Summary: Harrison always throws a weird-ass birthday party with a dumb-ass theme or stupid fuck challenge. Last, last time it was a “wet t-shirt” party, then a “no shirt OR no shorts” party. this year it just happens to be a “Hickey Party.” Gotta have a mark to enter, gotta cash in a kiss for a drink. JFC… Of course, you have to go, but who’s gonna give you the hickey?
Warnings: swearing, kissing, and classic cliches
Word Counting: 5K smooches
Oh my fucking god…
“It’s only awkward if you make it awkward,” you let out a sigh, blinking rapidly as you look down. Not really very helpful cos you’re standing close enough to himthat all you can see is his goddamn chest.
Just breathe.
“You know you said that outloud, right?” the boy in front of you lets out a breathy laugh and you can see his shirt pinch as he pulls his shoulders up. He crosses his arms and you watch him flex subtly as he stifles himself.
“What?!”your head finally snaps up, looking at his crinkled smile and rosy cheeks.
Best friend Tom is standing in front of you in the bedroom of your apartment, mere hours from this stupid-ass birthday party.
This is not going to be easy.
He tilts his head, wrinkles still around his eyes and a big, dumb, boyish grin on his face,
check out the previous chapters in my master list (next update MONDAY)
Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader
Summary: God, he makes a voicemail feel like a love letter. But no one knows if you listen to a it, right? No one knows how many times, right?
Word Count: 6.6K notifications on your phone
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A week has passed, maybe two. Either way, for a certain sum of days, there’s been a little red notification on the bottom of your phone, it’s bright and garish– but somehow… you’ve ignored it all that time. Your eyes have glossed over it and you shut your phone countless times.
You did open the texts near immediately though, drunkenly, brazenly, uncaring. You read his texts and laughed, “Hey, it’s me! It’s Tom! Tom Holland! In case you forgot!”
Chapters and Master list can be found in my bio :) next update is Sunday (hopefully)
Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader
Summary: It’s nice to do things for other people, and it’s nice to help one another. That’s what makes up a decent human being… But first and foremost, you have to remember, help yourself, and do itfor yourself.
Warnings: Self-harm trigger warning (jus an allusion to the past, not a description of the act// very brief), angst and angst and “Dance To This” by Troye Sivan
Word Count: 7K of getting the fuck over it…?
He leans in.
Oh––
And you do too.
Fuck.
There’s a moment, or almosta moment.
You feel chapped lip barely brush against yours, a soft grate that makes you frown.
You’re foolishly drawn to him, painfully attached. Your body moved on unshakable instinct, the pull you had on each other was more than magnetic. More than something you could fight against.
But it feels like you’re cheating on yourself.
After that half second passes, of unmoving lips flatly touching, you push him away hard. Both your hands were flat on his chest and the force causes him to stumble backwards as you hit your back against the unforgiving brick behind you. You could feel that gritty texture scratch against your back––
You roughly wipe your lips with the back of your hand, trying to get that phantom feeling away as you spit,
“What the FUCKare you doing!?”
Your voice cracks, while your fists shake at your sides. You wouldn’t be hadtwo times in a row, you wouldn’t subject yourself to this pain.
You’re no fucking fool.
Tom’s head rises back up slowly, and you see that lovely face in the low light. It’s twisted with confusion, anger, loneliness and longing. He straightens up, throwing his hands up and then back at his sides. He doesn’t step any closer, but his voice sounds like he’s right next to you,
“I miss you.”
And you knew, right then and there, that this was an ache you just couldn’t ignore.
Summary: We do what we have to stay warm, even if it means getting burned in the process.
Word Count: 1.4K of wow i didn’t think i could be concise about it but here we are
“Augh, shit, shit, shit.”
Icy rain poured down without mercy in the late licks of the evening. It washed the streets with it’s sleepy, continuous patter, and whispered for all to stay tf inside.
“Ugh, ha, shit––”
It felt a lot like Tom was the only person running around in this storm, dodging puddles and catching relief under overhead hangings. He checked his phone at the stopped crosswalks, rain pooling on his cracked screen.
Answer the phone, Mal.
He may not be on the only one out and about right now, but he’s the only out there without a fucking umbrella or jacket.
Come on, pick up.
Tom ducked his head down, tugging his hood over himself. He ran across the busy street to stand under the awning of the apartment. He leans his back against the brick wall, waiting to be let in.
He breathes into his hands, rubbing them together and shivering quietly as he looks out to the slick scenery in front of him.
Ugh.
Tom hates being cold, and he hates being wet more than anything.
Summary:It feels like licking the last bit of melted chocolate off your fingers. Sweet, greedy, fleeting. But the stomach ache you endure afterwards makes you wonder if it was even worth tasting at all.
Warnings:smut RIGHT AWAY, language, & bad behavior
Word Count:a 7K+ calorie milkshake spilled on the floor
Disclaimer: I don’t condone many of the actions that transpire between the reader & parties involved in this chapter. Love yourself, and be kind to yourself. Live respectfully but don’t put up with bullshit. Treat this as fiction.
“This is for me,” Tom smiles boyishly, “and no one else,”
Well, shit.
Your jaw wiggles in anticipation, bumping softly against his thumbs. His hands hold your face gently, swallowing you in his warmth, as if you weren’t already drowning in his presence alone. As if you weren’t already his.
But––
“Do you mean it?” you ask, speaking your mind before you could even process the what was going on.
Is this real?
Tom Holland was standing right there in front of you, palms on your cheeks while you held his wrists. His dark hair hung sad and limp, his brown eyes empty, but craving comfort. His skin was pale, but glowing with curiosity and begging to be touched.
“Yes,” he hums, dipping his head close to yours. Your hesitant eyes rolled up from his smirking lips, to the bumps in his nose, and then into his eyes, searching for flecks of honesty.
You aren’t sure if you could trust him like this, and you aren’t even sure if he is sure of the truth himself.
Summary:This is the guilt you feel when you eat someone’s left over food, even when they have forgotten about it. Even when they let you haveit. The apology is on the tip of your tongue, but do they deserve it?
Warnings:language, angst, and the slowest burn
Word Count:6.8K of melted chocolate
/// i am not keeping up with a taglist for this series or anything else, thanks for asking tho ///
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“Anything.”
Your own words echoed through your mind as you cradle his crumbling body in your arms. He’s holding onto you so tight, but you feel like you aren’t holding enough of him back.
“Gah, fuck… he–.. help”
Your fingers spread as far as they can across his back, the fabric stretching and pulling up. You press your elbows flush against to his body, greedily, hungrily pulling him closer to you.
You’ll savor this.
You’re savor this moment of sticky tears on your neck, matted brown curls pushed against your cheek, the heavy weight of his body leaning on you, relying on you, and the hands gripping you so tight you might hope they leave bruises.
Something about his sorrow was so positively delicious, your heart swelled full. Your cheeks grew warm, and you body was vibrating from a certain twisted excitement.
I mean, you’re sad, too, of course.
You know he’s suffering, hurting, falling apart right before your eyes….
But you’re melting.
And it doesn’t hurt you at all.
Maybe it’s because Tom was wrong, and you were right.
