R A N D O M || OS

135. (Actor) Tom Holland - The Proposal

https://creme-bruhlee.tumblr.com/

➽ pairing: ceo!tom holland x fem!reader (y/n)
➽ word count: 3.9k
➽ summary:your pushy boss forces you, his assitant, to marry him in order to keep his visa status and avoid deportation.
➽ warnings: forced marriage?? except not really??

------

I gasped as hot coffee spilled down my front, and I looked at the mail cart that had run into me. "Sorry," the person steering the cart shrugged, and he continued on his way, totally unaware that he had just ruined my day. I gritted my teeth and looked down at my black-coffee stained shirt, knowing that my boss would be out of his morning coffee, had I not ordered a second. I always ordered a second coffee in case a disaster like this occurred. Mr. Holland could be just awful sometimes, and I only made the mistake of forgetting his coffee once.

The door to the office opened, and I looked to see my boss striding in. Mr. Thomas Holland was one of the foremost editor-in-chiefs in the world, and he was deserving of it. While he was a great editor-in-chief, he was the meanest man I had ever met. He expected everything to be just his way and, if they weren't, he would work to make it that way. Past assistants had been fired for less than forgetting a coffee.

I followed him into his office for his morning briefing, and a single sculpted eyebrow lifted at the stain on my shirt. "Rough morning, Y/N?" he asked with a laugh. I kept my comments to myself and handed him his coffee, and he sat down at his desk.

"You could say that, sir," I mumbled. "You have a meeting at eleven, and Penguin needs that manuscript by tomorrow–"

"Who is Jake?" Mr. Holland asked suddenly. "And why does he want me to call him?"

I stopped talking and noticed my boss staring at the coffee that was at first mine, and my face went pale. Written on my cup was the name of the barista that made my coffee every morning, along with his phone number. Mr. Holland looked at me, expecting an answer, and the look in his blue eyes made me want to puke. "Oh," I stuttered. "That is– He's–"

"Do I want to know?" Tom asked.

"No, it's better if you don't," I replied. "Um, also, you got a call from Immigration Services last night. They need you to come in and do some paperwork."

"I sent it in last week," Tom said cooly, taking a sip of coffee.

"Not according to them," I said. "Umm... Can I ask a question, sir?"

"You just did," Tom said. His dark eyes stared deep into me, and I held down my shiver.

I sighed. "You know what I mean," I said. "I thought you were a citizen?"

"Nope," Tom replied, popping his lips. "I'm in America on a work visa. What time do they want me to come in?"

"They said 'at your earliest convenience'," I told him.

Tom sighed. "Let's go get this over with," he mumbled. "Umm... You might want a change of clothes."

I looked down at my stained shirt and huffed out a frustrated grunt, and Tom scoffed. "Alright, then," he chuckled plaintively, his London accent rolling off of his tongue. I wasn't blind, I knew that my boss was attractive— a strong jaw that was always clean shaven, brown eyes that shifted golden in the right light, and dark hair, usually styled down with just the ends showing their true curly nature. He was tall and built like a Greek god, and his wonderful accented voice would have been appealing if the words he said with it didn't cut right through me. Some would say Mr. Thomas Holland was mean; others would say he was blunt. I would say he's just a dick. "Don't have to get so worked up."