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Die For You | Mob!Tom Holland

summary ↠ tom’s got a secret: you want to know what it is, he’s desperate to keep you in the dark. unfortunately for him, secrets have the habit of coming to light eventually - sometimes in the worst way possible. word count ↠ 7.6k warnings ↠ a slightly steamy kiss, mob themes including: kidnapping, knife violence, depictions of injury (nothing horrendous tho -- I am a wimp), blood, cursing. a/n ↠ do not fear, no one actually dies in this! title is for dramatic effect. if I’m being honest, this entire fic was just...so unbelievably self-indulgent I can’t believe I allowed myself to write it. I shoved all my favourite parts of the mob au into it and loved every single second. it’s crazy and intense but I hope that you like it! I’m aware I promised smut and I’ve not really been delivering, but I’m intending to make up for that by making the next few mob fics smutshots... you’ve been warned. ***this is part of my mob!Tom series – a collection of oneshots set within the same universe. you don’t need to read the other parts for this to make sense. if you have any concepts or ideas for mob!Tom that you’d like me to write about in the future, please let me know! :)

[masterlist]

Tom’s lips are soft and chapped, and they move against yours like your mouths were designed to be together.

He’s got a hand in your hair, the other perched on your hip, and you feel him everywhere as he presses his mouth to yours, over and over. Your fingers fist at his warm, brown curls as you urge him closer, moaning softly into his mouth as his teeth drag across your lower lip, keeping you nice and open for him. The scent of his rich, musky cologne sets your mind spinning, and all you can really bare to think about is him. Tom with his hands pulling perfectly at your hair, Tom with his fingers wandering up and down your sides, Tom with his bulge pressing against your crotch. Everything about him is utterly overwhelming in just the right way, and it drives you crazy.

“Fuck, m’love, you’re so pretty like this.” His voice is low and husky as he speaks against your lips. “So perfect, making all those lovely noises.” His fingers shift over your side, tentatively beginning to skim lower and lower. When he reaches your core, he slips his hand between your leg and cups your heat with his firm touch. You whine softly and buck your hips down to feel him. “Mm, pretty girl, I think-”

Ring. Ring.

You jump at the sudden sound of Tom’s ringtone as it breaks across the room, shaking you from the moment. It feels like you’ve just been hit in the face with a bucket of icy water as Tom’s hand disappears from between your legs and finds his back pocket instead. You watch as his eyebrows furrow into an expression of irritation and he declines the call immediately.

“Sorry, love,” Tom says, a little sheepish. His thin pink lips curve back into a smirk as he moves to straddle you again, only for you to press a hand to his chest, halting him.

“Who was that?” You ask, your mind now clear of the lust that had been hanging over it like fog.

Tom grimaces. “No one,” he says, voice a little clipped. He bites at his lower lip. “Now, why don’t we-”

His phone rings again, and you sigh loudly as you shift on the bed. This always happens.

In the two months you’ve known Tom, something always seems to disrupt the mood: like the time you’d spent all evening cooking for him, just for him to walk out after a measly twenty minutes due to a ‘work commitment’, or a time just like this when things had been getting heated on your sofa up until the moment Tom’s phone had buzzed and he’d practically sprinted from your flat. To say it’s annoying would be an understatement: it’s utterly infuriating.

“Do you need to go?” You ask him flatly. You can’t stop the bitterness from seeping into your words as you stare up at your bedroom ceiling, a pout curling across your disgruntled lips.

Tom takes a few moments to reply, his eyes still flitting across the screen of his phone. “No,” he says absently. “Just an issue with some, uh, contracts. It’s fine.” He reaches down to take your hand, but you pull your fingers away from him and cross your arms over your chest instead. “Love?”

You continue to stare at the ceiling. “Why won’t you tell me what your job is?” You ask, voice echoing the words you’ve been asking him for weeks.

Tom’s groan is full of frustration, and the tone makes you bristle. “Darling, we’ve talked about this before-”

“No, we haven’t.” You sit up to face him, pulling your knees to your chest as you wrap your arms around your legs. The bed creaks as Tom turns to meet your gaze, and you feel yourself soften as you look at the face of the man you’ve grown so fond of. “Your idea of ‘talking’ seems to be one-sided, and involves you withholding all information. That’s not usually how a discussion works, Tom.” You sigh sadly, resting your chin on your knees as you stare at him helplessly. “I’m starting to get the feeling that you don’t trust me.”

The irritation in his eyes softens down, and Tom reaches out to settle a hand on your cheek. He tugs at his lower lip with his teeth as he looks at you, gentle fingertips padding over your cheekbone. “I trust you, love,” he assures you slowly. “There are just some things that you’re better off not knowing.”

“But why do you get to be the judge of that?” You shift and his hand falls away from your face. “It’s getting difficult to keep doing this with you, Tom,” you find yourself muttering.

“What do you mean?”

You decide to stand up. Pacing is the only way to alleviate some of the nervous energy rattling against your ribcage. “My friends ask me what you look like, and I’ve got no photos to show them. You don’t have social media, you don’t let me take photos of you… Shit, Tom, I don’t even know your last name!” Your voice picks up and you turn to look at him to see he’s also standing up now, his face a shade darker. “Why the fuck won’t you tell me your last name?”

“I’ve already told you, Y/N, I can’t tell you.” Tom’s brown eyes glint as his mouth curves around your name disdainfully. “Why can’t you just accept that?”

You fall to a stop in front of him. Swallowing nervously as you meet his eyes, you find that the stare you share is so different to how it usually is. Gone is the affection he normally looks at you with, replaced by something a lot more bitter. It makes you feel cold.

“It’s not easy to date a ghost, Tom,” you say. “Am I so wrong for wanting to know who I’m getting into bed with?” He opens his mouth to speak, but you grab his hands and continue to talk. “I know that you have a gun. I’ve seen it. And I don’t care. I can handle the truth, just tell me what it is. Tell me who you are.”

It’s all the dodged questions, and the shady behaviour. The rolls of cash he has stuffed in his pocket and the collection of knuckledusters that lie in his briefcase. His reluctance to share himself with you has finally worn you down, because you’ve told him everything there is to know about you, yet he hasn’t even shared his surname. It’s unbalanced and unfair, and it seems it’s all about to come crashing down.

When Tom stays quiet, you let his hands fall away from yours again. Your fingers clench into fists as you stare at his face, his beautiful features tainted with guilt.

“Is this… Is this relationship even real?” You ask, speaking the thoughts you’ve been trying to dissuade for weeks. “Do you actually even care about me? Am I- Am I just a side piece?” Your mouth falls open as a horrifying image fills your mind. “Are you married? Is that why you won’t tell me anything-”

“For fuck’s sake, Y/N, shut up!” He snaps. Tom runs his hands through his hair, the face of his watch catching the light as he stares at you so angrily it makes your chest heave. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

A horrible silence falls between you. Neither of you dare to speak, and you find your nails digging painfully into the palms of your hands as you try to keep your cool. You don’t know if you want to yell or cry, but you do know that you’ve never seen him quite like this: nostrils flared, eyes narrowed and focused, mouth twisted into a deep, guttural frown. He looks so different to Tom - soft, charming, caring, Tom - that it makes your stomach turn.

“Are you ever going to tell me the truth?” You ask finally, your voice quiet. You let your hands drop to your side as you finally meet his eyes. The way his gaze shifts away guiltily tells you all you need to know. “Then you should leave.”

“Y/N, love, I’m sorry-”

“No, you’re not.” You sigh. “If you were sorry, you’d tell me the truth. But we both know you never will, so we’re only kidding ourselves. What’s the point in having the same conversation over and over again? This isn’t fair.” You give him a pained smile. “I think you should leave.”

Tom looks like he wants to argue with you. His mouth keeps opening and closing, the veins in his neck standing out angrily against his skin. A hot flush lines his cheeks, and you think he’s going to continue to yell at you, but he just turns, picks up his phone, and then backs away towards the door. Your heart falls in your chest, and you find yourself wishing he’d fight back.

“For what it’s worth, Y/N, I really am sorry.” He pauses by the doorframe, his eyes pained and his posture drawn in. “Will I ever see you again?”

You catch your lower lip between your teeth, mind spinning blearily. He looks like himself again, his brown hair soft and messy over his forehead, and his eyes watching you with adoration spread across his brown irises. You want nothing more than to give in and run into his embrace, but you know you can’t. So instead, you cross your arms over your chest and say bravely, “Only if you decide to tell me the truth.”

Tom’s sad smile makes your heart splinter.

“Bye, love.”

And then he slips from your room, and you’re left standing, frozen, until you hear the front door slam shut. The loud, clattering bang makes you gasp, and with an inhalation of air, you feel your mind catch up. Tears prick at your eyes as you fall back onto your bed, burying your face in a pillow that smells a little too much like him, and you hold it close as if it's the only thing keeping you afloat.

[-----]

It’s hard to accept that it’s over, even as the truth glares obviously at you.

You spend the evening curled up in bed, trying not to cry as your mind tortures you with a highlight reel of your relationship with Tom - if you could even call it a relationship. Things between you were never official, yet another reason you’d had to doubt him. Every time you’d suggested that you could take things a step further, he’d always changed the subject, or muttered something about labels being obsolete. He was always doing that - qualming your concerns with short words, or kisses. It seemed Tom would rather ignore problems than acknowledge their existence, and that was infuriating.

But fuck. For all the bad parts, there’d been a thousand good. You stayed awake thinking about the time he’d turned up unannounced with a bouquet of roses and a lazy smile on his face, and another time, a few weeks ago, when he’d procured a new set of acrylic paints for you to mess around with and you’d spent a peaceful morning together as you captured him on canvas. His jokes and sarcastic remarks spin around your brain like a laugh track, following you into your dreams when you finally manage to sleep.

It’s hard. You call off sick to work for the week, and it’s only after a few days that you feel strong enough to properly get up. You’ve had breakups before, but nothing’s hurt like this. Nothing drives the dagger into your heart and slowly slits away at your valves like knowing Tom doesn’t trust you.

After four days of moping, you force yourself out of bed. Your shower spits scalding water all along your body, but it washes away all traces of him, and you feel better as you pull on your messy painting dungarees. You wrap your painting apron around your front and walk out into your living room, your eyes falling to the canvas that sits in between your sofa and the tv. It’s the rough outline you’d made of Tom, and the sight drives a hard wedge into your chest, so you decide to make a few alterations to it.

With a loose grin on your face, you pick up your paints and your palette and begin to mix together a few of the shades. You work until you get a deep, rich red, and dab your paintbrush through it, coating the tip. You bring your hand in the air, but you waver as you go to draw some devil horns above his head.

Before you can decide if your heartbreak is poignant enough to warrant destroying your canvas, you hear a loud knock at your door. With a sigh, you put your palette down and slip your palette knife into the side pocket of your dirty overalls, not really caring that you smear paint all along them.

Not thinking to check the peephole, you wrench your front door open with a frown, fully expecting to see one of your friends there.

Shock shoots through you as you make eye contact with a man wearing a balaclava, and it twists into paralysing fear as you feel someone pin your arms to your back. Before you can scream, the man in front of you presses a wet cloth to your mouth. You try to fight it, but you gasp for air, and as you inhale the strong chemicals, your eyes droop shut and your mind turns black.

[-----]

Your head throbs, and the pain is so pronounced that it makes you groan, only for the sound to come out muffled. Confused, you slowly blink your eyes open, only to find yourself squinting as the room blearily comes into focus. You feel lost for a few moments, completely relaxed until you remember with horror the events from before. You try to jump up from the chair you’re in, but you feel your arms and legs bound down tightly, and the struggle makes the coarse ropes burn against your skin.

Fuck.

“Ahh, sleeping beauty wakes.” You snap your head around, eyes falling to a few figures who stand together by the door. The room you’re in seems to be a bedroom. The curtains are shut so you’ve no idea what time it is, but the rumbling in your stomach suggests you’ve been out for at least a few hours, and that thought is terrifying. You find yourself shaking as a man walks to you, his green eyes cruel and piercing. He’s in a crisp whit shirt, golden dice cufflinks hanging off the cuffs. “We’re going to have a bit of a discussion with you, Y/N.”

You gulp, your throat dry and aching. “Who are you? How do you know who I am?”

As you wait on an answer, you become very aware of the pounding in your head. Specifically, a throbbing on the left side of your head, near your temple. Your skin feels cooler and heavier, and you wonder if it hurts so much because you’ve been hit by something sharp.

“Who I am doesn’t matter,” the man says. He drags a chair in front of you and sits in it backwards, his arms curling around the back of it as he stares at you. His teeth are chipped and grimy, and he’s got his hair buzzed back. The scariest part of him has to be the way he’s eyeing you like he hates you. “Answer my questions and nothing bad will happen to you. If not, I’ll make you talk. Wouldn’t want another punch to the face, would you, pet?”

Your lips curl into a disgusted frown as you stare at him. “What the fuck is wrong with you? I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You squirm in the chair, pulling helplessly at your bonds. “Let me go, dickhead.”

He just laughs at you, and the sound makes you feel enraged, but you try to stay calm. You count another four men standing off in the side of the room, and you know you’re helpless at the moment. What is it they say..? Cooperate with your captors until you earn their trust? You’re not sure, but you know you can’t fight back properly. Not yet.

“We’ve spotted you with one of our associates,” the man tells you. “Tom Holland.”

Tom Holland. You almost want to laugh. Of course this is how you learn Tom’s surname.

“I… Know him,” you say, seeing no point in lying.

“Where is he keeping his latest shipment?”

Your eyebrows pull together. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play dumb, love. You know something.” The man reaches out and presses his hand over the wound on the side of your head, and you gasp as pain prickles across your forehead. “Tell me.”

“I promise you, I don’t know anything about a shipment,” you stammer out, blinking quickly. “I don’t even know what he does!”

The man looks back and exchanges a stare with one of his goonies. “What’s the nature of your relationship with him?”

You swallow back the lump in your throat and take a deep breath. “We, uh, we just slept together,” you lie. “I was only with him for a night.” You hope with every part of you that they’ve only spotted you together once. “I don’t know anything about him, I swear.”

The man laughs coldly. “Bad choice of one night stand, girl,” he tells you. He stands from the chair and paces in front of you, cracking his knuckles. “Would you say that he’s fond of you?”

You gape, mind spinning as you try to think up an angle. “Uh, n-no,” you say, “He probably doesn’t even remember who I am. So… So, you should just let me go, and I won’t tell anyone what’s happened. I swear.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not letting you go,” he says, the words like a punch to your gut. “We’ve seen him leave your place on several occasions. If you aren’t in business with him, you’re shagging him, which means you’re important to him. So…” He runs a finger over your face, and you try to bite him, but he dodges and chuckles. “You’re not leaving. You’re going to be a very useful asset.”

“What are you even talking about?”

The man procures a knife, and the sight of the glinting blade makes you feel nauseous. You remain absolutely still as the runs the sharp edge over the side of your cheek, nicking a shallow line across your skin. A tight gasp escapes you as you feel drops of blood drip down your face, and your eyes settle on the way the deep hued drops soak into the front of your painting apron.

“Tom’s a proud man. If he sees us roughing you up, he’ll give us what we want.” The man puts the knife away and brings up his phone. You barely register what he’s doing until the flash goes off and he’s chuckling away to himself, his expression alight with a devilish menace. “Stay here. Don’t try anything,” he warns you. “If you try to run, that will only make this a lot harder for you, love.”

You don’t say a word as he walks out of the room, taking the other men with him. The door swings shut, and you’re left alone, tied up and helpless.

You’re determined not to cry. It won’t serve you any use, and you need your eyes and mind clear if you’re going to figure out what you’re doing. Even if the plan is to somehow lure Tom to this place, how can you rely on that? What if he doesn’t turn up, and the man returns to beat you up? The thought makes you shiver.

Biting at your lower lip, you crane your neck around and try to look for anything that could aid your escape. You seem to be sitting in the centre of a bedroom, but unhelpfully, most of the surfaces are bare. The bed is stripped and some of the drawers of the dresser lay open and empty. You sit back and try to pull at your bound hands, twisting and moving desperately, but they’re stuck. As you slump forward, ready to give up, your hand brushes over the top pocket of your overalls and you gasp.

Your palette knife.

With a determined grimace on your face, you wriggle your hands down and manage to get a few fingers into your deep pocket. A triumphant smirk finds your mouth as you feel the knife and carefully manoeuvre it into your hands. The blunt blade glints as you see it, and you quickly begin to saw away at your ropes.

It’s a long, torturous process. The knife is designed for painting, not cutting, and so you have to chisel away at the bounds and gradually unwind the rope strands. As you work, you let your mind wander, thoughts drifting back to him:

Tom.

You hate that you understand now, why he hadn’t wanted you to become involved with his life. He must’ve known that being involved with him might lead to a situation such as this. But you’re furious, because you’re still here, being held hostage, regardless of his decision to walk away. The situation is almost laughable - of course it’s just your luck that the guy you’ve been dating is involved in some shady stuff - shipments? You presume the man was referring to drugs. Is Tom some kind of drug lord? You have no idea, but you’re damned sure you’re going to find out.

“Bingo,” you mutter to yourself. You feel the rope that holds your hands together behind your back slip away. Swiftly, you tend to the rest of the ropes that keep you down, a sigh of relief passing through you as you’re able to stand up and stretch out your muscles. A sense of disconcerting dizziness passes over you and your fingers drift up to your head, your touch tender as you feel a bloody bump around your temple. As you wince, you drag your eyes around the room.

There’s a vase sitting over by the bed, and it immediately catches your attention. In terms of things that can be used in your defence, it appears to be your best bet, so you pick it up and creep towards the door. Luckily for you, there’s a peephole embedded in the wood, so you lean up and glance through it. Beyond your room, there’s a wide corridor. Several other doors frame against the dark walls, and you decide you must be on the second storey of this house, and that the other rooms are bedrooms. There’s one man standing outside your room, his gaze fixed firmly on his phone, but beyond that, there’s no one.

A brutal debate takes place inside your head. You know it might be brash to leave your room, with no real plan of what you’ll do, but you’re a little delirious. Your head hurts and your stomach aches and your skin prickles from where you’d been cut. So you find your hand stretching out and twisting open the door before you can really fathom it, and then you’re faced with a surprised guard.

You act on adrenaline. Summoning all your strength, you smash the vase down across his head. It’s so sudden that he has no time to protect himself, and there’s a sickening crunch as he goes down. Thankfully there’s a carpet lining the floor, and it muffles the pottery and the sound of his large body falling down.

You stare at his unconscious body for a moment, heart racing. “Shit,” you mutter. You hadn’t thought this through.

Glancing down the corridor, you decide you need to hide him. If anyone comes to check on you, the sight of an unconscious body is going to be a dead give away. So you grab him by his ankles and pull him back into your room, wincing as you take in his bloody face. He’s still breathing, but he’s out cold, and you’d feel bad, if he hadn’t clearly been involved in your kidnapping plot.

You shove some of the bits of pottery into the bedroom and then return to the corridor, eyes widening gleefully as you see his phone laying there, waiting for you, still unlocked. With trembling fingers, you find the messages app and start to look for anything useful.

Rob: keep her in there. they’re coming.

You exit the messages as your heart races. Tom is on his way? You don’t know how to feel other than relieved, but then you feel annoyed that you find comfort in him, because you’re still so fucking angry about everything.

Releasing a steadying breath, you open up google maps and try to figure out where you are. The pounding in your head makes it hard to think, but you study your pinned location and see you’re in the outskirts of London, tucked away in a residential neighbourhood about an hour from where you live. Maybe if you manage to break out of the house, you’ll be able to find some neighbours who can take you in.

A new message flashes up at the top of the screen as you’re inspecting the map.

Rob: change of plans, boss wants her moving for future use. coming back up to get her.

You startle, fumbling with the phone immediately. Heavy footsteps drift down the corridor, coming from the staircase at the end.

“Shit, shit, shit,” you mutter.

Change of plans: avoid getting recaptured and stay put until Tom can get you out…

You take off down the corridor and run through a large, heavy door. Much to your relief, you find a set of wide steps beyond it and you tiptoe downstairs, coming out into a kitchen. The room is vast and dark and, most importantly, it’s empty, and you dart around the counter to pick up a big knife.

You feel more secure now you’ve got a weapon, though your stomach twists at the thought of having to use it. You’ve had a bit of self defence training, courtesy of your job back in the sketchy casino in Soho, but nothing that could compare to a bunch of angry, henchmen.

And fuck, they’re angry. You can hear them yelling and shouting already, the hard sounds echoing through the house. It doesn’t just come from above you. You can hear movement nearby, and it’s enough to have you running again. Your search for a hiding place takes you through a few more doors and into what seems to be a study. You don’t think — you see a large cupboard and you jump into it, pulling the doors shut behind you.

It’s like a little sanctuary, inside the large cupboard. There are a few suit jackets and a collection of shoes covering the bottom, but there’s enough room for you to stand there comfortably, vibrating from nerves. Your hands are clammy and you stifle a yelp as the knife threatens to slip through your fingers, but you manage to catch it and hold it close to your chest.

You don’t know how long you’re in there, but it’s long enough to have you feeling really unwell. It’s hot and stuffy, and the fact you haven’t eaten is really starting to catch up with the injury on your head. You begin to wonder how much longer you can take it when the sound of someone entering the room disrupts your thoughts. You freeze immediately.

You’re completely in the dark, but you listen intently as the person storms around the room. You hear them flip the desk, and kick around the chair, and then the footsteps come towards your cupboard. In a fit of blinding nerves, you drop the knife. It clatters on the floor and as you scramble to snatch it up, you know that you’re fucked.

The cupboard doors are wrenched open, and it’s someone you don’t recognise. Like everyone else you’ve encountered, the man is dressed in all black. His deep eyes flood with relief as he sees you.

“Thank fuck, boss was losing his mind,” he announces, reaching out towards you. But you point the knife at his chest with shaking hands and he pauses, eyes widening as he chuckles. “I’m not here to hurt you, Y/N. I’m here to rescue you.”

“How the fuck am I supposed to believe that?!” You exclaim incredulously, waggling the knife at him. The man raises his palms, his expression shifting into surprise, but then he backs up slowly, the tip of your knife drifting to his chest.

“I’m Tuwaine,” he tells you, his eyes skittering across your face carefully. “I work for Tom. I’m not going to hurt you, but we need to go now.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

You know he’s getting irritated, but that just serves to fuel your suspicions. You don’t know if you’re capable of overpowering him, but you know you like your chances a lot more with your knife pressed into him than you do leaving the room with him, undefended.

“Y/N, I’m telling you, we don’t have much time-“

“I don’t care!” You’re breathing through your nostrils now, your vision a little blurry and your throat dry and uncomfortable. “Listen, Tuwaine, I have no fucking idea who the hell you are, but if you think I’m about to let you-“

“What the fuck is going on in here?!”

A third voice joins the mix, and you spin around to see a familiar figure in the doorway: Harrison, one of Tom’s friends. You’ve met him a few times — you trust him. The cold light held in his piercing blue eyes fades as he looks between you, Tuwaine, and the knife you have pointed at his chest. As he runs a hand through his curls, sweaty and matted, his expression shifts into one of understanding.

Tuwaine speaks up, voice quieter. “She won’t let me take her out. Thinks I’m gonna kill her, or something.”

Harrison clicks his tongue. “We’re here to help you, Y/N,” he says. He makes strides across the room and plucks the knife from your hand before you can process it. “Are you good to go?”

You nod quickly. “Will one of you tell me what’s going on?” You say, a little calmer now that you know you’re no longer alone.

“Later.” Harrison reaches down for your hand, linking your fingers with his. “Be alert. It’s still dangerous out here, even with us here to help protect you.”

The lump in your throat is still there, stubborn even when you swallow. “Okay,” you say.

Tuwaine covers your front as Harrison lingers behind you, the two men moving around you as they take you back through the house. You feel helpless as you watch the scenes of fighting around you, men fighting one another, bodies on the floor. Harrison continues to hold you hand, even when you’re scared, even when he’s fighting, his grip firm and unwavering.

Eventually you reach outside, and as the stuffy air of the mansion is exchanged with the fresh breeze of the garden, you find yourself unsteady on your feet.

“Where’s Tom?” You manage, voice thick. Your head aches, and as Harrison drops your hand, you start to feel sick. Now that you’re safe, the full weight of your experience catches up to you.

"Y/N, Y/N-- are you good?” Harrison moves closer again, his face disappearing as black and white dots begin to fuzz across your vision. You hear the sound of a scuffle, coming from the front of the mansion, but the noises fade too, absorbed into your delirium.

Harrison’s arms find your waist and he holds you up as you try to slow your breathing. You can feel the concern in their gazes, but you think you’ll be able to push through, until…

“Oh my god, Y/N, darling.” Your dizzy gaze dips up and settles onto Tom. His fists are bloody and his hair’s a mess and he’s got bruises forming on his face, but he’s looking at you like you’re the injured one, and that’s enough to push you over the edge.

It all catches up to you. The dehydration, starvation, exhaustion, and trauma. For the second time, your eyes fall shut and you pass out, the world slipping away into a deep, black blur.

[-----]

You drift in and out of consciousness for several hours. Each time you wake, it’s just for a brief moment, and then you’re pulled under again.

Through your restless slumber, you pick up on a few things. You’re fairly sure that there was a drip fixed to the back of your hand for a few hours, but it vanishes once you’ve had a bandage wrapped around your skull. You become aware of the presence of someone else, their touch tingling over your skin every once in a while. Their hands are gentle as they tangle with your fingers, and you find yourself relaxing in your sleep as you feel the light fluttering of lips passing over your forehead. You can smell the deep cedarwood scent, and you know it’s Tom, and you’re grateful for it - his presence like a soft, warm reminder that you aren’t alone.

When you finally wake up, you’re back in your bedroom. The curtains are closed, but a small gap allows a stream of bright light to drift into your room, causing you to screw up your gaze as you slowly sit up, looking around. Your fingers find your head, touching tenderly over your bandaged forehead and your face. You wince as you feel a line of stitches on your cheek.

Before you can get too caught up in your musings, your eyes catch sight of Tom, spread across your floor. He’s half naked, his chest bare and rising gently as he snores quietly, his lower half in a pair of grey joggers. His position looks awkward and uncomfortable, but the sight of him so gentle and unassuming brings a soft smile to your face.

“Tom?” You call out, wincing as you hear the scratchiness in your voice. He stirs immediately, brown eyes snapping open and finding yours as he scrambles to his feet. He’s hesitant to approach you, but you hold out a hand and breathe out a sigh of relief as he takes it.

“How do you feel?” Tom asks you, eyes darting all over your face. His expression is full of pain, as if it causes him agony to see you like this.

“Sore,” you admit. “Head hurts.” You pause, taking a moment to assess yourself. “I’m hungry.”

“What do you want to eat?”

“Toast.” Tom brings your hand to his lips and kisses over your knuckles gently, meeting your gaze with his soft, guilty eyes.

“I’ll be right back.”

Tom returns five minutes later with a tray laden with goods. He fluffs your pillows and helps you get comfortable as you start to eat the toast and drink some tea, but he’s awkwardly lingering by the door, and his expression is so tortured that you can’t quite take it.

“You can come and sit with me, you know,” you say, looking down at your toast.

“Are you sure?”

You look up to him, eyes assessing the deep bruises he’s got spread over one cheek. Your teeth find your lower lip and you pat the open spot beside you. “I’m not the only one who got hurt.” Something like a flinch passes across Tom’s face, but when your lips curl into an encouraging smile, he tenderly crosses the room. His body is warm as he slips beneath the duvet and sits beside you, his bare arm pressing against yours. It’s nice, to be so close again, but you can’t allow yourself to lean into it. Not yet. “You may as well start talking,” you say, your words soft. “You owe me an explanation.”

“How much do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

As you work your way through your pot of tea, Tom speaks. His voice is soft and soothing, but it clips around the edges as he gradually becomes more and more emotional. He tells you that he’s the leader of the London mob, and he’s fully immersed in that life. You listen as he recounts the night he became the leader - the night he watched his father die - and you watch as he chokes up and talks about how family is everything, and says he’d go to the ends of the earth to protect the people he loves. His eyes grow guilty as they trace across your face, and he tells you that the only reason you’d been accosted was because of him, and a disagreement between his mob and his rivals.

“-And they were right,” Tom finishes, “I’d have given them anything- anything to get you back safely, love.” One of his hands moves up as if to touch your bruised face, but he hesitates, eyes clouding with guilt. “I’m sorry we took so long to find you.”

As he reaches the end of it, you look at him, your gaze hard. His eyes are red and teary, and his grip on your hand is so strong that it hurts a little.

“You’re an idiot, y’know that?”

Tom’s chuckle is watery, but it sounds like heaven opening up. “Is that really all you have to say?”

You roll your eyes. “No, I have a lot I want to say to you.” You pause, turning your head to the side, and you press a small, soft kiss to his shoulder, gazing up at him with wide eyes. “At least I understand, now. Why you were always so sketchy.”

“Yeah.” Tom’s hand goes back to your uninjured cheek, and he finally lets his fingers slowly trail across your cheekbone. “I was not having an affair, things were just…”

“Complicated,” you supply. Your lips twitch into a smile as his thumb brushes over your lower lip, his touch intoxicating. “I’m still angry,” you tell him.

“I know.” Tom’s thumb pauses its movements, resting on your lip as his eyes search yours deeply. “You shouldn’t have ever been dragged into this. I tried to keep you out of it, love, but I couldn’t stop myself coming back.” He hesitates, voice catching. His fingers lightly brush over your stitches and he winces. “I was selfish with my affection. It wasn’t fair to you, and I’m so, so sorry, darling.”

“I… think I understand,” you say, swallowing down the lump in your throat. You raise an eyebrow, staring at the man who continues to surprise you. “I’m in it now, though, Tom. They know who I am. They- they know that we’re involved.” Your eyes shift down, and Tom’s hand moves away from your face, leaving you feeling cold and alone. “How do I know this won’t happen again?”

His teeth find his lower lip thoughtfully. “If we move you, they shouldn’t be able to find you. I’ll- I’ll buy you a new flat, wherever you want, love. When they stop seeing us together, they’ll get the hint.” His eyes shift, downcast as he becomes extremely intrigued by the duvet. “I can get a security detail put on you. It might take a while, but hopefully you’ll be able to feel safe again.” His fingers fist at the sheets and you watch as the blood drains from his tense knuckles. “I will make sure you feel safe again.”

You bring a hand to his shoulder, your touch releasing some of the pressure he’s holding in his muscles. “Why will they stop seeing us together?”

“I guess I, uh, expect you to hate me,” Tom says quietly, picking out his words carefully. His eyes finally dip up to meet yours, his brown orbs floating with an appreciation that leaves you breathless. “Even now you know the truth, if you don’t want to see me again, I get it. Fuck, love, I don’t deserve to have you around. Not after everything I’ve put you through.”

You’re quiet for a few moments. Your hand moves from his shoulder and around to the back of his head, and you find comfort twirling your fingers through his soft strands. You admire his side profile, drinking in the familiar lines of the man who has brought more action into your life than anyone else, and your heart squeezes in your chest.

“I like you, Tom. I really like you.” Your mouth falls to his shoulder and you press a few gentle kisses over his skin. You peer up at him. “Will you be honest with me, from now on?”

He allows a small smile to stretch across his lips. “Of course.” He wraps an arm around you, trying to bring you closer. You move up, your aching muscles burning as you swing a leg over him and settle in his lap comfortably, hands both toying with his hair. You face him straight on, his gaze shifting over you, drinking you in, eyes wide and curious. “Are you sure?” He asks.

You shrug slightly. “You drive me crazy, Tom. I can’t think straight when I’m around you. But I know that- that I really like you, and I want to have you in my life, if you want that too.”

His mouth peppers a series of light, delicate kisses around your face, his hands soothing over your waist. You sigh into him, realising how badly you’d missed him - his touch, and his voice, and his heart.

“I feel things for you that I’ve never felt for anyone before, love. I’m not going to let that go. I’m not going to let you go. I would give you the world, if you asked.”

You grasp his cheeks, bringing him close so your nose presses to his. His eyes go a little cross-eyed and it makes you laugh, the sound mixing with his chuckle beautifully. “I don’t need the world,” you tell him softly. “I just need you.”

His lips find yours, and it’s gentle, but intensely emotional. His mouth feels perfect to yours, even though his lips are chapped and he’s trembling, and you use your hands in his hair to keep him near. Tom’s hands dip down, settling into the curves of your hips like he’s done a thousand times before, and for a moment, nothing else really matters.

“Be mine,” he whispers against you, the words drifting into the air as he continues to kiss you, lips warm and soft. “Be my girlfriend.”

You smile against his lips. “I’d love to,” you mumble, “Tom Holland, my boyfriend. Sounds nice.”

He pulls you closer until you’re flush against him, your chests touching. His lips trail around your face, brushing over all the places that ache and replacing the pain with his love. His eyes reflect nothing but a soft warmth, and it makes you feel so safe, and protected, and peaceful that you decide it doesn’t matter what’s happened, or how things transpired, because now you’re here, holed up in his arms, and you know he’ll never let something like that happen again.

“My girlfriend,” he whispers, kissing at your ear. The words bring goosebumps to your skin as his mouth closes around your earlobe. “My,” kiss, “girlfriend,” kiss. Tom finds your lips, kissing you strongly, and you enjoy it. “Prettiest girl in the world, love.” His eyes sparkle like diamonds, and you feel a joyous heat tickle at your cheeks.

“To say you’re a mob boss, you’re very tender, Tom,” you say, a light lilt to your voice. You kiss his nose softly. “Love it, though.”

“Only with you,” he admits. When he kisses you, his teeth drag along your lower lip, and you whine softly into his mouth. “Can only be myself around you, darling.”

“Good job I’ll be sticking around for a while then, hm?”

“A very good job,” he agrees. Tom’s hands squeeze around your waist and he pulls you close, your heart beating happily in your chest as your head goes to rest against him. He hugs you near, grip firm and unmoving, and you let your eyes fall shut as you bask in his warmth. “Do you need anything else, angel?”

You bring your mouth up and press a line of kisses along Tom’s jaw. “Hold me?” He shuffles further down the mattress and welcomes you in as you wrap yourself around him, clinging to his familiar figure. His hands wander over your back, tracing small patterns to your body and tangling in your hair, and it feels like coming home.

“Sleep, pretty girl,” he instructs, pulling you closer. “I’ll be here.”

And you know he will. You know Tom will be here for as long as you need him, and you know that might mean he stays with you forever. The thought terrifies you, because it’s no easy feat to open yourself up so wholly like that, but it’s Tom, and you know you can take the risk, because it’s him, and he’s holding you so delicately that you know you have nothing to fear, anymore. You know that he’s truthful as he whispers sweet nothings into your hair, promising you the world, promising you everything he has, promising you his love.

“Night, Tom,” you mumble to his chest.

His lips pass over your forehead for a final, soothing time. “Night, m’love.”

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