Archive of Our Own

Roman has been in Hollis’s bedroom plenty of times. Different bedrooms in different places, each bigger and containing more things than the last. In every one Roman has been tempted and repelled by Hollis’s bed, for reasons he buried in a shallow grave. He’s never been in Hollis’s bedroom as a girl, with those reasons sparking over his sensitive skin.

He shoves off his underwear and dives into the unmade bed, burying himself in the sheets and rolling. He ends up on his belly, face-first in every pillow, seeking out the scents of Hollis he can find. His phone pings, but he ignores it, rolling over onto his back.

He knows the layout of the room by heart; hours spent here and hours dreaming of it. It’s the only room that really looks like it’s used, and though lived-in, there’s an exact way things reside in the room that’s so Hollis it makes him pause and smile. Like he can feel Hollis's presence in the position and angle of his things.

The desk to the right blinks little lights of electronics, acoustic foam growing up the walls around monitors and a MIDI controller. Two bookshelves extend down the rest of the wall: cameras, some of them probably too old to use, and a picked-selection of blu-rays and CDs and poetry.

These things are all inspiring his current work in different ways, and Roman has the stinging urge to get up and go through them, if only for more clarity on Hollis’s mind.

His phone pings again and he turns it over, face-down.

A blue night light in the shape of a heart is plugged into the vanity. The vanity is all it really lights, despite being reflected in the huge circle-mirror. Hollis insisted on no lights, and that's any easy one to obey. But the rest of the room gathes around him in dark blue shades. It makes Roman feel like he isn't supposed to be here, like some pervert, and not in a hot way.

He swallows and heaves a deep breath that he holds and then forces out all at once. Without Hollis’s overbearing presence, he’s not excited for what’s about to happen.

He swipes to find his waiting texts.

My dangerous baby

So fuckin hot crying and begging for me

Oh, okay. No ramp up at all.

It’s been four minutes since Hollis sent the last message. If Roman turns his phone back over and falls asleep, will Hollis still fuck him when he gets home?

No, of course not. Training and punishments or whatever. That makes him a little braver. Braver, but what the fuck do you say to that? Thank you?

This is worse than dirty talk. There’s no grounding skin and vocal tone to guide him or relieve him. Through his hesitation, some deep part of him speaks up and gifts him an answer. He feels stupid typing it, but at least it’s not ‘Thank you.’

make me cry again

Read immediately, like he’s been staring at it. Loser.

I will whether you want me to or not

Sparking through his arms, fear stretches his muscles taut until he remembers, Are you red? Then he can only find shame. Without fear, all that's left is the pleasure of Hollis demanding he do things. Because—

you know whats best

Good girl

Roman bites his lip and rubs his feet up and down the sheets.

Are you in my bed?

yeah

Ive wanted you in my bed for so long

And I almost had it

Typing . . .

Has Hollis laid awake here, thinking of Roman? Has he fucked here, thinking of Roman? He let it spill once. Thinking of the way you move.

But we wouldnt have made it to my bed because it was so hard to care about anything but fucking you in my kitchen whether we had an audience or not

Fuck. Roman slides an eager hand down his stomach. He’s alone—no one has to know audience is where he started. He ignores his cock and tugs at his balls, squeezing lightly. Hollis likes seeing him cry. He likes crying; the relief and the pressure at the same time. Timidly, he slides his finger back to press around and feel his body come together.

Sharply, he imagines his ass perched again on the cold marble of the kitchen, and his limbs wrapped around an overheated Hollis, sweaty with his effort. Roman looks at Ryan and Ryan laughs as Hollis pounds noises out of Roman that he’ll never live down.

God, fuck. Roman's pussy moves against his finger and he snatches his hand away.

Send me a picture

Of fucking what? With the lights off?

Roman pouts, grumpy from how much work he’s doing. He turns his flash on and takes a picture of the side of his foot, off-center and blurry. With a snicker at the difference, he sends it below Hollis’s paragraph-long sentence of lust.

Im not sure you understand what were doing

I dont think you want me to talk dirty about your feet

But I will

ew

u said you would walk me through it

tell me what to do

Show me what your other hand is doing

Well, its tapping displeased against his phone. But he understands better now, this isn't about truth. He angles his wrist back over the curve of his thigh, curling his fingers back towards his ass. He plays with angles until his arm and hand look as fem as they’re gonna get and takes a picture.

The flash makes it look trashy. His hand and thigh are harshly defined by the flash. The effect causes it to look more dirty than it is, because nothing explicit is on display. He wishes he could send a series of pictures, every one more x-rated than the last. But he shouldn’t. He’s been scolded for that. Nothing risqué on SMS.

He sends the picture and it’s not seen, immediately or otherwise. Hollis must have arrived at his destination, doing whatever thing was more important than Roman. A burst of jealousy makes Roman grind his teeth. Maybe it's not jealousy. It's an animosity for everyone but Hollis, anyone keeping them apart.

Roman looks around the room and waits, and checks his phone, and waits. He wiggles against the sheets and hugs the pillows and slides his hips from side to side. He traces a finger around his half-hard cock bent along his hip. He can’t— he huffs and draws his hand away to shove things around on Hollis’s headboard. He groans out loud, just for something to do.

He checks the picture he sent again and frowns.

Fine.

He swipes spit over his fingers and chases it across his lips and down his chin. Another picture, his slick mouth stretched across all four of his fingers, the width of his hand. He gags when he removes them and wipes his fingers clean on the sheets. He sends the picture.

Unread. He sighs, long and dramatic to overpower the silence.

With the tip of his thumb claw, so gingerly, he pulls away his foreskin and takes a picture. He sticks out his tongue and slides the curve of his thumbnail into it, tasting his wetness. He takes another picture.

They both look raunchy and he shouldn’t send them. Those are the rules. But something about the way his wrist curls down into his thumb into his nail makes him feel graceful. Something about the juxtaposition of his skin against Hollis’s stark white sheets, the sharp shadows of the flash, flickers memories of statues. Goddesses with wide stone hips under bunched cloth.

But it’s not safe. Except looking at them next to each other makes a pressure build in his core. He's obeyed Hollis three times and he wants to hear good girl and he sends the pictures a moment too late to see—

Typing . . .

Terrified, Roman turns onto his front and clicks off his phone, throwing it next to his pillows. Distracted by the sudden sensation, he rubs himself into the mattress, savoring the slow drag of his cock under his belly before he forces himself still.

An entire minute of torturous silence. Finally his phone makes a noise.

Directions.mp4

Roman bites his lip through a giddy smile. His pictures must have been convincing enough. He presses play. Closing his eyes, he waits, relieved for direction. The clip offers him machine-fed silence, and then muted rustling. Roman’s excitement drips away, replaced with disappointment. He expects, now, something meaner: a muffled clip of strangers’ voices, background noise, some reminder that they get Hollis and he doesn’t.

Then Hollis moans, lilting high and diving back down to sink, gravelly, into two husky pants of Roman’s name. Hushed and intense, the sound of his name makes Roman rut into the bed while he pokes out a plea with one hand.

i nneed you

please

tell me waht to do

Wardrobe bottom drawer

Choose a toy from the purple bag

And whatever lube you want

Unsteady, Roman stumbles out of the sheets wrapped around his legs and stands next to the wooden wardrobe. The words toy and lube bounce around his brain. It’s not like he’s never used them before. Just—not on himself.

The wardrobe diminishes him, climbs nearly to the ceiling and takes up nearly half the wall. He yanks open the doors to see it chaotically organized into groups of things. Hanging from the closet rod are many of Hollis’s fancy jackets, and inside the drawers next to them are jewelry and make up. A tube of lipstick, deeply red, could he—?

Below Hollis's jackets is his laundry. Roman barely notices it before his arms are shoved inside, digging, holding piece after piece of clothing to his face to test. Most don’t smell that much like Hollis anymore, but he finds an undershirt near the bottom with his sweat and perfume preserved.

He throws the shirt over his shoulder and, turning on his phone’s flashlight, leans down to open the wide bottom drawer. He pulls one knob, and then finding it too heavy, jerks it open with both.

Inside, strewn with little design, is a horrific selection of kinky shit—there’s more than one whip, and Roman is not looking at those. Chains, leather, bunched up and unidentifiable. Gags and ropes that, really, can only have one purpose. Why is there a fucking Costco brand six pack of duct tape?

Roman scoots to the left, safer with the trio of bags, purple, blue, and black. He resists the impulse to dump them all out onto the ground and leave them there. He jiggles the purple bag and hears the clink and bonk of glass hitting glass hitting silicone. He opens the drawstring and peeks inside. The toys are long but thin, nothing that’s going to hurt him before Hollis gets back to make that pain—maybe—better.

He chooses the shortest glass toy, clear but tinted pink in parts, whirled to a point like a unicorn’s horn. He picks a lube at random, and then thinks better—likely he’s going to have to taste it. He throws it back and shuffles through the rest until he feels a heavier, glass bottle.

A tastefully naked woman holds up a basket of oranges on the front. Roman turns the bottle until he can read that it is, in fact, lube. He opens the cap to sniff it, and test the point of his tongue along the rim. It smells good, like summer, and tastes like the sharp bergamot of tea.

Satisfied with his choices, he replaces the bag and glares sideways at the other end of the drawer. Hollis couldn’t have known that he would end the day telling Roman to root through his kinkdrobe, but he certainly knew what Roman would find.

Roman crawls back into the bed.

what the fuck

Problem baby girl?

Roman tucks his hair behind his ear. That’s much different than good girl. Baby girl expands wide like flooding, far beyond Dominant Hollis and into a world where Roman is regular Hollis’s baby and his girl, and he can tell everyone without ruining everything.

He shakes his head, like it will clear the sticky cobwebs of euphoria that suspend him in place. Hollis never promised that.

Roman has to make a joke or he's going to explode.

what the fuck is all that

do u moonlight as a dominatrix

ive seen ur incriminating ysl boots

Is that what you want?

I can be a girl too

Roman drops his phone and plunges his face back into the pillows. He aches from his balls to his belly button and he swears he can feel his veins throb in his wrists. He’s never gone this long, up and down without release. He’s never endured this long with nothing to show for it.

If he came now—quick and dirty—would Hollis be able to tell?

Stupid question. Of course he would. Roman is keyed up for what he’s been promised. Exactly how Hollis wants him. If he comes now, no matter how desperate he gets again later, underneath Hollis, he'll be able to tell.

His phone pings. Roman shoves Hollis’s shirt under his face and inhales, appreciating the musk mixed with something sweeter. His mind supplies the image of Hollis on their date in Paris. His lipgloss glittered when he spoke, illuminated by every light around him. His eyes looked bigger and prettier ringed with shades of shadow instead of liner. The width and freedom of his smile beneath his wig felt life-changing, unreal when mixed with a place Roman never imagined he'd be.

While they explored the endless streets, bold with anonymoty, Hollis's face remained soft and sweet like fallen snow even when his voice dropped deep like storms.

Roman doesn’t think about that stunning, lithe Hollis in his stiletto boots with one of his whips, because he’s too busy picking his phone back up. He wearily eyes the glass horn and naked lady bottle laying next to his phone.

Answer me

i dont want it

Roman feels a deep regret as soon as he sends it, and adds:

not now

What do you want now?

Easily, like flowing water, Roman knows exactly what Hollis wants. Or rather, exactly what Hollis wants him to say. What he's waiting for.

please

will you teach me how to touch my pussy?

Good girl

All you had to do was ask the right way

Hollis sends a picture. Mostly of a table. But the table ends near the bottom of the vertical picture, and under the table, in his lap, Hollis's cock is hard, still clothed and clutched in one of his hands.

Roman admires the shape and thickness and remembers how it felt hitting the back of his tongue.

Sit on your knees with a pillow between your legs

Roman ends up with two pillows between his legs, wiggling into the soft fabric.

Lube your middle finger and tap it against your pussy

Touch your cock with your other hand

Youll feel it when your pussy wants more

Five minutes. Dont make any sounds

Roman rocks against the pillows and tugs on his nipple, sighing at the sweet, vanilla sensation. He touches his pussy again, and it's cold and wet where he shouldn't be wet, but it isn't terrible. He plays Hollis's moan on repeat and taps his pussy. Whenever Hollis says his name, Roman arches over the pillow. Tap, tap, tap. Roman's arm tremors where it holds him up and he bites back a giggle—no sounds—at the freaky feeling of his body trying to pull him in.

Get more lube and spread it all over your pussy

Tease it like I would in and out slowly

Dont get impatient

Five minutes. Pretend its my tongue

Roman moans at the permission and, ignoring the first direction, slides inside. The softness of his insides is all warm pressure. What's softer—the inside of his body or Hollis's tongue? The idea of anyone that close to his ass is mortifying, but that's what makes it good—knowing Hollis would do it and worse, happily, greedily.

Roman has always been so emphatically sure that he'd hate anything that wasn't Hollis. He expected penetration to be uncomfortable at best and he would need Hollis’s body heat and stupid mouth to make it worthwhile. Like a cross to bear for something forbidden.

Grinding into the pillows, Roman plays with his cock and his pussy, back and forth, together than separate. His thighs begin to ache with his position and movements, but he's stubborn, refuses to move or quit. He was told five minutes.

He coats his finger again, holding himself open this time for better access and teases his pussy; up and down and back and forth, feeling slick in a way that could have previously only meant an accident.

Roman thinks about the pressure and heat of all the pussies he's had before and thinks, deliriously, that he feels the same. His body squeezes his finger and he cycles like that; pushing in and allowing his body to slowly push back out.

Do you like it?

Touching himself makes Roman feel impish. Excited, almost cocky. He imagines how miserable he could make Hollis by simply typing no and turning off his phone.

The idea of terrorizing Hollis has his finger sliding deeper. He shudders at the odd feeling of his body from the inside. He wiggles his finger, half-eaten by his pussy; he wants to know what Hollis will feel. So tight every twitch feels huge.

It makes his temper flare, head to feet and out of his body like a flash of light.

so unfair

my whole life without feeling this

Ill make you feel it all the time

Soon. Im almost done

i need you

hurry

how long

Doesnt matter

Youll wait

always

Try two fingers now

Use more lube than you think you need

I mean it. It should feel like too much

Dont worry about making a mess

Three minutes. Moan like a whore

Biting his lip, excited, Roman pushes his experienced finger back in and echoes a moan so low it barely counts. But his second finger won't follow, not even as grossly slick as it is. It's too big and his pussy is too small, and he's done so much work already that Hollis should be doing.

He balls Hollis's shirt up and holds it against his nose, breathing deep. He imagines the pillows beneath him are Hollis's hips and Hollis is inside him. Another moan, drawn out only so he can hear his voice waver. He wants to be filthy—he wants to bounce on Hollis's cock until he milks him dry, but his pussy can't even take two fingers.

Frowning, he tries different pressures and positions, raising his ass up and shoving back down, as if the action can make him believe that Hollis is under him.

His second finger pushes inside. It's the wrong side of uncomfortable, outlined with pain. He whines, but remembers to turn it into a moan by the end. He shoves Hollis's shirt over the pillows and drags his cock through the white cotton, brows drawn in concentration. Trying to trick himself into wanting more.

It hasnt been three minutes, but already a frustrated tear slips out. He sniffs, moaning through it so he won't sob.

i hate this

it hurts

u should be doing it

I promise itll hurt more when I do it

Desire burns through his veins to receive pain, any pain, from Hollis. He remembers the ringing ache across his face and into his brain when Hollis slapped him. Then, just like Hollis promised, his pussy is hungry. She sucks in both of his fingers, only complaining a little. Slipping against each other, his fingers test and explore. The stretch stabs a delicious twinge in his lower belly. The twinge makes him feel scared— confident, crazy. He needs to know. He needs to know before he finds out exactly how much he likes it.

do u really wish i topped

Dont worry baby

I want your cunt too much to ever want your cock

Roman falls down, down. To the very bottom of it. Deeper than she's ever been. She assumed it was endless, the dark unknown, forever and ever falling and unknowing. Hitting the bottom is courage in defining her space. The bottom whispers that she's exactly where she needs to be.

She's a woman and she doesn't need to say girl because it's meeker like an apology. She doesn't need to tiptoe with half-measures anymore. She stands and dusts off her kness and the floor of the bottomless hole is made of how badly she needs Hollis to understand her this way, too.

pllease

i need u

i cant do this swithout you

Im leaving

Slick up your toy and keep it in you

Lay on your back and wait for me

Promise you will

i promise

hurry

___+___

Roman deserves credit; she considers keeping her promise for a whole minute or two. But an idea circles her mind and it begins with the lipstick in Hollis's drawer. The thought of disobeying for her own desires is sweet and bitter like the summer cherries it resembles.

She returns to the wardrobe, awkward for trying to keep the toy inside her. The black basket of cosmetics sits innocently next to a comb and a pile of small towels. The shades of concealer and foundation give her a pretty good guess as to who it belongs to. It doesn't matter. She only needs one thing.

(It's not stealing; she was here first.)

She abandons the golden cap to twist the bottom up and down. She grins at the feminine gesture and her shoulders wiggle with joy involuntarily. The color is even deeper than the dark red on her nails, so dark she only dots it conservatively across her lips. She should use the mirror, but she doesn't know if she can handle looking at herself and applying it at the same time.

Leaning onto the vanity, Roman uses the mirror to smooth the color to fully cover her lips. She collects her hair and gathers it over her bare shoulder. Easy, simple adjustments. But when she steps back to take in the whole picture, what she sees compels her to bite her lip and fall to the bench. She rubs the red marks off her teeth and purses her lips over and over. Her eyes lock onto the contrast between the lipstick and her skin.

She experiments with how she wields her hands as she arranges her hair. Struggling to keep the giddy smile from her face, she knows that’s not what this mouth calls for. She settles on something between a smirk and a pout. Flash-flickers of seductive women swim in her imagination next to her reflection: long dark hair, exposed collarbones and red lips.

She tries different poses, foreign but memorized expressions. The femme fatale archetype shimmers around her in the blue light and she never imagined she could embody that kind of femininity. The kind you need confidence and experience for.

She doesn't have much time.

She kneels six feet from the bedroom door and bows her head and waits.

She hears when the front door closes. She's disappointed when his footsteps don't race up the stairs to devour her. After a minute or two he takes the stairs casually and it pisses her off so much she's glad she didn't obey him.

When Hollis catches sight of her on the floor, he slams the door so hard it rattles through the wall and into his bookshelf.

Fear rolls down Roman in waves; fear of punishment, fear of not hearing good girl. Her ribs shudder when she tries to breathe in. Hollis leans one shoulder into the door and removes his belt and pants with one hand. Folding his belt in half, he whacks it against his palm. Roman jerks at the sound, yearning.

Should she stand, run back to the bed? She recalls her elegant face in the mirror, the power in her gentle eyes and inviting, wine-red mouth.

No, she wants to stay on her knees. She wants Hollis to know that owning her and making her heel are two different things, even if it means welts in the shape of his belt. She squares her shoulders and lifts her nose and finds her feminine voice— not higher-pitched, not softer, but sweeter, warmer, purred from the base of her throat.

“Problem, baby?”

Confidence makes her steal his words. She feels so full, stretched to possess every corner of her body. She glides her nails down her hair and opens her mouth, sticking out her tongue. She waits; she dares Hollis to prove that training her is more important than fucking her.

Hollis stumbles forward over his fallen pants and slumps to his knees, colliding into her and throwing them both to the plush Persian rug. Before she can react, her legs are pinned by his knees and he yanks the toy from her pussy. She yelps, hating the drag, and then the emptiness.

"Top-tier shit-for-brains, baby," he mutters, petting her hair.

She moans, wishing she were stupider for him. He clutches her lips and smears red down her chin and holds her head still long enough to slap her with the other hand.

She shudders and feels her pussy throb. Moaning, she grabs for his cock.

He pins her back to the rug with a hand around her neck.

"Don't move."

She won't, she wouldn't. He's here and he's real and he's almost naked and he smells like alcohol and woodsmoke and he's going to touch her so much now, in one way or another.

She hears the kinkdrobe swing open and waits.

He returns and stands over her, feet on either side of her hips. He drops something solid onto her stomach. She oofs, but stops herself from sitting up as Hollis sits down on her stomach.

He lifts her hands until she holds his shoulders and he glares deep into her eyes for emphasis. "If you touch anything that's not me until I come, especially yourself, I won't let you come for a month."

He can't enforce that. She never agreed to it. He can't make sure Roman doesn't jerk off in secret every time they part. And she would, now, after all this, with all the footage in her phone. But. She doesn't want to make herself come when she can have this.

Half-intoxicated, Roman watches the pinch of Hollis's mouth and the slant of his eyes, hints of frustrated concentration.

Shocking, pointed pain courses from her cock up her spine and into her teeth. She violently shivers from the biting cold and looks down to see Hollis's slender fingers clutching an ice packs over her cock, and another beneath it.

"Wh—"

She gives up, collapses back and chirps a cry, letting go of another tear.

"Shhh," Hollis soothes her, like he's caressing her with warm towels and not fucking ice. "You're okay. Breathe."

She breathes, shivering through the cold.

"I think about your cock all the time." Hollis pushes the ice packs to sandwich her cock and she yells and archs off the floor. "I jerked off in the bathroom after your picture."

"Oh, God," Roman whines.

Her eyes roll back and her nails grip at the tight weave of the carpet above her head.

"I didn't finish." He throws the ice packs over his shoulder. His hands are biting, disgusting heat against her frozen cock when he fits her into what feels like a mold. Perfectly sized for her shocked-limp cock. How—? Was it made— for her—

Hollis leans down to breathe in her face and tugs the cage over her cock so gently. "What does it feel like?"

She closes her eyes and lies. "Heaven."

He nips at her belly when he stands up. "Stay."

The bed creaks under his weight. She hears the lube open and smells it and prays it's going straight on his cock to give her what she wants. With a rustle of fabric she watches his feet appear over the edge of the bed. Then he smacks his lips and spits.

"Come here."

Roman stands on weak knees and holds the torture device on her cock still. It's too heavy and too light all at once. She looks at him lying on the bed from the edge of the mattress and chokes on her tongue. From the bridge of his nose down to his chin, he's slathered in lube, glistening and waiting.

"What the fuck," she whispers.

Impatient he manhandles her onto the bed, fighting with her limbs until her legs are on either side of his face.

"Sit down," Hollis says, and kisses the nearest skin of her thigh.

If she thinks too hard, she won't do it. If she thinks too hard it's too gross and excessive. So she doesn't think; she lowers onto his face and slides her pussy through the slick on his chin. He licks up and through her part and over her balls. Back to her pussy he opens his mouth wider and she forgets to hold her weight up, sinking it all into his face. His head disappears, only his hair strewn across the pillow and between her legs.

He moves her by her hips and curls his tongue where she wants it, where she never expected it. She gasps his name, pure shock at the feeling of his tongue where no one else has ever touched her.

She doesn't think he can breathe. She tugs on his hair weakly, as if to warn him.

Soothing her hips with his palms, he guides her to rock back and forth in time with his tongue digging inside her, stoking her, humiliating her. He shoves her up, off his face, only high enough to suck in oxygen before he pulls her back down to suffocate again.

Roman reaches for the headboard but remembers to obey at the last second and jerks her hand back. Panting, burning with his eager, muffled sounds, she leans back to use his shoulder for leverage to roll her hips. She follows his tongue and the point of his nose and grinds her pussy all over the rise and fall of his face, exactly how she needs him.

"You're so good," she sighs. "You're so good."

He lifts her again for air. She tries to wiggle away, but he pulls her back, like he's happy to pass out from pussy-related asphyxia. Her cock complains against the cage and twinges pain down her thighs.

She tears at his hair and circles her hips. He holds her up so his fingers can replace his tongue. His fingers were always meant to be inside her and it's completely fine if she never gets receives anything else.

Her other hand pushes at the cage to be free, and her thumb slides through wetness. She looks down. Still soft and useless, her cock leaks through the cage and drips into Hollis's hair. His fingers part inside her and an ache shoots through her ass that she's never felt before. A desire that Hollis put there with his tongue and his hands.

She moans and wiggles down his body until she can see his face to make her plea. His eyes are wild and he gasps for air like he's drowning, and she can't be sure he'll even listen.

"I want it. Please," she begs. She pushes her fingers around his slick face. "Please, I dont want to say it. Please, I don't want— I want—"

He turns them so that Roman is on her back. Between the sheets and his body, she goes limp to be where she belongs, underneath him.

"Roman." He kisses between her eyes. "Roman, shh. Listen to me."

She opens her eyes. His touch is so sweet on her face, like none of the rest is happening.

"Has anyone else ever made you feel like this?" he asks.

"What?" she asks, confused, knocked free of their combined heat.

"Has anyone else ever compared to this?"

Annoyed at the question, she snaps her mouth shut. She would be annoyed at any question. Shut the fuck up, she tries to say through a glare. Put your cock inside me.

Hollis grabs her hair and wrenches her head to the side, exposing her neck. His teeth lock onto her neck, uncomfortably close to the point of her jaw, straight below her ear. Teeth ripping at her skin, he mangles her pulse, tears away and latches on again, bite after bite, pain after pain.

Worse than a hickey, more painful, with barely any pleasure. Roman endures the mirrored pain of overwhelm deep in her chest. She doesn’t know if she’s allowed to make sounds, so she doesn't, adding to the pressure. Across her sinusus skitters an ache. Her face breaks, tears sliding down her cheeks. She sniffs, shakily. It’s beautiful, a release she loves, if not the one she needs.

"I can’t hide that," Roman complains, limp and devoid of conviction when he finally stops.

He licks back over his mark, and just his tongue makes Roman wince. Oh, it’s bad. Hollis squeezes her cage and pushes his fingers into her new hickey at the same time. Two more fat tears fall to soak the pillow. She's going to have to use the special makeup, the one that hides her tattoos—

"Roman," Hollis barks. "I asked you a question."

"I don’t remember—" Roman pants. Her hands flail, aborted movements to calm herself before she remembers she can't touch anything. "I wanna, I—"

"Tell me I’m the best." Each word slurs into the next, the tip of his nose nuzzling into the swelling bruise under her ear. "Tell me how much better I am than anyone that’s ever fucked you."

Roman is pretty sure that’s not what he asked, because it’s not a question.

"You’re better."

Hollis leans away, off the bed, distracted by something that's not her. "Keep going."

"I’ve never felt— I don’t want anyone else. I need you so much I don't feel real."

He returns to her view and bites open a condom. She's never seen someone else— and not with so much hunger—

"No, don't." Roman’s hands stray where they’re allowed, curling in helpless pleas into Hollis’s shoulders instead of ripping the condom from his hands. "Please."

“Please what?” Hollis asks.

“Don’t use it.”

“Why?”

Desperate to get her way, Roman reaches for the condom, but Hollis holds it away.

“I wanna feel when—”

Roman couldn’t possibly finish that sentence without bursting into flames. It seems she doesn’t need to; Hollis turns his head and raises a dramatic eyebrow. There’s something sadistic in the movement and her cock gushes like it's given up on growing.

“That’s dangerous.” He bends down to kiss her earring and reaches between them to cradle her lower belly to emphasize his words. “Does the threat of my baby make it better, angel?”

Lightning strikes through her nerves. She groans and bucks up, hips angled to slide her pussy against his leg. To show him how wet they've made her, how ready, how desperate.

“Please,” she whines. She's not above chanting it. “Please.”

He licks his lips.

"Your call," he says, like that's ever been true about anything.

He spreads her legs and holds them open and makes good on his promise that his cock would hurt so much better. She hugs him with her legs, flexing her thighs to press him down, but he refuses depth or rhythm, pushing his tip in and out of her. She cries again, broken up into his face.

“Is this what you wanted?”

She moans, half-pleasure and half-anger. "N—no."

"What, then?"

He slams deep, so suddenly her brain frays, pain bleeding into overwhelm and tripping into pleasure. Her thoughts return, jumbled, when he slides out and back in.

“I wanted— I wanted—”

“Yeah, you like that.” Nosing into her ear, he stills for a torturous moment before he rams into her again. Deep pleasure driven from his cock up her spine and into her brain. He moans, too, lower and longer. “Fuck, I knew you would take it so good.”

Spacey, floaty. She hears his breath scrape through his throat feels the punishment of his girth. He won't give her enough to break through the pain completely, and she slides between the two sensations, back and forth.

“Please, faster.”

“Look at me when you beg.”

He holds her chin forward and slaps her cage.

“Faster, please." She tries to suck his thumb into her mouth even though she's begging. "Please, faster. Anything, please, please."

“Good girl.”

Rippling through her chest, she moans to be good. He digs his nails into her hips and lays his forehead against her shoulder and rewards her with the rhythm and speed she thought she wanted.

Nausea shoots up her nose and through her tongue. Her belly grumbles in knots and she sniffles through the onslaught, dripping tears.

But then Hollis whines, clear and undeniable. Shaking, she clenches down into his snapping rhythm again and again he barks another broken whine. Her— she did that to him. Her pussy milked that sound from him. Pathetic little whine. She bites her lip and wipes the slick from her cage onto his face.

He slows.

“Don’t—"

He stills anyway.

"Don't stop. God, please—”

“Please what?”

He pulls out completely.

“No, no. Please. Fuck me and don't fucking stop. I need it, please.”

His tongue is in her ear and she feels it in the bottom of her feet.

“Go on," he whispers. "You're almost there.”

“Please.” Another tear collected on the pillow and she scrapes her nails up his neck, losing all shame. “Put it back in, please, please, please. I'll do anything. Anything. Anything.”

He slides his length across her starving pussy. “Tell me you’re in love with me.”

"I—"

She shudders. She would say anything to have him back. She shouldn’t say it if it isnt true. But it doesnt matter. She's going to.

"I'm in love with you," she says.

It's powerful. Like flipping a switch. He gives her everything she wants and she's convinced, with the logic of heat and passion, that he's trying to fuck her so hard that there’s no way she could ever forget.

Her spine trembles every time his hips slam into hers, too rapid to finish one shiver before another begins. Nerves on fire, faltering on the edge of something—beyond orgasm, beyond intimacy.

His teeth tear down her chin with intent, like he could rip it off. He fucks her erratic, so powerful it almost hurts again before he begins to falter. A last whine, her name slurred, before his body surrenders to her completely. Inflamed, Roman feels everything ten-fold: the slide of his stomach and the twitch of his cock. Bleeding warmth, squishy wetness, so much deeper than she ever thought she could feel. Her toes curl until they ache. She moans quietly, not exactly from pleasure, lost without her own orgasm to find.

Roman doesn't get to come, but Hollis's weight is delicious pressing her into the sheets. She thinks only about how lucky she is to have a man that will do everything and nothing she asks him for.

___+___

After he cleans her up, Hollis takes Roman downstairs. He says the change of scenery will help her feel better. She argues that she's never felt better. She pushes him away, but it's only two steps of weak legs and sore ass before she collapses back into him.

Abandoning the darkness of the second floor feels like exiting a cave and seeing the sun. The bright light of the first floor, even and especially the eyes watching over her from the ceiling, lift a weight that had sank into her bones.

He helps her onto the far couch, the white leather one that no one ever wants to use. He brings her a blue gatorade from the fridge and she curls her lip, but he raises his eyebrows with authority. She takes it. Besides, she can feel that her body needs it. What time is it? How late? How long since she's had water?

She complains about the sweaty leather against her overheated skin. Hollis covers the surface with blankets that aren't much better and pulls her into his side. She sips her tangy, disgusting drink.

Somehow his hands know exactly where to go. They hold her head close and brush through her hair, caress down her arms and hug her shoulders. They don't try to touch her where she's sore or sensitive. They only try to convince her that she's wanted, still, even when she's not being used.

Hollis releases her to stand up and her nerves light on fire.

"No," she yells, startling both of them.

"It's okay," he says. "I'm just gonna—"

"No." She pulls his waist until his back hits the couch again. "You can't."

"Okay," he says.

But he sounds wrong. Hiding something. Cold. Not again. Her lips shake. She turns her entire body, folds into herself and then pushes her whole body into Hollis.

"Please." She grabs for his hand, trying to entwine their fingers. Shaking, she can't manage. "Hold my hand, please."

He holds her hand, both of his sandwiching hers. He moves his palms in little circles, massaging her tendons and bones slowly. He's draining her fear, anxiety sucked out of a wound.

She jerks to complain once he moves from the hypnotic motion, but he's already there, folding her back and spreading her out. His fingertips trace down and across her face and he whispers promise after promise.

She closes her eyes and floats. Has he ever broken a promise?

"It's been a crazy day," he says, and she's too floaty to know which direction his voice is coming from, or how close it is. "You should sleep."

Bad. No, sleep bad.

"No, no." Roman shakes her head sharply. "I can't sleep. You'll leave— You'll get mad—"

He has to stay. She pushes up and pulls Hollis down by his neck in to kiss him. Frantic, messy every trick she knows with her tongue to make him stay. She shoves her hand up his thigh, into his shorts.

He pulls it out and holds it above his waist, denying her. He allows all of her kisses, even when they grow messy and unskilled with panic. His response is slow and sweet, and he won't give her his tongue.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

"You don’t need to fuck me to make me stay."

His eyes trace their familiar journey, down her face to her neck. His pupils are still larger than normal and it makes him look younger, nicer, less effected—the way he used to.

"I promise I won’t fuck it up again."

He can't promise that. Of all people.

"What if—"

He slides to the floor and his hand pushes her chest down to the couch and holds her there, firm but gentle. She closes her mouth and waits. Laying flat, she breathes erratic up into his hand. Watching his hand is a focus she needs. She breathes slower, holding at the apex and releasing. She watches his hand go down. In and out, hand floating up and down. His hand is warm, paler than normal against her growing summer color.

“You’re safe and we’re safe.”

He covers Roman with another blanket, muttering something about dressing her. He concentrates very hard on tucking the blanket under her body and around her shoulders. The strange attention draws her focus away from her fears and towards the blanket mummification. Her eyes droop. She yawns, feeling awkward not covering her mouth.

“I’ve never told anyone—”

Hollis interrupts himself and abandons his blanket work because his voice cracks. He leans back and draws his knees into his chest, resting his forearms on them. But he doesn't lower his head. Roman catches only one tear, but his expression is bent in with emotion.

“When I was a kid and my dad was actually home, he would put me to bed. I never wanted to sleep when he was home, I wanted to hang out with him. Sometimes I’d cry about it. I think he would’ve let me stay up if it wasn’t for mom.”

Hollis looks far away, the cutest smile on his face. This moment is so delicate that Roman is scared to breathe. She wants to live forever in his soft quiet place and his soft quiet voice and his soft quiet smile and—

“He’d give me a butterfly kiss and a nose kiss. It was the only time he ever did that stuff, and no one else ever did it. So it became, like, mythical to me. It was so special.”

Roman stifles another yawn and swims through her own crippling affection.

“I love you,” Roman mumbles.

“Yeah,” Hollis says, leaning in.

His face so close, he opens and closes his eye rapidly, fluttering his lashes against Roman’s cheekbone. It tickles; it melts her heart into her ribs and her ribs into her skin and her skin into the couch. He moves slightly, grazes Roman’s nose with his own, shaking his head to rub their noses together, back and forth.

“I’m in love with you,” Roman says.

“I’m in love with you more."

Roman wants to argue, but she slips down the drain of sleep.

___+___

Roman wakes some time before dawn. She rolls over and rubs her face, groggy like she's slept for years. She looks around until she recognizes the room and remembers the chronology of her life leading to waking up half-dead on Hollis's couch.

She pushes the insufferable blanket off her burning chest and sits up. She can't read the time on the microwave from where she's at, but Hollis has been kind enough to leave her phone, cigarettes, earbuds, and a glass of water on the table beside her.

He also left himself instead of going to his own bed. Belly-down on the other couch, his messy hair shades his face and his clown legs stick out over the arm. One of his elbows is a pillow and the other has fallen limp to the ground. Even his snoring is meticulous like a metronome.

She gulps the entire glass of water between breaths, heaving for air when she's done. Her phone tells her that it's not far past 4am. She smokes a cigarette in the calming, dimmed lights. She's tempted to creep upstairs and re-apply the lipstick just to see it stain the filter of her cigarette. A cigarette stub with red lip-prints; such an iconic image. Beautiful, messy.

She decides to stay in the stillness. She can wear lipstick any time she wants, now, and she'll be able to leave its mark on so many things. She can make Hollis buy her every shade she wants. She can mark Hollis and everything he owns. Hers.

That's not very plausible deniability of her. She hates every girlfriend that's ever been able to love Hollis loud and in public. They've never loved loud or publicly enough.

She puts her earbuds in and checks the bottom of Hollis's playlist. Nothing new added since this afternoon. She's never heard the new songs, though she knows the artists, and the titles don't give her any clues—one too vague and the other too long and dramatic. She plays the first and swipes to watch the lyrics.

It's upbeat but a little dark, exactly the way Hollis likes it. The lyrics at the beginning seem like an apology, but a trite one. Then Roman hears her confess, I don't wanna get too close, shit gets complicated/I don't wanna take it off, emotionally naked.

Well, she didn't really need a song to tell her he's obsessing over vulnerability. But there's something in the draining end of the song, the repetition of Could we be imagining? It feels very Hollis in its construction, a bittersweet question over uncomfortable sounds.

She looks at him across the room. Imagining what, you asshole?

The second song is different. More messy, more intense. Roman hears Are you through with me? and rolls her eyes. But then the chorus barges in, pleading, When it all goes to Hell, will you be able to tell me sorry with a straight face?

Roman wants to turn it off. She feels shame like a fishook in her guts. She never apologized. Her incredibly good reasons for spite and manipulation aside, she never stopped long enough to even the score.

She is sorry. She's sorry she always makes it worse. She listens to another verse that reminds her of Hollis's ick, but it ends with I still know the way to make your makeup run, and she stops paying attention at all.

She turns her phone and earbuds off and Hollis's soft snoring returns. She leans down next to his couch and moves the hair out of his face and says she's sorry and asks for forgiveness. He stirs and grumbles, asks her what she said.

She tugs at him until he sits up. "Let's go sleep in a real bed."

___+___

Tickle. Across his cheek. Down his nose. A bug, a spider. Roman tries to bat it off his face, but his fist collides with Hollis's ear. Hollis makes a dumb noise of surprise and Roman startled awake and softens his hand, latching onto Hollis's hair.

"Fuck," Roman says as his blurry eyes finally define Hollis's face. "Sorry."

Hollis just stares, like Roman knocked any intent from his brain. Roman tugs on his hair, as if to remind him.

"Morning," Roman says, trying to be normal.

"You never got to wash me," Hollis says, anything but normal. "The shower's running."

He's exhausted. But he wants.

"Are you still a girl?" Hollis asks, once they're in the bathroom with the door shut.

Huffing, Roman watches the steam grow to cover the room. He wonders how long Hollis has been up, compared to her groggy conversation.

"You always seem to be able to tell," Roman says.

"I can tell physically. I can't read your mind to understand what it means."

Roman shrugs. "I dunno. I don't really feel like anything right now."

Hollis tests the temperature of the water and adjusts the knobs. Roman wants to ask if Hollis always feels unquestionably like a capital-M Man, if his body always makes sense to carry and own. But that feels like a bigger question than a shower can handle.

"Does that feel bad? The lack. Or whatever."

Roman pauses. He’s never considered, never asked himself how he felt, only stubbornly ignored it until one of the feelings pounced and crawled down his throat. Does this, right now, feel bad?

"No. I don't think so." He lifts his arms to stretch into the ceiling and pull his shoulders. "It feels like nothing. Like, uh—like noise cancelling headphones but nothing's playing? I guess."

Hollis nods. Roman wonders if he understands the correlation, or only the image.

"Are you ok to be naked?"

Roman scoffs and shoulder-checks him away from the shower door. "I don't ever hate my body."

He's naked in seconds and tries to remember how he got dressed in the first place. Opening the glass door, he steps inside but Hollis yanks him back by his hair and steps into the warm water first. Then he holds out his hand for Roman and helps him inside.

They kiss under the water, all slow silky rhythm in no hurry to speed up. As Roman wakes up, his hands wander over Hollis's hips and down his ass and against where his body—

Hollis giggles and jumps back. "No."

He collects a bottle and an abnormally large loofah and pushes them into Roman's chest. "Clean me."

Roman looks him up and down and grins, accepting his tools.

Beginning at his feet and working up, Roman imagines his washing strictly ordered like bedtime rosaries. He resists making the sign of the cross, but as he washes Hollis's legs he hears the ressurection of the body and when he pushes soap around his hips in soothing circles he thinks your kingdom come. He cleans Hollis's stomach, suds clinging like the foam of his beer. He bites his lip not to say blessed is the fruit of your womb, blessed is the fruit of your womb, blessed is the fruit of your womb.

Roman stands and cleans the curves of Hollis's shoulders. When he lifts his arms, Roman says, "And ever shall be."

Hollis doesn't get it because his face lifts, like he's considering teasing. It's okay, he doesn't need to get it. It's Roman's prayer, between him and God.

As soon as Roman is done cleansing the soap away, Hollis pushes him from the steam and against the cold tile. Roman darts forward to bite Hollis's lip and tug backwards. Hollis laughs into the attack and manhandles Roman again, directly under the shower head for a face full of water. Sputtering, Roman shakes his head to clean his face and throws his body into a still-laughing Hollis, shoving him against the glass doors that shake in their hinges.

Hollis's laugh is cut off as Roman bites into the swell of his shoulder. Working to break Hollis's skin, Roman pours every ounce of possession into the muscle under his skin. Hollis kneads Roman's ass and his fingers finds where he's sore and makes him whine into Hollis's shoulder.

But he won't give Roman the moan he wants like the one that lives in his phone. Roman pulls back and watches his mark bloom. It's smaller than the one Hollis gifted him, but on his pale skin it's darker and deeper and Roman thinks that fits, somehow.

Hollis dries him off with a huge fluffy towel, but insists on drying himself. After, he turns Roman around, lifting his limbs, inspecting for—Roman assumes—damage. He sits Roman on the toilet and rubs a cream into the wound he put below Roman's ear. Roman chews on his lip so he doesn't whine about the pain.

"Do you hurt anywhere else?" Hollis asks.

"My ass hurts," he pouts.

Hollis’s face collapses. "Did I hurt you?"

Roman has to look away. "I mean, not during. Not really. I guess it's not pain. I… feel it. Constantly."

Hollis nods.

Roman pushes his toes against the tile, shy to talk about it so starkly. "Do you get used to it?"

Hollis offers a devious grin. "I dunno, I've only used my mouth.

___+___

They order a ridiculous amount of food from some café and wait on their respective couches. They linger in silence, something on in the background while neither of them watch. Roman lays on his back playing a mobile game, leg fallen off thr couch. Hollis is doing God knows what, taking an earbud in and out of his ear and scribbling in a notebook. So concentrated. So pretty, so cute.

Roman settles into the comfort. He's not leaving. There's nothing gargantuan unsettled between them. There are a lot of little things, little bugs that need to be squished. But he's safe now. Hollis has learned his lesson. Maybe.

They eat. She stuffs herself with all of her pancakes and more than her share of Hollis’s omelette that he barely touches. She hasn’t been this hungry in weeks, maybe months. She's swirling bacon around in her syrup when Hollis says—

"I wasn't gonna let you not remember Mexico. Maybe I can’t make you believe me, but I wasn’t."

Roman drops his bacon and licks his sticky fingers.

"You don't have to—"

"Nah, let me get it out. While I still think it’s a good idea."

Roman leans away from his food and crosses his legs on the couch.

"I never wished you didn’t remember. Not just Mexico, but any of it. I wanted you to know." He rubs his temple like it gives him a headache. "Fuck, I wanted everyone to know. The first time I wanted to post the picture of you naked and sleeping in my bed so that they would all know. And I wouldn't even have to say it."

Hollis pushes around a piece of egg with his finger. "I kind of wish I had. It would've ruined everything though."

Roman ignores, for now, the eventual interrogation of Hollis's slip up of naked picture of you from years ago that I definitely own and never deleted.

"Then I got mad and ruined it instead?" Roman asks.

Hollis shakes his head, but he doesn't disagree. "I didn't care that you were mad. You’re pretty when you’re mad. Your brows—"

"Ugh, move on."

"I've always loved you the same and it's always been and it's always gonna be too much. I'm not fuckin' subtle. Even if you didn't know we fucked, you had to know how I felt."

"It's complicated."

Hollis shrugs, an annoyed jerk of his shoulders. He closes the lid over his food.

"Not really, man. I'm in love and you pretended not to notice." He sniffs and clears his throat, like he never meant to say the second part. "I can't promise I'll never fuck you when you're too high to remember or shut down when you're being a bitch. And you were being a bitch."

"I—"

"I’m not like you. That kind of shit doesnt make me want to fuck. Not when it's repeating the bullshit I say to myself."

Roman feels backed into a corner, but he doesn't think he belongs there. He pushes back.

"Yeah right. You might get scared, but you're fearless."

"Is that how you see me?" Hollis lowers his head and his cheeks tint a pale pink. "That makes sense, I guess. Why you’d think what you did."

"You’re—"

"I thought I had lost you. I spent three days at my parents’ house barely eating."

Oh, god. Roman had been upset, but he was always confident in the fact that they're gonna rotate around each other until they die. Jesus, Hollis is so dramatic.

"Because I saw the proof of how much I love you— everywhere, all the time, ramped up the past few years. And then I heard you over and over believing that I would ever hurt you like that." He bends the silver handle of his fork between his fingers. "It was a schism. Like you didn’t understand any of it. Anything I’ve ever tried to do or say."

Yeah, dramatic.

"I was a bitch." Roman hugs his legs and rests his chin on his knees. "I meant to hurt you and I'm sorry it worked, but can I explain?"

"I get it, I hurt you."

"No." Roman shakes his head. "I was being mean, yeah. But isn't that part of it? I wanted to be a bitch, but I wanted it to end in you fucking me over the couch to shut me up and show me I was wrong."

Hollis joins Roman on his couch and Roman looks at the group of people on the TV. Curl trapped around his finger, Hollis yanks, and Roman’s neck goes with it.

"You think it would’ve been that easy to tame you, huh?" Hollis asks.

Roman squints. "I mean, you would’ve still had to answer me later."

"I'm not sure I could of before I worked some things out."

Roman puts a hand on Hollis's knee. "What did you work out?"

"I love being in control. In charge."

Roman gives him a dirty look, and then seeing that he's completely serious, looks back at the TV. Hollis has been type-A since he used a daily planner for homework. Is this a joke?

"Wipe that stupid fucking look off your face. That's not what I worked out."

"Sorry."

Hollis heaves a sigh and turns off the TV, presumably for Roman's attention. Roman gives it to him, since he guesses this is Hollis's version of vulnerability.

"I worked out that I can't trust anyone else to do things right. That was the first part. Learning that I don't know how to trust you if I'm not in control of you."

Roman feels like he missed a stair on an endless stairway. Hollis doesn't trust him? But he's trusted Hollis for years. He would die for Hollis, control or not.

"It's all a barrier. Making you obey, training you. The more control I have, the less you can see me. The less you can hurt me."

Roman sucks his lips into his mouth so he doesn't smile, condescendingly, at his stupid boy. None of that's true. Maybe it kept Hollis feeling safe, but it was never true.

Roman slides to crawl into Hollis's lap. Nose-to-nose, Roman says, "That's not true. I saw you last night, and I could have broken your heart. Unprecidented heartache."

"Yeah." Hollis furrows his brows and holds Roman by the hips. He looks like he might argue anyway. "I guess."

Confident again, Roman tests a bounce on Hollis's lap.

Hollis's grip tightens. "Stop."

"If your stories are true, I first wanted you because you took care of me."

Roman works his hips in a figure-eight and Hollis's head drops back against the couch.

"Dominant Hollis takes care of me and Regular Hollis takes care of me. But it's always you. You’re always here. I can't fucking shake you."

As if he's tried.

Hollis shoves his hand into Roman's boxers and mumbles, like he's grumpy to be offered a different opinion. "Always."

Roman lifts Hollis's chin with his fingertips and licks across his mouth. "Imagine what you'll do once I make you trust me."