#we got so close to tom giving him a watch too... just slightly adjacent to that being an overt plotline imo

[tomwambsgans]

get him a watch.

[ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa]

Addicted to You

Part IV: Crazy on You

Summary/Author's Note: The mission starts to go off the rails as a certain someone starts to get a taste of greed. Frankie deals with the dark parts of his soul and worries how you'll react to seeing such things. (Thank you so much for your support of me and this fic. Part I became my first fic to reach 300 notes and I cannot believe it was a Frankie fic, but he deserves the love.)

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Pope's Sister!Reader Word Count: 5.3k (apparently I cannot shut up about Frankie) Warnings/Ratings: 18+ -- Stone cold murder, blood and gore, greed, language, panic attack, hurt/comfort, stress, a lot of violence--like a LOT, fucking TOM. (<<< This warning came back lmfao)

Part I * Part II * Part III

[MASTERLIST]

Frankie's hand in yours was like an anchor keeping you from giving in to the anxiety bubbling up inside your gut. They should have been wanting to leave the house, not going up another flight of stairs deeper into the mansion. The tension in the back of Frankie's shoulders was palpable and you wanted to reach out and put your hand in the middle of his back. He glanced over his shoulder at you and you tried your best to give him a reassuring smile. 

"What's going on, Tom?" Frankie asked as the two of you cleared the threshold of the office and looked around. 

Lorea's office was larger than any of the bedrooms had been. Expensive black oak bookshelves were on each wall and they matched the leather furniture and dark polished desk. The rain continued to pound against the windows and as a crack of thunder rattled the glass panels, you gripped Frankie's hand tightly. He turned and pulled you against his side as he leaned against one of the side tables. Your shoulders didn't relax however until you felt his nose against your hair, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of your head.

"We got nothin," Will hooked his fingers in the front of his vest. "This guy's a ghost."

"What?" Frankie looked around as Benny stormed out of the adjacent room. 

"The fuck!?" He cursed as he tossed two fistfuls of limp duffle bags on the ground. "Nothing but empty bags!"

"And Lorea? Pope?" Tom said, crossing his arms over his chest and looking at your brother like a disappointed father. Everyone seemed to take a moment and look at Pope as he stared blankly at the empty bags on the ground at his feet.

"He's gone. With the money." Will shrugged.

"Your girl gave us up, Pope." Frankie said as he raised his head from your hair and looked at his friend. "We gotta get the fuck out of here."

Pope took his hat off and squeezed the bill between his hands as he looked around worriedly. "No, no, no," he shook his head and ran a hand down his face before cursing. "No, no--fuck."

"Wait--" You interrupted, moving slightly away from the shelter of Frankie's body so they could hear you. "It might be still here."

"What do you mean, baby?" Frankie asked, keeping his hand in the small of your back and raising an eyebrow in question.

"Before," you swallowed hard and glanced at Tom before looking back to your brother. "Before they put me in the spare bedroom--they were painting. So much paint. All through the night."

"What does that matter?" Tom asked curtly.

Pope's eyes widened slightly as he put his hat back on backwards and pointed at you. "Shit--" he looked back at Tom. "What does that smell like to you?" His nostrils flared and he started looking around on the floor.

"Like a serious fuck up, man," Frankie bit his lip and Benny chuckled. 

"No, she's right," Pope pointed to the wall nearest to him, and then to the cans of paint that were piled just outside the door. "It's fucking paint."

All of the men looked at the walls and took note for the first time of the crisp shine that lay on the fresh top coat. Parts of the room still looked wet to the naked eye, and rolls of painter's tape lay in various forgotten places on the floor and along the baseboards.

"The house is the safe," Tom whispered as he lowered his gun and moved away from where he was leaning on the desk. "The house is the fucking safe."

"The house is the safe," Pope nodded as a smile broke out on his face. He turned and crossed the few feet to you, putting his hands on the sides of your face and kissing you on the forehead. "You're a fucking genius, hermana." 

Pope walked towards the closest wall and pulled out his hunting knife. He kept it sheathed and used the blunt handle to start hitting. The drywall was thin, and crumbled easily under the force in a dusting of white and chunks of paint and insulation. Just like you all had concluded each section of the wall was filled with stacks upon stacks of bundles of cash. Pope picked up a bundle and turned around slowly to show it to the others--a large grin plastered on his face.

"Holy shit," Benny moved to a wall opposite of Pope and started hitting the drywall with his elbow, over and over, until he had a wall big enough to start pulling the sheet rock down with his hands. "Will! Help me, man!"

Will joined his brother as they slid the large table to the side and took down the giant oil painting that covered most of the wall. Each of them started ripping and soon bundles of money were falling into the floor from the force of their search.

"Holy shit!" Benny said again. 

Each of them laughed and cursed, hooped and hollered, as they broke down each individual wall and revealed the cash underneath. Frankie made sure you stepped back before he took out his own knife and started helping.

"We need bags," Pope called.

"I got it," Will nodded, tossing a couple of the duffles to them.

"Keep 'em coming, man!" Benny said, catching the canvas and dropping to his knees to start shoveling hundred dollar bills into the bags. 

Frankie paused for a moment and looked at Pope with a serious look on his face. "What's wrong, Fish?" Pope asked.

"If the money’s still here, it means he’s still here." Frankie said, glancing back at you before back to the other man.

He was right. It made you look over your shoulder cautiously for any sign of the narcos lurking in the shadows. However, no one was in the room except the six of you. 

"He's gone man!" Benny called as he toppled one of the armchairs away from the wall and got to work on an untouched part of the room. "There's more over here!"

"Back wall, too!" Will called.

"Concentrate boys," Tom snarled, shoving fistfulls of cash bundles into a bag of his own. "How much time we got??"

"Eight minutes!" The Miller brothers said in unison from the opposite side of the room. 

They were all panting with the exertion of breaking the sides of the house and hustling to get as much of the stash into the duffle bags as they could, tossing them into the threshold of the office once they were zipped up and ready to go. The uneasy feeling was back in your stomach and you moved back over to Frankie's side and put your hand on his arm. "Cat--" you started to whisper but Tom yelled over you.

"Start getting this shit down to the van," he barked, tossing another bag onto the pile. "Keep your eyes open, do you hear me?"

Frankie looked at you with eyes so gentle it made your heart ache. It had been so long and yet with him standing in front of you it was as if he had spent the night in your bed just days ago. Without speaking, it was as if he understood what you were trying to tell him. You wanted to get the hell out of that mansion--money be damned. 

"We'll do it," Frankie spoke up, breaking your gaze to look at Tom. "(Y/n) and I will go get the van and start loading up. We need to go."

"Good plan," Will nodded, handing his bag off to you instead of tossing it, with a reassuring smile.

"I can tell you one thing man," Pope, laughed as he and Tom continued to use both hands to shovel money onto the floor. "You can tell your girls they can stop studying, because Daddy's going to buy their way into Harvard!"

"Yeah, bitches!" Benny said with another cackle.

Frankie tossed another bag over his shoulder and made sure you were with him before moving out of the office and down the steps. Will was close on your heels as he passed Frankie and said, "I'll go get the van."

"Be careful," Frankie nodded.

The two of you made it to the breezeway that framed the driveway in place of a garage. The cool air felt good on your skin and the rain smelled refreshing as you stood in a spot that it hadn't managed to blow in on. Getting out of that house felt like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders and with the relaxation came the ache of your tired muscles. Frankie told you to stay put and he made a couple more trips as they continued to toss him bags of money down the staircase. He was not subtle in the fact that you were never out of his sight for more than a handful of seconds. Each time he came back to throw more bags onto the pile, he touched your arm as if to reassure himself that you were real.

Will backed the van up and as soon as it got into position, Frankie hit the back doors with the palm of his hand, signaling a stop. He threw open the double doors and started loading.

"You guys stay here," Will said after he hopped out of the driver's side. "Get it loaded up and Benny and I will do the running."

"Sounds good." Frankie nodded and kept moving, working methodically to get as much into the back as was possible. It was like a game of real life Tetris. 

You handed him bag after bag, finally speaking up as the van started to become full to the brim. "Cat--" you started again and he paused to look at you. "We need to go. Please."

It was the 'please' that got him. The look in your eyes that said if you spent another minute in this god forsaken mansion, it would break you. You had watched your crew die, you had been manhandled, tied up, and left alone. And now that he had come to the rescue, you needed as much distance between yourself and this place as humanly possible. His eyes softened and crinkled lightly around the edges, lines that hadn't been there two years ago but that you suddenly found endearing. 

"Okay," he nodded. "Okay, we're going. Come on, baby." He slammed the doors shut as he tossed the last bag in and grabbed your hand like he had before. 

The two of you walked back up the stairs at a hurried pace and when you walked back into the office you weren't prepared for what you saw. Between Pope and Tom, they had gotten the entire wall torn down and from ceiling to floor, stacked within the studs that made the frame of the house, was nothing but bundles and bundles of cash. Benny had moved into the hall just outside of the office and on a hunch, started hammering at another wall. 

"There's more over here!" He called back to the others.

Frankie looked in the hall, and in the bedroom you had been tied up in, noting that each wall had a fresh coat of paint just like in Lorea's office. "It's the whole fucking house--fuck--"

"What is it, Fish?"

"The van's full man," Frankie urged him, looking at the rest of the guys in the office. 

"It's all good," Will nodded, stopping his task of filling another bag. "We gotta go." 

"Holy shit, this is a fuck ton of money," Benny said, grabbing another full bag and starting the trek down the stairs. 

"We need to go," Frankie repeated what Will announced and Pope nodded in agreement. The only one who didn't move towards the door was Tom.

"We got time a couple more loads," he mumbled as he continued to hack away at a new wall with his machete. 

Frankie narrowed his gaze on the man and glared at the back of his head. "What the hell are you doing? Stop digging more out we have all this to deal with!" He gestured to the floor that was littered with already packed bags and you tightened your grip on his hand. The anger building in his voice was undeniable.

 "I said, just a couple more loads!" Tom argued without turning around and even looking at the others. 

You waited for Frankie to retort but Will beat him to it, kicking one of the chairs out of his way and pointing at Tom. "You know in the ten years I've been working with you Tom, you have never missed a hard out!"

"We need to go!" Benny called from the stairs and Tom whipped around in anger. 

"Listen to me! I gave us a fifteen minute cushion," he gestured out the window to the driveway. "That's twelve minutes to the church, a forty minute service, and twelve minutes back. Add five minutes to load in and out of the van and we can subtract seven and beat them to the exit route." He slammed his hand against the wall and raised his voice another level. "We will be fine! Alright? God dammit, look at all this!" He waved his arms around the room and Frankie shook his head. 

"Fuck this!" He snarled and gripped your hand to start walking you down the hall. 

"Fish is right," Will said, working to keep his voice calm and even to counteract Tom's. "Time’s up. We gotta go."

"Wait--" Pope finally spoke up and Frankie stopped in the hall to look back at him. 

"Santi--" you said, shaking your head. Surely he didn't agree with Tom. 

"I want one more sweep for Lorea--," he said, looking pointedly at you. "Alright? (Y/n)?" He knew you were scared, he knew they needed to leave, but three years of hunting this bastard and if he didn't do one more search of the house, he would always wonder what if. "And then we burn it all down."

Against his better judgement, Frankie nodded in agreement and rubbed his forehead. "Fine. (Y/n) and I will get these last ones down there, and you call when you're ready to light it up. But you better fucking hustle."

Will and Tom pulled themselves away from the walls and moved down the hall to the master bedroom. Pope started to follow and you let go of Frankie to grab his arm instead. 

"Don't do this. Please. We need to go, now." You begged and looked him in the eyes.

"I have to look one more time," he said as gently as he could as he gripped your arm in return. "He has killed so many people. I have never been this close before--it ends now."

"Santiago--" you said, using his full name in a tone you both knew sounded like your mother.

"Go with Frankie," he nodded to the man at your right. "Go downstairs and get ready to--"

"GET DOWN!" 

Tom's voice rang out from the bedroom at the end of the hall and the doorway erupted in an ear shattering blast of automatic fire and flashing lights. Frankie slammed you up against the wall and covered you with his body, bracing his forearms over your head. You made a noise as your back hit the drywall but you knew he didn't mean it--his only goal was to protect you, even though you were the one wearing the kevlar. The action made you remember just how much bigger he was than you as your world went dark and all you felt was the solid plane of his chest and cotton button up. 

There was yelling, more gunfire, you heard Pope yell rapidly in his native tongue and Will said something over the bullets before everything went silent. 

"What the hell are we shooting at?!" Frankie called above your head, loud enough that his voice carried into the bedroom. He looked down at you against his chest, panting hard as his heart raced. “You okay?” he whispered and you nodded. You were so tired of the sound of gunfire.

"Target down!" Tom called back and it made Frankie move back and let you breathe once again. 

The two of you hurried into the bedroom and you gasped as Frankie put his arm out to keep you safely behind him. 

Pope stood in the doorway of a secret safe room that had been hidden behind a large armoire. In the entrance to the hiding space lay Lorea in a pool of his own blood, with a bullet dead center in the middle of his forehead. Call it a hunch, but you knew your brother had made that hell of a shot. Pope had his gun pointed at the unmoving body and the veins in his arms flexed as he readjusted his grip on the weapon. His body went still before he pulled the trigger again, then again, over and over, emptying the entire clip into Lorea's head. Once the narcos was nothing more than a pile of blood and brain matter the gun clicked empty and Pope lowered his arms, hitting the release on the magazine and letting it fall to the floor. 

Frankie approached him slowly and moved his own rifle to one hand so he could touch his friend on the shoulder. "You got him, man."

"He's dead." Pope said flatly and Frankie nodded.

"Good."

A groan came from the other side of the room as Will dropped to one knee with a thud. Everyone turned as they watched the blonde put a hand to his side and pull it back with his own blood painted across his fingers. 

"I'm hit." He grunted, tossing his rifle to the side and working on the straps of his gear. 

You hurried to his side as Tom mirrored your movements and the two of you flanked the man on the ground.

"Where?" Tom said.

"Left side." Will groaned as you helped him lay flat on the ground with his head resting against his backpack.

"Help me get this off, Tom," you said firmly, pulling at the straps of his kevlar that had ridden up just enough to let the bullet go through his lower love handle. You raised up Will's shirt and inspected the wound as warm blood slid down your hand and over your wrist before dripping to the floor. The man hissed as you probbed the wound. "It went straight through."

"Thank fuck," Tom said, looking up as Pope rummaged through his bag and handed you his clot kit. 

"Get it on him, and then we gotta go."

"I'm okay. I'm okay," Will nodded as Pope took Tom's place on his opposite side. Tom and Frankie aimed both of their guns at the door as they heard footsteps. "I told you this was a stupid idea." Will groaned. 

"Yeah, you sure did," Pope chuckled, helping you wrap the stretchy material around his waist and apply pressure. 

Benny came back in and the two guarding the door quickly aimed their guns at the ground. "Church is out--they're back...shit." His eyes got wide as he laid sight on his brother and the blood all over your hands.

"The family is here?" Frankie asked and Benny shook his head.

"No, the first shift of guards."

Once you secured the clotting cloth, Will thanked you with a grip of your arm and a smile that reached his kind, blue eyes. You stood and allowed Benny to take your spot, helping him get his kit back on and slowly make it to his feet. They hadn't brought a stretcher and they definitely couldn't carry him out of here, but the blonde kept repeating that he could make it. 

"Okay, new plan," Pope looked out the window, watching the guards pull up to the house. "we each grab a backpack of cash and we go out through the jungle and around."

"No, no way," Will shook his head and groaned as he got all the way up onto his feet. 

"We are getting Ironhead home safe!" Tom pointed at the blond. "Not trekking him through the jungle. And we are not leaving them any of this fucking money!"

Frankie felt his hands ball into fists as he took a step towards Tom but Pope blocked him with his arm and you took the hint to go stand by him. 

"Right…" Pope said cautiously with a desperate look on his face--talking to Tom like the ticking time bomb that he was. "So, we burn it all down and go."

"There is about a hundred million dollars down there in that van," Tom pointed to the hall. "We are going out the front. We need to hunt and shoot quickly. Call out your kills--I don't want any fucking surprises!"

There was a moment of silence as the two men clearly struggled for who was calling the shots. You tried to breathe evenly as you watched the vein pop in your brother's neck as he stared down Tom. Tom had always been your least favorite of your brother's squad. His hotheaded manner and stubbornness always seemed to get him, and anyone else in his path, in more trouble than they should have. But you stayed next to Frankie and let Pope think this one out.

"We had two objectives--Lorea and (Y/n). Now, I am not putting my sister or Ironhead in more danger for some fucking narcos money."

"Both of them will be in more danger if we drag our sorry asses through that jungle," Tom stepped closer to the other man. "You brought me here to lead--now, I'm not asking, we're not taking a vote, I'm telling you...we're leaving through the front."

The two of them continued to stare at one another before Pope finally backed down with a nod and your stomach dropped to the floor. "Alright."

"Let's get it done," Will said, breathing heavily as he adjusted his rifle in his hands. "Quick and clean. Like always."

"Pope and Frankie, you take (y/n) and go out that way and down through the kitchen. Millers down the front. I'll hang back and keep an eye out--here we go fellas." Tom accentuated each order with a point and gesture of his arm and Frankie looked down at you.

"Get your gun out," he said, lowering his voice as you all started to move in the directions you were told. "Don't shoot first--unless necessary."

"Got it," you nodded, gripping the glock tighter than was needed to keep your hands from shaking. 

You moved swiftly and with purpose. Taking two steps to Frankie's one as you moved down the stairs and through the living room. A short spatter of bullets sounded from the dining room and shortly after, you heard Will's voice through the com on Frankie's ear. "That's two down in the front hall."

The two of you turned the corner and Frankie squeezed the trigger, firing twice into the chest of a guard who crossed his path. "That's three."

Another round of shots and Pope's voice came next, "That's four."

"Back to the main gate. They dropped more guys out there."

Frankie clicked his com, "I'm going out through the kitchen and grabbing the van."

"The kitchen is the wrong way, what are you on about Fish?" Tom's voice came over, confused and irritated.

"I got something I gotta do." He said back and turned to you behind him. "Stay here."

"What??" You said, your voice a little higher than you would have liked it to be.

"I need you to stay here." He tried to be reassuring but your heart started hammering in your chest and the thought of being alone again in this place. The idea of him leaving you for any reason made it even worse. 

"Don't leave me," you shook your head. The fear on your face must have been more evident than you thought because looking at you made him hesitate. 

"You promise that no matter what happens in the next few minutes, you'll do as I say?" He asked and your fear turned increasingly into a mixture of panic. 

"Frankie--"

"Promise me, (y/n)." He said flatly, he was not negotiating.

You nodded, adding in a meek voice, "I promise."

He led the way into the kitchen, his rifle was slung over his shoulder by the strap as he took out another handgun from the holster at his side. The appliances were incredibly outdated but the creamy butter-yellow walls and white cabinets easily made the kitchen the brightest room in the desolate house. You watched Frankie walk around the kitchen island, his gun sweeping the area as he moved into the heart of the room. 

Two men lay on the tile floor, bound and gagged, and you knew exactly who they were. They were two of Lorea's head guards, the ones that shoved you in the van in the middle of the city, the one that hit you, tied you up--and Frankie knew it too. 

He raised his gun and one of the men started to yell around the black electrical tape over his mouth, thrashing his head back and forth wildly. You felt like you were going to be sick. 

"Frankie…" you said, standing next to him and touching his side. 

He lowered the gun ever so slightly and looked at you. "Remember the deal? Whatever I say, right?"

Bile rose in your throat as you saw the hardened look in the eyes of one of the kindest men you have ever known. Those normally warm, coffee-colored eyes were almost black as he looked at you with a locked jaw and unwavering stance. Seeing such emotion in him and how palpable it felt around his aura hurt more than you ever thought it could. Tears burned in the back of your throat as you nodded. You weren't crying for the men on the floor, you were crying to the soul of the man you loved. 

He reached his free arm out and drew you against the shelter of the side of his body. He could feel you tremble against him as you grabbed onto his shirt like the lifeline that it was. 

"Close your eyes and cover your ears," he said, flatly and when he felt you let go of him to do so, he pulled the trigger. 

One shot. Muzzle. Bitch. Two shots. Merchandise. Cunt.  

Two clean shots, echoing in the empty kitchen, hit both of them directly in the center of the forehead. No mistake, no chance, just dead. Frankie felt you jolt against him with each bang and no matter how much he wanted the men at his feet to suffer the way you had suffered, he wouldn't risk making you feel differently about him. The idea that the rage bubbling in his gut could make you look at him in fear was enough to keep his emotions in check. He had done what he needed to do. They would never lay hands on anyone else the way they had laid hands on his girl, no one would ever suffer because of them again--for now, that was enough. 

--

Neither you nor Frankie spoke as you left the mansion and loaded into the van. You watched in the rearview mirror as Tom squeezed the lighter fluid on every inch of the foyer and the curtains that lined the walls. He pulled out a lighter and paused for a moment before flicking it to life and tossing it down. The front of the house quickly engulfed in flames, so bright they burned blue towards the bottom where the heat was the most intense. 

The wipers squeaked in a rhythmic annoyance as you sat in the van and the two of you waited for the rest of them to get the other vehicle. An SUV of guards pulled into the compound and you gripped the console as Pope and Will opened fire, busting the tinted windows and peppering everyone inside with bullets. Each man opened a door and grabbed a now lifeless guard by the shirt and pulled him out to let him slump to the ground like a ragdoll. 

You watched as Tom moved up from the ditch and shot the last guard in another spray of blood that was quickly washed down the rocks by the rain. 

It was suddenly too humid in the car. There was not enough air circulating as your chest felt tight and your breathing increased. It felt as if someone was sitting on top of you. Your hands shook, your eyes burned, and you wanted to claw at your throat to desperately rid yourself of whatever was stuck inside of your windpipe.

"Frankie," you managed to choke out as you started to feel around your vest for the buckles. "Frankie, I can't breathe." 

"Hey, hey," he said softly, turning his body in the seat to face you. Saying your name, he reached out and put his hand over yours as you kept trying to rip at the straps of the kevlar. "Stop. (Y/n) stop."

"I can't--" you started to argue with a shake of your head and you hated how weak your voice sounded. You weren't broken. You could do this. But the silence of the car, paired with finally being in a space of solitude with Frankie, was forcing every fear and thought you had in the last three days to race to the surface. 

"You can," he insisted. "We are not out of the woods yet." He took your hand in his and scooted as close to you as the center console would allow. He put your hand over his heart and made sure you locked eyes with him. "This has to stay on you. You understand? I know what you're feeling and I promise as soon as we get somewhere safe you can fall as hard as you need to and I’ll be there, okay?"

You nodded way too quickly and felt dizzy the moment the motion made your hair bounce. He squeezed the hand he had pressed against his chest and dipped his head to make sure you caught his gaze.

“I’m okay,” you said, not sounding okay in the slightest, but maybe if you said it outloud it would be true.

“I know you are,” he reassured you. “Breathe with me. In through your nose--there it is. Out through your mouth. You got it. Here.” He leaned forward and turned on the A/C, pointing the extra vents at you and breathing became easier once you felt the cool air tickle the strands of your hair. He kept hold of your hand and brought it to his lips, kissing the back of it a few times.

“Thank you,” you closed your eyes and leaned back against the headrest continuing to breathe as evenly as you could. 

“No thanks needed, sweetheart,” he said quietly, looking back out the window as Pope gave him a signal to keep moving. “That’s us.” 

You started to pull your hand away so he could drive but he kept his grip on it, balancing them on the gearshift as he moved his freehand to the top of the steering wheel. The unconscious action made you smile a bit. Something as simple as holding his hand over the console of the car reminded you of summer drives in his truck. With rolled down windows and a classic rock station, you could almost smell the wind in the grass and hear the frogs calling along the tree line. You held onto that memory as tightly as you held onto his hand, knowing that it was the only things that were going to get you out of this fucking jungle in one piece.

--

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[eemeelyy]

Request: could u pls do harry x actress reader. So basically harry and y/n started working on a romance movie and they start to fall in love. The movie premire is in italy and harry and y/n spend there time together having fun and swimming in their villa hiding there relationship from the public. fast forward to the award nominations. y/n gets a call at midnight saying she is nominated for best actress at the oscars. Harry is so happy for her. fast forward ti the oscars harry is presenting the award to best actress. y/n is scared that she might not win. But harry calls her name and she gets her oscar. harry and y/n are so happy they share a kiss forgetting that they have a private relationship from the public. The crowd shares ‘awwwwww’ and y/n gives her speach. Later is the after party and all her actor friends congratulate her. Harry and y/n spend the night dancing and kissing - @www-imbored-com

Real-life love interest

I did not take this role because Harry fucking Styles was gonna play my love-interest. I took this role because the script was great. There were so many rom-coms out there. Girl meets boy. Girl and boy fall in love. Something shitty happens so they part ways but it was all a misunderstanding and they find their way back to each other. I would have never taken a role in a generic movie like that. This one had all the ups and downs, characters with a proper personality.

I never even really watched rom-coms. Or romantic dramas while we’re at it. So, who knows, maybe this was a generic film and I just didn’t know because I knew that little about romantic movies. 

The first time I met Harry was at the first table read. He sat on my right and when I sat down he grinned up at me brightly. He waited for me to be seated and smile back at him before he extended his hand. I shook it.

„Hi there. I’m Harry. Big fan“, he smiled, „I’m really happy about this. I mean getting to play your love interest. The (Y/N) (Y/L/N)? Pretty much the only reason I got into acting.“

I chuckled. „You’re joking, right? By the time I started acting you were already an international rockstar.“

„That’s not entirely true, love. You were big when I was a kid. You were the reason I became obsessed with tv. So thanks for ruining my marks back then“, he chuckled to let me know he was joking.

„I’m terribly sorry, sweetie, that must have been so tough for you“, I feigned pity but then went back to smiling brightly, „I took a longer break to get my A-levels. And then I went to uni because I thought I wanted a degree in acting but then I realized I’m better at learning by doing, so here we are.“

„I guess your awards and credentials speak for themselves.“

We both laughed a bit at that and then got to work. The majority of the film was made in a little city in southern Italy. There wasn’t a lot going on there and most of the inhabitants were some older people who had no idea what was going on. It was great getting to work without the entire world getting updates and showing up on set. I stayed in a beautiful little hotel by the coast and, as it turned out, so did Harry. It wasn’t much of a surprise though because there weren’t a lot of other options around. 

The entire hotel was already occupied by just the two of us and some members of the crew who didn’t stay in trailers. We’d spend many evenings and some mornings together before and after we worked. Our schedules were similar so that worked wonderfully. Around two weeks after we started filming we were sitting in the adjacent restaurant by our hotel. We shared a rather large pizza and drank some Lambrusco while we just talked.

„You’ve got to be kidding. You can’t be in a romantic film when you never watched them. And, goodness sake, you can’t say you don’t like them if you’ve never seen them“, he told me with wide eyes.

„I mean I’ve watched some. My mum loves them. But it’s just so cringy. That’s not how relationships happen!“

„So? That’s the point. I picked up all my flirting techniques from those films.“

„Oh, so, that’s why you’re single“, I laughed.

He feigned being hurt before he spoke up again. „Tell you what. We have a late start tomorrow and it’s still early. I’m going to pay this bill now and then I’ll take you up to my room and I’ll show you what’s so great about romantic films.“

„Sounds like a plot line to one of those films“, I chuckled.

He smirked and wiggled his eyebrow before he waved at the waiter to show him he wanted to pay.

„I’m paying tomorrow then, you can’t just keep inviting me or I’ll genuinely start believing I’m stuck in a romance film.“

He winked at me just as he put down the money, including a rather generous tip, and downed the rest of his wine. I did the same to my glass and then we headed back up to his room. Some clothes were scattered on the floor and the bed wasn’t made. The door to the bathroom was slightly open and I could see that it looked pretty clean compared to the main room. Other than that it looked pretty much exactly like mine.

Harry scurried in before you could get too much of an impression though, quickly gathering all of the clothes into his arms and throwing them in the open suitcase before shutting it. He grinned at me awkwardly and taking a hint I excused myself to my room quickly to change into some comfortable clothes and freshen up a bit. When I came back in pajamas, a fluffy robe, slippers and my hair in a messy bun his room looked really presentable and he was wearing an outfit similar to mine, with his hair clipped back and without slippers. 

He had set up his laptop on the coffee table and thrown some blankets and pillows onto the couch. I smiled and sat down.

„I’m going to ease you into this. Let us not start with my favourites“, he told me and put on Sleepless in Seattle.

„That’s my mum’s favourite“, I told him with a smirk.

„See, this would not happen in a film. In a romantic film your mum and I would coincidentally love all the same things that you don’t like and then she’d like me more than you“, he told me and chuckled.

„Oh, good thing we’re not in a film then because if my mum loved you more than me this wouldn’t work out“, I said before realizing what I’d just said, „Not that we would work out, we’re just friends, right? I mean, I guess our characters have great chemistry and so per association so do we but that’s it.“

He interrupted you with a laugh. „You’re acting like a character in the films. Now zip it and listen to the magic of Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan falling in love.“

It was just a couple minutes past eleven when the film was over and both of us were pretty tired by the end, subconsciously leaning against one another and yawning. I pushed myself up just as the credits started rolling and stretched a bit.

„Okay, maybe I liked that“, I admitted.

„Maybe tomorrow we should totally watch You’ve Got Mail“, he replied.

We kept that routine up and watched a new romantic film almost every night if we weren’t too tired or had too little time in between shots anyway. We’d been working together for nearly four months when he finally showed me his favourite film The Notebook. I had to admit at that point that I had liked all the films thus far. It was a Saturday evening, nearly ten pm, when we met in his room. The next day we didn’t have any work so we weren’t too worried about sleep.

I fell asleep halfway through the film. Harry was too wrapped up in the film to notice. He never woke me up. Instead I woke up the next morning. It was almost eight and Harry and I were cuddled up on the couch. I didn’t know if he also fell asleep during the film or if he did this intentionally but I got up and stretched before I turned back to him and looked at his adorable sleeping face.

His eyebrows scrunched together and he rolled himself into himself before he stretched back out and blinked his eyes open. „Good morning“, I said quietly when he smiled at me.

„Did you like it?“, he asked.

„I don’t know. I fell asleep, sorry.“

He pouted and rolled back up. „Then I don’t wanna get up until we’ve watched that film entirely and you tell me you’re in love with Ryan Gosling.“

I laughed. „I’m in love with Rachel McAdams. That good, too? She was in that film from the other night. About Time. That was a good one. Or Mean Girls. Or Doctor Strange. Or many other films I can’t think of right now.“

I went to the window and opened it. „Do you hear that, Harry? You can’t ignore the growing desire to jump into the ocean.“

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, listening to the waves below. Then I heard Harry sigh. „I’ll get my swim trunks.“

I smiled brightly and took off to get my own bathing suit. We hurried downstairs and ran into the ocean. It was great. We just swam and splashed around for a few minutes before he dove into the water and came back out right in front of me.

„Have we watched Dirty Dancing?“, he asked.

I giggled. „Yes.“

„Wanna do that?“, he asked and stretched his arms into the air.

„Absolutely not. That didn’t end so well in the film and it won’t end well here. Remember how much practice we needed for the dance scene? No.“

He placed his hands on my waist and pulled me closer. „I have used all the tricks on the screen, (Y/N), help me out here“, he whispered.

I smirked before I lunged at him and wrapped myself around him, smashing my lips against his. „Tell me the plot twist of our story, Harry“, I whispered against his lips.

„We’re past plot twists, love. The plot twist was this.“

I grinned and went back to kissing him.

We spent even more time together after that. The filming was finished two months later and we had to spend a little over one of those back in England. I spent most of that time at Harry’s place. Some of it at my own but our relationship moved pretty quickly. Two weeks after we’d wrapped filming we were back at my apartment, Harry going through my bookshelves as I packed up my clothes. I was going to move into his place since that was where I spent most of my time anyway. When I came out of my walk-in-closet Harry was standing in front of my bedroom window.

„It’s raining“, he said.

„Obviously, darling, we’re in England“, I chuckled.

„But in Italy it only rained one day out of them all“, he pouted, falling onto my stripped bed.

„Have you packed up all the books?“, I asked, flopping down next to him.

I put a hand on his chest and looked up at him. He nodded. „We should go back.“

„To Italy?“, I asked with a playful expression.

„Yeah. We don’t have anywhere to be for the next few months until the premiere. Which is in Italy. So we’ll just go there and wait for the premiere, all in the privacy of some rental home. And then we can go back to our hectic lives in rainy England“, he explained.

I thought about it for a minute. He was right, it did sound heavenly. „Let’s finish this up, okay? And then we can look up a place to stay back there.“

I’d just gotten settled in Harry’s place a week later and now we were packing up again to leave for Italy.

„You still haven’t made it through The Notebook“, he told me on the plane.

„And I probably never will, love, I made it through all the other films. Please give that one up for now. I will still find Ryan Gosling terribly attractive“, I replied.

„No, that was only fine to say before we were an item, darling. Now Ryan Gosling is kinda handsome, at the most. And I am the epitome of attractiveness“, he said, raising his chin with pride.

I laughed. „I can’t agree, that would be poison to your ego. But do know I love you more than Ryan Gosling.“

„Good enough“, he laughed, taking my hand and pressing a kiss to it.

Over the next few weeks we watched more films, we swam, we strolled around and just enjoyed each other’s presence. The day of the premiere came around and we took a train to Rome where it would be happening. We didn’t see each other all day, getting styled and dressed up. 

I wore a pale blue dress that flowed down my body and hugged it in all the right places ending just around my ankles so my white ballerinas were visible. When we finally met on the red carpet I saw Harry wearing a suit in a similar shade (I’m imagining the suit from the Variety shoot). We posed together for a bit, not giving anything away about our relationship and the went to the screening.

After everything had gone amazingly we had to go press touring together. It was only a couple weeks. We didn’t attend a lot of interviews and tried to squeeze them closely together so we could get back home. 

It was three months after the film’s release, early January, when I woke up from my rather light slumber because my phone was vibrating on the bedside table. I picked it up without looking at the caller ID.

„Hello?“, I groaned.

„(Y/N), it’s Doug“, my agent said, „Shit, I’m sorry, it must be the middle of the night over there. But you’Re nominated for an Oscar.“

„I’m- sorry, what?“, I wasn’t quite grasping what he was saying since I was still half asleep.

„You’re nominated for an Oscar, (Y/N), I’ll send you an e-mail with all the details, I just wanted to hear you when you got the news. And I gotta say, this is underwhelming. Anyway, sleep tight, call me back when you’re awake.“

Then he hung up and I went back to sleep almost immediately.

Still, in February, Harry and I went to the Oscars and I had now realized that I was nominated. Even through all his reassurances I wasn’t entirely certain about everything. Would I win? And if I didn’t would I be able to mask my disappointment? Would I feel happy for the winner?

„Fuck, (Y/N), stop worrying. I’m about 98% sure you’ll win. And the other two percent was just me being too nice to not wish the other nominees all the best as well. I have to be unbiased after all. And if - big if - you don’t win, it’ll still be an honour just to be nominated. You’ve been gushing about the others for so long now, even I’m annoyed.“

Harry would be presenting the award which would make it even more awesome to win. We showed up at the ceremony together, posing together, walking together, starting all the rumours without giving anything away again.

Soon, it was time for Harry and Saoirse Ronan to go on stage together and present the award. They talked about the category and the nominees, we were presented, clips were played and then Saoirse opened the envelope.

„And the Oscar goes to…“, she started, before looking at Harry to say the name together.

„(Y/N) (Y/L/N)“

The smile on my face grew and a few tears slipped from my eyes as I made my way to the stage being welcomed into Saoirse’s arms first before Harry bear hugged me so tightly I thought he’d never let me go.

„Wow, thank you, oh my god“, I started, looking at the award in my hand, „I hope we didn’t waste too much of my speech time hugging it out“, I laughed, the audience joining me, „I want to thank so many people so please don’t hate me if I forget you, I can’t hear myself over the beating of my heart. But I want to thank everyone who worked on this film. Patty Jenkins, you most incredible director, first and foremost. I want to thank my mum and dad, they’re great, I wouldn’t be here without them, literally. And Harry, my wonderful on-screen-love-interest, my real-life-love-interest, fuck, I love you so much, this is incredible. They say I should wrap it up now so, uh, thank you, do come up to me and scold me later if I forgot to thank you.“

After that night the internet blew up. I hadn’t even noticed that I’d just come public about our relationship. But as we were dancing the night away we couldn’t care less.

[beyondtheciouds]

.27.

Tom, of course was right.

Grace was planning some awful thing.

Hours later-- fast forward to late evening tea, Grace now sat in the well lit informal recieving room of Fairchild Manor. She sipped her lukewarm tea; white rabbit fingers grasping the cup, pinky stuck up in the air like her nose. Her slate gray eyes were currently surveying the room. Nothing was getting past her.

The room was large and spacey; the walls were painted a centenial spring green with knotty pine wood paneling a third of the way up. Knick-knacks of various porcelain fantasy inspired animals adorned stone shelves in their little top hats and parasols; an odd aray of antiqued teal velvet couches and rusty colored chairs paired with orange end tables sat in the middle of the room. A ragged, colorless looking patchwork rug and bleached white pillows surrounded the old stone mantle and fireplace. Vibrant plants; yellow and violet wildflowers hung low from the ceiling. Numerous painted paper pairs of peonies and straggling ivy leaves were strung around multiple first editions on the old fashioned white washed mantle. A smoldering log in the fireplace burned the lingering cold chill away.

Jesse lingered in the hall outside the door; his emerald eyes cast down. Lucie could feel the hairs stand up on the back of her neck; the skin torn between goosebumps and the warmth of the room. If you happened to ask her about it, she'd tell you she swore Jesse was standing beside her. But it wasn't him.

A doppelganger of the ghost-boy leaned an icy hand on her shoulder; his smile as dark as his black hair.

Jesse leaned against the doorway; shadows against the silhouettes of those living. He swore he wouldn't make himself visible to Matthew again.

Portraits painted of famous past Fairchilds litered the far wall as if they were trophies; valuable faces of a lineage stolen from the Fae. Pretty eyed heirs too perfect to be real. Lucie knew Matthew's grandfather had been protecting the Fairchild legacy by hanging these paintings. For generations the Fairchilds had been covering up all imperfections hidden in the family genepool.

Lucie also couldn't help but notice Matthew's portrait was absent from the recent additions. There was a space next to Charles where his smiling romaneske face should have been.

Lucie, truthfully felt sorry for him. His mother must have deamed him a screw-up.

The afternoon sun's rays washed an eerie shade of gold over the room as the light of midday filtered in through the sheer curtains. The color lit a halo around Lucie's face and reminded her of the wedding she would soon be planning.

Of course everyone would expect them to marry once Tessa was found and Belial dealt with.

Alone with her thoughts, overcrowded by her burdens, she felt the despair crawl back into her heart. Her shoulders were too full; one burden handed to her after another. Lucie blinked; she desperately desired the knowledge and encouragement of her father and brother. The burdens weighed too heavy on the dreamer; crushing her self resolve into self pity. I never wanted this. I never wanted this!

Grace was the master of spinning lies so how could she be outsmarted enough for Lucie to manipulate her? How would Lucie know how to play the game? Did she already?

Lucie was nervous about the task looming over her head. Conning was a dark cloud that could burst at any moment. The pendulum was swinging, she knew. What would she do? Time was running out and she had to act fast. She thought of sending back a letter to Thomas, requesting everyone's presence. Maybe if she had her friends around, she could think clearer and cleverer about her task.

She tapped her long fingers on her knees thinking about her plan and the letter she would write. What warning she would give.

Lucie also thought about her mother and about what Jesse said. A new deal. A new deal. What deal could possibly be good enough to sway Grace?

The ingredients she had gathered for Jesse's spell were in the trunk at the foot of her bed back in London. She'd have to write a separate letter to Cordelia with important instructions.

All in all, Lucie wasn't entirely sure she was ready to con Grace or Belial as she blew the loose curl out of her face.

A bubble bursting in her belly caused her to glance down, stunned. She inhaled sharply and gasped as she stared wide-eyed. This was the first time she saw the shape of a foot rippling across the loose fabric of her dress as the baby shifted position. Her chest was heavy with a sigh as Lucie's blue eyes softly glanced towards the windows. What am I going to do?

Matthew was a statue. He stood by the glass like a forgotten shadow; a remnant of his former self. Those green eyes were still closed; one swollen shut.

Lucie's heart broke as she watched his reflection. He had to know none of what they shared was real.

Now, he moved slightly; adjusting his footing. He stuffed the bruised and calloused hands in the pockets of his abnormally crinkled navy trousers. His sunshine hair was stuck up and dark with grease. The strands were oddly ruffled as if he had spent the last few hours in bed, tossing and turning.

The top three buttons of his blue collared shirt were carelessly unbuttoned, exposing newly bruised skin on his chest.

Lucie frowned. It was obvious he was not taking the news of her pregnancy very well. Her heart ached for him; for some magic spell to make all of this go away.

It occurred to Lucie that she was also helpless, so she decided that she couldn't help him, her mother, Jesse and herself all at the same time.

Finding her mother took priority.

The three were waiting for Charles and Charlotte to return to finish the arrangements.

Upon the arrival of Charles and Grace, Charlotte had asked to speak privately to her elder son. Cleary Charlotte had not been been pleased by the arrival.

"You were supposed to be in London, helping Will." Charlotte had hissed at her son as he dropped Grace's luggage.

Charles had shrugged, used to facing his mother's unpleasant side.

Charlotte was clearly displeased at being interrupted, Lucie decided.

Charlotte had been in her office writing an important letter to the Clave when Matthew waltzed in and announced Charles was home.

Charlotte had been speaking to Charles in the small room adjacent to the recieving room now for at least twenty minutes.

The tension in the air of the recieving room was palpable; a steady pulse of heartbeats that felt like secrets between the three young adults.

Grace crossed her legs at the ankles as her body poised itself in the velvet chair like a queen on a throne. Her smile was cruel as she turned her bored attention on Lucie. "Surprised?"

The question took Lucie aback and she blinked, perplexed. "About what?"

Grace's lips pulled back from her teeth, her eyes pledging to get under Lucie's skin. "Your upcoming bundle of joy, of course."

Lucie sucked in a breath as Matthew suddenly turned, opening his eye. He cleared his throat, his single gaze heavy and forboding like he'd been listening the entire time. When he spoke, his voice was dry; bluntly emotionless as if he had rehearsed the words several times in his head. "Of course we were surprised, but the child is a blessing and I will marry Lucie."

Out of duty or love? was the question on Matthew's mind.

Lucie's skin crawled at the monotone of his voice and the implications underlying. She felt squeamish as he described what Lucie assumed neither really wanted.

She never wanted this and she had a full feeling neither had he.

"Yes," Lucie echoed just as monotone. Her voice cracked before a wave of dizziness washed over her like a tidal wave. "I think I should go lie down."

That got Matthew's attention. "Feeling ill, my dear?"

He'd been watching her, she realized.

Lucie stood up, the nausea subdued by gravity. Her mousey brown eyebrows knitted together at Matthew and for a split second he looked relieved that she seemed alright.

Lucie knew she needed to get Grace alone before it was too late and Matthew was in the way. The question now became How? How could she get Grace alone?

Grace was still smiling like a cat that just caught a mouse. "Matthew," she drawled, her eyes cold cement. Her smile said his secret was on the tip of her tongue. "Why don't you sound so enthusiastic about your new life?"

Lucie opened her mouth to speak; to interupt, but no words came out as Matthew froze, his eye serious and steady on Lucie. Grace chirped a bird-like laugh as the door opened and Charles entered with Charlotte right behind him. The Fairchild's eyes were slits. Unfortunately both mother and son displayed the same disappointment and disapproving looks on their faces.

Matthew turned back to the windows and Lucie was relieved he did not to have to answer Grace.

[lovelyparkers]

the summer fling (4)

again this is pretty spicy just a warning nothing explicit! just spicy and build up!

the next day, the four of you got up bright and early to get on the beach before the crowd filtered in. you woke up peter with soft kisses all over his face. kissing him, anywhere and any way, was something you would definitely get used to. ever since you kissed the previous night on the beach, things had barely changed between the two of you. you were already in a very flirtatious state with each other, but now, there was kissing and hand holding and all that relationship stuff. so you were going to kiss him any chance you got, because you could.

and that sense of need that was so oblivious to the two of you didn't get any better. if anything it became more intense. hell, if you just communicated those needs, you'd feel good. but it was you and peter parker for god sakes. he wasn't very good any communicating what he wanted, hence waiting to have a romantic relationship for over four years. and you? being flirty with peter was second nature. but now what, being in a relationship and all. how did you get to the next step? and would peter even catch on, because well, it's peter.

nevertheless, he enjoyed all the extra attention you were giving him and hoped what he gave back was enough. he absolutely loved being woke up with soft little pecks placed on his forehead and cheeks and nose. it gave him butterflies and he wanted nothing more than to just hold you and kiss you all goddamn day. he could very well do that now. but you were on vacation with your other friends.

somehow someway, you managed to hold hands on the short walk to the beach while simultaneously holding your beach stuff. peter was clumsily holding an umbrella in one hand along with a chair and backpack secured to his back while he left one hand occupied for yours only. and the minute everyone got situated on the beach, you went back to holding hands in adjacent beach chairs, occasionally pecking each other's lips. but oh, poor peter and poor you had been deprived of another much needed make out session today, being interrupted by mj and ned. he was willing to make out on the beach in broad daylight, he tried to. and you allowed it for two seconds before telling him that it was beach time.

though pda wasn't a big deal apparently. as soon as you all got in the water, peter gave you a long kiss causing ned to cough to break it up and give you a mini lecture on saving it for the bedroom. that made peter blush furiously, just thinking about having alone time with you in the bedroom. and you were very open minded to that suggestion of ned.

now, after cooling off in the water, everyone decided to go lay on the beach, to get some sun and warm up from the cold jersey water. you and peter were laid on your stomach's on your own towels, heads turned so you were facing each other and smiling at each other. he squinted his eyes at you, as to shield the sun. it hadn't even been a full day yet you were falling in love with this boy. perhaps you've been falling in love with him the past four years.

everything he did was adorable and made you like him. he cared about you and you appreciated that and cared back. he was always sweet to you, unless he got jealous or angry in which he was a little more stern but you didn't complain, it was hot. but he always meant well. he was looking out for you, because he loved you. the way he smiled at you was so wholesome and made you feel loved. when he held you, you felt adorned. and when he kissed you, it made you feel like nothing bad would ever happen.

"y/n?" he whispered to you.

"hm?"

"is my back sun burnt?"

you arched your back up to look at his and it was fine, he just got sun burnt real bad on the senior trip and you emphasized the importance of covering up ever since.

"no you're all good," you smiled, settling back down.

he smiled back and lazily placed a hand on your back, slowly trailing it up and down. you sighed under his touch, but shot him a confused glare when he hand went dangerously low. he just smirked at you, knowing what he was doing. so you did what you did best, tease. you brought a hand up and ran it through his messy curls because you knew it drove him wild. as soon as you touched his head, he immediately stopped touching your back and closed his eyes, enjoying the touch.

and he enjoyed it a lot until you suddenly tugged on his hair the slightest bit causing him to let out a quiet and low gasp. you chuckled and went back to softly stroking his hair. this time he glared at you. you shot back a knowing look, biting your lip as you watched his eyes slightly look down your body as you laid in the sand. they darkened slightly and that was when you knew.

"wanna go back to the house?" you asked, all seemingly innocent.

his head shot up and he leaned on his side, facing you before nodding quickly. he jumped up, running to grab his flip flops and back pack. you just shook your head at his obvious horniness and followed behind. peter was running up to the boardwalk then realized he should wait for you and came back.

you realized you should probably tell your friends where you're going. "mj, me and peter are going back to the house real quick. we'll be back."

"uh huh," she smirked, "be safe."

you two did not come back.

as soon as you finished talking to mj, peter grabbed your hand softly and you ran to the boardwalk and to the house. you two were laughing most of the way, excited and adrenaline rushing. or hormones gone wild!

you unlocked the door quickly before closing it only to have peter push you back and catch your lips in a blushy and smiley kiss. it was soft and goofy and smelled like sunscreen but it was...nice. it was different. peter dropped his back pack at the door and grabbed both of your hands now, smiling at you and walking backwards, leading the both of you to your shared bedroom. which, by the way, was turning out to be a big blessing.

the two of you awkwardly sat close together on the large bed and finally had your deprived make out session. luckily peter was still shirtless from the beach so you gladly ran your hands over his torso, making him shiver and throw his head back in the kiss, letting you take it over. his hands lightly grazed your waist, occasionally squeezing slightly.

"pete," you sighed, breaking the kiss.

"what?" he asked breathless and slightly nervously.

"do you wanna..." you started, wriggling your eyebrows at him.

his eyes widened, "yeah...but-but only if you want to."

"i do."

"are you sure? i want you to be sure y/n."

"mhm," you shook your head.

"i have to hear you say it. i want us both to want it and—"

"yes."

"okay?" he sighed.

"okay!"

you went back to kissing feverishly, lips moving like never before. somehow peter was great at this. you didn't expect such a flustered innocent boy like him to know what he was doing, but he did.

he pulled back quickly, brushing some hair out of your face and cupping your cheek. "it's uh, it's my first time," he said shyly.

you smiled, "me too."

he panted, smiling, then returned to kiss you, still holding a hand to your face to direct the kiss in his favour now. it was semi sloppy at some points but nonetheless you figured it all out. peter definitely liked the whole make out thing. tongue and all. the gripping, the heavy breathing, the sighing. he accidentally gently bit your bottom lip making you let out a literal moan, causing him to stop.

"oh my god i- that was...woah," he panted again.

"yeah?"

"yeah!"

"well, you can...you know, do it again if you want."

"okay, just tell me if i get too...rough?" he sort of questioned.

"i will, promise."

his hands started again to trail up and down your back, finding the knots in your bathing suit and frantically trying to undo them while you impatiently sat there, not uncomfortably but awkwardly because what the hell are you supposed to do? he had some trouble undoing the double knots as his fingers worked tirelessly.

"need some help?"

"uhhh," he blushed, "yeah."

you started to undo one knot then the other when peter jumped up from the bed yelling, "wait!"

he staggered over excitedly and clumsily to his duffle bag that was on the ground and pulled out a small package, holding it up to you.

"you came prepared," you said, immediately knowing what he was holding.

he shrugged, "well...i just...i don't know i figured something might or could or would happen. and it is so luckily i did come prepared because—"

"peter," you cut him off, "you're rambling. it's okay, i'm glad you came prepared."

"really? great." he sat back down on the bed and let you finish undoing the knots of your bathing suit.

meanwhile, back at the beach, ned and mj headed to the boardwalk for lunch and we're slightly tempted to play more boardwalk games until they reminded themselves about all the money they lost on that stupid tom nook. and eventually, over an hour had passed since you and peter had left and they got slightly worried about you, even more so when it started to drizzle. the two frantically collected all the beach stuff, including the stuff you and peter left behind and made a run for the house.

they dumped the plethora of things under an overhang so it didn't get wet and walked inside. they were casually talking dinner plans when ned was interrupted by a groan—peter. the two fully stopped in their tracks, listening until they heard it again.

"should we help him?" ned asked, surprisingly clueless.

but mj new very well what was going on in the bedroom. "ned i think they are more than okay."

"what do you mean?" he questioned then heard a quiet sound pop out from you. "oh. they are doing it."

"yep," mj sighed, "let's get out of here, give em some privacy because it's about time." the two bursted out the door at another groan from peter and stood in the rain.

"where should we go?" ned asked.

"no idea...we could just sit in the car?"

ned nodded and the two hopped in mj's car and shook off the water.

"okay that was insane...i mean i know they'd do it i just didn't think they would after i mentioned it."

"can we not talk about y/n and peter getting it on, we heard enough."

"oh, yeah. what do you wanna do?"

mj pondered before finally saying, "we can hang out at that donut place all day if you want. i know the owners, so free donuts!" ned agreed and they drove off, leaving you and peter to do what you had to do.

peter fell down on the bed completely breathless next you. to say he had a good stamina was an understatement. he had a great one. you turned your head to give him a long kiss before falling back on the pillows.

"that was so so amazing y/n, thank you."

"why are you thanking me?" you chuckled.

"i don't know," he laughed along, "it was just really good."

"it was. i should thank you. didn't know you could go like that."

he sighed, "i wasn't um, too rough was i?"

"no, it was perfect."

he smiled at you, wiping sweat off your forehead then pulling you to him. he gave you a soft side hug before searching in your eyes.

"round two?"

"hell yeah."

anyways so can't believe i wrote this but ITS NOT EVEN EXPLICIT bye

part five will be coming soon ha

[tommyplum]

- the midlands | tommy/alfie for @boundinshallows’ sholomons prompt fest 2019

May Carleton leaves Birmingham; Alfie Solomons stays. There's no need to let a perfectly good hotel reservation go to waste.

notes: I have a fondness for Alfie bottoming (which is not on trend for this fandom lol) so whoever left this prompt, thank you for the excuse to write this. content warning for sex. - maggie

"As it so happens, Alfie," Tommy said. Just like that, an addendum, a drop into the still that his compatriot in the business could lift to his nose and inhale, or could let evaporate into the ether, as he showed Alfie Solomons out of his distillery after the tour, the critiques, the introductions. "As it so happens, I've a suite at The Midlands booked that's going to go to waste if nobody occupies it, tonight. You don't have to make the trip back to London right away, if you don't need to." 

Tommy took a long, dry pull from his cigarette, and Alfie watched as he looked up, away, at a starling whose little toe-claws were skittering along a ceiling pipe. "If you don't want to, that is."

And then Tommy held out his hand, and they pressed flesh, Alfie's middle finger still tingling slightly under his nail from the aid for incurable sadness he'd dipped it in.

Birmingham was still rank with swine flesh when they trundled back out to the car, and Alfie stood in the heavy, grey air for a few moments. The smell of juniper was still high up in his nose, dry, not sweet enough for some quarters and prospective interests, but it did, at least, cut through the trayf. 

That was something worth pondering on.

"Ishmael," Alfie said, finally starting towards the car properly and opening his door, bundling himself in and shutting it with a yank of his cane, "find out where the fuck in this dismal shit hole there is what the natives optimistically refer to as a hotel." Ishmael, accustomed by now to his boss giving orders that ran perpendicular, adjacent, or downright contrary to everything that had come before, merely nodded and collared a couple of Small Heathians who were passing as Alfie took the time to not settle himself in for a long ride back to Camden Town.

The Midlands. You couldn't have asked for a more fitting name for this, Tommy my dove, he thought, and lifted his anointed hand to his nose as the car lurched into motion.

---

Tommy Shelby, it seemed, then had the ever-loving fucking effrontery to make Alfie wait -- yet again -- for his hallowed arrival.

"Right, I'm on the verge of taking whatever car you've got for yourself outside and driving me own way out of this facking pustule of a town, Tommy, so you'd best get out of my way." Alfie gestured with his cane, a couple inches away from thwacking Tommy's knee with it, his hands knotting and sprawling to express the full range of his annoyance with this day's being inconvenienced by one tightly-wound Peaky bastard. 

"I do apologize, Alfie," Tommy said, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he continued in the same vein of airy nonchalance that he'd cultivated at some point in his fledgling gangster career, Alfie surmised, to sound unflappable and unmoved and just a touch arrogant. It did have a certain charm, if you weren't currently aggravated out of your bloody mind. 

Although he couldn't sort out why Tommy also saw fit to unbutton his waistcoat and take off his glasses, placing them very carefully on the sideboard, until Tommy came over, close. Close enough for Alfie to pick out the scent of mint and ginger on his breath, the astringency of his skin. He'd shaved, recently. "There was a bit of last-minute business that delayed me, couldn't be avoided," Tommy continued. "I plan to make it up to you, though. The inconvenience."

Tommy put his thumb briefly against Alfie's throat, to the side of his adam's apple. And then he sank down to his knees.

"This is one hell of an apology, mate," Alfie began, instantly wary, his fingers re-wrapping themselves around the handle of his cane. Just in case. "Not saying it isn't warranted, given the bad manners of both yourself and your festering city--"

"I'd tell you to shut up," Tommy said, almost conversationally. He turned his head, and his nose and mouth and chin pressed against the front of Alfie's trousers, warm, insistent, interested. "But you wouldn't listen."

Tommy raised an unhurried look at Alfie, through the dark spikes of his eyelashes. "And I think hearing yourself talk is what gets you hard, anyways."

Alfie grunted. Half in surprise, half in agreement; and, fuck, it was the fucking Midlands, wasn't it? He'd not been entirely unaware of what this meeting in this for-some-reason unoccupied suite might involve. He was only a little rumbled because Tommy'd presumed that Alfie would wait for him, yet again.

But here he was, having waited. And here was Tommy, undoing Alfie's trousers and reaching inside for his cock, hands considerately warm for a change as he cupped Alfie's balls, rolling, fondling, and grasped his stiffening length to take stock. Finding that Alfie possibly would prefer some encouragement, Tommy took his paw back, licked the palm, and then replaced it, neat as a cat as he kneaded Alfie's sac and tugged at his cock.

"Keep talking, then," Tommy said. Alfie brought the hooked handle of his cane around to the back of Tommy's clipped head, pulling him in as he settled his feet into a wider stance. Obliging of him, that was, and Tommy must have agreed because he slipped both his hands in further past the unfolding material of Alfie's trousers. Helping himself to what he found there, thickening at his touch.

"The secret to great oratory, posy, is to never capitulate to the pressure for a command performance. No matter how enticing the compensation might seem at first glance--" Alfie's words gave way to a low sigh, breath heating up his tongue on the way past his parted lips as Tommy bobbed forward to take the head of Alfie's terribly eager prick into his mouth. Tommy's lips were wet, slicked up with his own spit as he sank right on down without a care as to keeping things tidy, none of the mannered propriety that Alfie occasionally found so ridiculous.

His cane skidded down, to the back of Tommy's neck, but Alfie left it there loose. Tommy was doing all the work already and needed no guidance or encouragement and Alfie rested his other hand on Tommy's face, the heel of his palm against that hollow, hollowing cheek, pressing in now and again to feel the bulbous push of his own cockhead. Onanism as translated through the mouth of Thomas Shelby, Alfie thought, but he let that one go as soon as it formed, nebulous and mocking and perhaps entirely too potent to be part of having his cock swallowed in a shit Birmingham hotel.

Tommy cupped Alfie's balls as he pulled back with wetness dripping in rivulets down the shaft of Alfie's cock, off the ruddied pink of Tommy's lips, saliva and precum both in a bubbling cocktail that brined the air with its scent. "Get me there, eh, Tom," Alfie murmured, "and it'll be apology accepted. Providing that you never again ask that I insult my preferred cobblers by setting shoe leather a step into your wank-stain of a city, yeah?"

Alfie grunted as Tommy -- in reply, he supposed -- pinched the soft skin of his sac, otherwise ignoring the barbs aimed at his family seat of operations, and instead dove the tip of his tongue into Alfie's slit. Poking in, fucking the sensitive orifice, and the handle of Alfie's cane rose to rub against the crease at the base of Tommy's skull as its wielder blinked at the ceiling and its shabby crown mouldings, feeling showers of sparks going off in the corners of his eyes. His cock pulsed, thumping for attention against the roof of Tommy's mouth when the warm wet heat of it thankfully returned en toto, and Tommy's hand slid further back, behind Alfie's balls, the calloused drag of a thumb-pad chasing the push of his middle fingertip. Sticky, and slippery, and when Tommy's finger forced its way into Alfie's hole his whole body jerked, galvanized.

His cane clattered to the floor and Alfie grabbed Tommy's head with both hands, rumpling his raven hair as he strained and bucked forward and came, hugely, incandescently, with a groan that ran circles through his chest before it hit the air and became fully-realized sound. Tommy stayed in tight, and Alfie -- fingers splayed all down Tommy's throat, all over his face, everywhere -- for a moment thought he might black out at the feel and sound of him swallowing all the seed Alfie had to give.

They stayed there for a few long yawning moments, Alfie's blood thumping in his ears, before Tommy moved back. Detaching himself and getting to his feet, drawing the back of one hand over his sloppy, used mouth. Alfie glanced down at his cane -- fuck it, he'd give himself the luxury of tucking back in and doing up his clothes first before he attempted to bend and retrieve it -- and said through a slightly heavy tongue, "Right, then. Make it sweet like that for the Americans, Tommy, and you'll have no trouble finding yourself a market."

He started to fold himself back together, material of his trousers hopelessly creased and possibly somewhat stained, but Alfie found his movements stopped by Tommy's hand on his wrist. "Hmmm?" he thrummed, thinking of the pistol under his coat, but Tommy didn't make any untoward movements.

Instead, he jutted his jaw to one side as he pinned Alfie with a level stare and said, clear and hard as a nail dropping on brick, "Oh, no, Alfie. Not yet. You're in Birmingham now, son, and that's not how we leave things."

And then Tommy was on him. Peeling back layers and layers of clothes, Alfie's coat, his jacket, his waistcoat and prayer shawl and shirt, discarding them all across the reproduction chaise longue that sat foolishly at the foot of the bed. "I'm gonna fuck you," Tommy breathed against Alfie's mouth, chasing him down with his nose and his shoulders and chest as he let go of Alfie to attend to his own clothes, stripping them off with far less care and letting them fall to the floor. "You think that might bring on some fucking oratory? Ay? Is that the kind of command performance you'll agree to?"

He hunched his shoulders forward, and Alfie was by no means a small man in terms of built-up muscle but Tommy was bulling ahead, compact and strong, a goddamn clay-kicker, wasn't he, and Alfie found himself -- body already drunk on the force of his climax -- unbalanced. He dropped back onto the bed with a slight bounce that met with Tommy's body coming down on his, and from there off came the shoes and trousers and shorts and it was the two of them naked, hard, against each other in The fucking Midlands.

Alfie shoved himself up higher on the mattress, at a curved diagonal, and watched as Tommy had the audacity to reach down into the pocket of his discarded jacket and bring out a vial of oil. Catching Alfie's incredulous look, Tommy tipped his chin to the side briefly with a smirk, lips twitching up at the corner. "Yeah, that's right, Alfie," he said, voice down to a husky tease, "that's how sure I was that you'd end up on your back for me. Everyone who comes to Birmingham does, one way or another."

"Hrrrmm." Alfie went up on his elbows, his cock still half-hard, sloped heavily against his thigh as he spread his legs, letting Tommy in between them with one knee on the mattress. "Is that generally before or after you get on your knees for them, then, love?"

Tommy gave a chuffing laugh, rust-clogged like he'd long since forgotten how that particular expression of emotion worked, and for a distinct moment the air of the hotel suite went still and they looked at each other, blue-grey and gin-blue, and Tommy might have taken that opportunity to close the distance between them and press his mouth against Alfie's.

The moment passed. The air moved again. Stirred by the wings of starlings and kestrels, of jackdaws.

Reaching past Alfie, Tommy clawed up the sheets and coverlet and bunched them roughly behind Alfie's back, down to his hips, and Alfie obligingly raised himself for the bolstering. His thighs parted more easily at that angle, Tommy reaching down between them to slide his oiled-up fingers between the heft of Alfie's arsecheeks, to the tight furl of his hole. Tighter than might be expected, from the flicker of Tommy's eyebrow as he pressed one fingertip in, then two, twisting. 

"Been, ah -- a while, right, since I was tended to in that particular fashion," Alfie said mildly, still up on his elbows because he'd be damned if he was going to miss the sight of this, Tommy Shelby pouring oil into the open palm of the hand that currently had two fingers wedged into Alfie's arse. "Circumstances being as they are, as in nobody generally has the fucking wherewithal to attempt to sodomize me." Alfie uncurled and re-curled his fingers, allowing, "--at least, not in the literal sense."

Tommy tilted his hand and the oil ran down the trough of his fingers, funnelling into Alfie's clutching hole, and he shoved his fingers in deep with a satisfied flicker in his eyes as Alfie's breath hitched. "I've been told," he said seriously, "that I have a tendency towards an over-abundance of ambition. Good or bad, Alfie, d'you think? Is that tendency?"

"Fuckin' good , Tommy," Alfie growled, finally sinking back into the crumpled sheets as Tommy followed him, climbing up onto the bed and positioning himself where he could do the most damage. Alfie's gaze dotted over the line of his shoulders, the circle of his tattoo, the various thin lines and ranges of scars, but never alighted in one place too long. This wasn't the first time they'd clinched like this, groping at each other, learning each other's bodies; it was, though, the first time they'd been entirely undressed. Laid out available to see and be seen, to map, to catalogue, to discern the various key components and be dissected in turn. 

It was, Alfie found, entirely too much to be dealt with at the moment. Let it wait. 

He focused instead on the feel of Tommy's cock, the blunt sticky head of it rubbing along the tender skin between Alfie's legs, circling the over-sensitized thin slick of his hole, the tip of Tommy's thumb pushing in for a moment before he withdrew it and grasped himself anew. Guiding that fat tip to Alfie's hole and pushing, pressing, and then driving in with a lunge, a shout, a tremble that went through his entire body.

Alfie's mouth panted wetly open, his lips feeling swollen despite going unassaulted by kisses, and he rubbed the back of his head against the sheets to bruise out the smell of himself, treacly rum and oven-bricked bread and Portugal water, making it rise to wreath them both. "Fuck," he breathed, and "-- fuck ," Tommy echoed, fitting his hand under Alfie's arm and around his back as he got himself adjusted, other hand pushing Alfie's thigh open so he could get in closer, sink in deeper. Alfie's head was swimming, a peppermint-electric spiderwebbing of sensation through his groin and arse and belly as Tommy's thick cock drove in further and further without mercy, Tommy's breath rasping above him.

"Is it good," Tommy insisted again, then moved back, only a little, and shoved forward again to make a long, desperate groan clamber its way up through Alfie's chest and pour from his mouth. " Tell me how fucking good it is, Alfie. I want it. I want to hear it."

"Then bloody well fuck me, Tommy!" Alfie roared, lifting his head as he reached out to splat his hands haphazardly against Tommy's side, his back, and damned if that wasn't exactly what his mule-stubborn cunt of a partner was waiting for because Tommy snarled back, leaving off holding Alfie's thighs apart to grab his hip and thrust forward, impaling him in one go and then sliding directly into a punishing pounding rhythm. The slap of their skin, oil and sweat, macerating the grunts and moans they punctuated the air with, Tommy's intense single-minded muttered yeah yeah yes fuck yeah and Alfie's pouchy gusts of articulated encouragement on each in-thrust.

The sheets under him bunched tighter as they fucked, Tommy's arse rising and falling with his galloping pace and snorted breath, the whinny of his oncoming release, and as much as Alfie wanted it, his body clutching and clenching in remembered desire as Tommy's cock dragged into that sweet spot inside him, he knew he'd be laid up the next day, more likely than not. Thoughtful sheet-bundle under his hips or not. "Come on, then, Tommy, yeah, that's my boy," Alfie rumbled through gritted teeth, pushing up until he could grind his bearded chin against Tommy's shoulder, rub it against the freshly-shaved skin of his neck. "Give it to me, since you're in a giving mood, that's it, because we are who we are, hmmm?" Alfie wrapped his hand around the back of Tommy's neck, bearing down on the hammering thrusts that were beating him open, demanding, not to be denied. 

"We do all our killing at close range, don't we, Tommy, we do it personal ."

Tommy grabbed Alfie tighter, colliding with him, bowling him over as he drilled Alfie into the mattress until his thrusts, increasingly erratic and impassioned, stopped short. He dropped his head forward and bit into Alfie's shoulder, blood tipping the ends of his teeth yellow-red when he removed them from torn flesh, throwing his head back in a short, anguished howl. And Alfie watched, committing it all to memory, jotting it all down in the box of his brain and the meat of his body, soaking up Tommy's spunk as it spurted deep inside him.

"Jesus," Tommy muttered when it seemed he could breathe normally again, and Alfie murmured, "--not the right Jew, darling, but I'll take it as a compliment."

Tommy made an explosive little sound that could have been a laugh, and eased out and rolled off, causing the bed to dip to one side before Tommy got to his feet. Turning his back on Alfie and reaching down to his coat again to get his cigarette case and lighter, as Alfie blinked up at the crown mouldings and felt cum trickling out of him and the little oil bottle bumping against his thigh, realizing that Tommy'd let all the oil they hadn't used spill and soak into the mattress. How many of his erstwhile paramours, Alfie wondered as Tommy's smoke started to make trails, did Mr. Shelby of Watery Lane rent this suite for? How many ruined bedclothes left in his wake?

Alfie rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes as he stretched experimentally; the ache in his lower back was making its long approach, yet, for which he was grateful as he pushed himself up on his elbow -- only to see Tommy fastening up his trousers, shouldering into his shirt. Everything about the way he was moving, the way he was holding himself -- finger-combing his blue-black hair into place, his stare retreating into that remote still sky-blue -- telegraphing what the next move was. The next move that this suite at The fucking Midlands had seen a dozen times over, a score of times.

And so Alfie let himself sink back down into the bed, gingerly bringing his legs up onto it properly and twitching the covers to lie in a damp twist over his hips, trailing down the backs of his thighs as he turned to face the window. "Yeah, go on then, get out of here," he said, waving Tommy off as if he were no more than a pestering maître d'. "I'm sorted and from what I hear, this suite's unoccupied and therefore mine for the night, and I'd like to get some rest before I make the long trip back to civilization in the morning."

The slight patter of Tommy's lips blowing out smoke sounded loud in the room. That was the only sound he made, save one: the gentle tik of Alfie's cane, when Tommy picked it up from the floor and leaned it upright against the bloody chaise longue. The door didn't even make much of a noise when he opened it to leave, shut it behind him.

"Come to Birmingham," Alfie said to himself, letting his eyes drift shut. "Be damned for breathing. Go to The Midlands ... and find a way to damn yourself even further, is that it? Ahhrrnn . Eradicate your incurable fucking sadness, yeah." His sore, strained body slumped into the mattress, too worn from the drive and the day's events and the unexpected fucking it had taken to sustain awakeness any longer, and Alfie sighed, letting himself go under, letting go of the thought that had been circulating in his head for days. Weeks.

Big fucks small. 

He'd come back to that, when the time was right.

/end

[imyourliquor-youremypoison]

A Girl’s Best Friend (Peter Parker x OC) - Part 12

Synopsis: Diamonds are man’s best friend- or dogs are girls’ best friends, wait… how does the saying go again?

Warnings: Family issues; Peter has a crush and it’s complicated; mention of assault; good dogs; College AU; aged up! characters; TONY STARK IS ALIVE AND WE ALL LIVE IN A HAPPY PLACE CALLED DENIAL

A/N: In this story, Peter has Tom’s dog, Tessa.The dogs in the story play a minor but key role.

Word count: 3.9k (longest one yet!)

Part 11 <<< >>> Part 13

MASTERLIST

               Peter had done outstandingly well given the circumstances – Emmeline had thrown him out of his comfort zone by asking him to accompany her to this reception, but he was exceeding all expectations if she had had any.

               She wasn’t doing as well as him. She was very tense, to the point of physical pain and an actual stomachache. There was so many people, so many faces among the crowd; people she was supposed to know and meant to greet and exchange a few banalities with. They were all anonymous faces to her, nobody she actually knew and gave a fuck about.

               In all honesty, she was avoiding her parents, and they had been doing fine so far. The first two hours of this charade had been busy but relatively uneventful and smooth. At some point, Emmeline spun on her heels and stepped a bit closer to Peter, almost hiding her face in his neck.

“My mother is standing over there, by the giant flower arrangement, glaring at me,” she explained when Peter raised an eyebrow. “Don’t look!”

               He huffed and let out a curse word when she elbowed him a bit too harshly but that was it; he looked at her instead.

“You’re not going to talk to her?”

“Not if I can help it,” she admitted without any shame. “The later the confrontation, the better. Trust me on that.”

“I wouldn’t presume to know any better,” he chuckled, taking her hand and leading her away, hopefully out of her mother’s viewing field. “Want a glass?”

               Peter gestured to a waiter waltzing by with a tray of champagne flutes.

“No.” Emmeline crossed her hands over her stomach, still so tense she would feel her abs. “Don’t let me get my hands on alcohol tonight, please. If I start drinking, I won’t stop.”

“My God, Em, you weren’t joking when you said that you hated it here,” he said, finally realizing just how much she dreaded such events, and how scared she was of her parents. “You’re shaking,” he noticed when he took her hand in his: an attempt to ease her nerves.

               She quickly withdrew her hand.

“I know, I’m sorry. I just can’t stand this place, just being here, having to shake hands and smile at people whose face I will forget within the next minutes, it’s making me sick.” She averted her gaze from him, looking over her shoulder as if checking if her mother hadn’t followed them. “I dragged you into this when instead you could be home, celebrating Christmas with your aunt.”

“I’m quite happy where I am,” he assured her, putting his hands into his pockets. “Here, come.” He once again led her away from where they stood and towards the bar this time, asking for a glass of water for her, and ordering a beer for himself.

               He handed her the drink and Emmeline wrapped two hands around it, as if she was afraid to drop it.

“I’m in a fancy place, at a fancy reception, about to eat a fancy dinner, with the girl I fancy,” Peter listed with a teasing smile on his face, watching the way Emmeline’s lips trembled slightly when she repressed laughter. “I’ve been in worse situations, trust me on this.” The last time he had seen her so shaken up was…

“I’m sure you have. Still…” she trailed off, her eyes detailing him as she thought about her next words. “This isn’t what I would have wanted for our second date.”

“Oh, this is a date? I was under this impression that you hired me as a personal security detail.”

“Hiring implies some kind of payment, which I did not offer,” she countered, taking a sip of her water and stepping closer to him.

“I was hoping to get a date actually, but since we’re in the middle of one, I’ll have to find something else,” he thought out loud, enjoying seeing her smile again, watching the way her nose scrunched up a little and her eyes squinted slightly when she laughed.

“You have a few hours ahead of yourself to decide,” she informed him. “Choose wisely.”

               Before Peter could even think about an answer, the music suddenly stopped, and someone demanded attention from the crowd by tapping on a glass – something that Peter thought only happened in movies.

“Dinner,” Emmeline said, gulping down and emptying her glass of water as if it were a whiskey on the rocks. “It’s showtime. We’ll be sitting at the big table, no more hiding from my parents from now on.”

“They won’t make a scene here, will they? No need to make yourself sick over this dinner,” Peter tried to reason her.

“You’re right. I’m just a ball of nerves, but if I came here to act like a scaredy-cat, I might as well have put on one of those prudish dresses my mother sent me to pick from.”

“Wait, what? That’s insane! You’re not twelve!” Peter exclaimed just as they were both swept into the general crowd movement, following the other guests into the adjacent room to find their seats.

               Emmeline had explained that every year, her parents left an empty seat next to hers in case she wanted to bring a plus one, but she knew it was a pretext. She was a laughingstock to them. Seeing her sitting alone next to an empty chair: that’s what got them off. He had had his doubts about this at first, but when he saw her tremble at the sheer thought of sharing a dinner table with her parents, he reconsidered.

               He was more than happy to fill this chair; he was more than happy to stand beside her when she held up her mother’s stern gaze as they sat down. Peter had seen the venomous glare she directed at their joined hands. Emmeline had simply taken his hand to lead him to their table without losing him in the crowd, but he would gladly hold her hand all night long if it could help make a rebellious statement.

               It wasn’t until dessert that things started to go downhill. People were beginning to stand up and mingle to talk with people sitting at other tables too, minds fogged with champagne. Emmeline had bolted from her chair as soon as her mother stood up, and she had dragged Peter with her towards the terrace to get some fresh air and escape from her family.

“You’re going to have to talk to them as some point, you know?” Peter told her, wincing a little when he saw her look over her shoulder.

“Do I though?”

               He gave her a stern look.

“You’re right.” Her shoulders slumped. “I have to apologize to you in advance for everything they’ll say.”

“What?” Peter laughed but quickly stopped when he realized Emmeline didn’t join in. “What could they possibly say to me?”

“Oh you’ll see. Everyone here is a snake.”

               She trembled and Peter watched her warm breath create a puff in the cold Winter air. Before he could find something to say, he felt the hairs on his arm stand on end and the window to the terrace opened and closed again.

“Emmy, I thought it was you!” A man’s voice exclaimed, and they turned around to watch a young man strut towards them, hands in the pockets of his long coat. “Almost didn’t recognize you in that dress! I’m not used to seeing you dressed like a woman,” he sniggered, his voice full of thinly veiled contempt.

               If the twist of Emmeline’s lips was any indication at all, she did not like being called ‘Emmy’, or being sexualized simply for wearing a dress that didn’t have a claudine collar, and she certainly did not like this dude. Peter stepped slightly to the left to stand between them, as if to shield her from his venomous words.

“Dexter,” she hissed as a way of greeting. “What are you doing here? I thought you were studying abroad.”

               Peter felt her step closer to him, but she stayed back. It wasn’t her usual behavior – staying back, in retreat. Emmeline was more of a conqueror type of girl, she spoke with her chin up.

“Been keeping tabs on me, have you?” Dexter said, a boyish grin plastered on his face. He couldn’t be more antipathic to Peter. “I’m back for the holidays, my mother wouldn’t have it any other way. You know how mothers are.”

               So far he hadn’t shown any signs of seeing Peter at all, he only talked to Emmeline as if he wasn’t there at all. She didn’t give him to curtesy of answering to that stinging remark. He no doubt knew about Emmeline’s bumpy relationship with her mother, and he just pushed a sensitive button for funsies.

“Nevermind,” Dexter said, not dropping the Colgate smile. “So, what did you bring us here?” he asked, finally deigning to set eyes on Peter, although it must have stung according to the disdainful frown on his face.

               Peter smiled, glad that he didn’t appeal to that dude. He wouldn’t want to be liked by someone that unpleasant. Dexter looked Peter down, stopping at every single detail and lifting an eyebrow whenever – Peter thought – he saw something he didn’t like. Which must have been everything.

“If you needed company, you could have called me.” Instead of bringing an outsider, was the subtext.

               Emmeline placed a hand on Peter’s arm to stop him from lurching forward when she felt him tense up. Dexter was a vile human being and she would pay good money to watch him finally get beat up after running his mouth. The way he talked about Peter, not even asking for his name or greeting him properly… he treated him like he was her pet.

               Maybe she should have brought Bella along tonight, surely she wouldn’t be as easily pacified as Peter. Her entire face morphed into an expression of profound disdain and she sneered at him when she opened her mouth again.

“You’re still as much of an ass as I remember,” Emmeline spat at Dexter, stepping out from Peter’s shadow. “The sheer thought of having ever dated you makes me when to retch, and I would rather kiss a toad than even share a dinner with you.”

“Oh, wow!” Dexter held his hands up in surrender, still grinning. “No need to go hysterical on me. It’s your loss, I’m just offering.”

“She’s not interested, you can go now,” Peter spoke up, at last gaining the dude’s attention. He made a funny face, as if he had thought he couldn’t talk at all.

“It speaks!” he commented. Emmeline scoffed and turned around, not standing the sight of him anymore. “Does it bite too, or just bark?”

               This time, she didn’t stop Peter from punching him in the cheekbone, nor did she have any desire to try.

*

“You dated that douchebag?” Peter asked, stretching his fingers. It didn’t hurt but Emmeline had been concerned and he needed to at least pretend to be a little sore, shaking his hand for good measure.

“And I wake up everyday regretting it,” Em sighed, shaking her head. “You shouldn’t have punched him.”

               Her smile said the opposite.

“He clearly needed some sense knocked into him, I did us all a favor. Not to mention how deeply satisfying it was.”

               The smile became wider, she even let out the smallest of giggles and looked away, rubbing her forehead and trying to suppress the smile.

“I can imagine. I wish I’d done it a long time ago. That jackass really had it coming.”

               The way she said the last part made his Spider-sense tingle.

“I sense a story behind that,” he told her. They had been standing in a hallway for about ten minutes now, postponing the moment they would have to go back to their table. “Should I ask?”

               Something flickered behind Emmeline’s eyes and Peter knew he guessed right.

“It’s not a nice story,” she told him just before he went back on his question and told her to forget it. “He’s always been a self-entitled asshole, but at some point in my life I found that attractive and even went along with it. He used to wander around shadier parts of the city for the thrill of it, and one day it went south.”

“How far south?” Peter couldn’t help but ask.

Peter was in a delicate position regarding Emmeline, because she did him a favor by not prying in his life whenever he acted strange or sported unexplained bruises that she spotted. He had seen her frown to herself on several occasions. Therefore, it was all the more difficult for him to ask personal questions.

He wanted to repay her the gracious discretion by not putting his nose in her business. But he also wanted to be all up in her business.

“Arctic pole,” she laughed humorlessly. “Some nutter that really didn’t want my father to win the elections had followed us, and Dexter made a run for it as soon as things became sticky. Let’s just say he’s at least part of the reason why I have a guard dog trained to protect me from dangerous men.”

“I should have broken his nose,” Peter hissed between his teeth, jaw clenched. “Your father didn’t do anything about it? I mean, I know you have a difficult relationship but he must have-“

“He couldn’t. Dexter’s going to inherit an empire, own half the buildings in the Upper East Side along with a hefty amount of money one day. The last thing he wanted was a warfare with his family. The incident was swept under the rug and he got me a puppy to make me feel better.”

               Every last one of Peter’s instincts pushed him to act on what she said, despite knowing it happened years ago. He wanted to get this Dexter locked up for sheer cowardice, he wanted to find the man that assaulted Emmeline when he wasn’t around to protect her and hang him at a lamppost by the ankles with his web, and he wanted to meet her father and tell him what he thought of his parenting methods.

“The more you tell me about your life and family, the less I understand why you still play their game,” Peter confessed, shaking his head and looking at his feet.

               Emmeline gave him a little crooked smile and blinked back tears, pulling herself together. They had been standing outside these doors for way too long already, it was time to go back and face her parents, and everybody else in that room.

“It’s not a choice, Peter. If I don’t play the game, I lose. Remember I wasn’t born into this world, I was brought into it. I look like I’m a part of this, I wear a dress worth more than everything in your dorm to blend in the crowd, but I’ll always be an outsider.”

               There was so much defeat in her tone, so much pain.

               Before the sadness took over, Emmeline turned away from Peter to stare at the door, electing to talk about a lighter topic.

“It’s all in the past now, I don’t want to talk about it. I’m telling you because I trust you, that’s all,” she told Peter, taking his arm to get ready to walk in.

“But-“ Peter barely had a chance to open his mouth before she cut him off.

“What if Dexter told someone? Like I said, his father owns half of Manhattan, he can make your life very difficult if he wants to,” Emmeline asked, proud to notice her voice was even and didn’t give away her state of distress. It didn’t take a genius to see what she was trying to do and Peter, while being curious, didn’t lack delicacy to the point of forcing her hand in that matter.

               He shrugged, confident that Dexter told no one.

“And admit to having been sucker punched by your toy boy? I’m sure he didn’t.”

*

               Peter distinctly remembered everything that happened after dessert, like a slow-motion segment of a movie, filled with unnecessary details that he wouldn’t notice otherwise. Everything from the moment he felt all the hairs on his body stand on end, to the moment he came back to his room at May’s, through the window of course.

               His first instinct when his Spider sense tingled was to jump to his feet, suddenly reminded of what Tony told him about someone sending death threats to the mayor, eyes alert and scanning the room in search of danger.

“Oh, dear me,” someone exclaimed behind him and when he turned around there stood a middle-aged woman way too thin for her own good – her pearl necklace seemed too heavy for her neck. He didn’t know why he noticed that of all things, but he did. Then he realized that her piercing eyes were darted on him, accusingly. Her hand rested flat on her chest, implying that he had scared her. “Are you going somewhere, young man?”

               Peter winced and when he looked at Emmeline, who hurried to finish her glass, he saw her wince too. If this woman wasn’t her mother, Peter vowed to shave his head the next day.

“N-no,” Peter quickly stuttered out, focusing back on the dignified woman. Not a hair stood out of place. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” he added.

               When she held out her hand, Peter’s brain froze for a moment too long, then he came back to his senses and took it in his, placing a kiss on her bejeweled fingers. That was what she wanted him to do, right? Her pleased smile indicated that he had done the right thing, but Emmeline’s eyeroll was what sealed the deal. Of course, she would mock this old-fashioned greeting.

“Emmeline, why don’t you make the introductions? I feel as though you’ve been avoiding me all night. What did this boy do to have you hide him from me?”

               The fakest smile she could muster was slapped on her face, making Peter nearly snort. He bit his cheeks to keep a collected face.

“Mother,” she said with a purposefully childish voice. “Meet Peter Parker. Peter, my mother, Sybil Gerard.”

               She didn’t specify who he was, giving his name was already more than she would have liked to tell her family. With a name, they could do research. She didn’t say they were at university together, she didn’t say whether they were friends or a couple – not that she knew what they were at this point, she just didn’t want to share it.

“Well?” Sybil Gerard insisted, her smile as stiff as Emmeline’s. Now he could see the family resemblance. “Is that it? Don’t I get more details? Or are you trying to withhold information from me?”

“No, it’s my private life,” Emmeline deadpanned, still smiling. “When will the speech start? This dinner has lasted longer than your last facelift already.”

               Peter half expected the entire room to hush over and turn towards them, ogling the two women to see who would strike first after Emmeline’s blatant provocation. Sybil Gerard, however, had dealt with her daughter’s venomous remarks for a long time and she barely flinched, even letting out a faint laugh to show that Em’s pique did not hit as close to home as she had hoped.

               With baffled excitement, Peter watched on, not knowing what to say – if she should say anything at all.

“Your father still has a few people to greet and we’re waiting for the TV crew to give us the green light, but rest assured you will be the first to know when we’re ready. I dare hope you will make an effort and behave with poise, don’t forget it’s live TV,” her mother snapped, having abandoned the sweet façade she put on for appearances’ sake in presence of Peter. “Your smile needs practice. You may have discarded all the dresses I sent you, but I won’t suffer another insult tonight, you have disappointed me enough already.”

               Peter had to blink a couple times to get rid of the image of a reptile that his mind conjured when Sybil spoke. She spat more venom than a cobra. A shiver ran down his spine and Emmeline’s visibly gulped down but stayed put and nodded without another word.

“And try to be a little more pleasant, the guests are wondering what’s wrong with you.”

               She didn’t wait for her daughter to answer and simply left after that last pique. Emmeline exhaled and hiccupped to catch her breath as if she had been holding it during the last minute of this dreadful conversation.

“That was intense,” Peter commented, if only to break the silence. “She’s… charming.”

               He brought his lips in a thin line and Emmeline looked up from her napkin, the corner of her mouth wavering slightly.

“She’s a soul-sucking cold-hearted bitch, is what she is,” she corrected him, and they both began to laugh, shaking off the tension and awkwardness that Madam Gerard left in her wake.

“That’s one way of putting it I suppose.” He took her hand under the table, hidden by the long tablecloth. “She’s also wrong. You look beautiful, and your smile is perfect as it is, no practice needed.”

“You don’t have to make me feel better, Peter, I’m used to it. It doesn’t get to me anymore.” It did, they were both aware. “I’m a big girl.”

“Shut up and accept the compliment,” Peter teased her, drawing another laugh from her. “You know, I’m glad I came today. This is the most thrilling Christmas dinner I’ve had in years! It’s exciting! Like I’m on a TV show.”

“A high society drama with its secret love affairs and corrupt politicians, then,” she hummed, scanning the crowd to look at everyone’s smiling faces. Everybody was so shiny, so spotless. The light caught on every diamond earring, silver ring and pearl necklace. “Not my kind of TV show.”

“What kind of TV show are you then?”

“Well…” She began to fold her napkin origami-style as she thought about it. “I’d like to think I’m a high fantasy show, that I’m on a path towards self-discovery and accomplishment, forming unbreakable bonds with the people around me in the process, and embracing who I am, but in reality I’m more like… Gossip Girl, or Riverdale, or whatever.”

“Teenage drama?”

“Yeah, exactly. Any TV show where the protagonists look older and fitter than they ought to be. There needs to be at least one shirtless scene per episode, and half the soundtrack is by the Arctic Monkeys.”

               A laugh fell from Peter’s lips and he frowned a little, perplexed.

“Oddly specific, yet accurate, somehow,” he said, soon joined by Emmeline in his laughter. One has to laugh in this kind of situation, or it’ll become overwhelming. “Are you ready for the climax of the episode then? Because your mother is coming this way again.”

“Oh no.” Emmeline sighed under her breath. “I’m so sorry you have to endure this with me. I’d have left you to your aunt if I were less of an egoist.”

“Are you kidding? This is better than a Broadway show. I think I can see the flowers waning in your mother’s wake.”

               Emmeline punched him in the arm and Peter pretended to be hurt, chuckling quietly. Both of them dropped their grin as soon as Em’s ice queen mother reached their table, casting a cold over them.

.

.

.

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Reblog to save a writer

Taglist: @of-virtuoso @the-freefeather  @complete-trash-101​​  @justanothergenzkid​ @yarkmydude

[lets-talk-appella]

i’m nobody’s but yours

Chapter 17/25 - Chloe

Summary: Beca is straight as an arrow. 100%, totally, completely straight. Except for one problem that 100%, totally, completely changes everything: Chloe Beale.

Title borrowed from Calum Scott’s “If Our Love Is Wrong.”

Word Count: 5.5k

Rating: M (for dark themes, homophobia, masturbation, and eventual smut in later chapters)

TW: Explicit depictions of homophobia, hate language, and accusations of assault. This may be a very difficult chapter to read.

AO3, FFN, and below.

“Are you sure about this?”

“Yes.”

“Like, completely, totally sure?”

“Yes, Bec. We’re already here.”

It’s not like they can really leave. Beca’s already parked in the driveway, and Chloe can spot Warren peeking out the window at them. Chloe waves at him, doing her best to ignore the nerves rolling in her stomach.

From the driver’s seat, Beca doesn’t wave. Chloe glances over and winces at the white-knuckle grip Beca has on the steering wheel.

“Bec…”

“I just…” Beca sighs and looks over, her eyes wide and sincere. “If you feel uncomfortable at any point, tell me – a signal, or – or something, and we’ll leave.”

It occurs to Chloe then that Beca isn’t worried about this dinner for her own sake.

“I will,” Chloe promises, watching Beca’s grip on the wheel relax. “Do we need a code word?”

She’s mostly joking, but Beca’s expression clears and she turns to Chloe seriously.

“Smart, I like that,” Beca says. She leans back into her seat, bringing a hand to her chin in thought. “Um. Okay. Let’s see. Snorkel?”

“What? In what context would that come up?”

“I – fine. Uh, Titanium?”

The corners of Chloe’s lips twitch upward. That’s a good one. But…

“Eh…” she shrugs. “It has to be something that we might actually say in normal conversation.”

“Oh, but – fine,” Beca says as she burrows further back into her seat and crosses her arms. The crease between her brows deepens, and Chloe can almost hear her mind whirring. She knows what Beca’s doing, but they can only put off the inevitable for so long, especially considering Warren has clearly already seen them.

“Pineapple?” Beca suggests suddenly.

Chloe twists against her seat belt, staring hard at Beca, searching for any sign she’s joking. Beca stares back, her expression neutral.

“Pineapple?” Chloe asks. She has to confirm.

“Yeah, it’s my favorite fruit,” Beca replies with complete sincerity.

Chloe raises her eyebrows.

“Good to know,” she mutters, mostly to herself.

“What?”

“Pineapple it is, then!” Chloe agrees, ignoring Beca’s question. “So that’s settled.”

“Right,” Beca says bracingly. She takes a deep, hopefully calming breath, then looks sideways at Chloe. “Let’s do this.”

Chloe reaches out to touch the back of Beca’s hand, trying to reassure her. “They said they’d try, Beca. That counts for something.”

Beca nods, her lips drawn into a thin line. She gives Chloe one last strained-looking smile, then unbuckles her seat belt and steps out of the car.

Chloe follows, only a second behind, and meets Beca at the front of the car to walk down the sidewalk together. Beca’s hands ball into fists at her sides, then relax, then ball up again in anxious rhythm. It makes Chloe uneasy, too, and her hand reflexively twitches toward Beca’s. She catches herself in time, though, deciding that it might be better to keep physical affection to a minimum.

They reach the plain front door, and Beca raises a fist to rap smartly on it. As soon as she’s done, her hand drops to envelop Chloe’s. Chloe glances over, surprised.

Beca’s already grinning crookedly at her. “You make me happy. If they don’t accept that, it’s their problem.”

Chloe’s heart melts, but before she can respond, the door swings open and Warren greets them with a large, slightly manic smile.

“Hi Beca, Chloe, thanks for coming out!” he greets enthusiastically.

Chloe flinches a little at the phrasing, and there’s an awkward silence. Warren’s eyes drop to their intertwined hands, and his expression freezes momentarily. His right eye twitches.

“Thank you for the invite,” Chloe manages as graciously as she can. If they’re going to fault her for anything, it won’t be her manners.

“Of course,” Warren beams, his attention diverted from their joined hands. “Come on inside.”

He stands aside, gesturing into the house. Beca takes the lead, stepping over the threshold with one final glance at Chloe, who smiles in a way she hopes is reassuring. Beca drops her hand and removes her shoes in the entryway, so Chloe mimics her. Once her shoes are off, Chloe closes the door behind her, ignoring the trapped feeling that suddenly constricts her chest.

Sheila isn’t there to greet them, but Chloe can hear a clattering of pots and pans from deeper within the house.

“So, come on in to the living room,” Warren leads the way deeper into the house. “Sheila’s just got dinner cooking.”

Beca pulls a face that Warren, thankfully, doesn’t see. “No takeout?”

“No, she wanted to make this special, Beca.”

Beca glances at Chloe, giving her a significant look as they enter the main sitting room. “Don’t eat until you see Sheila take the first bite,” she warns in an undertone.

Chloe shushes her with a roll of her eyes.

Warren sits down heavily on an armchair, waving at the adjacent couch to indicate that they should join him. The television is already on, playing Die Hard, but Warren turns the volume down while they settle. Beca plops herself in the corner of the couch, and Chloe sits next to her, careful to keep a sizeable gap between them. Beca glances at her but doesn’t say anything.

On the TV, Bruce Willis stares seriously at the camera.

“So…” Beca’s dad clears his throat and shifts in the armchair. “How’re things going, then?

“The usual,” Beca replies, her eyes on the TV.

“Yeah, good,” Chloe says to Warren, desperate to hold some kind of conversation, even if it’s mundane.

“Good, good. Both applying for jobs?”

Chloe nods, seeing Beca do the same out of the corner of her eye.

The sound of clattering pans gets louder from within the house. Beca tenses beside her.

“Yeah, Beca’s told me a lot about her own job search,” Warren says, glancing between them and the TV. “What about yours, Chloe?”

“Um, not bad,” Chloe starts, and tells him about applying for various animal medicine internships around the country. As she talks, she feels Beca’s eyes on the side of her face.

“Interesting, interesting,” Warren muses once she’s finished. “I thought you’d wanted to be a teacher?”

“I thought vet school would be more my speed.”

Warren nods sagely, falling silent. This time when his eyes drift to the TV, they stay there.

The distinct sound of a refrigerator door opening, and of someone rifling around inside, reaches Chloe’s ears. She glances at Beca, who’s already looking at her.

“Maybe I should offer –”

“No. She’s fine,” Beca says sharply.

Warren glances over, frowning lightly.

“So, what cities are you looking into again?” he asks, though Chloe had already told him when she’d been talking about the internships.

“Um, New York, Nashville –”

This time, there’s a huge, clattering bang from within the house, as if Sheila had dropped a cookie sheet. Beca starts at the sound, glaring in the direction of the kitchen.

“You know what, I’m going to offer to help,” Chloe says, rising from the couch.

“Chlo –”

“It’s fine,” she says, hoping she seems more confident than she feels.

“Let her go, Beca,” Warren says tiredly.

Beca’s eyes, suddenly harsh, lock onto him.

Chloe leaves them there, not wanting to see that argument, and heads toward the commotion. She follows the sound to the large kitchen, where Sheila stands at the stove with her back to her, preparing something with tomato sauce.

It’s hard for Chloe to imagine that this is the woman who’d asked if Beca was molested.

***************

“So, are you seeing anyone?” Chloe’s mom, Cheryl, asks before taking a sip from her hot chocolate.

“Mom,” Chloe sighs affectionately, her eyes darting to where her dad and brother play Mario Kart in the other room. “You know I’m not. I’m gonna focus on school.”

Grinning mischievously, Cheryl leans forward and replies, “I know that’s what you said after Tom, but honey, it’s been six months. That’s a long time for you.”

Chloe glances down at her own hot chocolate resting on the table in front of her. Soft Christmas music floats over the kitchen, filling the brief silence between her and her mom.

“What does that say about me?” Chloe finally asks, looking up with a small smile.

Cheryl’s eyebrows lift. “Nothing, Chloe, nothing! You’re not – look, you just have a lot of love to give, and normally you don’t hold back for this long.”

“I know,” Chloe smiles, reaching to brush her fingers over the back of her mom’s hand. “It’s just that with the new Bellas and – and, well, with Aubrey being so stressed after last year, there’s not really time to…” she trails off, caught under Cheryl’s knowing look.

“Who are they?” Cheryl asks with another sip from her mug.

Chloe doesn’t quite manage to keep the grin off her face as she replies grudgingly, “Fine. There is this… one girl. She’s a new Bella.”

“What’s her name?”

“Beca,” Chloe replies, her smile widening further. “Beca Mitchell.”

“That’s a nice name.”

Chloe nods. “It suits her.”

“She’s nice?” Cheryl asks playfully, digging a bit further.

“She is, yeah,” Chloe says, stirring her hot chocolate for something to do with her hands. “She’s quiet, a little… hard to get to know? But I can tell she’s kind. And really pretty. I think she feels more than she lets on, too.”

“Mmm, the best people feel the most,” Cheryl says with a wink. “You always did.”

“Yeah, well, that’s great and all, but there’s a problem,” Chloe replies, her mood darkening. “I’m pretty sure she’s straight, and she hangs out with some guy a lot. A Treble.”

Cheryl sits back in her chair, looking at Chloe thoughtfully. In the other room, the game – a gift Chris had unwrapped that morning – grows louder.

“Is she the one you’re always daydreaming about?” Cheryl asks after a moment.

“Uh…” Chloe blinks, again finding herself caught; her mom knows her too well.

“Honey, you’ve been staring off into space all break so far, and it was the same over Thanksgiving. I know you’re thinking about someone special. Is it her?”

“It’s – yeah,” Chloe admits with an embarrassed huff. “I guess I think about her a lot.”

Cheryl smiles and rises from the table, taking her hot chocolate with her. “Well, she sounds pretty special, straight or not. And you never know, maybe one day…” she trails off, letting the sentence hang. “Don’t give up on the special ones,” she says, then gestures to the sitting room. “Wanna join Chris and your dad?”

Grateful, and feeling marginally better, Chloe stands from the table as well. “Yeah, let’s do it. And thanks,” she adds.

“Anytime, honey,” Cheryl says, drawing Chloe in for a quick, one-armed hug and peck on the top of her head. “And keep me posted.”

“I will,” Chloe promises. “But first, I’m gonna beat all of you on Rainbow Road.”

“In your dreams!” Chris calls out as Chloe and Cheryl walk into the sitting room to play the game.

***************

Not wanting to startle Sheila, Chloe makes her next steps into the kitchen heavier than she normally would. “Hi, Sheila,” she greets when Sheila twists around. “How are you?”

“Oh, good, Chloe, you?” Sheila replies with a thin-lipped smile.

It’s not much, but it still encourages Chloe to move further into the kitchen. She reminds herself that she’s met Sheila before, and they’ve always gotten along well.

“Can I help with dinner at all?” she asks, standing at the counter next to Sheila.

Sheila looks up in surprise, taking a step to the side and away from Chloe. “Oh,” she says, “that’s – that’s nice of you, thank you. It’s nothing fancy, just a pasta bake, some veggies.”

Chloe looks down at the large ceramic bowl set out on the counter in front of them, into which Sheila has poured cooked pasta, mushrooms, onions, and the tomato sauce.

“Okay, is there something you’d like me to do?”

“Uh –” Sheila looks around the kitchen, not quite meeting Chloe’s eyes. “Would you like to chop some veggies and spin the salads while I pop the pasta in the oven?”

“For sure,” Chloe agrees amicably, moving over to give herself more counter space.

Sheila goes to the fridge, pulling out carrots and celery, along with lettuce, cherry tomatoes, and some cucumber for a salad. She sets the produce on the counter in front of Chloe without a word, then pulls out a chopping board out and a knife, placing them on the counter as well.

“Um, thanks,” Chloe says, reaching for the board and knife to move it in front of her. Sheila doesn’t reply, and still won’t quite look her in the eyes.

Chloe clenches her jaw and starts cutting up the carrots and celery. She’s very aware of the way Sheila stands next to her at the counter, posture ramrod straight and keeping a careful distance between them. They work in silence, Sheila adding cheese to the top of the pasta and Chloe continuing to chop until she has a healthy pile of veggies in front of her. She looks around, spotting a tray waiting on the counter, a little beyond where Sheila works. She reaches for it, having to stretch in front of Sheila.

Even as she reaches, Sheila backs away, recoiling from her. Chloe doesn’t allow herself to react, only grabs the tray and starts transferring the cut-up vegetables to it. She tells herself she’s imagining things, surely, but then Sheila inches farther away, nudging the salad spinner toward her so they never have to touch.

The muscles in Chloe’s back tense.

Sheila turns, putting the pasta into the oven and starting a timer for seven minutes. As she does, Chloe loads the lettuce and tomatoes into the salad spinner and moves to the sink. She runs water into the spinner and starts the it, while behind her, Sheila takes her place at the chopping block. A drawer opens, and Chloe risks a glance back; Sheila has pulled out a different knife to slice the cucumber, choosing to dirty another dish rather than touch something Chloe used.

Chloe spins the salad. She swallows, hard, and counts to ten silently.

“So…” Sheila starts, her voice mild. “You and Beca… that’s pretty serious?”

Chloe hesitates, unsure how to respond. She keeps her back to Sheila, using the salad spinner as an excuse. Eventually, she decides that honesty, while probably not what Sheila wants to hear, is the best policy.

“Yeah, it is. I love her.”

The knife, chopping against the cutting board, pauses.

“She – she said something similar.”

Despite the chill in Sheila’s voice, a soft glow fills Chloe’s chest at that; Beca loves her, and she loves Beca.

“You know, dear…” Sheila continues, her voice turning falsely sweet. “At such a young age… it’s easy to be confused about what love is.”

Chloe’s hands twitch against the salad spinner. She grips it more tightly.

“It’s easy to be confused about a lot, actually,” Sheila adds.

Chloe turns, salad in hand, and returns to the counter. She and Sheila stand side-by-side, both pretending to be focused on the salad.

“We’re not confused,” Chloe says, struggling to keep her tone neutral as she divides the lettuce and tomatoes into four separate bowls.

“Well. You might not be.”

“What?”

“I’m just saying, before this summer, Beca never showed a – well, a preference for that... lifestyle.”

Chloe remains silent. She doesn’t know what to say.

“It just makes me wonder how influential you may have been in that decision.”

“It’s not a decision,” Chloe blurts, hearing the annoyance in her own voice.

“It seems like it is,” Sheila says, now adding cucumber slices to each of the salads. “She made the decision to end a long-term with a good, respectable boy and start one with... you.”

“Beca –”

“She was going to live with him, you know.”

“Yeah, I – I know.” Chloe knows perfectly well.

“And then she just up and changed her mind, huh?”

“Well, I mean –”

Sheila slams her hands down onto the counter, startling Chloe and making the salad bowls rattle. “Did you ask her to break up with Jesse?”

Chloe flinches away. “N-No, I –”

“What’s going on?”

Beca appears in the doorway to the kitchen, lips thin and eyes like thunder.

The tension leaves Chloe’s body instantly. Beca glances at her, her gaze softening as Chloe meets her eyes: I’m okay. It’s okay.

“Chloe’s been helping with dinner,” Sheila replies swiftly. “Just some girl talk.”

Beca moves around the counter, sliding herself between Chloe and Sheila so that her back is to Chloe. She extends a hand behind herself briefly, and Chloe brushes their fingers together, trying to reassure her.

“About my ex-boyfriend?” Beca’s voice is low and dangerous.

“It’s okay,” Chloe whispers, but it’s like Beca doesn’t even hear her.

Sheila waves a hand with a fake, simpering laugh. “Oh, well, we were just –”

“Sheila, if you can’t manage to –”

The oven buzzer goes off loudly, interrupting Beca and startling them all.

“Dinner!” Warren calls out, walking into the kitchen, his expression anxious as he takes in the tension in the room. “Great timing! I’m, uh, starving.”

Sheila bustles to the oven, pulling a pair of oven mitts from the drawer next to it. As she goes, Beca turns to Chloe and leans in close under pretext of examining the salads.

“Is there any fruit with dinner?” she asks, her voice laced with meaning.

Chloe knows what she’s asking. They could leave now, claim some Bella emergency, or even just leave without bothering to make an excuse. For a second, she’s tempted. It would be easy to walk away now and leave Sheila’s ridiculous claims drifting in the dust behind them. But this is Beca’s family. Doing that might damage her relationship with them forever. And, besides, the worst of it must be over; now that Beca and Warren are there, surely Sheila will be civil.

And anyway, wouldn’t leaving just enforce Sheila’s false belief in some influence Chloe supposedly has over Beca?

Chloe shakes her head, refusing to use their code word. Beca’s face turns stony, her eyes searching Chloe’s carefully.

“Just a salad, I’m afraid,” Sheila replies, carrying the pasta bake to the already-set table. “Didn’t think of fruit.”

“Right,” Beca says faintly, reaching to grab two of the salad bowls. “I was just wondering about… never mind.”

Chloe takes the other two bowls, relieved that Beca had decided to trust her judgment and at least wait through dinner.

She and Beca carry the salads over while Warren grabs salad dressing and a bottle of red wine to drink with dinner. Chloe’s surprised; he’s really trying to make this dinner special. Or, maybe he just drinks a lot.

She wouldn’t blame him.

The dining table is long and rectangular, with two chairs on the sides and one on each end. Beca takes a chair on the far side directly across from Sheila. Chloe debates sitting next to Sheila – maybe the farther from Beca, the better – but then Beca’s eyes meet hers and she dismisses the thought, moving next to Beca so Warren can take his place beside his wife.

Sheila dishes out the pasta while everyone starts on their salads; Beca stares at hers in repulsion before pouring copious amounts of salad dressing over it. Nobody speaks, the crunching of salad alone breaking the silence.

Beside her, Beca fidgets and stares fixedly at her plate, her posture almost as pristine as Aubrey’s. Tension rolls from her, making Chloe’s hand twitch, aching to reach out and comfort her. She has to refrain from her natural impulse to place her hand on Beca’s thigh, or to move her chair closer to Beca’s.

Putting her now-empty salad bowl aside, Chloe digs her fork into some of the pasta Sheila had placed onto her plate. She tries not to let it bother her that she definitely received a smaller portion than everyone else at the table and takes a few bites of it without comment.

“This is very good,” she says politely, though it actually tastes somewhat like cardboard.

“Thank you,” Sheila replies stiffly, taking a generous sip of the wine Warren had divided between them all.

For another several minutes, all that can be heard is the sound of forks against plates. Chloe kind of wishes Beca would say something, but judging by the way she’s still glaring down at her plate, it might be best for her to remain silent.

A minute later, Warren takes a breath and says, “So, uh… how’s it going with the Bellas?”

Beca looks up for the first time since dinner started. “Emily’s taking over. I told you that,” she says.

“That’s a big responsibility for one person,” Warren replies, ignoring Beca’s clipped tone. “Is she going to be able to handle that?”

Chloe nods and answers, “We have faith in her. She’s tough.”

Beca glances over at her, posture relaxing slightly. “Yeah, that kid knows what she’s doing. Way more than I did when I started.”

“Yes, you’ve certainly come a long way,” Warren agrees, smiling warmly at Beca.

Chloe also smiles, thinking of the moody “alt-girl” who’d once thought a cappella was lame.

“Hasn’t she come a long way?” Warren twists in his chair to ask Sheila pointedly. Chloe feels her own smile drop.

“Hm?” Sheila glances up at him, then over at Beca. “Oh, yes, very proud. The performances, they were quite good.”

“I always showed them to her on my phone,” Warren explains, as if that would make up for Sheila not attending even one of their performances in a four-year span. “I recorded them.”

“The two of them you went to?” Beca asks, stabbing a noodle with her fork.

Chloe shifts in her chair, dropping her eyes back to her own plate. Both her parents had been at every Nationals performance for each of the six years she’d competed, plus at several of their other performances. They’d recorded each and every one.

Chloe sets aside her fork, suddenly not very hungry.

“What are the other Bellas doing now?” Warren asks after a pregnant pause.

“Um,” Beca takes a deep breath, maybe regretting her outburst. “Stacie is going into… Naval Engineering? Something? Um, Lilly is gonna… actually, I don’t know. Something creepy. Aubrey’s still doing the lodge thing.”

“Corporate camp counselor,” Chloe corrects, then warms under Sheila’s stare.

“Right, that,” Beca gestures vaguely, “Let’s see. Flo will… hopefully not be deported. Jessica and Ashley… um. Who knows?”

“You seem very vague on the lives of your friends,” Sheila comments with a sip of wine. “Almost as if they’re being pushed to the side to accommodate someone else lately.”

“Woah, hey –”

“It’s just because all our plans are vague right now,” Chloe jumps in quickly. “We do know Amy’s getting engaged… possibly. And Cynthia Rose is for sure getting married.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” Warren says. “Have you met the fiancé? Do you like him?”

Chloe opens her mouth to correct him politely, but before she can, Beca stiffens.

“He’s a she,” Beca says sharply. “And she’s amazing.”

Sheila makes some sort of derisive laugh disguised as a cough, then attempts to hide her reaction behind another swig of wine. Her glass is mostly empty already, and she reaches for the bottle to replenish it. When Warren looks at her, she waves him off dismissively.

“And then there’s you two,” Warren deflects, turning back to Beca and Chloe.

Despite already having described their future plans in detail, Chloe nods, happy to change the subject. “Yeah, we’re job hunting.”

Sheila looks up at the “we,” her eyes narrowed. Chloe winces internally at the slip-up, small as it was.

“All over, by the sounds of it,” Warren says proudly.

“Still no LA?” Sheila asks Beca suddenly.

Beca glowers back at her and doesn’t reply.

“I thought you always wanted LA.”

“I did, but –”

“Let me guess. Something changed that plan.”

Beca sighs, putting down her fork. “There are music production studios across the country.”

“The best are in LA. I don’t understand why you suddenly don’t want to go there.”

“I don’t like the weather,” Beca quips.

“Sunny and beautiful?”

“There are earthquakes.”

“They’re rare. You’d be fine.”

Beca rolls her eyes and leans forward. “You haven’t cared about my plans for the last, oh, five years. Why start now?”

“Beca –” Warren tries.

Sheila cuts over him. “I want to make sure you’re making the right decisions, not ones planted into your brain,” she says, eyes flicking in Chloe’s direction.

“Oh my god, that’s not –”

“This pasta really is great, Sheila,” Chloe says loudly, desperate to deflect. “Can I have the recipe?”

No one even glances at her. Chloe’s face burns, though whether from shame or anger, she isn’t sure.

“I’m assuming the cities you’re applying in have been influenced by something? Some one?” Sheila asks nastily, leaving no question as to what she believes that influence is.

“What?” Beca gasps. “That is not –”

Sheila turns to Chloe abruptly, her eyes vindictive. “And where are you planning on going?”

“Oh, um –”

“No, no, let me guess. New York? Chicago? Nashville?”

Chloe hesitates. She can’t lie; she shouldn’t have to.

“I knew it!” Sheila cries and throws her hands up, victorious. She turns on Beca, ranting, “You’re trailing along after her, letting this – this phase you’re in dictate the rest of your life!”

Chloe shrinks back into her chair, trying to make herself smaller.

“It’s not a phase! I lo–”

“Oh, you love her, I know! How sweet!” Sheila laughs, a cold, cruel sound that makes Chloe’s skin crawl. “Guess what, Beca? That’s a load of shit. You can’t possibly be in love with –”

“Chloe, would you like more to drink?” Warren asks loudly.

“Oh, like that’ll make anything better!” Beca rounds on him. “Why don’t you tell your homophobic wife to –”

“How exactly is this going to work?” Sheila interrupts snidely.

“Hey –”

“You’ll try to make it long distance?”

“We –”

“Or will you work in the same city?”

“That’s –”

“Living together?”

“It’s none of your business! Shut up!” Beca explodes, slamming her hands on the table and rising from her chair so abruptly it falls backward with a thunderous bang.

Chloe doesn’t know what to do. She sits, rooted into her chair, with angry tears prickling her eyes.

The idea that anyone could hate her so much for loving their child is utterly appalling.

Chloe finally realizes that this whole idea had been foolish. It’s her fault they’re there in the first place, and they need to leave, now.

Without thinking, Chloe twists in her chair, putting one hand over Beca’s on the table and one hand on her lower back. Beca looks down at her, eyes wide and scared.

Chloe starts, “Babe, please –”

“Babe?” Sheila screeches, going ballistic. “Babe!”

Warren puts a hand on her arm. “Sheila, it’s not –”

“No, Warren! I’ve seen enough!” Sheila yells, throwing his hand off and pointing directly at Chloe’s face. “This whore has corrupted your daughter, infecting her with the same, twisted mental illness so she can have her way with her with utter abandon, using her body in unnatural ways for her own sick pleasure –”

“SHUT UP!” Beca roars, so loudly that Chloe flinches away. “Just shut the fuck up!”

For the first time ever, Chloe is scared by Beca’s anger. Not scared of it – Beca would never hurt her – but scared by it, because she’s never seen Beca like this, eyes narrowed and towering over the table, quivering with rage.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Beca hisses. “How dare you say that?”

“Beca, please –”

She rounds on Warren, sparks flying from her eyes.

“Did you hear what she said?”

“I’m only speaking the truth,” Sheila insists, downing the remaining wine in a single gulp.

With a wordless screech of rage, Beca snarls, “By calling my girlfriend a whore? By accusing Chloe of – of –”

Chloe flinches at Beca’s unspoken words. Sheila stares at her triumphantly, the full meaning behind her words written across her face, reaching into Chloe’s soul and dragging out her worst fear, on display for everyone to see.

Chloe Beale, you are a predator.

Warren leans forward, one hand outstretched cautiously. “Beca, we are your family –”

“Do not,” Beca yells, “pull that bullshit on me! You’ve known Chloe for years so to even imply that she’s taking advantage –”

Sheila snorts, remaining calm and cool in her chair. “She’s making you act in ways that you –”

“Oh, fuck off! You don’t know anything about –”

“Beca, please,” Chloe whispers.

“– what we’ve been through to get here, so you can take your prejudiced, bigoted, backward –”

“Beca, stop,” Chloe begs, again grabbing Beca’s hand to get her attention, “Don’t – not over this, please – let’s just go.”

Beca’s eyes snap to her, all fury and pain, but as Chloe looks at her, Beca seems to return to herself.

“Chloe, I –” she starts, then swallows, her voice soft and hoarse. “We’re leaving.”

“I – okay,” Chloe rises from the chair instantly, trying hard not to look at Sheila, who she knows is watching them with intense satisfaction.

Warren rises from the table, distressed.

“Beca, Chloe, I’m – wait, please,” he reaches out to Chloe, as if to grasp her arm.

“Don’t touch her!” Beca spits, moving between them.

He retracts his hand as if stung, his eyes wide and – Chloe spots with a jolt to her stomach – watery. Behind him, still seated at the table, Sheila takes a bite of her pasta, looking every bit as though this outcome is exactly what she’d hoped for.

“I’m done with this, and until you figure it out, I’m done with you, too,” Beca says, her own eyes starting to swim.

Warren jerks back, mouth opening in surprise, and Chloe turns away sharply; she can’t bear to look at him anymore.

Instead, she follows Beca to the entryway. Her head is light, floaty, and she feels every single heartbeat pounding in her chest. She has to reach out a hand to the wall, steadying herself, as she slides her shoes on.

In front of her, Beca’s still trembling as she slams her feet into her shoes. When she looks up, a couple of tears roll down her face but she’s quick to swipe them away with the back of her hand.

“Ready?” she manages, and Chloe nods wordlessly.

Beca goes to the front door, flinging it open with a bang as it ricochets against the wall. Chloe hears quick footsteps and turns; Warren is right behind them, looking scared.

“Let me know when you get home,” he whispers to her frantically. “And I’m sorry.”

Chloe doesn’t know what to do; she can’t say it’s okay, because nothing has ever been less okay.

“Chloe!”

Beca calls to her, and with one last grimace at Warren, Chloe joins her at the front door. Beca grabs her hand, and then they’re moving, Beca practically dragging her from the house, leaving the door gaping wide behind them.

They half-jog to the car, Beca only releasing Chloe’s hand when they’ve reached it. Beca rounds the front of the car, throwing herself into the driver’s seat. Chloe fumbles with the door handle, having to try three times until she manages to get it open so she can slide into the passenger seat.

Behind the wheel, Beca’s fumbling with the keys, swearing and fuming, as she tries to get them into the ignition.

“Beca, stop,” Chloe says, reaching out to grab Beca’s wrist.

“We have to –”

“They’re not following, and you’re not driving like this,” Chloe says, surprised at how steady her voice comes out even though she’s shaking almost as badly as Beca.

“I’m fine.”

“You absolutely are not. Breathe, Bec, breathe, and look at me for a second.”

Beca doesn’t move.

“Beca, please, look at me.”

When she finally does, Chloe’s horrified at the pain and fear shining at her from Beca’s eyes. Beca’s crying properly now, tears slipping down her cheeks without restraint.

Chloe glances at the house; no one is actually following them, but she wouldn’t be surprised if Warren was watching them from the front window again.

“Give me the keys,” Chloe pleads, keeping her voice low and gentle. “Please, Bec.”

For a scary second, she doesn’t think Beca’s going to do it. But then, her wrist twists in Chloe’s grip until she’s holding the keys in her open palm, offering them to Chloe.

“Okay,” Chloe exhales. “Okay. I’ll drive.”

Beca nods, pushing her hands into her hair. “Not home,” she chokes out, her voice thick.

“What?”

“I can’t – the Bellas – not home.”

“Okay,” Chloe says again, taken aback but thinking rapidly. “I’ll find a – a hotel or something.”

Beca nods and takes a breath, then reopens her door and steps out so Chloe can take her place behind the wheel.

[babyleclerc]

If I Didn’t Have You

Pairings: Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Style: One-Shot/Drabble

Warnings: Language? Maybe. But that’s it, I think. Fluff x100.

Word Count: 1K

Summary: Studying isn’t so bad when you’ve got an adorable Tom Hiddleston by your side.

A/N: IDK what this is except it came to me at 1AM last night and I had to get it out. Fluff w/ our favorite man. As always, dedicated to the LOML and best friend @sxbastianstan. Partially inspired by a prompt from the ever-hilarious and slightly psychotic @take-my-life-not-my-heart <33333 Y’all make this hellsite 10000000% more bearable.

“What’s your plan, Stan?”

Normally your boyfriend’s antics would make you smile, but tonight you just weren’t in the mood. Stupid microbiology ruining your life. It was as if the cells on the page were mocking you, begging you to go bed so you’d fail your exam the next day. You sighed, running a hand through your hair.

“I told you I probably wouldn’t be going to bed for a while.” You replied, a little edgier than you had planned. You winced at your own words slightly. “I need to study this chapter a little longer.” You added, hoping it would soften the blow.

“No problem,” Tom responded, completely unphased by your tone. He rested a hand on your shoulder, bending over to press a gentle kiss on top of your head. “I’ll stay up with you.” He glanced down at your textbook, “Can I help?”

“Not unless you can tell me...” You glanced down at the page of your textbook, reading the words verbatim. “The different types of hypersensitivity and immunodeficiency disorders and how to treat them.”

Tom chuckled at the statement, shaking his head. “I’m afraid you’re on your own for that one, darling.”

You groaned in response, letting your forehead fall onto your textbook, admitting defeat. “This is useless. What’s the point of having a boyfriend who reads everything but can’t explain to me basic microbiology?”

Tom laughed, tousling your hair gently. “I don’t read everything, darling. Just literature that interests me.”

You raised your head from your textbook, glaring at him and deadpanned, “You’ve read the Iliad three times. Since I’ve met you.”

“Yes, as I said earlier: literature that interests me.” He replied cheerfully, plopping down on the sofa adjacent to the desk you were studying at. He leaned forward and grabbed the book that was resting on the coffee table in front of him, settling down comfortably. “I don’t read books about biology, dear.”

“Well why not?” You pouted, drawing out the end of your sentence. Tom raised an eyebrow at you, skeptical of your whining.

“You’re stalling.” He commented, knowing you all too well.

“Am not.” You insist, standing up and stretching. Tom watched you closely, eyes narrowing like a hawk as you grinned, advancing towards him. “I’m just taking a break.”

“Mhmmm.” Tom set his book down, opening his arms as you gladly fell into them, straddling his hips gently. His hands easily found your hips and rested there. “Didn’t you take a break 10 minutes ago to eat chocolate chips from the fridge?”

“That was a snack break.” You reply, grinning as you begin gently feathering kisses along his neck, stopping periodically to nuzzle your face into his scruff. You’d been so skeptical when he’d warned you he wanted to grow a beard; you were worried he wouldn’t look as sharp as he usually did but boy, were you wrong. The messy hair and added scruff had only seemed to aid in your attraction to him and the memories of his scruffy face between your legs made you squirm slightly against his torso.

You felt his chest chuckle lightly at your response, “And what kind of break is this?” He asked, thoroughly amused at your willingness to do anything but study.

“Hmmmm,” you paused for a moment, thinking. “A sex break?” You grinned, moving away from his neck so you could see the twinkle in his eye as you said it.

He laughed heartily, squeezing your hips gently. “As incredible as that sounds,” he placed a gentle kiss on your right wrist which rested on his shoulder. “And believe me, it sounds incredible,” he placed another kiss just above the last, “I can tell when I’m being used as a distraction, and I won’t be the reason you fail out of medical school.” Another gentle kiss to your arm.

You groaned again, falling onto your side dramatically, half of your body still draped across Tom as you lay limp on the sofa. “It’s fine, failure is a part of life. It’ll make me stronger. Isn’t that what the light bulb guy said or something?”

“Light bulb guy?” Tom mocked, pinching your sides with a grin. You glared in return. “Thomas Edison,” He corrected easily, “And yes, he did find 10,000 ways not to make a light bulb. But he never gave up. Sounds like you could use a page from his book.”

“Yeah, but we needed electricity to do basic human things, so he couldn’t give up. We don’t really need more Doctors, therefore it’s socially acceptable for me to give up.”

“Now you’re just talking nonsense.” Tom slapped your butt affectionately, “Come on my cute little med student, get back to studying.”

You whined again, attempting to make the cutest pouting face possible to distract Tom from making you study.

“Oh, stop it, you big baby. Go study your hypertensive disorders and I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

“Hypersensitivity.” It was your turn to correct him now, “And coffee.”

Tom rolled his eyes, taking your hand and gently pulling you towards the desk and off the couch. “You drink too much of that caffeinated nonsense. Your tea will be ready shortly.”

Fin.

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[tomgcsglasses]

Pineapple Juice (TH)

Requested by: @bagelblossom. 

Tagging: @ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff, @tom-newsie-holland and @fionnglynnlowden. 

“Judging by your test results, it appears you are lacking certain types of vitamins in your diet. You need to consume a large intake of potassium, vitamin B and iron.” Your Doctor told you. You sat adjacent to him with your test results in his hand. His glasses were propped on the edge of his nose as the examined the paper, then turned to you. 

“So, what do I need to change? Diet wise.” You asked as you shifted into a more comfortable position on your chair. 

Your Doctor rubbed his chin as he thought for a moment. “Definitely eat more vegetables, they are good source of iron. With regards to potassium, the obvious answer would be bananas. However, if you want to be different then pineapples are also high in potassium as well as vitamin B.”

You nodded. “Right ok. Anything else?” Your Doctor began to search through his desk, his face lit up as he retrieved a piece of paper from underneath the mountain of paperwork. 

“Here is a list of everything you should be eating. Don’t feel pressured to eat everything on here, just try and incorporate these into your meals and snacks. For example, if you don’t want to eat pineapples, try drinking juice instead.” 

“Okay, thank you.” You took the piece of paper and stood up. Your Doctor mirrored your actions and stood up aswell. 

“That’s it for today, unless there’s anything else that’s on your mind?” 

You shook your head. “That’s everything, thank you.” You gestured to the piece of paper.

Your Doctor nodded. “Alright then. Take care Y/N.”

“You too.” You smiled at him, turned around and walked out of his office.

-----

You placed the keys in the bowl on a table, hung your coat on the hook and placed your bag on the floor with the piece of paper in your hand. You walked into the living room where you saw your boyfriend Tom on his laptop with his glasses on. He noticed you come in because he turned his head to you, giving you a warm smile. You walked to the sofa and took a seat next to Tom, placing your head on his left shoulder. 

Tom wrapped his arm around yours, pulling you in closer. “How did it go?” You didn’t respond with words, instead you just nodded and nuzzled your nose into his shoulder. “Ok then.” Tom chuckled. 

You lifted your head up slightly. “Whatcha doing?” 

“Oh, just research for my next role.” 

You smiled, resumed your position on his shoulder and closed your eyes. 

-----

The next day, you and Tom were on the sofa once again. You were sat next to each other, each with your laptops and a cup of tea in hand, typing away vigorously. You decided to look more into what your Doctor advised you to do yesterday, you weren’t keen on 85% of what was on this list but you wanted to have a healthier diet. 

After lots of research, you were on the best choice - pineapple. You read articles upon articles on how beneficial pineapple was for your body. You were engrossed in an article about a woman who had a whole pineapple every day and how it changed her life, when you were rudely interrupted.

“No way?!” Tom exclaimed, tearing yourself away from the riveting article you looked at Tom. 

“What?” You asked.

“As if we’re both researching the same thing!” Tom moved his laptop, so you could see the screen better. You squinted a little, then realised he was researching about pineapples too.

A little confused you cocked your head to the side. “Er. Why are you researching about pineapples?” 

“Oh, didn’t you know. The myth about the pineapple?” Tom asked, in return you gave him a blank look. “Seriously you don’t know?” You shook your head slowly, getting even more confused. “Then why are you reading about it?”

“Well, you know how I went to the Doctors yesterday?” Tom nodded. “He gave me a list of food I need to make my diet better and pineapple is high in potassium and vitamin B, so I’m just reading an article on how pineapple helped this woman who... Wait.” You turned to Tom and took off your glasses. “Why are you reading up on pineapples?” 

Tom readjusted his laptop so it was comfortable for him and ignored you.

“Thomas. Tell me now.” Nothing. “Thomas Stanley Holland, I demand you to tell me why you were researching pineapples because I know for sure it wasn’t ‘medically advised’.” 

Tom awkwardly coughed and rubbed the back of his head, as he looked down slightly and mumbled. 

“Babe.” You reached out and touched his shoulder. “C’mon, it’s me. Don’t be embarrassed.” 

“Okay.” Tom quietly said. He looked up nervously into your eyes. “So, me and Harrison were talking yesterday, whilst you were at the Doctors and he told me that pineapple makes you taste good.” Tom spoke rather fast, once he was done he looked down. 

“Taste good?” You ask, not quite sure what he meant.

“Yeah, y’know..” You shook your head. “Like y’know..” Tom gestured to his pants. You caught on to what he was on about as you raised your eyebrows.

“Oh, I see. Well does he know if it’s true?” 

Tom shrugged his shoulders. “No clue. That’s why I’m reading up on it, see if it’s true.”

You shook your head. “I bet you it doesn’t change anything.” 

Tom cocked an eyebrow up. “Oh really?” You nodded. “Well, I bet you it does.” 

“Oh, is this how it’s going to go?” Tom nodded. “Okay then. It’s on Holland.”

“Fine. For two weeks, we have one pineapple each every day, go down on each other and see if it works. I mean it works for you too, because you need to potassium and vitamin B.” Tom smirked at you.

“Hey!” You smacked his shoulder. “Rude comment aside, the bet is on.” 

“Alright Y/L/N.” Tom stuck his hand out and you shook it.

“2 weeks from now.” Tom nodded.

“2 weeks from now we put it to the test.” Tom winked.

-----

The time had finally come for you to go home, put your feet up and relax with a cup of tea. But you need that wasn’t going to happen because it had been exactly 2 weeks since you and Tom had made that bet. Odds on him wanting to go straight to the bed once you got home were pretty high. 

You chucked your keys into the bowl, which probably didn’t even go in but you were too lazy to walk back and set it straight. Instead you walked into the living room, only to find Tom stuffing his face with pineapple and gulping down pineapple juice.

“Er, what are you doing?”

Tom whipped his around. “Babe.” He greeted, with a mouthful of pineapple. 

“Lovely.” You said to yourself. “Cutting it a bit short aren’t we Holland?” You asked, gesturing to your watch. 

He shook his head and swallowed the pineapple. “Babe, I’m going to taste so sweet. You’re going to be begging for more.” He smirked as he wiped his mouth with the kitchen towel. 

“Hmm, you keep telling yourself that.” 

“So, shall we do this or what?” Tom asked, nodding to the bedroom with his head.

“You’re such a gentlemen.” You rolled your eyes, shrugging off your coat whilst Tom was already making his way to the bedroom. 

-----

Tom pushed you onto the bed, shedding off the last of your clothing. The most important garments were coming off, once he’d completed that task he attacked your neck. You threw your head back as you could feel him leaving bruises - seems like tomorrow will be a high neck top day. You moaned slightly as you felt him leave for what seemed like an eternity, leaving your body burning from his touch, you craved him all the more. You were on the verge on pleading for him to come back, when you were cut off with a gasp. You felt Tom’s hot tongue dip into you, he wasted no time as he swirled it around, hitting all of the right spots. You head buried deeper into the pillow as your hands tugged at his hair, pushing him deeper. The feel of his smirk and slight groan pushed you over the edge, as you released into his mouth. That didn’t hold him back from stopping, he carried on until you came down from your high; leaving you a sweaty mess as you watched his head pop up. 

“Delicious.” He smirked, his light brown eyes glistening, licking you off his lips. He slowly crawled up to you, peppering kisses up your body until he reached your lips. He hovered for a second and crashed his lips onto you. His tongue slipping into your mouth, letting you taste yourself. 

You wrapped your arms around Tom’s waist and in one swift motion flipped him over, so he was on his back and you were straddling him. Before you did anything else, you took a moment to admire how glorious he looked. He had his right arm above his head, his left hand digging into your hip, his short hair messy from you constantly tugging at it. His light brown, almost innocent, brown eyes looking up at with admiration and lust as he bit his lower lip, anticipating your next move. 

You leaned down and brushed your lips against him, he attempted to kiss you but you retrieved and focused your attention on his jaw. It was your turn to leave unmissable bruises on Tom’s neck and that you did. You could hear him groaning, his chest heaving slightly, he wanted you now. But being the tease you are, you smirked and took your time. Once you were satisfied with the bruises, you placed a light kiss on it and proceeded to devour the rest of his body. You licked from his abs to his v line, in which he bucked his hips up. You pinned them down and shook your head.

“You waited two weeks, you can wait another 5 minutes babe.” You glanced up and saw him with his eyes closed, squirming. This was torture for him. Finally, you reached his boxers, where you were greeted with a semi-hard on. You kissed his boxers, slowly turning the semi into a full-hard on. 

“Babe.” Tom inaudibly whispered. “Please.” He begged. You nodded and slowly took off his boxers. You placed light kisses up and down his member, eliciting a ‘fuck’ from Tom. When you reached the tip, you took it in your mouth and started swirling your tongue around it. Meanwhile your right hand began pumping at the base. Tom groaned as you felt his hands at the back of your head, cradling it as you took care of him. After lots of pumping and swirling, you felt Tom release himself into you. You happily swallowed and assisted him until he came down from his high. You couldn’t believe that the myths were true, he tasted divine. Once you heard the sigh you detached yourself from him and laid down next to him. 

“So, pineapple juice?” Tom asked, wrapping his hands around your right shoulder, pulling you in as you hitched your right leg over his legs and started drawing circles on his chest.

You hummed. “Hmmm, I don’t think 2 weeks was long enough.” You smirked. 

“Oh, is that so?”

You nodded your head. “I definitely think we need another 2 weeks.”

“I agree.” Tom laughed, placing a kiss on your head. You reached around and chucked Tom his boxers, whilst you retrieved his t-shirt and put it on. You then went back to your position next to Tom with your phone. “Seriously love, did it work?”

You looked up from your phone and nodded. “Yes, it did. You were right.”

“Oh good, I was afraid it didn’t work on me because it definitely worked on you.” He laughed. 

“No, it definitely worked on you. Don’t worry.” You chuckled, placing a soft kiss on his lips.

“Well, I for one am up for doing this in another 2 weeks. What else is on your list? Pomegranates maybe?” Tom asked, his hand making it’s way up your thigh.

[ecotone99]

[MF] Nosedive

Emma was up in the air about her position up in the air.

Being a flight attendant just wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. It was no longer the glory days of the classy Pan-Am stewardess, adorned in her robin blue dress and cap, long legs and aura of elegance. There was no more mingling with wealthy jetsetters in those luxury liners in the sky, those flying spectacles of glitz and glamour, jetting off to the globe’s most exotic locales. Now it was all about waiting on the impatient masses. The ever-impatient masses.

“Just a second!” Emma hissed. The fat man in 36C was trying to monopolize her attention again. He leaned back on his neck pillow, folds of sweaty red flesh billowing out the sides. Earbuds in, he snapped his fingers above his head as if the plane would nosedive straight into the ocean if she didn’t come serve him. Right. That. Moment.

She clamoured past Margaret, her near-octogenarian co-worker. Fifty years and a hundred pounds ago, Margaret could’ve been one of those glamorous Pan-Am girls that a young Emma had pictured in her dreams. Margaret pushed a clunky metal service cart, loaded with reanimated frozen food (“chicken or pasta?”, the modern attendant’s catchphrase). Her oversized rear-end nearly sent Emma tumbling into a row of French businessmen, pattering away on laptops.

“Sorry love” Margaret purred. Her rosy cheeks and sweet old lady demeanour masked her gross incompetence. Emma liked her slightly better than the other attendants though, a bunch of middle-aged chain-smokers with skin like leather. And Craig.

Cursing her life choices, she finally reached the fat man, who resembled a raging toddler. He was watching some lame action movie, Tom Cruise sprinting across the miniscule screen as a hoard of thugs and dead pixels closed in.

“Yes sir?” Emma asked in her customer service voice. Despite her extreme disdain, her paycheque mandated that she attempt to remain pleasant.

The man swished something around in his cheeks, and proceeded to spit a chunk of half-chewed food into the plastic platter on his tray-table. It was flanked by a small cup of water, a roll from the Middle Ages, and something the airline deemed a ‘brownie’.

“I ordered the pasta.”

“And what is that?

“It’s chicken!”

Dammit Margaret. Emma wearily glanced around. Margaret was headed into first-class, backside squeezing down the cabin, begging for a hard kick. There were rows of seat-backs and human scalps as far as the eye could see. She didn’t like breathing the same recycled air as these people. Only one thing to do.

“Craig!” she called out. Craig, the only other attendant her age, spun around, spilling a stream of orange juice across the lap of the woman with the sleep-mask he was serving. Craig had always had a massive crush on Emma, mainly because there as no one else to really have a crush on. He was kind of cute, as one would describe a puppy or a small squirrel as cute, with a soft baby-face and patches of adult acne.

“You got any more pastas?”

Craig fumbled through his cart, unsheathing a tray of regurgitated dogfood with steam-soaked plastic wrap over the top. He tossed in some packaged utensils.

“My lady” he cooed, passing it over the passengers’ heads between them.

“Thanks” Emma muttered, cringing.

“Don’t mention it!” Craig said excitedly. “I’ve got so many pastas. And chickens. And pastas. And chickens. And vegetarian pastas. And…”

Emma smiled at him, and he visibly swooned. That did the trick. She placed the new meal atop the fat man’s tray-table.

“There you go, one pasta.” She resisted the urge to add your majesty.

The man poked at a congealed glob of tomato sauce with his fork. “How long til Paris?” he sneered.

Emma glanced at her watch. “Just a couple hours.” The man could’ve easily looked at the virtual map on his TV. One of the few conveniences of modern air travel.

He grunted.

“Are you traveling with your wife?” Emma asked, mistakenly advancing the conversation. An equally-obese woman pooled in the seat beside him, dead asleep, slobber leaking from an open jaw. She wore a football jersey and Cheetos dust.

“Yeah” he sighed. “It’s our anniversary trip. She always wanted to go to Paris.”

“And what are you most excited to see? The Eiffel Tower? Notre Dame?”

“Euro Disney” he answered. “I’m gonna try to give her the slip in Frontierland.”

Emma nodded with the most plastic smile she could muster. Thankfully, she was pulled away by the monotone ding of a ‘call attendant’ button a few rows down. In fact, there were multiple ‘call attendant’ dings, an entire ear-piercing symphony. Emma shuffled down the fuselage to find an exasperated mother in a middle seat, yelling with a strained voice, two shrieking gremlins darting around her. They slipped through her arms whenever she attempted to snatch one. Deep crayon strokes were embedded in the seat-back. The old man in front of them, nose in the latest Dan Brown atrocity, was growing more agitated with each kick and jab.

“Uh, hi” Emma muttered, with a quick wave.

“Sorry, sorry, look, I didn’t press it, they’re just…” the mother started. A gremlin resumed spamming the ‘call attendant’ button, the ding blaring, the little light flickering. “JASON! STOP PRESSING THAT! YOU’RE WASTING THE NICE LADY’S TIME!”

“Shhh!” hissed the old man from ahead.

“Emma! Emma!”

What now? Emma spun around from one train-wreck to the next. Margaret stood at the border with business class, leaning out the iron curtain, trying to get her attention. Emma swallowed her wits and hurried forward, vaulting over a pair of bare legs stretched across the aisle.

“What Margaret?”

“We’ve got a teeny bit of a problem up here, love” Margaret explained. “8B brought a chihuahua in her handbag. Very adorable of course. But he seems to have gotten loose and had a little tinkle on the floor- the chihuahua that is, not the passenger.” She glanced back behind her. “A wee more than a tinkle I’m afraid.”

“…And?”

“And it’s my break time. I was hoping you could be a dear and swab it up?” Margaret tossed a roll of paper towel, which Emma caught before she could react. “Thanks love!”

Looking at the paper towel, Emma felt something that certainly wasn’t job satisfaction bubble up inside her, pushing towards the surface. She swallowed it with a few deep breaths before slipping into the nearby lavatory, flicking it locked, and taking a seat on the closed high-suction toilet. She turned and looked at herself in the mirror, stained with God-knows-what. Heavy bags hung beneath her eyes. Leaning closer, she could even make out a few faint wrinkles, commencing their journey across her cheeks. Her lips throbbed from fake-smiling. Was this really what she wanted to do with her life? A glorified babysitter stuck on a Transatlantic tube, at the beck and call of every ridiculous tourist and their nonsensical demands? She briefly wondered if any Pan-Am girls had ever stooped to scrubbing up chihuahua piss. Probably not. Too classy. Emma fantasized about storming into her manager’s office once she finally made it home, slamming a big fat resignation letter on her desk. Maybe this would be her final flight after all.

As she soaked in her fantasy, she was interrupted by a sudden jolt. More than a jolt really. All at once the plane lurched abruptly sideways, sending Emma crashing into the sink, knocking the wind out of her. Just as she started to get up, smoothing the front of her stewardess uniform, there was a sudden thrash the other way, knocking her over the toilet, her knee bashing on the side. The lights flickered with a questionable buzz.

Pushing out the lavatory, Emma came upon utter chaos.

“Uh, this is your captain speaking, you may’ve noticed that we’ve hit a wave of turbulence” came Captain Ronaldo’s voice over the static-y intercom. “Should hopefully clear in a few minutes, but the seatbelt sign has been turned on and oxygen masks have been deployed for your safety. Please direct any questions to a member of our cabin crew.”

Nope!

Ignoring the prehistoric-sounding mess in the cabin as passengers scrambled for their masks- biting, clawing, kicking small children- Emma ducked into the galley where Margaret and Craig were already seated. She tugged on her dangling mask from overhead, her steady breaths soon inflating the small bag at the end.

Craig, his bag widening at a much faster rate, gripped her arm. She carefully pried him off like an unwanted Band-Aid.

“We’re going down…we’re going down…” he gasped between breaths.

“Oh, don’t worry love, we have Captain Ronaldo at the helm!” Margaret cheerily exclaimed. “This will be over in a few minutes! Everything is going to be fine, tip-top, we…OH SHITTTTTT!”

The plane plunged suddenly downward. Turbines screamed as it collapsed into a dizzying spiral, dropping hundreds of feet per second, the icy black waters of the mid-Atlantic rising to meet it.

Emma lurched forward, body straining against the seatbelt, clinging with white knuckles to the edge of her chair. She glanced around. Time seemed to have stopped. A coffee pot, knocked from the adjacent counter, hung in mid-air, a ribbon of black decaf floating out the lid, like something out of the space station.

This was how it ended, she supposed. Trapped in a plane with all these stupid people, Margaret and Craig her seatmates for eternity, no legacy but a name on a forgotten memorial plaque on a blustery seaside somewhere. She should’ve quit while she had the chance. Lived a little. Experienced life outside the tube. She never got to fall in love, never got to find herself, never got to have an adventure. Never got to see Paris beyond the overpriced airport hotels huddled around the tarmac. It was, indeed, her final flight. A weird sort of irony.

Emma braced for impact.

Suddenly, yet another jolt shook the craft, and it somehow leveled out. The dimmed lights reignited in full force. Emma watched the floating coffee pot shatter across the floor. Margaret was muttering “oh dear oh dear oh dear oh dear” under her breath. Craig looked catatonic. Then came the bland tone of the seatbelt sign switching off, and Emma knew it was going to be okay. She brushed her windswept hair back into place, gingerly pulling off her oxygen mask and unclipping her seatbelt, filled with utter awe.

She’d been given another chance to live. And maybe the flight attendant life wasn’t so bad after all. Serving a few unruly passengers was sufficiently better than plunging to a freezing death in the middle of the ocean. Most of them were quite nice anyway. A few bad apples, rotten from travel stress and general indecency, ruined the bunch. That was it. None of it was personal. None of it was defining. Emma strode towards the cabin with a restored passion. Perhaps the very same passion that those retro Pan-Am girls had felt.

Upon arrival, every ‘call attendant’ button was screaming, the flashing lights like a sea of strobes. Feeling something bubble up inside her again, Emma wearily headed for the fat man in 36C, frantically snapping his fingers above his head.

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