about the critics, the applause, or the flawless execution of the sheet music. He was thinking about a single seat in the very center of the front row. He reached into his pocket, making sure the small detail he had prepared was safe, while a rare, faint smile softened the edges of his usually frozen expression.
With one final look at his appearance, both of you stepped out into the freezing London night, heading toward the grand theater where the cold rules of the conservatory were about to melt under the heat of a shared melody.
♫
"Oh, God, everyone is here..." you murmured in a low voice upon arriving at the venue and noticing the familiar faces among the crowd; even those who had once judged you with their eyes when you decided not to follow their rules.
"Miss Clifford, what a surprise to find you in these quarters after having abandoned your parents."
You instantly fell silent upon hearing that voice behind you. A year ago, to be exact, you had grown tired of the strict rules your family imposed on you—especially your mother. Your relationship with her had never been good; she wanted to control everything, but you were far too rebellious to be tamed. The only reason you still had money to sustain yourself in London was because your father kept sending it to you in secret; he loved you too much to simply leave you helpless.
"Oh, Mr. Evans, it has been a while..." you responded with a fake, polite smile, though your stomach felt twisted. "I'm glad to see you still haven't stopped being so... invested in other people's lives."
Your hands gripped the lapels of the white coat draped over your shoulders; you just wanted to run away from there. Before Mr. Evans could reply in a tone that clearly wouldn't be pleasant, his wife's voice called out to him. The moment he turned around, you took the opportunity to quickly spin on your heel, blending into the sea of people in evening wear who were starting to walk toward the main hall.
Finally, you reached your seat. You let out a soft sigh of relief upon finding yourself safe in your spot, far from the venomous glares. Hollis hadn't lied: your seat was absolutely and truly perfect. You had a direct view right at the center of the stage, where the imposing black grand piano gleamed under the spotlights, waiting for the maestro to play his beautiful melody.
Little by little, the grand theater fell into a deathly silence, interrupted only by the occasional dry, contained cough typical of such a refined place. The atmosphere grew tense, filled with an almost religious expectation. Suddenly, the house lights dimmed completely, and the stage spotlights intensified.
The side door opened, and Hollis’s silhouette stepped onto the stage.
Your heart beat faster than usual, and you had to swallow hard with difficulty, praying inside that no one would notice how unusually nervous you had become. Hollis looked unreal. The tailored tuxedo hugged his figure with flawless elegance, and his posture, straight and haughty, intimidated anyone in the room. He advanced with firm steps toward the center of the stage, bearing that serious, unreadable expression that had earned him the nickname the "Ice King."
The audience erupted into unison, deafening applause, but Hollis only offered a slow, gentlemanly bow. And then, before sitting at the piano, it happened. His sharp gaze swept across the front row with mathematical precision until his eyes locked directly onto yours.
It was only a second. An ephemeral instant in which the outside world seemed to freeze entirely. Through the lenses of his glasses, there was no coldness; there was a silent promise that everything about to happen in that room was exclusively for you.
Hollis looked away, settled onto the wooden bench, and placed his long hands over the ivory keys. The silence returned, denser than before, while you leaned slightly forward in your seat, goosebumps blooming on your skin as you held your breath.
♫
When the melody began, everything became magical. You listened to every note with absolute attention, feeling as if you were floating in the sky; it felt like a beautiful dream from which you never wanted to wake. For a moment, you forgot about everything and everyone, centering yourself solely and exclusively on the man in front of you. When he finally finished his piece, your mind snapped back to reality at the sound of the audience's euphoric applause, causing you to immediately stand up to applaud him as well.
An hour later, you found yourself enjoying the exclusive banquet offered by the conservatory. It was an intimate, elegant dinner, ideal for waiting out the midnight hour that would mark the arrival of Christmas. Everything passed in tranquility until, once again, someone from your past arrived to ruin the moment.
"Clifford? What is she doing here?" asked the voice of that old witch who had tormented you for so many years: Mrs. Lily. She was accompanied by her supposedly "perfect" daughter.
"How curious, I never thought I'd see you at an event like this. Especially now that you're no longer seeing James," Emma added with a slight, mocking smile. She had always wanted to destroy your relationship with your ex-boyfriend, and now she was surely savoring her victory.
"I was invited," you responded sharply, turning your back to shake them off, completely unaware that they would begin to follow you like flies.
They started to badger you with stupid, venomous comments. "Don't you think about your future?", "You should return to your parents so they can find you a proper fiancé." A fiancé? Please, the last thing you wanted in this life was for someone to try and control you again.
"I already have one," you shot back without thinking, spinning around abruptly to face them.
Your words only caused them to laugh right in your face with sheer superiority, a reaction that irritated you to your core.
"Oh, please, Y/n, don't lie," Mrs. Lily scoffed, adjusting her jewelry. "We all know perfectly well that no one would put up with that rebellion of yours... You respect no one."
But then, before you could let loose a furious retort, a commanding presence eclipsed the space. An elegant shadow planted itself right by your side, and a firm arm, wrapped in the expensive black tuxedo, slid around your waist with a naturalness that left you breathless. The warmth of his body enveloped you instantly, rescuing you from the chill of those women.
"Ah, there you are, sweetheart. Sorry I'm late, I was looking everywhere for you," a low, deeply seductive, and drawn-out voice pronounced, breaking the tension in the air with a baffling calmness.
You froze as you looked up. It was Hollis. London's very own prodigy was staring intently at you through his glasses with a sweetness so false it was perfect, playing the role with the genius of a professional actor. His long fingers tightened gently against your side, drawing you closer to his chest, while he turned his sharp, icy gaze toward Mrs. Lily and her daughter.
The faces of the two women completely contorted. The color drained from their cheeks, and their mouths fell wide open, frozen by the shock of seeing the most sought-after and untouchable pianist in London's high society calling you "sweetheart."
"Excuse the disruption, ladies," Hollis continued with that relentless courtesy that cut like ice. "But if you will excuse us, I must take my fiancée. We have a celebration waiting for us this midnight."
♫
Hollis guided you carefully, leading you far away from the prying eyes of the crowd. You could feel your cheeks burning before you stepped out into the open air with him, met instantly by the biting cold of the London night.
"I can't believe it..." you murmured, before bursting into a fit of laughter. "Did you see their faces?" you asked, trying to control your giggles as you felt Hollis’s hands meticulously adjusting your white coat to shield you from the freezing air.
"Thank you for saving me back there," you continued, looking into his eyes. "Though now I'm sorry everyone will be talking about you for a few days. They'll probably wonder how it's even possible for you to be my fiancé."
After saying that, you gently slipped from his grip and began to walk down the theater stairs, which were already blanketed under a dangerous layer of ice. But the moment you took your second step, your heels lost their grip, and you slipped. Fortunately, Hollis’s reflexes were fast: his arm securely wrapped around your waist, pulling you back and pulling you straight against his firm chest.
A sharp, immediate pain shot through your leg. It felt as though you had completely sprained your ankle.
"Auch!" you groaned, letting out a wail of pain as you leaned entirely into Hollis’s arms, unable to put any weight on your foot.
Hollis let out a tense sigh, his brow furrowing with a genuine worry he rarely ever showed. He held you firmly, making sure you wouldn't fall.
"Let me see," he requested in a low voice, leaning down slightly. Noticing how you avoided putting your foot on the frozen ground, he made a quick decision. He looked out at the street where the storm was raging, and then back at you. "A hospital will be completely overwhelmed at this hour on Christmas Eve; it will take them far too long to look at you. My apartment is only a few blocks away. Besides..." he paused briefly, staring intently at you through his glasses, "I already have a dinner prepared waiting for us. I'll examine you there."
Before you could protest or say you didn't want to be a burden, Hollis leaned down and, with astonishing ease, lifted you into his arms. Your heart took a wild leap as you wrapped your hands around his neck to keep from falling, letting his woody cologne envelop you completely amidst the falling snow.
♫
You stayed quiet for a few seconds as he effortlessly carried you toward his sports car. Your mind was racing; everything felt incredibly strange. Just a few days ago, this man was severely reprimanding you for not paying attention, and now he was carrying you in his arms as if you were the most precious thing in the world.
"A dinner? Seriously, were you that certain I'd agree to have dinner with you?" you asked with an amused laugh, looking at him sideways.
Hollis merely glanced at you from the corner of his eye before replying with total confidence:
"Yes."
When you reached his car, he settled you into the passenger seat with extreme delicacy, making sure not to hurt your ankle. The drive toward his home passed in a comfortable silence, broken only by the soft classical music flowing from the radio and the sound of the tires over the snow.
"Fiancé..." you murmured to yourself, letting out a low chuckle while observing his long, steady hands on the steering wheel. "What will you do when someone asks if it's true?" you asked him, keeping your eyes locked on him.
"Nothing..." His response caught you by surprise. What did that mean? Would he say yes... or no? Hollis kept silent for a second before adding: "I suppose I'll just say that my fiancée is a real troublemaker when it comes to following orders."
He joked, and for the first time, you saw him smile. It wasn't a subtle twitch; it was a genuine, warm smile that completely transformed his usual stern look—one that made you laugh softly and sent a flutter through your stomach.
Finally, you arrived at his spacious, elegant apartment. Hollis carried you in his arms once more to go upstairs and carefully laid you down on the living room's leather sofa. Immediately, he knelt in front of you and began to unbuckle the strap of your high-heeled shoe with incredibly precise, professional movements.
"Hey... Are you a doctor too, by any chance?" you teased a bit, trying to hide the nerves caused by having him so close and touching your skin.
Hollis didn't flinch. He looked up with a raised eyebrow and a small smirk of self-satisfaction.
"I studied medicine for three years at Oxford before dedicating myself fully to the piano professionally," he answered with absolute nonchalance, while his fingers gently pressed key points on your ankle to assess the damage.
You went completely silent, blinking in surprise at his confession. Hollis let out a low chuckle at the sight of your bewildered expression, clearly enjoying having left you speechless.
"It's just a mild sprain, Y/n. No fracture," he diagnosed, standing up. "Stay here. I'll get some ice, and then we will have dinner."
True to his word, Hollis served the dinner he had already meticulously prepared—a dish worthy of a high-end restaurant that filled the place with a mouthwatering aroma. You dined right there in the living room, sharing a strangely cozy atmosphere as the clock ticked down to midnight. The professor's rigidity had vanished completely, revealing an attentive, cultured, and magnetic man.
Just as the bells began to chime in the distance, announcing it was officially Christmas, Hollis set his wine glass aside. He reached toward the coffee table and picked up the small golden envelope you had seen earlier at the theater, along with a small, elegant navy velvet box.
He extended them to you, keeping his eyes locked onto yours.
"Merry Christmas, Y/n," he said in a deep whisper. "This is for you."
With hands trembling out of anticipation, you opened the velvet box. Inside, gleaming under the dim glow of the fireplace, was a beautiful, delicate gold pendant shaped like a treble clef intertwined with a small, rebellious rose.
"Hollis... it's beautiful," you murmured, feeling your eyes grow misty with emotion. "You shouldn't have..."
"Yes, I should," he interrupted, leaning toward you until his face was only inches from yours. "That pendant represents exactly who you are: pure music, free and beautiful, refusing to be tamed by anyone. And starting tonight..." Hollis brought his hand to your cheek, caressing it with a tenderness that melted away any trace of London's chill, "I won't allow anyone to extinguish who you are again."
I'll never understand why you love confusing your readers with your weird stories. Now I have no idea if Hollis likes Y/N or not. (It reminds me of Tom Riddle's story.)
(I have no idea how you still remember that story.) Idk, hahaha. But I feel like my story is boring because I have no idea if people are realizing that Y/N is an unreliable narrator. 😞
A/n: I'm going to lose my mind trying to finish this.
Stalker Fem!reader × Stalker Hollis.
–{Previous part
OBSESSION
Blurred. 4
"Are you certain Miss July didn't have any trouble with anyone at the party?" the police officer asked.
The man was standing right in front of you. You knew this moment would come, but the air felt too thick, strange, as if you were floating a couple of inches outside your own body. Before answering, your eyes drifted toward the gurney. They were wheeling away your friend's lifeless body, covered in a white sheet that revealed the incomprehensible outline of her form.
"Of course, I'm sure..." you murmured, lowering your gaze. Your eyes stung, a sharp pain from forcing so many fake tears to come out. "But if I'm being honest, I don't know who she was meeting... but I know she was going to be with someone, up there." You looked up. The officer was jotting down notes in his notepad. They were surely just stupid scribbles. You knew they would close the case as an "incident." It had to be an incident.
A few meters away, Hollis was still watching you. He didn't break his gaze even when one of the cops stepped right in front of him, cutting off his line of sight. He seemed focused on something other than the tragedy. On you. When the officer diverted his attention toward his partners, you sought his eyes. As soon as they met, he smiled. It was a brief smile. So brief that it vanished before reaching his eyes, leaving them completely empty.
Only when you found that static gaze were you able to breathe again.
Minutes later, you were sitting in the passenger seat of his car. The sound of the running engine was the only thing filling the space while you watched the cold, empty streets blur past the window. Seconds and minutes accumulated in absolute silence. You kept waiting for him to speak, to break the ice, but Hollis just kept his hands fixed on the steering wheel, until he finally dropped a seemingly innocent phrase.
"It’s funny."
Your eyes moved quickly to his profile. "What's that?"
"Most people talk too much when they lie," he said. There was another pause, a dip in the air. "They talk too much."
A sudden emptiness hit your stomach—a freezing sensation you decided to ignore the moment you saw his smile reappear.
"Not you." His gaze locked onto you for a couple of seconds. Just a couple, before returning to the road.
"Of course, he knows I’m smart. He noticed," you thought, forcing yourself to look back out the window.
When the car pulled up in front of your house, you unbuckled your seatbelt, but you didn't open the door right away. You were waiting for a move from Hollis. Something like what he had done moments before July interrupted everything, altering your senses.
"Get some rest. Tomorrow will be an... interesting day," you heard his low voice. Hollis shifted his gaze to look at you. It was the signal: he was letting you know they would stay close, perhaps even closer than before. Without a second thought, you leaned toward him, closing the distance to give him a short kiss on the lips. He didn't pull away until you did. It took him a few seconds to respond, simply to wish you a good night.
You got out of the car feeling freer. He had seen the ugliest part of you... and he hadn't looked away. That had to mean something. Someone like Hollis wouldn't stay beside someone he considered weak. If anything, he had understood why you did it.
You could have called an ambulance the moment July hit herself so hard against that cabinet and started bleeding; if she hadn't intervened, none of this would have happened. Besides, you weren't to blame; she had been the foolish one who slipped because she tried to hit you. Hollis was just pulling her away. He was defending you.
As you tried to fall asleep, your mind obsessively looped back to that moment. To the way Hollis had looked at July's body, how she was bleeding. It was dark, right? Yes... it was dark. There was no way he could have seen the blood on the carpet from where he was standing... or could he?
It felt so uncomfortable to remember it. There was something wrong with the scene, something your memory was trying to fit into place by force. Hollis was the first person you couldn't read, and in the dim light of your room, you wondered for the first time what he truly thought of you.⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
The entire school is silent. There are flowers, a portrait of July, teachers talking about what a great classmate she was. It seems stupid to you that suddenly everyone is crying over her, as if anyone had even spoken a word to her last week. The hypocrisy of people makes you sick; they only give someone attention when they are no longer here.
But your eyes constantly drifted toward Hollis. You watched students and even teachers approach to "comfort" him. He looked affected. He wasn't crying dramatically, but his posture carried a heavy guilt.
What if he really felt that way? You had to swallow hard, feeling a knot in your throat. You had already shared something together... a secret that was far too heavy, which now bound you together. He hadn't seemed afraid of you; in your eyes, he had acted completely proud of you. It had to be that way.
After the ceremony, Hollis finally approached you. He gently patted your shoulder in a comforting gesture.
"Black suits you," he murmured, low enough that only you could hear.
In your confused mind, the phrase bounced back with a strange echo. Was it a mockery, a compliment, or just a simple way of saying you looked good in mourning?
"Ah, sure... but I think it suits you better," you replied with a short smile, locking your eyes onto his. Into those eyes you were beginning to trust because they didn't look at you with fear or contempt.
His arms wrapped around you. Instantly, you felt a warmth in your chest, an absolute security, as if you no longer had to look for chaos as long as you were like this with him. With no one interposing.
"Don't turn around, but the police are watching," he whispered discreetly near your ear. That was why he had hugged you. That was why he was so close.
"Hmm... what are they doing here?" you thought, the confusion piercing through your bubble. Why would the police be at school if the case had already been closed as an accident?
A few meters away, the officer was writing in his notepad. They weren't scribbles.
"So... you say you saw July go upstairs with two people?" the cop asked the boy in front of him again.
The student nodded quickly. "Yeah, I remember July going up with two people, it was like she was dragging them behind her... but that day I was so drunk that their faces are a blur to me."
The officer nodded, writing it down.
"Hollis and Dayana were almost always with July, weren't they?" a girl murmured next to the student.
The officer looked up immediately, fixing his eyes on them with an expression that demanded they speak everything they knew.
"Uh, yeah, those two were the closest to July," the boy replied, shrugging it off as if it were unnecessary information. "But I saw them downstairs for a long time."
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
Days passed. Hollis told you not to pay attention to it, that it was foolish to think you could be caught, that you had nothing to worry about. You were smart; obviously, you wouldn't do anything stupid to raise suspicions. But then, Hollis's behavior changed overnight.
"Why the fuck are you punishing me with this again?!" you snapped suddenly, your rage boiling over in front of the collection of photos you had of him in your room.
During these past few days, he hadn't spoken a word to you. Not a phone call, not a text message, nothing. An absolute void. Looking back, the last time he did that was when you didn't want to talk to him in the library and changed the subject to July; at that time you thought he was just trying to annoy you by hanging out with her like a stupid game.
But now July was out of the way. She no longer existed. And you hadn't done anything to upset him, nothing that would justify a vendetta.
The helplessness was winning, but your pride was too strong, exaggeratedly high, blocking you from seeing what was truly happening around you. The pieces on the board were moving, but this time, you weren't the one moving your hands.⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
The moonlight filtered sideways through your bedroom window, casting long shadows over your collection of photographs of Hollis. You got out of bed with a dry mouth and your chest tight with fury. You stood in front of the vanity mirror, staring hard at your own reflection to force yourself to regain your composure.
"You are smart, Dayana. You control the board. Hollis is just playing hard to get because he wants to call your attention. Tomorrow he’ll come back on his knees," you repeated to yourself in a whisper, forcing that cold, confident smile that characterized you so much.
"He's testing me."
But as you looked into your own eyes in the glass, the reflection didn't smile back.
Suddenly, the silence of the house seemed to distort. The tick-tock of the hallway clock stopped, and in its place, a distant echo began to ring in your ears. The sound of a blunt impact. The crack of a skull colliding with wood.
"No" a voice whispered inside your head. Your own voice, but stripped of the mask—cold, accusing.
You blinked hard, shaking your head. "He's waiting." the echo of your mind returned.
"Waiting for what?"
... A violent shudder ran down your spine. You leaned against the sink, breathing heavily. Your mind was altering the timeline, erasing the bloodiest details to protect your pride. But the distorted memory wasn't the worst part. The worst part was Hollis.
Your memory dragged you back to the car, to that brief smile he had given you. You heard his voice again: "Most people talk too much when they lie... Not you."
You looked down at your hands. They were trembling. For the first time in your life, the armor of narcissism that the orphanage psychologist had diagnosed you with at eight years old felt cracked, insufficient.
You backed away from the mirror abruptly, turning your back on your own image, unable to keep holding your own gaze. You wrapped your arms around yourself, feeling a consuming void in your stomach. You knew you were a mastermind; you knew you were superior... right? Yes, you had to be. But the cold reality was seeping through the cracks: you were trapped in a dark room, waiting for a message from a boy you didn't even know looked.
A/N: I'm honestly just writing and posting because I'm incredibly bored, and I hate letting so many ideas stay stuck in my head.
–Next part
Student Fem!reader × Piano Teacher!Hollis.
The Winter Sonata.
If I could melt your heart
We'd never be apart.
The Royal Conservatory of London was an ancient building, featuring soaring ceilings and solemn windows that looked out onto streets blanketed in snow by the arrival of winter. Inside, the atmosphere was quiet and majestic, steeped in the scent of old wood and furniture wax. However, Hollis’s private studio was undoubtedly the coldest corner in the entire place—not because of the actual temperature, but due to the implacable demands that drifted through the air.
Just two months ago, you had been part of a prestigious academy where everything was perfect. So perfect, in fact, that you were the only imperfect piece in the place. Your talent was overflowing, so much so that you intimidated the students who slaved away to achieve technical perfection. Your only problem was that you were far too rebellious to limit yourself to following simple notes. It wasn't that you had trouble reading them, but when your fingers pressed the keys, you put so much soul and emotion into them that you completely shattered the rigid structure of perfectionism. For that reason, you were expelled once again. That made it the second academy to close its doors to you under the same simple argument: "Miss Y/n lacks discipline."
That was how you ended up at the Royal Conservatory, becoming one of Professor Hollis’s students. He was a true piano prodigy, but he carried an unforgiving reputation. He was incredibly strict, always spoke in a low, measured voice, and rarely was he ever seen smiling. To him, music boiled down to flawless technique. In the hallways, it was rumored that he was a man "made of ice" because his face never showed a single emotion while he played, executing perfect yet meticulously calculated pieces. Many other students had passed through his hands, and most couldn't last even a month under his tutelage; surprisingly, you had already been taking classes with him for two months.
Even so, every day by his side felt like a constant, silent battle. You never abided by Hollis’s rules; you always played the keys exactly as your heart dictated, which cost you constant reprimands and severe warnings. And despite everything, he never threw you out. Hollis gave you lessons no matter how much you defied him, because deep down, he was fascinated by your talent. The emotional way you made the piano vibrate surprised and intrigued him, precisely because his own perfectionism had never allowed him to play with that same freedom.
That night, the conservatory was practically deserted. Hollis had scheduled the lesson at the last minute under the pretext that the silence of the night was the ideal setting for you to finally pay the attention you lacked. Outside, the winter storm beat heavily against the windows, blanketing London in a thick layer of snow, while inside, the only illumination came from a floor lamp beside the piano, wrapping the studio in an intimate, almost surreal atmosphere.
However, your fingers were not cooperating. You had spent the last half hour making basic mistakes on a piece you had already mastered, and your gaze kept drifting away from the keyboard. You were more distracted than ever.
Hollis, who was standing beside you watching your every move, let out a slow sigh. He stepped closer and, with a firm yet strangely gentle movement, placed his hand over yours, stopping your clumsy playing all at once.
"Enough, Y/n," he spoke in that low, deep voice that always managed to put you on alert. He looked intently into your eyes through his glasses. "You've been playing aimlessly all night. Your mind is anywhere else but in this room. What is the matter?"
You swallowed hard, feeling the warmth of his fingers over yours before he pulled his hand away. Emotional exhaustion finally won over, and unable to hold it in any longer, you decided to tell the truth.
"I broke up with my boyfriend this afternoon," you confessed in a whisper, lowering your gaze to the ivory keys. "I know it shouldn't matter here, but... I simply can't concentrate."
The studio sank into a deathly silence, broken only by the creaking of the wood and the wind outside.
Upon hearing your words, something invisible tightened in Hollis’s posture. A cold, sharp pang, very much like jealousy, shot through his chest with a force that caught him completely by surprise. The mere thought of your mind being occupied by someone else—and worse yet, that your tears and distraction were because of a third party—evoked a strange, annoying irritation that he didn't know how to process.
Desperately seeking to reclaim his mask of ice, Hollis straightened up, crossing his arms and averting his gaze for a second before pinning his sharp eyes back on you. He chose to hide his disturbance behind the only barrier he knew: his implacable discipline.
"A romantic breakup is an irrelevant matter for this moment, Y/n," he reprimanded you severely, though his voice sounded a bit tighter than usual. "It is unacceptable for you to allow your personal emotions to dictate the quality of your music. A true artist does not let themselves be dragged down by the sentimentality of the moment."
You froze in your seat, feeling the reproach cut deep, but before you could defend yourself, he took another step toward you, invading your space with that magnetic presence that stole your breath away.
"If you intend to be a part of this conservatory, you must learn to compartmentalize your life," he continued, leaning slightly toward you, his eyes gleaming beneath the dim light. "I do not care what happens outside that door. When you are here with me, your only thought must be the music. Is that clear?"
Finally, your thoughts cast your ex-partner aside and focused entirely on those last words: "When you are here with me." For some strange reason, that phrase altered something in your system, even though you knew it shouldn't. They were simple words. It was nothing out of the ordinary; he was your strict piano teacher and only wanted you to focus. Nothing more.
You sat in silence for a few seconds, listening to a few cars passing by in the distance outside, their lights reflecting softly across the grand, frost-covered windows. Then, a bold idea crossed your mind. It was risky, but you had nothing to lose.
"Can you play with me?" you asked suddenly, your tone careful. You thought that if you shared the keyboard with him, you might finally find the rhythm and focus you were missing.
Surprisingly, he accepted. Hollis didn't utter a single word; he merely adjusted his glasses and sat beside you on the wooden bench. The space was tight, causing his knee to brush against yours with a softness that sent a thrill across your skin. His body heat immediately contrasted with the chill of the studio. Without warning, his long, elegant hands settled onto the bass keys, and he began to accompany your melody.
At first, your fingers moved timidly, fearing he would halt the performance at the first mistake. But Hollis didn't. He adapted his flawless technique to the erratic rhythm of your hands, creating a solid, deep foundation that seemed to support your every note. It was the first time you had ever heard him play like this; it wasn't the robotic, milimetric execution everyone at the conservatory talked about. There was something hidden in the strength with which he pressed the ivory, a restrained intensity that responded directly to your own melancholy.
Little by little, the pain of the breakup and the weight of the day began to dissolve, replaced by the overwhelming closeness of the man beside you. You could feel his steady breathing very close to your ear and the subtle movement of his shoulders each time the piece grew in intensity. The music filled every corner of the dark studio, transforming the cold reprimand from minutes ago into a silent, deeply intimate conversation.
Without realizing it, you found yourself seeking his gaze as you played the final chord. Hollis kept his eyes fixed on the keys, but his jaw was tight, and the rigidity of his posture betrayed that, just like you, he was also feeling something that escaped his rules entirely.
The last note echoed in the air and silence reclaimed the room, but this time, neither of you made a move to stir. Your eyes locked onto his, trying to decipher what was passing through the mind of London's most unreachable pianist.
After a few seconds that felt like eternity, Hollis broke the distance. With a slowness that felt almost deliberate, he reached out his hand and subtly rested it on your leg, just above your knee. The warmth of his palm bled through the fabric of your clothes instantly, causing your breath to hitch and an electric shiver to run down your spine. He didn't squeeze; it was a soft, firm touch, laden with an intimacy you had never experienced with him before, meant solely to hold your attention entirely.
"It was perfect," he whispered, in that low, deep voice that this time carried not a single trace of coldness. His eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made you forget how to speak. "That is what happens when you let your mind guide your heart, Y/n. You create something unmatched."
Your cheeks flushed a soft red at his praise, and your heart began to hammer wildly against your chest. Hollis kept his hand on your leg for one second more before smoothly withdrawing it. He straightened up and reached into the inner pocket of his coat, pulling out a small envelope made of textured paper with gold-foil edges.
He slid it gently across the glossy wood of the piano, right in front of you.
"What is this?" you asked, managing to find your voice, though your tone betrayed the nerves dominating you.
"Your tickets for the Christmas Eve concert in the conservatory's grand theater," he announced, maintaining his elegant posture but with a subtle spark of anticipation in his gaze. "They are in the front row. Directly in the center."
Your eyes widened in sheer surprise. The Christmas Eve concert was the most exclusive event of the season in all of London; tickets sold out months in advance, and only the most prominent figures in music and high society attended.
"Professor... I don't know what to say," you murmured, touching the edge of the envelope. "I know it's your most important performance of the year, but... why the front row? Why me?"
Hollis took a step back, reclaiming that professional distance you were accustomed to, but the slight curve at the corner of his lips showed your reaction pleased him. He pushed up his glasses with a measured gesture before looking at you through the lenses.
"Because the general public is going to hear a perfect execution, Y/n," he explained, walking toward the coat rack to take his long overcoat. "But you are the only person in this building who knows what truly hides behind every single note. Besides..." he paused by the studio door, turning his face to give you one last look beneath the dim light, "I need to ensure my best student is watching me from the place where she belongs. I won't tolerate you being distracted that night."
Before you could process his words or the fluttering skip of your heart, Hollis offered you a near-imperceptible tilt of his head.
"It is late and the storm is worsening. Head home and get some rest. I will see you at our next lesson, Y/n."
The door clicked shut softly behind him, leaving you alone in the twilight of the studio. You looked at the golden envelope resting on the piano and then at the keys where your knees had brushed only moments ago. Your mind no longer held a single memory of your ex-partner or the afternoon's heartache. Now, the only thing filling your entire system was the echo of his melody, the lingering warmth of his hand on your leg, and the impatient certainty that this Christmas Eve in London would change the rules between you forever.
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A/n: (I don't want this to flop. Honestly, I think I finally need to make a taglist.) I wanted to make this story a little sweeter... I think I might've gone a little overboard.
Fem!reader × Hollis.
Une pause pour t'aimer
And if I look at you a hundred times, believe me, with each one I’ll fall a little more in love.
It had been only a few weeks since Hollis returned to his hometown. Behind him were the long, exhausting years of studying abroad; now, walking the familiar streets brought a wave of teenage nostalgia. Especially when he stepped through the doors of the family coffee shop, the business his parents had run since he was a child. For Hollis, that corner filled with the scent of roasted beans had always been the safest, most peaceful place in the world. So, guided by the warmth of old memories and without thinking twice, he decided to stay and work there for a while, looking to reclaim a bit of the peace he so desperately needed.
To Hollis, coffee had never been just a drink; it was a map of human personality in a cup. Over the weeks spent behind the counter, he had learned that people's orders said much more than they ever dared to admit out loud. He knew, for instance, that thick, black coffee without a single drop of sugar was usually the refuge of exhausted souls—those people who walked at a fast pace, eyes fixed on the ground, needing that pure bitterness to remind them they were still awake. On the other hand, those who leaned toward lattes with too much vanilla, caramel, or an extra splash of cream tended to hide the kindest, sweetest hearts.
Hollis enjoyed deciphering those little everyday secrets in every order. However, what he didn’t know on one quiet, rainy afternoon was that none of his mental rules would be enough to decipher the person who was about to walk through the door.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ☕︎☕︎
On the other hand, there was you. You led a hectic life where it seemed the only moments of rest were when you barely managed to get a decent few hours of sleep; your brain never stopped. You had to study hard for your university, finish your assignments and projects on time, and arrive punctually at your part-time job, where the environment was so heavy that your shoulders always ended up tense. But at the end of the day, you always walked back home knowing your routine was something you had simply grown used to; you weren't the only person living in such a rushed way without a single moment of peace.
Though, if there was one single thing that gave you a breather after everything, it was catching the scent of coffee in the air. You were used to the instant supermarket coffee you could afford to buy, but the aroma from the café just a few blocks from your house always managed to fill your senses with that delicious perfume, making your brain imagine the taste. You had never actually bought a coffee there; you were always in a rush or, whenever you passed by, the place was completely packed. But this time was different. There wasn't a long line at the entrance, and for the first time, you dared to step inside. Quickly, the scent wrapped around you completely, and after a very long time, you felt peace.
The soft chime of the bell above the door made you feel different; for a moment, all the chaotic noise of the street stayed outside. You walked up to the counter, your eyes fixed on the extensive menu of coffees and pastries hanging above the bar. You couldn't decide on any, and you only realized you had been standing there too long when you felt a gaze upon you. Your eyes snapped away from the menu to lock onto the boy behind the counter, who was watching you expectantly. Your cheeks instantly felt a bit warm under his gaze, and a shy, clumsy smile broke across your lips.
"I'm sorry, I have no idea what to order..." you spoke in a slightly embarrassed tone. After all that time analyzing the board, your mind was still blank.
A sweet, warm laugh escaped his lips; it wasn't a mockery, but a comforting sound that immediately dissolved your shyness.
"Don't worry, it happens all the time," he replied, making you finally feel a wave of calm after the long day you'd had. "If you like, I can help you. I can try to guess the perfect coffee for you."
"Can you?" you asked with a hint of surprise. "Alright, I'll trust you. Give me your options."
Hollis widened his smile, resting both fists on the wooden counter and tilting his head slightly, adopting the posture of an expert detective. He analyzed you for a second: your tense shoulders, your fingers nervously playing with the strap of your backpack, and that tired but gentle look in your eyes. An exhausted soul in need of a sweet hug, he thought, remembering his theory.
"Alright, first guess," Hollis began in a mysterious tone. "You're coming off a heavy day, so my instinct tells me you need comfort. How about a hot Caramel Macchiato? With lots of foam and an extra shot of sweet syrup to brighten up your afternoon."
You stayed quiet for a moment, processing the description, before crinkling your nose slightly in shyness.
"It sounds nice, but... truth is, I don't really like caramel. I feel like it's too sweet, and it gets overwhelming too fast," you confessed, scratching the back of your neck.
Hollis blinked, a bit surprised that his golden rule had failed on the first try, but he didn't give up. He rubbed his chin, looking at you more closely.
"Fair enough, my bad. Let's go for something more classic," he proposed, straightening up enthusiastically. "An iced White Mocha. It's creamy, the white chocolate is subtle, and the cold kick will give you the energy you need to walk home. What do you say?"
"I don't like white chocolate either," you replied with a guilty little laugh, shrugging your shoulders. "In fact, chocolate in coffee tastes a bit strange to me."
Hollis let out a clear laugh, now visibly amused. He placed a hand over his chest, feigning dramatic offense while shaking his head.
"Wow, you destroyed my two best theories in less than a minute. My reputation as an expert barista is on the line right now," he joked, making you truly smile. "Let's see, let's play our last cards. If you don't want something too sweet, then you need the exact opposite. A strong Americano, pure black coffee to reset your brain."
"No, definitely not!" you said almost immediately, letting out a small laugh. "Black coffee tastes way too bitter to me, feels like I'm taking medicine."
Hollis froze mid-gesture, looking down at the counter and then back up at you. Far from being annoyed, his eyes sparkled with pure curiosity. His entire theory of "guessing personality through coffee" had crumbled with your answers, and instead of frustrating him, it struck him as the most interesting thing that had happened to him in weeks.
"Alright, I give up," he declared with a defeated but incredibly charming smile, crossing his arms. "You don't like things too sweet, you detest white chocolate, and you run away from pure bitterness. You're an enigma, girl... or well, I don't know your name yet, but you're a mystery to this menu."
Realizing you didn't know his name either, you discreetly glanced at the small nametag on his apron.
"My name is Y/n," you said, feeling the initial nerves melt into a very sweet sense of complicity. "And what do you do with the mysteries on the menu, Hollis?"
He repeated your name in a soft voice, testing how it felt on his lips, and the warmth in his gaze deepened.
"With mysteries, you improvise," he answered, turning around toward the espresso machine. "Get ready, Y/n. I'm going to invent something exclusively for you."
Hollis gave you one last knowing look before getting to work. You watched him move behind the bar with an agility that spoke of years of practice; there was something almost hypnotic about the way he handled the tools, as if he were creating a work of art just for you.
First, he took a pastel pink ceramic cup. He ground some coffee beans that, unlike the previous ones, had a much softer, almost fruity aroma. Then, you watched him steam the milk carefully, achieving a texture so dense and smooth it looked like a white cloud. But the final touch was what caught your attention: Hollis opened a small glass jar, took a pinch of something, and sprinkled it over the top before drawing a perfect heart in the foam.
He walked across the counter and slid the cup gently toward you. A completely new aroma, sweet yet subtle, flooded your space.
"Let's see, coffee detective," you said, resting your elbows on the bar as you looked at the cup with curiosity. "What is this invention?"
"It's a Vanilla Lavender Latte, with a touch of organic honey," he announced, wiping his hands with a cloth and looking at you expectantly. "Since you don't like the bitterness of black coffee, I used a light espresso base. The steamed milk takes away the intensity, the honey sweetens it naturally without being overwhelming like caramel, and the lavender... well, the lavender is to relax your brain. It doesn't taste like medicine, I promise."
You stared at the design in the foam. The warmth of the cup was already thawing your hands, which were still a bit cold from the walk. Knowing Hollis wouldn't take his eyes off you until you tried his experiment, you blew gently, closed your eyes, and took the first sip.
The flavor surprised you instantly. It was smooth, creamy, and left a delicious floral note on your palate that felt like a warm hug. Hollis hadn't just avoided everything you disliked; he had managed to bottle up the peace you had been searching for into a single cup.
You opened your eyes and met Hollis's gaze, who was waiting for your verdict with a suppressed smile and a raised eyebrow.
"Well..." you murmured, falling silent while looking at Hollis as if you were judging him; you just wanted to make the scenario a bit more dramatic. "I loved it," you finally answered, gifting him a smile that made him smile back with genuine relief.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ☕︎☕︎
And that was the beginning of everything. You started going to the coffee shop more often; at first, it was every other day, but later it became a beautiful daily habit. You almost always dropped by in the afternoons, since that was when you had more free time and could stay to chat with Hollis for a few minutes more after he handed you your coffee. Hollis began to notice this; every morning, he woke up excited, knowing he would finally get to see you again.
One afternoon, you arrived with a small smile, as usual, and the moment you stood in front of the bar, Hollis placed the cup in front of you before you could even order.
"What's this?" you asked, a little confused but happy to see him again after a long day.
"It's your favorite coffee," he replied knowingly. "Or don't tell me you've finally developed a taste for bitter coffee?"
That comment made you let out a genuine laugh. Hollis sought to hear that sound every single day because, secretly, he adored the warmth of your sweet laugh.
"No, not at all," you teased, tilting your head. "But it feels like you're indirectly telling me you're serving me fast so I'll leave."
Your words made Hollis put on an expression of feigned offense, though both of you knew you were just playing around.
"Of course not. In fact, I have another gift for you today," he assured.
After saying that, he turned around and walked over to the pastry display case. Your eyebrows raised slightly in surprise, but your heart skipped a beat when you saw him return with a delicious, freshly made blueberry tart; it looked so pretty and perfect that it felt like a shame to even eat it.
"I made it thinking of you. It's a gift," Hollis spoke, with that small, sweet smile on his lips that always managed to make you melt inside.
"It's so beautiful, I feel so bad having to eat it," you murmured looking at it, while a tiny pout formed on your lips, causing Hollis's eyes to brighten in response.
"You can eat it without feeling bad, it won't hurt it at all; it was created just for you," he replied as he leaned in slightly toward you, gently bringing the tart closer to your lips. "I don't think it will complain when it sees the lovely lips that will eat it."
He spoke in a low tone, almost careful, as if saying it would ruin the atmosphere, but it did the exact opposite. Your cheeks flushed that soft red again, just like the first time you met, and tiny butterflies began to flutter in your stomach at Hollis's subtly flirtatious comment. You leaned in a bit, taking a small bite of the tart without taking your eyes off him, and after savoring it, you slowly pulled away.
"Mmh, it's a little sweet," you finally spoke, wiping the excess crumbs from your lips.
"Just as sweet as you," Hollis replied with that warm smile you had grown so used to.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ☕︎☕︎
A few days passed until you finally met up with him again, but this time was a little different. Hollis had already closed the coffee shop, and you were still there, helping him taste some of the new desserts they planned to include on the menu. The ambiance was so comfortable that, for a moment, you forgot all your troubles from the week—the heavy days and the exhaustion. You had finally found your peace with him.
"Mine turned out prettier," you said, looking at your cupcake, which was meticulously decorated just to humble Hollis's decoration technique.
He looked at your little pastry and let out an amused chuckle.
"Mm, I don't know... I think mine is prettier," he answered as he brought his closer for you to see; it had a small smiley face made out of frosting. Seeing it, you couldn't help but laugh; it looked way too funny.
"Oh, fine, I'll let you win only because I don't want you to cry," you shot back before bringing your cupcake to your lips and taking a bite.
Without realizing it, your lip got smudged with frosting. Hollis noticed this and, without asking, leaned in to gently wipe the corner of your lip with his thumb. You froze in your seat; your shoulders tensed slightly under his touch, but you didn't dislike it at all. The eyes of both met, staring intently at each other with a small spark of anticipation, and before you could even react, he was already kissing you.
His lips pressed against yours with such an immense warmth that you immediately closed your eyes. Your hands slid around his cheeks to pull him closer, while his rested on your waist, drawing you to his chest as close as your bodies would allow. After a few seconds, you pulled away just a few centimeters to catch the breath that had escaped you in that kiss.
"I knew it..." he murmured suddenly, resting his forehead against yours.
"Knew what?" you asked softly, hearing his gentle voice against yours.
"That your lips are just as sweet as I thought. The only bad thing is, I think I'm going to become addicted to your sweetness."
A smile formed on both of your faces, and immediately, you shared another kiss full of affection.
The silence of the coffee shop, now closed to the world, felt cozier than ever. The dim lights of the shop bathed the space in a golden warmth, and the scent of vanilla and sugar floated in the air, wrapping around the two of you as if the place itself were celebrating this new discovery.
Hollis pulled back slightly, keeping his hands on your waist, his eyes shining with an intensity you hadn't seen before. There was no trace of the first day's shyness left; now there was only the certainty that, in the middle of your daily chaos, you had found your refuge.
"So..." he whispered, a small, playful smile lighting up his face. "Does that mean you'll be coming in tomorrow for your usual coffee?"
You let out a soft laugh, resting your head against his shoulder, feeling lighter than you had in months.
"I think I'll have to come," you replied, looking at the pastry display. "Someone has to make sure you keep making such delicious pastries, don't you think?"
Hollis wrapped his arms around you, drawing you a little closer into an embrace that promised to be the first of many.
"Seems like a fair deal," he agreed, planting one last gentle kiss on your forehead. "I'll be right here. You'll always have a pause waiting for you, Y/n."
You looked around, toward the glass door that faced the street. Outside, the world kept spinning in a rush, with all its worries and haste, but that didn't scare you anymore. Because you had learned that true peace wasn't about running away from the chaos, otherwise, knowing how to find that safe place where, no matter how difficult the day was, you could always make time stand still.
You had walked in looking for a coffee, but you had walked away with so much more: a story that was just beginning to be written, and the promise that from now on, every day would have a reason to be a little bit sweeter.
Une pause pour t'aimer. A pause to love each other. And finally, you had found yours.
A/N: This time I made the chapter a little longer. I usually end up writing several versions of the same chapter, but this is the one I liked the most. I just hope you don't think my mind is a little... weird.
–Previous part.
Stalker Fem!reader × Stalker Hollis
OBSESSION
Every dark secret handles better when shared with the right person. PT3.
Upon arriving home, the silence greeted you like a constant reminder of your reality. Your adoptive parents weren't there; another business dinner, another work trip, another subtle form of abandonment justified by money. You went up to your bedroom, still feeling the weight of Hollis's jacket on your shoulders. You took it off reluctantly and lay down on the bed, closing your eyes to try and shut off your mind, but the tick-tock of the clock in the hallway began to drag you backward. Toward the past. Toward the place where it all began.
You were eight years old. The smell of dampness and cheap disinfectant from the orphanage was still fresh in your memory.
You were sitting in the hallway, your legs dangling from a wooden chair that was far too big for you, hugging your knees. A few meters away, the door to the psychologist’s office was left ajar. Your future adoptive parents were inside, signing the final papers, but before they took you away, the psychologist deemed it necessary to give them one last warning.
"Y/n is a smart girl, there is no doubt about that," you heard the psychologist’s monotonous voice filter through the crack. "But you must be very aware of the territory you are entering. Abandonment at such an early age leaves... complex psychological scars."
You heard the throat-clearing of your future adoptive mother, an elegant woman who was merely looking for an accessory to fill her own empty house.
"What exactly do you mean, doctor? She looks so calm, so sweet."
"It's a facade," the psychologist stated bluntly. "Y/n has developed a very rigid defense mechanism. We have noticed concerning personality traits. She shows a marked lack of empathy toward the other children. In evaluations, and in her daily life, she demonstrates a fixation with feeling superior to everyone else. If something doesn't go her way, she completely devalues people, discarding them as if they were worth nothing. It is deeply concerning that she does this at such a young age."
There was a heavy silence inside the office. From the hallway, you didn't even blink. Your eight-year-old face bore no expression of sadness; on the contrary, you felt a profound contempt for this man who believed he knew you. He is the foolish one, you thought back then. The other children are idiots, they cry over everything. I am different. I am better.
"She is a child who needs absolute control to feel safe," the psychologist continued. "If she feels she is going to lose affection or that someone is going to leave her, her mind will rewrite reality to protect itself. It is narcissism, an armor so that no one ever abandons her again. You have to be very strict with her therapy if you don't want this to worsen over the years."
Of course, your adoptive parents ignored the warning. They thought expensive toys and a big house would solve everything, only to end up abandoning you in a different way later on: leaving you alone within four walls while they chased their own lives.
You snapped your eyes open in the dim light of your current bedroom, your breathing a bit ragged. The psychologist had been wrong about one thing: it wasn't a mental issue, it was your superpower. It was what kept you safe from idiots like July and everyone else. You were the one controlling the game.
Except now, Hollis was inside it, and for the first time, you didn't know if your armor would be enough to stop him.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
Three days passed during which you didn't speak to Hollis at all. To you, that time felt like an eternity, even though notifications kept popping up on your Instagram with updates on his part of the project. They were just dry, blunt messages: "You need to research this," "I already finished this part," "Is this done right?".
You feigned perfectly that his sudden distance didn't affect you; you forced yourself to respond curtly, limiting yourself to a cold "Yes, it's fine."
However, after what had happened during your last encounter in the library, his new behavior left you completely thrown off. Or was he just testing you? Yes, it was probably a trap. He wanted you to lower your guard and fall into his game just to prove you were crazy about him. You tried to convince yourself that you were just delirious, all to avoid admitting that you were losing control.
And finally, Saturday arrived.
Waking up in the morning with that mental heaviness, thinking about another boring day where your parents wouldn't be around and you would do absolutely nothing, stripped away any desire to get out of bed. As usual, your hand blindly searched for your phone on the nightstand. As soon as your fingers wrapped around it, the device vibrated against your palm.
"How strange... So early and I'm already getting messages from someone," you muttered to yourself, thinking it might just be some irrelevant app notification.
But upon turning on the screen, July's name appeared in the notifications.
July: Guess who Hollis is going out with tonight and going to the party together with!!
Your eyes widened. Any trace of sleep vanished in a second, replaced by a horrible sensation, as if you had received a blunt blow to the stomach. Seriously? Hollis... with her?
Your fingers moved quickly across the keyboard, trying to hide the panic.
You: Don't tell me. How did you get his phone number?
July: That's the best part! I didn't send him anything, he was the one who messaged me. He said you told him I wanted to invite him, and he even apologized for taking so long to talk to me.
July: Thank you so much, Y/n. I hope you go to the party so you can see us together.
A dry, entirely joyless laugh escaped your lips. Your hands gripped the phone so tightly that your knuckles turned white, before you slammed it down in anger against the pillow.
You couldn't believe it. Was he trying to provoke you? Wasn't July supposed to be irritating to him, and didn't he like quiet girls?
"How pathetic you are, Hollis," you thought, as your mind quickly activated its shield to protect you from rejection. The pedestal you had placed him on began to crack. You had believed he was different, that he was smart—smart enough to know he shouldn't provoke you—but there he was, degrading himself to the level of an idiot like July. But it was fine. He had to learn the hard way what kind of person he was going out with today. July would bore him in ten minutes, and then he would come crawling back to you, regretful, like a loyal puppy. Of course he would. No one else understood him the way you did.
A cold smile crept back onto your face. Now you knew Saturday wouldn't be boring at all. You would go to that party, you would put yourself in the front row just to watch Hollis humiliate himself next to July.
You wouldn't miss his failure for anything in the world.
Night finally fell. You arrived at the party, which, as usual, was being held in one of the largest houses in the area, owned by one of the highly spoiled kids from school. You pushed your way inside, bumping into people who didn't even bother to move out of your way. The air reeked of alcohol, sweat, and cigarettes, and the flashing lights made you a bit dizzy. Suddenly, July's hand yanked you roughly, pulling you away from the crowd.
"Hey, you're a bit late," she complained with a slight pout, before letting go of you to hang onto Hollis's arm.
He was already looking at you, holding your gaze with a cynical smirk that made your blood boil.
"Ah, yeah. Well, honestly I wasn't planning on coming, but I got bored at home," you replied, feigning total disinterest.
You weren't going to give them explanations. The reality was that you had spent hours mentally preparing yourself not to lose your temper upon seeing them together.
It wasn't long before July began to drink as if there were no tomorrow. Little by little, everyone in the place ended up wasted or under the influence of some substance. Except for you and Hollis. You had no interest in losing control like that, and he stayed sober under the pretext of looking after the two of you. Pathetic.
After a while, the three of you ended up in the third-floor hallway, where only the servants' rooms and a small bathroom were located. The alcohol took effect quickly on July, causing severe nausea. The bathrooms on the first and second levels were occupied by idiots with their hormones raging, having sex, so there was no choice but to go up. Now, you and Hollis waited outside while you heard July vomiting loudly inside.
"I find her annoying... And now you're here, waiting for her outside the bathroom," you let slip suddenly, looking at him with an amused, almost mocking smile.
He immediately turned toward you, widening his smirk.
"Mhm. But if being with her is what it takes to get your attention, I can force myself to put up with her tonight."
That response threw you off completely. Your mind had assumed he was doing all this just to screw with you, but for him to admit it with such ease provoked a strange feeling inside you—a mix of triumph and bewilderment. Suddenly, Hollis closed the distance between the two of you, stepping dangerously close. He reached out, firmly cupping your cheeks to force your eyes to lock with his.
"Why do you make it so difficult? I don't understand this whim of yours to pretend you have no interest in me..." he asked in a low, tense whisper. "Did it really not matter to you at all that I didn't speak to you these past few days?"
All those thoughts from hours ago where you thought he was an idiot quickly seemed as though they had never existed. Your pupils were locked onto Hollis's in a way so magnetic that your facade was on the verge of crumbling. You wanted to close the space separating you and kiss him. But before you could articulate a single word, the bathroom door swung open. July walked out and saw you. She saw you dangerously close, and the scene was unmistakable. The shock, the alcohol, and the jealousy made her explode in a second.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" July roared, completely out of her mind.
Blind with rage, she lunged at you and struck you across the face, sending you stumbling back against the wall. The pain barely registered because fury consumed you instantly. Hollis reacted immediately, grabbing her arm to pull her away, but July fought back clumsily due to how drunk she was. In the middle of the struggle, she took a bad step backward, lost her balance entirely, and collapsed.
The sound was sharp and horrifying. The back of July's head slammed full force against the sharp corner of a heavy wooden cabinet in the hallway.
Her body instantly went limp on the floor. Her eyes closed, and a thick stream of blood began to flow rapidly from the back of her head, staining the carpet. But it was so dark that you pretended not to notice. Hollis froze completely, staring at the body and then at you, his pupils dilated from the shock of the scene.
But in your mind, the gears turned with mathematical coldness. You didn't think about calling an ambulance, nor did you care if the injury was severe. Your mind only saw the perfect opportunity for revenge. "She hit me. She asked for it. Now she's going to learn her lesson," you thought. Your plan was to leave her lying there, unconscious in her own puddle of blood, so that when someone found her, she would be the absolute laughingstock of the whole school. Everyone would say she had gotten so violent and drunk from being a bad drinker that she ended up falling on her own. It would be her ultimate humiliation.
You turned toward Hollis, grabbing the lapels of his jacket to force him to look at you. Your eyes shone with a calculated determination.
"Leave her," you whispered in a firm voice, manipulating his mind in a split second. "She brought this on herself for being crazy. We're going to leave her here. When they find her, everyone will see the pathetic show she put on because of her damn drinking. Nobody saw us come up. If we leave now, she'll be the only one left looking ridiculous."
Hollis stared at you. Seeing your total lack of empathy, your ability to transform an accident into a strategy for humiliation, ignited that spark of sick fascination and devotion in his dark eyes. He loved your malice. He nodded, entirely trapped in your web.
You gave Hollis your hand, and leaving July unconscious and bleeding in the dim light of the third floor, you walked down the stairs back to the party with a hidden smile, blending into the crowd as if nothing had happened. Unknowing, of course, that the internal bleeding would ensure July would never wake up.
Walking back to the ground floor arm-in-arm with Hollis felt like stepping into a completely distorted dimension. The music was still thumping, people were still dancing and laughing, completely oblivious to the fact that July lay dead in the hallway. Your breathing was a little fast, fueled by the thrill of knowing July was up there, bleeding out without anyone knowing.
Hollis moved with a terrifying calm; he led you to the kitchen, poured you a glass of water, and stood in front of you, blocking you from everyone else's view. His dark eyes scanned your face, analyzing every single one of your reactions with a fascination that made you shiver.
"Breathe," he commanded in a barely audible whisper, brushing his hand against yours. "Nobody knows anything. Everything is fine, she deserved it."
You tried to hold onto his words.
Fifteen minutes passed, which felt like hours. Hollis made sure several people saw you on the ground floor, casually greeting some guys from the football team. But the bubble of control shattered when a piercing scream cut the music in half.
The DJ cut the sound instantly. Murmurs began to spread like wildfire throughout the house.
"Call an ambulance! There's a dead body in the hallway!" a guy yelled, his face pale, running down from the stairs.
Chaos erupted immediately. People began rushing toward the exit in a panic over the police, while others, driven by morbid curiosity, crowded around the entrance to the hallway. Hollis took you firmly by the waist, pulling you close to his body in a gesture that looked like protection against the tumult, but was actually to keep you bound to him.
"Let's go see," Hollis whispered in your ear, his tone strangely excited. "We have to act surprised, Y/n. Be a good actress."
You walked toward the hallway along with the crowd. Upon arriving, the scene was a nest of screams. Two girls were crying hysterically. On the floor, the body of a senior medical student was kneeling next to July, checking the pulse on her neck.
"There's no pulse..." the guy proclaimed, standing up with trembling hands. "She must have slipped, she reeks of alcohol. It was an accident."
Hearing the word "accident" come out of someone else's mouth was like a shot of adrenaline to your ego. Your mind celebrated in silence: See? The universe knows I'm right. It was an accident. She brought it on herself. You glanced sideways at Hollis, and he returned a complicit look, tightening his grip on your waist.
However, the facade of perfection cracked when the sound of police sirens began to echo dangerously close. It was obvious the cops were coming; they would surely investigate the place, find the substances that were around, start the interrogation, and worse. They would definitely question the two of you—you were the last ones seen with her before she was found like that, lifeless.
Hearing that they would arrive soon and begin an interrogation suddenly gave you a wave of anxious nausea, but your mind took less than two seconds to react. You couldn't afford to panic; you had to use your best resource: your ability to create the perfect facade.
You pressed yourself closer to Hollis's chest and forced your eyes to fill with tears. You let out a choked sob, visibly trembling, immediately drawing pitied looks from those around you. If the police or anyone else asked about July and why you hadn't been with her, you already had the perfect story constructed in your head.
"Yes, she told me she was going to the bathroom... She was very drunk. When I tried to follow her so she wouldn't be alone, she got annoyed with me. She told me she was meeting another friend upstairs and that it would be better if I went back downstairs to look after Hollis so he wouldn't get bored. I listened to her... I shouldn't have left her alone," you would say through tears and heartbroken weeping.
It was an infallible alibi. Who would doubt the devastated best friend? Nobody. By inventing this supposed friend July was going to meet, the police would waste their time searching for a ghost. Furthermore, Hollis and you had made sure multiple people saw you on the ground floor during those fifteen minutes. Nobody in that house would notice the gap in time; they were too drunk, high, or stupid to remember the exact hours. By the time they questioned you, you would only prove to be a worried friend whom July had dragged to that party.
Hollis felt your fake tremors and heard your contained weeping. Realizing what you were doing, a spark of absolute devotion and pride flashed in his dark eyes. He held you tightly against his body, hiding your face in his neck, pretending he was comforting you through the shock.
"Shh, it's okay, it wasn't your fault..." Hollis whispered out loud so the others could hear, playing his part perfectly.
Hidden in his chest, you concealed a cold smile behind your fake tears. The plan was perfect. July was dead, the blame would never fall on you, and Hollis now belonged to you completely.
A/n: Okay, this is the second version I had to write just to get this chapter posted. I honestly have no idea why the original wouldn't publish. I hope you enjoy this chapter.
-{Part 1
Stalker Fem!reader × Stalker Hollis?
OBSESSION
Love is in the Air, Pt. 2
(HOLLIS'S POV)
Arriving halfway through the semester at a new school and a different city wasn't something he particularly loved, though he managed to adapt quickly to his new surroundings. There were the girls desperately looking for his attention, the guys who hung around him just to be seen, and then there were the ones who pretended his absence didn't matter at all. Or at least, that's what they wanted to project, because Hollis could perfectly hear every single whisper and rumor they spread about him in the hallways.
But one day, he saw her.
At first, she seemed like a regular girl, just like the rest. However, Hollis strangely began to notice a weird pattern in her movements. She always seemed to be in the same places as one of the guys from the basketball team. At first, he thought it was just a coincidence, but it wasn't. He started to notice the way she threw quick glances his way when she thought nobody was looking, and how she sometimes seemed to follow him from a distance.
That sparked his interest completely.
Little by little, Hollis found himself watching her, driven by pure curiosity to know who she really was. He began to memorize her details: the way she furrowed her brow whenever she was deep in thought, or how she rested her cheek against the palm of her hand when she was bored in class. It was by watching her like that, day after day, that he discovered the shift.
On an ordinary day, she stopped looking at the guy from the basketball team.
And Hollis realized that now, the person her eyes were following in silence was him. Knowing that he was now the center of your attention didn't bother him; on the contrary, it caused a fascination in him that he hadn't felt before. The game had become mutual, but you didn't know it. ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
After writing down your thoughts about Hollis, you tried to sleep; it was what you usually did after logging every small encounter and piece of research you had gathered on him. But this time, everything felt so different. You could hear the minutes stretching, marked by the sharp tick-tock of the small clock out in the hallway leading to the stairs. That irritating sound always traveled down the long corridor to filter into your room and annoy you directly.
Even with your eyelids closed, sleep refused to come. Every passing second, you found yourself furrowing your brow as you remembered the way he had spoken to you, how he had looked at you. He managed to trigger something in you that irritated you to no end. Why did he, of all people, have to be so strange? Just like you.
Finally, your eyes snapped open again. They slowly adjusted to the dim twilight of the bedroom, and your fingers slid across the nightstand until they reached your phone. And there you were again; it was like a daily routine you were entirely used to: logging into Instagram from one of your many fake accounts just to look up Hollis's profile, which was already sitting in your search history.
You scrolled through his photos looking for something, though you didn't even know what you were trying to find. But you knew you needed to unearth some small, hidden detail—something that would tell you who he really was. Your eyes lingered on each square, analyzing the photograph as if it were an important painting, but in the end, you found nothing you hadn't already seen before. Drowsiness was beginning to blur your vision as you kept dragging your finger across the screen.
Until a notification from your main Instagram account actually made your heart rate spike.
Hollis222: I'll be waiting for you in the library after class to start on our project.
After seeing that message, you immediately turned off your phone and put it back in its place.
Without realizing it, you slowly began to drift off to sleep, but your mind kept returning to that text, remembering his cold eyes in which you had seen yourself reflected the day before—the ones you felt would be your downfall if you didn't act fast.
When you stepped outside in the morning, you noticed the sky was relatively clear, so this time you left without your jacket—a rare slip in a habit you maintained out of pure comfort. You walked toward the school at a quiet, deliberate pace, your mind already fast-forwarding to the end of the final block when you would have to meet Hollis in the library. You planned on keeping it strictly professional, focusing only on the assignment, but a voice inside told you it wouldn't be that simple. Your thoughts were spinning too fast, building a dozen scenarios for what would happen in a few hours, completely blindsided when the weather decided to ruin your morning: a heavy downpour began, and it didn't look like it would let up anytime soon.
"You've got to be kidding me..." you muttered, exhaling a heavy, irritated sigh.
You had to run the remaining blocks, arriving at the school drenched, and immediately slipped into the girls' restroom to try and dry off. To your absolute misfortune, July was already there, meticulously layering her makeup in front of the mirror as if the garish, overdone blush on her cheeks wasn't already visible from a mile away.
"Yikes. Looks like you just rolled out of bed. Fix your hair, it looks... a bit a mess," she said, flashing a smile that was engineered to look sweet. Classic July. As if she didn't secretly live for dropping passive-aggressive digs every chance she got.
"Yeah... morning didn't really go my way," you replied, your voice flat, signaling zero interest in a long conversation.
You stepped up to the mirror, trying to tame your damp hair. July remained unusually quiet next to you, which was entirely out of character. Whenever she fell silent for that long, it meant she was plotting a favor she wanted to ask, though she was usually too dense to just come out and say it.
"Hey..." she began softly, turning toward you and stepping a fraction too close in that strange way of hers. "You know you're my best friend, right?"
"Just spit it out, July. Don't start playing games," you cut in, looking her dead in the eye.
"Fine... I know you got paired up with Hollis for the final project," she started, her tone suddenly cautious. You gave a single, bored nod, hiding your disinterest. "And I wanted to ask you... if you could get his phone number for me. You know how it is, he's gorgeous. I need it so I can invite him to that party this weekend."
You blinked a few times, wondering if you were still trapped in some kind of bad dream.
"Don't you think it's a little pathetic to ask me that when Instagram literally exists?"
July let out that high-pitched, irritating giggle—the one she used to sound innocent, but always grated on your eardrums like nails on a chalkboard.
"Don't be silly! He probably has hundreds of girls sliding into his DMs every hour. I need him to see mine instantly. If I text his actual number, he's way more likely to look." Well, she wasn't entirely wrong about that; he had thousands of followers, and who knew how many desperate girls flooded his inbox daily looking for a crumb of his attention.
"Anyway, I have to get to class. I hope you get it for me, because if you don't, I'll just have to find... other ways." And with that, she finally slipped out, allowing you to let out a long, exhausted breath.
It wasn't long before you left the bathroom yourself, heading down the hall toward your locker to see if you had ever left an old hoodie or jacket stored inside. You opened the locker, and your eyes instantly fell upon a perfectly folded jacket resting on top of your textbooks.
Instead of relief, a sickening, cold weight dropped heavily into your stomach. You knew your things down to the last thread. This jacket was absolutely, undeniably not yours. You glanced over your shoulder; the hallway was completely deserted, the morning classes already underway. Left with no other choice against the freezing chill of your damp clothes, you reached in, picked it up, and slid it over your shoulders.
As you pulled the zipper up, a familiar scent drifted up, invading your senses and locking your joints in place. A specific face flashed violently into your mind: Hollis. It smelled exactly like him. The scent was still burned into your memory from how close he had stood to you the day before. Your shoulders went rigid beneath the fabric. The realization that he had noticed your discomfort, anticipated your need, and solved it didn't comfort you. It made you feel hunted.
During every single class, your mind was entirely somewhere else. It deeply unsettled you to know that Hollis was watching you too, and in a way you didn't like at all. You felt like he could see right through you; if he had noticed your glances in the hallways and mocked your secrets to your face, it meant he knew exactly who you were. He was looking right behind that mask that had taken you years to build.
Before you knew it, the hour of the meeting arrived. Your hands, subconsciously, were sweating cold just at the thought of seeing him again. Knowing that he would crawl millimeter by millimeter underneath the shell you always wore made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.
You entered the library in silence and sat at an open table, since Hollis was nowhere to be seen. While you waited for him to arrive, you pulled out your notebooks, writing down ideas for the team project on a blank sheet of paper just to keep yourself busy. But that heavy, quiet silence was shattered by Hollis's arrival; you knew he was there when you heard the chair drag right next to you. You didn't look up immediately, but you could feel the weight of his gaze pinned on you.
Finally, after gathering your courage, you spoke in a low, calm voice:
"Are you going to help me with the project, or do I have to do this alone?"
You heard Hollis let out that same dry, emotionless laugh. Suddenly, he leaned toward you; you could feel his warmth far too close to your body, and that proximity completely threw you off.
"Please, Y/n... don't tell me you actually want to do this," he murmured. His voice sounded less dry than the day before, almost intimate. "Let's talk about us instead."
That was what forced you to look up. Hollis's pupils were dilated so wide that you could see your own reflection of confusion in them, but this time his eyes didn't look completely dead; they shone with a strange fijeza.
"Hollis, talking about 'us' won't get us a passing grade," you replied, forcing that expression of indifference you always showed to everyone else onto your face, even though inside you felt yourself wavering.
"You don't want to?" His answer seemed to hold a trace of surprise. He tilted his head slightly, as if he wasn't used to receiving such a distant response.
You stayed in a heavy, tense silence, pretending to maintain control over the situation and not falter before his voice and the heavy weight of his gaze on you. You felt as if he were meticulously analyzing you, as if any look or movement you made would be enough to uncover your true intentions, break your façade of an indifferent girl, and expose just how much his presence affected you.
"You know July, right?" you asked suddenly, dropping your pen to the side of the page. Finally, your eyes didn't pull away from his. "Well, she wants your number because she wants to invite you to a party. You know... she asked me because I guess she's too embarrassed to ask you directly."
When you finished speaking, a mocking smile formed on Hollis's lips. He smiled as if you had just told a really good joke.
"July... I don't care about her, she's incredibly annoying," he answered, tilting his head without breaking eye contact. "I'm much more interested in the girls who are too quiet."
Those words hit you like a wave of freezing water. Hollis wasn't just rejecting July; he was describing you.
"I'm not going to give you my number for her, Y/n," he continued, dropping his voice even lower, breaking the little distance left between you. "But I would give it to you. If you're the one asking."
You sat frozen, your back rigid against the library chair. The silence of the room suddenly felt more suffocating, heavier. Hollis reached out his hand and, with the same agonizing slowness he had used on your notebook, lightly brushed the cuff of the jacket you were wearing—the exact jacket you had found in your locker. His fingers grazed the fabric almost imperceptibly, but the message was clear.
"It looks good on you," he whispered, a spark of amusement in his dark eyes. "I knew it would keep you warm."
Your stomach twisted violently. He had put it there. It wasn't a guess; he was confirming it right to your face. Hollis stood up from the table without waiting for an answer, leaving you alone with the echo of his words and the scent of his cologne clinging to the clothes you wore. You looked down at the blank sheet of your project, realizing the game no longer belonged entirely to you.
A/n: I hope this is well written. I honestly haven't written anything like this in a long time (it's been about four years). I was inspired by You, one of my favorite shows. Sorry if there are any mistakes, or if the story isn't very good.
Stalker Fem!reader x Hollis.
-{ Next part
OBSESSION
Love is in the Air.
You had never been the type of girl to actually fall in love; yours were just fleeting obsessions that barely lasted a week. You would look at a boy you found cute, watch him obsessively, and stalk him on social media until your fingers ached from scrolling and your eyes burned from the intense glare of your phone screen in the dead of night. However, the moment you discovered that your idealization didn't match reality, your interest died instantly. You would get bored and move on to the next.
Until he arrived.
Hollis transferred halfway through the semester. At first, you didn’t pay much attention to him; you were too busy idealizing a boy from the basketball team. But the sheer speed with which Hollis’s popularity spread throughout the school was what truly sparked your curiosity. It began with quiet, uncomfortable whispers in the quietest hallways:
"Have you heard Hollis's song yet?"
"I heard he got kicked out of his old school for stalking a girl."
"He’s way too cute, yet he claims he’s never had a girlfriend; that’s got to be a lie just to hook up with easy girls."
The rumors seemed stupid to you, too absurd to be true, but the fact that he created his own music intrigued you. It only took a few days before you finally decided to look him up in the middle of the night. You plugged your headphones into the computer, isolating yourself from the cold silence of your bedroom, and pressed play on one of his songs.
From that night on, you couldn't stop.
You felt a connection that went far beyond a simple taste in music. His lyrics conveyed something real, something heavy; they weren't the empty, repetitive lines of the mainstream music industry that everyone was used to. He felt authentic; you could hear the raw sound of his breath between each verse, the muted friction of his fingers against the guitar strings, and that subtle desperation in his tone that made you feel like he was confessing a late-night secret to you and you alone. You felt like you could see right through him.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
"Have you heard Hollis's new song yet?" your friend July asked enthusiastically, shattering the sepulchral silence of the school library. She had always been like this—loud, predictable, and cloying. It sickened you how she invaded your space, carrying that cheap floral perfume that clung to your clothes and made you dizzy. Seeing her sigh over Hollis felt like an insult; she only saw a pretty face and a danceable beat, completely incapable of processing the abyss behind it. It turned your stomach to remind yourself that you had to smile at her and play dumb, forcing yourself to treat an idiot who didn't share a single functional brain cell with you as an equal.
You merely glanced at her out of the corner of your eye, feigning absolute disinterest, falling into a silence that lasted a few seconds but was slowly becoming awkward under the heavy quiet of the library.
"Mmh... I didn’t really have time to listen to it," you replied in a sharp, dry tone—the exact one you used whenever you wanted to bury a conversation. "But I assume it's good, judging by how excited you are."
But what you said was a lie. A complete lie. You had stayed up until midnight waiting for the release. But you weren't going to share that feeling with July; she only listened to it for the catchy rhythm. She didn't understand the atmosphere Hollis created.
Nobody understood it as well as you did.
If anyone found out what you were thinking, they would call you crazy. They would say things like, "How can you understand him if you haven't even talked to him?" But you knew everything. From the moment you accepted that he was your new obsession, you began taking him apart piece by piece. You started with the basics: his full name, his birthday, his social media... Then you dove deeper, collecting information that would be entirely unnecessary to anyone else, but to you, it was everything.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
"In the end, it'll just be you and me, Hollis... happy together," you whispered with a tense, almost rigid smile.
Your eyes wouldn't drift from the dark wall of your bedroom, where the dying streetlights filtered in, tinting your absurd collection of photographs of him with a thick, dull reflection. Some were screenshots from his Instagram; others were photos taken at school or from afar in the places he used to frequent. Photos you had taken yourself, hidden in the shadows, a part of you knowing that what you were doing was already wrong.
But when you analyzed everything you did for him, and only for him, it didn't make you feel that guilty. You did it because he needed someone to watch over him from a distance, someone who understood his every need. And if you kept this up, you thought that after a while he would notice you in the crowd; he would look directly at you and know that you were the girl he needed. That way, all the effort you made for him wouldn't be in vain. He would finally be yours.
Completely yours.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
The monotonous drone of the teacher explaining the final project felt like background white noise. You rested your cheek on the palm of your hand, staring blankly at a graphite smudge on the worn wood of your desk. What a waste of time. –Group projects were an absolute joke, an excuse to force you to carry the dead weight of some idiot in class who couldn't even articulate a full sentence.
Your mind was already far away from that classroom with its gray walls and flickering fluorescent lights. You were trapped again in the late-night loop of the day before, remembering the texture of the photographs you had touched with your fingertips before going to sleep.
"...and finally, Y/n with Hollis. You have until the end of the block to coordinate your points."
The teacher dropped the list onto his desk with a dull thud, but the name barely registered on the periphery of your consciousness. You were too deeply submerged in your own mental labyrinth to register the screeching, uncomfortable noise of chairs dragging against the freezing floor. The general noise of the classroom began to fade away, as if you had drifted underwater.
Then, the air around you shifted.
There was no warning sound. Simply, a shadow cast over your desk, blocking out the intense, annoying overhead light, and a rush of cold air made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. The scent hit you immediately: it wasn't the generic cologne of the boys on the basketball team; it was an artificial, strangely chemical smell, subtly stale, like clean clothes stored for years in a damp basement.
You turned your head slowly, your brow furrowing at the interruption.
Hollis was already sitting in the chair next to yours.
He wasn't settling in, he wasn't pulling out a notebook, and he wasn't looking for a pen. He was already completely motionless, tilting his head a couple of centimeters to the right at a rigid, unnatural angle. He was staring at you. His eyes were locked onto yours, wide enough that you could see the white line around his irises, and his pupils were so dilated that the brown color had almost vanished entirely, turning his gaze into two deep, black pools where you could see your own reflection.
"Hello, partner," he said.
His voice lacked the warmth and melodic cadence of his songs. It was a flat, robotic tone, devoid of any human inflection. It almost sounded like he was reciting a script rehearsed in front of a mirror.
A strange cognitive dissonance began to warp your perception. You felt a violent twist in your stomach, but it wasn't the foolish adrenaline of a crush. It was a cold spike of discomfort. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
Hollis stretched his lips into a perfectly symmetrical smile, showing his teeth, but his eyes remained completely dead, locked onto yours without blinking for a single second.
"I was hoping we'd get paired up," he murmured, leaning a centimeter closer than socially acceptable, invading your space with a suffocating slowness. "I know exactly which days you get distracted in this class. They're the same days you stay behind to watch me from the third row of the bleachers."
The air in your lungs froze. Your pulse spiked instantly, spiraling out of control, but on the outside your face remained smooth—a mask of perfect indifference you had polished for years. You couldn't let him see a single crack. If he managed to rattle you, he won.
You forced your lips into a soft, almost bored line, and tilted your head with a hint of feigned confusion.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Hollis." you replied. Your voice sounded surprisingly calm, a total contrast to the chaos roaring behind your ribs. "In the bleachers, I usually review my chemistry notes. If our eyes met, it was pure coincidence."
Inside, you were dying. A mixture of visceral panic and humiliation clawed at your stomach. He wasn't supposed to know. You had been so careful, just like those past times you had done the same with other boys; they never even noticed your fleeting glances, how you desired them in silence. But he... he seemed to notice.
Hollis let out a low laugh, a dry sound that didn't reach his dead eyes. He rested his chin on his hand without breaking eye contact, cutting what little distance remained between the two of you. His cold, chemical perfume flooded your nostrils, making you lightheaded.
"Coincidence," he repeated, tasting the word as if it were a private joke. "Sure, Y/n. Let's say it's a coincidence that repeats itself every Tuesday and Thursday at the exact same time."
He reached out a pale hand and, with excruciating slowness, brushed his fingertips against the edge of your notebook, right where you had mindlessly doodled a few blurry lines. The touch was almost imperceptible, but it felt like a freezing shockwave.
"I like that you're so reserved," he murmured, dropping his voice to a heavy whisper, the same intimate tone he used in his late-night songs. "It makes me want to find out what else you're hiding in that head of yours. The project is going to be fun. We're going to spend a lot of time alone, you and I..."
Hollis gave you one last smile—one meant to look charming and flirtatious to anyone watching from the outside, but to you, it meant much more. It was a silent promise of the danger drawing near.
RIIIING
The school bell rang with a violent crash, shattering the bubble of stale air surrounding you. The sound of dragging chairs and the murmurs of students rushed back all at once. Hollis stood up from his seat without any rush, slinging his backpack over his shoulder with a terrifying calmness. He looked down at you one last time, winking before blending into the crowd leaving the classroom.
You sat frozen in your chair, your fingers gripping the edge of the wood, trying to remember how to breathe. The hunter had just taken the bait, but you realized too late that the bait was you.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
That afternoon, you submerged yourself once again in the cold twilight of your bedroom. Immediately, you grabbed the journal you had used so much over the past four months—that notebook which had become the container for every thought, every analyzed song, and every sigh dedicated to Hollis.
But today, writing felt different. Your fingers trembled slightly over the paper.
I've been writing about you for four months, Hollis. Planning the moment you would finally look at me. Today you did... but I didn't like that look at all. You made me feel exposed. You made me feel like an insect trapped in a glass jar that you've just started to shake. And I am nobody's bait. Tomorrow we start the partner project. You said we'd spend a lot of time alone, you and I. You were flirting, playing the wolf. But you're wrong if you think I'm going to let myself be caught so easily. I thought I knew you, Hollis, but it turns out you're far more dangerous than I imagined.
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