tom holland oneshots

intoxicating

long haired!harry styles x reader request! :)

Stepping through the door of the exquisite house, you smelled vanilla, and assumed Harry was burning a candle again.

"Honey! I'm home!" you giggled at your own sentence, setting down the paper bag you brought with you.

"Hey, love," his deep voice rang through the air, and you were immediately put at ease, in a state of serenity. He strides over to you, tall and lanky, smiling his signature smile.

"What'd you bring?" he looks to the paper bag after kissing your forehead. You can feel the heat radiating off of him, bouncing onto you and you want him against your skin, in a calmer way.

"Soap and bath salts."

He hums, "wanna take a bath with me, darling?" he grins, offering you his hand as he picked up your paper bag. You smile, nodding. It was almost as if he read your mind.

As he sets up the bath, you get a change of clothes for the both of you, setting some fresh, fluffy towels on a rack beside the tub.

It's huge, and the lights in the bathroom relax you even more.

You start to strip yourself of your clothes, article by article hitting the floor until you're bare and shivering. Stepping into the tub, it's warm and encapsulating — it reminds you of Harry. He smiles at you, rushing out of the room and returning with a bag of gummy bears. You smile at the snack, making grabby hands. He chuckles, handing you the bag, but you pout in response, jutting your bottom lip out.

"What?" he speaks softly, his voice damp.

"It wasn't the gummies that I wanted."

He smiles, and you watch him take off each intricate ring delicately. He places them on the counter one by one, stretching out his fingers once they're free of the metals. When he slips his shirt off, your eyes dart to the bird tattoos just over his chest. You love his inks, tracing over the patterns with your fingers and making out each detail. You often wonder if he's ever thought of getting a tattoo in relation to yourself, but little do you know that he's already drawing up an image.

He slips in behind you, holding you close as the water invites him. He sighs out, in peace and content with where he is. You turn around in his hold — you want to look at him. He chuckles at you, and your hands go to his hair, long and silky and thick and soft. Your hands get lost in it, and he hums at the small massage. You giggle, parting his lips with your thumb. He smiles into your fingers, and you grab a cherry gummy bear out of the bag, slipping it into his mouth.

He happily chews, and your hands go back to his hair, running the strands through your fingers. His hands hold your waist, thumbs rubbing small circles onto your skin. Not much is said throughout the encounter, but nothing needs to be said. Not with you two — you have silent communication. You can read each other better than you can yourselves. It's part of the reason he loves you, part of the reason he's fallen hopelessly in love with the girl sitting in front of him.

He wants the world to know it, too. He wants to yell it out, scream until the message is repeated over and over again. Your hands trace the crinkles of his forehead, his thick dimples and his crisp jawline.

You're not afraid anymore — of how much you love him. Of how much you need him. He's intoxicating, but so are you.

You're intoxicating. And he loves it.