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lialialow · 2 years

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Floss Got Hot.

florence pugh x reader

summary: The Pughs are like your second family, and have been since you were a child. Your best friend’s sister has grown up far more than you’d realise.

words: 6542

warnings: smut (and maybe dubious consent?), alcohol, like one mention of drugs

notes: i had this written before those pics came out but it’s so weird to think i was accurate. your hotel chain is called ‘Chaos Hotels’, ‘shag’ means to have sex, you’re one year younger than Toby. Also, here’s the dictionary definition of quantity over quality 👍

You must have been eleven the first time you came across the Pughs. Greece, 2004. Two children your age approached you on the beach and asked if you knew how to get to the pool back in the hotel. You had shrugged. You knew — you just didn’t want to tell them.

They saw you the next day at breakfast, and pointed you out to their parents. You were sitting on your own. Deb was concerned. This time, you were beckoned over and checked on. The waiters instructed to watch you flushed with embarrassment as you said you were fine, that you weren’t alone.

It was odd that they kept coming back to your hotel around the same time each year. You would get to Greece on the 17th July and they’d be there by the 20th at the very latest. Toby would always seek you out, convince you to join them. He was kind and funny, and so was his family; parents who cared how you were, an older sister who was so cool, and a baby sister who remained adorable even when her big teeth filled the gaps. The only Pugh who seemed to freeze in your normalised presence was Floss, supposedly talkative but impossibly shy.

After a while, Toby would be able to track you down when you were staying at one of the other hotels near him (usually London, sometimes when he was on other holidays). By eighteen you had met up enough times to just ring the doorbell of their home in Oxford and be welcomed inside like a member of his family. However, Toby was the only one of them — of anyone — who you allowed to meet your family, invited to eat one evening at your family home in Kensington. When he returned home after that gruelling dinner, he dutifully reported back the discouraging atmosphere; how your parents sat at opposite ends of a very large mahogany dining table, how your brother ate with headphones in to drown out the arguing. It made little sense in the eyes of Deb and Clint, that a girl so kind and polite could come from a nest of toxicity. They vowed to be your second family; be the family to the girl they met on holiday in 2004.

You’ve been busy lately. Managing the hotels in preparation to take over from your dad is hell. Proper, real-life hell. It’s stressful and demanding, and that’s without the added pressure of having the world’s loudest backseat driver telling you you’re doing it all wrong. He finds it amusing to watch you superglue the cracks in your smile and attempt to keep it together when the towel supplier increases their prices and the cleaners in Bali threaten to go on strike. ‘The Chaos Hotels really are chaos’, is your Dad’s favourite comment when something goes minutely wrong. The resort in Greece becomes your neglected holiday home, though the Pughs still return every year in varying fractions. Turns out that shy, stone-cold Flossie is particularly talented at acting and is earning millions. Toby sometimes feels the need to remind you he was on Game of Thrones.

“I just can’t believe Floss is that famous,” you tell him one evening, ushering away your hand-me-down secretary. “Like, come on. Floss. Can’t-even-talk-to-me Floss. I’m one of the nicest people I know!” It’s always irked you that she never warmed up to your presence.

“She only used to be so quiet because she was in love with you,” Toby replies, his laughter crackling through your phone speakers. “I’m playing in Oxford tomorrow, and I know you’re a busy, busy woman, so I’m not asking you to come, but there is an after party at Cafe Tarifa… Mum and Dad miss you.” You last saw Deb and Clint in 2018 when you stayed with them. Your girlfriend had just tried to propose, and you’d panicked and ran away. The only place that you actually felt safe to run to was their house.

“Have you been stalking me?” You literally landed in London this morning. “Don’t get your hopes up but I think I can come—”

“Cool! Everyone’s gonna be so excited!”

“Oh, er, Tobs?” He waits patiently. He’s always been patient with you. “Can you not tell them? I’ll probably not even be able to make it, given that I’m in London for work. I’m going to try to be there because I love you, but I don’t want Raff to get her hopes up or your mum to make something for me.” Or for Flossie to skip going.

Once the call ends you lie back on your bed, letting your sigh fill the strange silence of the room. Flossie is so much older now, but you still remember the seven-year-old who blushed when you addressed her, or the fourteen-year-old who turned her head as fast as possible the minute you were in a bikini. Toby’s theory has always been a point of discussion when the wine came out and the younger ones went to bed. You found it sweet of her, and probably being her sexual awakening was a massive compliment. Seeing Floss will be weird, but not unwelcome, you decide. If only she actually says something to you.

And you would like to see them all again; your favourite family. Your second family. You have to beg your way out of tonight’s schedule to see them. “I will be forever indebted to you if you just go and do this.” You rarely beg. “Covering for one night won’t be that difficult.” It will. “You can call me if you need help.” You’re going to leave your work phone in the hotel room.

“Let me use your card for my shopping for the next week.” Wanker. He’s always been a little shit, good for nothing and a liability to cart around. He’s older than you (the cherry on top). “Our wonderful parents have cut me off. They sure as hell haven’t done that to you so it’s not your money and therefore not your problem. You also really want to go to this shitty party — I can tell. Why you associate yourself with them is beyond me, but whatever makes you happy, I guess.”

Through gritted teeth, you say, “thanks,” with a courteous smile. He nods triumphantly like he has just won a gold medal. He’s probably never felt that feeling in real life to be fair. “I’ll be back tomorrow.” Your brother walks away, or rather struts away, leaving you to stew in the familiar layout of the master suite in your family’s hotels. You catch his cynicism in a waft of his obnoxious cologne, and grimace at the smell. You’d give anything to have Toby’s family life.

Tobs: Gig done. Coming?

You’re excited to actually confirm it.

You: Leaving now.

- - -

Toby’s adrenaline is only increasing as you get closer. He misses you, he’s sort of worried for you. Yes you’ve been in touch, but he’s one of your best friends and he knows how stressed you are. Constantly. The Pughs’ love tends to calm you down.

Your taxi stops in front of a queue of concert-goers, so you know you’re in the right place. Some look at you when you get out; nosy, confused. Toby said the event was ticket-only. Most people wouldn’t get a taxi from the venue if it was a five minute walk.

It isn’t clear whether you should join the line or not, so you wait patiently behind a group of sixteen-year-old girls. To say that a squabble of screaming toddlers would be less annoying is an understatement. Obviously, they are deeply in love with Floss because she is all they can talk about. Another one mentions Raffie. In your mind, Mole is eight.

“Excuse me.” God, they are talking to you now. You wonder if you look approachable and how you can do the opposite. “Could you, like, take a picture of us?” The girl’s friend chimes in with the manners needed. “Can you, like, also, like, get the sign in? And, erm—”

She’s cut off by some very feral screams coming from the other people waiting. All of you direct your attention to the supposed source: an AllSaints-clad man on the move. You realise it’s Toby way later than the girls who weren’t even alive the year you met him. Embarrassing.

“You didn’t come to the concert!” Every single person in that queue looks at you. Fuck Toby. “How dare you try to sneak into the after party.” You aren’t impressed with this public humiliation, not when you’re painfully sober. Toby laughs, and his break of character enables you to walk up to him, pushing through the protection of his fanbase, to give him a slap on the back of his head. “Watch the hair, watch the hair. If I wanted to be spanked I’d have bothered Scarlet.”

“I cannot believe you just did that to me.” He smirks. He’s quite proud of himself for a) sensing you were here and b) coming up with such a masterminded plan. “All of your fans are glaring at me,” you then whisper, eyeing the girl whose phone you’re holding. You hand it back to her once Toby tugs your arm. She gives you the finger once you’ve turned around.

“Fuck me!” You’re swarmed by the Pughs. “Y/n?” Bella wasn’t there when you stayed over last. She must’ve seen you seven years ago at the least. “Twenty-two-year-old you wanted to teach English to children in Malawi. You look like you’ve just gotten on the tube at Canary Wharf.”

“I went to Malawi six years ago,” you reply, grinning at the memory. “And I’ve had a few meetings today, fighting off the demonic ‘let’s sell the hotels’ faction of the board.”

“Always fighting demons,” Bella says, shaking her head. You hug her tightly, remembering that she has been there for you better than anyone else has ever been. “It’s lovely to see you.”

“Lovely? It’s fucking amazing!” You recognise the voice, but it’s older now, more mature. And a bit too loud for sober. “She looks hot as ever, even if she claims to have had a full working day.” Bella lets go of you, letting Raffie take over with her own way of saying she missed you. “Can’t believe I haven’t smelt your stench for three years.” It’s Chanel No5. Raff claims she’s allergic.

“I did have a full working day, you fucktard.” Just like a little sister… “I made more today than you can count on with your A-levels.”

“Hey, I’m revising!” She kicks you lightly. “I’ve literally got two hours of screen time.” You roll your eyes. Imagine having time for two hours on your phone doing nothing. “You should’ve come to the concert, you know, ‘cause Toby actually let me on stage to sing and I obviously outshone him.”

“Obviously,” you mock.

“Fuck off. I’m really good. Better than Flo at least.” She calls her Flo. Does everyone call her that? Is she that much older?

While the last time you saw the Pughs was three years ago, you didn’t get a chance to see Floss either. Not that she’d have wanted to see you. One time when your girlfriend (the same woman that proposed and scared you off because mid-twenties you was not ready for marriage) joined your second family for dinner pre-proposal, Floss managed to argue with everyone and turn the mood sour, only to storm off in a huff and complain that she started it all. That makes your most recent memory of her paint ‘famed actress’ Florence Pugh in a pathetically childish light of which you’re not quite sure is anything like how she normally behaves then or now.

You’re nervous about seeing her again. The emotion is unfamiliar to feel towards her, and you rarely let yourself think enough for nerves in general life. She shouldn’t be making you tap your Louboutins against Cafe Tarifa’s kitchen floor. It’s not like you’ve never met her.

But when you see Floss, it feels like watching a stranger on the street. Her hair is short, and she looks older of course, but she’s grinning at these people who she probably has never met. She’s confident, maybe she’s always been confident, but right now she looks like she was born to be photographed and talk to fans. If she’s playing a part, she’s playing it very well. It takes quite a few gulps of your champagne to settle the odd feeling in your stomach.

After quite a while of staring at her from behind the counter, Toby slinks beside you, missing you. He’s sort of offended that you’re spending all this time treating champagne like water and ogling at his younger sister. He asks what’s the matter. You shake off whatever trance she seems to have put you in, and swallow hard. “Floss got hot,” you mumble, not quite believing it (and believing that you just said that even less). “Fuck, when did Floss get so hot?”

It’s fair to say that Toby is horrified.

And mortified.

And confused.

It was bad enough listening to Florence pine after his best friend for years. Hearing said best friend suddenly reciprocate it thrusts the scenario of his best friend and his sister shagging ever-closer to becoming a reality.

“Nope.” He’s firm. You laugh, hoping to diffuse the tension. “Nuh-uh. No, no, no. Not happening.”

“What’s not happening?” Floss catches you looking every so often, but she tries to make sure you don’t realise. She’s happy you’re finally looking. She wants to feel your eyes on her as long as she can before having to converse with you; something that will kill her internally.

“Can you not fuck my little sister?”

The latest gulp of champagne threatens to run up your nose as you snort. “What?!” You were thinking about it. You’re not going to admit it, though.

Toby sighs and takes your glass, necking it with his usual elegance. “You’ve been checking her out the whole hour you’ve been here, and she’s been doing the same behind your back. You have this look when you’ve found someone you want to sleep with, and I know this because we have gone clubbing so many fucking times. When you see a girl dancing in the club, you watch her. You drink while you watch, for confidence or just to pass the time. Then you approach her, charm her, flirt with her. You’re good at flirting and you know it.” Yeah, you do know it. “Whoever you choose always ends up in your bed. Always.”

You raise your eyebrows at him. “Are you telling me that I’ve got impeccable game?”

“I’m saying that you’re a player.” Mean, but true. Physical pleasure requires far less energy than the emotional equivalent. “And that I don’t want my sister to get her dream crushed because you’re only in it for a one-night stand.”

Fuck. He makes a valid point. She liked you. Or maybe… likes you? You’re not sure, and you’re not sure how you feel either. On the one hand, it would be awful to sleep with her when it’s a known fact that you were her childhood crush for years, but on the other, Floss got hot. She’s three years younger than you — it would’ve been inappropriate to look at her like that in any part of knowing her — but you two are both adults, and comfortably so. There’s nothing wrong with looking at her like that now, because tonight there is something to look at. Tonight she looks beautiful, and you really, really want to talk to her.

“Okay, she’s coming over,” Toby narrates, noticing your clear mental absence. “I’m leaving because I don’t want to be here while you eye-fuck. If you break her heart, I’m telling my family about the time you threw up on the Prince of Monaco’s white suit after having too much red wine.” He’s not allowed to speak of it. It’s a miracle you didn’t have to sign an NDA.

“Wait, what do I say to her?” you ask Toby for help, but he has already been replaced by Floss. She chuckles, eyes twinkling at you. It sounds silly but they are, and she knows they are.

“You could start with a hello.” Probably the first hello ever directed at Flossie from you. “And I’m going to start with how good you look tonight.” Floss is quite the flirt. You are going to be beheaded by Toby tomorrow.

“I…” She realises you’re struggling to say something to her; something that isn’t snarky or a piss-take.

“Wow, you really are a flirt!” Florence finds your smile warm and comforting, like she was hugged by it and kissed on the cheek. No one has ever thought about you like that, because no one has ever made you freeze up. “How come you’re even here? You’re always on a plane.”

“It’s my work, Floss,” you manage to defend.

“No, I think you use it to run away from your family.” You scoff.

“Because you know me so well.”

“I was in love with you for my whole childhood.” Mentally, Florence slaps her hand over her mouth and sinks into a twenty metre deep hole, never to emerge again. Your eyes widen for a moment before you remind yourself she is way more embarrassed about saying it than you are for hearing it. “Is that good enough?” You laugh and tell her she’s a stalker, because not once during that childhood did she act approachable enough to come by that knowledge first hand.

“Toby will be ecstatic to know his theory has been confirmed, you know,” you joke, attempting to comfort her from a distance. Which you now realise is not quite a distance, and that she is standing next to you. Properly next to you. As in, if you dropped your hand down you’d be holding hers.

“I thought they all knew. That’s why Mum was shocked when I got a boyfriend.” Fuck.

“You have a boyfriend?!”

“No.” Good. Not that you’d care, to be honest. “Well, I’m not quite sure if we’re not together. We had this massive argument and I ended up moving out. Temporarily.” She doesn’t know if it’s actually temporary. He wasn’t really in a place to be specific; crying his eyes out and everything. She regrets dating someone that in touch with their emotions, especially when moving out brought her more relief than anything else.

Secretly, you are very happy to hear that. “Oh. I’m sorry that it’s going to shit.”

“No you’re not.” She raises her eyebrows and you feel embarrassed. Never would younger Y/n have believed Flossie would make her feel embarrassed. “It’s okay, Y/n. I’m not in love with you anymore. We can fuck.” At your hesitation, she checks; “that’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” She is good. “You’re staying at Mum and Dad’s — you know which one my room is.” Next to Toby’s. Risky, but probably worth it considering how she dominated the conversation. Hopefully she isn’t all bark and no bite.

“I’m going to find Tobs.” She winks before you break eye contact. You are going to need a minute before you talk to her brother.

- - -

“Don’t play Come On Eileen again!” Raffie shouts, slurred words louder than the gathering that’s now in their kitchen. You’ve been talking to Gran; she’s proud of you, but isn’t happy with the fact you’re single. She claims you’ve always acted like a lone island when you’re really a landlocked country (you’d like to think you’re Switzerland).

Come On Eileen begins to play.

“Floss stinks,” Raffie announces to the rest of you, protesting strongly when her mum takes her glass from her hand. “And so do you!” Deb pulls her up and takes her upstairs, looking back at the party to roll her eyes.

“Mole cannot handle her alcohol.” Toby has sashayed over to you and his grandmother. He is just like his youngest sister: hammered. You take his glass, downing it before he can. It’s the worst rum and coke ever made, but he mocks your crinkled face. “You don’t even like rum! Gran, Y/n used t’only drink vodka or champagne—”

“That’s because Y/n’s dad is loaded.” You love Gran.

“But now all Y/n likes to drink is my sissster.” He points an accusing index at your face. “Yeah, I saw you with ‘er.” Oh dear. “Y’can’t fuck my sister!” You attempt to quieten him by pushing him to the side. Gran gets the hint and leaves to help Deb with Raffie.

“She was the one flirting, not me,” you tell him calmly. Though you’ve had quite a bit, you’re used to remaining composed while verging on wasted. How else does one get through a business meeting? “And you are neither the boss of me or Florence, so if Florence wants to get in my pants and I want to let her, she can.”

“Florence,” he imitates, pursing his lips. “God, you’re going to shag my sister,” cries Toby, looking disgusted. Scarlet looks amused. You plead for her help silently, until she gives in and comes over.

She slaps him on the back; it makes a thud. “Right, Tobs. I’m tired, we’re going to bed.” You thank her. Only Flo, her best friend, and you are left, meaning you’re going to have to talk to them both.

Flo has been overthinking out loud the whole night to Livvy, who listens well and offers her congratulations at Flo’s pull. Congratulations are in order, because the minute the house is quiet (save for Tony’s drunken snoring) you creep across the hallway from your room to hers where you find her waiting on her dressing table stool. She always used to use it to bar her door when Toby’s torment was focused on her oh-so-obvious infatuation with you.

“Hi,” you whisper, smiling as you close the door softly. “You left me in a state earlier.” She laughs, pressing her palm to her lips to muffle it. You move closer to her; she looks up at you. “I’m not normally left in a state, Florence.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you call me Florence.” She likes it.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been as turned on as I was.”

You let it hang in the air while she formulated a response to that. She’s panicking. She needs to seem cool, and calm, and sexy. Very sexy. So she asks, “was?” with a pout, and stands up. “Do you want me to make you feel like that again?” Her fingertips graze the small of your back, cold against your warm skin. You’re only wearing a cropped tank top and tiny shorts. Her touch on you is light, yet it feels like a lead weight on your lungs: Florence Pugh has made you forget how to breathe.

She pushes against you carefully, your bum hitting the lip of her dressing table, the contact making her lipgloss collection roll over. With her hands resting either side of you, you waste no time in kissing her. A gun goes off to signify the start of this race; tongues, teeth, hands. Hands everywhere. To think there are only four between you makes no sense, as her hands are on your waist and your neck and finally in your hair. You’ve never felt so desperate as her tongue sweeps into your open mouth, tasting wine and rum and…

“Did you have peach schnapps with Dad?” she pants, pulling away by a centimetre to ask. You nod — you’re impatient — and pull her back to you, your hands roaming up her t-shirt. Flo moans as goosebumps erupt wherever you’ve touched her; skin against skin. You find the curve of her breasts and it’s a gateway into something more. Your thumbs brush her hardened nipples, and her breath hitches. Raspy. In need. When you cup her flesh, the breath comes back and she moans, head tipping to the side and back arching.

“Take it off,” you tell her, knowing she wants your mouth on her. Quickly she pulls the fabric over her head, throwing it out of the way. You dip your head to her bare chest, taking her nipple between you teeth and gently biting. With your hands now free and hers back in your hair, you find the waistband of her pyjama shorts, pulling it away from her skin to allow your fingers in. Before you can, Flo hoists you up properly, so you’re sitting on the table. The movement means you’re now doing nothing, but she feels it’s her turn to make you feel good. Good will be an understatement.

For Flo, watching your back arch as she kisses your collarbones, biting, sucking, is a teenage dream come true. But it’s better than she ever could have imagined, because your moans are so pretty when you’re beneath her, and even prettier when they get so loud that you have to remove your hand from her waist and place it over your mouth. They can’t hear you.

She becomes messier with her kisses, taking off your tank with tugs and twists and, “I can do it.”

“Just roll it down.” She shakes her head. That’s what you do for a quickie. This is not going to be quick.

“I want to see all of you,” she demands, though her dominance is only masking her sheer nervousness. You shrug, making her chuckle, getting off the table. Pressing your hand across her chest, you push her back gently until she hits the bed and falls. Now, while you are standing over her, making eye contact with her, is when you can make her feel like she is going to come without being touched.

“You want to see all of me, huh?” Entranced, she nods, eyes wide, hands restless. You take off your top, pulling it over your head slowly, letting her get the full view. She sits up, reaching forwards to pull you onto her. You shake your head. “No. Wait.” She stays sitting up, smirk fading, hands more restless. They feel colder without your skin warming them. You pull your shorts down, along with your underwear, stepping out of them, bending to pick them up.

The bed rustles as she gets comfortable.

You grin. She’s staring, not hiding it. You want her to stare at you, and are chuffed that one of her hands has dropped below the elastic of her panties. However, “don’t touch yourself,” you say. She boos you quietly. “I want you to watch. Just watch.”

You pull the stool to the foot of her bed, sitting down and spreading your legs. Her eyes follow your fingers as you drop them to your centre, running them through your folds. You bring your hand back to your chest, her sigh of frustration egging you on. Starting at your shoulders, you trail them down, Florence not missing the path of wetness left where your fingers had been. Once you’ve reached your tummy, you’re tired of teasing yourself, for you are equally as turned on as she is. Your own touch feels like soft feathers; you can barely imagine what hers would do to you.

Impatient now, Flo readies herself to pounce, straightening in posture, nearly springing up. You’re no longer focused on giving her a show, but, rather, chasing your own pleasure. Your fingers slip between the wetness, easily sliding inside of you. Your moans ripple outwards, hitting Flo over and over as you brush your clit. She can’t take it anymore, but you catch her eyes and tell her to suck it up. Silently. Nothing else can be heard save for your filthy expressions of pleasure and the wetness between your thighs.

You lose sight of her as your eyes close. You’re nearly there, nearly finishing. Flo has had enough, and your eyes are closed. You can’t see her lurch forward, crawling towards you shamelessly, almost ravenous. She touches you with vigour, unleashed, without control. She crushes your lips with hers, and you’d have fallen backwards if she wasn’t clutching your back, nails dragging down the soft skin. Every inch of your body will be marked and claimed and loved by her, and your eyes open to the image of her completely devouring you. Your hand falls from its hunt for pleasure, and you seemingly are frozen in place. You can only see her, you can only feel her, head her, taste her. The smell of her perfume and cigarettes and whiskey clouds your nose and mouth as your whole world becomes Flo.

She has nothing to pull you on top of her with, so you lie down of your own accord, still seeking the finish you’d almost achieved. Stalking up your body, she pinches your pebbled nipples, mouth on yours. You can taste your sweat on her lips. She smiles into the kiss. “I’m going to make you come, Y/n.” You wait, tense under her weight. “And I’m going to enjoy every second of it.”

Too drunk, too turned on, and too bewildered to reply, you nod in agreement until you can give her a better form of acknowledgment. Right now every word gets caught in your throat and exits as a cry for more. Touch me more.

She licks a stripe down from your breasts to your navel, running her tongue over your pubic bone, pressing a kiss as markers along the way. Her hands rest on top of your thighs, holding them down and apart. Your smell is intoxicating, but your taste has her moaning and crossing her legs. She’d reach a hand between her legs if you weren’t shaking so much. She misses your clit entirely as she journeys through your folds, purposefully breathing into you.

Your ragged breaths spur her on as she circles your entrance, never quite inside of you. You’d do anything for her to be inside you.

Finally, her tongue drags across your clit, flicking up, down, sideways. She kisses it, three times, and earns three almost-screams. If someone were to understand you when you were being fucked, all they would here is Florence’s name, again and again. It’s like ecstasy on your tongue, dissolving dutifully until you ping and never come down.

You begin to get too restless beneath her, and she loses her grip on your thighs. You are so sweaty, but you manage to lock them round her, pulling her in. She reminds herself to breathe, and slides her tongue inside of you. You scream.

She carries on, and you cover your mouth, despite the fact that you are incredibly vocal already having been revealed.

Her tongue works back up to your clit, swirling, sucking. She gasps against you as you squeeze your grip tighter, moaning scrambled words of encouragement that are broken by moans. She wants to feel you come on her tongue.

An explosion of sorts burns through your body. You shake and scream and squeeze, hands gripping her sheets, pulling them off from the corners. She is relentless in her movements, moaning against you because of your taste and your sounds and the fact she’s never wanted to replay anything in her mind more than the exact point at which you come. When your body gives in and you surge upwards only to fall back down. Your eyes, scrunched shut, open, and then you almost come again at the sight of her wiping her face with the back of her palm in vain.

“You okay?” You laugh at her question.

“Better than okay,” you affirm, sitting up. “Come here.” This is the most affectionate either one of you has been, the tone caring. She lies beside you, chest rising and falling as she attempts deep breaths to calm herself. You turn towards her, kissing her neck. She stares at the ceiling, exhausted.

You work your fingers inside her, rubbing her clit. Her orgasm is less dramatic than yours, but only because she’s sure she came while you did. You fuck her so good she almost says ‘I love you’.

She can’t say it because you wouldn’t say it back. She doesn’t want to put you in a position where you feel you’re using her. (That fuels her ego, because surely no one else has ever made you come like that, but it’s not healthy.) Anyway, she can feel that you’re not quite as relaxed as you should be.

“I have to get up early tomorrow.” She knows you’re going to go back to your room as soon as you say it. “If you want to contact me—”

“Of course I’ll want to contact you.”

“Okay. To contact me,” you amend, “just call me. Texts tend to disappear and get lost in other people’s inane spamming. I’ll always answer.” You’re trying to tell her you liked this, you don’t think it should be a one time thing.

“You’re drunk, Y/n,” she whispers. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep. I’ll call you.” You offer her a helpless smile. It doesn’t quite work, but it’s enough. You find your clothes, forgoing your underwear because it’s ruined, and lean down to kiss her.

She savours the taste of you, committing it to memory, though she knows you don’t usually taste of so much alcohol. “You’re also drunk, Flossie. Goodnight.”

- - -

Toby glares at you the minute you come downstairs. The whole house heard you, apart from Raffie who is as clueless as she’s ever been (the youngest child never gets to know everything) because she passed out in bed the minute her head hit the pillow.

You don’t look like you’re hungover and aching, though. No one’s really surprised. You’ve managed to dress yourself without too many flashbacks from last night, looking rather professional in jeans and a white shirt thanks to the Burberry trench coat your father gifted you to say sorry for marrying his current wife. She’s a year younger than you and he’s fifty-six, so he sent you a kilo of coke as well.

You sit beside Toby at the table, foot tapping. “Glad to see you’re staying for breakkie,” Clint says, smiling and serving you your full English. “What time’s your train? I can drive you to the station.” Last night, after you settled back into your own bed feeling guilty and cold, your brother texted you to join him in New York because he’s been roped into a business deal. You don’t want to tell them you’re leaving the country before Flo gets downstairs, so you tell Clint, “it’s okay, I’ll get a taxi,” and dig in.

Flo’s mustered enough willpower to slip into leggings and a t-shirt and slink downstairs. When she gets to the kitchen, every pair of eyes flits from her to you and back again, until Raffie chokes on her water. Bella’s obviously told her what happened last night, as she goes bright red and tries to cough quietly. As you expected, Florence sits as far away from you as she can.

“Morning, everyone,” she chirps, trying to slice through the tension. “Sleep well?”

“Yeah,” you answer, thinking everyone else was going to say something as well. The only thing they say is the clinking of their cutlery against their plates. You’re almost finished with your breakfast, swallowing the last few forkfuls of sausages, when Florence asks the group what they’re doing today.

“We were just going to walk the dogs maybe? And I need to get some clothes.” Toby and Scarlett then invite Raffie to come along with them, asking if she needed smart clothes for any job interviews. “Oh, and Y/n, you should come. Clearly very good at dressing professionally,” Scarlett adds, gesturing to your outfit.

“Sorry, Scar, I’ve got a flight in four hours.” Flo tries not to react to the news. “So, erm, I’ll catch up with you all later, yeah? This was really fun, I’m glad I came without having to hear Toby sing.” Toby mutters something about how you did indeed come, and you pretend not to hear it to save Flo’s dignity.

“Darling, feel free to stay anytime,” Deb reminds you. “We’re all going to Greece as usual, staying at the hotel. And Flo’s going to Ibiza in a couple of months. Don’t you have a hotel in Ibiza?”

“The resort is the best there,” you joke. “Are you going to the Standard opening?” It’s the first time you’ve addressed her, and the family watch like it’s a soap opera with twenty seasons. “I heard they’ve stolen our layout. Shame they won’t be able to replicate the charm.”

“Yeah, the Y/n charm,” Toby mutters sarcastically. “Gets everyone in her pants.” You roll your eyes and are about to reply, when your phone rings. Your brother’s calling, telling you that he’s seriously fucked up, that he needs you to come sort it out.

You stand up with your bag, “I’ve really got to go. Love you all.” You give Raff a kiss on the cheek, Bella a hug, and steer clear of Toby for now. Deb squeezes you like you’re her own daughter, and Clint hands you a shot of some health juice he made. You drink the shot, grimace, and pull faces when he says it’s beneficial to your health, backing away slowly. Once you reach the door, the whole party occupies themselves because Flo’s approached you.

“I think they heard us,” she says, laughing quietly. You laugh with her, until she stops, looking at you with a trace of the desire from last night. “Okay, goodbye. You better be there in Greece.”

You say nothing, and for a moment she thinks you never want to speak to her again. It’s quite the opposite, actually, and you hope that’s conveyed when you cup her cheek and kiss her. She leans into it, wanting to feel you. You pull away when you sense the whole of the kitchen’s eyes on you, including the utensils and shot glass Clint poured poison in.

“Bye. Call me when I get off the plane.” The Pughs haven’t contained their cheering as well as they think they have. Flo blushes, apologises, and opens the door for you. “Tell Toby to fuck off if he gives you any shit, alright?”

“I think I’m already ‘best-friend-fucker’ in his phone.”

“I’ll be ‘sister-fucker’, don’t worry.” Your phone buzzes in one last attempt to get you to New York. “You and your friends should stay at our resort in Ibiza once the opening is over. I’ll give you a discount.” She scoffs, because you give her family free upgrades all the time. “You can stay in my suite.” Quickly you add, “with me.”

“I don’t think your vagina could handle that, you know.”

“I really have to go.”

“Okay.” She kisses you one last time. “Bye, Y/n.”

“Bye, Flossie.” The door shuts behind you as you walk to the end of their road, hoping to find your very lost Uber driver. Your phone rings — he’s persistent. “I’m fucking coming!” you shout down the line.

“No need to be so aggressive about it,” says the person on the other end. You check the number. “I don’t want you to pick up if that’s what I get.”

tags: @pewpughpew @ridlz @jeyramarie @flosbelova @kassies-take @delfiore

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lialialow · 2 years

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Calm Me Down.

florence pugh x reader

summary: you have a panic attack and need to be comforted by someone you love

words: 1333

warnings: extremely bad panic attack

notes: this has been swirling around in my head recently, partly because i feel like i’m on a downward spiral and partly because of the football. i’m on holiday right now and it’s nearly two in the morning for me, and i started writing this at one. i didn’t want to put a downer on my mood but i needed to write this.

it’s not in the style i usually write in because it’s rushed and short and just a collection of mismatched thoughts, but it was very comforting to put how i was feeling into words.

ok vent over x

You should’ve scored the moment you were passed the ball.

Tensions are high.

You should’ve scored.

Y/n L/n is looking disheartened. She’s one of those players who can get in her head a little bit.

Toone scores perfectly, seamlessly. It eats at you that it could’ve been 2-0, though you celebrate with your team and squeeze her tight. Your captain nods at you. She thinks you lose focus sometimes, tunnelling into everything negative you’ve done.

You manage to pull your socks up and continue playing.

The ball feels good on your feet, like it’s always done. You remind yourself why you’re here and how you’re here. It’s a clear run, you can do it.

She’s quick on her feet, she is.

You sprint, weightless. You are going to score.

Something makes contact with your legs, sliding through you, tripping you up. You fall forwards, a lurching, jerking movement, that lands you on your face.

Flo winces from the stands. She hates watching you get hurt.

Nasty trip up from Germany! Free kick given to England.

Someone hauls you up, pats you on the back. You smile because you know you’re on camera, and set up to take it, keeping your eyes on the goal in front of you.

But then it all stops. Goes silent. Rushes back into you. Overtakes you.

Your hands shake; big shakes, obvious shakes. Everyone is watching you, you realise.

“Y/n?” You stumble away from the ball, approaching your teammate who meets you more than you can meet her. She speaks your name a few more times, wondering if you’ve suddenly been shot by a dart that sedates the villain in movies. You struggle to breathe, heart ringing and thrumming and screaming at you to fucking wait a minute for it to catch up. It tells you (or rather, your brain tells you) that it’s going to die any minute; just give out. You may be fit and healthy and young, but you feel like you are surely about to die.

We have a lack of commotion on the pitch right now. Captain Leah Williamson has called for the medical team, but we have some booing from the German fans. I’m not sure who Medical is for — it seems that L/n and Williamson are having a chat.

You shake your head, barely able to do so, when the medic asks you what’s wrong. It doesn’t tell him much, but you start to lose your breath, forgetting how to get it back again. Your body attempts short, ragged intakes of oxygen, but your eyes become too aware of the number of people staring at you for you to gain anything good from it.

He motions for Leah to take a step back; everyone else copies. The rest of the team stay where they are, recognising the fear in your face. Though you are convinced your heart is going to stop beating at any minute now, they realise you’re having a panic attack.

“Y/n, we’re going to help you get off. Can you move?” Your hearing cuts back in, and you attempt to block out the sounds of your gasping.

Space and time are closing in on you, and you are trapped.

I can see a worried Sarina pacing the sidelines as Y/n L/n is talking to a medic.

It takes most of your energy to push out, “I think I’m going to die,” before you collapse in the medic’s grip as he helps you off. He thinks you’d rather walk yourself to the technical area.

Your knees buckle as soon as you’re expected to stand on your own, and you hit the ground not caring about anything other than the knives stabbing your chest, burning and digging into your flesh. You curl up to protect yourself, but everything is internal and it ends up making you feel trapped.

Sarina kneels beside you quickly, doing the most she can while they fetch your girlfriend from her seat with your family.

It looks like L/n is having some kind of fit on the sidelines.

You sob loudly, easily heard over the hushed stadium. You want every single thought you’ve ever thought about to go away. Leave you alone. Your head almost thrashes against a medic’s shoe as you shake. Violently.

Yet to you it feels two thousand miles away, the chaos that you can feel. While you’re in excruciating pain, you’re also just floating. It’s real. It isn’t real. You can’t decide.

“Where is Florence?” Sarina has to stay calm, just in case you can hear her.

Fucking hell you’re in pain. Your head is throbbing, unforgivingly so, and it’s white hot and blazing. The sun has seeped into your veins and burned through your body; your nerves explode into daggers.

And you’re sweating like you really are writhing in the sun’s core.

The figure you see is… Okay, that’s L/n’s girlfriend who’s currently sitting her up against what looks like a pile of kit bags. She looks familiar because that is indeed Amy March and the main character from Midsommar.

Your vision has blurred by the time Florence gets to you, but she doesn’t care if you don’t know who she is. “I’m right here,” she says firmly, unscrewing the lid of a water bottle and holding it to your lips. “Y/n, I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

You get dizzier and dizzier. It feels like your sight has begun to tilt and wobble.

You slump against the hint of familiarity; the warmth of a woman you definitely know.

Your throat burns as you desperately catch a breath that seems to never have been there to begin with.

She holds the bottle to your lips as you realise it’s Flo. You grip her free hand so tightly that it goes red, but she’s not going to notice because you’re shaking and then sprawling over her when she sits beside you.

The game has resumed. Bronze takes the kick instead.

Flo cradles your body, hoping you’re slowly regaining control of it.

We have confirmation that Y/n L/n suffered a major panic attack just now. L/n has talked about her struggles with anxiety related to playing before, but I don’t think anyone here tonight was expecting to witness such a distressing sight.

Your body has primed itself for a danger that’s not really there, but her touch seems to become the definition of safety. She rocks you back and forth while Russo tries to hold in her anger at the cameras pointing at you. She can’t stop herself from going up to a few and asking if they could film the game instead, not her friend who is clearly in crisis.

The pins and needles in your hands settle like someone plucked them all out, and Flo places one of your wounded palms against her chest, against the beating of her heart.

It’s steady.

It’s calm.

It’s just what makes you love her. Her heart. Her rhythm.

Your breathing finds its beat alongside Flo’s, and you lean against her fully. She sighs as you bring her arms round your front, pressing your face into her neck to shut out everything else.

“I love you,” you whisper. She’s okay with her body being soaked by your tears if it means she is always the first person you run to when your thoughts become a tsunami of overwhelmingness.

A camera is obviously zooming in on you two.

Florence Pugh has calmed her girlfriend down.

Its lens peers at the two of you as you stop yourself from falling asleep on her. She kisses your shoulder.

I think we all saw that glint of a diamond on Pugh’s finger.

“Do you think everyone can see my ring?” she asks you quietly, feeling your strained laughter as you shake softly on top of her. “We have a way of finding odd publicity.”

I stand corrected. Florence Pugh has calmed her fiancée down.

tags: @pewpughpew @ridlz @jeyramarie @flosbelova @kassies-take @delfiore @yelenabelovasbxtch

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lialialow · 2 years

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follow @randombush3 guys !

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lialialow · 2 years

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Keep Driving.

florence pugh x reader

summary: based on Keep Driving by Harry Styles.

words: 3166

warnings: smoking, drug usage, smut (very little smut)

notes: this was hard to write towards the end, but i used the song as a checklist for content. it’s my interpretation of the song’s meaning, don’t come after me.

Summers have always started long before you chose to acknowledge them. England has a knack for thrusting heat in your face and cooling you off with a horrible thunderstorm, but this year Florence has saved you both, whisking her damsel in distress off to southern France. You’ve rented a car for a questionably small amount of euros, and she uses an old map from the man who owns the 40-year-old Corvette. Data that doesn’t work in half the places you go and a car older than you makes for a perfect black and white film camera holiday. Florence likes to imagine the camera cost a lot less than it did. You tease her for that.

The roof is pulled down the minute you leave last night’s rest stop; a run-down apartment in a run-down village with a very run-down toilet. Florence felt the aching pain of having no working toilet full force when she took up your challenge to finish the whole bottle of Cashew Fenny. Your yellow sunglasses are permanently shielding her eyes today.

“Are you feeling worse in the car?” you ask softly, glancing at her while attempting to drive on such odd roads. She shakes her head with military-grade dedication to not vomit once more. “Let’s stop, Flo. I can see the ocean, maybe the air will help.” Her resignation comes with a small nod as she slumps back into the cracked leather. You park just before the ground becomes golden sand. Florence gets out hurriedly.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” she groans, looking very pale for someone who has sunbathed on a bonnet for the last two weeks. You rub her back as she bends over, and kick sand to cover it once she’s done. You offer some more comfort by informing her one of the nicer hotels you’re staying at is only half an hour away.

You get back in the car, carrying out Florence’s request to light her a cigarette. She says it might make her feel better. You disagree. The ashtray is too clean in Flo’s opinion, however.

“Does the hotel have a swimming pool?” You turn down the radio. “I really love the sight of you in a bikini.”

“I’m not sure.”

It does have a pool. Small, but pleasantly decorated with mosaic flooring. It’s deep enough for her to suggest jumping off the roof into it, given that the roof is only three metres high and easily accessible via a purposeful-looking metal ladder. You climb up when no one else is looking, flipping off her stupid film camera so that the picture is unusable on her instagram (she’s not allowed to deface your public image). The water is refreshing in the stickiness of being so hot. Florence grins as you both notice your bikini top has slipped to the side, “I really like the sight of you without a bikini, too.” You scoff, but let her get in the pool with you.

Driving in the morning is more painful when your muscles must have been pulled last night. You remind yourself to never let Florence get her hands on a candle again, because it incited something that kept you wanting her to fuck you until dawn. She places her hand on your thigh, rubbing her thumb against your linen trousers. The car manages a few miles before it begins to grunt in annoyance. It’s probably never been used this much in a decade. You reassure Florence that the sound of the engine is a small concern.

“We haven’t booked another place to stay. We were supposed to be at that hotel for another two days.” It was best to leave after last night. The bed is now broken, the sheets are filthy, and the other guests are most-likely traumatised.

You have nowhere to be. “Should we just keep driving?”

Then your holiday ends and you visit your friend while she films in LA. She meets you in the airport when the friend bluntly explains that you constantly moping around and missing her makes you awfully tedious to be around. You rub your eyes, not quite believing the hour of the morning you manage to escape into her rental cari. Florence instructs you that you will be eating at a 24-hour breakfast diner, and keeps her hand on your knee for the hour it takes to get there.

When you are seated and holding greasy menus, she tells you about the hotel her coworker just came back from. Cuba sounds lovely for a December getaway, and you’d have a great time, so you are convinced promptly and without much hassle. She’s proud of herself for knowing you’d like the idea — proud to be able to know you so well — and informs you she’s already booked it.

“What would you like?” asks a teenager with tired eyes and a skinny notepad in hand. “We haven’t got any waffles today.”

Everything sounds fatteningly perfect, all very American. Florence orders for you both, laughing as you raise your eyebrows at the coffee poured into the cracked, once-white mugs. “It’s better than it looks.” You don’t drink coffee unless an Italian forces it down your throat. “Try it, Y/n, I beg.” It takes until the food is here for you to put your lips to the ceramic and take a tentative sip. The coffee gave a falsely horrendous first impression: your food looks delicious. Every bite will undoubtedly lead you one step closer to a heart attack, but isn’t that just the US? Or, at least, your impression of the country.

Pancakes for one American become pancakes for two, and Flo is content with your slowing fork-to-mouth movements because she adores the food almost as much as she adores you. Within the space of five minutes she had eaten her own food; hash browns and bacon with two fried eggs. She leaves you to dip the toast served into her egg yolk, knowing that you only eat her eggs and would never order them for yourself. You don’t like them enough to do that.

As she douses your food in maple syrup, you begin to tell her about what England has been like. She hasn’t been back since before your trip to France; she misses it. “The weather here is too fake,” she states, swallowing her mouthful of pancakes. She carries on her rant about the phoniness of LA, simultaneously eating. When she finally picks up on your quietness, she asks, “what?” with an eye roll.

“I don’t know,” you answer. She laughs through an exhale. “You’re disgusting, but I find that I will always love you.” She mutters ‘thanks’ with a sour grin (a fake one) and continues her meal. You pay for it to say sorry for calling her disgusting.

“I might not love you anymore if you think that,” she teases as you walk to her car, arms linked in a secretly more-than-friends way that you’ve both mastered from liking girls in an all girls school. You sit in the passenger seat, which is the biggest difference between the two of you being anywhere else in the world and the States. “You find me disgusting.”

You agree only so that she misses the turn she had to take to get back to her house. She’s lived there for a month and should know the alternative routes, but knowing Flo, the guests have come to hers and not the other way round and so she gets to stay out and forgo learning routes she doesn’t care about. The only routes she tends to care about are ones that lead back to you.

“It’s gonna take ages to get back now.” You smile to yourself. You like going on drives with her, and you never know how to ask to go on one. Drives with Florence bring an insight to her point of view, because her usual internal monologue suddenly becomes audible and you get to know her better. You really like knowing her better. “Why are you smiling?”

“I’m not smiling,” you lie, smiling. She grips the steering wheel tighter for a moment, and then relaxes for a reason you don’t get to know. “Should we just keep driving? Not much else to do.” The car is electric, and the engine sounds concerningly futuristic. If the planet isn’t being killed then the mood doesn’t have to be. Florence nods, turning onto a freeway that will take you away from the city and into the places where the sunrise will be unobstructed and the two of you will be undisturbed.

Suddenly, your relationship is no longer undisturbed, however, when a rumour is circulated that the two of you are dating. No one was supposed to know, which is why your lives together were stolen kisses in the dark that you’re not allowed to talk about. To avoid drama, you’d solve the smaller problems, ignoring the sputtering engine of a relationship that was too secret for such loud people. She hates that, but she loves you and doesn’t want to lose you to a swarm of social media hurricanes.

Cuddled up on the sofa, she pours you a glass of rioja as a peace offering. It dribbles down your throat and soothes the hoarseness that came from shouting at each other. She wipes your tears with a whisper of ‘I’m sorry’ and passes you the joint she’s lit to calm herself down. You take a puff that surrounds the two of you in a bubble of solitude, but you’re not really alone, because you’re alone with Florence.

“Do you want to watch something?” The light from the TV is the only thing keeping you awake in her living room, but nothing is actually playing. You have been staring at the screen blankly for the last half an hour, wondering if the tears will ever stop pooling in a well of not being able to communicate properly.

You shake your head and get up from the sofa, leaving her chest feeling light after being weighted with your head resting on it. “Goodnight.” She smiles because she doesn’t want to hurt you more than she already has. “I still want to wake up next to you,” is your attempt at reconciliation.

“You will,” she replies carefully. She wants to as well. You still have her captivated, and she still has you wanting her. But wanting her becomes more difficult when mornings become like drinking tea with cyborgs, when the conversation is only the clinking of cutlery on bowls and plates and the best part is when she says she has to go out and see somebody. The meetings she goes to are for protests. America is rioting and you don’t feel at home enough to help. It causes more arguments, but she makes new friends who teach her new things. A professor of pharmacology drops edibles round after a long week of listening to her friend rant about you. You end up binging five minute crafts on her massive TV, laughing endlessly at their viral life hacks.

December comes faster than summer left, autumn being just a blur of late night flights and early morning making out. You decide to go on holiday despite having looked for an apartment of your own two days before the plane takes off. She drops your hand when the airport gets too busy, but in the secluded first class of the plane your passports fall into the footwell as you move onto her lap. She kisses you softly and waves off the air hostess who will come back with champagne in an hour or so.

The hotel is as impressive as her colleague said. The concierge looks at the two of you and sighs, muttering something in Spanish. Florence shows your booking details smugly, knowing that everyone hates you already. “Can we upgrade?” she asks. She’s up to something.

“You have every upgrade possible already paid for,” says the concierge. Oh. “Enjoy your vacation.” You take Florence’s hand as you are directed to your own private lift.

“Oh, we shall.” Her voice is in your ear as you stand closer than necessary for a space of four square feet. The doors shut swiftly, clearing the view of the concierge’s unamused expression. “I’ve been invited to the opening of a club tonight. Are we going?” You appreciate that she asks. She doesn’t normally.

“We’re on holiday, Flossie.” She still waits for you to say yes. “What time are we being picked up?”

You have realised that she forcibly moulded herself into your life quite well. Her schedule is frustrating when she’s with you and even more so when she isn’t. There’s a constant struggle to find equilibrium that only a fool would continue to search for. You relax when she drags her pinky down your bare back as she finds her way to your zip. Once she pulls it up, you have secured your act of being in a perfect relationship with a perfect woman.

On cue of this thought, she flashes you a little plastic bag with white powder filling it halfway. “I got it while you were sorting out the cabana for tomorrow,” explains Flo. “We’re on holiday, Y/n.” You want it now. Not in a club full of people she knows but you don’t, not when you can get back the Florence you had in summer for the briefest of moments and have her all to yourself; the daring woman with whom you fell in love with. Are in love with. Maybe are in love with still.

Black against white in obnoxiously rich fashion, she divides it for you both, taking physical control. As you lower your face to the desk, her eyes linger on the exposure of your dress. Even if she has seen you completely naked, she finds the hint of what’s there uncovered fabulously erotic.

It sets in and you soon detect the feeling of being anchored to the bedroom. Florence is undoing the zip with more enthusiasm than when she did the reverse, and you are helping her out of her idiotically chosen jumpsuit. Her kisses are sloppy and open-mouthed, meeting you somewhere in between as you pin her hands above her head on the mattress. You straddle her waist, ignoring her plea for you to properly touch her, in the way that sends her twelve million miles away on a hike of ecstasy and bliss. The hotel has chosen useless, white linen curtains, and they flow inwards because of the sea breeze. The balcony doors are open: the sea view is divine.

“I don’t want to go,” she confesses as you undo the clasp of her bra. Fingers on skin and lips on lips create a haze of pleasure as she throws her head back, moaning. “Fuck, Y/n, I really don’t want to go.” It’s like everything has been heightened and everything you’ve ever done has led you here. You are meant to be here.

“You were so insistent on not being alone with me.”

She sighs. “And now I want nothing more.” You sit up straight, admiring the sight of her; back arched, glistening with sweat. If only everyone else could see her so helpless. So desperate. They’d wonder why they ever thought you were forced to be with her, much unlike what the rumour states. Florence Pugh and Y/n L/n are together, but at what cost? The price is that of love, but the car has become old and tired lately. The car needs to be oiled yet no one can find it in them to do so.

You repel said thoughts away from you, focusing on her in the here and now. Focusing on the squirming when you adjust your position over her, letting her struggle only to show her that you have complete power and control over the situation, right here, right now. “You need me.” She nods. “You are always going to need me.” It packs more meaning than the face value dominance, but you don’t dwell on pouring your heart out mid-fuck.

Taking off her panties, you only wait for a ‘yes’ before locating her clit. You take it between your finger and thumb, rubbing. Her sharp intake of breath is only the gateway to a chorus of moans as you work your way further, ending your exploration by slipping two fingers inside of her. She wants to grind down but cannot as you are on top of her and keeping her unnaturally still.

Moments pass and you’ve let go of her hands. She uses them to massage your breasts as you move your fingers inside of her, hitting deeper every time she lifts her back from the mattress. The cocaine alters the usual haze of pleasure by amplifying it ten-fold, and so, with the doors open, you are certain everyone else is hearing this. It turns you on more.

Breathlessly, Florence asks for something. Or maybe it’s the drugs asking. Guarded by moans on either side, the quiet beg to be choked slips out. The way she sounds makes you want to fuck her senseless with the sea behind her. Like the ocean, she is uncontrollable, but you feel (and maybe here it is definitely the drugs) that you are an ocean-tamer. You are capable of anything.

‘I am capable of anything’ becomes your mantra to get you through the holiday. After the first few days, the car starts to run out of fuel once more, and the sight of those perfect families laughing and playing cards at breakfast begin to sicken you. It’s almost like toothache, the rot of your relationship. It hurts but it doesn’t debilitate. Wishing you could have what they have is a bad move.

“I feel like everyone can tell it’s going to shit,” you confide as you sunbathe by the pool. You’re surprised she acknowledges you. “They don’t believe it anymore, Flo. We’re not friends, we can’t outwardly be together… Why can’t we—”

“Just act normal,” she cuts you off. “Pretend, if you have to.”

“What? Should I make up lies about Moka pot Mondays and taco Tuesdays? Do we have Christmas traditions?” The only tradition you seem to have is ploughing forward despite everything crashing and burning. And then every time you think the fire has finally been put out, it’s all good, and you are in love again. Love isn’t supposed to stop and start like a flagging car.

You realise you’re crying. She doesn’t want to make you cry. She never wants to make you cry.

“Hey, you.” Her voice is softer now. “I will always love you, remember.”

“I feel like we’re in a car. An ancient car.”

The metaphor resounds with Flo. She realises something is seriously wrong. “I feel like the engine’s sound is no longer a small concern.” You nod. “But I don’t know how to fix cars. I’m not equipped to fix things like this.” No one is.

“Should we just keep driving?”

tags: @pewpughpew @ridlz @jeyramarie @flosbelova @kassies-take @delfiore

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lialialow · 2 years

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No Longer A Lonely Person

florence pugh x reader

summary: you overcome one of the biggest obstacles in your relationship

words: 5412 (god, it’s long)

warnings: talks of suicide, divorce, and drug usage (barely), and very underage smoking

notes: first of all, this was never supposed to be that long, and it was inspired by multiple different songs. the ending was never planned, it may be messy.

french translations will be really difficult as i’ve written it as slang/spoken french. common ones as “chais pas” = idk, “c’est trop la honte” = it’s embarrassing, “chérie” = darling, “ché” = i know. Type them into google translate or feel free to ask. PFW just means Paris Fashion Week.

also, mathilde and fleur are half sisters of anyone was wondering.

“I don’t want her to be my mother.” You almost choke on your wine. “Maman, j’suis sérieuse. She’s loud and happy and I can’t have a mother who all my friends want to hook-up with! C’est trop la honte.” She’s red enough thinking about it, let alone actually telling you.

“Qu’est-ce que «hook-up»?” The innocence of four-year-old Mathilde isn’t kept long, as Fleur launches into an explanation and you focus on swallowing both what she said and your drink. Once the torture of hearing your daughter explain it has ended, Tilly looks at you incredolously with her mouth hanging open and her half-chewed broccoli threatening to leap out. “Tu fais cette?”

“Non, chérie. Fleur is being silly.” Fleur is not being silly. You’ve been hooking up with Florence Pugh for quite a while now, and the eldest of the two is yet to meet her. (She refused to acknowledge you were in a committed relationship when you told her two years ago on FaceTime during lockdown, so you left it.)

“Of course. When Maman and her are screaming at night it’s just them playing a fucking game.”

“Stop it,” you tell her firmly. “She’s coming over in an hour and I want you to be well-behaved or not here. I’m not having you be an arsehole to a woman you won’t meet.”

“I have met her!”

“Fashion shows don’t count.”

You met Florence at Paris Fashion Week in 2020, where she complained about being at the designer’s show because apparently she’s a bitch. Flo’s first words to you were ‘God, the French really are judgemental’. And then she heard your accent. And recognised your face. It was a two-in-one slap of realisation because you were the designer and you are French.

When the girls got stuck with your ex in Dubai (he has term-time custody and they spend holidays with you), Florence was there to offer comfort and companionship and a smaller but cosier flat in London with her. So there you stayed, only returning to Paris in June to prepare for PFW and your exclusive, annual Versailles show. It ends the week. It’s one of the coolest things you do.

Half an hour later, when Tilly has successfully convinced you that Flo will love her pirate costume, Fleur taps you on the shoulder. It’s the first you’ve seen of her since she slunk off to her room, gossiping with one of her practically identical friends. You turn with exasperation and tiredness. She scrunches her nose.

“You’re not going to replace me as your plus one next week, right?” Next week is Cara’s party. There’s no reason for it, but you suppose there doesn’t need to be — it’s Cara. Fleur is adored by all of them, and you trust that she’s in safe hands if it all goes to shit (Bella is a motherly drunk), so you enjoy lying back on whatever boat she’s chosen and sunbathing. You’re only thirty.

The genuine uncertainty makes you regret being harsh earlier. “I’m pretty sure I’m your plus one, babe. Flo is only staying for the weekend, anyway; she’s going to visit her family now that filming has wrapped.”

“I really want to meet her sister.” Teenagers and TikTok go hand in hand. Your publicist has begged Fleur to teach you to use it, but you’ve decided that your brand is doing okay despite you not having your own personal account, and that being the butt of your daughter’s jokes is enough for publicity. “She, like, followed me while I was at Dad’s but I think she unfollowed ‘cause she wasn’t sure. This is why I need to be verified, Maman.” You roll your eyes.

“If you decide to be a nepobaby then go for it. Until you actually do something, shut up. You haven’t earned it.” She mumbles something about Lila Moss. You laugh. “I knew your father spoiled you rotten but I didn’t realise it was to this extent.” Karma for marrying a businessman. The relationship ended the minute he brought up moving to a ‘more profitable’ place. Your girls living in bloody Dubai in a closed community with a maid and a driver and a butler 24/7 is only acceptable because Tilly’s most favourite parks ever are in Hackney and Brownsville. Balance is key.

“Dad only spoils us because he feels bad that he made you realise you’re gay.” Oh god.

“One, you know that I’ve dated women before, and two, what led you to that conclusion? Your biological father is the only man I’ve ever slept with who reminded me I liked women.”

“That’s why you don’t have sex at fifteen.”

“Putain, t’es vraiment une conasse.” She’s ruthless. Poor Florence is going to have her ego bruised the moment she walks in. Which is now. Because she has her own keys. Because you love her and kind of want to marry her. But Fleur doesn’t know any of that.

So she jumps when Florence says hello. You can tell your girlfriend is terrified of the flared jeans clad, highly intimidating fourteen-year-old, but she’s pulling it off with a welcoming smile that hopefully says ‘please just let me sleep with your mum in peace’. You think she really communicates her point to be honest. You also think Fleur is going to fuck with her as much as she can.

You’re right — you know your daughter very well.

“Bonjour, Florence. Tu parles français?” she asks with faux innocence dripping from her daggered gaze. For reassurance, Flo has looked at you. She is saved by a hyper toddler in the aforementioned pirate costume (something that’s frequently appears on vogue’s website when her more famous ‘aunties’ babysit), who immediately demands to be held and kissed and hugged. You catch the ‘mummy’ in the conversation and pray Fleur isn’t attentive enough for that. “Ah, t’es anglaise.”

- - -

The wine goes down very quickly once Tilly crashes and it’s just you three. It feels like you’re sitting in the middle of the Olympic staring event final, where they are both contending for twenty billion gallons of liquid luck from Harry Potter. You shuffle under the tension.

You debate asking if they want refills, and decide not to out of fear. They both look scary.

“So,” Fleur breaks the silence, slicing down on it with a cold tone of utter dismissal. “You’re an actress. Pretty unstable income.” Suppressing your laughter becomes extremely difficult.

“Your mum’s a designer. That’s hardly better.”

“My dad owns a few businesses though.” With a smile, she adds, “Balance.” So far you’ve been insulted and compared to your ex husband, but at least they are saying words.

“I’ve met your father. A few is an understatement,” Flo replies, recounting that awkward dinner in which his parents had invited you. Your ex’s parents are thankful for their only grandchildren and treat you like a daughter they failed to have (they do have one, ironically). Though not uncommon, their invite a few months ago was a surprise mainly for the fact that Florence’s name was also written in the card. “He’s a nice guy.”

“Yes,” you agree carefully. Are you allowed to speak? Who knows. “If I leave to check on Mathilde, will the two of you murder each other?” As you stand up, Flo does too.

“I can go,” she says. Tilly can’t escape the apartment when Flo is over, unlike her sister who fucks off to god knows where, and so she is used to this odd extra parent-who-isn’t-a-parent.

Once Florence leaves, you turn to your daughter. She looks pissed off. “What the fuck was that?” She shrugs, swiping the deep maroon velvet of the sofa up and down into little doodles. “You didn’t even try. You could have tried.” To beg her to be nice would be a waste of time and energy; the world is already struggling with carbon dioxide emissions without you starting a rant. But you did want her to try, and she has upset you for doing exactly the opposite.

“She’s iffy.”

“How?!”

Fleur raises her eyebrows, shifting her weight from side to side. Doing so makes the leather sofa creak from its many years of service. It has moved from Porte de la Chapelle to your penthouse in the eighth arrondissement where supermodels hang out casually. Fleur doesn’t remember being three and living in one room, and though you sometimes regret hiding that part of her life when she spurts obnoxious bullshit, you are glad that she can’t. You are glad that the only life she has ever known is that of chauffeurs and Emirates first class and galas. Not many little girls have mothers who FaceTime them from the Met Gala every year.

“Don’t you think you’re a bit out of her league?” You’re flattered. “She’s talented, but so are you. You’re amazing, Maman.”

“I think Florence is amazing,” you say quietly. Your daughter’s cynicism catches on her lips.

“Tu l’aimes.”

It’s true. You do love her. You have loved her for a while now, possibly since you sat and she sat and the universe decided you’d be next to each other. She seems to calm the persistent storm in you that grows every so often. Sometimes the storm takes over, but Florence has found a way to love you when your face is blank and you can’t will yourself to move. You know that you love her because you have loved two others before her. You know that she is special because this love is different.

Fleur’s face becomes hard to read, but her brows are furrowed and her foot taps: she is thinking. You grew up together, you are her friend. Her closest friend. Fleur’s hero will always be you, she will always dedicate school projects to you, she will always choose you. Right now it feels like you’re not choosing her. Like you want more than her company. Because how can your daughter give you the love and care that you give to her?

She gets up and slots herself between the edge of the armchair and you. Absent-mindedly, you run your fingers through her hair. In its shine, you catch a glimpse of her father, the man you slept with far too soon. He was set to become a doctor. He had aimed for Oxford. You didn’t want to tell him you were pregnant, but when you did he offered to give that up. It’s heartbreaking to force someone not to love you anymore. He didn’t take it well; he couldn’t bear to tell his parents what he’d done, and he found himself struggling to deal with his conflicted emotions. He must’ve been sixteen when he killed himself, and Fleur must’ve only just been born. You wouldn’t have been happy together anyway, but being just you two in a big world full of parties of twenty seemed incredibly daunting. It got less scary over time.

When you met Tilly’s dad, Fleur would have been nine. He was on track to inherit a company from his recently deceased father, and you were suddenly a very popular designer. Your work was wanted on every runway, and he was wanted by every woman at every event you ran into each other at. His fondness for you stemmed from his love for Fleur, whom he met when he ploughed through her on his morning jog. She kicked him hard in the shin. You began to love him from that moment onwards, and enjoyed being a family. A proper family. Mathilde was the first of the four of you to be born into a healthy, functional family. She was smart enough to realise when it had ended that differences are as ugly as they are beautiful. He wanted to move to Dubai permanently, not just going there and coming back every so often. Your life had been in Paris since you were sixteen. You refused to go, but the courts ruled in the favour of his scarily stable income. It was alright, though. Without that, you wouldn’t have met Florence.

Memories slip through the soft strands of her hair. You can’t remember the last time you’d not been able to read her expression. Fleur makes a promise to herself that she will not fuck it up because she loves you and you love Florence. She tries to never break her promises. You taught her that much.

“If I loved her, would it be so bad?”

Maybe it won’t and Fleur can regain the family she once lost and secretly wishes she hadn’t. She’s grown up enough to understand that staying in a loveless marriage is never worth it, and that falling out of love can be as natural as its opposite. If she can smoke and drink and go to parties that last until the early hours of the morning, she should be able to accept that her mother will sleep with other people and move on. But it’s different because she can tell you and Florence are different. She can tell that you are going to last, and that is a terrifying thought. Like you said when Tilly was born, love creates more space, it doesn’t replace what was already there, and so maybe she can deal with possibly finding herself with another adult who cares and listens to her problems. If she really hates her, it’s not like she has to see her all the time.

Having processed this all in one second while formulating her answer, Fleur mumbles, “chais pas. I want you to be happy, does she make you happy?”

Flo watches you from the doorway of Tilly’s room, hating herself for spying but not being able to pull away. “Very,” you answer quite quickly. Florence admires the way you talk to your daughter, the way you handle pleasing everybody but doing what’s best for you.

She clears her throat so that you see her. Fleur hasn’t stiffened: you count that as progress. Progress is good. You can relax a bit now.

- - -

It’s close to two in the morning when Flo pulls on some pyjama bottoms and slides open the door to your balcony. Naturally, you’d ended your night with long overdue sex and a conversation about how well meeting Fleur went. When you fell asleep, she found herself tossing and turning. She concludes after an hour of thought that what she really needs is a cigarette. You keep a pack in your bedside drawer, beside a sketchbook that’s there if you dream of sewing and it actually looks good. She takes it and kisses your sleeping forehead.

The night is clear and warmer than England (even if there’s currently a heat wave). Your balcony overlooks Parc Monceau and so she watches the late-night walkers find ways to sneak in. She leans over the metal rails, letting her head drop to her folded arms, tensing when the metal is colder on her forehead than expected.

“Need a light?“ She hastily searches for the source of the question, wondering if she’s begun to hallucinate. With a flick of a light switch she’d forgotten was there, Fleur’s smirk appears, much like her mother’s. Fleur eyes the pack of cigarettes and pulls out her own from her hoodie pocket, extending the open pack to the woman with surprising generosity. Flo takes one, sinking to the floor beside the teenager. They sit with their backs against the wall, facing forwards.

Fleur tosses her lighter, Flo catches it. “Why are you up so late?” she asks, not bothering to berate her for owning any of the things she just displayed at such a young age. You probably know, she figures.

“In Dubai it’s too hot to go out with your friends during the day unless you stay inside, so we sneak out at night. Here, Maman has a rule that I have to spend four nights at home and can spend the remaining three wherever I want.” Flo nods. “Within reason, of course. If Bella is here I’ll stay with her.”

“Bella Hadid?” When she confirms, Flo wonders if Raffie will find out and complain that Flo’s famous friends suck. She lights both of your cigarettes. “You want to be a model?” She thinks Fleur could be.

“No, it is not my thing. I don’t know what I want to do.”

“Don’t be an actress,” Flo jokes, exhaling and watching the smoke softly billow in the light breeze. “I’ve got no privacy, night shoots exist, and doing press with people you don’t like is bullshit.”

“I’ve watched my mum scream at the paparazzi in stilettos while holding Tilly, all because they took one stupid picture of me.”

“She’s very passionate, your mother.” While Fleur cringes, Flo chuckles. “I think you’re doing a great job of pretending not to hate my guts.”

“You’re not even that bad.” It could have been worse. “I don’t like that you’re British and that my friends want to sleep with you. You could try learning French to fix the first one, and the second one is just a downside to being the daughter of a fashion designer.”

“Je ne parle pas français.” Fleur finds this funny, and giggles endlessly, leaving Flo bright red and feeling self-conscious.

“Tu parles d'autres langues? Español? Deutsch? العربية?” Flo shakes her head, says she almost failed Spanish GCSE, and seriously questions her intelligence. “I can speak French, Arabic, and English fluently, so I’m taking Spanish for GCSE. It’s like Arabic.”

“Your English is really good. You sound American though.”

“No I do not.”

“Yeah, you do.” It’s technically an International accent. “How long have you spoken English?”

“Since I was five, when I started to watch a lot of Peppa Pig.”

“Of course you watched Peppa Pig,” comments Flo. “You give off those vibes.”

“That’s a compliment.” You will never forgive your daughter for playing it on repeat. Tilly is only allowed to watch the same programme twice in a day because of the trauma. “Then when Maman began to become really sought after, I had all these models surrounding me constantly, teaching me their language. Cara Delevingne taught me how to swear in English, Gigi Hadid explained the immediate future. Bella just read me stories. Lots and lots of stories. And in turn Bella can now translate the Little Prince into French, Cara learnt how to flirt like we do, and Gigi understands du, de la, and des.”

There’s a missing model in the supermodel bunch, Flo notices. “What about Kendall? I thought your mum was close with her.”

“We would just have staring contests. I’m undefeated, actually.” Fleur’s pride radiates off her, making her warmer to be around now. “But my dad taught me the most.” You’ve explained to your girlfriend how close your ex and Fleur are. “He can speak seven languages. He taught me Arabic, and he taught me formal English. The only thing I could teach him was how to understand Baby French when Tilly was born.”

“You’re very sophisticated.” Florence can’t imagine how cool they’d find her in England. “Does everyone smoke or is it just you?”

“I don’t do it that much, I just saw you go out here.”

Oh. Florence doesn’t quite know if she’s about to murdered or accepted. She hopes it is very much the latter.

“For some inane reason, my mother loves you. And she asked me to not be a little bitch about it — which I suppose I have maybe been slightly. Ever so slightly.” Fleur gags. “She looks like she wants to marry you. The sheer thought is mortifying, but, I don’t know, I’m trying to be nice.” Before Florence can say something (thanking her, telling her off, who knows?), Fleur says, “You’re not even that bad. It’s just that she’s my mum and she’s my best friend, not in the way that your mum claims to be but in an actual, proper best-friend-way, because we grew up together and she used to only have me. I used to be her only person, but now she has Dad and Tilly and… you. There’s this awful feeling in my gut that she’s going to stop being that to me because you’re here. And then I feel enormously guilty and selfish because I know that you make her elated in a disgusting way and that you were there for her when I couldn’t be, and you’re also only, like, ten years older than me, which makes me feel a bit weird because it’s like those stereotypical stepmothers where the dad is fifty and she’s twenty, but then I remember that Maman is only fucking thirty and that I basically ruined her life, because did you know that my biological father fucking killed himself? He wanted to drop out and help my mum, but he also wanted to have the career he dreamed of. He was so fucking conflicted that he slit his wrists in his parents’ bathtub. Because of me, he’s dead, and I don’t remember him at all.”

How does Florence respond to all of that? Your daughter has just unloaded the most heartbreaking story onto her as an explanation of why she is so hated, all while having a smoke together. Florence thinks carefully about her phrasing. She knows teenagers aren’t dumb, and Fleur is clearly intelligent on top of that.

“I don’t want to be your mother,” she states.

With a scoff, Fleur replies, “thanks,” and taps the ash off the end of her cigarette.

“No, not like that.” Her free hand drums quietly on the dirty floor, a common beat she uses to steady her heart rate. “I wasn’t ready to have kids when I met your mum, and I don’t think I am now, but you’re like this bonus that comes with loving her. Tilly never fails to make me smile, and you don’t understand how much I’ve enjoyed this conversation with you. I love Y/n, and she loves you guys. I’d like to marry her too.” Flo finds that wanting kids of her own and having pre-made kids intertwines into a win-win situation, because Mathilde calls her ‘Mummy’ and she can have a smoke with a fourteen-year-old and not feel irresponsible. “I’m not trying to be a third prison warden.”

“Don’t say you’re trying to be my friend or something.”

“If I were dating someone with a cat, I wouldn’t suddenly view myself as the cat’s owner. I’d build up a relationship with the pet until there was a mutual respect, maybe even love, formed. Same thing for children.”

“I’m a… cat?” Fleur raises her eyebrows, not that Flo can see the subtler expressions in the darkness of the badly-lit street. “I see what you mean, but we hardly know each other.”

“That’s fixable.”

“Also, no one actually knows you and my mother are dating. Are you even out?” Are you even out? (Yeah, but it’s not common knowledge.)

Florence and you talked about that before her flight took off. They will know tomorrow at noon when you will be spotted at a café near the park. You suggested a kiss might just send the message loud and clear, but Flo wants the girls to come and the thought of being intimate with you in front of Fleur’s judgemental gaze makes her shudder. Leaving the details vague in some areas, Flo informs your daughter of the publicist-approved plan. Fleur is already judging it.

After a few more drags of her cigarette, she huffs an agreement, says she’ll cooperate, and makes Flo genuinely smile for the first time since meeting her.

- - -

The daylight is woven into the half-open blinds of the master bedroom intricately and purposefully; a quiet but firm call to wake up. You groan, aching from your tiring evening, and turn over only to find that Florence isn’t there. She should be there, you think. You pat the side of your bed just in case she has become strangely invisible during the night. When your hand hits the mattress, you frown, eyebrows furrowing.

Getting up, you slip into fluffy socks because the floor isn’t very clean at the moment. It always takes a week or so to adjust to the messiness of the girls being back at home.

You knock on Fleur’s door three times. “Coucou, Fleur, tu te lèves.” There’s rustling from inside. She’s always been quite good at getting up, so she opens her door with a moody grunt and flops into your hug very quickly. “Nous sortons, nous tous.”

“Ché, Maman. Florence a dit.” You don’t know when they could have spoken. “Nous parlions. Elle est allée chercher une table à la boulangerie.”

It is slightly suspicious that she knows. “D’accord…” You notice her panda eyes and sigh. “Quand t’as dormi? T’as l’air épuisé, mon dieu.” She smells of cigarettes too. There’s no way she went out during the night — she would’ve told you. “Et oú est Mathilde?” You usually find her with her sister in the mornings.

“Tilly has gone with Florence to the bakery, Mother.” Her sudden shortness with you is confusing, to say the least. “Et last night Florence and I had a smoke on the balcony together.” Cara promised that the pack of cigarettes was in her possession. You now have a bone to pick with a certain model.

“Did you talk?” Maybe they bonded.

She shrugs. “Yeah.” Her room is a mess now that she’s stepped back and you can see it properly. Her suitcase is half unpacked, and there seems to be a large amount of new clothes her father bought her for summer. It’s totally not like one of the most sought-after high fashion brands is owned by her mother or anything. It’s not like she was the living mannequin for the children’s line.

“Do you need help unpacking?” You offer it because she lacks motivation in lots of areas. You video call her teachers for parents evening.

“I’ll get Tills to do it,” she waves you off with a smirk. “After you and your girlfriend pull your stunt I’m going to Bella’s hotel. She blocked out her day to give me therapy.”

“You need therapy?” More therapy, would actually be correct.

“I heard you and Florence fucking last night.” You consider gaslighting her to keep some dignity. “J’pense que j’resterai à l’hôtel de Bella ce soir, oui? It’ll benefit us both.”

Her offer is calculated; crafted precisely to benefit you both while spiting your somehow. “Only if you take your sister as well,” you say, enjoying the slight falter in her smirk as she finds most of her fun ruined. “And you can’t drink until Cara’s party to give your poor liver a break.”

“Fine,” she concedes, pushing lightly on your chest to get you out. “Weed is still on the table though?” Nice try.

She gets ready dutifully, leaving your home in a mini dress that she keeps in Paris because it’s definitely not acceptable in Dubai and your Chanel sunglasses. You don’t ask how she found them when they stay well-hidden in your room. Instead, you are thankful she’s not putting up a fight by wearing something totally outrageous.

It’s hot outside and a nice day, so the sunglasses dim the world for you both as you take your usual route to your usual café. You walk straight through Parc Monceau to get there, meaning Fleur already sees a friend and gets distracted. She stops for a brief conversation, from which you gather she is now invited to a birthday party on the behalf of Teddy.

“Is Teddy a girl or a boy?”

Fleur scoffs, picking up the pace once she sees the maroon of the café’s sign through the trees. “Teddy is non-binary, Maman. You’re supposed to be woke.” Right. It’s hard to keep up sometimes. “They live in our building, so I’ll go round for an hour or so later.”

“Don’t you need to get them a present?”

“I’ll get Florence to collect me.”

So Teddy’s one of those friends… Flo’s ego will inflate to the size of a hot air balloon when she finds a bunch of teenagers throwing themselves at her. She does love a bit of attention.

Quickly, you spot Tilly’s head outside in the sun, bobbing up and down as she undoubtedly stands and crouches over and over again by the table. It’s a stupid game called ‘Upstairs, Downstairs’ that results in lots of sore heads after banging them on a table. Flo looks relieved that you’re finally here.

She gets up so that Fleur can take her seat, immediately grabbing your hand. Decidedly, you hug her, sticking your finger up at the teenager rolling her eyes across from you.

“Who dressed Tilly?” asks Fleur, eyeing the white playsuit she’s wearing. It’s not yet stained.

“I did,” Florence says, sitting next to you, hand on your thigh. “She insisted on wearing white.” She probably just wanted to wear it because you designed it. It’s a literal prototype used to see how it fits, but the white makes her feel trusted so she begged to keep it. The final product has a few tweaks in sizing for a more generic cut, but you like that hers is made to fit her properly. If you had time you’d sew their whole wardrobe.

“She looks so clean.” She has to otherwise the media will call you a bad mother. “Maman, si Papa voit ça, il flippera.”

“Pourqoui est Papa freaking out?” Tilly’s half-translation not only clues Flo in on what’s going on, but makes her worried. No one should be freaking out. “Can we just order, please.” She drags out the ‘please’ with a pout and a longing look at the menu. Tilly can barely read in French (your fault — you forgot it’s not her first language) so you’re not quite sure what she’s staring at, but her point has been articulated enough for Fleur to mumble her order to you.

“D’acc, deux pains au chocolat pour Tilly,” you recite the order as usual in order to refresh Tilly’s counting in French and foods, “Fleur, tu veux un croissant aux amandes, oui?” She nods and asks for an Espresso. You tell her yes but make a mental note to get her and her sister hot chocolate instead. “Et Florence veut un croissant, j’veux un croissant.” Tilly shows you her fingers, four of them sticking up. All four people are accounted for. You could maybe call it a family.

You stand up to order at the counter. Florence stands too.

“Can I come with you,” she whispers, wary of listening ears. “I’ve yet to tell you about my night.” She takes your hand, smirking when Fleur groans in extremely audible disgust, and locks her fingers between yours, locking your faith into her.

As you walk into the crowded café, you find that Flo being recognised is more of an issue than anticipated for this part of Paris. This café is far from touristy, usually filled with off-duty models here for various shoots, but even they are turning their heads towards your girlfriend. Pride ignites on the gasoline of your blood, circulating around your body. She is yours and she is talented and funny and amazing in bed (not that you’d ever let her know it — her ego would inflate and suffocate you all). She still holds your hand in the queue.

“Why were you up so late smoking cigarettes with my daughter?” Panic briefly flushes her cheeks before she catches the softness in your eyes. You’re only playing. “If she said anything, I’m—”

“I didn’t know Marc killed himself.” Marc was Fleur’s father. “I also didn’t know that she was so clever. I thought her vocabulary was just grunts of varying pitches and tones. She’s so articulate, you know? Like, I just didn’t expect it.”

“Fleur is one of the most intelligent people I know.” So intelligent that she sometimes becomes sloppy and wastes incredible potential. “Did you sort out your differences?”

“We both agreed that you want to marry me.”

You think you’re embarrassed, but the blush might be from something else. Like the thought of having Flo there constantly and never feeling like you are trapped on a sole planet when the girls leave. Never being alone when you have a certain disposition to be extremely so. You know you have to say something in response, that you can’t let her comment end your conversation. “Yeah well I love you.”

Florence wants to propose. Right here, right now.

“I love you too.”

tags: @pewpughpew @ridlz @jeyramarie @flosbelova @kassies-take

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lialialow · 2 years

Text

Two Affairs and a Baby

florence pugh x reader

Summary: you and Florence are not working out

Word count: 811

Warnings: it’s just angst

The red carpet is the last place you and Florence want to be seen together. You come in separate cars. It’s for your newest movie, something that you’d begun filming a week after your daughter was born. Your wife almost didn’t attend out of spite.

You’d been to marriage counselling a few times, tried to fix the relationship. She was too busy. No, you were too busy. She felt like you left her to do all of the housework. How could you do that when she was always out?

Night after night was spent arguing about something or other, never letting the other person talk. Fights would end when your daughter woke up from the shouting, screaming her head off at the two of you because it was so selfish to put your marriage before her sleep. It was selfish to put yourselves before your marriage.

You were grocery shopping for the week when you met her; beautiful, familiar. She’d interviewed you once before. She didn’t care if you didn’t remember her name. Somehow she’d gotten you back to her place, telling you nobody would know, and you’d listened to her, letting her unclasp your bra while Florence changed the nappies.

It was meaningless.

You didn’t tell Florence.

She questioned why you’d come back home late, or why your daughter was always left at home during those ‘errands’ you quickly went from despising to enjoying. “I feel like we’re not communicating,” she’d say, not realising how blatantly obvious it was that you were fucking someone else. Surely she could have noticed? You never slept together anymore. It was an achievement to make it into the same bed.

You took her ignorance as her not caring about you. The spark had ignited only briefly, of course. The press would say celebrity marriages just get shorter and shorter, and add you two to the list of names that once loved and no longer could. “It was no one’s fault,” would be your statement in the next interview, “we just drifted apart.” She would say, “it was just not meant to be.” And to the comments about you two being so in love, you’d have to reply that you were, it just didn’t last.

It just didn’t last…

And then you’d found out Florence was seeing someone else. It was hurtful. Sex with that woman was just a cry for attention with the bonus of momentary pleasure. Your wife was actually going on dates with that man.

Stuck in between this, your daughter grew up. “Mummy’s in her flat,” would be the explanation as she was dropped from place to place with minimal contact. You guys were still legally married. No one knew.

Christmas that year had rolled around sluggishly. Florence took your daughter to England, staying with her parents for three weeks. You spent the day with two bottles of wine and the night with a different woman. The first one had declared that she loved you more than Florence ever could. That was hard to do. To the Pughs, you were filming and couldn’t make it, but you wished you could. Your daughter didn’t know if she should be telling Auntie Raffie that her mothers don’t live together anymore.

Raffie called you to ask, not wanting to bring it up with her sister when it was clear her sister did not want it to be known. “I don’t know,” you’d answered when she asked about getting divorced. “It’s complicated.” It had been two days after the twenty-fifth, then. Most of your feelings had subsided. You were on auto-pilot. “She’s having an affair.” You hung up straight after.

Florence came back after New Year’s, joining you in the bed you’d once shared. The house was under both of your names. You’d stayed there because the paparazzi usually camping outside had started to realise that no lights were on in the house yet you were still frequenting the grocery store.

She had kissed you softly, thumbs wiping your tears, climbing on top of you. It was the most intimate you had been with her for a year.

When you both lay there, breathless, she told you she wanted a divorce.

“You love him,” you stated plainly, letting the words break each of your bones. They severed your nerves, numbed your skin. Your mouth went dry.

“I just can’t love you anymore.”

It was okay. You’d be okay.

Her tears made the pillows wet, and yours added to it. “I know you’ve been sleeping with other women. I’ve known for a while now.” She wasn’t stupid. She did care.

“Why didn’t you bring it up?” The accusation was more pathetic than you’d aimed for. It sounded desperate. You had wanted her to bring it up. She shook her head, hair falling about her shoulders like feathers thrown unwillingly to the wind.

Neither of you apologised.

82 notes · View notes

lialialow · 2 years

Text

Make me a Sunday roast.

florence pugh x reader (sisters)

summary: Florence isn’t as informed as she’d like, and you’re not having a particularly great time.

words: 3099

warnings: eating disorders, self-harm, suicide, mentall illness, mentions of drugs

notes: netball is a sport similar to basketball widely played in the U.K. and Australia (and most places other than the USA). Netball academies are really elite, and the most elite is obviously the England Academy which is called the Roses Academy. Also this one shot was like therapy but cheaper.

When you were born, two minutes before your twin, Raffie, your mother looked at your face, perfect in her eyes, and realised you’d be fine on your own. It was proven again and again, through test scores and awards and letters of acceptance for academies, for schools. She was reminded by the straight nines marking your GCSEs, and it was reiterated when the Roses academy asked you to go on tour in New Zealand. Deb could not believe one of her children would captain England for a sport your younger sister only managed to get on B team as a sub for.

Raffie grew up with the attention of a baby and the praise of a fast cheetah, mostly overlooked when achieving something, never forgotten when she failed. The shadow cast over her followed through school as you became the girl who’d boys would beg to snap and she became Y/n’s twin sister. While you were out with your friends, she’d be with your other siblings, becoming closer to the family that only seemed to love you when you’d come first place.

Of course that was not the case, but how were you supposed to know that?

You started sixth form and netball became more of a career option and less of a fun little hobby. Raffie made new friends, yours got upset you didn’t have time for them. Instead of you coming home drunk, it was Raffie. Your parents assumed you wanted to prioritise netball, and then, when netball practices began to be skipped, school.

Days would go by where you’d lie in your bed, the same clothes from a week ago, the same dirty plates as decor among the medals and certificates and trophies. Raffie’s slight resentment for you morphed into pity; she’d ask if you wanted to go out with her. Maybe you wanted to see your own friends. “Mine will love you,” and she’d smile to coax your pathetic state out of its lair. They wouldn’t love you. You’re the kind of girl who’d they remember as their childhood bully. Twins can go one of two ways, obviously. You and Raffie had very separate lives.

One day, you’d walked down the stairs, cuts covered with stained sleeves, tears not even bothering to form. Your mum and dad had looked at you, the same expression of concern that had become the norm for the past six months. You had turned eighteen with this expression clouding the photos, you had grown even further apart from them. Dad had said Floss had tried to come, but couldn’t. It was Raffie that cried, not you.

Dad had never cried in front of you before then as you told them about how you weren’t sure you could live anymore, how they shouldn’t blame themselves. “This isn’t me,” you’d reminded them carefully, half smile at the ready to combat your mother’s soft sobs. It was then she had understood that maybe you wouldn’t be fine on your own. Maybe you needed help.

The doctor diagnosed you with anorexia and bipolar disorder. Unspecified. She’d nodded at you, checking if you had thought the same. It reminded you of Flossie’s movie; Midsommar. It probably was what made you ask your parents to keep it quiet.

Out of all of your siblings, you’d never really connected with Florence. Her and Raffie got on like they were destined to talk about acting together, and Toby and Bella weren’t exactly silent during those talks. She’d become a movie star, lived with her boyfriend in LA. You weren’t really sure if you had the right number for her anymore. Raffie would FaceTime her periodically, “Y/n, it’s Flo,” and you’d mumble a hello and shut your door because nothing was shittier than seeing Florence, who made everything better for the family but had taken every achievement from your cabinet and replaced them with her fame. You wondered if you hated her.

With a family dinner and meeting afterwards, everyone but Flo was informed of the situation, notified that you’d be going away for treatment. Six weeks, and then you’d come back. No one was to let Florence know, even if she asked about you. You weren’t sure she’d remember you existed if Raff didn’t bring you up.

- - -

Florence just so happens to get to Oxford on a random Tuesday in February. She hasn’t been present in her family and she feels bad about it. They will always be there for her, rich or poor, famous or not. Missing the twins’ birthday brought tears to her eyes. She’d taken many breaks on set that day.

Her parents are elated at her appearance, saying Raffie will be back from school soon. Weird, Florence thinks, Y/n’s not here. She’s always been so extroverted. “Is Y/n out with her friends?” Raffie’s face doesn’t miss Florence’s gaze. Pain. Grief.

Florence Pugh’s stomach drops to the Earth’s core.

Y/n pushed her away, so she’d stopped trying. She hadn’t been mentioned for a while, achievements cropping up in conversations no longer. Mum was never as proud, Dad was never making taxi jokes. She’d sensed, from that mansion in LA, that something was off, that she wasn’t clued in on information that everyone else had. It was like her sister had disappeared and no one had noticed.

The Uber drives off, and you take a deep breath. Six weeks ago you did the same thing outside of the treatment centre. You can do this. It won’t define you.

Your hands shake ever so slightly and you pick apart your disused keys, fingers tracing the stupid school picture key chain from year three. You and Raffie, smiles bright. You’ve learnt to appreciate her a bit more when she wasn’t there.

“Why won’t you tell me?” An exasperated voice is abruptly cut off by your entry. Sounds like Florence. Is she famous enough to have tribute actors now?

There’s a silence as your parents take the sight of you in. The doctors thought not seeing them might be more beneficial. Having a break from life itself proved a good cure to the now-longer list of mental illnesses they’d explain you had. Mum and Dad are holding hands behind the counter, where no one can see.

Then, Raffie is hugging you, holding you tight. She’s crying. She feels guilty about overlooking the signs, not reporting your frequent lies about school and netball, never really asking if you wanted to talk. “I’m okay, Raff,” you whispered into dark hair, arms wrapped around her body even so. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

Florence is standing awkwardly behind Raff. Watching.

“I thought… Weren’t you coming back tomorrow?” Dad asks, voice hushed, as if Florence will manage to be kept in the dark now. “Did they clear you to leave? We would’ve picked you up, Y/n. How’d you—”

“They said I could four hours ago. I got an Uber.” He frowns. “Dad, I’m an adult.”

Your mum brings you to her, cradling your head, kissing your forehead. She tells you she loves you and that she’s sorry, you tell her she doesn’t need to be sorry, but that you’d love to have a nap before having to face the world again. It’s not as fun when nurses don’t tell you what type of therapy you have each day. She says she’s sorry again, and you’ve gone upstairs before Florence can grasp what’s going on.

Without knowing why, Florence has followed you upstairs, reaching your room just as you close the door. There’s no lock. Your parents had thought the best way to keep you safe was to ignore a lock and learn to knock. Privacy had become something dangerous in those sixth months.

Her hand reaches out, palm flat against the wood of the door, ears listening out for a sign you’re aware of her being there. You know she’s there, naturally, and aren’t sure what to do. What can you do?

She knocks and you sigh, “come in, Florence.”

“Whole name?” The joke isn’t as funny as she thought it’d be.

Your room has been tidied over your absence, dishes removed, pillows plumped. Raffie’s left notes in it, words from when she wished she could talk to you but couldn’t. You’ll read them later.

With the clear space now on your bed, your sister plonks herself down, hands awkwardly sitting in her lap. Neither of you have made an effort to speak to each other since the equally arduous back-and-forth texts from your birthday. Well, Flo’s thought about it. She’s not sure how to approach you.

Under the covers, your fingers tap away anxiously, waiting for her to say something or leave. Or burst into tears. She feels the exact same, asking herself how she let your relationship deteriorate into such a state, wondering why you’ve only just reappeared in everyone's lives.

“What happened?”

A general question. There’s too much substance to that answer.

“Did you get kicked out? Are you pregnant, were you on holiday?” Florence tries to find reasons. Explanations. “Was there a netball tour? I follow England Netball, Y/n. I swear there wasn’t— I would have put it on my story if you’d told me.” It’s making her upset that she’s not able to land on the right reason. “Are you cross with me?”

“The academy dropped me,” you inform her bluntly. They asked you to leave. Your parents sat down with your coaches soon after the fateful doctor’s appointment. Suddenly you were back on the team. “Just recover, Y/n,” was your command.

“Did they?” It’s given her a reason to comfort you, to pull you into a hug and show more affection than she’s most likely ever shown you. “What did you do?”

Midsommar. Flo doesn’t need to know. Flo doesn’t need to start caring about you just because your medical records have a series of disorders listed.

“Nothing much,” you mumble into her hair, missing the length because it always smelt so lovely. Like coconuts.

She catches sight of the letter on your bedside table. You’ve not read it yet, but it’s been laid out by your mum.

We are pleased to inform you that when you return from treatment…

Florence pulls away. “What treatment?”

“What?”

Manicured nails direct your attention to the letter, signed off by your head coach. Heidi cried with your parents. “Treatment.” There’s a pause. “Were you pregnant?”

To Florence, who’s only ever seen you come home drunk and high, with girls, boys, strangers, it’s plausible. To Florence, who’s picked you up from parties, held your hair back, fought for your voice to be heard without you knowing it was her who filed the sexual assault claim on your behalf, the possibility is entirely there. You fight off the tears that come with the thought of being infertile because your perfectionism really was an eating disorder.

“Y/n, I’m your sister. You can tell me anything.”

“For you to post some shitty infographic about it on your story for your millions of followers?” Venomous words taste better than vodka. “Do I add to your tragic backstory? Am I good material for interviews?”

Florence stumbles on her words, surprised. She wasn’t expecting this.

“Even if I were pregnant, I’ve starved myself too much for the fucking foetus to fucking live!”

Oh. You’ve said it now.

“Treatment,” Flo repeats, saying it again just to solidify what it now means. “How am I supposed to know that?”

“You weren’t,” you agree. “Didn’t want to make you sad during awards season.”

“Stop it.”

“No, Florence. There’s something about not fitting into a family that really fucks you up, you know. Being ’Y/n’s twin’ must have been shit for Raffie, but where was that hug when my friends left me? When I was told I was too nice for that group, but too mean for everyone else?” Because Flo never really asked why you were crying. Most assumed the rare bad grade. “You act as if I’m indebted to you, like I haven’t been pretending to be happy for the longest time. Like you didn’t go on day trips when I had matches and tournaments and never caring if I couldn’t make it because I was forced to have my own fucking life.” Mum joked that most matches were the same anyway. “And now you’re friends with Scarlett bloody Johansson and Meryl Streep and you’ve been to the stupid Oscars, and you want your sister — who can’t even get herself to swallow Nutella — to tell you what’s wrong.”

Your voice is already becoming hoarse from its volume.

“Stop it, Y/n.”

“I’m not going to burden your precious time with my own problems, Flossie. Why don’t you—”

“Stop it, stop it, stop it!” Tears run straight through the perfectly done lashes, ruining the makeup that shields the paparazzi from seeing the realistic side of Flossie Rose; the darling rising star from Oxford, England.

“Why should I? Are you going to tell Harry Styles that your baby sister spoke the fucking truth to you for fucking once?!” you’re screaming it at her, because she’s made you so angry and she deserves it. She deserves it.

“What did you fucking do to yourself, Y/n?” Florence stands up, pulling the covers off you, blinded by worry and rage and a whole host of emotions that need to be worked through.

The sight of you, the way your legs, bare in the open, have neat rows of deep, healing cuts. Your arms look similar, and there’s no point in hiding that.

“Oh my god,” she says, so blankly, so quietly, that you’re a little bit scared. “You could have… You could have texted me, DMed me. Tweeted me. Why didn’t—”

“I didn’t know how.” Quora doesn’t have an answer to ‘how to tell your famous sister you really want to kill yourself in her Instagram DMs’.

“Did you at least try?”

Not really, no.

“Do you not understand that I love you?” You shake your head. She hasn’t accused you. She’s genuinely curious. “You just came back from what kind of treatment?”

“Mainly eating disorder,” you answer. You’ve calmed down now. “They’ve got me on mood stabilisers, Floss. Apparently I’m bipolar.”

“Bipolar?”

“I promise not to recreate the opening of Midsommar.” Florence feels very sick when you say that. Like she knows what you were thinking.

“It doesn’t define you,” she whispers. “You’re not going to be locked away from me, I’m not going to stop posting shitty pictures of you on my story.” Sweaty netball pictures where people flood her DMs with questions for how you got there.

“I know we’re not that close—”

“Don’t say that—”

“But I really was upset you missed my birthday.” You both say sorry in sync, by accident. “I overreacted. None of my friends had been free that day either.”

“Y/n…”

“I’ve tried to kill myself three times.” Florence and you don’t make a rushed attempt to reconcile.

Knowing you want to die is a twisted form of acceptance that has very little positive outcomes. Misery and depression, intense sadness, fear, trauma, all cease for the offending party, but not for the ones that linger on in life. Three times you’ve accepted your defeat, each time being found by someone different.

Raffie found you choking on your own vomit, abandoned by whomever you’d been using with, somehow hauling you up into an ambulance. Instead of Mum and Dad, she called Arabella, begging for help, distraught. They were terrified. A week later you were back in school, your parents only understanding that Bella had thought living with her would be good. The changing of scenery was a firm belief in your household.

Then, about a month later, you’d yet again realised your life should probably end, so you sat in the bathtub letting yourself bleed out. Toby hurried in, haste critical, and scooped you up (knowing this was intentional because who bathes in clothes?). He’d shouted for Raffie to call 999, and then Bella, but ignore Mum and Dad for they didn’t need to know again. Those three have covered you dutifully.

“Bella still cries a lot when I try to talk about it.” Whispered, it hangs over your heads, sinking in. Bella cries because she had cradled you in her arms when she’d found you the third time and it was like her timeline had split into two and she was transported back into the hospital room. Bella had held you before your mother had.

“And I’ve been in Los Angeles.”

“I can try again if you want to be included.”

- - -

You start school on Friday, returning to sixth form with Raffie. Spending frees with Raffie. Her friends are sweet.

Most of privately educated Oxford find out about ‘that one girl’s eating disorder’ through Instagram and Snapchat and TikTok; news travels fast. Flo’s Oxford fans start to post about it, sharing their experiences, hoping you’re okay. Your sister asks you what to do. You tell her you couldn’t care less.

You’re telling Raffie and her friends about the amount of team members you’ve either hooked up with or dated, enjoying the laughs and attention, letting Raffie input when she remembers a disastrous date. “I don’t know how they ended up in a shooting match,” Raffie tells the group that is slowly becoming both of yours. “You should def add them to your priv.” It’s all pictures of your dad cooking.

Dad doesn’t know how to show you he cares. Dad cooks you dinner, letting you sit and observe his clean movements and silly dancing. You’ve started to dance with him: not getting up, but making sure he knows you’re enjoying the quiet fun.

When you guys get home, Flossie is there, talking to Toby and Bella. They all greet you, Raffie too busy opening the small gift sitting on the coffee table. “I’m her twin, so it’s basically for me,” she says, undoing the ribbon.

“It’s from me,” Flo says to you, hand in yours, giving it a squeeze. A black, leather-bound notebook falls from Raffie’s hands. Flo chuckles, picking it up and handing it to you. “You can look inside a bit later,” she whispers, smirking. Inside she has written every recipe you’ve ever said you’ve liked of hers.

“Y/n, what’s dinner?” Dad’s popped his head out of the kitchen. “Come help me.”

You take the book from the coffee table, opening it to the first cream page. Written in black ink pen are the words ‘a perfect Sunday roast’. That’s what you tell them is for dinner.

@pewpughpew @ridlz

263 notes · View notes

lialialow · 2 years

Text

Webs and Threads

Fluff -> Angst Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings Swearing

Synopsis You and Peter have been together for years, and just when you have managed to find something you care deeply about, Peter messes it all up.

A/N Thank you for 100 followers! Requests are open

Word Count 2.3k

For years you had dealt with Peter, slowly fallen in love with him after years of friendship; moved in together. As time went on, the time he spent at home became shorter, his nights became longer; so you found comfort in a new hobby.

Ever since you were young, you knew you had an apparent flair for fashion. Whether it was dressing up as a princess at the age of six, or learning how to sew your own clothes at the age of thirteen; fashion had always played a major part in your life.

Your mother had always dreamed of becoming a fashion designer and she supported you through it all, not only was it your passion, but also her dearest aspiration.

For almost a decade, you were sure fashion was going to be the one and only thing you did for the rest of your life, that you were destined to be a designer.

But when in life do things ever go to plan, and after your parents divorced and you moved to brooklyn with your father; it just became much easier to forget most things that reminded you of your mother. And so fashion became rare in your life and you ended up studying marketing, not going to fashion school.

Few years later, and you realised it had been a terrible mistake for you to drop fashion, and when you met Peter; a boy who made you feel worth something, who truly loved you and was never afraid to stand for what he believed in. You were inspired by his love for you and so you went back to the thing that really made your life feel worthwhile.

Designing clothes, making them. You bought half a dozen sketch books, started making daily trips to buy fabrics. Peter was just as enthusiastic as you, he felt bad that he was constantly out, and was more than overjoyed that you had found something that you enjoyed, just as much as he enjoyed his superhero-ing.

Walking you to the stores, he loved seeing the way your face lit up at the sight of walls covered in multi-coloured fabric; the way your hand would tentatively reach out to feel the material as if it was a far away dream.

Your smile had been the first thing he had fallen in love with, and the way your nose would scrunch whenever you found something you particularly liked. And this expression was present all the while you browsed through the dozens of fabrics.

“Y/n, we’ve been here for a while, have you found anything? I’m sure there’s other stores?” Peter asked as he walked up to you.

“No, we can’t leave, this is the one place my mum wouldn’t ever stop talking about, she called it ‘designer heaven’, so I have to get the fabric from here,” you said indignantly.

“Of course love,” Peter turned back to the towering wall of fabric that faced him. The colours were shockingly varied and kind of gave him a headache; but then again anything for you.

The next week or so, Peter spent days walking with you to the stores, carrying countless fabrics for you. He even surprised you with a mannequin and sewing machine, this boy truly loved you.

The first few days you spent thinking up designs, but to no avail did you come up with anything of value. Dresses were in no shortage in any sense, trousers seemed to clog up your wardrobe and any other ideas just seemed incredibly unoriginal. It seemed any sense of creativity had left your mind.

- - -

Peter had just swung into the window, his mask in his hands.

“Hey” He said, walking behind where you were sitting, “What are you working on?” His hands came down onto your shoulders, and you realised how alarmingly cold they were. Instinctively, you flinched away and turned around to meet Peter’s eyes.

“Your hands are freezing,” You said to him, taking his hands into yours and rubbing them between your hands, “I’m shocked you haven’t gotten frostbite yet,”

“I’m fine, promise,” Peter reassured you, moving his hands to cup your cheeks,“You didn’t answer my question, what’re you working on?”

“Nothing yet, but… I might have an idea,” you answered in response, opening your sketchbook and starting to draw a design for Spider-man’s brand new and improved suit; to ensure that the next time Peter went out, he wouldn’t return with ice cold hands.

Each and every time Peter came home he went over to where you were working, determined to see what you were working on. You were just as stubborn, your sketchbook remained locked in your drawer when you weren’t using it; when you finally started making the suit you hid it in a locked cupboard. You were determined to make it a surprise for him.

The suit had much better material, it insulated heat, had numerous pockets, and incorporated a sleeker design for his web shooters. In your opinion, it was very simply, genius. You couldn’t wait to show it to Peter; it would be the most perfect anniversary present.

You worked whenever you could, between your boring job as a marketing assistant, and the regular daily life; it seemed the smallest part of the day was spent making the suit. Though it occupied your mind the majority of the day.

- - -

It was late that night and you had been sewing away at the suit. Soon, your eyes had begun to droop and without your knowledge you slipped into sleep, your head laying on your desk.

Peter had just come home, it had been a long day, yet the first thing he saw was your figure slumped onto your desk. You looked adorable. Walking towards you, he intended to carry you to the bed you shared, but his eyes couldn’t help but glance down at what you were working on. And he saw it, a truly exquisite design that you had clearly spent hours manufacturing, even though it was only a sketch.

Not wanting to ruin the surprise even more, he swiftly carried you bridal style to the bedroom. Your head automatically dropped onto the pillow, it was obvious you were exhausted; yet you still looked the epitome of beauty. If you had woken up in that moment, Peter would look very much like a creepy guy staring at you, but you did not wake up, so Peter carried on in his stupor.

Simply put, he could not believe he had gotten so lucky and managed to have found someone as perfect for you. Yet he felt guilty, he did not deserve you in the slightest. You were so amazing and brilliant and talented in every sense, and he was never there.

There were times when he just disappeared for days at a time without alerting you at all. It killed you inside every time; the thought that he might be dead, his body lying in an alleyway, forgotten. But Peter couldn’t give up his life as spider-man, it was the only thing that he felt gave him a purpose.

Finally, he came out of his stupor and got ready for bed, this was one of those rare and few occasions when you would wake up with him by your side, and the both of you were the better for it.

- - -

Two months later, you had finally finished working on the suit. After many all-nighters, and weeks of keeping the secred you were so excited you felt as if your heart was going to leap right out of your chest. The suit lay neatly wrapped in a secret compartment in the bottom of your cupboard. That night was your anniversary, and you were so excited to finally show him what you were working on.

You set everything up, the dinner, the decorations, everything was perfect. You poured yourself a glass of wine, got into the outfit you had spent far too much money on, but it made you look hot so it was worth it. Peter had promised that morning that he would be back by eight, so at eight you had finished setting up the food, and was waiting patiently for the door or window to open. But eight o’clock came and went, so did nine, then ten. Before you knew it, it had hit midnight, and still Peter wasn’t home.

Worry had overwhelmed your thoughts, his lifestyle was dangerous, and there was no telling what danger he had gotten himself into. He could be dead for all you knew. The love of your life could be lying in an alleyway, dead, on your anniversary, and not a soul would know. You couldn’t help but pace around the apartment. You called him, voicemail, again and again it just kept going to voicemail. You called his friends, they hadn’t seen him, you texted and texted, nothing.

Nausea filled your stomach, and you sat back down onto the couch, but immediately jumped back up again. You couldn’t stay still, and just ran and ran around the house like a complete mad woman, your phone in your hand. Eventually you decided the best course of action was to just sit and wait, for a call, for a sign he was still alive.

Time passed without you realising, it was early morning when you finally jumped up with a start, the front door had opened. Peter had finally returned from the great unknown. He wasn’t dead. You were in two minds. One part of you wanted to walk up to him and cry into his arms, make sure that he was not dead, and was actually there. The other half was in absolute agony, and wanted nothing more than to just walk out and leave him.

“Where were you?” you uttered, picking up a wine glass placed on the settee next to you.

Peter spun around on his heels, he had not even seen you on the couch.

“I was out,” he answered sheepishly, walking over to kiss you on the head.

”Do you even know what today is?” you pushed him off you and stood up, looking over his disgruntled appearance, he was clearly drunk.

Peter’s eyes glanced over the decorations still adorned perfectly around the room, realisation dawned across his features, immediately sobering him up. His day had been so chaotically hectic that the importance of today had barely crossed his mind; and he had found himself in a bar, drunk as hell and sandwiched between two girls, neither of which were you. It took him far too long to finally make his way back to the home the two of you shared.

How could have he have been so stupid.

Inside he knew there was no way that you would possibly forgive him for missing today, he had bore witness to your sheer excitement for his present, watched as you tirelessly worked to finish it on time.

This was betrayal of the highest sense.

“Y/n, I’m so sorry, I swear, I forgot-”

You walked off, not wanting to hear more of his meaningless apologies; yet he trailed behind you in guilt like a lost puppy. At the start of your relationship you would have forgiven him, let this pass, allowed some space for his hectic superhero life, but you had been together for years. You longed for him to finally put you first. And out of all the things he had forgotten, this was by far the worst.

This was the anniversary of your first date, the first time you saw Peter as more than just a friend, it was the anniversary of the start of your story together and he had just forgotten. Instead succumbed to the taunts of alcohol, alcohol that he could have enjoyed with you.

Truth was, you were not only hurt, but disappointed, after so many hours of labour that you had dedicated to this day; he somehow forgot. Peter didn’t put you first, on the one day that your love for one another should be all that mattered.

But that was evidently not what had crossed his mind.

“Please, stop talking,” You turned around to face him, “I thought you were dead, Peter, dead. Do you know how many nights I spend having nightmares of you being dead? And how today, I thought- I thought that you were actually dead? Do you know how much that hurts me? To know that you were probably just out fucking some other chick and getting drunk? And on our anniversary?”

Peter’s hand hit the kitchen tabletop, “Y/n you know I would never, ever cheat on you; you know that? Right?”

A disappointed expression covered your face, and you couldn’t help but flinch. You knew Peter would never cheat on you but it just hurt too much for you to admit that, your pride could not take it.

“That doesn’t make up for the simple fact that you are never here, I go to bed alone, I wake up alone,”

“Well I’m sorry that I actually have something to do with my life, compared to you-”

The moment the words left his mouth, Peter’s face fell in shock. He regretted even uttering those words and then knew that he had fucked this up.

Silence descended between the two of you.

“I-I’m going to bed, sleep on the couch,” you said, staring directly at Peter.

There was no softness in your eyes, just cold, hard anger. Peter watched as you walked off, and wanted to follow you, but could not bring his legs to move. You walked into your bedroom and slammed the door shut. The neatly wrapped suit lay ignored on the bed. Just seeing it brought tears into your eyes; red blinded your vision and you tossed the present into the depths of your wardrobe.

#peter parker x reader #peter parker #andrew garfield x reader #marvel #peter parker ff #spiderman nwh #spider man x reader #mcu #mcu fanfiction #peter parker fluff #fluff #tasm!peter parker #tasm!peter x you

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lialialow · 2 years

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Hey guys! THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR 100 FOLLOWERS!!!

Now I am writing something rn and it will be posted soon ;) But any ideas on what to do for 100 followers? Also requests are open!

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lialialow · 2 years

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#MCU Women: Suit Up.

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lialialow · 2 years

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Masterlist!!

Last updated: 22nd April 2022

Fluff♡︎ Angstఌ Smut❀

Kaz Brekker

- Once upon a time (oneshot) ♡︎ꨄ

- My Lifeline (oneshot) ♡︎ꨄ

- Injuries and Love (oneshot)♡︎ꨄ

Tasm!Peter Parker

- Pretty Cool Guy (oneshot) ♡︎

- Lost and Found (oneshot)♡︎

- Webs and Threads (oneshot)♡︎ఌ

#fanfic #peter parker #peter parker x reader #andrew garfield x reader #grishaverse #kaz brekker x reader #marvel #peter parker ff #shadow and bone #six of crows #kaz x y/n #kaz brekker #tasm!peter parker #x reader #fluff #peter parker fluff #angst #freddy carter #andrew garfield

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lialialow · 2 years

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episode 6 of moon knight review

that is all

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lialialow · 2 years

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Lost and Found

Fluff Tasm!Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings none

Requested by @iceyarrows

Hello! I just found your work and I'm already obsessed! May I request something for Tasm!Peter Parker where he has a crush on the reader and writes their names in hearts in his notebook (it all just gives me lovesick puppy vibes), but forgets it somewhere and reader finds it and asks him out the next day? Just cute and fluffy I guess lol, literally anything for him is perfect. Thanks for considering!

Word Count 2k

A/N Thanks for the request! Wrote this on the plane, but it’s cute. Ly mwah ♥︎

Peter was hopelessly in love.

You were all that crossed his mind.

During lessons he was constantly distracted, and it wasn’t helpful in the slightest for him that you just happened to be next to him during half his lessons. He loved your smile, your laugh, the way you would slowly fall asleep in classes.

You guys had grown up together, your parents being the closest of friends and you constantly being around at his house. It was bad, Peter had begun to fall in love with his best friend. Even worse was the fact that you were the only person he had told that he was spider-man; and in doing so had placed you in a mountain of danger. Falling in love with you only heightened the prospect of you being caught up in his reckless life.

It wasn’t until a few weeks ago when he realised he was truly and irrevocably in love with you.

It was the middle of autumn, it was sweater weather, and so you and Peter decided to go out to central park on a stroll. You had found a spot located under a tree of auburn and gold, and was now sitting on one side of the bench, your legs lying on Peter’s lap. His hand was aimlessly rubbing circles on your ankle.

A notebook in hand, Peter had originally intended to draw a tree or something, but seeing how peaceful you looked reading a book, his mind immediately wavered and he set out drawing you instead. You truly were the most beautiful person he had ever seen, and it seemed truly hilarious to him that he had never seen your beauty before, the cloud of friendship had prevented that.

He loved your eyes, they way they would shine when you saw the bright blue sky. He loved it when you laughed when you read that particularly pleasing part of a novel. He loved the way your hair would be blown all over the place on a windy day, and how annoyed you would be afterwards. Most of all, he loved it when he made you laugh, or when you would make him laugh.

Peter loved you, he just had no idea how he could tell his best friend that he was in love with her.

- - -

It was the worst day of the week, Monday. Peter only had one thing to look forward to, and that was science, the only lesson that day where he would sit next to you and he would be so delightfully graced with your presence.

The teacher was droning on and on, Peter had a pen in hand and a notebook that was originally for school, but was now exclusively for drawings of you; on the desk. Yet he had lost focus a while ago and was aimlessly staring at you. He watched as your head lay on your hand, adorned with rings. His pen began to drift on the same notebook, writing your name over and over.

You were incredibly sleep deprived, your favourite show had come out the previous day and your genius self had decided to stay up the entire night to finish the brand new season. It didn’t help in the slightest that Monday just so happened to be the day filled to the brim with the most tiresome lessons.

Words began to blur right in front of you, numbers became letters. Everything written in your notebook was complete nonsense, and you were sure you would have to copy up notes from Peter.

Thank god he’s awake

Oh how wrong you were, Peter was completely distracted by you. Every feature of your face was being committed to memory by him. His hands moved on his own accord, sketching out a rough outline of your face. The more he drew the more he saw. A small freckle of the tip of your nose, just how long your eyelashes were, the way your lips would pout every time you disagreed with what the teacher was saying.

You were a ray of sunshine in his life, a shot of espresso, the only thing that kept him from collapsing and giving up when he felt like he could no longer go on. Only after a few minutes did Peter come to the realisation of what was in the notebook. The most picturesque sketch of your face, only picturesque because it was a drawing of you; surrounded by dozens of small hearts, your name written multiple times across the page.

The lesson carried on and you were no longer aware of a single thing that was happening, finally, after what seemed like an age, the bell rang and once again you were free to endure the torture of yet another lesson.

Peter still hadn’t recovered from seeing the image that he had created based on your sheer beauty, it haunted his every thought and therefore he barely acknowledged the fact that the bell had rung. The classroom seemed bare and all he could see as he walked out was your face.

Everywhere.

Not that it was a bad thing, of course, he loved seeing you, it was the only thing that made his days bearable. Peter carried on down the corridor in his thoughtless stupor; almost walking into a pillar in the process.

- - -

You had suddenly jolted awake at the sound of the bell, and were now scanning your eyes around the classroom, trying to look for Peter. His looming figure was nowhere to be seen. Instead, in his seat, lay a single notebook that you recognised to be his. Being the amazingly nice person you were, you decided to grab the book and give it to him at lunch.

That was the plan until curiosity got the better of you and you foolishly decided to open up the notebook. It fell open on the one apparent page covered in murals dedicated to you. A portrait of your face was displayed front and centre, your name was carelessly scribbled around the drawing- hearts covered the double page spread.

You flipped the page, yet another page dedicated to you. The more pages you flipped, the more you saw. It was beautiful, his drawings, they were amazing; yet you couldn’t help but to have mixed emotions. What were you supposed to think?

Your best friend, someone you had known since you were both in diapers, had drawn half a dozen portraits of you; that you had been completely unaware of. There was no doubt in your mind that the portraits were beautiful, but it was ever so confusing. The fine line between platonic and romantic was becoming smaller every second.

It was the doubt in your mind that had prevented you from confronting Peter, what if he just used you as his muse? This could all be some kind of ridiculous prank for all you knew.

Yet you hoped it wasn’t, throughout your friendship you guys had been mistaken as a couple. When you went out for lunch together, the waiter would mistake the two of you for a couple. Most of the time you would correct them, but sometimes it was fun to imagine what it would truly be like to be with Peter.

Years ago you had a crush on him, which was so embarrassing considering he was your best friend and if anyone knew you were sure they would tease you endlessly, so you got over it, kind of. The sheer possibility of him liking you was enough to drive you to maybe take action on it. You got it, an idea, your mind was made up.

- - -

It had taken Peter far too long to come out of his stupor, by the time he had it was well past lunchtime and there was no chance of him seeing you again; until tomorrow that was. When he arrived home and was rummaging through his bag, he came to the sudden realisation that his notebook was gone. A notebook filled with drawings of you, was gone.

Dozens of scenarios ran through Peter’s head, each seemed to be worse than the last. Some random douchebag could have picked it up, opened it, and discovered Peter’s best kept secret; or some random guy could have picked it up, not opened it, and was planning to give it back to him the following day.

That was the dream scenario, though indeed unlikely considering half the year school was made up of douchebags. Still, Peter had no choice but to wait until tomorrow to confront whoever had his notebook.

- - -

The following morning Peter was already expecting the worst, photos of his drawings put up everywhere perhaps, though when he walked into school and was greeted perfectly normally, it all seemed to be fine. That was until he saw you walking into school, and sure that was amazing. Until he saw what was in your hand.

It was his notebook.

Filled with drawings of you.

This was simply worse than whatever scenarios he had thought up the night before, what must you think of him, how horrifically embarrassing.

“Y/N!” Peter shouted louder than he meant to as he ran to you.

Heads in the corridor turned to stare at him after his loud outburst. You too were startled and jumped back, hitting your head on the door behind you. Was Peter okay? This was most unlike him.

“Woah, sorry, you okay? Didn’t mean to be that loud, god, also how are you? Not that you’d be okay after hitting your head,” Peter had forgotten how to formulate words and was becoming more and more red each second he was talking to you.

“Yeah, fine, bit worse than I was a few seconds ago though,” You replied with a laugh, Peter was acting strange.

“Um- Cool notebook!” Peter stuttered as he pointed out the notebook laying in your hands, his notebook.

Realisation dawned over your face.

“Right yeah I was going to, um, return it,” you told Peter your face growing brighter with each passing second, he surely suspected that you had opened the book to have a look; which was entirely true. “It’s beautiful by the way, the drawings, they’re amazing.”

Peter’s pale face lit up at your comment, you liked them, you thought they were amazing. Maybe his affection for you hadn’t been revealed just yet.

“They were only beautiful because they were of you, darling,” Peter said to you, his eyes meeting yours.

You felt your face flush with blood, since when was Peter so forward, and since you when did he call you darling. Though the nickname did make you blush an awful lot. Good lord, maybe he did truly like you. You were on a roll, you weren’t going to let this opportunity pass you.

Peter hoped, prayed, that you liked him back, that over the years of friendship, you too had fallen in love with him.

“Would you-”

“I was wondering-”

You both began talking at the same time.

“You go first,” he said.

“I was- I was wondering if you maybe wanted to go out on Friday? Or we could like watch a movie at mine or something,”

“Like we usually do?” he teased, though he knew you bette than that and was simply overjoyed at the prospect that you were asking him out.

“No, like- like on a date?”

“You’re not pranking me are you?” Peter asked, looping his arms around your waist.

“You’re not pranking me? With those drawings? Are you?” You mirrored, placed your hands around his neck.

“No,” he grinned.

“Nor am I” You smiled right back at him, placing your hands either side of his face. He leaned down and your lips finally met his, after so many years of pent up emotions. So long you spent just falling in love with one another, the line between platonic and romantic was crossed, just like that.

“So? Friday?” You whispered, your foreheads touching.

“Yeah, Friday.” Peter replied, placing his lips onto yours yet again.

Never before had he been so thankful to have lost a notebook.

#peter parker ff #tasm!peter parker #andrew garfield x reader #peter parker x reader #tasm!peter x you #peter parker imagine #peter parker fluff #fluff #spider man x reader #spiderman #marvel #andrew garfield #peter parker

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