𓃗𓃗𓃗

𓆩 ♞ 𓆪 bout me

she/her, +18, not very active, mostly using this acc to post fanfic ive written; english's not my first language;

likes: 2hollis, western goth, ethel cain, salem, very into occultism and esoteric stuff

dni: minor

masterlist:

sister (2hollisxfem!reader/childhood friends): chapter 1, chapter 2, chapter 3, chapter 4 (...)

crash (2hollisxfem!reader)

Romeo+Juliet (2hollisxfem!reader, romeo and juliet retelling)

𓆰♱𓆪 ⛪︎

That whole thing had stirred something loose in you, and you couldn't help it. For the most part you'd made your peace with what Hollis had done — he'd done what he had to — but your mind wouldn't let it go. Not all of it. Just one thing, the same thing, coming back on a loop at the worst moments: the shoes. Twelve pairs lined up too neatly along that basement wall, all different sizes, like they were waiting for someone who wasn't coming. You'd think about something else entirely and then there they'd be again, sitting at the back of your mind quiet and insistent.

Somehow, the gunshots you managed to file away. The grip on your leg, the blood — those you could quite reason through. But the shoes you couldn't explain, and the not explaining was what stayed with you.

At night you'd wake two or three times, jolting out of sleep, heart hammering. Once, Hollis caught you like that — he didn't make a thing of it. You were in the passenger seat, so he just reached over, touched your face gently, then left his hand resting on your upper thigh, drawing slow, shapeless patterns into your skin until you drifted back under. At least when you were in the same bed, all you had to do was press yourself against him and he'd hold you back. That certainty alone was something.

And that was the easiest part about all that, even though he'd noticed — he didn't meet you with impatience or questions you didn't know how to answer. You knew because of the small things. It was in the way he'd move with caution around you. Three days after the house, you'd flinched hard at a car backfiring on the road beside you, and when you looked over at him he was already watching you, steady and quiet, like he'd been waiting for exactly that and already knew what to do about it, which was softly caress your thighs, reassuring. He was just there. And he did not make it strange.

One night, in a town you were passing through, he insisted on going out. You were still too hollowed out and tried to refuse, but he insisted upon it in such a lovely way you gave in. You put on a simple mid-length dress, your boots, and a jacket Hollis draped over your shoulders before you'd even thought to reach for one.

You went to a bar and had dinner together — a decent meal, for the first time in what felt like forever. It was a simple small town bar, a candle on the table, a bartender who called you folks, someone playing guitar in the corner badly enough to be charming. From the outside it must have looked like a date. And somewhere between the bread basket and the main course you caught yourself thinking exactly that — this feels like a date — and underneath it, quieter: we are on the middle of nowhere, a man is probably dead on our account and I am sitting here thinking about how this feels like a date. You let the thought pass through you and didn't pull on it. You picked up your fork and kept eating and let yourself have it, just for tonight.

After you ate, you went through rounds of drinks. Hollis, oddly enough, had taken it upon himself to introduce you to alcohol. You tried beer, then whiskey — a good one, he said, though you couldn't tell the difference — then vodka, then tequila. They were all terrible. You had a sip of each and Hollis finished the rest.

"Alright, I think you're just not a drinker," he said. "Or maybe—"

He glanced at the menu and said something to the bartender. A round glass arrived, filled with something red, and you sipped it cautiously. For the first time it was actually good — didn't taste like alcohol at all. You looked up at Hollis with wide eyes and a wide smile.

"Jackpot," he smiled back. "Guess my girl has a sweet tooth."

His girl, you thought.

The drink was dangerous. You ordered another, and by the fourth round you felt lighter than air. Hollis was delighted watching you like this — loose and unguarded — and he was a little drunk himself, you thought, laughing more openly than usual.

You were humming along to the country song playing through the bar, not really thinking about anything, when you felt his eyes on you. Too steady, too intent. It made your cheeks warm and your breath go short — he could have the softest, most unhurried eyes of any man you'd ever met. Maybe of anyone. You wanted to kiss him, but not with all these people around.

"Can we go back?" you asked, your voice easy and light.

"Sure, honey." He was on his feet before you'd finished the sentence.

He settled the tab and then you were out on the street, the night air hitting you clean and cold after the warmth of the bar. You walked close enough that your arm kept brushing his, and at some point his hand found yours and stayed there. Neither of you said anything about it. The street was quiet and the motel wasn't far and the cold felt good against your warm skin, and you thought: I could get used to this. Matter of fact, you were getting used to it. And you held his hand tighter anyway.

Back in the room, Hollis stepped inside and started shrugging off his jacket, completely unaware that you'd been standing in the doorway watching him in silence for a full minute. Only when he sat on the edge of the bed did he glance back and catch you staring.

"What's wrong, pretty girl?"

"Nothing." You stepped closer. "You've been so nice tonight."

He smirked. "What you mean? I'm always nice."

It was a joke, but he wasn't wrong. "You are. I just wish I could repay you. For everything you've been doing for me."

"You're so fucking adorable," he laughed softly. "And a little dumb if you think you're not already."

He reached for your hand and pulled you to him. You settled between his open legs. He brought your hand to his lips, and you giggled.

"Want to do something for me?" You nodded immediately. "Then get on your knees."

It took you a second, but you did, lowering yourself in front of him. He was still holding your hand, so he guided it to his crotch, and you took over from there, touching him on your own. He smiled — that knowing smile that always made you flustered and warm. As you felt him growing hard, you reached for his zipper, pulled his jeans down, then his boxers. He was only half hard, but you worked him with your hands, then leaned in and let a slow thread of saliva fall to his tip. You were so focused on watching his cock harden in your grip that when his hand came to your face you flinched, looking up to find him watching you carefully.

"Can you use that pretty mouth on me?"

"I've never done that," you answered, still stroking him slowly.

"That's alright. I'll guide you."

You pressed your lips together before leaning in. You didn't know how he'd fit in your mouth, so you started by licking him — slowly, from base to tip, keeping your eyes on his face as you went.

"There," he said, when your tongue swept across his swollen head. "Now open your mouth, baby."

You did. "Wider." You opened further. "Stick your tongue out." You followed every instruction.

Holding himself by the base, he pressed his tip to your mouth — first tracing your lips with it, then resting it on your tongue. Feeling him like this was something else entirely. There was something about being taught rather than just taken — the patience of it, the way he watched your face more than anything else — that loosened something in your chest you hadn't known was wound tight.

"Can you suck on it?" You nodded and closed your lips around him — around his tip, at least.

You sucked lightly, working mostly that part of him until his hand pressed gently to the back of your head, encouraging you further. You took more of him, then drew back, then did it again. Every time he'd reach your throat, you'd draw back, so you worked the rest of his length with your hands. He didn't seem to mind, he seemed to like it cause sometimes, his voice went needy and those low, strained sounds slipped out of him — it made you wet just to hear it. You wanted to give him more, so you pushed yourself a little further, until it made you gag, and then you pulled back.

"Such a good girl," he breathed, when you found a rhythm that had him panting.

It filled you with something more than pride when he started to come undone — chest heaving, breath catching, voice failing him. He cursed as you felt him finish on your tongue, thick and warm, and you kept sucking until you'd taken the last of him. It was still in your mouth when he finally pulled away.

"Did you swallow?" he asked. You shook your head. "Can you do it for me?"

You nodded, and then you did. You knew his taste by now — that one time at the church you had tasted it — but taking so much at once made your nose wrinkle. He laughed at that and pulled you up into his arms.

"Now let me take care of you." He kissed your face, your neck, then moved lower, to your chest.

He pulled the straps of your dress down to bare you, and the moment he had you he sucked your nipple into his mouth, eagerly. You gasped at the sensation, your sensitive skin lighting up under his tongue, and all you could do was hold on to his shoulder and grip his hair. Hollis seemed to like that, because every time he did that it felt like he was starving for your body. 

He ended up working his fingers into you right there in his lap, and he was so good at it that it didn't take long before you were crying out his name, rolling your hips desperately, begging without shame. He drove his fingers into you while his thumb circled your clit, kissing you sloppily and deeply all at once — so much happening at the same time that your edge came up fast and hard.

Even then he wasn't done with you. The night stretched on with him taking you in bed, pulling you onto all fours and driving into you with urge. You buried your face in the pillow from how undone it made you feel — mind wiped blank, reduced entirely to the sensation of him pounding into you. He was already so deep you didn't think he could go further, and then he laid himself over you, his weight pressing you flat into the mattress, one arm looped around your neck, his warm breath at your ear as his hips kept moving behind you.

He pulled out just before the end and came across your back with a rough, wrecked sound, while you lay completely spent beneath him. He crumbled to your side afterward, and you felt his hand on your face — so soft, so careful. You kept your eyes closed.

"You don't have to worry about a thing," he said. A kiss pressed to your cheek, and you could feel from the warmth of his breath that he kept his face close to yours even after. “My angel.” 

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀

You woke the next morning to an empty bed. The sheets on his side were already cold. You lay there for a moment in the quiet, looking at the ceiling, and let yourself think about the night before — the bar, the walk back, his hand in yours on that empty street. You thought about the way he'd looked at you while you were humming to that song, like you were something worth looking at. You thought about him teaching you how to suck him properly — so patiently, so endearing it made lust turn into something else. You tucked it somewhere careful and got up to shower.

He was back by the time you were braiding your hair, and it caught you off guard when he showed you his new gun. This one looked heavier, and from the little your father had taught you, you could tell he'd switched models — from a revolver to a pistol. And of course he had, because guns can be traced. So it wasn't just you who'd been worried. Before you could sink too far into that thought, he held out something else — a gift, he said. A pocket knife. You needed to be able to defend yourself, he said. You took it in its sheath and tucked it into your boot, quietly hoping you'd never have to use it.

"I need shampoo," you said once you were back on the road.

"Don't the motels have it? I use theirs," he glanced over at you briefly.

"They do, but it's terrible." You ran your hands over your braids. 

"Your hair looks nice though," he said, and you laughed. The way he said it, briefly glancing at you, so adorable.

"What?"

"Thanks, Holli." You leaned over and kissed his cheek. He smiled.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀

You got out to fill the tank while Hollis went inside for his cigars — you asked him to grab some snacks too. When you finished pumping you sat up on the hood and waited, but he was taking too long, so eventually you went in after him.

It didn't quite surprise you, what you found, but it shocked you.

Hollis with his gun leveled at the cashier, the man emptying the register with shaking hands. You stood in the doorway and just — looked. Not at the gun, which you knew. At him. You stood there frozen, you never actually saw him like that, the particular stillness of his posture, his attention, the way his eyes tracked the cashier with a calm that had nothing uncertain in it. This wasn't new to you, you knew he did this, it was just different. The same Hollis holding your hand last night was this one making someone tremble and fear for their life.

Then Hollis registered you. 

"What—" Something flickered across his face, just briefly, before he recomposed  “Honey, go back to the car.” 

And you turned to do exactly that. No questions, just turned on your feet and walk back to the door. But you didn't make it to the door. Another man appeared — broad, tall, carrying a shotgun, frightening enough without it. He swung the barrel straight at you.

"On the ground, lady."

You'd never been held at gunpoint before. Seeing it up close made your body move before your mind could catch up. You lowered yourself to the floor.

"Drop the fucking gun or I'm putting a bullet to her head," the man called out.

It didn't take more than a second, you heard the scrape of metal on tile. Then the man stepped past you, and you raised your eyes to find him pointing the shotgun directly at Hollis, who was now on the ground, the man shouting over him but all you could hear was your heart slamming against your ribs, tears pricking your eyes. And when the man struck Hollis with the butt of the gun, you moved on instinct. You pulled the knife from your boot, crossed the floor, and jumped on the man's back. You drove the blade into his side once — it was all you managed, and your small knife didn't do much more than make him stagger — but it was enough. Enough for Hollis to wrench the shotgun from the man's hand and get to his feet, his pistol already in his other hand. The moment he was standing you let go, dropping to his side. He dropped the shotgun, kicked it away and had his gun trained on them now, and the thought of what he might do made your stomach clench.

"Don't shoot," you said quietly, low enough that only he could hear.

"Both of you, to the back," he said, his voice flat and commanding. "And hand over your phones."

They did as they were told. The man you'd stabbed moved slower than the other, a dark thread of blood spreading through the fabric of his shirt. They filed into the back room, and as they crossed the threshold Hollis looked at the cashier.

"Give her the keys."

The man handed them over without argument. You took them.

"Close the door."

They did, and you locked it behind them. Hollis swept the room after security cam — nothing. Then he grabbed the money bag and his cigars from the counter.

"Get your snacks," he said.

Somehow his ease made you easy too, even with your blood still going. You grabbed what you'd come for, and on your way out you stopped at a small display by the door and picked up a pair of sunglasses — white, cat-eye. He looked at you and smiled, then leaned down and kissed you. "Beautiful."

Back in the car, the adrenaline was still singing through you. Hollis was all loose smiles, some loud song shaking through the speakers. You didn't feel scared or wrung out, actually you felt electric. It kept replaying: his voice commanding both men, the gun steady in his hand — the one he still had in hands, resting against the steering wheel now, casual as anything.

“You're such a good girl,” Hollis said, that easy smile hanging from his lips. “Made me so proud.”

Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the praise. You didn't stop to think about it. You pulled off your boots, then your shorts. Hollis glanced over, clearly surprised though still smiling, and in one motion he pulled the car to the shoulder and killed the engine.

That was all you needed. You climbed into his lap and kissed him the way you'd been wanting to — hard and desperate, pressing into him as his hands found your thighs, your ass, smacking you lightly and playfully. You could feel the gun against your waist as he held you with it in his hand. In between kisses he pulled your shirt over your head, one brief parting before you came back together in a wet, messy kiss.

"What's all this?"

He was reaching to set the gun aside on the passenger seat when you caught his wrist. He raised an eyebrow. You brought his hand closer instead. "I like seeing it."

"Yeah?" A small smile. "You complained about it enough when you first found out."

"That was before I saw you with it." You guided his wrist slowly — down your chin, your neck, down between your breasts, across your stomach — until the barrel rested against the front of your panties.

Some distant part of you registered what you were doing — you are guiding a gun to yourself and asking for it — and beneath that, quieter still: you would not have done this three weeks ago. But you just couldn’t stop thinking of the version of him you'd seen back there, and you thought about his hand in yours on the street the night before, and you understood that both of those things were him and neither cancelled the other out, and that you wanted both. You filed those thoughts away as you rolled your hips and stopped thinking entirely.

"What have you turned into?" Hollis said, and took over, pressing the muzzle against you. You rolled your hips, chasing the friction.

You sighed as he moved it against you. His other hand came to your face, thumb pressing between your lips. You sucked on it, still grinding against the cold metal, his gaze fixed on you and sharp enough to make you soak through your underwear. It was enough.

Your hands found his jeans, worked the zipper open, pulled him free — and he was already hard. You both moved at the same time; you lifted your hips, he pulled your panties to the side, and then he was sliding into you, deep enough to make your eyes roll back. Exactly what you needed.

You kept your eyes on him as you moved, whimpering with every roll of your hips, and he watched you just as closely. The barrel of the gun traveled slowly up your stomach, between your breasts, until he rested it beneath your chin.

"Faster," he said.

You went faster — bouncing on his cock in quick, urgent strokes, half because of the gun at your chin and half because your body simply demanded it.

"Crazy bitch," he said.

You bit your lower lip after hearing that, and braced both hands on his shoulders to keep the pace. But he'd stop you, Hollis grabbed both of your hands and folded them behind your back, your wrists together as he held them with one hand. The gun still on your chin, his gaze so sharp you could swear you saw him gleaming at you. He pressed the gun harder against your chin, the cold metal making you shiver, his grip on your wrists so tight you swear it'd bruise later.

“My beautiful, beautiful angel,” he said hoarse, breath catching.

He caressed your face with the gun in hand, your cheeks, your mouth, it made you whimper at that and that was exactly what tipped you over: your whole body shuddering and then shaking on top of him, the orgasm tearing through you while you bit your lip so hard you tasted blood.

He let your wrists free and his arm circled your waist instead. Then he began thrusting up into you — hard, lifting your body with each stroke. You cried out, overwhelmed, barely keeping yourself upright.

You knew he was close. And when he moved to push you off him, you held on, grinding your hips down.

“Want me inside?” He asked with an airy voice and faint smile.

You nodded, compressing your lips in the heat of it.

"Please," you breathed, eyes on his. You kept moving, kept clenching around him — and that was all it took. A low, wrecked sound broke from his throat as the first of him spilled into you, warm and sudden enough to make you gasp. You could feel as he filled you up, the heat of it spreading across your skin smooth, from inside out, that warm fuzzy feeling getting you almost numb. You stayed still above him, both of you unraveling, neither of you speaking.

You kissed him slowly, and he held you so tightly afterward that you knew it had gotten to him too.

Then — a gunshot. You turned to find him pointing out toward the open field, the window down. You laughed. You kissed him again as he laughed with you. In that moment you felt completely outside yourself — weightless, untethered, way over the edge of anything that had ever felt ordinary.

▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀

Ever since that day, you fell into a state of awareness. You crossed streets double-checking your surroundings — a screech of tires would startle you, someone hitting the brakes or just a buzzing sound — and you weren't sure if it was trauma, or if you'd simply been expecting to happen again. To feel it again. To see him again. Because for a whole week, he made no contact. You waited and waited, days stretching into nothing. And for that whole week you obsessively replayed everything: the crash, the meetings at the hospital — sometimes you'd even dream of him watching you — then that last day, the car, his scent, his touch, all of it bleeding together into something that drove you almost insane. That led you to searching for logic in it, combing through accounts of other car crash victims and how they coped. Barely anyone shared that same after-effect. Barely anyone wrote about staring at a car too long, as if it were something alive — and no one had a story about finding the man who almost killed them and ending up fucking him.

One night on the second week, just after getting home from work, curiosity won you over and you searched his name online. It took some effort, but you eventually found an instagram profile — you only recognized it was him because of a single photo of a car, with a comment calling him "Hollis." The username was 2cross22, and despite an amount of pictures of expensive cars, open roads, and places from around the world you could probably only name three or four, there was one photo of a girl in his passenger seat that you immediately recognized as his girlfriend. She was tagged, and shamelessly you found yourself on her page, digging for anything else about him — and there he was, posing in some of her photo dumps, captions reading my love or just a heart emoji that would say enough, so tender you'd think he was the perfect boyfriend. That made you feel awful. But it didn't last, as you scrolled back to his page and landed on a photo of his hand resting over a steering wheel, you felt it again — that heat, that thrill, the vivid sound of the impact, and the ache of wounds still fading under your skin.

Those wounds were the last tangible reminder of that single encounter, and they were healing. Your neck no longer hurt, your arm was almost fully recovered — you weren't even wearing the sling anymore — and your broken ribs barely stung when you breathed. But that night, staring at the screen, at his long fingers gripping the wheel, your hand found its way between your thighs. Naturally. You touched yourself to the thought of him, whimpering softly, imagining it was his hand there, pressing against your clit — his fingers, his mouth.

You nearly missed the notification when it popped up on your screen. It was past 1AM, and you might have ignored it if it hadn't been from an unknown number. And an unknown number was all you'd been waiting for.

Unknown Number: you there?

You opened it before you could think twice.

Me: yeah, who's this?

Unknown Number: Hollis

You bit your lower lip, your finger still moving stubbornly as your heart raced.

Hollis: you free on friday?

You: you mean tomorrow?

Hollis: yes

You: guess so

Hollis: great. be ready by 10pm, i'll pick you up

You: can i know where we're going? so i dress properly

Hollis: just a ride, i wanna show you something, but if you wanna get pretty for me i won't mind

You: sure, i'll be waiting then

Hollis: see you

Just that, and you felt it all over your body. You got off staring at the screen — not even his picture anymore, just his texts. Stupid, embarrassing, but it made you impossibly turned on.

The next day you could barely focus on anything. You were working as maître d' while your body finished healing cause you couldn't serve tables yet, and God, you were scattered — all you could think about was later. Even your colleagues noticed, commenting on how you kept spacing out through lunch.

By the time it was nearly 10PM, you'd been ready for an hour and a half, nerves humming. You kept studying yourself in the mirror — your black dress, your dark tights — wondering if it was too much. But he had suggested it. If you wanna look pretty for me. And you did. When you heard an engine outside, you waited until his text came through — a simple I'm here — and only then you let yourself rush out.

He was leaning against a black GT3, all in black again, his pale frame almost ghostly under the night. His eyes traveled over you the moment you stepped closer, indiscreet as anything, and it sent a shiver down your spine and heat pooling low in your belly. No smile until you were close enough, then his lips curved into something composed but warm.

"Wow, I should've made more of an effort," he said, and it drew an easy smile from you. "You look amazing."

"Thank you. You look great too." He did. Almost breathtaking, if you let yourself stare too long.

He only smiled, then opened the car door. "Shall we?"

⛍

The drive was quiet for the most part. As the city lights blurred past, you tried not to look his way, but every so often your gaze drifted to his frame beside you — relaxed, unhurried, eyes on the road.

"Traffic's been getting worse, have you noticed?" he said, stopping at a sign.

Traffic talk. Were you really that boring? You thought, at first.

"I wouldn't know, haven't been driving," you said, eyes on the window, the flood of headlights and engine sounds merging into something of their own. "Last time I was behind the wheel, some madman came out of nowhere and hit me."

"Oh yeah?" You heard the amusement in his voice and glanced over. "Streets are getting dangerous. You should be careful, ma'am."

One last look before he pulled through the green light. That gaze. It got to you so easily. You watched his hand settle on the wheel and thought of the photo you'd touched yourself to — you had to look away.

"No, but look at it," he said, voice dropping into something more serious. "Something's different. It all seems like a single thing, like the cars are moving on a purpose." You kept your eyes on the window, and somehow his words made sense — you'd been hyper-aware of it all week. "Maybe I'm just tripping."

"I kinda get it," you said, watching cars and motorcycles blur past, that rush, the stray of red light dissolving into the night. "Like it has a life of its own. I've been paying more attention ever since…"

"Oh." A pause. "I'm sorry."

"No, not like that," you said quickly. "Not in a bad way. It just... catches my attention. It pulls me in."

He hummed. "Are we imagining it?"

He glanced at you briefly, and even after he looked away you kept watching him. "I don't think so. It feels real."

"Yeah. It does."

Then the engine roared — he accelerated onto the avenue, and your heart clenched. If you'd looked at him any longer your panties would've been ruined. You forced your gaze out the window and noticed you'd left the main avenue behind, somewhere past downtown. Old buildings, warehouses, the outskirts near an old railway line. The worn fringe of the city. Curiosity and apprehension settled in you as you watched it pass.

Hollis parked on a quiet, almost deserted street that, surprisingly, had a handful of cars already lined up — most expensive, like his. The space had a strange gravity to it, the kind of stillness that only exists when people are deliberately quiet, like people were holding their breath on purpose. Portable floodlights were staked into the cracked asphalt, casting everything in a pale, clinical glow. You noticed how people moved here — unhurried, almost reverent, the way you'd expect somewhere between a ritual and a wake.

"So I have this friend who organizes all of this," he started, as you fell into step beside him. Ahead, you could make out bleachers and more parked cars.

"And what exactly is this? An illegal race?" you asked, puzzled, glancing at him.

"Nah, it's different. Very different." He looked at you with a playful smile. "It's like theater. With cars."

"How does it work?"

"We act out car crashes," he said simply, and your confusion only deepened. "We take cars similar to those involved in real crashes and reenact them."

"We?" you raised your brows.

"I mean, I don't usually take part in it, but I brought you tonight to watch me." He paused.

You looked ahead, saw two old cars parked across the street, people already seated and waiting. "Just watch?"

"Yeah. I figured it'd make sense." He wasn't looking at you anymore — a man called out to him from across the lot, and they fell into an easy, familiar exchange. The guy was older, and you noticed scars all over his face and what you could see of his arms.

"So that's the girl you almost—?" the man dragged a finger across his throat, and you laughed politely, your head still catching up with everything Hollis had dropped on you.

"Yeah, that's her, y/n" Hollis said, his arm coming around your shoulders and drawing you in.

"Hey," you waved.

"Her first night and she's already taking part in it?" The man looked at Hollis.

"Nah, she's just watching tonight."

Something about it felt thrillingly dangerous. You watched them talk, Hollis still holding you by the shoulder — until his grip shifted lower, to your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress. The awareness hit you all at once.

"So, she—" Hollis' voice pulled you back. He was gesturing toward a girl nearby. "—is going to take you to your seat. I'll see you in a few minutes, alright?"

He turned to face you fully as he said it. You nodded. He briefly brushed your cheek before stepping away.

But after the girl greeted you and began leading you toward the seats, you stopped. Turned on your heels in a quick decision making. Walked back to Hollis in even quicker steps and caught him by the shirt.

"Something wrong?" he asked, brows slightly furrowing.

"Can I go with you?" The words came out breathless. Adrenaline already prickling at your fingertips.

He frowned first, then wet his lips — processing it. He held your gaze for long enough that you almost regretted asking.

"We're literally going to drive one car into another. You know that?"

You nodded. "It just makes sense, doesn't it?"

A slow smile broke across his face. He looked away, then back at you.

"Come on."

He took your hand and led you to one of the parked cars — a vintage Porsche beside an old Ford you couldn't quite name, though Hollis answered before you could ask as you climbed in.

"It's a '55 Porsche 550," he said.

"Oh…" You looked at the dashboard — new and old at once, like stepping through time. "It's actually beautiful."

"Sure is." He had one hand on the wheel, but his body was turned toward you. "Shame we're about to wreck it."

You pouted. How could listening to him talk about destroying a car feel like that? You didn't understand it, but it moved through you like heat.

"What crash are we reenacting?" you asked, trying to cool the wave rising in you.

"James Dean."

Then you heard his friend's voice outside, addressing the crowd. He walked them through Dean's fatal crash with a storyteller's timing, making it a spectacle of its own. Dean had been on his way to a race, driving his Porsche down Route 466 — now SR 46 — when he didn't see a Ford ahead making a turn. He couldn't stop in time. He struck it on the passenger side. The story reminded you of your own crash, and you glanced at Hollis, but he wasn't watching the narrator. He was already watching you.

In Dean's case, despite being the one who hit the Ford, he took the worst of it. His car left the road. Dean was trapped inside while his passenger was thrown clear. Both died. Dean at the scene, with a broken neck.

"You sure you want to do this?" Hollis' hand came to rest on your thigh, rubbing slow circles. You looked at him.

It was insanity — you barely knew this man, and here you were, choosing this. But your pulse was erratic and something under your skin felt like it was boiling. "I'm sure."

While his friend continued outside, Hollis leaned in, and you barely had time to prepare before he kissed you — urgent and wet, your mouths parting and meeting until your chest was heaving. When he broke away, he held your gaze for a moment, then reached over and buckled your seatbelt. The car was fitted with extra restraints, and Hollis secured every one before reaching into the backseat for a helmet. Under any other circumstances you'd have protested about your hair — but you just watched as he fastened it under your chin.

"There you go," he said, leaning back to buckle himself in.

"Don't you have one?" you asked, gestured to your head, watching him start the engine.

"Don't worry." One last glance. "Just hold on tight."

You already were, fingers gripping the edge of the seat. When the car launched forward, your heart nearly left your chest. Everything happened so fast — the speed pressing you back into the seat, the world outside dissolving into a smear of color and light — and then the headlights ahead, closing in, and in a split second: impact.

Your body lurched forward and snapped back in an instant, violently. The sound was enormous: crushed glass, a thunderous collision of metal, tires screaming, then voices outside. You kept your eyes shut through it all, feeling the soreness bloom through you as everything stilled.

"Fuck," you heard Hollis moan, and only then did you open your eyes.

He hadn't moved. His hair was across his face, and you ached everywhere — but you unhooked yourself from the belts and leaned toward him. You pushed the hair from his face and found a cut above his brow, and then a smirk. He opened his eyes and looked at you.

"Oh my god," you breathed. "That was…"

"Wild," he said. "You okay?"

You barely had time to answer before his friend's voice carried over the crowd, presenting Hollis by name. He stepped out of the car — stumbling slightly, but grinning — and you heard him describe every injury Dean had sustained and how Hollis had minimized them in the reenactment. Then he opened your door, took your hand to help you out, and walked the crowd through the mechanical damage from the original crash. You stood beside him, shy under all those eyes, your body still feverish. Something had settled over the lot in the aftermath, people murmuring quietly, the floodlights humming overhead — and you understood then why it felt like a ritual. They weren't here for spectacle. It was something else.

His friend was still speaking when the lights appeared at the far end of the street — blue and red, sweeping long arcs across the warehouse walls. For a half second the crowd didn't move. Then someone said something low and urgent, and people started scattering toward their cars, the bleachers emptying fast, voices cutting through the dark.

Hollis had your wrist before you could process it.

"Come on."

Not running, but close. He moved fast and certain through the dispersing crowd, pulling you with him, until you reached the GT3 at the far end of the lot. He had the doors unlocked before you got there.

"Get in."

You did. The door hadn't fully closed before he had the engine running.

He pulled out slowly, calm — easing through the alley running behind the lot while the blue lights swept the street ahead. You watched through the windshield, breath held, as a patrol car rolled past the alley mouth without stopping. Hollis didn't react. Didn't tense, didn't accelerate. Just watched the mirror until it was gone.

Then a small smile.

"You good?" he asked.

"I don't know," you said honestly.

He laughed quietly at that, and turned out of the alley in the opposite direction, threading back through the worn streets at the city's edge. You let your head fall back against the seat and stared at the ceiling, heart still hammering. The feeling sitting in your chest wasn't fear. It was something that wore fear's shape but felt entirely different from the inside.

"Is it illegal?" you asked, not looking at him.

"Not really, but it threatens public safety or some shit like that and the traffic department often shows up." he chuckled.

"Oh, so it's not even... real police." you laughed, relieved, and he laughed back.

Ahead, the city opened up — the main avenue, wide and nearly empty at this hour — and Hollis let the car breathe. Gradually at first, then all at once. You felt the speed build in your chest before you registered it, that cold hollow sensation low in your belly as the engine surged and the streetlights turned to lines past you. What started as a sharp inhale dissolved into laughter, both of you, as he pushed harder — running lights, taking the sweeping curves of the avenue like they were built for it. By the time you registered you'd left the city center entirely, you were on the highway, and there he opened it up completely. Straight and dark and endless ahead.

He had one hand on the wheel when you felt the other land on your thigh, trailing upward, his long fingers pressing between your legs. He began rubbing you slowly — barely anything, just enough to make your hips shift toward him. He was still driving fast, not even looking at you, but touching you exactly the way you'd been silently asking for all night. You exhaled softly, already drenched, and then he eased off the accelerator and pulled to the side of the road.

Hollis stepped out, and you watched, puzzled, as he came around to your door. He opened it, unclipped your belt, and turned you toward him in one clean motion. He lifted your dress and hooked his fingers into your tights and underwear, pulling them both down in one go. The night air made you shiver — but before you could speak, he was already lowering himself between your legs.

He didn't rush it. He kissed your inner thighs, bit into the skin, trailed upward toward your center without giving you what you needed. He pressed his nose against you, then placed a slow kiss just above your pussy.

"Please," you whispered, and caught the glint of a grin before he looked up at you.

The first stroke of his tongue undid you completely. Warm and deliberate, circling, then his mouth closing over your clit with a hunger that made it seem like he'd been waiting just as long as you had. Your hands flew to his hair and pulled him closer, hips pressing silently forward, begging for more.

Even with the night breeze keeping you acutely aware you were outside, you didn't care. You called for him in whimpers, your whole body twitching with how good he felt. Then he brought two fingers to your entrance and began working them inside you. At some point he stilled — buried deep — and curled them, finding exactly the right spot, making your eyes roll back. Wet sounds blended with your voice as you dripped for him, more and more.

"Fuck—" you squeezed your eyes shut when your orgasm hit. Toes curling, legs shaking, back arching, and still he kept going, kept going until you couldn't hold a single thought together.

Your breath was thin and unraveling when you felt him pulling you closer. "I need you so fucking bad."

He stood up again and it barely took a moment before you saw him pulling his pants down, his cock out, right in front of your face. You didn't hesitate — took him in your hand, eyes locked on his, and as your mouth reached his tip you pressed your lips against it slowly, deliberately, like a big kiss, and watched his mouth fall open.

"Quit the teasing," he said, his hand coming to rest on top of your head. That low voice drew a smile out of you.

With your tongue out, you licked him from tip to base, then back up again. Feeling him made you nearly whimper — his taste, his skin, each vein pulsing under your tongue. You couldn't bear to tease any longer either. You took him into your mouth — as much as fit — and began to move, sucking him, your tongue working along his length.

"That's it," he said, fingers loosely threading through your hair, not forceful, just following your pace.

He groaned and moaned low, and that alone was enough to turn you on again despite your already overheated body. You pulled back, releasing him with a soft sound, and looked up at him with pleading eyes, your hand still working his length.

"Fuck me," you mouthed, your cheeks warm with it, but it was exactly what you needed. "Please."

"Since you're asking so nicely, pretty girl." He cupped your face, holding you in a way that made you feel almost sheltered under his large hand. "Come here."

He helped you out of the car, onto your feet, and guided you to the hood — gentle but certain. "Bend over."

You didn't question it. You turned your back to him and bent forward over the car. Parts of the metal were cool from the night air, but the hood was warm from the engine that had been running hard only minutes ago. You spread your hands across the surface, widened your stance, and arched your back for him.

"That's good."

His palm settled on your lower back. Then his cock pressed against you, grinding slowly — moving down between you until he reached your entrance, dragging through your folds. You were so wet he slipped easily along you, parting you, teasing. You bit your lip with anticipation, and when he finally pushed inside — the full length of him — you gasped. You remembered how big he was, how he felt stretching you open, but somehow it was even better than you'd held in your memory. He started pounding you immediately — hard, no buildup, just his hips slamming against you over and over. The only thing holding you in place were his hands grabbing you by your hips.

Your mind filled with images from earlier: being in that car with him, the roar of the engine, the crash reenactment, all of it weaving into what was happening now. Your legs were failing as he drove into you, buried so deep you cried out.

"You want someone to pull over to watch you?" You heard him laugh, then he leaned over you. His hand came to your face, fingers holding your chin, turning you to look back at him. "Can't stop thinking, can you?"

You shook your head, pressing your lips together to hold back your moan — but he silenced you with a kiss instead, sloppy and urgent, barely fitting together but desperate to be closer. When he pulled back his hand came over your mouth.

"I'll make you stop thinking."

He went harder, your sounds muffled beneath his palm, his body close over yours so you could hear every breath, every low groan, every word he said against your skin — the kind of words that would have made your face burn in any other moment, but right now only made your mind go blank.

You came right there, clenching around him, eyes rolling back, teeth grazing his hand — which made him laugh, low and breathless. While you were still shaking he pulled out, turned you around, and lifted you onto the hood. He had to lower his hips to line up with you, but the moment he pushed back inside he was moving with the same urgency, the same roughness — this time facing you, one hand fisted in your hair, the other anchoring your hips so you stayed exactly where he wanted you.

"Hollis," you moaned, your mouth brushing his with how close he was. Your eyes were wet with it, overwhelmed completely.

When he was close he went faster, kissed you again — mouth crashing into yours with no delicacy at all, just need — and you heard him moan against your lips. He pulled out at the last moment, spilling hot across your thigh with a long, dragged groan.

You held his face in your hands, quiet, both of you catching your breath. For a full minute he stayed there with you in the dark of the roadside, his face dropping to rest against your shoulder, both your chests heaving in unison.

Neither of you said anything after that. You got back in the car, cleaned up as best you could with tissues from the glove box, and settled into a silence that felt different from earlier — heavier. As he made the turn back toward the city you found yourself replaying his eyes more than anything else. And then it came back to you quietly, the way it always did — he had a girlfriend at home. Did she know about this side of him? Did she know where he was tonight?

⛍

"Thank you for tonight," you said, as he pulled up in front of your building. He didn't unlock the doors yet.

"Think I should be thanking you for the company," he said, a small, contained smile.

"I never thought I'd be doing any of that," you said, laughing softly as the images came back. "Honestly, I haven't thought I'd be doing a lot of things lately."

"That's a good sign," he said, looking at you.

Silence. The doors still locked.

"Take care," He paused. "Now that you have my number, you can text me. Just don't call, I'm usually busy."

"Oh." The weight of that settled on you. "Sure. I will... I won't. I mean, I won't call."

He chuckled. "Hope to see you again."

He reached for your face, his thumb tracing a slow, soft line across your cheek.

"Yeah. Me too, Hollis." Only then did he unlock the doors. You held his gaze a moment longer before stepping out.

You fought the urge to look back as you climbed the stairs. He was still there — you could feel it. Only once you stepped inside did you hear the engine turn over and fade down the street.

Euphoric wasn't quite the word. Too many things filled your body at once, and as you stood under the shower feeling the ache settle into your skin you weren't sure how much of it was the reenactment and how much was the way he'd had you against the hood of his car — both felt incredibly, unreasonably good.

That night, curled in bed and turning it all over in your mind, you found yourself on his instagram again. With a small strike of courage, you hit follow.

A few minutes later, a notification.

2cross22 followed you back.

You smiled at that, and curled into sleep feeling lighter than you had in weeks.

𓆰♱𓆪 ⛪︎

It's not that you got used to the idea of robbing or harming someone, but eventually it started to make sense. And sometimes, some people had it coming. Like the old man who offered help when Hollis's car died.

You were in the middle of nowhere, somewhere along the interstate in between Colorado and Utah. The nearest light you'd seen had been a gas station sign about forty minutes back, and before that, nothing — just the highway cutting through dark flatland, the kind of empty that makes you aware of how small you are. You'd been sleeping until you heard Hollis cursing and felt the car slowly pulling to a stop.

You woke to Hollis stepping out and lifting the hood to check the engine. You stepped out after him.

"Get back to the car," he said.

"No," you answered simply, and he sighed. You reached his side, looking down at the engine as if you understood any of it. "What's wrong?"

"It's probably the water — it overheated." You nodded, still with no clue. "I didn't check back in the last city."

"And what are we gonna do?" You raised your eyes to him.

"I don't know," He looked back at you with a tired stare — he'd been driving the whole night. "I'm calling a tow truck."

Half an hour went by with Hollis trying to get through to a tow truck. You honestly didn't even know how far you were from the nearest town, but judging by the landscape — stretches of grass and the odd solitary property sitting dark and still in the distance — you figured it was far. It was also the first time in quite a while that you'd seen Hollis using his phone; most of the time it stayed off, and he made you keep yours off too.

"Fuck," he roared at the screen, about to dial again when you stepped closer.

"We can sleep in the car tonight and look for help tomorrow." You reached for his face, both hands cupping it gently, fingers brushing his cheekbones. His gaze softened as soon as he met your eyes, and he smiled — softly.

"Sounds good," he said, and you smiled back.

He left the backseat for you. You didn't want to sleep in comfort without him, but he insisted he was too big for the backseat anyway — though truthfully, he was too big for the front seat too. Even reclining back, he had to curl into his own frame just to lay properly.

You watched him from the back, his cap pulled low, arms folded across his chest in the pale moonlight, while you searched for your own sleep. It never came. You listened to an owl somewhere far off, the wind shaking the tall grass and bending the trees, the occasional car passing down the road — none of it pulled you under. You were already resigning yourself to staying awake the whole night when the knocks came.

You heard them before you fully understood what they were. Three slow knocks, evenly spaced, like someone who'd been standing there a while before deciding to announce themselves. It immediately startled you but Hollis didn't so much as stir. You looked out the window before waking him.

The man was standing too close to the car. Not the polite distance of someone passing by who'd noticed trouble — he was right up against the glass, and he'd positioned himself so that the shadows fell across most of his face. Middle-aged, greasy, and odd-looking, to say the least. Something about the stillness of him, the way he wasn't shifting his weight or looking around the way a normal person would, sat wrong in your stomach even before he smiled.

"Holli," you called, poking him through the gap in the seats.

It took a moment, but Hollis woke. He looked for you first, then for the man knocking at his window. He reached into the glove box for his gun and kept it hidden at his hip. Only then did he lower the window — about a quarter of the way, just enough for the man to hear him.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"Good night, son," the man said, a strange smile revealing rotten teeth. "Something wrong with the car?"

"Yeah — it just died, but I'm calling a tow truck first thing in the morning," Hollis answered, dry and suspicious.

"I see." The man looked a moment longer, then somehow found you in the backseat, past Hollis. Hollis frowned and shifted his body to block you from the man's line of sight. "My house isn't far from here. It's not safe to sleep out in the middle of nowhere."

"That's real nice of you, but we're fine," Hollis said quickly.

"I'm saying it on account of the lady — people from all over pass this road. It really isn't far, my house. And come morning I can tow your car with my own truck."

The proposal wasn't bad, and maybe you were only judging by appearances. You knew Hollis would refuse — out of pride, out of caution — but you reached for his shoulder and touched it lightly, just enough to suggest what you had in mind.

"Give us a sec," he said before closing the window in the man's face. "You're not actually thinking of saying yes, are you?"

"It's just for the night, and he said he'd help with the car," you whispered.

"He's weird," Hollis said plainly — and he was right.

"It's just that we don't even know if there's a tow service anywhere nearby." You pouted, and Hollis held your gaze for a moment. You knew that look — he was weighing it, and you were tipping the scale just by staring back.

"Fine," he said, and you kissed his cheek quickly.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀

The stranger's truck smelled like an old house and something dairy you couldn't quite name. It was a three-seat cabin, and Hollis positioned himself in the middle, between you and the man — when you'd moved to climb in first, he'd caught you by the waist and put you by the window instead.

You were nearly asleep again before long, head resting on Hollis's shoulder while the stranger talked at him. You paid no attention to the conversation, only to Hollis's hand resting on your leg and yours settled over his.

Until you heard it.

"Is she your sister? Or girlfriend? No offense," the man said.

"My wife," Hollis said, and you pressed back the smile, squeezing his hand instead.

"Wife? Aren't you a little young for that?"

"Not really — we met in college a few years back and married as soon as we graduated." He was flat-out lying, just for the fun of it.

"And where are you headed?"

"Arizona. Small town called Bisbee — visiting her family." You had to fight not to laugh.

"City folk meets a small-town girl and ties the knot quick — I can see why, honestly." The man laughed. Hollis didn't.

"She's a good girl." His hand tightened around your leg — possessive and protective in equal measure.

The man went quiet for a moment, eyes back on the road, and then almost to himself: "Yeah, the good ones you gotta hold onto. Things have a way of — disappearing, if you're not careful."

Something about the way he said it made you open your eyes. But his expression in the rearview was unreadable, and Hollis's thumb had started moving slow circles on your knee, and you told yourself it was nothing.

The house wasn't far, no more than a twenty-minute drive down a side road — a wooden house, nothing unusual for the region. But it was surprisingly cozy and neat inside. The man showed you to the guest room, and you felt the tension leave your shoulders the moment the door closed. There was a key in the lock. Hollis turned it.

"See? We're fine," you said, watching him shrug off his jacket. When his shirt lifted at the hem, you caught the gun still holstered at his hip.

"We're really not — that guy's weird." He sounded genuinely irritated. He lay down, and you followed.

"He's gonna help us and we'll be out of here first thing in the morning." You crawled toward him. "You sleeping with that?"

You poked at the holster, meeting his eyes. He reached for the gun, lifted it, turned it over in his hand. You couldn't deny what the sight did to you — you felt it everywhere, across your skin, down your spine, and unmistakably elsewhere. When he set it on the nightstand you moved over him, one knee on either side of his hips.

"Am I your wife?" you asked, and he grinned.

"Yeah, my beautiful wife." His hand found your nape, then slid into your hair, gripping it to pull you closer.

"Just for tonight, though," you said, a pout on your lips.

"We’ll see about that" His gaze dropped to your mouth and you bit your lower lip as the grip in your hair tightened. You liked when he was rougher. You liked when he handled you like that.

He kissed you with that same roughness — relentless, his lips fitting yours with ease, his tongue taking over in a way that had you surrendered to him completely. You rested your hands on his chest, then slid them down to his abdomen, fingers grazing lightly across it.

It took no time before you were moving on top of him, grinding on his lap. The mere friction of your panties against his jeans had you whimpering against his mouth.

"Hey," he said, seriously. His other hand came to your hip, trying to steady you, but you kept moving, rolling your hips back and forth. "We can't fuck here."

"Why not?" Your voice came out frail, almost pleading.

You dug your nails into his skin as you kept moving on top of him, your pussy twitching, getting soaked by the minute.

"Fuck it," he said, his voice coming out hoarse, and you smiled at your small victory.

Hollis's grip slid up your thigh until it reached your ass, helping you move, pressing you down over his crotch. You bit your lip to keep from moaning when you felt his growing length beneath you. It felt so good against your cunt that your whole body burned with it. But it wasn't enough. Your hands rushed to unbutton his jeans and drag the zipper down. You raised your hips just enough to push his pants out of the way.

"So fucking greedy," he said, and you glanced up at him briefly. He wore that same devilish look you'd first noticed when you met him — the one you'd grown so fond of — and it made your heart skip and your cheeks flush all at once.

You went on, pulling down his underwear until his cock was finally within reach. You wrapped your hand around the base and began to stroke him slowly. You bent forward just enough to spit on his tip, wetting him so it was easier to work him with both hands. You loved how he throbbed under your touch, loved the sound of his sharp breaths, the way his chest rose and fell, the way his gaze gleamed down at you. You loved it so much.

As he watched you, you stopped and raised your hips. First you slipped out of your summer dress, then your panties, until you were completely naked in front of him. It still made your cheeks warm, mostly when he looked at you with that much attention, his heavy-lidded eyes moving over every detail of you. When you lowered yourself onto him again, you took hold of his cock once more, this time to line him up at your entrance. You said nothing, just bit into your lip to stay quiet as you sank down on top of him, his cock filling you inch by inch. It still caught you off guard — how good it felt to have him stretching you open like that.

You struggled to find your rhythm, but Hollis made it easier by taking hold of your hips and guiding you into it. Slow at first, then the two of you settled into a pace that made staying quiet feel like torture. Desperately, he grabbed you by the neck and pulled you close, kissing you so hard it drew a whimper out of you.

If you'd struggled to hold back when you were leading, the moment Hollis began thrusting up into you, you had no choice but to bury your face against his neck to muffle the sounds escaping your mouth. He wasn't faring much better — between the heaviness of his breathing and the low, hoarse sounds he made from time to time, it was clear how much it was getting to him too. His hands gripped your hips and waist so tight it ached, fingers digging into your skin without restraint, his body slamming up into yours again and again.

When the first spasm tore through you, you bit down on his shoulder — not caring whether it hurt him, just needing to keep your mouth shut somehow. Even so, you cried out and clenched tight around him. It drew a moan from Hollis, but he kept thrusting, relentless. He grew faster, his movements turning sloppy, and you knew. He tried to lift you off him, but you leaned back and sat up straight on top of him, rolling your hips as you held his gaze.

"Baby, I'm gonna—" he said, his voice wrecked, fighting his edge.

"I know," you said, low.

And you kept moving anyway — faster, grinding down on him as you felt him throbbing inside you. You pressed both hands to his chest for leverage and rode him properly.

Hollis fell back against the pillow, lips parted, hands gripping you tight, and you rode him until you felt the first of him spill inside you — just a moment, just enough to make you gasp — before he grabbed your hips and lifted you off him, finishing across your stomach with a rough, wrecked sound. The warmth of it spread across your skin and you stayed still, catching your breath, watching his chest heave. 

"You're insane," he said finally, spent.

"I'm not." You leaned down and rested your head on his shoulder. Both of you panting and slick with sweat. "It just felt so good."

He hummed and pulled you close. His kiss pressed to the top of your head was the last thing you felt before sleep pulled you under, still wrapped in his arms.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀

The next morning, Hollis woke you early. You were a light sleeper, so you got up without much trouble.

"Get dressed," he said.

You nodded and did as he said, moving slowly and groggy. You cleaned yourself up, put on your dress, fixed your hair as best you could, then just waited for him.

The two of you went downstairs, his hand in yours the whole way. The man was in his living room, watering plants or something like it. He greeted you both with a wide smile, his eyes sliding over you in a way that turned your stomach, and you shifted slightly closer to Hollis.

That morning he went with Hollis to tow the car. You stayed behind and looked around — scattered the whole place, really.

You started with the basement. The staircase creaked under every step and the smell hit you before you reached the bottom — something damp and organic, like soil and something older beneath it. The space was crammed: old furniture stacked against the walls, a workbench covered in taxidermy tools and unlabeled chemicals, the kind of setup that would have made sense for a hunter if it hadn't felt so deliberate. The stuffed animals were everywhere — squirrels, rabbits, a fox with glass eyes that caught the light wrong. Along the far wall, lined up with a neatness that contrasted with everything else in the room, were women's shoes. All different styles, different sizes. You counted twelve pairs before you stopped counting. Your breathing had gone shallow without you noticing, and you stood there for a moment just listening to the silence above you before you made yourself keep moving. Beside the shoes, a wardrobe. You pulled it open and found women's clothes — a lot of them, folded or hung with care, different sizes too, as if collected over time rather than belonging to any one person. You closed it carefully, like you hadn't been there at all.

On your way back up you noticed the rocking chair positioned directly beneath the single hanging bulb — its armrests worn completely smooth, almost polished, like something had spent a long time sitting there. You didn't linger.

The living room and kitchen were just as neat and unremarkable as the night before, which almost made it worse — the contrast. You moved quickly through them, opening drawers without finding much, until you pulled open the one beside the kitchen sink. You hesitated before you looked inside, some part of you already sensing you wouldn't like what you found. A stack of Polaroids rubber-banded together. Candid shots. Women at gas stations, women walking through parking lots, one taken through what was clearly a window. None of them looking at the camera. None of them knowing. You put them back exactly as you found them and shut the drawer, and then you stood very still for a moment with your hand still resting on it, staring at nothing.

Upstairs, past the guest room, his bedroom sat at the end of the corridor. You pushed the door open slowly and the smell reached you before anything else — stale sweat and something sweet beneath it, something wrong. You breathed through your mouth and stepped in.

The walls were dense with photographs — family portraits, him alongside a woman, two children, a dog. Ordinary enough on the surface, except the woman looked hollow in almost every one of them. Not sad exactly. Hollow. Like something behind her eyes had quietly gone out. You told yourself you were projecting.

There was a vanity table against one wall that stopped you cold. Women's perfume bottles arranged in a careful row, a hairbrush with long dark hair still wound through the bristles. Unmistakably a woman's things — but nothing else in the room suggested a woman had ever lived here. You picked up one of the bottles without meaning to, turned it over in your hand, set it back down.

Beside the bed, a stack of letters tied with twine. All from the same return address, all in the same handwriting — a woman's. All unopened. The most recent postmark was only a few months old. You thought about the clothes downstairs. The shoes lined up too neatly. You thought about what he'd said in the truck — the good ones you gotta hold onto, things have a way of disappearing — and your mouth went dry.

You crouched and looked under the bed. The corner of a suitcase was just visible, fitted with a heavy padlock. You were working out how to get it open, fingers already reaching for it, when you heard the engine outside.

You ran.

You heard the truck before you saw it. You were at the front door before it had even fully stopped, and the moment Hollis stepped out you crossed the porch and walked straight into him, arms wrapping tight around him, face pressed to his chest. He said nothing — just closed his arms around you and brought one hand up to your hair, fingers moving through it slowly.

You wanted to tell him. The shoes lined up along the wall. The Polaroids in the kitchen drawer. The vanity with someone else's hairbrush. The letters, all unopened. The suitcase. The words sat right at the back of your throat — and then the man was already stepping onto the porch behind Hollis, wiping his hands on a rag, filling the silence before you had the chance.

"Got her hooked up no problem, I figure it's an easy fix, few hours at most, maybe less. Just gonna call the mechanic, he’ll be here in no time" he said, moving past you both toward the door. "You two hungry? I can make something before you head out."

"Sure," Hollis said, and you felt the word vibrate in his chest against your cheek. His fingers hadn't stopped moving through your hair.

You tilted your head just enough to look up at him. He was watching the man's back, expression neutral, but his eyes cut down to yours for just a second — brief and quiet, reading you — or trying to. You gave him nothing back. You couldn't, not yet. So you pressed closer and he let you, his arm tightening slightly at your waist.

"I remember being your age," the man said, you did not turn to look at him. "Right about your age when I met my wife."

"Is that so?" Hollis said, his tone easy, unbothered.

"Yeah. Course she was younger than your lady." You felt your jaw tighten against Hollis's chest. His fingers grazed your scalp, unhurried, and the steadiness of it kept you still. "Different time. You get me?"

"Sure," Hollis said.

"Enjoy it while it lasts is all I'm saying." He laughed — wet and nasal, an awful sound. "Soon she won't be this clingy. Won't even look at your face. I'll tell you that much."

Hollis's hand paused for just a fraction of a second in your hair. So small you almost missed it.

"My Nancy?" He used a random name as a disguise, you figured. "Doubt it. She's just soft like that."

"They're all like that at first, all over you, then running like the plague." His tone had shifted, the lightness gone from it entirely. "But what do I know? Maybe you two are the lovebird type."

You thought about the shoes. The one detail that kept coming back, quiet and insistent — twelve pairs, all different sizes, lined up like they were waiting for someone to come back for them. You pressed your face a little further into Hollis's chest and said nothing.

Hollis only hummed in response, and the air between them thickened. He kept brushing your hair back with his fingers, slow and deliberate, and you understood that he knew something was wrong — you could feel it in the way he held you, slightly closer than usual, slightly more careful — but he didn't push. He just stayed there with you, solid and warm, while the man kept talking like the silence was something that needed filling.

Tankfully, the man excused himself, said he was making breakfast, and when it was ready he called you both in. You looked to Hollis for some kind of out — you didn't even want to touch the man's food — but you sat down at the table anyway and pretended to be occupied with your plate while he talked without pause. Until knocks came at the door.

"Must be the guy," he said, pushing back his chair. "Come on."

He waved at Hollis, who stood. You moved to follow when he stopped you. "Finish eating — we'll be back soon."

So you stayed. The two of them disappeared through the door and you sat there, poking at your food, glancing around the room. You were genuinely starving, but you couldn't bring yourself to eat the scrambled eggs. You wondered if you were being unfair — maybe he was just a sad, strange loner and not the villain of some horror film. You felt a little mean for thinking it. Then you thought about the Polaroids and stopped feeling mean.

"Aren't you hungry?"

You looked up. The man was standing in the kitchen doorway.

"Woke up feeling a bit off, actually — no offense," you said, keeping your voice low and polite.

"None taken." He smiled. You hated that smile. "I think this is the first time I've actually heard you speak. That man of yours talks for you every time."

"Does he?" You laughed nervously. "I'm just shy. He knows me well."

"Yeah? He ain't the controlling type, is he? Not keeping you hostage or anything?" He burst out laughing at his own joke. It wasn't funny, and the laugh was repulsive — that same wet, nasal sound. You forced a smile so as not to be rude. You didn't feel like you had the upper hand here.

"No, he's very sweet, actually," you said.

"I'm sure he is. But with a girl like you, you can never be too careful — you know what I mean?" He was still smiling, still staring in that way that made everything in you recoil.

"I don't, actually," you said, and rose to your feet.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He waved a hand. "Just playing around."

Even so, you stayed standing, your eyes flicking to the doorway behind him. If you wanted to leave, you'd have to walk past him.

"Where's my husband?" you asked. "I'm really not feeling well."

"He's outside with the guy checking the car." He leaned against the doorframe. "No need to worry — I'll keep you company."

Your gaze moved restlessly around the room, your mind already mapping exits, weighing options. The back door through the kitchen. The window above the sink. How fast you could get past him if you ran. 

"Relax — the man's not gonna leave you here." He stepped forward, and your stomach turned over. "He ain't that dumb."

He kept coming toward you and you stepped back behind the table, keeping something between the two of you. You thought about the knife in your boot, still out in the car. You thought about how the table would only hold him off so long.

"Playing all shy now, but I heard you last night." That smile didn't move. "Bit of a freak, aren't you?"

Your eyes went wide. He kept closing the distance and you had already made the decision — the window, you'd go through the window if you had to — when a sound split through the room.

A gunshot.

A fraction of a second, and the man was on the floor, clutching his leg. You looked to the doorway. Hollis was standing there, gun in hand.

No thought crossed your mind except to run to him — and you did. But just as you neared the door, something locked around your ankle.

"You little slut!" The man groaned from the floor, one hand soaked red, now smearing blood up your leg as he grabbed higher — your thigh.

You yanked against his grip and screamed. You were twisting toward Hollis when the second shot came. This time you didn't look down. You kept your eyes on Hollis, your whole body locking up, and then you felt the grip on your thigh go slack and fall away. You weren't just startled — you were stunned, shaking, and just when you thought you couldn't move, Hollis's arms came around you. He pulled you into his chest.

"I got you. You're okay," he whispered. "Let's get out of here."

Too dazed to speak, you followed him, but at the front door you stopped. "Upstairs, under his bed, there's a suitcase with a lock on it. We could... check it."

Hollis looked at you and smiled. A proud smile. He rubbed your chin with his thumb. "Good girl."

You stood rooted at the door while he took the stairs two at a time. He was back in moments, the suitcase in hand, the lock broken open. Neither of you said anything when you saw what was inside — a bundle of women's driver's licenses held together with a rubber band, different names, different states, different faces. Beneath them, a thick fold of cash. A lock of dark hair sealed in a plastic bag. You felt your throat close. You didn't cry, didn't speak — your hand just found Hollis's arm and held it, and he let you. He took the money and left the rest. Neither of you looked inside again. You got back on the road, out of there.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀

Shock wasn't even the right word for what you were. Mostly you were scared — and not for the right reasons. Every time you glanced at Hollis beside you, all you felt was dread on his behalf. A man could be dead, and all you could think about was the trouble he'd just walked into — because of you. It was all pressing in too hard, your head buzzing, the sharp smell of blood rising from your stained dress and leg, and if you'd eaten anything earlier you probably would have been sick.

"I need a shower," you said, out of nowhere. The first words you'd spoken in over an hour.

"We're almost at the next city, baby. Hang in there," Hollis said. Calm as anything. How was he so calm?

When you finally pulled into a motel your whole body loosened with relief at the thought of washing it all off. The blood, at least. Your dress was another matter — it had set too long; the stain wasn't going anywhere.

You found Hollis on the edge of the bed doing something with his gun when you came back into the room. You were toweling your hair dry, wearing nothing but one of his shirts — you always liked sleeping in them.

"What are you doing?" you asked.

"Just checking," he said, glancing up at you with an obvious look that had nothing to do with the gun. "You okay?"

"Are you okay?" you asked back.

"Me? I'm fine." He shrugged.

"How are you so calm?" You crossed the room toward him. "You just — that man could be dead."

"Probably," he said, just as plainly. "He had it coming though."

You thought about the driver's licenses. All those faces, all those names and the unopened letters and you thought — yes, he did. You knew that. And still something about the easiness of it, the way Hollis said it the same way he'd say anything, made the ground feel slightly unsteady beneath you.

"Hollis, what if—" Your voice cut out. Your throat felt dry. "What if someone comes after you?"

"I don't think anyone's going to notice that man missing anytime soon." He almost sounded amused, setting the gun aside. "He was a complete loner; told me himself when we went to get the car. No family, no kids, no friends to speak of. The mechanic said nobody in town really talked to him. They only knew him because he came in for groceries."

He said it with something close to amusement, like it was almost funny, while you'd spent the last two hours feeling like your insides had been rearranged. You exhaled slowly and stepped closer. His hands came up to meet you — your thighs, your hips, your waist. You looked down at him where he sat on the edge of the bed.

"We're fine," he said, softer now. "You're fine. That's all that matters to me."

You pouted at that and nodded. He pulled you in until you folded into his lap. He held you tight enough that you finally felt the tension begin to leave your body — and you let it, even knowing what you knew, even with the contradiction of it sitting somewhere quiet and unspoken in your chest. The man who was holding you together was the same man who hadn't flinched. You didn't know what to do with that yet. So you just held on.

"I was so scared," you said — and only then did you realize you were crying. "I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't been there."

"But I was there," he said, rubbing slow circles into your back. "And I'm here. No one's going to hurt you while I'm right here."

You held him tighter. In that moment you believed him more than you'd ever believed anything — more than any passage from the Bible your mother had made you memorize as a child. And maybe that should have frightened you too. But it didn't. It just felt like the truest thing you knew.

⚜

The three of you used to be inseparable since high school — Ally, Cathy, and you. But ever since he entered the picture, it always went like this. Friday night drinks at a bar? Forget it — only if Hollis could come. Movie night, or just getting together to catch up — if she made it at all, she wouldn't stay long, because she had to call Hollis, or because he was coming to town, or whatever excuse came next. And it wasn't because you were the only single one — Cathy also had a boyfriend and still managed to have her own life.

The thing is, sometimes you thought he did it on purpose. But no one could actually know, because ever since Ally introduced him to you, you'd kept something to yourself that last summer, you'd spent weeks hooking up with him — until he ghosted you. You didn't mind. Despite the good sex, you never really got attached to him — or so you told yourself. Of course he was extremely good-looking, handsome in every sense of the word, but he was also impossibly cocky, a little cryptic, and honestly, from the moment you first got with him, you knew he wasn't a keeper.

So it actually surprised you when your friend told you all about how romantic and sweet he was with her — how he bought her flowers and put together a whole surprise just to ask her to be his girlfriend. Properly cute. But that was Ally all right; she was some kind of angelic girl, straight out of a romance novel. She deserved all of that, and you were genuinely happy he was treating her right. At first. But then it began — him stealing all her time, controlling her schedule. She even skipped classes because of him. He had a whole other life, would never stick around, and she made every effort to follow him through it, like a puppy. It got on your nerves. 

You were fed up with it. Cathy complained too, but it didn't seem to get under her skin the way it did yours. Maybe you were too protective. And deep down, maybe you just couldn't trust him at all. The guy you'd met — he was still there, and it showed every time Ally came crying to you about his mood shifts, or when he went to parties on his trips without her. It worried you that he might hurt her. She wasn't tough like you; she wouldn't come out of it the way you had.

One random Friday, you invited her to a party — this time you even invited Hollis, since he'd be in town. She said no. He was tired from his flight, and since he was staying home, she'd take the chance to study. You rolled your eyes but let it go. You had Cathy's loyal company for the night, and the two of you headed to the said party at a club downtown — some artist event a friend of a friend had scored tickets to.

It was a really fun one. Drinks after drinks and you were loose, carefree. Later, a guy approached you — a really cute one — and you ended up making out with him in the VIP area. Everything was going well, light and easy, and you were in the middle of a conversation with Cathy, her boyfriend, and a few other people when an unmistakable figure cut through the crowd toward the DJ booth. He was remarkable enough that there was no mistaking him for someone else.

You glanced at Cathy, but she hadn't noticed. She was talking to her boyfriend, laughing, light. You thought about saying something but didn't want to ruin her mood the way it had ruined yours. You excused yourself from the guy at your side and stepped closer. Looking around, there was no sign of Ally — which made you wonder: did she even know he was there? You thought about texting her, but instead you grabbed your phone and took a picture of him. Maybe you'd need proof.

In a split second, his gaze found yours. You thought he'd back off — maybe flinch at the realization that you'd caught him there. But no. Instead, he smiled at you. Shameless. Almost amused. God, it made your blood boil. That was it. Without thinking twice, you walked straight up to him — heavy steps, body rigid. His friends were around, but you didn't care.

"Hey, y/n," he said, friendly, an arm coming around your shoulder in a brief greeting.

"Where's Ally?" you asked immediately.

"Studying, I think. Or some shit like that," he said casually, that easy look still on his face. It pissed you off.

"The fuck are you doing here, then?"

"My friend invited me, so…" He shrugged and sipped his drink.

"Does she know you're here?" You frowned.

"Guess," he chuckled.

Your mouth fell open, stunned by the nerve of him saying that to your face.

"Guess she's finding out, then," you said, turning on your heel to walk away. You'd barely taken a few steps when you felt a hand close around yours. You looked down at his grip, and he quickly released you.

"Hey, come on," he said, not so amused now. "Quit that."

"You quit that!" Your voice rose — thankfully the music was loud enough to swallow it. "You're actually disgusting!"

"Sure," he raised both hands, one still holding a beer bottle. "Can we talk somewhere else?"

"Fuck no!" you snapped, and kept walking, heading straight back toward your friends.

You had a feeling he was following you, and when you glanced back, there he was — a few steps behind, sipping his beer. "I'm not gonna force you to talk to me, but please—"

"Fine," you sighed. You looked back to where Cathy stood, still completely unaware of what you were doing.

You ended up in the alley outside the club, arms folded tight across your chest. Hollis leaned against the wall, lighting a cigarette.

"So why shouldn't I tell Ally?" you said, since he'd stayed quiet long enough.

"Because I wasn't doing anything wrong. I came to a party with some friends. That's all."

"If you're not doing anything wrong, there's no need to hide it from her," you smirked, proud of the reply.

He groaned and dragged a hand down his face. It was so pathetic — he looked like a teenage boy getting scolded.

"She doesn't even like going out! Every time I suggest we go somewhere, she'd rather stay home. I just didn't tell her because I knew she wouldn't want to come!" He came at you with that, voice calm the whole time, speaking slowly the way he always did.

"That's not true… I invited her tonight and she told me YOU were the one who was tired!"

"See?" He widened his eyes. "She didn't even tell me you'd invited us!"

"Her. I invited her." It was a lie — you had invited both of them.

"God, what is wrong with you?" He groaned again, stepping closer. You didn't like that. "Whenever I'm around, you make that…" He gestured vaguely toward your face. "…face."

"What's wrong with my face?" You stepped back.

"Nothing, really. It just makes me feel like a burden," he said, and you almost laughed at that.

"Poor Holli," you pouted in mockery. "Do I make you feel uncomfortable, baby?"

He chuckled, looked around, then looked back at you. "Why you're such a bitch? What is your problem with me, really?"

He stepped forward, and this time you stepped forward too, finger raised and pointed at him. "Wanna know my problem? My problem is you being a shit boyfriend to my best friend, monopolizing all of her time until she barely has a social life, and then sneaking out behind her back to go to some club, you sick fuck!"

"Monopolizing her time? I'm her fucking boyfriend!" He laughed in your face, and it made your skin flush hot with rage. "If she's not around your little group, it's because she'd rather be with me. That's usually how it works when you're in love with someone. Maybe your bitter ass isn't too familiar with the idea."

"My bitter ass? What the fuck do you know about me?!" You lost all composure, outrage written all over your face, ears burning. "And oh my God — how in love you must be to be lying to her behind her back! That is really my dream relationship, Hollis."

"Enough to know you're unbearable to be around," he said, losing his cool as well now — tensed up, jaw clenched, looking down at you. "Yeah, maybe that was your dream relationship. Maybe that's why it bothers you this much."

That was it. You lost it. Your eyes flickered in disbelief, mouth open, words failing you at the sheer absurdity of what he'd just said. You laughed first, then brushed your hair back.

"You think you're that important, huh?" You smirked. He smirked back.

"I don't know, baby — you tell me." You frowned at the audacity of it.

"Fuck, you're just—" And yet, even as the weight of the offense landed, you felt yourself rooted in place, his gaze dropping over you. Then he touched your waist — cautious — and you flinched, and he stopped.

You could blame the alcohol. You could blame the heat of the argument doing something to you. But in the end, you had only yourself to blame. He leaned down, and you leaned forward to meet his lips. It wasn't even slightly soft — he kissed you like he was proving a point, and you kissed him back like you were screaming every accusation you'd kept hidden. His hand gripped your waist and pulled you closer; yours flew to the back of his neck, his chest, everywhere you could hold onto him with the same urgency as your tongues fought each other.

For a moment you broke the kiss, staring at him, and he stared back as though waiting for you to explode. But you didn't. You just kissed him again — harder this time, hard enough to leave your lip swollen later. His hand slid down and grabbed your ass roughly, pulling a sigh out of you against his mouth.

"Where's your car?" you said between kisses, and he pulled back, brows raised. "Shut the fuck up."

He smirked, kissed you once more — briefly — and then guided you down the alley.

⚜

His G-Wagon had enough space to lay you down across the back seat, enough space for him to fit his face between your legs. His large hands pulled down your dress and groped your breasts while he ate you out — tongue circling your clit, then sucking on it in a way that made your back arch off the seat.

"You fucker," you cursed, reaching to pull off the beanie he was wearing just so you could grab his hair.

Soon you were rolling your hips against his mouth, desperately whimpering and crying out. You hated it — hated how good he was, hated that you were about to come on his mouth, hated that you couldn't help but roll your eyes back and shake under his grip while he kept going. No fingers. Just his mouth.

"Miss me, baby?" he asked, rising over you, kissing your breasts, then your face.

"You're so fucking annoying," you said, feeling the weight of his body settle over yours.

"And yet you're gonna let me fuck this pretty pussy of yours, aren't you?"

First you heard the zipper. Then you felt the tip of his cock rubbing against you. He pressed deliberately against your overstimulated clit, toying with it while you fought to hold back a moan.

"Just fuck me already," you tried to sound firm, but your voice came out like a plea.

He chuckled, his hand fisting your hair, tilting your face up to his as he lined himself up and slid inside. It had you biting your lip to swallow the noise — the gasp, whatever sound wanted to escape.

"So tough," he whispered against your mouth.

He began to move his hips, slowly, like he was teasing you — watching every reaction, not letting you hide from his gaze. You remembered how good he felt, but not this good. He was big, that was true, but more than that, he was good — good in the way he moved, good in the way he filled you completely only to pull back and leave you desperate to have him inside again.

"Hollis," you begged, holding onto his arms, his shoulders, scratching through the fabric of his shirt.

"What, baby?" He kissed the corner of your mouth.

"Harder. I want more," you said breathlessly, trying to hold yourself together, but you already sounded so needy.

"Ask nicely," he grinned, and you nearly groaned at him — you would have, if you weren't already whimpering.

"Please," you held his gaze, eyes bright and desperate — because you were. "Please, Holli."

Locking your eyes to his was a terrible mistake. Something inside you shifted, deep in your belly, and you could see by the way he changed too. He picked up the pace — harder, faster — still holding your hair with one hand, the other finding your breast, groping and squeezing with his rough touch. And it all felt so good: the way he drove into you, the way he buried himself so deep it had your toes curling.

The car filled with sound — both of you moaning, your bodies finding each other in loud collision, and how wet you were echoing every time he filled you completely.

You came again, shaking and whimpering. Then you chased a third, pushing him off you so he was sitting up, and you straddled him. You sank down onto his cock and rolled your hips, grinding in slow waves just to feel yourself clenching around his length — and it had him dropping his head back, eyes falling shut.

"Fucking bitch," he muttered.

You teased a moment longer before bouncing again — harder, faster — and Hollis watched like you were performing just for him. You kissed him again, desperate, feeling your body begin to unravel, and he wasn't far behind. His hand wrapped around your throat, holding you steady, and his thumb came up to trace the line of your lips — light, almost careful, a strange tenderness cutting through the heat of it all. You suck into his thumb and came undone looking at him like that. He lifted you off him and you wrapped your hand around his cock, stroking him until he came across your thighs, partly catching the hem of your dress.

He kept kissing you. You kept working him, pulling every last sound from his throat, his moans low and hoarse against your mouth, until he spilled the last of it onto your fingers. You brought them to your lips and licked them clean, earning a slow smile from him.

That quiet, wordless exchange lasted no more than a couple of minutes. Then you moved fast — off his lap, panties pulled up from where they'd been pushed down to your thighs, not a glance in his direction. The guilt came down on you all at once, heavy and suffocating. You were shaking as you smoothed your dress, ran your hands through your hair, checked your makeup in the mirror on the visor.

"Hey," he said softly, reaching for your arm, and you flinched away.

"This. It didn't happen." You looked at him — sharp gaze, voice rough with a rage that wasn't really for him. It was for yourself.

"Sure, I'm fine with that." He raised his hands. "I just wanted to make sure you're okay. I can drive you home, if you want."

For a moment you stared at him, thrown. He was really that unbothered?

"God, you're just—" The words caught in your throat. "Just don't talk to me anymore. Don't look at me — don't!"

He said nothing as you shoved the door open and stepped out of the car, walking fast through the parking lot. You thought about going back inside, back to your friends, but you couldn't face it. You called a car and went straight home.

That night you barely slept. Something felt lodged in your throat, and you felt like the worst person in the world — like you didn't even fit in your own bed. But worse than the guilt was this: you kept replaying every second of it. His touch, his mouth, his voice. Even his taste. And every time you closed your eyes, you were met with that smile of his — that easy, infuriating grin — and the low drawl that drove you mad.

Hollis couldn't be trusted. You were certain of that now. He was no good for your friend.

But then again, neither were you.