How could I not? • Tom Holland

Five

Words: 3.7k

Warnings: Nothing really ://

Traces of your evening lay scattered on bare skin, small memories taking you back to every movement and ragged breath. from the sweat that dried against your forehead to the fingerprints almost ingrained into your waist. They sat in little splotches, rising with every even breath.

Then Tom – oh boy. Beautiful marks were drawn down Toms back. As if he wasn't beautiful enough, you had to go and make your mark and Tom would be lying if he said he hated them. Those red and raw blemishes that painted his milky skin the colour of grapes and blue skittles. Blue skittles were sour on the first bite and never necessarily anyone's favourites, but with every one following, they grew sweater. They were surely your favourites.

His brown curls were a little frizzier then usual – the result of your fingertips tugging at the strands desperately for some kind of support. Brown was a difficult colour because it was the colour of pecans and caramel, two things good – two things to be desired. Much like chocolate, rich in flavour or the earthy wood that lit the fire in your home. But it's also the colour of worms after going for a swim in the dirt and spiders.

Now, he lets out a sigh at the feeling of your fingers ghosting over his back. Every touch is gentler then the last and he'd lost count of the hours it'd been since he'd found himself in that very spot. The small amount of moonlight creeping in through the slit in the curtains illuminates the bedroom, telling him that it'd possibly been around three hours. It was never enough to show off the entirety of either of your features, but enough to create a midnight like haze across the duvet and down the sides of the cotton pillows.

"How do you feel?" He speaks, voice raspy and dry and with what little energy he can muster, Tom rolls onto his side, holding himself up slightly with his elbow.

"I feel fine, don't worry." You hum, warm breath tickling the glistening skin on his bare chest. "That was really fun."

Tom allows himself to smile coyly for a second before your touch is replaced with his. "Not about that, about earlier."

You sit up slightly, feeling the sheets fall around your waist. "I don't want to talk about it, Tommy, please."

"You're going to have to talk about it eventually, I know you're hurting over what happened." His fingers run down your arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake but that doesn't phase you – what does is the small talk. Because small talk surely wasn't common between the two of you. Every conversation happened to be bustling with jokes and filled with laughs or at least longer then seven words long. Most of the time you couldn't get the other to shut up.

It's just small talk– embarrassingly empty words shared between the sheets.

"Eventually isn't tonight, got it?" You prod at his shoulder with the point of your finger, suddenly feeling the urge to bury yourself in the sheets where your problems and stresses couldn't touch you. "We just had sex, 'm not going to spill my guts to you after sex of all things. Let me at least regian myself first."

The space between you and him feels ghostly as warmth escapes the deepest crevices of his sheets. But there's no trace of awkwardness or an obscene longing as Tom grabs the duvet and lifts it up and around your shoulders. It was to hopefully ease the goosebumps that rose on your skin.

Your eyes are no longer rimmed red and for that you're thankful.

"Regain yourself?" He questions snarkily. "Am I really that goo–"

"No!" You snap, turning your head fast enough for loose strands of hair to fall over your shoulders. "God, you're such a goof."

"Hey, there's nothing wrong with that." He remarks, feeling himself – and you for that matter, ease out of that post sex haze. You were slowly becoming your snarky, sarcastic selves again. "So, when are we getting you moved in?"