#2holli

It’d been a few long weeks since you ditched your luxury condo in the hills — the one you’d shared with Hollis — and moved back to your old place in Echo Park with your friends, the spot you lived before everything unraveled; before you were swept off your naive feet by Hollis, your prince charming and toruter at once.

If you could even really call it “yours.” The girl who once lived in that space felt so achingly distant from you now — she’d been free, ambitious, full of life, burning toward something real. And now? You? You were nothing like what she’d imagined in her dreams. Maybe more in her nightmares. To her, you’d look insane, pathetic, a sellout — some stupid, love-sick girl with no self‑worth, relevant not for her ethic, but just for being the girlfriend of some famous, cheating, lying‑ass LA rapper.

Back at your shitty old apartment, the cracked walls, the crappy air‑conditioning, the single window that always stuck halfway open, all of it reminded you of who you were before him, and the apparent dichotomy was suffocating. You were ashamed of yourself for missing him, and the more pathetic you felt about it, the harder it was to get it off your mind and also reconcile it with the fact you missed him like he had died.

You hadn’t taken much when you left — just the little bag you’d packed before the confrontation. Enough to get by for two weeks, long enough for things to cool off, for him to hate you the way you needed him to.

Your plan was full of holes; no matter what you did, what you said, how hard you tried to detach, he couldn't seem to let you go, so there wasn't much you could do besides go ghost.

You remember when you first started dating and things felt so dream-like and perfect, cliché as fuck, star-gazing on a vast field side by side high on shrooms in the middle of nowhere, telling each other there was nothing you could ever imagine fighting about, let alone hating each other over. The latter part was true, you guessed. You remember you even said that if you guys ever broke up, you’d definitely want him to stay a close friend. So young, dumb, and stupidly in-love, you think now, reflecting on how much about you he had changed in just two years.

Ghosting the love of your life definitely wasn’t the cleanest exit, but it was the only one he’d let you have. You’d anticipated his every move correctly. After you guys fucked that night, he stayed awake afterward throwing one of his pathetic and signature tantrums, arms wrapped around your waist tight, head tucked into your chest like a manchild, hot tears soaking your tits he begged, voice splintering, “Don’t leave me, baby, please.”

“I’m not gonna leave you,” you’d lied flat-out, eyes leaden, voice a soft exhausted rasp, hand circling slow along his back to force his calm. “M’ so tired, I just wanna sleep.”

“Yeah, you fuckin’ will,” Hollis rasped back, shaking his head against you, fighting another sob. “I know it. I can feel it.”

You sighed, bone-drained. “Holli, my arms are around you,” you soothed, the earnestness frayed thin by fatigue. “You’d feel me if I tried to move, okay? C’mon, let’s sleep. I’m so tired, you know I waited up for you all night.”

“You don’t forgive me.” He pulled back just enough to bore into your eyes, lip quivering, eyes red-rimmed and crooked in that shattered way that used to gut you, although now just a dull, festering annoyance that served as residue of his denial. He couldn’t keep making a mess of your heart, soul, love, and devotion, then pleading insanity. That hadn’t been what was running through your mind necessarily when he’d searched your eyes, but your soulmate had rightfully inferred it, blurting out, “You’re not even lookin’ at me the fuckin’ same right now,” tears carving fresh tracks down his swollen face.

“I’m just tired, Holl,” you whispered, barely audible, all you could really say. “Yeah, of me.” He nuzzled harder into your chest, clinging like this desperate fusion could erase his latest betrayal.

You blinked slow through the fog, accusation landing frustratingly. “No, Hollis, like actually, I’m genuinely sleepy, love. It’s four in the morning.” The words came out airy, detached, your insides washed pale by exhaustion and your body on autopilot with one hand in his hair, the other tracing endless back-circles, not to soothe him, but to keep yourself at the fight of getting him to settle into sleep. You prop yourself upright as he folds deeper into you, shaking against your skin with those tiny, stubborn tremors he can’t kill, all pure fear. His fingers knot white in your shirt like loosening them might make you evaporate. His face mashes into your skin, burrowing for permanence; if dissolution were possible, he’d have melted straight into you.

“M’sorry I’m such a fuckup,” he breathed wet and warped against you, sealing it with a desperate kiss to your chest. Then he cracked wide, unravelling completely. “I’m so bad to you. I hate myself, for real. Don’t deserve my career, don’t deserve you, don’t deserve shit. All these people scream my name like I’m some god, but I’m nothing. Imma mess. I’m sorry, I’m so fuckin’ sorry.” he choked out, breath hitching painful, ragged. “Shoulda never pulled you into this. Shoulda let you run day one. I just—” He sucked in a breath that sounded like it burned, “I love you so much I couldn’t. I couldn’t, I can’t let you go, baby. I love you, I love you so fucking much.”

“I love you too,” you profess back, and unfortunately and probably forever meant it. Your hand comes up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing slow under his eye before you pull him up into a kiss. It starts soft, almost careful, the kind of tired sweetness that happens when there’s nothing left to fight about. You know it, he knows it. All his friends who’re there every time he cheats on you, your friends who roll their eyes every time you vent about your drama, the entire world who’ve suspected his bullshit know it — you’re absolutely powerless against your love for Hollis, just as he is for you.

For a second he just breathes you in. Then he kisses you back harder, needier, like he’s starving for it, like he thinks if he holds on tight enough he might somehow stop the clock that’s already ticking down to when you walk away. His hand bunches in your shirt again, mouth desperate against yours, nipping and sucking and devouring.

“Anything,” he broke the aggressive kiss and whispered against your lips before grabbing for you again, “in this whole fucking world. Anything.” You lay still and let him find solace in your body once again, too exhausted to resist. He kissed you harsh and needy, hands wandering over you rightfully like his plaything: squeezing hard into your waist, raking down your thighs, the nape of your neck.

At some point, at your lazy reciprocation, he bit down sharper with a whine caught in his throat, and you surged up, matching his energy as you kissed him back just as rough because you had no idea when you’d get the chance to do that again. It felt good to hurt each other like this—an allegorical battle waged in teeth and tongue. When he finally pulled away, he was breathing like he’d run a mile. His hands were still clamped around you, eyes wild, hungry, and inspecting.

When his inspection locked onto your eyes and saw the distance still carved there, he shattered, voice cracking as he begged unchangingly, “Stay. Please. We can fix this, don't do this to us.” Words tumbled out, promises and pleas you’d heard before, but you knew then nothing you said or did would bridge the chasm. He was drowning in fear, blind to reason.

What finally steadied him wasn’t an answer, however. It was the story.

You started talking about how you guys met. The timing. The stupid coincidences that were too specific to be considered coincidence at all. The way everything lined up too perfectly to ignore—like it had been mapped out before either of you existed. Your memories of the same places, your shared dreams, your shared headaches that subsequently resulted in the uncanny ability to feel distress in the heart of the other, even across distance.

He stilled for it, breaths leveling, grip slackening. Fate alone sedated him—proof your love wasn’t accidental, tribulations powerless against what the universe-stitched together, decreeing it forever.

You vowed to stay. Two hours later, his lashes tear-crusted, hand limp from clutching, you kissed him goodbye feather-soft, then left straight into an Uber headed to Echo Park.

The girls were used to your issues with Hollis and out of nothing but love for you, they took you back in every time. However, this was the worst they’d seen you. Or, worse yet, not seen you. You holed up, depressed and checked out in your room alone for days. They barely caught glimpses — the bathroom door cracking open, the shuffle of your slippers down the hall at 2 a.m., the sound of your shower running long past reasonable.

It wasn’t the dramatics this time. There was no rant, no crash out, no loud sobbing from your bedroom with sad music, no long all-nighter living room spiral sesh about how he ruined you but you’d still pick up if he called. It was just silence. Being depressed made time move strangely—too fast and not at all. Before you knew it, a week had slipped by since you’d left home, locked yourself in your old bedroom, and sold your soul by separating from your love with the purpose of filling the void he’d left behind. You hadn’t checked your calls, emails, or texts.

At first, they had to drag you out. Request a room key from the front desk and shoulder your door open, type shit. Your friends practically pried you off the mattress, shoved you into the shower, and did your makeup for you while you stared through the mirror like you were watching someone else’s life. You went out because they begged. You stayed sober. Cried in the Uber home. Repeat.

A month later, you went out because you didn’t want to think.

You opposed his lifestyle, but he had ruined you intrinsically, and just like him and the effects of his brokenness, you sought to erase your self-loathing under the same neon lights and fast, reckless lifestyle. It all just suffocated you at first—the being home, same thoughts of doom and despair every day, hollow heart. So alone, you went out to a sweaty, overstimulating nightclub and got super high out of your mind, dancing the pain away. If you were going to rot, you decided, might as well do it in full glam.

So when your friend told you, bitch, it’s my birthday, get up and get ready, you didn’t argue. You slid on the tiniest skirt you packed, lined your lips with precision, popped something just to feel a little lighter, and rolled out with your girls just like the old times.

Only this time, it wasn’t freedom to be young and turnt. It was escape, and birds of a feather, as the saying went, indeed flocked together.

By the time you girls got to the exclusive, high-end club, the bass was shaking the floor and your head was pleasantly floaty. Lights blurred, bodies pressed close, and your friend screamed into your ear about bottle service and how tonight, we’re not crying over any bumass fucking rapper.

“I’m not even thinking about him,” you lied, taking another shot, cheering and wooing. You thought about him every moment of every hour of everyday.

You were already rolling, already warm and buzzing at the edges, and you knew better than to let his name drift too close while you were high on X — shit could turn fast. The numbing and euphoric effects were exactly proportionate to the inverse if the wrong thing ticked you off, which is why it hadn’t always been your drug of choice.

But nothing about you had been you as of late, so you decided against your better judgment and under the guise of your day one’s birthday to let yourself pop a little.

You were on the dance floor when the air shifted.

You didn’t see him first—you felt him. That weird, stupid, psychic ache in your chest that always showed up before your eyes caught up. Then you turned, and there he was near the back section: Hollis in a black tee and chains that caught every flash of the lights, surrounded by Nate, Roman, Jonah, Ryan, Finn, and a couple more guys, the whole crew posted up like a live photograph, fits all curated and aesthetics all matching, untouchable.

He saw you almost at the exact same second.

Your stomach dropped so hard you toppled over a smidgen. You straightened up and forced yourself to keep moving, hips still rolling against your friend, hands in the air like nothing happened.

His expression didn’t change much — just that little twitch at the corner of his mouth, eyes narrowing the tiniest bit like he couldn’t believe you were really there, twerking on a girl at the club — he had turned a good girl into something so bad.

Everyone thought you broke up. The blogs had been eating off that headline for weeks, and neither of you had said a word. All of his pictures of you were still up, he still liked and commented his weird little comments like “sweet bby ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧:･” under pics of you that your modelling agency got around to posting late, followed you on every platform without a single archive, and you never publicly reciprocated which was unusual since you always reposted his stuff: pictures, tour dates, anything and everything, but at the same time your social media never changed, all evidence of the fact leading fans to believe you probably just weren’t on your phone, not wanting to jump to conclusions about their favourite couple.

Now you were in the same room again, pretending you didn’t feel the other’s stare like a hand around your throat. “Do not look at him,” your friend yelled in your ear, noticing the way your gaze kept slipping. “He’s not real tonight. You hear me? He’s a fucking hallucination.”

“I’m fine,” you said, laughing too hard, too brittle. “Told you, I’m over it.” So you proved it.

You danced with whoever came up behind you. Let unfamiliar hands settle at your waist. Threw your head back and laughed at jokes you barely heard. Every time you spun toward the VIP section, you caught Hollis watching, jaw tight, eyes dark, Roman saying something in his ear that he clearly wasn’t listening to.

Your high, once soft and warm, started turning jagged.

By midnight, you’d talked to more men than you had in the last year. None of them registered. They were props, scenery, background noise to drown out the fact that Hollis was ten feet away acting like you were a stranger. Eventually you lost sight of him in the crowd. Good, you told yourself. Out of sight, out of mind, out of rage. Except the rage didn’t follow him when he left your visual terrain. It stayed. Sat heavy in your ribs, low and hot, like something coiled.

You ordered another drink, threw it back too fast, and let the burn drag down your throat, hoping it would cauterize whatever was lighting up inside you. You let the room tilt, lights smear into each other, and you let the bass pulse straight through your bones compliantly until you saw him again.

Near the bar, half‑turned away from you, leaning down to hear some girl talk. She was pretty in that easy L.A. way — glossy hair, tiny top, wrist resting lightly on his forearm as she said something into his ear. He smiled at her. Actually smiled. It looked a little polite, but you didn’t care. Your high shattered.

One second you’re staring, vision tunneled, jaw locked, and the next you’re cutting through the crowd, drink sloshing over your hand, not apologizing when you shoulder clubgoers. The bass is thunder in your chest, heartbeat keeping pace with it, sweat slick on your spine, every emotion both feelable and perceivable amplified by the molly blooming hot in your bloodstream.

There’s no middle ground. No rational thought buffering it—just an anger so deep it feels supernatural, inhuman. It’s like you’re possessed. You don’t even really know why you’re this mad—only that you’re going to say something. Hollis spots you the second you’re close enough to be dangerous. His whole body goes rigid, the smile slipping off his face mid-sentence. The girl beside him turns too, eyes flicking over you in that quick, sizing-up way.

You stop right in front of them, too close, chest heaving. “Wow,” you say, laughing once, sharp and mirthless. “Real classy, Hollis. You’re just gonna do this bullshit in my face now, right?” Your words trip over each other, a little slurred, a little too loud. People nearby glance over. You don’t care.

He scratches at the back of his head, posture going stiff and defensive, broad shoulders squaring at your cornering. “Yo, what are you—” he starts, but you caught him off, gaze snapping to the girl. “You.” You point at her, finger just shy of her cheek. “How do you know him?”

She freezes, shrugging and eyes going wide. “We’re just talking,” she says slowly, hands lifting like she’s trying to show she’s unarmed. “We’re friends.”

You bark out a laugh, ugly and disbelieving. “Friends. That’s cute.” You tilt your head, staring right through her. “Is this your first time meeting him? Or are you one of his little whores who lets him fuck for clout?”

Her face twists, head cocking back appalled. “Excuse me?”

“Answer the fucking question, then you're excused. Are you one of his fucking prostitutes with no self-respect?” you bite out, stepping closer, the smell of her perfume making you nauseous. “Did he tell you he still lives with his girlfriend? Or did he forget that part again?” You were talking absolutely crazy, words slurring at the edges from all the liquor burning through your veins, but the rage kept you razor-sharp, coherent enough to eviscerate with fury being the only sober thing left in you.

The girl glances at Hollis, lost. “What is she talking about?”

“Don't talk to him, hooker ass bitch,” you snap, seething and your voice all venom. You shoulder-check forward, stepping into her line of sight which just so happens is right in front of Hollis, cutting off her view entirely. The height difference hits you all at once—his frame towering close enough that his body heat radiates through your skin, that familiar cologne wrapping around you like a chokehold, stirring up the rage already boiling in your gut. It pisses you off even more, how it still does something to you, how it twists the knife deeper.

“Alright, alright, c'mon, that’s enough,” Hollis mutters, voice low, reaching for your shoulder, firm but gentle to pull you away.

You yank it back, defiant. “Don’t touch me.” you glare up at him.

People are definitely staring now. You can feel the attention, the phones lifting, the red light of cameras blinking at the edge of your vision, but it all blurs behind the hot rush in your head. “You really couldn’t even wait?” you spit at him quietly. “Couldn’t give it, what, a month? You’re already out here lining up the next bitch while half my shit is still in your closet?”

“Yo, chill,” the girl snaps now, irritation beating out her fear. “You’re not gonna stand in my face and call me that. I don’t even know you.”

“You don’t need to know me,” you fire back, pointing at her again. “You need to know him. That he lies. That he destroys. That he che—”

“Stop,” Hollis grits out, stepping between you and her, chest almost brushing yours. Up close, you can see the muscle in his jaw ticking, the way his eyes keep cutting sideways to the slowly forming semi‑circle of people recording. “You’re off your ass. You don’t wanna do this here.”

“No?” you challenge, tilting your head. “When were you planning on doing it, then, hm? Letting everybody know the truth about how we’ve been. In some thot’s DMs again? On live? On a second fucking account you told me was just for your friends?” you spat in his face bitterly, in your drunk mind, the two of you the only people in the room.

His hand closes around your wrist, grip sterner and firmer this time. “I said, that’s enough.” He’ss not usually so dominant, but he’s straight up freaking, the exposure making him fear being outed for his fuck-ups by anybody close enough to hear you over the music.

You try to pull away, but he doesn’t let go, fingers wrapping tight, heat searing into your skin. It sends a different kind of fire through you—anger, yes, but also that old, hated familiarity that melts your icy heart a little. “Let go of me,” you warn, trying to kick that feeling, expression serious and grave. “I swear to God, Hollis, I will scream this whole place down.”

“You already are,” he bites back, eyes flashing disciplinarily. “Come here.”

Before you can protest again, he’s turning, steering you away from the bar, away from the girl, away from the cluster of phones. You dig your heels in, stumbling, fighting his grip, free hand pushing at his chest to no avail. He’s buffed up since you last saw him, more broader, taller, and charged against your wildness. “What, you embarrassed now?” you shout after the girl and whoever’s still close enough to hear. “You embarrassed your little side thing found out you’re a lying—”

“Shut up,” he mutters low, stilling steadfast, fighting to pull you in front of him and cupping his hand over your mouth once he manages to pin you there, muffling your fight into hot breaths against his wide palm. You struggle, trying to speak around his fingers, nip at the flat of his palm, acting out pure feral spite as he bear-hugs you close, draping his full frame over yours like a shield, chest to your back, arms locked tight to hide your outrage from prying eyes and flashing phones. With how tall he is, even if somebody were to glance your way, it’s not really like anyone can tell what he’s doing beneath all the lights. He scans the room for anybody watching, shaking his head while he presses you deeper into the shadows, strong-arming you into moving.

“Not a fuckin' joke, you're acting crazy. I'm not playing around with you, bro.” he growls low, voice roughened with exasperation. He drags you past bodies and tables until you’re near a darker hallway leading toward the bathrooms and staff doors.

You twist hard, trying to wrench free. “Get off me!” you muffle against his hand, which he only releases when he's sure the distance is appropriate, hand immediately sliding to your shoulder to hold you steady. He pins you before you can bolt, palm flattening against the wall by your head, his body crowding into yours, boxing you in without actually touching more than your wrist and hip. The music is muffled here, but your pulse is still thunder in your ears.

“Calm. Down,” he says, each word clipped, breath hot, eyes searching your face like he’s looking for the version of you that used to just melt when he got this close. “You’re wilding. They’re recording you, you hear me? Look at me.”

You refuse, staring over his shoulder, chest heaving, vision glassy from the mix of high, alcohol, and rage. You tug again at his hold, but his fingers only tighten.

“Hollis, let me go, stop fucking touching me,” you grit out, voice breaking now. “Let me go. I was actually having a decent night for once.” you add, as though you didn't start the whole shitshow.

He swallows, the anger in his face shifting into something more pained, more panicked. “Yeah? You think I wasn’t watching you?” he says hoarsely. “Dancing on every dude in here like I’m dead?”

You snap your gaze to his, eyes blazing. “You are dead to me.”

“Then why’re you over here screaming at some random girl about me?” he demands. “Why're you shaking like that—like I scare you, like what I do to you freaks you out?”

“Because you’re disgusting,” you retort quick, hating how your eyes burn. “Because you do this every time. You swear you love me, and then I look up and you’re smiling in some girl’s face like I never existed.”

His head dips closer, forehead almost touching yours, the air between you two hot and voltaic. “I’m not doing anything with her,” he grinds out, like he’s finally bleeding something he kept buried. “You think I’m gonna touch anybody after you walked out on me like that? I can’t even fucking sleep without you, and you think I’m—”

“I think you’re exactly who you showed me you are.” You cut him off, voice small yet simultaneously all sharp and vicious. He doesn't bother retorting. He just stares down into your eyes convictedly, breathing hard, the messy noise of the club bleeding faintly in from outside the hallway. His thumb strokes once, unconsciously, against the inside of your wrist, like his body forgets you’re fighting him.

“Let me go,” you repeat, quieter this time. “I’m not gonna ruin my friend’s birthday because you’re still a whore.”

His mouth twitches, but not with anger; more like the words hit him where it hurts. Instead of snapping back at you, however, he stays quiet. And his thumb just brushes your wrist again, soft, automatic, feather like, like he can’t help it, like he can't stop himself from wanting you. You hate how your skin still reacts, how it prickles visibly with goosebumps under his touch even when you’re spitting venom.

“You really think I’d do that shit right here?” he rasps, body pressing closer, still caging you against the wall. “After everything? You think I’m that much of a piece of shit?”

You laugh, brittle and mean, shoving at his chest with your free hand. He barely budges. “I know you are. You’ve shown me enough times. Paris. Miami. That festival last summer. Pick one, Hollis.”

His face twists, pain flashing raw before defensiveness hardens it over in a flash. “That was different—I was fucked up, I fucked up, yeah, but I always came back to you. Always told you everything after, didn’t I?”

He was right, but it didn't help his case when he'd been lying to you more lately, ducking shit, hiding tracks like you weren't his. You said nothing, refusing to let him off the hook again. “I tell you all this shit because I don’t wanna fucking be this way. I love you so fucking much. I don’t wanna hurt you, baby, I don’t, I love you more than fuckin’ anything, my own life, I just wanna hurt myself and I drag you down with me ‘cause you’re in me, you’re me, you’re my fucking soul, I—”

You seethed at his percieved manipulation, shaking your head appalledly. “You’re such a fucking liar, Hollis, you literally let me find out from a live. From friends. And now you’re doing it here, where I can see it, in-front of all these people?” You scoff bitterly at him even having the effrontery to talk to you still like that isn’t the most evil, twisted way to find out you got cheated on again. In a room full of people who knew you were together, his friends. “Just let go of me, bro. I swear to god.” you push at him, not earning even a budge.

His other hand lifts slow, hesitant, cupping your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll bolt or perhaps bite. His eyes search yours, desperate, thumb stroking just under your eye where mascara’s all smeared. He knows he’s selfish—your high, fucked-up just like him, but he can’t help himself. His chest rises and falls like he’s holding himself together by a thread and you’ve got shears ready to sever his anchor. “Baby… do you still love me?”

The question hits like a gut punch. You jerk your head away, but he tracks your head moving away, cradling your face to stay in his view gentle but insistent, keeping you pinned in that gaze. “Don’t fucking call me that. Don’t touch me like that.”

“Tell me,” he pleads, cadence of his voice breaking thin now, forehead dipping closer. “Just say it. Do you still—”

“Stop, stop, stop, stop,” you snap, slapping his hand away, trying to push him off you, chest heaving. He moves all but an inch, stubborn and persistent, and you quickly feel your high crashing harder than ever, your own mind turning traitor under the drugs, flooding you with unwanted images of the hickies on his neck the morning after he “fell asleep at the studio,” the text history of him and that random makeup artist on his tour, the most recent clip on the live, his confession to you over the phone in Miami, his location at a strip-club in Paris, and the festival—whatever unspeakable shit went down there that you still can’t bring yourself to internalize. Suddenly everything’s too loud, too bright, and you feel stupid tears burning hot behind your eyes.

“You don’t get to ask me that. Not after you’ve fucked half of L.A. and come home smelling like them. I’m done being your idiot.” you shove him off to no avail, trynna flee his grip before he can see you cry.

He’s burning, fueled by letting you go once and very evidently not willing to make the same mistake twice. “I’m not—” He cuts off, frustration boiling over, his hand dropping to your shoulder instead, gripping like he’s anchoring his naughty kid who's misbehaving in public. “I haven’t touched anybody since you left. I swear. I can’t even look at them without seeing your empty side of the bed. You think I want this? You think I’m good? Could talk to a million fucking girls, but none of them will ever mess with my head as much as you do.”

He crooks your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes so you can see the truth written there. “I’ve thought about you every day. Every fuckin’ hour, every minute. There’s been nothing else, nobody else.”

You find yourself softening at the gentle admission, but the sting behind your eyes warns you’re seconds from crying, and like the ticking time bomb you are, you need to find a safe space to self implode. Unfortunately, last time you cried in front of Hollis, it ended up just so happening that he then got to fuck you, so instead, you shove him again, weaker this time, your voice wobbling as you manage, barely holding the water works all back, “Then why are you always talking to them? Smiling? Acting like the world’s your playground? Let me go, Hollis. I’m serious.”

He shakes his head fast, eyes glassed and worried, body tensing just enough you feel it where he’s pressed close, preparing for battle to keep you here with him. “Can’t. Not like this. You’re fucked up, princess, you’re shaking—”

“Yeah, because of  you,” you snap, finally wrenching your wrist free, but he steps in tighter, completely on your ass intercepting your every move, hands hovering just above yours, scared to fully let go.

Before he can say more, voices cut through the hallway, familiar, unforeign. Your friends round the corner, eyes widening at the scene: you wild-eyed and disheveled against the wall, Hollis looming over you, physically impeding your escape. You know they already think you’re a dumb bitch for Hollis and that he treats you like shit, but having them live see it is different. You panic, ducking under his arm, cheeks burning. “Guys, I’m fine—let’s just go, I’m sorry—”

“Nah, fuck you mean ‘let’s go’? You’re wasted and high as fuck, drawing all this attention to yourself. You can’t be out here like this no more,” Hollis snaps firmly, reaching for you again, tone resolute and already decided, unintentionally gloating that old authority over you right in front of your friends, undercut with raw desperation and real worry flickering in his eyes.

Your friend—the birthday girl—steps forward, eyes narrowing at him. “Back the fuck off her, Hollis. Don’t you think you’ve done enough? Fucking look at her.”

“Yeah,” the other chimes in, grabbing your arm protectively. “She doesn’t wanna talk to you. Let her go.”

“I don’t give a fuck what you guys think, man, I know my girlfriend. She doesn’t even wanna fucking be here. Partying isn’t girl help her feel better,” he argues knowingly, voice cracking raw whilst trying to save you, shoving past them like they’re in his way.

He’s right, you think, stomach twisting guilty as your friends bristle. The birthday girl scoffs. “Don’t speak for her, Hollis. You don’t get to play hero now after all the shit you've done to her.”

He’s always been polite to them before, quiet nods, respectful distance, but tonight’s frayed every edge. “She’s my fucking girlfriend. You don’t get to—”

“Watch us.”

Your friends tug you back toward the dance floor, arms linked tight around you like they're shielding you from a bomb. “Fuck him,” birthday girl exclaims, loud enough you know he might still hear. “You're not doing this tonight. More shots, now,” she orders.

You nod, numb, letting them pull you through the crowd. The hallway confrontation clings to you like a spell was cast with every word he'd uttered, every action he'd deployed—his hand on your cheek, that broken do you still love me, the way your body betrayed you by leaning in just a fraction before you caught yourself. Your high's curdled into something sour, heavy, the lights too harsh now, the bass rattling your ribs like punishment.

They shove drinks into your hands. You down them fast, one after another, chasing the blur. "I'm good," you keep lying, keep up your facade and even find yourself forcing a laugh as some guy tries to dance up on you. Your friends cheer, thinking you're bouncing back. But every swallow tastes like ash.

Hollis's voice loops in your head—she's my girl—and suddenly the club feels like a cage. You spot him across the room, back with his crew now, staring at the floor while Nate claps his shoulder too hard all hang in there buddy. He looks wrecked. You look away, but it doesn't help.

The depression crashes back harder than before, bone-deep and immediate. All that armor you built through the party girl nights, the spite-dancing, the ''I'm fine's'' crumbles. You want your shitty apartment. You want silence. You do want your old self back. But mostly, fuck, you just want him. His hands. His apologies. The way he breaks and begs like you're the only thing holding his pieces together. It's pathetic. You're pathetic. But the ache wins.

You slip away from your friends mid-song, mumbling something about the bathroom. They don't notice, too busy hyping the birthday girl. Your legs carry you on autopilot, past the VIP ropes, down the dim hallway again. You don't know if he's watching. Don't care.

The bathroom door's cracked open. You push in, lock it shaky, and lean over the sink. Mirror-you looks like hell: mascara tracks, lip gloss smudged, eyes wild and wet. You splash water on your face, but it doesn't wash away the ugly because it's all coming from the inside. Your phone buzzes in your hand—you think it's texts from friends checking to ensure you're not with him, which you plan to ignore, but that weird pull of the universe makes you check it before you silence it and of-course, it's him. The universe always bends to the will of you two and your bad romance.

Hollis: bathroom? talk to me. please baby.

Your stomach flips. You shouldn't.

you: yeah

You go to delete it, but your thumb hovers, brain spinning a messy pros-cons spiral. Delete and you're free to go home, forget this night, pretend the ache isn't winning. Or answer, dig the hole deeper, make another bad choice because you're already too far gone. Hollis was right out there—he saw through your fake fun, knew you were crumbling, unlike your friends who dragged you anyway. Nobody really cares but him, and that freaks you out most, the thinking automatically yielding in his favor, and once again, you do the only thing you know how to do: escape. Before you can turn to exit, though, the door rattles. Someone's trying the handle.

"It's occupied," you call, as if assuming it's a stranger might reverse the cruel fate of the universe. "It's me," he responds, low and urgent, the only person who, as you'd always known, truly cared for you. "Open up."

You freeze. Part of you screams to ignore him, flush the toilet for noise, wait him out. But the depression whispers louder—let him fix it. just this once. Your hand moves before your brain catches up, unlocking the door.

He slips in fast, locking it behind him, filling the limited space, leaving no room to breathe anything but just him: his sweat-slicked skin, expensive cologne, chains glinting n jinglin soft, and his eyes bloodshot and locked on you like you're about to die. "Fuck," he breathes, hands coming up slow, cupping your face again. You flinch but don't pull away. "You okay?"

"No," you whisper, hating the tears spilling over. "This is so fucked up."

"I know." His thumbs swipe your cheeks, gentle, desperate. He steps closer, forehead pressing to yours fully this time, breath shaky. "Missed you so bad. Every night. Can't do this without you."

You clock it instantly, the way he’s talking like he’s already won you back, like the bathroom door unlocking was the final checkmate. “You’re still talking to girls,” you mumble, voice breaking, but your hands fist his shirt anyway, pulling him in. “You’re still… you. And you’re never gonna change.”

"Not like that." He kisses your temple, your jaw, needy little presses. "They're nothing. Swear. Just you. Always you. Only you." His hands slide down, gripping your hips, lifting you onto the sink edge easy, like old habit. Your legs part on instinct, wrapping around his waist.

He steps in between them. He kisses down your neck, slow and hungry, his soft, plush lips dragging hot, open-mouthed pecks down your throat, making up for every second you spent away. He does it like he needs it—so desperate and shameful in his longing that his tongue flicks out to taste the salt of your skin. He licks again and again like a depraved dog, just to be sure you’re real, then he full-on makes out with your neck, right against your pulse, sucking deep and slow, lathing over the sensitive skin with his tongue, and nibbling just enough to sting you and keep you jumping in his arms. He paints angry, deep red blooms in his wake, and his attention is decadent, almost reverent. Your head spins, the crossover of the drugs and the pleasure melting your brain to mush, everything euphoria as you feel that month-long burden of heaviness in your chest dissipate like it never existed, fading with every slow drag of his mouth, a feeling better than any drug in and of itself.

He kisses you deep, hard, and desperate, blonde hair falling messy into your eyes, and he's all you see occupying your entire visual field. You see the way his eyebrows arch in a needy, frantic pose as he nips at your lips, all-the-while rubbing at you a little harder and filthier, feeling the hot slick soaking through your little panties already.

He pulls back, looking down at his fingers working you over, angling your jaw gently to follow him. His jaw hangs slack at the sight — his fingers sparkle, drenched by your essence, and you're so wet for him your slick literally soaks through your panties, glistening on his fingers despite the barrier. He moans aloud, high and whiny in that down bad way, wrecked at the sight, before rushing out, "Want you forever. Want you to marry me, have our kids, wanna put you in a pretty lil house with a white fence somewhere quiet." He sucks harder at your neck, teeth grazing just enough to sting sweet. When you don't respond, too sacked out by the pleasure, head tipping back, he rubs your clit a little faster and rougher, pressing insistent circles that make your thighs quake. "Don't you want that? Hm?"

You nod, arms wrapping around his neck to get reins of yourself, but he doesn't let you destabilize his infiltration of your functioning brain. "Then take me back," he begs, hand on your throat forcing you to look into his eyes, pupils blown wide, pleading with you with his entire soul. "Fuck everything, fuck all that shit I did, fuck all the girls, fuck everybody but us—just take me back and we could have it all." He chokes it out, voice the most desperate thing you've ever heard as he whispers it hot-breathed in your ear.

"I need more, please, please please," you gasp out airlessly, his question pounding the air from your lungs, head spinning hazy with lust, ignoring his pleas. Your mouths crash back together in a messy, desperate makeout, tongues tangling sloppy, teeth clashing, then he's dropping to his knees fast, hands gripping your thighs. His long fingers hook into your fishnets at the top, ripping them open with a sharp tear right at the crotch, the sound echoing loud in the tiny space, leaving jagged edges frayed against your skin. He shoves your panties aside roughly, then his mouth's on you with no warning, tongue diving straight into your soaked heat, lapping filthy through your folds and sucking on your clit like there's no tomorrow for you guys because, well, there might not be so long as you didn't answer him.

Your legs instantly quake and clasp around his head. The sound is straight-up obscene, loud wet slurps of him drinking up your wetness, breathing your clit into his mouth like a vacuum seal, but he holds you open firm, eyes transfixed on yours intently as he devours you slow then increasingly frantic with the motivation of a man who knows this might be his last chance to fuck you back into his life, his eyes fluttering closed in bliss while muffled moans hum against your core.

“Hollisssss,” you cry out, high as fuck, every nerve beating in ecstasy as it hits ten times harder, too good, too much— “oh my gosh, too, too f-f—” your words shatter into nothing, obliterated by the electric high ripping through you, and he won’t fucking stop. His tongue rips flat and broad through your folds like he’s starving, then he shakes his head side to side, nasty and unchained, trying to grind that rough vibration right into your clit, smear your slick all over his face and lips ‘til he’s soaked in you. In-fact, he's so slutted out for you his hand ditches your legs to shove his hair back, clearing the way while he tears your pussy up ruthlessly, slurping every drop like a brainless animal. He’s such a shameless slut for you and it’s got you gushing even more slick straight into his greedy mouth.

You cling to composure just for him amid the haze, but he’s insatiable, forcing your legs even wider ‘til you’re splayed utterly exposed, then driving two fingers deep into your pussy, stretching your walls apart deliberately so he can thrust his tongue inside and fuck you senseless while his thumb circles your clit without mercy. You’re unraveling completely. You try to squirm away, thighs trembling, but he’s strong and holds you in place, forcing you to take every devastating pump of his tongue.

"Stop, wait stop, I need your.. I need you to fuck me, I wanna cum around your dick so badly, Holli, it's been so long." you rush out. You don't need to tell him twice. He's up and over you in seconds, chin properly coated slick with your arousal, cock heavy and poking stiff against your thigh, even through his jeans.

You waste no time, fumbling his belt open with shaky fingers, and guiding him straight in. You grip his thick cock at the base, feeding your dripping, greedy pussy every fat inch it wills, one hand clawing his back to shove him in hastier and deeper, no condom, no barrier, just his raw, rigid dick, and you don’t stop ‘til his cockhead’s kissing your cervix, balls-deep buried in your drenched hole. He bottoms out real fuckin’ deep with a broken groan, stilling for only a second before his hips get to snapping brutal, fucking you full with all his length.

“Still so fuckin’ tight,” he grunts like it’s ripped straight from his gut, “didn’t give my pussy away, did you? My good princess, knew you wouldn’t.” He fucks you onto his dick harder, bringing your hips flush to ram into his as he presses forward fucking into you deeper ‘til a thick white foamy ring forms right at where you’re joined, both of you staring mesmerized at the slippery cream coating his shaft.

“I should’ve,” you gasp out, half-teasing through the haze, clenching around him just to feel him twitch. “Maybe it woulda taught you a fuckin’ lesson. I let you get away with too much.”

“You know better,” he chirps back gravelly, tongue swiping at his bottom lip as he angles his hips to grind brutal against your g-spot, cockhead battering that spongy spot till your vision glosses over, but you fight through it. "Nobody could fuck you like this. Couldn't stretch this tight little pussy open like me. Nobody could love you how I do."  His hand clamps yours urgent, slamming it down to your swollen clit, grinding it there while he ravages you harder, claiming every inch of your body.

“Rub that pussy for me, baby. Wanna watch you touch yourself like you did without me there to fuck you.” Your skirt’s bunched around your waist like a dirty belt, ruined and soaked, and you do, fingers slathering fast through your dripping mess, other hand mauling your nipple rushedly through your shirt, pinching and twisting ‘til it stings. It all hits so fucking good you’re drooling like a braindead slut, spit dribbling down your chin messy, high as balls, and he’s fiending pathetic, leaning in to catch your slobber and slurp it up sloppy off your quivering lips. You whimper out, fucked out of your brain, and he groans ragged, forgetting everything and only focused on the depraved filth at hand. “Stick that tongue out f’me, princess,” he commands you, his cock pulsing wild and leaking pre inside your clenchin’ hole just from the nasty show. You do, and he laps at it desperate, licking at your tongue like he had your pussy while you shatter to pieces. There’s something so raw in how you guys fuck: your usually composed girl, but this is the longest you’ve kept yourself away, and you feel him take out all the pent-up agony it caused within him on you, devouring your body like some creep.

You cum embarrassingly fast not too long after, walls fluttering wild around him, a sharp cry tearing free and your back arching sharp off the mirror it rests against, but he doesn’t give you a second, flipping you over the counter face-down rough like you’re dead weight before you can catch your breath, too turned on by your little show to wait.

He fucks into you purely for his own pleasure now, yanking your top down fully, letting your heavy tits spill out bouncing wild with his vigor, his teeth sinking into your shoulder blade hard enough to scar while he pounds into you from behind, hips crashing brutal against your ass cheeks and sending jiggling ripples through the soft flesh with every rough slam. “Fuck, baby, been dyin’ without you,” he rasps broken, whispering gravelly-voiced sweet nothings, “can’t breathe right, can’t think—shit, you left me empty, tore my fuckin’ soul out.” He slaps the jiggling flesh red-raw with sharp, stinging smacks that echo off the tiles, the pain blooming hot and sweet under your skin. You can’t even form words in response. You babble nonsense, mouth slack, drool pooling, as he smacks your ass again and again punishingly, each crack drawing a broken whimper from your throat. He looks wrecked, face twisted in pained ecstasy, breath stained with sharp booze you taste on his tongue when he licks sloppy at your neck—you figure the alcohol’s fucking him up, making it hard to get to his orgasm, but fuck, the way he’s trying so desperate, hips slamming frantic, brows pulled into the center of his forehead, and lip tucked between his teeth, is way too hot.

“You feel so fuckin’ good, baby,” he groans out jaggedly, completely absorbed by your pleasure. “So wet for me, fuck.” He shuts up and both of you listen to the sound of him fucking you—a nasty sloshing gush of your creamy pussy, each brutal thrust forcing out obscene wet plops of your slick that splatter loud onto the floor below, your arousal puddling filthily at your feet. Shame twists his face, gut-churning humiliation in having to beg like this just to tip himself over the edge, brows knit tight and jaw clenched so hard it trembles, every muscle straining in pained desperation like he’s fighting for air. He’s begging now, voice cracking pathetic, “Tell me I’m worthless, baby, please, fuck.”

You leap at the opportunity to demean him even though he’s fucking you so good you can’t speak, words spilling brokenly through your sobs of pleasure. “Y–you’re w–worthless… you’re such a fucking loser, you’re so fucked up in the head, f–fuck, I could— I could r–replace you—right now—” a gasp tears through the words, “f–fuck— with any guy— anyone— I wanted to— in here…”

He whimper-groans high and pathetic, hips pistoning brutal like a jackhammer, confused turn-on flashing wild in his eyes at how your words only make him harder, make him sink into you impossibly deeper.

“I wanna be good for you, baby, I wanna be a good boy for you, fuck. I wanna be yours,” he chokes out, voice keening high and watery like tears are pricking at the edges, mind so fucking gone at why the hell this shit turns him on so bad, confusion swirling hot in his head as your pussy drags the filthy words from his chest, ripping them raw while his hips stutter frantic.

“I’m sorry for cheatin’, for bein’ such a piece of shit again, I’ll make it right, swear. Take me back, please,” he begs desperate into your ear, apologies tumbling out broken. He locks you in a headlock, arm swelling around your throat, puffing up his bicep as his breath tingles hotly in your ear. “Love you so much, baby, love you—wanna cum for you so bad, wanna fill this pussy up n’ watch my load leakin’ down your thighs all night on that dancefloor.” Tears stream down your face from pure blinding pleasure, vision sparking white, and you grab the counter edge desperate to steady yourself, but he snatches your wrists, pinnin’ ‘em behind your back in one iron grip, like he’s arrestin’ you, which in a way he kind of is with his body n’ words.

“Why’d you dance with those other guys? Why’d you leave me?” he presses, pounding into you like a madman. You don’t answer, eyes rolled back absolutely braindead from pleasure, moaning nonstop, “yes yes yes like that, right there”—and he’s all aware of your dick-delirious state, thriving on it. “Promise me. Say you’re mine forever.”

"I'm yours," you sob out, wrecked.

"Tell me you love me."

"I love you, fuck, I love you."

"No other guys—say it."

“Just youuuu, fuck, fuck—” He yanks you up to face the mirror fully, forcing you to watch your heavy tits bounce obscene as he slams balls-deep into your leaking pussy from behind, the sight straight vulgar porn—they jolt hypnotically, nipples hard and peaked, with every brutal thrust shaking your whole body. He hooks one of your legs high up on the counter, spreading your thighs wide so your ass cheeks part lewdly, letting him plunge even deeper, your dripping folds clinging to his shaft on every pull-out. He lets you go and you falter back onto his chest, head thrown back against his shoulder, neck arched as you both stare into the mirror at him wrecking you wild—his face contorted hot as hell, brows pinched tight, mouth slack in agonized bliss, panting out heavy and ragged. You’re teetering on the edge, legs trembling like you’ll collapse any second, fingers tangled fierce in his hair yanking hard while he props your limp body up with both arms wrapped iron-tight around your waist, teeth sinking deep into your neck the whole damn time, hair a sweaty tangled wreck, your free hand clawing the sink edge desperately for any grip. You bite his forearm hard enough to draw blood on a better day when he reaches around, fingers circling your overspent clit ruthless. He bites your neck harder, sucking bruises into the marks, promising broken. “Never lettin’ you go again. Love you, baby, swear.” It’s harsh and soft all at once, his free hand stroking your side tender even as he chokes you tighter, thrusts turning erratic. You cum again clenching around him, sobbing his name, and he follows with a muffled groan into your shoulder, spilling hot and deep, hips stuttering.

Pleasure overloads you completely, your brain short-circuiting into blacked-out bliss as the waves of pleasure crash endless, too much for your brain to handle in one night, body going limp in his arms while he sticks in you deep, greedily making you take every last drop that pumps hot and thick, floods out messy around his cock.

You pass out for a little heavy minute, limp and sunken like you’re lost someplace deep, world faded black, and Hollis shakes you awake gentle, panic flickering in his eyes and thumb stroking your tear-streaked cheek. “Baby? Hey, c’mon—fuck, you okay?”

You blink hazy, wrecked and boneless. "I needa go home... now."

He texts his assistant quick for the valet, then Nate for a scarf to hide the evidence. Nate pops thru the bathroom door seconds later, dangling his black silk one with a smirk. “You guys are wild as fuck,” he laughs, eyeing the chaos before dipping.

Hollis fusses over you tender, wetting a paper towel to wipe the slick and cum smearing your thighs, trying to fix the shredded fishnets best he can, jagged rips barely covered, pulling your skirt down and top up crookedly. The valet pulls up his sleek orange lambo right at the back exit, engine purring low.

You wrap Nate’s scarf ‘round your face tight, covering the hickeys bloomin’ purple on your neck, smudged mascara running like warpaint, lipstick smeared messily, hair a blown-out nest. Paparazzi swarm the alley anyway, flashes blinding and their shouts bombarding, speculating on if you’re the girlfriend they’re used to or another random girl. They shout at you asking about the breakup and you flip them off behind the scarf, griping muffled, “Fuck off.”

Hollis holds you tight against his side, arm banded possessive around your waist guiding you to the car. He opens the door, helping you slide in, but shifts away to get in himself at the worst possible moment. You fumble immediately as he exits your proximity, dropping the scarf in your drunk haze, bending deep to snatch it off the ground, legs involuntarily parting and skirt teasing up your upper thighs. Flashes explode and assuredly catch everything: the wide rip of your shredded fishnet, the discreet glaze of his cum trickling slow down your inner thigh, hickeys everywhere like a roadmap of ruin, mascara streaks, drunk sway, hair wild.

By morning, it's everywhere and pure internet meme gold. "Messy girl icon fr," trending in your fan spaces with grainy edits of you bending over to grab Nate's scarf, eyes squinting against the flash and your thighs mysteriously glistening slick under the strobes, captions like "One way to kill breakup rumors 💀 that's my queen" n "pussy so good she left the function early, they were DEFINITELY fuckin before this."

Your head throbs against your skull, phone blown up with notis from your social media and calls from your friends from last night. You scroll through the voicemails, post-storm calm washing over you like quiet after chaos.

“Girl, are you seriously with Hollis right now? You went home with that cheating asshole? You’re a bitch if you did after everything. We’re so mad at you.”

You text back neutral, unfazed, knowing she’s mad but figuring a good gift might smooth it over. “We got you a Chanel purse,” you lie coolly, already picturing the store as your first stop for your newest public outing as a couple, arm-in-arm for the cameras. It reminds you of that one time in Mexico, when he fucked some girl entertainer on the resort’s beach and booked the whole girls’ trip after, groveling with paid-in-full villas and endless apologies ‘til you let him crawl back in. The girls weren’t too mad at that kind of apology back then, so you’re not all that worried now. You’re more shy about trending as a meme, an icon, paparazzi shots everywhere, TikToks about “cum thigh queen,” a poster-girl “messy girl” aesthetic, your ripped fishnets and cum-streaked thighs the internet’s new obsession, but you glance over at Hollis sleeping, his makeup still smudged like warpaint, chest rising slow and steady, and it hits you soft: he’s the only person you need in this world. You’re happy. You’ll take all the pain if it absolves the depression. You’ll parade the streets with evidence of his ruin—hickeys, cum, shame—and also secretly carry his sins like an honor, if you want to or if you don't. Those girls he fucks? They're nothing to him anyway. At the end of the day, you're the only one that means something to his heart. You are his willing victim, his happy prisoner.

And when he wakes up a few minutes later, it’s like he already knows. He smiles at you soft, eyes glinting with that haunted devotion, like he’s staring straight through your soul and claiming it all over again. “Welcome home. Been waitin’ for you to come back where you belong.”