Tom x female reader where they are both in the wrong place, drugs, cigarettes both have a bad influence on each other but at the same time they can't live without each other
TW: TOXIC RELATIONSHIP AND HEAVY USE OF DRUGS
you met tom in a bathroom, of all places. it was 3:43 a.m., the tiles were sticky, and the music from the club throbbed through the walls like a pulse you couldn’t escape. he stood under the flickering light, dreadlocks tied back, cigarette hanging from his lips, eyes hooded and unreadable.
you were there with someone else. he was too. but none of it mattered once your eyes met.
“got a light?” you asked, holding up your cigarette even though you already had a lighter in your purse.
“only if you give me a drag.” he replied, and that was the beginning of the end.
it started with smoke breaks. sharing joints outside of afterparties, fingers brushing, eyes lingering. you talked about nothing and everything — music, pain, childhood memories that still hurt when you pressed too hard. he told you about nights on the road that blurred into each other, about the pressure, the emptiness, the silence between the noise. you listened like it mattered.
he liked the way you didn’t care. you liked the way he made you feel seen, even when you were disappearing.
the drugs came after that. it was slow.
you didn’t even know what it was — some off-brand benzo he got from a friend of a friend. tom held it out to you between his fingers, smirking like it was candy.
“just one,” he said, “we don’t have to do anything else. just float.”
you were in the back of a cab, legs tangled in his, some song humming from the stereo, your heart already beating a little too fast from the night. you’d spent the evening drinking cheap whiskey in a club that pulsed like it had a heartbeat. the world was blurry around the edges. he’d kissed you in the bathroom stall, hands on your hips, teeth dragging across your throat like he needed you to survive.
you took the pill with a swig of something sweet and bitter.
he kissed your forehead like you’d done something holy.
you ended up in a motel that night — one of those off-the-highway ones with neon signs buzzing through the window and cigarette burns in the blankets.
you never remembered how you got there.
but you remembered the way it felt.
you laughed for hours — at nothing. at everything. he told you stories that made no sense, and you told him your secrets like they didn’t hurt. your limbs were jelly, warm and loose, and you melted into him like the whole world had finally stopped demanding anything from you.
he pulled you into his lap, fingers trailing up your spine, mouth dragging lazy kisses down your neck.
“you’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he murmured, “like a dream.”
then again and again, like your bodies were the only way to stay awake.
you fell asleep with his hand between your thighs and your head on his chest, giggling like teenagers in the dark.
and for a moment, everything was perfect.
the pills came more often after that.
blue ones, pink ones, ones you didn’t name anymore.
you danced through clubs like you owned them — him behind you, his hands on your waist, your hair stuck to your neck with sweat. everything tasted like freedom.
you’d sneak out the back doors of shows, lips on fire, pockets full of little escapes.
you’d kiss in elevators, laugh until you cried, scream at each other in the rain and make up under flickering motel lights.
people called you dangerous.
people called you addicts.
because it was — wasn’t it?
in a song you couldn’t remember the next day.
you wrote your names into the walls of every place you stayed.
you carved your initials into the night like you could make it stay.
then, nights after those, someone passed him a little baggie, and he turned to you like he needed your permission.
you nodded. you always nodded. you both stopped asking questions after that.
so that was the first time you snorted it with him, running back to his house and doing it off a scratched-up mirror on the coffee table at his house, between an empty bottle of vodka and an overflowing ashtray. the lights were low. the tv played something no one was watching. your heart was already a little broken before the powder even hit your bloodstream.
“you sure?” tom asked, thumb brushing your knuckles. he looked fucked up already, pupils wide, lip caught between his teeth.
you nodded. maybe you weren’t sure, but he was your anchor, and if he was sinking, you were going down with him.
you watched him cut two lines, slow and careful. his hands were steady — like he’d done this before. too many times.
you leaned in and did it quick, sharp. it burned. your nose stung, your eyes watered, but then the rush hit, and suddenly the world didn’t weigh so much.
he leaned back, watching you with that crooked little grin. the one that made your chest ache.
“see?” he said, voice low. “not so bad, right?”
it became your ritual after that. bad day? a line. an argument? a line. celebration? a line.
you stopped looking for reasons. it just became part of the rhythm — like kissing, like fighting, like sleeping with the blinds closed because neither of you could stand the light.
you knew things had gone too far the first time you watched the needle sink into his arm. there was no music playing. no noise. just silence — loud, thick, and cruel.
you sat across from him on the floor, legs folded beneath you, trembling as he tied off his arm with the drawstring from your hoodie. his lips were chapped, hands steady, eyes far away.
“tom.” you whispered. you didn’t even know what you wanted to say. just his name. just something to keep him here, now, with you.
he looked up for half a second. his eyes were glassy. “don’t freak out, baby. it’s just once. just to take the edge off.”
but you both knew better and it wasn’t just once.
the first time he gave you heroin, he was gentle. he held your face in his hands and kissed your forehead before he slid the needle into your vein. you didn’t want to feel it, but god, when it hit? it was like drowning and floating all at once. the world got quiet. your bones stopped aching.
you melted into the floor with his arms around you, and for a moment, you weren’t broken people in a broken room. you were just… free.
but the fall always came.
you woke up two hours later, heart hammering, throat dry. he was slumped next to you, barely breathing. you shook him until his eyes fluttered open.
“don’t fucking do that to me.” you cried, clawing at his chest like you could keep him alive by force.
“i’m fine,” he said, blinking slow., "we’re fine.”
but you knew you weren’t. you weren’t.
there was a week — seven long days — where you tried to stop. cold turkey.
you’d both agreed, in the middle of a comedown that left you sobbing in the shower with your skin itching and your thoughts too loud.
“we have to stop." you’d whispered, curled up in bed, arms around your stomach like you were trying to hold yourself together.
tom didn’t answer right away. he just stared at the ceiling like he was trying to see through it.
“yeah,” he finally said, voice wrecked, “okay.”
the first day, you were angry.
the second, you were trembling.
the third, you puked three times and told him you hated him.
he yelled back, said you were just like everyone around him — manipulative, hollow, cruel.
you threw a glass at the wall. it missed.
he slammed the door and didn’t come back until 3 a.m.
when he did, he was sweating, shaking, and empty-eyed. he crawled into bed beside you and didn’t say a word. just pulled you into his arms like you were the only thing keeping him from disappearing.
the headaches, the cramps, the screaming fits — you were on fire from the inside out.
“i need it,” you whispered, pacing the room, nails digging into your scalp, “i need something. anything.”
tom just stared at you, pale and hollowed out. “you think i don’t feel the same?” he snapped., “you think this is easy for me?”
you lunged at him, fists pounding against his chest. he caught your wrists, held them tight. you both froze — wild-eyed, breathless, too close to the edge.
“i hate you.” you gasped.
“i know,” he whispered, “i hate me too.”
day five, you broke, but he did first.
you found him in the bathroom, hunched over the sink, powder on the counter, tears in his eyes.
“i’m sorry,” he kept saying, “i’m sorry, baby, i can’t— i can’t do it without it.”
the come-downs were savage. your body hated you. your soul hated him.
you were cold all the time. tired. shaking. empty. and the only thing that stopped the screaming in your head was the high.
he started using more. disappearing for hours. you found syringes in his jacket, in the bathroom cabinet, under the bed.
you were angry, sad, disappointed. you both had saidd days before that cocaine was oay, but you both would've stopped with the heroin.
one night, he stumbled in at 4 a.m., and you were waiting for him — sitting cross-legged on the floor, crying.
“you promised,” you choked out, “you fucking promised me we would stop with the heroin. what the fuck is this?" you cried out, holding a little bag.
he just looked at you like he didn’t even recognize your face.
“what do you want from me?” he slurred, “you think i’m your savior? i can’t even save myself.”
you stood. pushed at his chest. “you’re the reason i ever touched this shit. you dragged me into it.”
“bullshit!” he screamed, voice cracking, “you wanted it. don’t act like i forced you.”
“i wanted you,” you sobbed, “i didn’t want to be like this.”
grabbed the lamp off the dresser and smashed it against the wall. the crash echoed, the light went out, and you both stood in the darkness, shaking, hearts bleeding out of your mouths.
his hand caught your arm.
but enough, enough to make you cry out.
enough to leave bruises the next morning.
enough to make you flinch when he let go.
you stumbled back, cradling your arm like it wasn’t even yours.
the look on his face shifted instantly.
all the rage drained out of him, replaced by horror.
his mouth parted like he might say your name, but no sound came.
you just stared at him. silent. trembling.
your breath hitching in the silence, too scared to speak, too angry to scream.
then the anger cracked open and grief poured out.
his face crumpled. he slid down the wall and buried his face in his hands.
“fuck. fuck. i’m sorry. i didn’t mean—”
you fell to your knees in front of him, crying so hard your ribs ached.
“i don’t want to die like this." you whispered.
he looked at you, tears running down his cheeks.
“i ruined you,” he said, “i ruin everything i touch.”
you crawled into his lap, arms wrapped tight around his shaking body. he held you like you were the only good thing left.
and maybe you were or maybe you were both just sinking at the same time.
“we were supposed to save each other.” you whispered into his neck.
“i know.” he whispered back, “i’m so sorry, baby.”
but sorry doesn’t fix track marks.
sorry doesn’t undo the nights you almost didn’t wake up.
and neither of you knew if you’d survive the next one.
a month later, you found him on the floor.
he was blue, eyes half open, lips parted, a needle still dangling from his arm like some cruel joke from god.
your scream cracked the walls, you shook him so hard your hands went numb.
“tom—” your voice was hoarse, raw, “wake up. please, wake up—”
you called 911 with shaking hands. you said his name over and over again like it was a prayer. the operator kept asking if he was breathing. you didn’t know. maybe. barely.
when the paramedics came, they pulled you off of him. you were screaming. crying. begging.
they hit him with narcan. once. twice. nothing, then a gasp.
you rode in the back of the ambulance holding his hand, even though he couldn’t hold yours back.
you whispered, “don’t leave me." over and over until your voice gave out.
he woke up in the hospital three days later.
white sheets. heart monitor. the sharp, cold light of survival.
you were slumped in the chair beside him, hair matted, eyes red and hollow. you hadn’t slept. hadn’t eaten. just sat there, watching his chest rise and fall, terrified it might stop again.
“hey.” he rasped, barely a breath.
your head snapped up. the moment your eyes met his, the dam broke. you covered your mouth and sobbed so hard your whole body shook.
“i thought you were dead,” you choked, “i thought i lost you.”
he turned his head away. shame bloomed across his face.
“maybe i should’ve been.” he muttered.
“don’t say that,” you snapped, voice cracking, “don’t you fucking dare.”
then: “rehab,” you whispered, “we have to go.”
he didn’t answer, but he didn’t say no.
it was a private facility, outside the city. green lawns. sterile halls. nice nurses with soft voices.
you shared a room for the first week. you cried through detox. held each other when it got ugly. nightmares, cold sweats, vomiting — the whole hellish unraveling. he screamed in his sleep. you woke up with your hands shaking and your ribs sore from sobbing.
but for a while… you were healing.
he joked again, played guitar in the common room. you started writing. poems, mostly. messy little things about pain and hope and how love can rot.
“i’m fine now,” he said one night, sitting on the edge of your bed, biting at his thumbnail, “i don’t need to be here.”
“yes, you do. i'm fine too but we need to stay until the doctors say we are fine." you said gently, reaching for his hand.
he pulled it back. “this place isn’t for people like me,” he muttered, “i’m not some rich kid with a coke problem. i’m just… me.”
he looked away. “yeah. and it felt better than being sober.”
that night, he packed. they couldn’t stop him. he signed himself out and left while you were at group.
you found his note folded in your pillow.
"i love you. but i can’t do this. not like this. not here.
i’ll get clean my own way.
you cried like someone had ripped your soul out of your chest. but you stayed. you finished the program. you healed.
you woke up that morning with sunlight on your face.
it was warm — the soft kind that didn’t hurt. it spilled through the rehab center window in pale streaks, casting golden lines across the bed, the floor, your hands.
you blinked a few times and smiled.
you couldn’t remember the last time waking up felt… okay.
tom had been gone for sometime now. not a word, not a text, not even a missed call. it used to tear you up inside, but lately, it just made you determined. because you were almost there. because tomorrow… you were going home.
you reached for the notebook on your bedside table — the one the center gave you.
you flipped to a fresh page and started to write:
day 89. i think i’m ready. it’s weird, being proud of myself. i haven’t felt that in a long time. i hope tom’s okay. i hope he’ll be proud too.
you thought about the last thing he said to you — “i’ll be okay.”
you repeated it in your head like a lullaby.
you wanted to believe him.
you pictured him waiting for you tomorrow — maybe sitting on the hood of his car, cigarette in hand, that familiar lazy grin on his face. maybe he’d say, “you actually did it, huh?”
you imagined hugging him and smelling the same old hoodie. you imagined him clean. you imagined a future again.
you put on makeup for the first time in months. nothing fancy — just a little mascara, a little color in your cheeks. the girl in the mirror looked tired but alive.
you told the nurses thank you.
you helped another girl braid her hair before group.
you said, “i’m nervous, but i’m excited.”
you said, “i think i’m gonna be okay.”
that whole day, you carried a little joy in your chest like a candle you didn’t want to blow out.
the next day, you’d be free.
you didn’t know that across the city, a hotel door had already been kicked open.
you didn’t know he never made it past last night.
you didn’t know his hands went cold while yours were still reaching.
you got the call at 2:17 a.m.
you didn’t scream. you didn’t cry. you just sat there, frozen, staring at the wall until the sun came up.
they said it was accidental. you knew it wasn’t.
at the funeral, they played one of his demos. something he wrote when you were still together.
but later that night, you found an old voicemail from him — one you’d saved without meaning to.
“hey. it’s me. i dunno when you’ll hear this. maybe never. but uh… i just wanted to say i’m sorry. for all of it. for not being what you needed. for not making it. i love you. even if i disappear, remember that, okay? i fucking loved you.”
you curled up on your bed, the phone pressed to your chest, and cried until you couldn’t breathe.
but he was still everywhere.
in the smoke. in the silence. in the scars.
you’d never be whole again.
because some loves don’t end — they haunt.
you didn’t pick up again after the funeral.
you could’ve. god knows, the grief begged for it. the emptiness stretched wide and loud, like a scream trapped behind your ribs. you thought about it. you thought about the warmth, the quiet, the numbness.
but then you’d see his face, the way he looked in that hospital bed, the way he cried the last night you held him, the way he tried — even when he couldn’t anymore.
every morning, you poured coffee into the chipped mug he used to love. you sat by the window and lit a candle instead of a cigarette. some days, it didn’t feel like enough. some days, it felt like too much.
you went to meetings. you talked about him when your voice didn’t shake too much. you kept a photo of him in your journal — the one where he was laughing, head thrown back, sun catching in his eyes. no needles. no pain. just him.
you wrote letters to him that you never sent.
you couldn’t stay, so i’ll stay for both of us."
and on the anniversary of his death, you lit a joint but didn’t smoke it.
you set it down by the river where you first told him you loved him.
because if you couldn’t save him in life,
you’d carry his name in your healing.
and that would have to be enough.
