Hollywood wakes up, revelling in the warmth of the bed and the body next to him before even opening his eyes. He curls more against Stax's side, resting his head on his chest. Lethargically opening his eyes, he glances up at the clock with the broken alarm on the table next to the bed. 8:51 am. Entirely too early to get up. He lets his eyelids fall shut again, nearly slipping back into dreamland. Then they snap open again, paniced.
Looking at the clock again, he glares at it venomously then sits up. He grasps one of Stax's shoulders and shakes him lightly, recieving no response. Trying again, this time Stax merely rolls onto his side away from Hollywood, groaning.
"Master," Hollywood tries, leaning down. Shakes him lightly again.
Stax turns his head slightly, squinting at Hollywood and somehow still glaring. Hollywood removes his hands from Stax's shoulders carefully.
"What?," Stax prompts him, voice thick and scratchy from sleep.
"You have to get up," Hollywood explains. "It's almost nine, you're going to be late again."
Stax lifts his head lightly, looks at the alarm clock, then sets his head back down. "Yeah, I guess I would be," he says calmly, letting his eyes fall closed again.
Hollywood looks down at him, then back at the alarm clock and around the room unsurely.
"I don't have to work today," Stax explains. "Go back to sleep."
"Oh," Hollywood mutters, hesitantly laying back down. He pauses a few moments, staring at the ceiling. "We have practice later."
"Yes, much later," Stax agrees exasperatedly, rolling back over to face Hollywood. "So go back to sleep."
Hollywood falls silent again, chewing on the inside of his cheek, unmoving otherwise. Stax sighs after a moment and raises his head to look at Hollywood.
"What?," he demands.
"At practice...," Hollywood starts uncertainly. "Do I...I mean, will you...um..."
"No, you don't have to be obedient at practice. Just play like you always do," Stax tells him, waiting for Hollywood to nod before laying back down.
Stax wraps an arm around Hollywood and draws him closer. Hollywood still ceases to move to get comfortable at all, staring at the ceiling and trying to decide if he's relieved or disappointed by what Stax said. It irritates him that he can't come to an immediate conclusion one way or the other. His debate is interrupted when Stax lifts his head again, only to press his lips against Hollywood's neck lingeringly this time.
"Go. To sleep," he states again, muttering against the skin.
Hollywood nods, this time actually letting his eyes fall closed and turning onto his side a bit to face Stax.
When he wakes again, he's still on his side, leaning over a bit more. Stax is holding him against his chest, one hand running smoothly through his hair and the other draped over his back. Hollywood smiles to himself sleepily and squirms closer to him. Stax watches him, grinning a bit.
"Comfortable?," he asks, breaking the drowsy silence.
Hollywood nods, muttering something inaudible against his chest.
"Hmm?," Stax asks, rubbing the back of Hollywood's neck to coax him into looking up at him.
Hollywood doesn't do so completely, only lifting his head enough so that the words can be heard. "I feel safe," he says, his tone quiet with either content or shame. Maybe a bit of both.
Stax disregards the tone, running his hand along Hollywood's spine reassuringly. "Good. You're supposed to."
"I am?," Hollywood inquires almost disbelievingly, this time looking up at Stax.
"Of course. A slave has to trust their Master, or nothing works," Stax tells him, then raises an eyebrow. "Do you trust me?"
Hollywood only hesitates for a second before nodding, then buries his face back in the crook of Stax's neck.
Stax smiles appreciatively, raising a hand to the back of Hollywood's head to hold him there. He isn't sure what brought about the change in Hollywood's behavior, nor can he pinpoint when it happened. He decides not too question it too much, letting his fingers roam across the back of Hollywood's neck and murmuring against his hair. "Good pet."
Hollywood shifts a bit, laying his head against Stax's shoulder. "Am I?"
Stax debates mentally before answering. "Yeah, I guess so."
Leaning away from Stax a little, Hollywood looks up at him curiously. "So...the first day I was here, I was really bad, and you punished me - at least, I'm assuming that's why you left me chained in your garage for an entire night."
Stax concedes with a nod that he's right, and Hollywood continues, looking down again. "And now if I'm being good...does that mean I would get rewarded?"
Stax almost laughs aloud at the attempted innocent tone Hollywood asks in. "Are you requesting to be rewarded?"
Shaking his head immediately, guessing that it's the right response, Hollywood glances up at him again. "No, of course not, Master. Just trying to understand."
A knowing smirk is the response he gets. "Well, yes. I suppose that's usually the case," Stax tells him.
"Oh. All right," Hollywood replies as innocently as a person like Hollywood can, not pressing the issue any further.
Stax tightens the arm around Hollywood's waist, dragging him up a bit and pulling him closer. Hollywood uncharacteristically cuddles against Stax's chest, closing his eyes. Stax drops his mouth next to Hollywood's ear, running his fingertips over his hip suggestively.
"Would you like to be rewarded?," he murmurs.
Hollywood moans lightly and presses even closer to him, nodding.
"What sort of reward would you like, pet?," Stax continues, dropping his mouth to nip at Hollywood's neck gently. "Do you like a little pain with your pleasure?"
He flips Hollywood onto his back suddenly, moving over him. Grasping at his arms in mingled surprise and anticipation, Hollywood tilts his head back. Stax bites into his neck roughly, grinding his teeth over the skin and eliciting a moan from the back of Hollywood's throat.
Dragging his teeth away from the skin, Stax moves to whisper again in Hollywood's ear. "Or do you like a little pleasure with your pain?"
Hollywood nods urgently to the second question and digs his fingernails into Stax's back lightly. Stax bites into his neck again, letting his sharp canine teeth catch on the skin and dig into it dangerously. He reaches behind him to grasp Hollywood's wrists and press them into the matress, pinning them there as his mouth descends. Down his neck to his collar bones, alternately nipping lightly at the skin, dragging his teeth across it teasingly, and latching onto it painfully.
Stax is entranced to see the other man writhing underneath him as he lets his mouth move lower. Tracing across his chest, leaving teeth marks and pinkish-red bruises that contrast sharply with his pale skin. Hollywood's wrists were pushing up against his hands, fighting to get free and be able to touch him, but Stax holds them down fiercely. He moves to his stomach, finding the flesh more giving under his jaw, easier to sink his teeth into. Pausing just before he reaches Hollywood's hips, Stax looks back up at him and slowly eases himself back up his body.
He peers down at Hollywood calculatingly as Hollywood reopens his eyes, looking back pleadingly. For a moment they remain, watching each other silently until Stax releases Hollywood's wrists and sits back on the bed.
"Stand up," he commands him.
Hollywood does so, sliding off of the bed, feet hitting the floor, then turns and patiently awaits his next command. Stax drops to the floor as well, regarding him analytically.
"Turn around and put your hands up against the wall," Stax tells him, knowing that if Hollywood's facing him he won't be able to do much besides throw him on the floor and fuck him. Which he plans to do eventually, of course, but there's no need to rush anything. He steps behind Hollywood once he's complied to the order. Grasping his forearms, he forces his palms up the wall a bit more.
Hollywood leans closer to the wall as Stax forces his hands to slide up, shuffling his feet forward as Stax stops. Stax's own hands slide smoothly back down the length of his arms and over this chest, then his stomach, to the fly of the jeans he's still wearing. Stax unbottons them and drags the zipper down slowly, causing Hollywood to squirm his hips slightly. Once they're unclasped, Stax hooks his fingers underneath the material and slides them down slowly, letting them drop once they pass his thighs.
"Kick them off," he says, and Hollywood does so, pushing them off to the side with his feet.
Stax steps back and looks over his slave slowly and appreciatively. Then he moves away. Hollywood hears him receed but forces himself to continue looking at the wall and waiting patiently for his return. Before he has time to comprehend movement, Stax is pressed against his back, biting his neck roughly once again. He gasps and arches his head back, but Stax removes his mouth.
"You sure you trust me?," Stax asks in a low voice.
Hollywood nods unquestioning. "I'm sure."
"Good," Stax says, wrapping a blindfold around his eyes and securing it behind his head. "If you want me to stop, say 'red.' If you like what I'm doing but want me to slow down or do it less hard, say 'yellow'."
Hollywood nods, then Stax moves away. Hollywood hisses at the first, unexpected blow from the riding crop, straight down the center of his spine.
"Do you know how to count?," Stax's voice growls into his ear, surprisingly close again. Hollywood nods vaguely so Stax goes on. "Then do it."
"One...," Hollywood begins shakily, confused, almost continuing until Stax cuts him off.
"And do you know how to express appreciation?," the voice is in his opposite ear this time.
Hollywood nods again. "Thank you," he whispers, tone laden with pain.
"Thank you what?," he's farther away this time when he speaks, behind him again.
"Thank you, Master," Hollywood forces himself to sound a bit stronger now.
Stax grins to himself, more than a little sadistic, and pulls the crop back before letting it connect with Hollywood's skin again. Hollywood's back arches under the sting of the leather and a barely perceptible moan leaves his gaping mouth, his eyes clench tight underneath the blindfold.
"How many?," Stax's voice bites through the air again, impatient.
Hollywood forces himself to stand up straighter, hands curling into fists on the wall, searching for something to hold onto. He swallows harshly, soothing his throat which he's sure will only become more sore for all the screaming he's bound to be doing.
"Two," he manages. "Thank you, Master."
Nodding his approval, Stax moves to Hollywood's other side and brings the crop back, letting it lash a little harder this time, straight across the small of Hollywood's back. He notes the way his arms shake when it hits, his ass tightening up as he moans. Stax starts to open his mouth to prompt him, but he doesn't have to this time.
"Three. Thank you, Master."
Pleased with this response, Stax moves directly behind him again and lets the leather fall twice, hard stinging lashes that cross over each other right beneath his shoulder blades. Hollywood tilts his head back as the rest of his body pushes forward, deeply drawing in air and releasing it in a pleading whimper.
Stax turns the last syllable of his words into something relative to a purr by bringing the crop down again, a bit lighter this time, diagonally across his back to cross all the previous wounds. Hollywood hesitates in responding, finding it hard to breathe, much less speak. Stax steps back to his side, letting his own breath roll across Hollywood's bare shoulder warmly. He dances his fingertips lightly over Hollywood's back, pressing rougher on the small welts as he passes over them. Hollywood shivers at the ghosting touch, and Stax lifts his mouth to his ear.
"What do you say?," he asks in a purely condescending tone.
Hollywood's reply is merely whispered, weak and almost modest. "Six. Thank you, Master."
Stax bites into his shoulder harshly, flicking his tongue across the flesh captured between his teeth. Hollywood tilts his head to the opposite side automatically, groaning as he feels more blood rushing into his cock. Stax grinds his teeth, then releases the skin to speak again.
"Good boy. Do you want one more?"
Hollywood nods slightly, muttering. "Yes, please, Master."
Stax stays by his side, letting his head drop once again to lick at the reddened flesh of his shoulder as he snaps the crop against the curve of his ass. Hollywood's knees nearly buckle at the hot pain that dances up and down his spine, his arms shaking a bit more, breath coming even harder.
"Seven...thank you, Master..."
Stax lifts his head now, murmuring in his ear. "Once for every day you belong to me."
Hollywood takes in the information distractedly, gasping for air. He hears Stax moving away from him but doesn't do so much as lift his head in question. He uncurls his hands from where they've involuntarily turned into fists on the wall, laying his palms flat against the surface and leaning against it heavily. A moment later Stax's hand slides across his stomach, circling him from behind. He tenses a bit at a touch on his back.
Stax slowly moves his fingers, coated in lotion, across Hollywood's back. It stings a bit where the skin is broken but for the most part soothes the lacerations, and Hollywood relaxes a little. Stax's opposite hand traces down his stomach, coming to rest over his crotch and massaging it. Bucking his hips towards the hand, Hollywood moans pleadingly.
"I guess you did enjoy that," Stax notes, and Hollywood nods weakly. "Calm down, pet. We're not quite finished."
Despite the suggestion, Hollywood's back still moves underneath Stax's hand with his labored breathing. Stax continues to rub the wounds lightly, working the lotion into Hollywood's skin. His hand steadily makes a descent down his spine and he eventually runs his fingers over the welt on his ass, teasingly light. Hollywood seems torn between arching his back to increase the pressure as Stax's fingers slip between the crease of his ass, or leaning forward to gain more contact with the listless hand that moves over his hardened cock. When one of Stax's fingers slips inside of him the decision is made for him and he automatically presses back, gasping.
Stax begins to work his hand over Hollywood's erection more fluidly, feeding off the moans and whimpers that fall from his parted lips. He carefully inserts another finger into him, starting to thrust in and out of his entrance in pace with his opposite hand. Hollywood's own hands turn into fists on the wall once again, body tensing at the overload of sensation. He attempts and fails to keep his breathing at a normal rate. As the moans become more frequent and his arms start to shake a bit more, Stax stops abruptly.
"I forgot to mention," Stax leans forward again to whisper into his ear, squeezing the head of his dick lightly. "You don't come until I say you can."
Hollywood whimpers helplessly at the information, his head lolling back to rest on Stax's shoulder. "Please," he whispers.
Stax slides his hand off of Hollywood's cock, moving back up his chest. "Please what, pet?"
"Please, Master," Hollywood repeats, interrupting himself with a gasp when Stax pinches one of his nipples and twists it. "Please...I want you."
"You want me," Stax mocks him, pressing his fingers harder into Hollywood's ass and making him squirm. "...to do what?"
"Fuck me," Hollywood whimpers, and Stax growls obligingly.
He retracts his fingers from inside of Hollywood, moving behind him and wrapping the arm around his torso. He bites into Hollywood's shoulder again, pressing his body against Hollywood's, his own erection rubbing against Hollywood's ass. Hollywood moans loudly, pushing back against him. Stax rolls his hips against him a few times, savoring the contact as he gnaws on the skin under his mouth.
As Hollywood's hands slowly start to slide down the wall, unconciously wanting to rest over Stax's along his stomach, Stax reaches up to grasp he back of his collar and pull him away. He stumbles back, blindly finding his footing as Stax walks him backwards. Stax releases his collar, stepping away from him.
"Kneel," he says and Hollywood complies, immediately dropping to his knees.
A hand presses between Hollywood's shoulder blades, forcing him to lean towards the ground until he has to put his hands out to catch him. Stax moves in front of him and crouches down, rearranging his arms. He crosses Hollywood's wrists over each other, forearms against the carpet.
"Like that," he tells him before walking away again.
Stax leans back against the bed, slipping his boxers over his hips and looking over Hollywood. It occurs to him briefly how out of character this is for him. He never would have pictured the cocky guitarist in a position like this, blindfolded and on all fours with his ass high in the air, waiting semi-patiently to be fucked. At least, he wouldn't have pictured it and imagined it would happen. Forcing the comtemplative thoughts out of his head, Stax focuses on the task at hand and returns to his place behind Hollywood.
He drops to his knees as well, tapping the inside of Hollywood's thighs and encouraging him to spread his legs a bit more. Then he moves between his legs until his own thighs are flush with Hollywood's. He grasps one of his hips, lining his cock up with Hollywood's ass, thoroughly enjoying the expectant way Hollywood takes in air in front of him. Rubbing his back lightly to make him relax, Stax presses forward and pushes inside of Hollywood in one fluid motion.
Hollywood gasps loudly and the muscles surrounding Stax's cock tighten forcefully and it takes every bit of willpower he has not to come right then. A forceless "holy fuck" is muttered and he pauses, just as much for his own benefit as for Hollywood's. Ater a moment, Hollywood moans and shoves himself back against Stax wantingly. Stax takes a deep breath, knowing it will be the last one he takes for a while, and carefully draws himself out of Hollywood before thrusting into him roughly again.
If he wasn't already blindfolded, Hollywood is quite certain his entire world would have disappeared by now. If having Stax finger him and jerk him off at the same time was sinful, this was fucking immorality of the purest form. He's exhaling air just as quickly as he sucks it in, each exhalation coming out as a tiny scream as Stax works up a delightfully painful, fast rhythm. His hands curl into fists again, clutching to the carpet as if it might evaporate if he doesn't.
"Not...until...I say...," Stax reminds him, and he can barely interpret the words.
And it's fucking torture. Any other situation he would have been coming (and going) by now. As it is, Hollywood knows he won't be able to obey the rule for much longer, no matter what sort of punishment it earns him. His arms shake underneath him, Stax is growling behind him, and the entire world has turned completely upside-down and inside out because this is the last place he would have expected himself to be when he experienced the best sex of his life.
Stax digs his fingertips into Hollywood's hip, pulling his frame back against him just as much as he's bearing towards it. He's not sure how he's even coherent anymore, much less how he's managing to move. He's hardly aware of anything expect Hollywood surrounding him, moving and gasping in front of him, and the tension in the pit of his stomach as it starts to break. And then it does.
And Stax can't do anything except collapse forward, catch himself above Hollywood's body and utter a simple command - "Now."
His eyes clench shut and a forceful tremor runs down his spine as he releases inside of Hollywood. All Hollywood has to do is decipher the word before he's following the same path, head dropping to the floor between his crossed forearms and body tensing, shaking as he comes. Stax has the presence of mind to roll off of Hollywood, out of him, to drop to the floor next to him. The ground is welcoming and solid underneath his back and he refuses to open his eyes, sprawling across the carpet and fighting for air.
When Stax finds his way back to reality, he's not sure how much time has passed. Hollywood's crawling down his body, still blindfolded. Licking the sweat from Stax's skin, hungrily moving down his chest and stomach, cleaning the semen and blood from Stax's groin and thighs with his tongue. Stax reaches down and grasps a fistful of Hollywood's hair to pull him back up, collecting him against his chest and holding him there possessively.
"Oh, god," he mutters against Hollywood's temple.
Hollywood whimpers his agreement, curling closer to Stax as if trying to dig his way into his ribcage. Stax lifts a hand, untying the blindfold and casting it aside. He rolls Hollywood off of him carefully, resting his back against the carpet. Pulling his feet under him, he hesitantly starts to get up, stopping when he catches Hollywood's gaze. He's staring up at Stax in complete breathless adoration, and licks his lips, swallows harshly.
"Thank you, Master," he murmurs, maintaining the eye contact as he speaks.
Stax isn't sure what to make of the way he weights the words, so instead he drops his head and presses his mouth against Hollywood's. Hollywood tilts his chin up, deepening the kiss and moaning all over again. Stax obliges him, delving his tongue into Hollywood's mouth and tracing it over Hollywood's own. Then he pulls away, unexpectedly.
"Go take a shower, clean yourself up," he tells Hollywood. "We have practice in an hour."
"Stop, stop," Slowey interrupts the song yet again. Everyone ceases playing, the entire band looking at Hollywood expectantly. "What the fuck, dude?"
"What, like you've never fucked up before? Half the time you're so fucking stoned you can't even remember which song we're playing," Hollywood snaps back, irritated.
"He has a point," Boxcar agrees.
"Yeah but that's me," Slowey explains. "This is Hollywood. And he's not stoned. So why the hell have you fucked up five times since we started half an hour ago?"
Hollywood only offers him a scowl in response. Stax almost starts to chastise him, but stops himself and maintains a normal tone.
"Hollywood. What's going on?"
Hollywood looks away from Slowey to Stax. He sighs heavily then prowls across the floor of Boxcar's basement until he's next to Stax.
Tilting his head a bit, he lowers his voice to whisper to Stax. "The guitar strap is rubbing against my back...where you whipped me."
Stax allows himself a small snicker, looking away from the other bandmembers until he regains his composure.
"It's distracting," Hollywood finishes with a touch of bitterness at the response, leaning away from him again.
Stax grasps his hip to pull him back, whispering back at him. "So take off the strap and sit down to play."
Hollywood nods, stepping away from him again. He moves back to his amp, pulling the strap off of his guitar as he does. Rolling it up and setting it on top of his amp, he drops to the floor and situates his guitar on his lap. He looks up when Chris starts laughing.
Slowey and Boxcar are both laughing as well by the time he looks at them. Stax is only wearing a small, knowing grin, leaning on his mic stand.
"What?," Hollywood snaps, looking at each of them in turn.
Chris is the first to get his laughter under control enough to talk. "Getting pretty comfortable in that position?"
Hollywood scowls at him in confusion then looks down at himself. Guitar across his lap, sitting back on his heels and resting on his knees. It takes a second before it finally clicks.
"Oh, fuck off," he mutters, shaking his head and resituating himself on his ass. "Just play the goddamn song again."
The antics cease and they somehow manage to make it through the rest of the practice without Hollywood fucking up again. Afterwards the general consensus is that a 'band meeting' should take place, which usually consisted of finding the nearest bar, drinking, and bullshitting. It doesn't appear this instance will be any different as they move in a drove down the street from Boxcar's house towards Sully's Pub.
Hollywood follows a bit behind the rest, eyes flicking up from the cement to Stax and then back down so methodically it's almost automatic. He hasn't figured out yet if Stax is expecting him to revert to slave-mode, or to continue pretending like the bet had never happened, as he had been for the duration of the practice. He's even more confused when he realizes that he has been pretending, making a concious decision to be an asshole instead of doing so naturally.
And now they're situated in five tall stools surrounding one of the larger tables at the back of the bar. Boxcar, being the responsible one of the group, is actually trying to get something accomplished by talking about possible upcoming tours. Slowey is leaning back, teetering his stool precariously and watching the few girls in the bar. Chris has his head completely tilted back, trying to balance a half-full beer on his forehead and Stax is repeatedly trying to distract him so that it falls on his face. Hollywood's glancing from each person to the next boredly, halfway sprawled across the table.
"You guys aren't even fuckin' listening, are you?," Boxcar finally deduces.
Chris lets his head loll forward, catching the beer bottle before it makes contact with the table. He shakes his head. The others shake their heads as well or mutter affirmative responses.
"Fuck you, too," Boxcar says without much vehemence. "I need another beer."
"Yeah, me too," Stax notes. He spins the empty beer bottle away from him and smacks Hollywood lightly on the shoulder. "Go get another round, bitch."
Hollywood doesn't even question it, sliding liquidly out of his barstool to drop to the floor. He slinks up to the bar and orders five more of the same. A moment later he returns to the table, grasping the bottles by the necks with two in one hand and three in the other. He sets them down on the table, which is now surrounded in complete surprised silence, then slips back onto his stool.
Stax is the only one that reaches for a beer, the others only staring at Hollywood. He glances around at them, glaring slightly, then reaches for his own beer. Slowey blinks a few times then turns to look at Stax, classically bewildered. Stax nods a bit, grinning a bit himself as the other three band members lapse into laughter. Hollywood just shakes his head a bit and crosses his arms on the table, burying his face against them.
"Aww, we don't even get a 'fuck off' this time, Hollywood?," Chris asks mockingly.
"Is he fucking moping?," Boxcar adds in an amused tone.
"Looks more like brooding to me," Stax decides. "Did I tell you that you were allowed to brood?"
"No, Master," Hollywood mutters, muffled against the table.
This elicits another round of laughter from the rest of the band, Stax joining in this time.
"I was just joking. Brood all you want," Stax tells him.
Hollywood pulls his head up to glare at Stax, then lifts his beer and downs half of it. Stax only laughs.
Stax and Hollywood return to Stax's house a few hours later, notably more intoxicated. Hollywood says nothing, darting directly for the bathroom once they get into the house. Stax detours to the kitchen, retrieving another beer and waiting for Hollywood to exit the bathroom to go in and relieve himself. When Stax leaves the bathroom, Hollywood is leaning against a kitchen counter, staring at the floor. Stax wanders into the kitchen as well, leaning against the counter across from him and watching him as he silently drinks his beer.
"Are you still being pouty?," he asks after a while. Hollywood shrugs his shoulders. "You knew they were going to be assholes, I don't get why you're being all bitchy about it."
Hollywood doesn't reply, only staring at the floor. The problem wasn't that they'd been assholes, it had been that Stax was an asshole right along side them.
"I was just joking," Stax tries again.
'Were you joking when you stuck your cock up my ass, too?' Hollywood thought bitterly. Immediately following that thought is the wondering where it came from. Hollywood wasn't usually one to complain about a person's lack of feelings after sex. He usually was the one with lack of feelings. Perhaps the difference this time, he decides, was that he couldn't just leave after sex like other times. He has a reason to stay, a promise to fulfill. It still doesn't help to know that the promise is just a joke to Stax, along with everything else.
Stax sighs heavily, derailing Hollywood's train of thought. "Go get ready for bed, then."
Hollywood nods once, relocating to Stax's bedroom to tug his shirt over his head and pull his shoes and pants off, replacing them with a pair of pajama pants he'd neglected the night before. Then he scampers back to the bathroom, a bit disconcerted to notice that he doesn't even think about the lack of a mirror as he brushes his teeth. He couldn't become used to this house. He knows even thinking that was futile, though, because he knows that when he returns to his own apartment it will feel even more foreign than last time.
He enters Stax's bedroom to find Stax already laying in bed.
"Get the light," he tells Hollywood, nodding towards the switch.
Hollywood flicks the light off, welcoming the darkness. He doesn't want to look around this room, or even be here, to think about what happened only hours earlier. It had felt so great at the time, and he'd thought maybe there was more to Stax and this stupid arrangement than he'd let on. Now, though, it stung like a fresh cigarette burn and he's almost surprised to find he feels used.
Crawling onto the bed opposite Stax, Hollywood curls up on the matress as far away from the other man as possible. He buries his face against the pillow, wanting to scream into it for all the conflicting emotions in his brain. Stax is pleasantly oblivious to the inner turmoil, yawning loudly.
"Can you wake me up for work tomorrow?," he asks through the darkness.
"I can try," Hollywood mumbles into the pillow.
Stax raises an eyebrow to himself at the passive response, but passes it off as crankiness from being tired, which is what he's decided is the reasoning behind Hollywood's pouting as well. "Okay. Good night, pet."
"Night," Hollywood throws back at him. The night's no more good than I am your pet.
Twisting in his sleep, Hollywood barely catches himself before he rolls off the side of Stax's bed. He snaps awake immediately and sits up, looking around. The bed next to him is vacated, which he finds odd since the clock places the time at a quarter after eight. Just as Hollywood's about to push the blankets back and crawl out of bed, Stax wanders in. He has a cup of coffee in one hand and is lacking a shirt, and Hollywood fights back the urge to reach out for him as he remembers last night's events.
"I guess you could have woken me up after all," Stax notes, setting the coffee on his dresser to dig through the drawers. "I wasn't sure if you'd wake up though so it doesn't matter."
"All right," Hollywood mutters, falling back against the pillows.
Stax yanks a shirt over his head and sits on the edge of the bed to pull his shoes on. "Need you to clean some today. Especially the kitchen, the floor's all sticky, I'm not sure what it is but it needs to go away. And I know it's really boring but there's a bunch of receipts in the top drawer of my desk, if you could get on my computer and log all of them for taxes I'd really appreciate it."
Hollywood rolls onto his side, pulling the comforter over his head and yawning as he responds. "Okay."
Stax drops back to the floor and turns around, snorting in amusement at the form huddled under the blankets. He grabs the comforter and lifts it off of Hollywood. "You know, whenever you decide to wake up."
"Mhmm," Hollywood murmurs lazily, agreeing.
Shaking his head, Stax lets the comforter fall back over him. "I'll be home around three today."
"'kay," Hollywood says once again.
Stax accepts that he's not going to get anymore of a response than that, so he heads out the door, a touch confused. Aside from the thing at the bar, he can't pinpoint anything that would have caused Hollywood's mood to change. Except for the sex they'd had, but if anything that should have encouraged him to be a better pet, not revert back to his lazy, barely compliant ways. Stax tilts his head thoughtfully as he starts the car. That is, of course, unless Hollywood only wanted sex and now that he's had it just doesn't care anymore.
Convincing himself that he's overreacting and that Hollywood was only tired, Stax ignores the matter for the rest of the day.
Hollywood spends most of the day watching TV, although nothing is really worth watching. It's just the sort of brain-numbing activity he cherishes, the kind that makes him forget about everything else as he tries to comprehend just who is stupid enough to enjoy these kinds of shows. Then again, he figures, maybe that's the draw of them.
He stares at the computer for a while, imagining all the ways he could hypothetically destory it on accident. When it comes right down to it, he decides it's probably safer if he keeps a distance from the machine. It's intimidating. And probably a lot more expensive than a bathroom mirror. He finds that the kitchen floor is indeed very sticky, imagining it might have something to do with his failed dinner attempt the other night. He hunts around for a while until he discovers a broom, managing to sweep the floor somewhat reasonably. Afterwards he goes to throw the dust into the trashcan and finds that the trash is already overflowing.
With a resigned sigh, he squishes the debris down into the bag. Then he collects the edges of the bag and attempts to yank it out of the recepticle. It doesn't budge. He tries again, tugging a bit harder. The plastic bag gives a little, but not nearly enough. In a final attempt, he leans the trashcan over a bit, rests one foot on the edge to hold it down, and practically leans backwards to pull the bag out of it.
And it slides out easily. And veritably explodes all over the kitchen floor. Hollywood growls loudly and drops to the floor as well, glaring at the pile of garbage acerbicly. He drops his head into his hands and fights the urge to roll around in the trash until he drowns in it. After a few moments of thinking about killing himself, just for something new to do, he pulls himself to his feet and retrieves another trashbag. Then he drops back to the floor and begins the nauseating process of throwing the remains of food, beer cans, and other random objects into the new bag.
Once he's accomplished getting the trash off of the floor and back into the bag, as well as resweeping the kitchen floor, he drags the hideously overladen plastic sack out to the nearest dumpster. He drops the sack into the dumpster then looks down at himself. He decides that, at this point, he's stickier than the kitchen floor. Therefore, it can wait to be clean until he showers.
Stax pulls into the garage a few moments after Hollywood has turned the water on. He enters the house and looks around curiously. Stiding across the kitchen to the refrigerator, he deduces that the floor is in worse condition if anything. A glance at the computer tells him that it probably hasn't been turned on all day, and after he checks the drawers he finds that the reciepts he told Hollywood to file haven't even been touched. He leans against the back of the couch and watches the bathroom door until it opens.
"What did you do all day?," he asks accusingly as soon as the door opens.
Hollywood forces himself not to adapt the deer-in-the-headlights look and shrugs casually. "Slept a while. Watched some TV, oh yeah, and I took out the trash."
Stax raises an eyebrow. "Did you not hear what I asked you to do?"
"Nah, I heard it," Hollywood tells him calmly. "But I figured there'd be around a million and one ways I could fuck up your computer, so I didn't bother with that. And the floor...well, the floor and I just didn't work out."
"Didn't work out?," Stax repeats. He pauses a second and gets no response from Hollywood. "Well, you're probably right about the computer. Leave that alone. See if you and the floor can figure something out, I'm going to go see Chris for a while."
So we're back to this. Hollywood just nods. Stax watches him blankly for a few moments then moves into his bedroom to change out of his work clothes. Then he walks back out to his car, slamming the door shut behind him forcefully. Hollywood scowls at the closed door and decisively moves to the couch, not even bothering with the kitchen. He can't see the point in cleaning Stax's house for him if Stax is never home anyway.
The night is passed watching more television, and he's quite sure that once he gets back home he'll refrain from watching the soul-sucking box of doom ever again. He makes dinner for himself, assuming Stax is eating with Chris since it's past nine o'clock when he makes it. He returns to the couch. Gets tired of the TV. Turns it off and lays on the carpet. Rolls around a little bit to see if he can make carpet angels like one makes snow angels. Is disappointed to find that he can't.
When Stax returns, Hollywood is still sprawled across the living room floor, now just laying there with his eyes closed. He doesn't sit up when he hears the door close and for a moment Stax thinks he might be asleep. Then he notices Hollywood's left hand, the fingers dancing across an invisible fretboard along to carpet, playing along to some song in his head. It was a fairly common habit.
"What the hell have you been doing?," Stax asks, his impatience with the unreasonable slave only having escalated through the past hours and bottles of liquor.
Hollywood lifts one eyelid and rolls over, lackadaisical, regarding Stax carelessly. "Trying to make snow angels in the carpet," he explains, as if it were an everyday occurance.
"My god," Stax mutters, shaking his head. "You're not only useless as a slave, but as a human being. I don't know what the hell possessed me to think this might work."
Smirking, Hollywood shrugs his shoulders in an almost agreeing way. He watches Stax tread into his bedroom, where he retrieves the blankets Hollywood had used the nights he slept on the couch. Tossing them onto the floor next to Hollywood's prone form, he gives him a final scathing glance before heading back into the bedroom to sleep.
"Back to this, then," Hollywood calls out balefully at his back. "Not even going to use me for sex anymore?"
Stax spins around instantly, glaring down at the offensive creature who was now sitting up on his floor. "Use you?!," he asks incredulously. "You begged me to fuck you."
Giving a shrug, as if to concede that it was true but also not to admit he was wrong, Hollywood gazes back at Stax passively, irritatingly calm. Stax snorts in disbelief.
"You know, there's nothing holding you here. If you hate me that fucking much you can always just leave," Stax tells him acidicly.
Hollywood smirks widely. He leisurely draws himself up from the floor and once again the fact that he was a few inches taller than Stax was glaringly apparent, grating on his nerves. Stax grits his teeth, clenching his jaw, just waiting for Hollywood to say or do the right thing to completely set him off.
"No, no no," Hollywood begins casually. "I'll keep my word, it's only another day after all. I'd hate to disappoint you."
"I think it's a bit late to be worried about that, Hollywood," Stax spits back angrily.
Hollywood raised an eyebrow, flawlessly assuming a challenging expression. Stax continues to glare at him, seething almost to the point of shaking. Then, like a guitar string wound too tight, the pressure snaps. It's hard to say who moves first but before Stax's time has much time to register Hollywood's movement, he's pressed against the wall. Hollywood's thin hips are pressing against his, almost painfully pinning him to the wall. Stax finds his own mouth covered by Hollywood's with bruising force, his tongue forcing it's way past his lips and into his mouth. Finding some sense to retaliate, Stax bites down hard on the foreign muscle, raising his hands at the same time to grasp Hollywood's shoulders and push him away.
Frail as he is, Hollywood's stance gives him the upper hand and he hardly moves as Stax pushes him. He responds by pressing him impossibly harder into the wall, groaning loudly at the teeth in his tongue and retracting it into his own mouth as the sweet, metallic taste of blood fills Stax's. As if the taste has set off some sort of alarm in Stax's mind, he removes a hand from where they still rest on Hollywood's shoulders and grabs a fistful of hair. He sucks Hollywood's lower lip into his own mouth as he pushes his head closer, tilting his own head to drive his tongue deeply into Hollywood's mouth.
This time Hollywood actually moans, his tongue darting out to meet Stax's furiously. One hand leaves the wall to latch onto one of Stax's hips, like he wants to pull himself closer through the distance between them is nonexistant. Stax pulls harder on his hair, opposite hand rounding his shoulder to claw at his back desperately. With difficulty, Hollywood pulls away for a second. But it's all the time Stax needs, dropping his head and biting into the soft, pale skin of Hollywood's throat so roughly that Hollywood actually winces.
Replacing both hands on Stax's hips, Hollywood pulls him away from the wall. He attempts to push him away but only succeeds in forcing them both to the floor, Hollywood toppling after him when Stax's teeth tighten their grip around his neck. Then they're on the floor and Hollywood's ripping at Stax's shirt, wrenching the buttons from their inadequate thread to expose his chest. Stax finally releases the bite and drags his hands up the length of Hollywood's back, yanking the shirt over his head and tearing it in the process.
Stax attempts to roll Hollywood onto his back, trying to move on top of him, but it doesn't work because Hollywood's grinding his own pelvis down into Stax's. And Stax wasn't even aware of being hard but now he's quite aware. The friction between their bodies coupled with the way Hollywood is gnashing his teeth haphazardly along Stax's neck and chest feels so damn good that it's almost immobilizing. Stax has to fight for a sense of coherency and once he gets it he does the only thing he can think of, searching blindly for the clasp of Hollywood's pants.
Clothes are lost in a frenzy, neither keeping track of what is thrown where or what is damaged in the struggle. The only thing they're focused on is getting them off, away, destroying the thin barriers of fabric until there's nothing dividing them from incinerating each other with skin, lips, teeth or tongue. After what seems like fucking eons the last barrier is cast aside and Hollywood's between Stax's legs, his jaws pressing constrainingly against Stax's mouth and his hands driving Stax's shoulders back into the carpet.
And then Hollywood's inside him and he feels like a fucking razorblade, piercing his skin, invading his body and it's excruiciating and etheral and exalting. Stax isn't even sure what to do because he's never felt pain like this before and it's the most bittersweet thing he could ever imagine. When he overcomes the initial shock he finds Hollywood above him, bearing down into his frame brutally and scowling down at him menacingly.
"Is this...a fucking...disappointment?," Hollywood asks through gritted teeth, punctuating the last word with a particularly hard thrust into his body.
Stax finds he can't answer because he can barely fucking breathe so he digs his fingers into Hollywood's shoulder blades and throws his head back to get away from that dark, piercing gaze. Hollywood laughs breathlessly, mocking, craning his neck down to graze his teeth sharply across Stax's exposed throat. Stax is vaguely aware of the increased stimulation as Hollywood drags a hand down his chest to wrap around his cock, pumping him frantically. And before long Stax is pressing his head back harder against the carpet, his hands leaving Hollywood's back to search along the floor desperately for something to hold onto as his entire world explodes and turns a violent shade of red-black.
When he regains a sense of reality, it was like coming out of a coma. He's laying on the floor denched in sweat, semen, with faint traces of blood across his body from either himself or Hollywood. And Hollywood's sitting there next to him, leaning against the side of the couch, miraculously wearing his pants again and smoking a cigarette idly. He exhales a cloud of smoke and Stax watches it curl in on itself, dirtying the air as it floats towards the ceiling.
Snapping out of his trance, Stax sits up carefully with much effort and looks around at the living room which vaguely resembles a town after a tornado. He blinks a few times at the mess of clothes and finds he can't be bothered to care. When he looks back, Hollywood's watching him expectantly.
Stax clears his throat, the noise sounding oddly loud in the otherwise quiet room. "So...um...you're staying, then?"
A slow grin spreads across Hollywood's face, infecting it like the plague with a devillish quality and Stax is almost sure he's never seen his smile look that unsettling before. He pauses, turning his arm over and pressing the burning cigarette into the smooth underside of his forearm until it goes out. Then he looks back up at Stax.
