something holy
synopsis: tom hasn’t been in your life for months... until you run into him unexpectedly at a party.
pairing: uni!tom x reader
genre: uni au, angst, smut, exes to lovers, could be frat!tom if you wish
warnings: explicit content, smut, alcohol, drugs, slight dom!tom, protected sex, oral sex (f receiving), lots of angst lol
word count: 4.5k
a/n: bro this hurt to write. did i come up w this story by daydreaming abt my own ex? of course not. who told you that? also this isn’t necessarily inspired by something holy by alice phoebe lou but it shares the same title... give it a listen <3
The more you tried to forget, the more the memory of him swelled in your heart, though it also had the same effect as your lungs suffocating from cyanide. No, maybe that was too harsh. It’s not like Tom ruined your life. Quite frankly, every time a friend of yours had asked about him in the past year, you never had much to say other than that your attachment styles maybe clashed. He was busy all the time anyway. Of course he was moving on well, never stealing a glance at you during lecture hall whereas you felt like you were performing for him, just in case he was gazing at you. Just in case he was watching you and missed what he saw. It didn’t matter. He stopped sitting with you which was a given, though you thought that it would’ve been okay considered he “still wanted to be friends.” Does anyone ever follow through with that? You hate yourself for how much you crave even just Tom’s acquaintanceship. It makes you feel pathetic.
You haven’t seen him in weeks, you realize, since the new semester had started. What a blessing. Now, you were roaming sweaty bodies in a house far too big for it to remain unscathed by the morning. Alice was nowhere to be found — your roommate was probably eating Harrison’s face off. Luckily they had been seeing each other only casually, seeing him on the weekends eating cereal in your kitchen after their hookups with simple greetings in between. You have to physically fight the urge to ask about Tom every time.
“Incoming!” barks a sophomore towards you. Your head turns like whiplash before a ping pong ball flies right into your face, causing an eruption of laughter from the crew at the beer pong table. You wince and look back at them, grimacing.
“Cheer up, pretty girl! Wanna be on my team?” another boy yells.
“No thanks,” you yell back, your smile dripping with venom as you flip them off.
You wonder how it’s possible to feel so out of it, dopey from the joint you had just smoked mixed with the wine in your hands, while also feeling like your heart is about to beat out of your chest. It’s like your body is taking a screenshot — the downers mixing with the uppers. The uppers being, well, your physical anxiety manifesting in the prison of this house party. You retreat upstairs to wander around the large house — you realize you don’t even know who lives there. Friend of Harrison’s or something. You stumble past bare rooms with dirty laundry on the floors, couples making out and shutting the door abruptly behind them as you walk by. You make your way into the bathroom to check your reflection and maybe splash some cold water on the back of your neck. You don’t necessarily recognize the face in front of you. It’s like seeing a ghost, you think. Sighing, you take a gulp of your wine, raising an eyebrow at an opened, half-full bottle of rosé that someone had left on the windowsill next to the toilet. Shrugging, you take it, tucking it under your arm as you leave.
It’s right then when you notice a drawing in one of the rooms. It’s messy and abstract, with red lines swooping together to make out flowers and butterflies. It’s your drawing. Looking around the room, there isn’t much evidence to what the owner of the bedroom could be like. You don’t recognize the bedsheets and the room is eerily clean, save a couple of stray socks scattered next to the bed. All there is on the walls are your drawing and a Bob Dylan poster. You frown, too lost in your wandering brain to remember when you made that drawing, so you look out the window instead to watch everyone else at the party make fools of themselves. The party below is full of life and everyone looks like little ants.
“Uh, hey stalker,” a voice murmurs from behind you. The room is dark except for the weak string lights. The warm light of the hallway backlits the figure in front of you as you squint. You widen your eyes. Just my fucking luck.
“Tom?” you call out. Your anxiety spikes just a bit, though your eyes soften as your gaze splays out onto the moonlight chiseling the freckled boy’s features. He looks tougher, somehow. Maybe it’s the thin black t-shirt that shows off his arms or how his curls have grown out a bit to make him look both more boyish and more… refined. You can’t tell if his jaw has gotten sharper or if he’s simply clenching it at the sight of you. Your stomach sinks.
“Like my interior decorating skills? Or are you trying to find the body in here?” he raises an eyebrow.
You chuckle sheepishly. “Ha ha, very funny. As if you have the balls to kill someone and hide it.”
“That’s the thing, babe, you’re next.” His lips are in a thin white line as he stares at you. A beat passes before his mouth turns up into a smile. You remember to breathe suddenly, exhaling a laugh. You missed this… the weird banter. You two had a good repertoire of always knowing how to retaliate in your shared arguments and bits. It was never a dull moment between the two of you. Even when you’re six feet apart and practically strangers.
You rub the back of your neck. It’s hot now compared to the coolness from the bathroom water from moments ago. “Um, sorry. Didn’t know you lived here. I can leave if you want some privacy,” you mumble.
“You’re fine. Just came here to smoke. Seems like we invited way too many annoying fucking people to this party. I don’t even recognize half of these faces. ’S like a fucking riot down there.”
“Aren’t you, like, concerned your shit’s gonna get broken?”
“House was basically furnished when I moved in, so, not my problem. As long as no one pukes in my room.” Tom peers towards you as he grinds the weed. “You not gonna throw up any time soon, yeah?”
“I’m good,” you smile shyly. You can’t help but watch his hands as he prepares a joint. His fingers are long and slender, so neat-looking despite the pinkish flesh of his knuckles. You notice he’s still sporting the rings he got that one time you took him thrift shopping. There’s even the band that looks like a crown. You had picked it out for him.
“Good girl.” He nods. Something in your stomach churns. Was the rosé in your cup too sweet? Did you even remember to eat before you went to the party?
Biting your lip, your eyes flit between his fingers and the moon. You feel like you’re staring, so you look beyond his window instead. It feels like the air in the room has gotten thicker as he moves from his desk to sit across from you on the seat of his bay windows.
“You want?” he raises his eyebrows in question, holding the joint out for you. You probably shouldn’t considering you were still a bit high from before, not to mention you were a third down from the bottle of wine in your hand and you had two cups of red right when you arrived. You had always taken your alcohol well, even when it was too much. Your mind flashes to when Tom would have to lug you home, forcing you into an Uber when things got too intense. You wonder briefly if he’d take care of you now.
You nod slightly, taking the joint in your mouth and lighting it. You inhale a bit too quickly, causing a small coughing fit. It goes to your brain immediately, making you feel lightheaded. A breathy chuckle leaves your mouth as you hand the joint back, which is now littered with a print from your dark lipstick.
“You good?” Tom laughs.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m great.”
Tom doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s been in a bad mood since around 10 pm when someone had broken two wine glasses at once, not to mention the freshman that spilled her vodka cranberry on his lap in an attempt to hit on him. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling right now, because having you in his room is a new sight, yet the way the moon creates a halo around your hair is all too familiar. It reminds him of how the moonlight shone on your cheeks while you were asleep, and how he would play with your hair and count strands the way a child would count sheep. His heart flutters when he watches you take another hit. He shoves these feelings deeper into his body and thinks he just must be really, really, really high.
“I haven’t— I haven’t seen you in a while. How are you?” you ask, coughing lightly.
“Um, fine. I guess. My workload is bigger now so I have less free time. Shit’s pretty boring around here, I guess. How’s your, um, art and stuff?”
“Great! I have a studio now,” you grin. Your eyes wander towards the wall where your drawing is pinned. “You still kept that.”
Tom turns around to see where you’re looking. Maybe it’s too dark to tell, but a blush creeps over his face. “Oh, yeah. I mean, I just had it and my walls were fucking bare, so. I still really like it.” You are beaming on the inside, but you can’t show that. You hesitate from showing any kind of emotional vulnerability ever since he ended things with you. It wasn’t like Tom said it out loud, but he was just so tired. Tired of you, tired of expecting to answer every question. Apparently, it was too much work for him to communicate his feelings, which left you in the dark at every turn. The space between you continued to grow like a swelled up balloon.
“I’m sorry I haven’t texted or called.”
Maybe you’re too crossfaded to remember social cues at this point, because at that statement, you scoff.
“It’s no problem. Just wished you kind of, acknowledged my existence every once in a while,” you replied.
Tom’s brows furrow. “Really? Whenever I’m around you it’s like I have the plague or something.”
“What effort have you made in the past eight months to get close to me, Tom? Serious question,” you roll your eyes and take the joint straight from his lips and put it to your own, causing Tom to smirk at the action. You hike up your legs and put your knees to your chest. “No, actually, I could ask that for the entire last half of our relationship.”
“I don’t want to fight with you right now,” Tom sighs. He doesn’t want to tell you that he doesn’t know how to act when you’re around him. Of course, that’s obvious in his own behavior, but you always take it as an awkward post-breakup lovers-to-strangers thing. What you don’t know is that he does steal glances at you, hovers over your contact name when he’s drunk on the weekends, writes your name down a hundred times to reconcile what he feels about you until the feelings are gone for good. Those damn complicated feelings. If you knew even remotely what he was thinking you probably would’ve done witchcraft about it by now. But in the past year, you decided to suffer in silence and leave him alone.
“We’re not fighting, we’re talking. We’re having a very adult conversation now, Thomas,” you slur, punching him lightly in the shoulder. Oh, now you’re definitely too high to care, because at this point your eyes are wide looking at him and putting a hand behind his ear to stroke his soft brown hair. It feels like an automatic gesture. It feels as easy as blinking. You feel his warm pulse beneath your cold fingertips, then you swallow and pull your hand away like it’s been burnt once you realize what you just did, and now his mouth is slightly ajar.
“I’m really sorry, y/n,” Tom whispers. The way he says your name almost feels like a prayer.
You can’t recollect exactly how it happens, but suddenly Tom’s mouth is on yours. You jump at the gesture — you haven’t been touched in months. You hover back over his lips, eyelashes so close to fluttering right where his cheekbones are. You bridge the gap to kiss him back properly this time, slowly, and he licks at your top lip and your teeth and he tastes the slight mint flavor from the weed and the taste of sweet wine. Sometimes when Tom is high or drunk enough, he feels as though his body splits with each half gliding through different ends of a spectrum. With his mouth on yours, he feels himself stretch back into place again. Something whole, something holy.
He pretends that you didn’t just hear him mumble “missed you” in between your kisses, choosing to distract you by working down your neck. You’d always loved that, he has you memorized, and his stomach aches when he bites into your flesh ever so slightly and you whine. God, he can’t help himself. Tom knows this is a bad idea and that he should stop, but it’s like his mouth was made to be on your skin.
Your breath hitches and suddenly you’re on Tom’s lap, mouth fixed to his and your hands pulling at his chestnut locks. He lets a small groan that drives you certifiably insane. You’re a little too eager to grind slowly in his lap which makes the grip he has on your hips tighter. He breaks away from this only to stumble over to the door to close it, nearly tripping over himself in the process and startling you because it slams rather loudly. This makes you chuckle.
“C’mere,” Tom rasps, back to the front of you and pulling on your sleeve like a little kid towards the foot of his bed. He grabs your waist again and you’re pushed on top of him, grinding once again on his growing length. You switch places quickly once he grabs ahold of your ass and flips you over. His hands roam your body but mostly around your neck and your love handles, fingers groping just underneath your bra as if he’s silently asking your permission to touch your breasts. You bring his hand there himself and kneads your breast as he attacks your neck. “Tell me… what… you want…” he breathes heavily into the space between your neck and jaw.
You whine in response. “You know how to use your words, pretty girl. C’mon.”
Your eyes are shut because your heart is probably beating faster than the speed of light, but it’s like a spell is put over you. You’re staring right at him and his eyes are full of hunger — a sight you had only been dreaming about night after night in the past few months. From your head high, it felt like you were in a dream right then. “You… I-I want you,” you mumble.
“Want me where?” he raises an eyebrow, kissing down your stomach and tugging off your skirt.
“Tom, please,” you rasp in a weak voice just above a whisper. It’s a miracle he can hear you at all. Your eyes lock with his intently as he cascades down to your sweet spot, wet and begging to be touched.
“Please, what?” His mouth curls into a shit-eating smirk. He knows exactly what he does to you.
“Touch me, anywhere, please. Your… your mouth. Please?” you ask, gasping once he takes a finger to your clit and rubs generously. You try to hold back a moan but you can’t. You’re already unraveling and your body feels like it’s on fire. And yet, he’s just beginning.
“Poor baby. My poor girl. So pitiful for me right now,” he taunts, lapping at your folds with his tongue. Your eyes are wide with euphoria, the alcohol and weed in your system making you feel lighter and lighter. “Oh,” you whimper, legs shaking as Tom kisses your core sweetly and runs his tongue over your clit so slowly. Your head is on his pillow and you can smell him, the fresh scent of laundry and citrus fruits on his sheets. He uses the same body wash that you used to keep at your place. You hated (loved) how easily he could make you come undone, writhing under his touch when he was barely going down on you for more than three minutes.
You’re so close. Dangerously close. Pulling his curls and bucking your hips upward, he’s nearly drowning in your sweetness. Taking your desperation as a hint, he inserts a finger, then another, pumping with tantalizing strokes. Tom sighs into your warmth when you moan just a bit louder, your chest heaving with heat. “Fuck,” you rasp. “Fuck… I’m—“
Your walls constrict around Tom’s slender fingers until he hits your g-spot, causing you to nearly shriek. “Tommy, please…”
He lifts his mouth an inch above your pelvis and you whine in protest. Smirking, he kisses you there again and his voice is low and full of lust. “Gonna come for me? Yeah?”
“Yes… please keep going,” you reply with neediness. Seconds pass and soon you’re riding your orgasm like a wave, tenderness in the pit of your stomach that blooms like a flower. Your eyes were screwed shut so hard that when you open them the ceiling is different colors until a pair of brown eyes settle on your face. Tom is on top of you now, knee in between your legs and hands on your throat as he peppers your jaw with sloppy kisses. His hand caresses your cheek and turns your face towards him.
“So cute when you come,” he murmurs, stroking your hair. “Feel good?”
“Mhmm” comes out like a mewling sound. You’re still a writhing mess under him. You’ve probably forgotten your own name. In response, you kiss him passionately with more force than before. His eyelashes flutter in surprise and he groans once your hand hooks around the back of his neck once again. Your hand reaches down to his groin and rubs against his hardened length. “You have too many clothes on,” you say. Tom chuckles and unbuckles his belt, pulling his jeans off of him. The moan in your mouth says more, and now his bare chest is underneath your fingertips. So pretty.
Tom pauses and pulls away from you with a look of concern on his face. The first moment in the night where he genuinely looks slightly embarrassed. “You sure you want this?” You nod eagerly. He crawls over your body to his nightstand and pulls out a condom. “Off,” he whispers, fingers hooked around your red panties. Tuesday, it reads, next to a small embroidered cherry. He chuckles, taking in the sight of you looking like a kitten with longing, hair fanned out over his pillowcase. He missed this, the sight of an angel on his bed.
“So wet for me,” he coos, rubbing your clit again before stepping out of his briefs and rolling the condom down his length. You’ve already discarded your top.
“Shut up,” you mumble against his mouth, and now you’re the one pinning his arms to the bed, lowering yourself onto him. “Fuck,” Tom groans against your shoulder, biting it to suppress his voice from getting any louder. “You’re so fucking pretty, y/n.”
His hands are tangled in your hair as you ride him. He can feel you smile against his neck. You love the way your name falls out of his mouth unconsciously during this whole thing while his fingers rake your shoulder blades down to your ass. Tom flips you over and enters you again, thrusting harder while you whimper at the pressure inside you. How heavenly he feels inside of you, reaching all the right places. You can’t believe this is happening. Especially after all these months of absolutely nothing, and here he is, fucking you like you’re the only person in his world.
Your face is screwed from the impact and Tom thinks this is probably one of the best nights of his semester. Year, even, considering he hadn’t seen you in so long. Not like this. “Feels so good, fuck, yes,” you moan. You gasp when his thrusts get harder and his finger settles back to your clit. “Oh… oh, god. Tommy!”
“You’re going to make me come if you keep saying my name like that,” Tom growls into your ear. He nibbles at it, licks you in the sensitive spot that you like right behind your ear, then cascades to your neck to leave marks.
“Tommy, please,” you whimper, slight tears falling from your eyes because of what he’s doing to you — making your entire body vibrate and light up like fireworks. He shuts you up with an aggressive kiss as his hand is wrapped around your throat tightly. His thrusts get sloppier as he covers your mouth with his hand. Your eyes are lulling, half closed from the bliss. When he pulls his hand away, your lips look bruised, though neither of you can tell if it’s from your smudged lipstick or a wine stain. “So pretty like this,” he whispers, tasting your gasps in his mouth. Neither of you can speak after he lifts your legs up high to hoist around his shoulders, giving him even deeper access to your core. His mouth moves to your tits, sucking your nipples in his mouth. With a vigorous thrust he groans loudly. You can tell he’s close by the way his face is scrunched up, distracted by the feeling of you and you only, because he can’t even form a sentence. The pressure inside your pussy grows again and heat takes over the whole of your body until you reach your peak. “Fuck! I’m gonna… I…” you trail off and gasp when the orgasm hits and suddenly Tom is moaning into your mouth again, legs going slack as he comes inside of you shortly after. His body falls on top of yours as you both breathe heavily in the dark. Drenched in sweat, he gets up to remove the condom and falls back into the bed next to you. Silence falls around the room besides your labored breaths.
For some reason, shame causes Tom’s face to flush, because although he was just inside you, he doesn’t want to look at you. No, he does, he thinks he could stare at you forever until the end of time, but not right now. All he knows is that he wants you, has always wanted you, and now that he’s had you, he feels as if he had broken something very delicate. Broken an unspoken rule between the two of you. You’re quiet next to him and he peeks at you from the corner of his eye. He can’t make out your facial expression — whether you’re calm or angry or neutral. You’re just staring at his ceiling and your chest is rising and falling just in time with his breaths.
He should probably apologize. But who the fuck says ‘sorry’ after sex?
“You don’t have to tell me it was a bad idea. I already know,” your voice sounds robotic and it makes me him want to cry.
“That’s really what you think?”
You turn to him now, your face cold. “I already knew that was what you were thinking.” You sit up and pull your underwear back on, protectively crossing your arms over your chest as you step over him to get your phone from the windowsill. Before you can get it, Tom grabs your arm and you turn around to see his pleading face.
“Please, y/n, not everything has to be a conflict,” he begs.
“But it’s already there. It’s… it’s really obvious,” you reply meekly, wiping your face. You curse your vulnerability once again because here you are, starting to cry while you’re naked in Tom’s room. Your ex-boyfriend’s room. “Um, we’re both really fucked up right now, huh? It was a mistake. People get horny really easily. We’re… dumb.”
“Baby, come here, please,” Tom looks at you sadly, cradling you into his arms. “I… I’m sorry for everything that happened. I just want you next to me right now.”
You’re cold and frozen like a statue, looking up at him with tears prickling your eyes. You don’t know what to say. Let me leave you. Let me be the one who fucking leaves this time.
“I don’t regret what just happened, y/n. I… I love you.” Before you can react to his words he kisses you, this time in a way that is much more desperate than before. This isn’t supposed to be happening. He’s supposed to kick you out.
You can’t help but kiss back. I love you is the only thing echoing in your mind right now. Sure, he’s said it to you countless of times, but it feels like it’s been ages since those three words held as much weight as it does right now. Tom stops kissing you once he can feel your warm tears against your face, the saltiness hitting his mouth. He grabs your face gently and your eyes are screwed closed. “Please look at me.”
You shake your head like he’s a nightmare you’re trying to wake up from. “Please, y/n.”
This is probably the most you’ve ever heard him say please and I’m sorry.
“I love you, too,” you whisper, but it sounds more like a small croak because of your tears. “I don’t want to leave.”
“So don’t. I promise I won’t, either,” he says.
Something inside Tom snaps. His heart aches at the sight of you and suddenly the memories of all your tears from months ago flood into his brain. He realizes he never wants to see you like that again. He takes his shirt and wipes your face with it. You blow your nose into it instead, which harbors a laugh from the both of you.
You move towards his dresser and pull out the first t-shirt you can find. It’s very large, comically large even for him, and it has the Captain America symbol on it. You turn around and sneer. “You are so fucking lame.” Tom giggles.
“With that attitude, I’ll make you sleep on the floor.”
“Yeah, right. I can sleep on the floor if you want.”
“No! I need you in good shape tomorrow. I’m gonna make the best post-hangover breakfast you’ve ever seen,” Tom replies, throwing on his discarded t-shirt and combing his fingers through his unruly hair. His eyes are lit up at the sight of you in his clothes. It’s been too long.
“Am I gonna die from it?” you grin, lacing your fingers with his as he ushers you back to the bed.
“…Maybe.”
Some things never change.
