the ties that bind ★ t.h
SUMMARY; The Hollands are a powerful mob, in charge of most of London, and the only gang in their way is your family. So naturally, your parents have decided to join forces together, roping you and Tom into their own little affairs. Tom didn't want an arranged marriage, and nor did you. You were happy with your own life and your own boyfriend, and you were much more than either of you agreed to. commission by @pparkerxreader 💛
PAIRING; Mob!Tom x Reader
WARNING; swearing, smoking, alcohol, violence, guns, shitty parents, smut!! (oral, hair pulling, spitting ig),
Under normal circumstances Tom Holland would speak his mind, loudly. He would protest and yell and tell anyone and everyone to go fuck themselves, that he was the one who made the decisions, that no one stays alive for long enough to tell Tom what he can and cannot do.
But with a gun against his head he couldn’t say no, he wouldn’t dare say no to his father. What his father wanted, his father got. He never asked twice. His father was the only man in London that Tom actually feared.
And although the gun was only metaphorical at the time--he could very easily take out his glock and aim it right at his son’s head if he dared disobey him. Tom knew that. So Tom nodded his head silently and read over the papers.
Tom had no desire to get married.
Not now at twenty five and not in another thirty years when he’d be old and crinkled and lounging on a diamond covered rocking chair.
Tom Holland would never ever be somebody’s husband--he promised himself that when he turned fourteen, when he realised love had no place in a house of crimelords, drugs, gun. Love couldn't last in a world like his, and so he never let himself even want it.
But to add insult to injury, to make all this far far worse, Tom wasn’t even privy to choosing his own wife.
His father had already arranged a bride for him.
Tom liked dating. Actually, it was the only thing that kept him sane as the eldest son of a mob leader.
He’d go out to pubs and clubs and galas and chat up some innocent looking girl, with big eyes and long nails and those white sneakers everyone seemed to wear. As soon as she saw the tattoos and the gun and the scars, those big eyes would light up.
Every single girl he found was completely enthralled by his life and his personality and how brazen he had to be to just have a gun on him, like he was some old school gangster from those black and white movies. Tom knew they all just wished they could change him, he knew they all had some deep dark fantasy about meeting a dangerous boy and making him soft.
Tom wasn’t soft.
He didn’t care at all about the girls and about their delusional fantasies, and he had no desire to make them come true, nor did he care enough to even pretend. As soon as he was done, when he got what he wanted, he politely offered them a drink and a ride home. He never even bothered taking their numbers, rarely he’d even remember their names.
Tom knew a wife or even a girlfriend was the last thing he could fit into his routine, his life, his mob.
His days were like puzzle pieces--edged, rough, different but all part of the same grand picture his father had painted out for him when he was born.
Girls, they had no edges. They didn’t complete the picture, and none of them would fit in.
A girl wasn’t an option for him.
But when the strongest gang in London, second only to the Hollands, offered to merge their families--an offer they’d have to seal with a marriage--Tom’s father agreed in seconds.
He didn’t even consult Tom, not that he consulted him on most things, but this involved his personal life, this involved every single aspect of him, and Tom hoped his father would have the minimum amount of decency to at least tell him before he entered the study to be met with their rival--and his daughter. Tom’s future wife.
“So, we sign and what?” Tom asked, trying his best not to sound bitter. His father heard the bite in his words either way, and warningly raised his eyebrows at him.
“Watch your tone there, boy,” he said, paying no regards to their guests. “You’re gonna make Y/N think we’re marrying her off to a dickhead.”
Tom took in a big breath.
“Sorry, sir,” he said, as calmly as he could, “I’d be happy if you could explain it to me again.”
“You’re thick, aren’t you?” His father asked, slamming his hand on the table.
Tom took in another breath.
He didn’t even flinch. Tom was far too used to his father reacting that way--it would feel strange if there weren’t at least three table slams involved in a conversation with that man.
“Could you explain it to me, please?” The girl asked after a small cough, and Tom slowly looked over at her.
She wore half a smile, one he expected was meant for him--but he couldn’t allow himself to paint it that way. This was no time for friendships nor, god forbid, companionship. Especially not with someone from their gang.
“Of course, darling,” Tom’s father smiled at her, “this is a marriage certificate. You sign this and the deal is done.”
“The deal being..” she trailed off, looking up at her own father.
He couldn’t even look at her, his eyes locked on the marriage certificate, and Tom suddenly thought maybe they’d have more in common than he initially realised. Nothing like bonding over how much they hated their dads.
“You move in with Tom and that’s it. You’re his wife.”
“Doll, you said you wanted to be involved in this business, eh?” Her father began, “here’s your chance. You do this for us and our families will take over all of London.”
“Yeah but, dad, when I said that I meant more like let me sit in on meetings and--”
“--that’s enough. Not in front of our hosts.”
“Aren’t they going to be your in-laws in two minutes? Might as well get all the dirty laundry out.”
Tom snickered to himself, doing his best to cover it up with a cough.
At that they stole another glance towards each other, concealed smiles winking.
“That’s enough now,” her father warned, sending a dirty look towards Tom.
Tom straightened himself up and nodded slightly.
Tom knew what this meant for his father and for his family. He knew an alliance with a strong and powerful family would be the one weapon they needed to demolish all their other enemies. He knew this meant work, he knew it was his duty to his father to do it.
Maybe missing out on dates wouldn’t be so bad.
He’d be far too busy taking care of all their enemies anyway, building up their empire.
Perhaps he could come up with some agreement with this wife of his that he’d still be able to fuck around. This whole marriage was just for show anyway, right?
A little voice in Tom’s head told him that wouldn’t be the best idea to propose such an arrangement, and for some reason he wanted to agree to the whole deal a bit more now. Tom wasn't quite sure what to name that thought, but now wasn't the time to dwell on that.
If he’d say no, his father would punch him in the mouth repeatedly until he changed his mind. And fuck it, it’s not like Tom even planned on getting married in the first place. His house was big, far too big for just him and his men--she’d have her own corner and they could avoid each other as much as they needed to. It would be just like having a lodger in the house.
His father never said they needed to share a room, and really why would she agree to that?
Tom looked over at her, at his future wife.
She was wearing a suit like her father but her hands were crossed over her chest.
Tom spent his whole adult life studying other people--the way they talked, the way they held themselves, the way they looked around rooms. She was scared.
Tom hoped it wasn’t of him but then he caught himself in the act of thinking such a ludicrous thought. Since when does Tom Holland hope people aren’t scared of him? He spent his whole life learning the art of intimidation, and if it was working on a girl that looked like her then surely he had mastered it by now.
Tom coughed and picked up his father’s pen. He signed his name on the dotted line quickly. There was never any room for hesitation in his line of business, some decision had to be made as fast as bullets fly. Tom wasn't sure he could add this to the harder decisions he had to make in his life, but he could feel her eyes on him as he stood up again--aware of exactly how quickly he signed the certificate.
“Thank you, son,” his father said, dipping his head down firmly. “good lad.”
Tom nodded at him, ran a hand over his chin and offered her his pen.
She just looked at him.
It was as their eyes connected that Tom didn’t even feel regret.
“Dad, can I have a word with you?” She said quietly.
The pair excused themselves from the study and walked out, her heels echoing into the hallway like a broken metronome, telling Tom something was simply off.
Tom felt himself breathing more quickly, rapidly. Was he not supposed to sign it first?
Two raised voices argued outside of the study door but their words were muffled slightly. Tom couldn’t make it out. All he heard was the name Ollie, and the unmistakable tone of a girl trying to rebel against her father’s wishes.
Tom’s father made sure his study was soundproof and apparently that worked both ways.
Tom did his best to fight his curiosity, he tried not to listen.
Instead he sat down in front of his father and pulled out his pack of smokes.
He plopped the stick in his mouth, felt around his suit pocket for his lighter, but his father smacked the fag out of his teeth before he could.
“Yeah?” Tom gasped, his hands shrugging in front of his father in question. It was his dad that bought him his first pack of cigarettes, and so he never thought it would be that same man to give him shit for his addiction.
“Don’t smoke next to your wife,” he ordered, “woman hating kissing smokers.”
“First off, she’s not here. She’s not my wife yet, either. And I’m not gonna fucking kiss her.”
“You need to consummate the--”
It was then the doors opened, thankfully, and Tom got up quickly--hiding his pack of cigarettes when he did.
Maybe his father was right on this one. Maybe she shouldn't know about his bad habits just yet.
Y/N didn’t have that playful smile on her face anymore, it was replaced with a scowl.
Her finger tapped against her bicep, now it seemed to Tom that her arms were crossed because she was furious.
She was biting on her bottom lip fiercely--and then Tom wondered if he did have to kiss her now.
It seemed like she would punch him if he even got close to her.
Tom never thought that way about a girl, he was never cautious next to them. He’d never even hesitate before kissing one, always knowing they were all practically frothing at the mouth at the simple idea of doing so. But he could already tell Y/N was different that way--she wasn’t batting her eyelashes and begging him to come closer. She was barely even looking at him.
He wondered if that was a good sign or not.
“Miss Y/N?” Tom's father offered, gesturing towards the certificate again. “Son, give your wife a pen then.”
Tom sent his father a small look.
Clearly, he wasn’t as gifted as Tom at reading other people--or he was, and he didn’t care how uncomfortable she seemed to be referred to as Tom’s wife so soon.
She didn’t even sign the papers yet.
Suddenly, Tom was consumed with the thought she wouldn’t sign them at all--and that thought left him uneasy. He wasn’t sure why, but it did.
Tom didn’t like not knowing why his thoughts acted the way they did.
Tom picked the pen up and offered it out to her, a small smile on his face.
She didn’t return it this time.
Instead she sent her father a look, asking silently if she really had to do this. Her father nodded deeply.
Begrudgingly, Y/N reached over for the pen and snatched it out of Tom’s warm fingers. He wondered if she could see him shaking and then he wondered why he even was.
Slowly she etched her name on the paper, sighing as she softly placed the pen back on the table.
“Fantastic!” Tom’s father said, “great stuff, you two. You’ve done your duties to your families.”
Tom nodded at that but Y/N didn’t seem to care at all. Her eyes were now studying the small specks of dust on the floor.
Tom followed her eye line and spotted them--making a mental note to tell the maid she did a lousy job of the study. But then Tom thought again, back to all the things he knew about people and their behaviour. Was she sad?
“Dad,” she whispered towards her father, “do we get rings or something?”
A small quip in her brow told Tom she was almost hopeful, if he could even use that word in such a situation, and he almost wanted to smile. He almost wanted to say yes, just to keep the hope alive in her eyes. But then he stopped himself.
Surely his father wouldn’t care for something as vain as that.
“Sure,” he threw out, haphazardly opening up his desk drawer and limply throwing a small box on the table. He nodded towards Tom, who understood to pick it up and open it.
Inside were two small golden rings.
Tom took the bigger one for himself, placed it on his hand, and passed the box over.
“Oh, be a gentleman about it, will you?” His father scolded, “put it on her yourself.”
“No,” she said softly, taking the box from her now husband. “I’ll do it.”
Slowly she slipped the ring on her finger and sighed. There was a sort of sadness around her Tom couldn’t quite place. He wasn't sure what to do to get rid of it. As her husband, wasn't that his job now?
She swirled the ring around her finger slowly, inspecting it. It looked so foreign on her soft skin.
“It doesn’t really fit.”
“You’ll grow into it,” her father promised, before he sat down in front of his now in-law and smiled. “Let’s toast!”
The parents shared a cup of whiskey as their children looked from the outside in, feeling no real reason to celebrate.
Y/N was still looking down at her hand, and as Tom studied her he felt the need to examine his own ring.
It didn’t feel like anything, really, the more he thought about it. It was just another piece of his uniform. Like the expensive suit, and the gun holster, and the spare magazine he always carried in his pocket. It was just part of his job. Although he never considered an arranged marriage something he’d have to do, it made sense, when all was said and done.
All the chips were falling into place and the two older men had already started devising a strategy to take down an up and coming new gang that were starting to steal their customers.
Tom was just a pawn in his father’s game.
He knew that since he could remember himself and it never bothered him too much.
Only now Y/N was wearing a pained expression on her face (her rather attractive face) and Tom felt the need to apologise.
Tom never apologised to anyone that wasn’t his father, let alone a girl.
You packed up your room in twenty different boxes the same night you “married” Tom.
Married was a funny word, and the more you thought about it, the more it lost its meaning--like saying one word again and again and again until you forget what it’s supposed to sound like. Being married meant one thing, it meant something, but now it was nothing but a stupid piece of paper you were forced to sign and a ring that wasn’t even really your size.
Sure, not every girl dreams about her wedding day her whole life, but you did. You longed for a wedding that was big and grand and magical--like most things in your life were.
Your family was rich and powerful and you always got what you wanted. You got the expensive shoes and the giant bed and the pool in the backyard and everything you needed and so you always let yourself imagine your wedding would be as grand as physically possible. You didn’t have to think about normal people stuff, like the cost of the venue and the dress and all the other things. You knew that whatever you’d want on that special day you would get. The bride always gets what she wants, no?
But here you were.
Already married, already a wife, completely skipping over the bride part of it all. The fiance part of it all. The love part.
The one thing you thought could be your own was taken away from you. Instead you stood in a poorly lit room in a strangers house and signed some papers legally binding you to some man you never met.
He was semi familiar to you, you were sure the pair of you saw each other at some gala or event, but you couldn’t remember where from. It was only that day, on the car ride there, that you even learned his name.
Your father said nothing to you on the drive home--just silently looked at the road ahead of him while you sat in the passenger seat imagining the road in front of you.
Living in a house with this man, doing his dishes, complaining about the way he ate his food. You had no idea how he even ate his food, what if he was a loud chewer?
You shuddered at the thought.
Your father didn’t even ask you if you were alright, if you were warm enough, if you wanted food. Your father used to care about you--but as he said when he dropped you off with the boxes at the Holland house, “you’re in Tom’s hands now.”
You were somewhat of a daddy’s girl, and you loved that, and now--you were to be put in this man’s hands (probably physically too) and you had no say in who this man would be.
All you could think about was Ollie.
You’ve been dating Ollie for three years, on and off. Whenever things looked like they were getting more serious--your father would tell you to stop fantasizing like a little girl and grow up already. Unbeknownst to you, this was always the plan.
The plan changed a few times, there was always a different husband on the line, but your father always meant to marry you off to someone for his own gain. This was always what was meant to happen and Ollie was just something he enabled for too long.
At least that’s what he told you when you stood outside Mr. Holland’s office and tried bargaining your way out of the arrangement.
There was nothing you could say. You knew that to be true when your father told you what his plan for you was all along. So you sulked back inside and did what was expected of you.
All that was last week.
You have since then managed to stay in your room every single day.
The maids would sometimes come in and ask how you were, and you’d always say fine. That you were just trying to unpack.
You knew it would start looking quite bad if all of your boxes just stayed there, so you did one every day.
Slowly, you put your shirts in the closet. Then your dresses. Then your makeup. Then one by one the boxes were emptied out and you were officially living in this house. Officially given up on your old life and just.. scummed to it all. Agreed to it. Let it happen.
The house wasn’t too bad, you’d admit.
It was big, vast, fucking enormous. It was much bigger than the house you grew up in and much bigger than the holiday house your dad bought you on the beach in Spain.
You practically had a whole floor to yourself.
You had your bed all to yourself, thankfully, even though it was big enough for four adults to sleep in comfortably. You had your bathroom with a bath that could fit two people in comfortably and a full length mirror. You liked that part a lot.
You had a balcony too, which was nice if the nights weren’t too cold. And the balcony overlooked the garden that seemed to spread for miles. Some nights when you sat outside you could see the top of Tom’s head as he stood outside and smoked while his dog ran around the green to her heart's content. She didn’t notice you the day you came in and she didn’t come near your floor too much. You reckoned Tom trained her that way.
He trained everyone that way.
No one was supposed to come to your floor unless specifically asked to. You didn’t know why he decided that, but you heard him scream at someone for going into your office the second morning you were there.
You didn’t even know why you had an office, but you did and it was empty. There were books there and a table and a laptop waiting for you (as some form of present, you thought) but you never stepped in there. You didn’t even touch the laptop.
In all honesty, you didn’t want Tom’s gifts.
You weren’t mad at him and you knew he had nothing to do with this whole situation, but a small part of you--perhaps the petty part--didn’t want to give in and enjoy any of this. Even though you'd be a fool to act like you didn't enjoy it, you decided to only indulge in the sanctuary of your own room, your own space. The office was not part of that space. For now.
So you only let yourself enjoy the material things. The room and the curtains and the fact you could put the jets on in the tub.
On morning number six, your phone rang.
“Babe,” Ollie’s raspy voice said from the other end, “why haven’t you texted me all week?”
“Oh, sorry.” Was all you could say.
You didn’t tell Ollie.
“I went over to your house but it was empty. Are you on holiday?”
Ollie didn’t know a lot about the mob. All he knew was that sometimes you’d have to go on holidays and that was your way of saying he shouldn’t come near you for the time being, because your father didn’t allow it anymore. When you got sick of listening to your father you’d tell Ollie you were back and you could come see him again. Ollie never saw beyond your lies, and you knew if you told him the truth he’d never understand.
You assumed Ollie thought you came from old money, which in a way you did, but he never asked how you were so wealthy and never working. He didn’t ask for money either, which you liked about him. Even though you’d give him money if he asked for it--Ollie never let you pay for things, and he bought you nice presents when he could.
He wasn’t wealthy like your father was and he couldn’t shower you with presents but he tried and that was enough for you. But he never bought you anything as expensive as a laptop, he wasn’t wealthy like Tom was.
You groaned. You didn’t want to compare them, not even a little bit, not even on something like that. Tom came from "old money" too and Ollie worked a normal 9 to 5 and paid his overly expensive bills and he'd save just a little bit aside for you so you could have nice things. He was a decent man, a real man, he didn't sell weapons and drugs to buy you things. Ollie was good.
Ollie was someone you loved and cared about, someone you wanted to be with forever, and Tom was just your husband.
“Yeah, Ollie. And I’m gonna be on holiday for a while.” A knock came from behind the door.
“Who is it?” You let out.
“Who are you talking to?”
“It’s Tom,” a voice said behind the door.
“Fuck off,” you mumbled to yourself--but with the phone by your face, Ollie heard it. He laughed.
Fuck, you missed his laugh so much.
All you wanted was to get in a taxi and drive off to Ollie’s house. He was only thirty minutes away from you. You could see him again, you could see him tonight. You could wrap your arms around his shoulders and squeeze until he started giggling and you could kiss his dimples and laugh at his stupid jokes.
A marriage certificate shouldn’t stop you from seeing the person you love.
“Was that house keeping?”
“Yeah, I put a don’t disturb sign on the door but I guess they can’t read,” you lied, just wanting to talk to Ollie for a few more minutes.
A knock sounded again.
Why was he even here? He didn’t come to this part of the house before and you prayed he would just keep it that way--keep his distance from you.
“Baby, just a second let me see what they want,” you put your phone on mute and walked towards the door.
“Yeah?” You asked.
“Can I come in?” Tom asked.
“So we can talk.”
“Are you decent?”
Tom opened the door.
“I found that a bit rude, Y/N,” Tom scolded. You rolled your eyes.
“I didn’t give you permission to open my door so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do that again,” you said slowly. Quietly. Not at all as demanding as you wanted it to sound.
You had every intention of standing up to Tom but the second he opened the door it was hard to do so.
You always felt safe, especially around mobsters, especially when they knew who your father was. But every bit of confidence you had in the man, in your own safety, in your life, completely blew away when he handed you over to Tom. And you knew how mobsters treated their wives, everyone knew.
They didn’t care about them, their wives were just one more person there to serve them, and if /any of their servants disobeyed they’d have to be taught a lesson. At least that’s what your mother used to say, that’s what she taught you.
“I’m sorry,” Tom said slowly. “Didn’t mean to disrespect your space. I need to speak with you.”
“I’m on the phone,” you said, pointing towards the device still in your hand. You tapped the screen, just to see if the call was still on--just to make sure Ollie was still waiting for you.
“Just a friend,” you shrugged. It wasn’t any of his business, and he had no right to ask that to begin with, and honestly, you deserved some privacy and you deserved a few minutes alone so you could talk to Ollie and maybe you’d find a way to explain it or if you couldn’t explain it maybe you couldn’t find a way to run off and be with Ollie and maybe you could just leave your last name behind and take Ollie’s instead. Of course, the name that put you in this mess was also the name that gave you your new one. Y/N Holland.
“Right. Then tell your friend your husband needs to speak with you and you’ll call them back,” Tom said, and for a second you were sure he was ordering you around. At that Tom left with a shallow smile, his hands stuffed in his pocket and the impatient frown in his brow already growing deeper.
You let out a small sigh, one that tasted of relief, and got back to the call.
“Hey, babe, sorry. They just really wanted to give me some more shampoos.”
You felt your heart drop all the way to the heels of your feet and you felt the air leave your lungs in one swift motion and you felt your eyes gap and you couldn’t quite string more than two words together to explain it away.
Ollie, no, you don’t understand. Ollie, please let me explain. No, it’s not what you think.
You could’ve said any one of those things but instead you said nothing, because nothing made sense, and nothing was better than lying, and how would you even explain to him the truth and how could you explain to him the truth and after a whole minute of silence the line went dead.
You called back and the call went straight to voicemail.
You texted. He didn’t respond.
Your heart was going two thousand miles a second--it was practically pounding in your throat but you weren’t getting a reply. You called again, nothing. Then again. Then again.
After what felt like three hours but was actually only seven minutes you got a text.
‘Now I understand what a holiday means. I’m sorry I trusted you. Bye’
Fuck fuck fuck no no no shit shit shit.
“Hey, Y/N, can you please come down? I need to sort this out.”
You didn’t answer Tom, you didn’t want to answer Tom, you weren’t even sure you could answer Tom as you had started sobbing dramatically into your satin covered pillow.
But on the other side of the door Tom could hear your small little gasps and concern had started infiltrating his mind. He knocked again.
Tom remembered you saying you didn’t want him to open your door if it was closed but Tom was more than sure you were sobbing and Tom wasn’t too sure what to do so he slowly turned the handle.
He did it as quietly as he could and carefully revealed your room to his eyes.
He hadn’t seen it since you moved in, but already he could tell so much about you. He could tell you liked pink, because all the covers were pink and so was the carpet you ordered in the other day. He could tell you liked flowers because you had three plants in your room and five on the balcony.
Tom wasn’t heartless, he could tell what was happening. You were sobbing, crying.
Carefully, he sat at the edge of your bed.
You could feel the bed dipping under his weight and suddenly you stopped the sobs echoing against your ribcage. You didn’t want to seem weak, you couldn’t seem weak. Not in front of him.
“Hey,” Tom whispered. You said nothing. “Y/N?”
You said nothing.
“Are you okay?”
The simplest question, a naive question, an empty question. But it made you sob all the same and suddenly you couldn’t stop the water flowing out of your eyes and surely ruining the expensive satin covers.
Tom waited for an answer, although the state you were in was an answer in itself but Tom didn’t do well with emotions. They were a weakness, that’s what he was taught and that’s all he knew and Tom only ever saw girls as weak, crying bodies. He didn’t think that way about you, though.
For whatever reason he didn’t think you were weak for crying.
The more Tom thought about it, the more he pitied you. But pity was a weak emotion too, sympathy wasn’t in his arsenal and he didn’t know what to do. How to help. Tom didn’t know he even ever wanted to help someone.
But you just kept crying.
Suddenly the important Gala his father wanted him to arrange didn’t feel that urgent.
After a few minutes Tom made himself comfortable on your bed as he waited for you to calm down.
Tom Holland never knew how to exercise patience--but it wasn’t so hard now. He just looked around your room, took in the smell, took in the decor you decided on, took in the way you arranged your shoes on a shelf.
“No,” you said after a long moment of silence.
“I’m not okay,” your voice was muffled by your pillow, but the vulnerability was louder than anything else, it was louder than the room itself.
“Why not?” Tom asked simply.
“My boyfriend heard you, when you said you were my husband.”
“I am your husband,” Tom said quickly, instantly. Before even thinking.
He wasn’t sure if you could hear the jealousy in his voice but even if you did, you didn’t comment on it. Tom wasn’t sure why he was even jealous, or if he was allowed to be. Just because the pair of you got married didn’t mean Tom had any right to you. Tom wasn’t sure if that was a weak thought or not.
Tom coughed. He wanted to take back his words but he couldn’t, so instead he said, “I didn’t know you have a boyfriend.”
“Had,” you corrected.
“You can still date him,” Tom said, “I don’t mind.”
He did mind, but maybe if he acted like he didn’t you’d feel better. Maybe if you had that boyfriend of yours Tom could still go out to nightclubs and find random girls like he’s done his whole life. Tom wasn’t sure why, but that thought made him shift uncomfortably on your comforting sheets.
“I can’t tell him what’s really going on.”
“Why?” Tom shrugged. “Here, I’ll call him.”
Tom reached over for your phone, but before he could grab it you sat up in a rush and concealed the device from him.
“Don’t fucking touch my stuff,” you snapped.
You didn’t mean to, but you snapped, and the last thing you needed was someone like Tom to call Ollie and explain everything to him.
You knew what mobsters were like, you knew what Tom was like, and he wouldn’t just explain things to Ollie--he’d threaten him into understanding, threaten him into agreeing to whatever whorish plan Tom had in mind for you. You didn’t care what his motives were--although you figured they were selfish--you just wanted Tom to stay out of it.
Tom’s messy brow raised your way, questioning you and your choice of words.
“What did you say?” He threatened. Or at least tired to. But once you lifted your face off the pillow Tom couldn’t bring himself to make you any more uneasy than you already visibly were.
Your tears had stuck to your hair and to your chin and your nose was wet and drooling. You were sure you looked a mess, far away from the menacing stance you were aiming towards.
You brought your hand up to your face to throw the tears away, and when you noticed you were shaking, you took in a big breath.
“Why did you come up here?”
“Because I asked you to come down and you didn’t,” Tom shrugged.
You sent him a pointed look, one that meant your question was different than the answer he gave you.
"That wasn't what I asked," you said, empty.
Tom shook his head slowly, almost as if he was disappointed. Was he disappointed in you for showing weakness--the one thing you’re never supposed to do in the mob? Or rather, was he disappointed in himself?
“My father asked us to throw a gala, one to celebrate our marriage.” You couldn’t help but scoff. “I don’t want to do it either,” he said, even though you didn’t respond with anything of that allusion, “but we can invite people around and you can dress up and anything you’d like.”
You took in a big breath.
You remembered your training and you remembered your father’s voice in the back of your head and you remembered the determination you had to be a part of the mob. In some twisted way you got exactly that--even though you felt more like a captive than a wife. You had to do it. Duty was on the line, your integrity, the rest of your life.
You wanted to start it off well, better than this at least, and so you nodded.
Tom slowly nodded back.
Your eyes drifted down to your hand, still damp from your tears, and that god awful ring on your finger.
“I hate this ring,” you said plainly.
Tom stood up from your bed. “Do you want to plan it or should I?”
“If you want you can,” you shrugged. “Just, no bad music. And can we have light food? And maybe--”
“How about you come down to my office and help me?” Tom offered, exasperation in his voice. You were already proving to be quite demanding.
If he was honest with himself, Tom didn’t mind that too much. He kinda liked that you knew what you wanted, that you already envisioned something in your head--regardless of obviously not wanting to be part of this event at all.
But Tom was rarely honest with himself.
You shrugged. Tom extended his hand towards you.
“Come on, doing something will distract you from that bloke.”
Although Tom had a point, work was often the answer to heartbreak, it didn’t quite help.
Tom’s father insisted on the gala being as romantic as humanly possible. The pair of you were supposed to sell the fact that this marriage, this arrangement, wasn’t a business one--the pair of you wanted to do this.
But you didn’t. You really didn’t. And all you could think about as you ordered a hundred dozen roses and streamers for decoration, was Ollie.
Tom didn’t say much as he typed the orders away on his laptop. He didn’t ask if you minded that he smokes in the office with no windows. He didn’t ask if you were feeling better. He just did the work that needed to be done, silently, puffing away.
You almost wondered if you’d have to kiss him tonight during this lie selling gala, if his mouth would taste of tobacco, but then you decided you didn’t want to know and you wouldn’t kiss him and frankly you didn’t even want to.
You hated your life.
As much as you tried getting excited about a party, getting excited about the beautiful dress you wore, you couldn’t care less. You didn’t want to interact with people and strangers and gangsters. You didn’t want to host a party in Tom Holland’s house. You didn’t want people to start calling you Mrs. Holland.
But surely they will.
Respect means life or death in this business, and surely, any small fraction of free will you had began and ended with the dress you chose.
Guests came in through the house, all dressed in impressive suits and dresses, high heels and lipsticks, diamond earrings and false smiles. They all addressed you as Mrs. Holland and shook your hand, they all addressed your husband as if he were royalty.
You knew about this world, you knew Tom was in fact royalty, and they all feared him to no end.
Perhaps you were supposed to fear him too, and a small part of you truly did. Although you’ve never seen it in person, yet, you knew exactly what Tom was capable of.
You heard the stories from your father and the whispers on the streets, but nothing made it more clear than the way people looked at him.
A strange mixture of adoration and fear. A cocktail of horrified respect.
“So, are you having fun?” Harrison, one of Tom’s men, asked you half way through the party.
You simply nodded. You weren’t sure what you were supposed to say, and after a few weeks of living in this house, you realised it was the first time you even interacted with any of Tom’s disciples.
“Tom says you’ve been having a rough time,” he tried. You shook your head. “So you’re not going to say anything?”
It almost sounded like accusation, and you swallowed roughly as you looked around the room.
You didn’t know any of the guests, not really, and you weren’t sure how to escape this conversation.
You didn’t want to be part of this life, of his life. Correction, you desperately wanted to be part of the business--but only when it was your father running it. Only when your last name was still your own.
“I need a drink,” you said, voice small.
Harrison wore a half smile on his face, one that reminded you of belittlement.
“What’s your drink, then?”
“I’ll get it for myself, thanks,” you tried, and quickly made your way over to the makeshift bar.
The house still felt foreign, strange, but you did your best to move through it confidently--for the sake of the guests, for the sake of the show and the lie and the ‘happy Mr. and Mrs. Holland’.
You politely asked for something alcoholic, anything, and the bartender passed a glass your way. You finished it in two swallows.
“Alcohol isn’t the best distraction, love,” a voice said from behind you.
You turned over to Tom, giving him a stern lift of your brows.
“I’m just enjoying our lovely party,” you said--but you couldn’t stop the sarcasm dripping from your tongue.
“You could’ve invited him, you know,” he shrugged.
“Really? How do you think that would’ve looked, Tom?” You sighed, “me walking around with my boyfriend in a party that’s meant to be about us.”
Tom leaned over the bar, closer to you, and pointed at one of the guests.
“See him?” You nodded. “That’s Mr. Wallows. Those two women with him are his mistress and his wife. He’s not shy about it at all, everyone knows.”
You rolled your eyes. Then Tom pointed at another couple, telling you about how the husband had two other girlfriends, pointed at them too. Then he told you about another man.
“Everyone does it,” he concluded.
“All the people you pointed at,” you began, “are blokes. A girl would never get away with it.”
“My girl would,” Tom stated plainly.
You weren’t accustomed to hearing Tom refer to you with that kind of sentiment, and suddenly, you weren’t quite sure what to say.
“I’m not your--”
“--you are.” He stopped you before you could finish. “Everyone here knows you are. Which is exactly why I wouldn’t care if some dude was here with you, too. I know you’re mine.”
“I’m not--” you tried again, but Tom clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth, shaking his head.
“Don’t let me hear you say that again.”
Tom picked up a glass of whiskey and walked away.
Some time after drink number six, you ended up dancing in the middle of the living room with a swarm of people you didn’t even know. But you didn’t mind. The liquor was rushing through your body--numbing your fingers, numbing your thoughts.
Not all of them, though. Only some.
Ollie’s face still burned heavily on the back of your eyelids--and it was all you could do to keep yourself away from your phone.
Perhaps Tom was right. Perhaps you deserved Ollie and you would fight for what you knew you deserved. Perhaps this was the lesson your father was trying to teach you all along, that you were capable of fighting for what was rightfully yours. Perhaps the only thing you really needed to be a mafia boss like you always wanted was just a chance to fight for something, anything, for someone you cared about.
Tom dragged Harrison and his brothers to the edge of the room. He wanted whiskey and cigars and he wanted to be able to see his wife without anyone thinking he was being weird about it.
Granted, she was his wife, and if he wanted to look at her--he could. That was his right, after all. But she didn’t want him near her, that much was clear to Tom, and after he watched her drink one glass then two then three, he knew she’d do something unwise.
So Tom wanted to watch as she did it.
Harrison pulled out a lighter and passed it around. Tom took a big breath in as the tobacco stung on his cheeks. Tom found her in the crowd and watched as she moved her hips in time with the bass.
She didn’t know anyone at the party, they both realised that when she confirmed the guest list to Tom all those hours ago in his office. Her family said they’d come but they haven’t yet--and still, she was getting along with everyone it seemed. She was dancing with a woman Tom could only half place in his head, and her eyes crinkled by the edges every time that woman made her laugh.
Tom was almost envious--but then he decided that woman was beautiful and Tom wanted to dance with her. He didn’t want to admit that he longed to make Y/N laugh like that.
He wondered if he’d ever succeed. Perhaps if he walked up to her now he’d manage. She was visibly drunk, she’d probably laugh at anything he’d say.
Tom wanted to impress her, he wanted to make her laugh, he wanted to dance with her. Tom didn’t know what name that desire had--but he didn’t want to think about it too long.
Naming it would make it real.
He kept thinking back to that one minuscule interaction they shared that night, when Y/N insisted she wasn't his. If he had to name the swirl of emotions he felt after that--he’d call it anger.
But naming it wouldn’t make it go away.
So Tom brought his cup up to his lips and grimaced slightly when the whiskey hit his stomach.
“You should go dance with her,” Harrison said. “People are starting to notice.”
Tom chuckled inadvertently.
“Harrison’s right,” Sam said, “you two barely talked this whole night and it looks off.”
Tom nodded his head as he placed his glass on the bar and gave the cigar to Harrison.
“She might punch me though,” he said as he straightened out his blazer.
“I’ll pay to see her do that,” Harry laughed.
With a big breath, Tom put one foot in front of the other and walked into the middle of the improvised dance floor.
“Hello,” he said carefully, placing his hands around your hips. He could feel your body tense up at the touch, and the confidence he talked himself into with every step was now gone.
He shouldn’t have touched you.
But then you turned around and put your arms around his neck.
Tom didn’t expect that, in fact--he expected anything but that. He was positive you’d end up punching him in the face and now more than ever he wasn’t sure why he even approached you. So he cautiously moved his head closer to your ear.
“You okay there?”
“Yeah,” you nodded, “I need a favour.”
Oh. He thought to himself. Oh, of course.
You were playing along because there was something to gain, because you needed something from him. There was always a give and take in relationships--but with Tom, most people owed him something. Most everyone wanted something, and he realised now--you weren’t going to be any different. Why would you be--when the only thing that even brought you two together was a business dealing?
“And what sort of favour is that?” Tom whispered, masking the small crack in his voice with a chuckle. His signature chuckle, the one that made women fall for him and men fear him.
His small chuckle, the way his arms held onto your hips, the alcohol. All of it together in the pit of your stomach mixed into butterflies.
But that was you thinking of Ollie, wasn’t it? It was just the rum.
Tom hummed at your obvious silence, at the way you started moving your hips in sync to the music. He pulled his head back, enough so he could look at you.
Your eyes were unfocused and glossy and your nose slightly red.
Fuck, he thought. He didn’t realise just how drunk you were.
“Are you feeling fine?”
“Um,” you started, but couldn’t finish.
How come whenever someone asks you how drunk you are you suddenly realise it?
“Maybe let’s go have a sit, yeah?” Tom offered--no longer holding onto your hips but holding onto you, making sure you didn’t lose your balance on the heels you chose.
Your forehead felt a lot heavier than what you were used to and your tongue felt huge and your eyes wouldn’t focus on anything for too long.
You let Tom drag you somewhere with a chair and you let him guide you towards the chair and then you sat down.
You closed your eyes.
“Had too much,” Tom said, or more like observed.
“It’s not helping me forget him,” you sighed.
Tom sat back in his chair as he looked at you. It seemed like all your effort was moving towards not falling, and Tom almost wanted to put his hand around you to keep you safe.
He wasn’t sure if he should, he wasn’t sure how you’d react--but from the corner of his eye he saw a few of the guests looking at the pair of you. That would be his excuse.
Slowly he brought his palm around your shoulder.
“Do you need water?”
Then suddenly you brought your face into his neck and started crying again.
Tom didn’t even know girls cried this much--or that’s what his brain tried to tell him. In all actuality, all he cared about was the fact you were crying, you were upset, and Tom softly shushed you as his palm moved up and down against your skin.
“Hey, hey,” he tried, “everything’s okay.”
You shook your head against his skin.
Tom could smell your perfume very clearly now, he could feel your nose on his collarbone. It made his mouth dry up in an instant and his head feel lighter and suddenly he could feel every little rush of blood down to his fingertips.
Maybe Tom was drunk, too.
“I can’t believe I lost him,” you mumbled into Tom’s collar. Surely his white shirt was makeup stained by now--but Tom didn’t find it in him to care about that, with the current circumstances.
“I know,” he comforted.
“I don’t know what I can do to win him back and I--”
Tom brought his finger under your chin, pulled your head up to face him.
“You don’t need to win him back. If he doesn’t want you, if he wouldn’t do anything to be part of your life--even if it means understanding this whole thing--then you need someone else.”
“What, someone like you?”
He watched as your eyebrows lifted slowly upwards. He watched as your jaw slacked. He watched as your eyes changed--as the pain inside them turned slowly into wonderment.
Then he watched as they flicked down towards his lips.
“Do you mean that?” You asked, but you weren’t looking at Tom anymore--you were looking at his lips.
No, Tom thought. No. Not like this.
“Come on,” he said, patting your back as if the pair of you were part of a highschool football team. “You’ve had enough of this party now.”
Tom showed you a soft side, a genuine side, but just as quickly as it came he was back to barking orders your way. You could barely feel your toes or your knees and so you let him help you up the stairs and into your room.
You let him move around your stuff and bring some makeup remover and you let him watch as you struggled with your wipes.
Then he shut off the light.
You couldn’t remember falling asleep, you couldn’t remember what happened in your dream either. But when you woke up you remembered thinking of Tom’s lips--so close to yours--thinking of what it would feel like if you kissed them.
Even though that was a sober thought you argued it wasn’t.
Day by day you let the minutes pass. Slowly at first, until you didn’t notice them anymore. Until time became plain again, no longer painful--now just part of a tick tock slowly tumbling in the background.
You had a routine.
You decided you were going to live in this house now, not just haunt it. There were paintings on the walls, grand oil painting like something out of a monarch’s chamber. They were always spotless, the golden frames around them, and the paintings always seemed to mock you. Like they agreed you didn’t belong--like they were judging you. Like they were waiting for you to join them on the walls, motionless.
But you had something those statues didn’t have; a heart. And although it was still broken, it was slowly healing, and soon enough you were sure you’d be able to use it again. Even if you loved Ollie, and you wouldn’t just stop loving Ollie--that didn’t mean you couldn’t learn to live your life without him. He was just one step in your journey but you lived your whole life with yourself and you needed to look after her now, you needed to build something for her. Ollie was in the past, and you had to leave him there if you wanted to stay sane, alive.
So you started building your new life.
You went down to breakfast when all the other boys were there too. You made jokes. You asked them how they slept and how they were--you thanked the chef for the food.
It was a decision, a conscious one, to no longer be just a phantom in this house. You wanted to be part of it now. You wanted to matter.
Even if it wasn’t real, even if you didn’t really make a difference to anyone.
This was your life now, the one your dad planned out for you--and if anything, you were going to prove to him that you fit in here. So what if he didn’t come to your party? So what if he barely called anymore?
You were going to be a wife of a mob boss and you were going to make your mark.
You had to.
Otherwise, what was the point of losing Ollie? Losing your family, your life? What was the point of anything if you didn’t even leave a mark, a stamp, some sort of evidence that you were here?
Every day you and Tom made progress.
At first, you dared step into his office while he was going over paperwork.
“Hello,” he said, almost surprised, as you closed the door behind you. “What do you need?”
“Oh,” he caught you off guard. You didn’t really plan anything to say--you just wanted to be in the office long enough to hear what he was working on. “I just, um, wanted to thank you for that night, at the party.”
“Don’t. I had to do that,” Tom let out, harshly.
“I was going to make coffee, should I get you a cup?”
Tom buzzed the intercom by his hand and spoke into the receiver, “Milly, two coffees to the office please.”
You felt your lips tighten.
“There, you don’t need to bother. It’s why I have maids.”
Of course you knew you could ask Milly to make you a cup of coffee, but you just needed an excuse to come back into the office--to watch what Tom was doing by his desk. Now you weren’t sure where to place your hands.
“No, I can go make them. I’m not sure if she knows how I take it.”
“How?” Tom deadpanned.
You sighed softly. “Two sugars, half milk.”
Tom almost laughed.
“Half milk? You’re insane,” he said with a smile. Then he pressed the buzzer again and announced one was his regular order and the other was for you, telling the maid how you liked your drink.
What else could you say now?
“Are you going to sit down?” Tom said, head still reading over the papers--as if he wasn’t even paying attention to you.
But he was. How could he not? How could he ignore the way your smell filled the whole room, how could he ignore the way it overtook control of his very thoughts? And you were just standing there, motionless, studying him. Tom never felt nervous--but under your gaze, he was suddenly very aware of how odd his fingers felt touching each other. How come he never realised his fingers almost always touched each other when he placed them on the desk and how come he could suddenly feel the desk under his hand and was he supposed to be pushing it so harshly?
Cautiously, you pulled up the chair in front of the desk and sat down.
Neither of you said a word.
The silence was born into the room--becoming its own entity. You were so aware of it you were sure you could give it a name, touch it even.
You didn’t move.
You were sitting in front of your husband, the man you were legally bound to, and yet you had no idea what to say. You just watched him.
Counted the brown hairs atop his head, counted the taps his pinky made onto the wood. Counted the times he clicked and unclicked the pen in his hand.
After three minutes, or maybe thirty five, Milly came in with your drinks and a smile and then she disappeared and didn’t even bother to take the silence with her.
You cradled the ceramic in your hand as you softly blew on the beverage, feeling as if your every move was being looked at, even judged.
Tom didn’t even say anything to make you feel so insecure, in fact--he said nothing at all. And maybe that was the worst part. There was no good reason for you to still be sitting in his office, no reason at all. You were not invited in here, you weren’t needed, why you even thought to come down was a mystery to you now and you had no idea what to say and if you should be crossing your legs but your thigh was itching and you needed to move it and you could hear yourself swallowing so loudly you were sure Tom could hear it and what if he could sense you were nervous and--
Tom sighed loudly and threw his head back, his hand covering his face. You noticed the ring he had on his finger--the one you both had.
“Everything okay?” You asked timidly.
“No, not really,” he rubbed his forehead twice before his hand fell limpy to his side.
You moved forward in your chair slightly, scared to move too far. You didn’t want him to think you were eager--but you finally had an opportunity to ask.
Tom licked his lips slowly, took a sip from his cup and looked right at you. For a second you were sure he could see right through you. He opened his mouth then closed it.
You wanted to say ‘forget it’, you wanted to take back your question. You were amazed at yourself that you even dared ask.
But you let him open his mouth one more time.
“There’s a missing shipment and we can’t seem to find it.”
“Oh,” you raised your brows. You hoped Tom couldn’t hear the enthusiasm in your voice, but when he sent you a half smile that hope faded quickly. Still, he didn’t dismiss you like your father always did and that was a good sign.
A great one, as Tom talked on.
He told you where the shipment came from and where they lost it and about all the bullets waiting in that crate. He told you about their arms’ dealer and the rumours going around that he shouldn’t be trusted.
Tom told you more and more and more and he didn’t stop talking and you wouldn’t dare ask him to and after your coffee turned cold from forget, you spoke up.
“What if you go over to this Mario bloke and ask him straight up?”
“No,” Tom shook his head. But it was his tone that stuck with you.
Sure, he turned down your idea, but he didn’t dismiss it. Not in the same demeaning tone your father always used when he assured you you simply wouldn’t understand how horribly wrong you were.
“Guys like Mario don’t take lightly to accusations,” Tom explained.
“Sure, no one would. But if you say it plain as day you’re not accusing him so much as just asking. And if he denies it then maybe he does have something to hide.”
“--maybe this whole ‘pride’ thing is just his way of making sure people never suspect him.”
At that Tom’s brown eyes lit up--turning the whole room brighter.
You never noticed how beautiful brown eyes could be before that moment.
“Like, he’s built this reputation of someone that goes mental on you if you question him, just so no one would dare question him?” Tom repeated your sentiment in his own words, just to confirm it. You nodded slowly, and Tom’s face broke in half as he smiled big and wide at you.
“That’s actually a brilliant tactic.”
“Well, we don’t actually know that it is a tactic, but is there any harm in trying?”
“He could punch my head in,” Tom shrugged.
You lifted your eyebrows as you giggled. “For some reason I doubt this Mario, or any Mario alive really, would fuck with you.”
For a second you were sure you saw Tom blush.
“What does that mean?”
“Aren’t you supposedly the most dangerous man alive? Pretty sure someone said that to me at the party the other day.”
“Oh, did they?” Tom smirked, and you found your eyes were unable to leave his face, not even for a moment. It’s like you wanted to remember every second of this conversation. Even the not so professional parts of it.
You simply nodded, before Tom added, “I think your dad might hold that title.”
“Isn’t that the reason we got married though?”
“Not sure having a wife that cries constantly makes me that dangerous,” Tom chuckled.
Until he looked at you and realised what he said. He could’ve made that joke in a room full of blokes and he’d get an uproarious laugh, but you simply didn’t find that funny and why would you and Tom realised now he never ever spoke to a girl that wasn’t a direct blood relative of his for this long.
Now he realised he didn’t quite know how.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” he said stiffly and you looked at your cup of now cold coffee, tempted to reach out for it again just so you could have something to do.
“Are you going to talk to Mario then?”
“Yeah,” Tom said, getting up from his chair, buttoning up his blazer on pure reflex as he stood. “I need to go get Harrison.”
“Yeah, of course,” you nodded, taking that as your hint to leave--even though Tom was still just looking at you.
With one final look, one that even you couldn’t translate--you left Tom’s office and walked back into the small little haven that was your room.
Tom came back somewhere between midnight and three in the morning. You knew because Tessa was barking, and although the house was big she was loud and she let everyone know the men were back from whatever business they were attending. Of course, thanks to your brave decision to actually talk to Tom today, you knew exactly what that business was.
How he decided to conduct that business, however, was unknown to you. If he went for violence, if someone got hurt--you’d have to find that out in the morning.
And your question was brutally answered when you saw the black eye Harrison was sporting in the morning.
“Hello,” you said to him cautiously as you sat down for breakfast.
Harrison simply rolled his eyes at you.
But it was Tom’s small ‘good morning’ and smile that surprised you the most.
None of the men in the house cared too much for you, they never gave you the time of day, but for Tom to be decent towards you was new.
You had to ask.
“Are you okay?”
“Oh, I’m brilliant,” Tom sat down with a smile, “Harrison on the other hand isn’t too happy with you.”
“Yeah, Tom decided to listen to a woman rather than his right hand man,” Harrison practically sneered towards you.
You weren’t sure how to respond to that, and suddenly the strong smell of waffles that filled the kitchen only brought nausea into your stomach. Or perhaps that was fear.
“What-what does that mean?” You dared, against all your better judgement.
“We went over to Mario’s last night,” Tom beamed your way, almost as if he was proud. And judging by the smugness on his smile and the sparkle in his brown eyes--you couldn’t think he was anything else. He even dared wrap his hand around the back of your chair, and surprisingly, you didn’t mind it too much. You didn’t mind it at all.
Harrison however, was sending daggers your way--his thin lips curled inwards as if to stop himself from saying what was truly on his mind. You were sure it was anything but pleasantries.
“And how did it go?”
“Like shit,” Harrison yelled.
“Haz, keep your voice down next to her,” Tom demanded instantly. “It went really well,” he corrected quickly, once again sending a smile your way.
You nodded, daringly asking for more details. Harrison hated that you did, his blue eyes gaping at the mere audacity you had to stick your nose into their business--but Tom didn’t mind at all. In fact he placed his coffee cup back on the table and dived right into the details of it all.
He made a point of using his hands for every single thing he said--that wedding ring screaming out to you. It didn’t look bad on him, you had to admit, and the way his eyes sparkled as he talked was truly intoxicating.
He concluded with, “so, you were right.”
“I was?” You let out, cautiously.
“He’s been nicking off our shipments for a while now. So we recovered like twenty crates last night, and it’s all thanks to you.”
“I’m glad I could help,” you blushed. You didn’t doubt you were right for a second, but the pointed look Tom was giving you suddenly made you very aware of the fact you didn’t brush your hair before you came down to eat. Now you wished you had.
“We have another meeting tonight after dinner, I want you to join.”
Your head tilted to the side slightly. “What’s the meeting going to be about?”
“Oh,” he smiled, “no spoilers. You’ll have to come and see.”
“I don’t get a preview?” You chuckled, lifting your brows slightly at him. Tom smirked.
“No one gets a preview, that defies the purpose of a meeting.”
“Surely you can make an exception for your wife,” you teased.
You haven’t realised it before you said it, but now that those words were swimming around the air you noticed it. That was the first time you said that word, around Tom, so carelessly. Like it wasn’t such a burden anymore, like it wasn’t so bad to be called that after all.
But you didn’t mean to say it at all and now you couldn’t exactly take it back and you felt your neck heat up in embarrassment.
Harrison got up and left at that exact moment, mumbling something incoherent under his breath--but you could barely notice that. All you cared about, in that very moment, was the look on Tom’s face.
Tom’s features softened at you. His brown eyes lighter, bigger, taking the sight of you in. His brows weren’t scrunched in the middle the way they always were, his jaw wasn’t clenched. It was like all the tension he’s been under, all the stress, it was like it all just disappeared. Evaporated from under his skin. It was like finally he was calm, like he was safe.
For the first time he seemed like he was… nice. Like he wasn’t dangerous or full of sin. He seemed like he was almost happy.
So Tom spoke up, told you the meeting was to do with a new storage unit--one they could trust. He even made a point of asking you to be the one to help decide on the outcome.
You smiled at him once, nodded, and then excused yourself back up to your room.
You made a point of brushing your hair and putting some lipgloss on before you went about your day.
There was a fog surrounding the office as you stepped inside it, riddled with smoke and tension and the uncomfortable glare from Harrison. Harry sat right next to Tom, with a notebook in hand--taking minutes for the meeting. Sam looked at you, studying your movements.
You weren’t quite sure where you were supposed to sit; Tom patted the empty chair next to him.
You coughed, as if to reignite the muscles in your legs, and made your way over to him. Harrison was sending daggers your way and it didn’t take a genius to understand you took his chair away from him.
You wondered if that meant more than a simple seating arrangement. You tried your hardest not to hope.
You stayed quiet for the duration of the meeting--you were quite good at that--and simply took all the information in. When the boys spoke in vague terms, Tom always made a point of filling in the gaps for your benefit, looking over at you and explaining the missing pieces clearly. You always nodded at him, affirming you understood, before Tom let the conversation move forward.
It amazed you how in control of it all he was. He set the pace for everything; the way they talked, when something new could be mentioned, what problem they were to deal with next.
If Tom didn’t say it, it didn’t happen, and while your father had that trait about him as well he didn’t wear it half as decently as Tom did.
You had a feeling that if destiny truly was a deciding factor in this life--it all moved around Tom. Letting Tom be born into the family he was born into, letting Tom rise up the ranks to lead him to this very moment.
And although this moment was mundane at best, it was completely his. He wore his crown well.
It was three weeks later when a loud bang startled you up from your reading. Tessa was on the foot of your bed, snuggling against your pink covers, when the noise caused her to jump towards the window.
She had spent the whole week by your side--not because Tom wasn’t here, but because he was busy with other things and Tessa realised, at one point or another, that you were just as good for company as he was.
You wore that with honour.
You opened your balcony door slowly, stepping outside to search for the disturbance. You couldn’t see a wounded bird, nor a fallen branch, and frankly you had no idea why Tessa even thought it was coming from outside.
Then you heard a whistle.
Peering over the edge of the railing, you saw Tom.
With a hand outstretched upwards, he urged you to come down and join him.
“Tom, it’s raining,” you laughed as you felt the small patter of rain on your forearms.
“Come on, it’s just spitting!” He insisted and even though he was far away you could still see the sparkle in his eye. Even with the distance between you two and the darkness provided by the overcast shadows from the clouds, he could still get you to do what he wanted. Maybe it was the power you knew he possessed or maybe it was something else--but you realised you wouldn’t quite be able to say no to Tom. You weren’t sure if that was a dangerous thing or not.
Slipping on your garden shoes, you quickly ran down the stairs and walked outside.
“Hello,” you said as Tom towered slightly over you. The difference in height wasn’t that noticeable--but sometimes Tom just managed to appear taller than he was. Like his soul was bigger than his body allowed.
“I haven’t seen you all week,” Tom pointed out as he stuck a cigarette in his mouth and lit it. You nodded as he exhaled the smoke to the side.
“You’ve been busy,” you pointed out.
“Yeah,” Tom rolled his eyes, bringing a hand over his brow before it slacked to the side of his figure.
The dress shirt he was wearing was clinging onto his body for dear life, the middle button threatening to pop open if Tom made any sudden movements. And it’s not that Tom couldn’t go and buy a bigger shirt for himself if needed--it’s that he very much wanted his shirt to be so tight. It was white, the shirt (as was the smoke leaving his parted lips) and if the clouds provided any more rain you were sure Tom’s shirt would turn see-through. You almost prayed for more rain.
You never noticed his body so closely before, nor did you notice the small, almost non-existence space between you two. You could smell the cigarette in your lungs but you didn’t mind it all that much. It smelled like Tom, anyway.
“Still,” Tom said, the coil at the end of the stick lighting up as he inhaled, “I should make time for my wife.”
“You should,” you said bravely.
Tom nodded at you--knowingly--before he threw the cigarette onto the ground.
“You should pick that up,” you said slowly, “wild life tend to choke on cigarette butts because they mistake them for food.”
Tom rolled his eyes at you, and for a moment you regretted saying anything at all. When he didn’t respond, you simply stuffed your hands into your pockets and shrugged.
Now--you weren’t quite sure why Tom called you down here at all.
“Well, I was reading, so I’ll get back to it,” you said, stiffly, feeling your lips stretch into a thin line. When Tom stayed quiet, you gave him a small--and frankly very awkward--wave before making your way back into the house.
With your back turned, Tom picked the butt off the ground and chucked it in the bin.
He made a mental note to ask one of his caretakers to install an ashtray, or something, in the garden. He was sure gifting his wife a dead bunny or whatever wasn’t the best way to start a marriage.
Tom wasn’t even sure when he started considering this a marriage at all--but he couldn’t deny it anymore. Whether he liked it or not, you were his wife, and the more days passed between your “wedding” the more he realised it was real. He couldn’t take it back and he couldn’t erase it and he had to make due.
It wasn’t the worst situation really, to be stuck with a girl like you. And he couldn’t say he was actually stuck with you considering you lived on the other side of the house.
As Tom fell asleep that night with Tessa tucked neatly by his side he let himself imagine what it would be like to have his arms around you.
After an hour in the home gym and a quick shower, you made your way downstairs to the living room. It was raining outside, and the electric fireplace was a much cozier landscape than your room. Of course, you were free to change your room if you so pleased--but a change of location was needed, and in a house as big as the Hollands', there was no reason not to.
A small pitpat of paws tapped against the marble floor and soon you were joined by Tessa. You were just as happy to see her as her tail suggested she was to see you.
You cooed at her for a few moments, brushing your hand against her fur before a body plopped down on the sofa beside you.
“She likes you,” Tom said, spreading his arms on the backrest while his thighs took over half the seat. You were sure you were meant to move aside for him, but you decided you didn’t need to after all.
“I’m technically her mum now, aren’t I?” You chuckled, inviting her onto your lap.
“Definitely not,” Tom scoffed, a smile sparkling in his eyes, “she’s mine. We didn’t agree to share custody.”
“Well, then I want my own puppy,” you tried.
“You can have whatever you want, darling,” Tom said, his voice softer than you’ve heard it for a while. As Tessa situated herself comfortably on your lap, Tom reached his palm over to pat her head. He was quite close to you now.
“I don’t actually want a puppy,” you confessed slowly, “Tess would get a bit jealous I reckon.”
“I would too,” Tom smirked for a moment.
“You’d never give me attention if you had a dog to care for,” he shrugged, his hand getting closer to your knee as he seemed to have neglected the task of petting Tessa.
“If I recall yesterday correctly, you fully admitted to not making enough time for your wife.”
“That’s why I’m here, actually,” he said, taking his hand away from your knee and running it through his hair instead. “Wanted to ask you if you’d join me for dinner tonight.”
You shrugged, as you usually had dinners together anyway. You, Tom, and the rest of the mobsters that lived with you in this house.
“Booked a table for the Ritz,” Tom said, casually, “if you need a dress I can take you shopping?”
The rest of your afternoon was spent around the shopping centre, walking in and out of all your favourite shops. You were quite used to buying whatever you wanted for yourself, but there was something uniquely special about the feeling you got when Tom would simply step up to the till and tap his card, with not a single care in the world.
You normally didn’t pay much attention to what other people thought of you--but there was an odd satisfaction in the looks you got in each shop; a daze of impressed, jealous, and some were just in pure awe of him.
And when you couldn’t make up your mind between two pairs of shoes--both looked perfect with the yellow dress you picked--Tom sat there patiently as you walked back and forth on each pair, trying them out, doing your best to just decide.
When asked for an opinion, Tom calmly told you what he thought of the colour, the height, the shape of each shoe--and said he quite preferred the black ones.
“But the yellow match the dress,” you explained.
“But you said the yellows aren’t as comfortable, love,” he tried reasoning with you.
You let out a groan in frustration, taking a shoe in each hand--thinking maybe they could speak to you and let you know which one of them to take home.
“You want them both?” Tom suggested.
“No, because then it’ll just be more of this when we get home.”
“Excuse me,” Tom said, as he saw a salesman walk by, “my wife can’t decide between these two pairs, would you be able to give us a hand?”
“Of course, sir,” he said, and you could tell he was intimidated by the suit and the watch and the way Tom simply held himself.
You imagined Tom saw it, too.
“If only this pair,” you said, pointing at the black heel, “was this colour,” you pointed out the yellow, “I’d have no problem.”
The salesman’s eyes lit up, and quickly he asked for your size. Not a minute later and you were at the till, with a pair of yellow heels in the same style as the black ones.
“You’re happy?” Tom asked as you watched the lady box up your shoes.
“So happy, thank you,” you smiled at Tom, who simply planted a kiss on your forehead before he tapped his card into the machine.
Once home (Tom carrying your bags all the way into your room), your husband insisted he needed a quick shower and you were eager to put on your new outfit and perfect your look for the night.
It was two hours later when you found yourself escorted to your table at the Ritz, the host even referring to you as “Mr. and Mrs. Holland” before he showed you to your seats. This time, you didn't mind the title as much as you used to.
You quickly secured your clutch on the shelf underneath the table and turned to Tom with a smile.
“I love it here,” you said with a sigh, remembering it’s been too long since the last time your father took you to afternoon tea at the prestigious restaurant. Tom smiled happily at this new piece of information and promised that this wouldn’t be your last date here.
“Oh, so we’re on a date?” You asked with a raise of your brows.
“Of course,” Tom said simply.
“Do married couples even go on dates?” You wondered out loud.
Tom pondered your question for a moment or two before he said, “I promised myself if I got married that I would still go on dates and do all those things. I didn't want to be the kind of husband that just lets that magic and the love fade. Even if I’ve never been in love.”
“You’ve never been in love?” You gasped slightly, finding yourself leaning closer to him.
“Never had time to date properly,” Tom said, “not that it would have mattered, really. Considering,” he trailed off--gesturing to your general area.
You leaned back slightly, doing your best not to get too offended by his insinuation.
A coldness fell over the table as you did your best to focus on your food instead of the man in front of you.
“And what about you?” Tom said, a few moments too long between his last sentence and the silence that took over you two--his words falling on the awkward side of a conversation.
You never thought you’d feel awkward with someone who was meant to be your husband.
“What about me?”
“Been in love?”
“Yes,” you deadpanned, “Ollie.”
Tom took a sip of his drink, his brown eyes staring you down. Your shoulders felt far too exposed all of a sudden.
“I’m sorry,” you said, once your plate was half empty. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
“I was being insensitive,” Tom agreed. He hasn’t been able to eat at all, seeing the discomfort on your forehead leaking all the way to your shoulders.
“Are you still.. I mean, well, how do you feel about him now?”
In all honesty, you haven’t actually thought about Ollie for a while. Of course you cared about him, and truly, you would do anything to get him back. Anything but leave Tom. Not that you cared for Tom in that sense, oh, not at all, but Tom was your husband and he spoiled you and he was nice in his own mobster way and of course who were you kidding, you always knew you’d end up in a gang--whether it was your father’s or not.
“It’s in the past,” you said slowly, nodding your head once as if to affirm it to yourself.
“And we should be focusing on the future,” Tom added, leaning his hands on the table. The gold watch on his wrist shining back at you.
A small smile fluttered onto your lips as you did your best to fight it away, but it was futile. Tom’s eyes had turned honey coloured in front of you, and you started to wonder just how sweet he would taste.
“Yeah,” he smiled softly, his thin lips spreading across his face, “our future.”
You smiled at him, your cheeks already hurting from the sensation, before you got back to your food.
The pair of you talked about sports (you mostly listened) and Harry Styles’ new music video (he mostly nodded) and the latest show everyone was watching on Netflix. He promised you that when the next craze comes along the pair of you would watch that together, and then he promised to take you to the cinema when the new Marvel movie was finally out.
You thanked him for the offer, even though you knew he didn’t really care about superheros all that much.
Tom thanked your waiter for the service, giving them a generous tip, and escorted you back to his car. You quite enjoyed that he drove a Ferrari, but you weren’t sure if you should be telling him that.
Either way, you listened as the engine purred all the way back to your home--and maybe you felt an odd sense of pride at the astonished looks from the vehicles next to you on the road, the pedestrians, and even the taxi drivers. You were sure they saw a lot of fancy cars driving down the streets of London--and yet still one of them even took a picture of the car as it zoomed past them.
You couldn’t help but place your hand on Tom’s shoulder for the remainder of the drive.
Once you were back home--in your shared home--Tom walked you up the grand staircase towards your room. You weren’t sure when, but your hand had slipped into his. Or did his slip into yours?
“Here we are,” you said softly, unsure of what else to say. Tom had a look in his eyes, a sparkle reflecting in the browness you haven’t quite noticed before. It reminded you of his whiskey, he smelt of his cigarettes, he smiled like he could never hurt anyone.
You took in a small breath.
“Thank you for dinner, by the way,” you said, squeezing his hand softly.
Tom smiled at you, leaning in closer. You could see the freckles on his nose so clearly now.
“Would we be able to do this again?” You felt stupid for asking, but a part of you was already looking forward to the next time you could just spend a night with Tom, the same way normal couples do. You knew there wasn’t much normal about your relationship so far--but like Tom said, it was about the future now.
“We could do whatever you wanted,” he said, voice soft.
He let go of your hand, and before you could pout in response, his fingers found your waist.
“You looked beautiful tonight,” he said, licking his lips, “I feel like I haven’t told you that.”
“No, I don’t think you have,” you chuckled, your forearm leaning against his shoulder softly. “You look beautiful, too.”
Tom laughed, his eyes fixating on your yellow heels, and if you looked closely you could see a bright pink tint on his cheeks now.
“Tom Holland,” you gasped, your palm falling to his chest, “have I just made you blush?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he insisted with a smile so big you could see crinkles multiplying by his eyes.
“You’re gorgeous when you blush,” you mumbled.
With that, Tom took a step forward, his spare hand finding your cheek--his fingers brushing against your hair. You could feel the warmth from his skin and if you didn’t have any self control you would’ve sighed at the touch. But you stayed strong. You weren’t sure how long that would last, however, when he licked his lips again and leaned closer.
“You know you’re stunning,” he said, “I’m really lucky to call you my wife.”
“You could’ve gotten any model to be your wife and she would’ve been twice as--”
“--shush,” Tom stopped you, his thumb resting on your lips. “Maybe it’s not only about how pretty you are.”
“Then what is it about?” You muffled against his finger.
“You actually care about my job,” he said, and you were sure you’ve never heard Tom sound so sincere, “like you understand it and that idea you had the other day literally saved us. I need you by my side, in those meetings.”
“Are you serious?”
“Please, Y/N,” he sighed, “I want you by my side in everything.”
“Tom,” you gasped, “please don’t say this just to get in my pants.”
“You’re wearing a dress.”
The pair of you laughed, your whole body shaking with it, and for a moment you were sure Tom’s eyes had turned to little love hearts as he looked at you. You did your best to ignore that, and instead wrapped both your hands around his shoulder.
“Thank you,” you mumbled.
“You’re my wife, you don’t have to thank me for anything.”
You nodded at that, and took a step back. You turned to leave, reaching for your doorknob before you stopped yourself, and turned back around. Tom was still staring right at you.
“Can you kiss your wife goodnight?”
You were sure your voice was shaking, you could feel your blood rushing all the way up to your eyes and your throat suddenly felt like it was going to collapse into itself--but all that fear and panic was short lived, as Tom leaped forward and grabbed you by the waist, pulling you into his embrace as he connected his lips to yours.
It was like fireworks were going off in the background, and music had started to build up into a crescendo and butterflies took over your insides and all cliches aside it just felt right. Like you were meant to kiss Tom and he was meant to hold and how come you’ve waited all this time to do this?
You moved your lips together in sync, your fingers in his hair and his hands going up and down your back, pulling you closer. He tasted like the champagne you drank at dinner and he smelt expensive and his lips were so soft and all you wanted was more, more, more.
His hair was silky in between your fingers and you couldn’t help but tug at it, urging a gasp out of Tom’s lips and a small giggle out of yours.
But that didn’t stop either of you, and you both deepened the kiss further, allowing yourself to slip your tongue across his lips and against his own.
“God,” he gasped, pulling you impossibly closer as the temperature in your cheeks had started to rise. He moved you slightly, pushing your back against your bedroom door as the kiss had gotten hungrier, more passionate, as if you were both dying to do this for a while. You didn’t even realise how much you wanted this, and until now, you didn’t realise how long Tom had waited for this.
You knew the effort he was trying to put into your relationship, but you didn’t imagine he could be attracted to you. You couldn’t imagine anyone wouldn’t be attracted to him--and so you decided he had waited all this time for you to make the first move.
That realisation made you pull him deeper into you, kissing him with all the strength you had. Your thighs had started to grow your weak, your butterflies travelling to every point of your body and surely eating it alive, because you could barely feel it. It was lucky Tom was holding onto you so tightly.
It was then that one of his hands left your body, but only long enough to open the door he had pushed you against, catching you effortlessly as you nearly tripped into your own room.
“Don’t go,” you mumbled quietly, as he had maneuvered the pair of you towards your bed--the distance between you growing painfully as he pulled away.
“I’ll stay if you let me?” He asked. You never thought Tom asked for anything, let alone permission, and you were sure the thought alone was enough to make you fall for him.
But you were sure now, you were positive, that you fell for him a long time ago--without you ever realising it.
“Please,” you let out.
Tom took another step back from you, although he kept his hands on your hips, and connected his eyes with yours. The brown in them was truly stunning, melting your insides, making you all but crave him.
His eyes were too kind for the things you knew he did, but his eyes were looking at you, and that’s all that mattered now.
“Please stay here tonight,” you asked again.
“You’ve had half a bottle of champagne,” he observed.
Although that was true, you truly weren’t feeling the effects of it anymore as you’ve eaten so much food to go with it, and it has been a few hours now since the empty bottle was taken away by your waiter.
“You’ve had the other half,” was all you thought to say.
“I’ll stay with you, but I don’t want our first time to be when you’re drunk.”
“I’m really not drunk though,” you promised.
Tom kissed your cheek, so soft it almost hurt. “I know.”
Then he took a step back, brushed your hair away from your face and smiled at you. “Your lips are great, by the way.”
You laughed at him, rolling your eyes at his words and plopped down on your bed.
You finally got rid of your heels, chucking them to the side, and started taking off your jewellery. Tom had sat down beside you, a small distance still living between the pair of you, and watched in awe as you started taking off your makeup next. He held your earrings for you, and your necklace, and then he held your bottle of makeup remover as you did your best to wash it all off with a cotton pad.
“Are you just going to watch me then?”
“Yeah,” Tom smiled at you.
You chuckled back at him, taking off the rings still on your fingers--leaving only your golden wedding band.
When your eyes lingered on it for a moment too long, Tom noticed, and linked your hands together. His thumb rubbed against the back of your palm softly, his gaze delicate as he tried to understand what you were thinking.
But you weren’t someone Tom was going to analyze, you weren’t his prey. You were his wife, and he decided it was high time to start treating you as such. Treating you the way you deserve.
“Everything okay?” He asked, voice low.
You nodded, your lips disappearing for a moment before you faked a smile. But Tom saw right through it.
“Come on, what is it? I promise I won’t tell,” he joked, and it worked, since you laughed right back.
“My ring doesn’t even fit properly,” you admitted quietly.
“Neither does mine really,” he observed, making a point of twirling his ring around, gesturing at just how easily it moved against his hand.
“Don’t laugh,” you began, focusing on your hands, “but I always wanted an engagement ring.”
“Why would I laugh?” Tom reasoned, “I think almost everyone wants an engagement ring, and a fancy wedding and a big party. All we got was some fake gala.”
“Do you want me to fix it?” Tom asked, his nose bumping against yours.
“I wanna go to sleep,” you said instead, too afraid to admit to your own desires--taken aback by the way Tom simply voiced them as if they were his own. And maybe you two shared those desires, the want of a normal life, but you couldn’t face that just yet.
“Let’s go to sleep then,” Tom grabbed both your hands, lacing your fingers together, before he pressed a small kiss on your forehead.
You quickly walked into your en suite, changing into your pajamas, while Tom stripped down to his boxers.
The sight took you by surprise, his body perfectly sculpted--as expected from someone in good shape, and he was in great shape.
Still, you couldn’t help but stare--almost longingly--at the sight in front of you.
“I would say take a picture because it’ll last longer,” Tom started with a grin, “but actually you’re stuck with me forever so you’ll see it a lot.”
“Is that a promise or a threat?” You joked, climbing into your bed.
“Probably both,” Tom mused, the smirk on his face impossible to miss.
You giggled at him, scrunching the blanket all the way up to your chin as you cuddled into yourself.
“I’ll keep my distance,” he said as he moved to his own side of the bed, the space of a full grown adult taking shape between the pair of you. You almost frowned at him.
He didn’t have to sleep in your bed if he didn’t want to, and you had half a mind of telling him so, until he moved his hand underneath the blanket, reaching over the space between you and touching your palm lightly.
“You know, in the nicest way possible, you’re probably the most respectful gangster I ever met.”
“Yeah,” Tom chuckled, “I’d say that’s a nice thing to say.”
“If you wanted to, you can sleep closer.”
“Are you sure?” He asked timidly.
“Tom, we’ve been married for eight months, I think we can have a bit of a cuddle.”
Tom smiled at that, moving right in front of you. “Okay, babe.”
He snaked his arm across your waist, pulling you into his bare chest.
If this was any other man, if this was any other situation, you would’ve tried every old trick in the book just to get what you wanted tonight. And what you wanted was to sleep with him. But you realised, as Tom’s shampoo covered your lungs, that this wasn’t like any other situation at all. This wasn’t some guy you went on a date with. This was something you had forever, this was your whole future. And if what you needed was to wait another week, another month, that would be fine.
You had forever.
Your second date with Tom was a mini golf date in Mayfair, meaning there weren’t many teenagers there, and it was mostly rich men wanting to play golf with their partners in a smaller space. Tom talked a lot about golf, and although you didn’t really understand what a Tee was or why he mentioned it all the time, you did your best to listen. Tom in return listened attentively as you explained the plot of your favourite show, and how compelling the character development was in the latest season. Tom even tried watching it one day, but instead fell asleep on your lap.
Your third date was an interesting one; as it involved going into a warehouse and sorting out a deal.
The leader of a different gang, one controlling the Crystal Palace area, was there to make the deal.
Harrison came with the pair of you, as did Harry, and although you didn’t have a weapon with you--you felt safe.
Your father never let you join him on the field--over his dead body, he always said--but when Harrison came into Tom’s office and said this had to be taken care of, there was only one viable solution.
“I know I said we’d go to this film tonight, but I need to take care of business,” Tom said as he entered your room, your hands occupied with your hair straighteners.
“That’s fine, if you have work to do, you have work,” you said sincerely, nodding at him through the mirror.
“What?” You turned around, placing the straightener on your vanity so as to not burn your hand. You weren’t quite sure you heard him correctly.
“Come with. You wanted to be part of the mob, first time I met you that’s what you said,” Tom reasoned, and you didn’t even bother fighting the smile that was on your lips at the fact he remembered such a detail. It was only small, but to you, it was a very important detail.
It meant the world.
Harrison didn’t even grumble at you when the pair of you came down the stairs, and instead of saying anything mean or dismissive he simply asked, “can you shoot a gun?”
“No,” you said truthfully. Of course you wanted to impress him, him of all people--as Tom’s right hand man--but you didn’t want to lie about something as important as that.
“It’s fine,” Tom promised, “no one will dare hurt you when you’re with me.”
He linked your fingers together, pulling the whole group out into the parking lot as they each found their cars.
Tom’s hand was sat firmly on your thigh as he followed the sat-nav to the location agreed upon by Harrison and the gangster, who you learned was named Alfie.
Once in front of Alfie, he had a lot to say.
About respect and money and all that other stuff and you were doing your best to listen--but he barely even said anything, just used a lot of words to act like he was talking, with no true substance to his sentences.
Tom was doing his best to negotiate, but couldn’t get more than three words out before Alfie had started talking again. More like blabbering really.
“Hey!” You said, after three of Tom’s attempts to get one solid answer from the man. “Can you just answer his question and stop chatting shit?”
“What did you say to me?” Alfie asked, taking a step forward. Tom instantly brought his arm in front of you, putting a barrier between you and Alfie, and his two men beside him.
“What you bringing your missus here for anyway, mate?” Alfie asked again. “All woman bring is trouble, you should know that.”
“Take a step back, Thompson,” Tom warned.
Alfie smirked at him, raised his eyebrows and took a step closer to you. He was still a foot away from you, but that didn’t stop Tom from being as cautious as he could be.
No one would disrespect him like that, no one would disrespect his wife like that. His family.
So when he told Alfie Thompson, the rat, to move backwards and he didn’t--he had no choice but to take his gun out of its holster.
“Oi! No need for that, mate, this is a friendly business meeting, yeah?” You rolled your eyes at him, and at the whole situation, before you urged Tom to put his gun away and just listen to what the man had to say, regardless of how many words he used to get to his fucking point.
Alfie then proceeded to tell you all that he had three barrels of weapons to sell, all in mint condition, all waiting for Tom to take tonight for the right price.
The right price was as much as Tom had paid for four barrels last month, and so Tom refused that price. Alfie then added that there was a whole bucket of extra bullets included in that price.
His face had gone red when he said that, but Tom put that down to Alfie being unhappy with his first offer being refused.
“I can add another bucket, it’s there for you to take, no extra charge.”
“Two buckets of bullets are worth half a barrel of weapons though,” you whispered down Tom’s ear.
“Hey, what’s she saying in your ear, then, eh, mate?”
You rolled your eyes. Tom considered what you were saying, his messy eyebrow frowning slightly as he went over the calculations. You were right.
Alfie knew you were right, too, even if he didn’t hear your exact words.
“Alright, fine. I also have a few keys of some very fine powder, if you wanted it.”
“Why wasn’t this mentioned before, then?” Harrison interjected.
“I was going to keep it for myself, but I will let you lot away with it if you promise to keep it on your end of the streets.”
Tom was thinking his offer over. They already had a supplier of cocaine, but Alfie’s product was known to be the best around London, and if Tom could get his hand on even a few kilos, that would be great for business.
“Where is it?”
“In my car,” Alfie promised. “Take everything now and I’ll take the powder out.”
Alfie had smiled, the type of smile fitting a Cheshire cat, and his eyebrows were so far up his hairline they almost disappeared. He crossed his hands over his body, his elbow propping against his very visible gun, and he quite practically stared you down.
You knew a fair bit about Thompson’s gang, considering Crystal Palace was a prime location for selling product, especially something as highly sought after as cocaine was. There was no reason at all for him to offer you any, especially not of his own stash. But if he was desperate enough to close the deal, and it was obvious by the sweat on his forehead that he was, he would’ve said practically anything.
And so you ignored the snare like shaking of your heart and coughed, preparing yourself to say what was on your mind. You couldn’t let this deal go through silently.
“He’s lying,” you said, loudly.
“Sorry, what?” Alfie all but yelled.
Tom turned his head towards you, his eyes asking you if you were certain. With a small nod of your head, you assured him you were.
“The deal is off, then,” Tom said, a finality in his voice you found shaking your core. He knew exactly what he wanted in his business, and the security that made you feel was unmatched by anything else.
“Sorry, you’re just going to let your bird decide what you’re going to do then?”
“Exactly, and if you have an issue you better have a grave set aside for yourself, mate,” Tom said, his hand reaching out for his gun again.
Alfie muttered a few extra words, before Tom nodded his head towards his brother. Harry quickly made his way over to Alfie’s car to look for said product--and just as you thought, there was nothing there.
He was going to rob Tom in this deal, and once he got caught in that act--him and his men simply fled.
Harry got a punch in the face as Alfie climbed into his car, and although that wasn’t pleasant, that was better than being overcharged for a few guns. Tom would find a different supplier soon enough.
“Let’s go home,” Tom said, wrapping a hand around your shoulder and guiding you back towards his Ferrari 488.
The rest of the night, and what was meant to be your date, was spent in the living room--the boys all toasting your name in awe.
“I’m impressed you saw through his lies,” Harrison said, a sincere smile on his face.
“Yeah, well, he kept saying a lot and then he only used short sentences. Plus, his body language was way off.”
Harry and Harrison laughed at that, their giggles directed towards Tom more than anything else, and informed him that he had finally met his match.
“Tom thinks he’s the king of body language, or whatever,” Harry mocked, explaining the joke to you.
Tom shook his head, bringing his hand around your waist as he sipped the rest of his whiskey.
“I’m sure Tom is good at reading people,” you nodded, bringing your hand onto his shoulder, “but that man was clearly trying to hide it from you guys. I think he thought I wouldn’t see it.”
“You see,” Tom clicked his tongue, “you should never underestimate my wife.”
You smiled at that, leaning over to peck Tom’s lips.
You have been doing a lot of kissing since that night at the Ritz, but you only realised then that you’ve never actually kissed in front of any of the other residents in the house. So Harrison let out a small gasp, and Harry cheered like a child, and you found yourself hiding your face in Tom’s shoulder.
“Right, lovely,” Tom concluded, flipping the boys off before telling them to mind their own business.
“I’m happy for you two, actually,” Harrison said, downing the rest of his drink and getting up from his seat, “she’s a good one.”
You smiled at him, gratefully, and watched as Harry and Harrison made their way to their room, whispering unheard, but definitely noticed by Tom and you.
“I didn’t think Harrison would be so nice to me,” you admitted once the pair of you were alone in the living room.
“Well, you certainly proved you’re a badass today, Y/N,” he said with a smile, pulling you in for another kiss.
You felt warmth overtaking your cheeks, but you didn’t mind, and instead kissed Tom harder than before.
“Oh?” He mumbled against your lips as you pulled him in again, this time slipping your tongue into his mouth.
Your fingers found his hair again, and his hands found your hips, and then you were on his lap with your hand by his jaw and your breath ragged.
You pecked Tom’s lips once and then twice and then you started kissing his cheek, kissing your way to his jawline. You planted a few kisses from his chin to his ear and then you started kissing down--down his neck. Slow, open mouthed kisses, full of pure intent.
You wanted to thank him, you wanted to show him just how much you appreciated his trust in you today, the way he was fully ready to walk away from a deal because you said so.
No one has ever shown you that kind of trust, and it was that exact moment that told you the pair of you were truly in this together. In everything.
Tom’s hands had travelled all the way to your hair, moving against your scalp slowly as he pushed you closer to his neck.
You could hear faint gasps leaving his parted lips, enjoying the way your lips felt against his neck, and so you kept going--feeling brave enough to suck a mark into his skin.
“Upstairs, now,” he urged you.
You quickly jumped from his lap, leading the way up into his room with your fingers laced together.
There was no rush in your steps, as you were now certain this wasn’t something that was just going away. You had all the excitement of teenagers getting to kiss their crush for the first time, mixed with the security of spouses.
If you didn’t know any better, you would think this was almost your dream.
There wasn’t any fear in your movements as Tom opened the door for you, and there wasn’t any nerves as he wrapped his hands around you again--connecting your lips together.
There were a few nerves, sure, but only the good ones.
Tom guided the pair of you to the bed, letting his thighs connect with the mattress as he fell backwards, allowing you to climb on top of him. His hands haven’t left your hips, guiding your movements but not at all dictating them--letting you set the pace for yourself.
Your kisses have grown messy, desperate, as your hips moved up and down against his crotch.
After some time--you weren’t really sure that time mattered all too much anymore--you ran your hands over his chest, feeling his abs greedily. More than half of his buttons were undone, he loosened them as you all walked back into the house, and you wondered why he even bothered still wearing it if his whole chest was on display anyway?
So you decided he didn’t need to wear it at all, and started undoing the few buttons he still had left. Tom quickly helped you pull the shirt off his hands, and by doing so, you were able to see his biceps straining under the movement as well as his stomach.
You weren’t sure if you wanted to bite him or lick him or kiss him but you wanted to do something, and so you decided to plant kisses all around his chest. You’d have enough time to do the other two later.
Tom buried his fingers in your hair, his gasps once again returning to your ears and you smiled to yourself against his pale skin. He had a few stray freckles around his chest and you made a point of kissing them too, making sure you gave enough attention to every part of his body.
You then started kissing down his stomach, slowly and carefully, indulging in his smell and the way his stomach contracted when you started kissing above his boxers, your chin just about touching the white strap of his Calvin Klein’s.
Right as you moved the strap down, Tom pulled your hair--urging you back towards him.
“C’mhere,” he said, flipping the pair of you around. “You’re overdressed.”
“Oh, am I?” You smirked at him, before you quickly tugged your shirt off yourself.
Tom let out a small groan when he noticed your bra--lacy and perfectly flattering and all he wanted was to take it off you.
He started kissing your neck and then your shoulder and then he softly kissed one of your tits, and then the other.
“As gorgeous as this bra is, I really wanna take it off,” he groaned, as both his hands cupped your tits--burying his face in them for a moment.
“Take it off, then, Tommy.”
Tom took in a deep breath at the nickname. He snaked a hand behind your back, lifting the clasp open with one hand as the other moved your hair away.
You quickly moved your bra off your body, throwing it to whatever corner of the room, focusing instead on the way Tom held both your tits in his hand--his eyes growing dark with lust.
He used one finger to flick against your nipple, watching your face closely as your back arched off the bed.
“Oh,” you moaned out softly, and that encouraged Tom to play with both your nipples at the same time. He flicked his fingers against them, building up a quick pace as more and more moans fell off your lips.
He licked his lips softly, but you could barely see that, as you were blinded by the pleasure in your chest. Tom then pinched one of your nipples and took the other in his mouth, his tongue flicking against it just as quickly as his fingers were moments ago.
You let out a swear word or two, but Tom quickly moved his lips away from your tits, instead planting kisses down your body. He stopped just above your jeans, which the pair of you quickly removed, and started kissing your panties--right over the slowly growing wet patch.
“Tommy,” you whined slightly, bucking your hips up and closer to his mouth. He looked up at you, a smirk on his lips, as he brought both his hands back up towards your tits.
He kept his attention on your nipples, just as he was doing before, and started licking over your panties--the warmness from his kisses causing a slight tingling in between your legs.
You wanted more, but just as you were about to ask for it, Tom took one of his hands away from your chest and used it to move your panties to the side.
He licked at your pussy, slowly, and when a small sigh left your lips he did it again. And then again. And then he pulled away for long enough to rip the strap of your panties in half.
“Tom!” You let out in shock.
“I’ll buy you new ones,” he shrugged, before he threw your very ruined underwear behind him.
Tom hooked his hands underneath your thighs, pulling you closer to him, and without so much of a word had started to devour your pussy.
“Oh, god, fuck,” you let out in between gasps. He moved from sucking on your clit to fucking his tongue inside you, licking up again every few moments. You weren’t sure what to do with your hands, what you were even supposed to do, if your body would even listen to any commands you gave it.
You were practically seeing stars as Tom used every trick available to him. You ran your hand through his hair, pulling at it lightly as you tried to urge him closer to your core. With a smirk towards you, and a glint in his honey coloured eyes, Tom spat right into your pussy before he rubbed his fingers up and down your entrance.
You were sure a whole symphony of noises was leaving you, but you didn’t care. You simply watched Tom’s face as he looked at the wetness gathering between your legs.
He rubbed his index against your clit for a few moments, basking in the sounds he was urging out of you, before he slowly slid two fingers inside of you.
You could feel the fullness taking over you, stretching you out as your thighs contracted lightly from the pressure.
Tom’s eyes were glued to you, trying to figure out every single one of your reactions, as he started moving his fingers faster.
When you opened your eyes for only a moment, you took in the sight of him, kneeling against the edge of the bed--his head between your legs and his hands flexing from the strain of his speed. You wanted to kiss him so badly but this felt too good to stop him, and so you let out another moan as you pushed your head back down--trying your best to focus on the pleasure he was giving you.
“Baby, please, more,” you begged him, and Tom quickly wrapped his lips around your clit as he added an extra finger, stretching you out to the point all you could do was pant and whine.
“Fuck,” Tom chuckled, “you taste fucking incredible.”
He then got back to his previous task, only this time, he moaned around your clit--causing a wave of vibrations to course through your most sensitive spot. You let out a louder moan at that, and then, Tom did it again.
“Fuck, fuck, I’m--Tom, holy shit,” you tried your best to let him know, but he wouldn’t stop humming against you and it shot jolts of pleasure through you. You didn’t even have time to let him know how close you were before the coil in your stomach had snapped--and you were shaking around Tom’s lips as your whole body shivered through your orgasm.
After a few moments--Tom’s efforts never wavering--you had let out a small sigh, your whole body relaxing.
“Was that good?” Tom asked, clearly aware of what just happened, if the smirk on his face was anything to go by.
“Shut up,” you let out between breaths.
Tom simply chuckled at you, his chin glistening with your wetness.
You pulled him close to you, kissing his lips desperately, giggling as you tasted yourself on his tongue.
“Are we done?” Tom asked with a raise of his brows.
“Definitely not,” you chuckled, reaching for his pants and tugging them off quickly.
Tom threw them away somewhere, to be added to the pile with your ripped up panties, and reached over to his bedside table for a condom.
He wrapped it around himself, secured it in place, and after a few strokes of his cock he lined up in front of you.
“Yeah, baby,” you smiled, pulling him in for a kiss. As his tongue moved against yours, Tom started slipping inside you--which wasn’t hard, considering your very recent orgasm--and although you were more than ready for him, you still gasped into his mouth as he filled you up.
“Shit,” you let out. Tom wasn’t the biggest man you’ve ever seen, but he knew exactly what he was doing, and after giving you a few moments to adjust he started moving against you.
Slow at first, groaning at the way your body tightened around him with every thrust--the way your warmth comforted him as he moved in deeper and deeper and deeper.
Then, right before you were about to ask for it, Tom had started moving faster. His hips meeting yours in a harsh slap of skin.
The sound, mixed in with both your moans, was all that filled the room--as the pair of you were getting closer and closer to your releases.
Tom informed you he didn’t have long left, and you told him the same, and with his thumb against your nipple again you were starting to shake for the second time that night. It was the way your walls clenched around him that pushed Tom towards the edge, and after a few more thrusts the pair of you were scummed to a breathless, sweaty, mess.
Tom pulled out slowly--the pair of you taking a second to adjust to the emptiness that followed, and planted the most loving kiss on your lips.
“How do you feel?” He asked softly, planting another kiss on your cheek for good measure.
“I feel,” you hesitated for a moment, but with the emotion swimming in Tom’s eyes, and the feeling swirling in your heart, you couldn’t help yourself. “I feel loved.”
Tom smiled, all the worries in your head disappearing. “You are.”
Tom got up, disposed of his condom and got a cloth to help you clean up. He kissed your shoulders as he slowly cleaned between your legs and then threw the cloth away somewhere.
His room was far too big to not have a bin in it, but that was a discussion for later.
A few moments passed, or maybe more, and with his arms wrapped around you and nothing but pure content in your heart, you fell asleep in your husband’s arms.
It was a few weeks later, as you and Tom walked down the high street with a few shopping bags in hand that you saw it. Right in the store window; the perfect engagement ring.
“What did you spot, baby?” He asked, a hand on your waist as he scanned over the window.
You, quite hesitantly, pointed at the purple ring in the window--a large stone at the centre with a few dozen smaller ones encasing it.
“Would that be the perfect ring?” He asked, stuffing his hand in his suit pocket.
“If that’s okay?” You scrunched your nose slightly, hoping you weren’t asking for too much.
Tom quickly went inside the shop, and after no more than five minutes came out of it with a black bag in hand.
That evening, after your weekly business meeting, Tom asked everyone to leave the office. You were sat in your usual chair, right by Tom's side, when he dismissed everyone else and smiled at you.
With just you there, he gave you the box and opened it, presenting that perfect ring you chose. Your heart skipped a beat or two, your chest clutching lightly at the pure sight of it. Tom, holding the open box, showing you the prettiest ring you've ever seen.
You were already married to him, of course, but you were just as excited to see it as you would’ve been if you weren’t married at all.
“Are you asking me to marry you?” You smirked.
“I’m just trying to give you what you always wanted,” Tom said, his face serious.
You leaned over to kiss him, your lips fitting perfectly together, as you slid the ring onto your hand.
“Your size?” He made sure to ask.
“I love you,” you declared sincerely, your heart growing in size as you said those words. It couldn't have been the first time you said it, or perhaps it was, but you both knew that about each other for a long time. It was clear you two fell into love in the same way one falls into a routine--unknowingly, until it's the only thing that makes sense.
“Not exactly what I asked, but okay,” he shrugged with a glint in his eyes. “I love you, too.”
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