Mistake (Tom Holland x Reader)
I know this is a big stretch but like can you write like an imagine where Tom invites the reader to the BAFTAS to finally make a move on her but she meets another dude and dances with him (not grinding or anything weird cuz the reader is a child of Jesus and does not participate in that shit 👌🏼😂)and stuff like that and he’s kinda heartbroken and stuff (some emotional tom would be nice cuz Ima sucker for men showing emotion ;) ) idk you can write the rest cuz you the shit fam lmao xoxo💋
This was his chance. If he invites you to the Baftas as his date, you’d get the hint. He’s been trying to get you on a date with him since he was sixteen and now, at twenty, his chance has finally come. He knocks on your front door hesitantly and stood waiting. He knocks again a few minutes later when there is no movement behind the door.
You open the door to him while wearing your fuzzy sweatpants and a tank top tucked in. Hair all mussed like you’ve been sleeping. He chuckles, “It’s three p.m. you know. You should be up by now.” “Don’t you start,” you complain with a smile, “Mum called me this morning at eight and told me the same thing.” He closes the door behind him and follows you to the kitchen. “Coffee or tea?” you ask. He stares at you as if he’s confused why you’re asking. You begin to make some tea.
o“Will you come to the BAFTAS as my date next week?” he asks hopefully. You drop the spoon and hastily go to pick it up again. “Sure, Tom, but uh, why?”. He doesn’t answer verbally, just shoots you a small smile.
Your red dress flows around your ankles, a sliver of skin showing just above your waist. Hair, makeup, and wardrobe done, you walk downstairs to greet Tom. When he sees you, he can’t help but gawk. Your hand raised to his jaw and pressed his mouth closed. “Keep your mouth closed or you’ll catch flies,” you tease. He takes your hand in his and leads you to the car, opening the door when you go to get in.
At least I won an award, Tom thinks, I’d have rather won her. You aren’t by Tom, instead, you’re dancing with a new man he had never met. He’s seen his face in a few movies, sure, but never met him in person. You hadn’t introduced them. The unnamed face flew in minutes ago and wrapped an arm around your waist to whisper secrets Tom wishes he knows into your ear. He led you to the dance floor at a quarter to eleven. It’s ten past now.
Tom isn’t angry. He’s glad that you’ve met someone here who you can dance with elegantly. He’s glad that you can smile and laugh with someone here, and that he doesn’t hold you too close or in an inappropriate manner. He is happy that this man is a gentleman. He isn’t happy, however, that the man who gets to twirl you around the dance floor isn’t him. He’s not happy that you’re laughing and smiling lovingly at another person. He’s sad that it’s not him.
“How was your night?” you asked the next day when Tom delivered your Sunday coffee. He hummed and responded with an ‘alright, I guess. You?’
He regrets asking how your night was too. He regrets listening to it too intently. He can’t help it, though. He loves you, and you’re too enthralling to ignore. So what, you got his number. So what, you’ve got a date on Friday. He smiles at you because he knows that this is just a phase. He knows because you had to google his name.