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2baldis · 4 days ago

Text

── real love

summary: The fans think you’re dating. Why not give them what they want? It’s just publicity…until it isn’t.

• 2hollis/fem!reader

tags: smut (18+), fake dating, dom!hollis, orgasm denial/edging, overstim, friends to lovers, you’re both oblivious to each other’s feelings

wc: 4k

──

It starts with a post. Classic 21st century love story.

You tinker around on Bandlab, crank out an earworm that’s been nagging at you. Then one night you’re wasted and the liquid courage (or stupidity, rather) gets you to post the snippet on your Instagram, shaky camerawork and all.

In your hungover state, the weak rays of sun feel like they’re incinerating your optic nerve. You groan. Fumble for your phone. The screen flickers on to display more notifications than you’ve ever seen in your life. Jesus, what happened?

The top comment stands out to you.

@ 2hollis: shits dope.

You click the profile.

Shit.

He’s gorgeous.

And he makes hyperpop, just your taste. Yeah. That’s what you noticed first. Not…that.

You swipe to see a message from him, taunting you. Tempting and terrifying.

@ 2hollis: saw ur video and i love ur vision. want help finishing that song?

Your fingers work faster than your mind. Yes, of course.

God, you were in trouble.

He calls you while you’re dancing around the kitchen and dreaming up some vocals. He convinces you to get Ableton and smooth talks you through the price tag. He knows how to talk the talk, but he walks the walk.

Layer, splice, blend. You drop the EP, quit your job. It’s all surreal. He calls you at inopportune times to talk music and derives inspiration from the most fascinating things.

“I wish I could pick apart your brain,” you find yourself saying, as he’s tapping on a colander for a track he’s working on.

“Consider your wish granted,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

The next day, you find Hollis in your apartment. He teases you for your kitchen dancing while bouncing around between every track edit.

“How’s this?” he asks, as you’re supposed to be working. Not a single monitor is still awake. “Do you think people will like it?” Hollis makes a V with his fingers and sticks his tongue through the crevice.

You groan. He wiggles his tongue for good measure. And her, you can’t tear your eyes away, and he knows.

Hollis has a shit-eating grin that makes you want to kiss it off him and punch him simultaneously. “How about this?” He flicks his tongue in a new motion—tight circles, rather than long lathes through the air. It makes your tummy do flips in ways you don’t want to think about.

“It’s…” and your heart whines when he pushes his hair back behind his ears. He draws his tongue along his teeth, eyes never leaving yours, before sticking it out cartoonishly.

“Yeah, that’ll really get the crowd going,” you deadpan. He laughs.

“I don’t care about the crowd. I care about you,” he says, equally as serious. You’re fiddling with a glass but he’s dead still and you can’t tell which or neither of you mean what you say.

“What do you mean?”

Tentatively, Hollis clasps his hands together. “I care about what you think,” he says simply, leaning back on the couch.

You still. He’s a breath away from you, the soft humming of the overheating laptop the sole thing grounding you. His cologne settles over you, heady and irresistible and so characteristically him.

“I care about you too,” you say, after far too long of a pause.

The next few months pass in a blur. Write, produce, meet Hollis, perform your first shows, nearly double down laughing when you see him headbanging in the front row.

One quiet night, he rises to his feet and paces around the room. The distance does little to quiet your nerves. You start the track again and his soft laugh blends into the ambience, the plucky arps tinkling from the screen.

Pause. “That was nice.”

Hollis looks over at you. “Yeah, that intro sounds great.”

“No, I…I like how your laugh sounds with the track. It’s soft. A nice contrast to the punchier sound we have going on.”

“Add it.”

You blink. “Well, I can’t force you to laugh again, that’d be fake.”

Hollis has a shit-eating grin. Oh, no. Never a good sign. He strides over to the couch in quick steps and stands in front of you.

“Yes?”

Before you can react, his hands are attacking your sides, tickling you until you wheeze and kick against his hold. “Stop, dude!” You’ve fallen over into your back, squirming violently while he cages you with his arms.

He pulls his hands back. Turns the mic on. “Sorry. Your turn.”

You reach up and return the favor twice as hard. He flails around unceremoniously while you get at the backs of his knees, sides, anywhere you can get at. He seizes and falls back against the couch, before sneaking a hand up to poke you as hard as he can in the stomach—giving him the opening to flip you back beneath him. By the end, you have a solid sample, and his arms and knees are bridging either side of you.

“Hi.” It’s barely a whisper, but your lungs are in a twist.

“Hi,” you reply simply. And look away, forcing a fake cough.

Hollis pries himself off you, settling down besides you once more. “Let’s add that in.”

You concentrate intently on the music for the rest of the time. Neither of you mentions what happened again.

A few weeks later, and your first official album is released. You wait with baited breath, pacing around your apartment, watching as the feedback comes in. Take a walk outside and meander aimlessly for an hour. Run all your errands half-heartedly, half-frenzied, and take your bike out instead of driving. It’s good, it’s my art, it doesn’t matter what they think. I’m proud of it. Hollis is, too. Fuck, not Hollis again. You need to stop thinking about him. God, you wonder what he’s up to.

You take a deep breath as you open the front door, cracking open your laptop.

There’s a million notifs staring back at you, and all of them are about Hollis. The fans are going crazy.

IS THAT 2HOLLIS’S LAUGH, someone comments. With a lot of traction. People are dissecting your lyrics, pointing out how they hint at a secret romance, while others say that you might just be friends. It’s not any different that him and Rommulas making shit together, one person says.

Most of the feedback is praise. Much of it is also asking about you and Hollis. You open Twitter, against your better judgment, to see what the people there have to say.

Trending in the sidebar: 2hollis girlfriend.

Well, shit.

Within a few days, your number of listeners has skyrocketed, as does Hollis’s. Rumors sell, you suppose.

Hollis calls you that night, giggling. “Did you see what they’re saying online?”

“Yeah. They think we’re dating.”

He goes silent for a moment. “You know, it wouldn’t be bad for publicity. Not saying I’m using you, or don’t care about you, but like. People like to talk.”

Your heart skips a beat. You force the feeling down. “Sure,” you say hesitantly.

“You sure?” His voice is cautious, a lilt of reassurance embedded within. “We don’t have to. Just thought it’d be fun. Keep ‘em guessing without confirming anything.”

You agree more confidently this time. Hollis giggles. The two of you awkwardly lay ground rules and agree to keep your relationship publicly undefined, so it doesn’t get too weird.

“See you around…girlfriend.”

“See you around, boyfriend.” And you hang up.

The stuffy, summer heat clings to your skin as you wait backstage at Lollapalooza. You take a shot out of Hollis’s flask, waiting for your queue.

The lights dim. The chatter in the audience quiets slightly. “This next song was one of my favorites to produce, and I am so happy to have made it with this person. They’re very special to me, and I’m so glad we met.”

Hollis flicks his eyes over to you. “Give it up for them!” You run on stage. He sweeps you into a hug, twirling you in the air before setting you down. The crowd goes wild.

The lights immediately rain down on you as the instrumental starts. His laugh thunders in the speakers, and you recall the moment when it was recorded. The way he looked at you. The way it felt.

Hollis nods at you, and you begin your verse. The mosh pit already tightens up.

The lyrics flow through the crowd in waves, but all you can focus on is his smile. He dances across the stage with you, never not looking at you. Cameras loom in your face from afar, but in that moment, you could care less. It was just your music and him.

“Hey!” he shouts, as the song comes to a close. As the synth dies out, his eyes flutter, half-lidded and searching yours for a sign of confirmation. Screaming floods your ears, but when he inches in, it all goes silent.

The kiss is messy and inelegant and slightly drunken, but when he pulls back, you can feel the longing in his gaze.

“Hollis,” you say, hardly more than a whisper. “I really, really like you.” Before you can reach, his lips crash into yours again, his hands wrapping around your waist.

You’re both breathing heavily when you pull away. He yanks the mic off.

“Good job, girlfriend,” he teases.

Your heart sinks, remembering your agreement. “Yeah, you too. Good luck with the rest of your set.” You walk off, facing away from the crowd as you blink back tears.

As expected, the kiss goes viral. Like, mega-viral. You see clips of it from every angle, in slo-mo, and all the comments talking about the way you guys looked at each other, how love is real and how cute you guys are. You get stopped in the street and asked about it, and per course, you just smile and say nothing about the status of your relationship.

Thoughts of him swimming in your head, you start writing a new song. It’s much more explicit than your other tracks. You start singing your shameful secret out loud, about how you wondered what would’ve happened if no one was there, if his hands had dropped just a little bit lower. If he’d kept kissing you. All the things you wanted him to do to you. All the things you wanted to do with him, the stupid dates, waking up together, being together.

Hollis comes to your apartment to work on his next song, said he needed help with mixing. After deliberating for a bit, you agree.

He sits next to you, stiff as a board. You don’t talk very much, and you especially don’t discuss what happened at the show.

“Hollis?” you say, voice slightly cracking. He peers over at you.

“Yeah?”

You inch ever-so-slightly closer to him, every shift of your body tinged with guilt and longing and fascination. More, you needed more.

He leans in, just a fraction, and you quickly turn your head back to the screen.

“I, uh, wanted your feedback on this song I’ve been working on.” Before you can stop yourself, you open up the track, stashed away in a secret folder.

“Very protected,” he muses. “What are you hiding?”

The track comes to life. You sit there, drowning in dread as all of your secrets come out. He nods along to the beat, wrapping an arm around your shoulder.

The laptop goes quiet.

“So yeah. That’s the, uh, that’s what I’ve been working on.”

You steal a glimpse at him and notice him staring.

“Fuck it,” he groans. “I want you.” And longing glances become stolen air, desperate kisses, the two of you falling onto each other. “I want you,” you tell him between kisses, and he only moans in response. Low and gritty and barely veiling desperation, like he was sinking his teeth into Pandora’s box.

“This is such a bad idea,” he groans between kisses. “But I don’t give a damn.” And how could he with the way that your bodies melded together, his kisses showering you like stars. His thumb strokes your cheek, and you swear you understand why astronomers thought the sun was the center of the universe. He’s beautiful. Blinding. His smile is bathed in light, and even with takeout stains on his shirt, nothing could make you as enchanted as him in that moment.

“I can’t stop looking at you,” he confesses. “You’re so beautiful.”

“You are.” You poke his nose.

“No, you.” He grins, closing the distance once more. “Be my girlfriend, for real?”

“Of course.”

Hollis smiles into the kiss, gently planting your hands above your head. His hands travel down your sides, teasing the hem of your shirt before coming back up to cup your face.

“Best girlfriend ever,” he says, pinching your cheeks.

“Best boyfriend ever.”

His lips travel to your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses into the skin, before lightly sucking. You whine.

“Mm, you like that?”

He shifts his hips, grinning when you elicit the same response.

“You’re so cute.”

He sucks hard on your skin, and you cry out.

“Wanna hear that pretty sound again.”

He nips at your neck harder this time, causing you to fully arch into him. Your hands trace the line of his abs up his shirt, and he swats your hands away.

“Patience. I want to take my time with you.”

His eyes flit up at you, silently asking for permission as his hands slide up your shirt. You nod.

He kisses up your stomach to your chest, leaving a trail of fire. You rut your hips against his as his mouth latches onto one of your breasts, swirling his tongue around.

“Pretty fuckin’ tits for a pretty girl,” he says, crashing your lips into yours once more. You claw at his back, silently begging him to take his shirt off, and he complies.

“Please, Hollis,” you beg. “Need you.”

“Fuck, I love the way you sound right now.” You’re yanking off each others’ clothes in a mess, hands fumbling with belts and zippers and buttons.

Hollis lines himself up with your entrance, his tip flushed and leaking. You’re so wet that he pushes in with ease, both of you sighing as he bottoms out.

“You feel so good,” he moans, slowly easing in and out. “So fucking good. My pretty girl.” You arch your back into him, whining so loudly he has to clamp a hand over your mouth.

“Shh, don’t want the neighbors to complain,” he says. “Although I wouldn’t mind if they knew how good I was fucking my girl.” He thrusts into you hard, and tears well up in your eyes.

“Please, please,” you beg, muffled by his hand. He groans into your ear, angling his hips in a way that has you seeing stars.

“So pretty,” he gasps, “so, so pretty.” His other hand presses down on your stomach, and you swear you can feel him moving in and out of you. He swears loudly when you clench around him, throwing your legs over his shoulders. The new angle makes you tremble, his pace unrelenting. The stench of sex and sweat and cologne fill your senses, and the sounds you’re making are almost embarrassing.

His hand travels from your stomach to your clit, drawing slow circles with the pad of his thumb. “Feels good, yeah?” You let out a garbled sound that barely sounds human. “You’re doing so good for me, my good girl. My girl.” He punctuates his words with a particularly hard thrust.

“Yours,” you gasp, mesmerized by the way his brows scrunch up, sweat-slicked hair falling in your face. “All yours, Hollis.” He looks down, breath catching at the ring of white pearling at the base of his dick.

“Look at you,” he says, still mesmerized by the sight. “Look at what a mess you’re making on me.” His thumb moves faster on your clit, experimenting with the pressure until he finds just the one you like. Your tummy clenches, that familiar wave of pleasure amping up in you.

“Can’t help it, can’t, you feel so good, don’t stop.” You’re a rambling, incoherent mess, mascara smudged on your cheeks, hair askew, tits bouncing up and down as he fucks into you.

“You gonna cum?” You nod rapidly, pushing your hips up into his fingers. He retracts his touch, slowly sliding out of you as you squirm and complain.

Hollis shushes you. Smooths your hair. “Not yet, baby. Like I said, I want to take my time with you.”

Slowly, he slides a finger into you, curling it as he lathes his tongue lazily on your clit. You fall back in a sea of breathless whimpers. The ache in your tummy blossoms once more, which does not go unnoticed by him. He retracts his fingers once more, and you sob.

“Please, please, please, Hollis, let me cum, need it so bad. Please.” His face softens as he slowly lowers his lips back to your stomach, kissing his way back down. He wastes no time sucking your clit and swirling his tongue in your hole, groaning louder and louder as your whines intensify. You prop yourself up on your arms, wanting to see him, touch him, feel him, and instantly collapse when you see him rutting into the couch, leaving a wet stain on the fabric.

“Go on, pretty girl. Cum for me.” Your eyes roll back as you fall over the edge, whining his name in incoherent pauses, Hol-lis, oh, Hollis. He kisses your center sweetly before crawling back up.

His face is covered in cum, lashes glistening with wetness. “I need you,” he groans. “I need you so bad.”

He positions himself back at your entrance, and you squirm, the sensitivity from your last orgasm lingering. Hollis kisses your nose, sincerity in his eyes. “Let me know if it’s too much, okay?” You agree.

Hollis sets an unrelenting pace. You squirm and cry under him, the pain morphing into raw, unadulterated pleasure. His breathing becomes unsteady, kissing you sloppily as he nearly keels.

“Fuck, baby, feel so good. I’m gonna cum, let me-” but before he can continue, you wrap your legs around him.

“Cum inside me,” you breathe, crazed and delirious. “Need it so bad, please.”

With a moan so loud it could be considered a scream, Hollis cums, continuing to fuck you until you’re both sobbing and twitching from overstimulation.

He collapses with a grunt. “Heavy,” you complain, and he shakily leaves, returning with a towel and water.

He strokes your face tenderly. “How do you feel?” You give him a weak thumbs up, which he laughs at.

“Me too.”

Soon enough, Hollis releases a surprise track about you. It’s catchy and very his style, but the lyrics exude sweetness.

You smile and comment, shits dope.

#2hollis smut #2hollis fic #2hollis #2hollis x reader #2hollis fanfic #2hollis fluff #2hollis x reader smut #i feel so parasocial but whatever

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