Tom Holland Imagines

Racing hearts

A promise is a promise? We've gotten some content from Tom's Instagram and since he loves driving/racing cars, I figured I'd absolutely thrash his dreams. In which a pregnant Y/N and Tom are driving home after dinner out with his parents and get in a car crash. Suffice to say, I made Tom hate cars. Let's say for the sake of it that Soren from previous chapters does not exist.
Very heavy trigger warnings for car crashes and pregnancy complications. Obviously angst and swearing.  Graphic description of gore/injury. No character death.

Dinner was good. It was wonderful. At nearly nine months pregnant, you were long since the comfort of second-trimester bliss, emerging from the I-am-nesting-don't-fucking-disturb-me phase, and quite firmly in the this-baby-better-be-born-soon camp. Particularly active, Baby was definitely making it known they were doing well. You and Tom had decided against finding out its gender, and you were quite content with setting up a gender-neutral nursery.

Hugging Tom's parents goodbye on that wet Sunday night in early December, you smiled blissfully. Belly full of delicious food, Baby kicking gently, yeah. It was good.

"See you in a few for Paddy's birthday," Tom mumbled as he was brought in for a pat on the back from his dad and a hug from his mum. "Bye mum, love you."

And then that was that. Tom wrapped his arm over your shoulder, tucking you in to his side and kissing you gently on the head. "Love you, too, darling."

"Mmhm," you murmured back, not noticing the paps swooping in like vultures.

"Hey, hey," Tom called out, "No cameras, please. Come on, I'm with my family!"

And your heart swelled because he called you family. You weren't a family yet, not really, you had always thought. You were just Tom's girlfriend, not his wife, and you weren't even sure if he was interested in marrying you anyway. When you had told Tom you were pregnant, he hadn't rushed off to a jewelry store and bought a ring. The two of you hadn't even talked about marriage. You should have.

The paparazzi backed off a bit, and you made it to the car with no more troubles.

You snorted after a moment. "I can't believe you got the fucking Porsche."

"Mum did freak out, but..." he shrugged, trailing off, "It's a glorious car."

And yet, Tom had gotten a flat tire and hadn't brought it in to get then wheel changed, and well, the spare wasn't that great in the rain, and so your car would have to suffice. It didn't.

Tom was driving, perhaps the only good thing to come out of the next 24 hours. He wasn't comfortable letting you drive while pregnant, and that was fine. He was good at driving. He paid attention to the road, to his surroundings. He wasn't even listening to music.

The other car came out of nowhere. It wasn't supposed to come out of the street like it did. It wasn't supposed to be going down that one-way street the wrong way. And Tom, bless his soul, tried to swerve as it came barreling through the stop sign and T-boned your already age-battered car. It crashed into Tom's side first and the airbags deployed, but it didn't stop you from ramming into the side of the door, nor did it stop the car from flipping on its side, and then upside-down, and then on its other side, and then right-side-up, and then on its side again, and then upside-down.

You didn't come to when Tom did, you weren't conscious when he screamed your name. You were smashed against the door and bleeding. There was glass everywhere. Tom had turned off the car, hoping it wouldn't catch flame as he wrenched his door open and staggered over to your side.

You didn't see him panic, didn't hear him hyperventilating, didn't smell the salty tears as he yanked on your door.

It didn't budge.