Tom Holland x Reader Imagines

21: Anxiety

I love acting, and I always have. But sometimes I have a tendency to get so sucked into a role or scene that it just...feels real.

And it got worse when I started doing a movie with the boy I'd been dating....Tom Holland.

I'd had bad dreams including scenes before, but when they included him they became far more vivid and terrifying.

Too real.

And the worst was after filming his death scene. It was a scene where I walked into the room, and found him dead. Unfortunately that was already a horrible nightmare I always had, which ended in me startling awake, heart pounding in my throat and an insane urge to find Tom in my brain.

Tom knew this. But yet, he didn't say anything to me before we started filming. And I knew, I just knew, that the moment I started, it'd feel too real. He had that talent; making it so believable that you're convinced there's no alternate reality.

Despite the camera in my face, when I opened the set door, and saw Holland on his back, pool of blood, I felt my heart break.

My instructions were simple: react how you think you'd react if you actually found him like this.

Of course, don't call hi, by his real name or we'll have to mute the scene. So, seeing him on the floor, I swallowed hard and started crying. I screamed, and the supporting character held me back.

Of course, they were supposed to somehow let me go. The moment they did I tripped, hitting the floor with my knees.

My breath was jagged in my chest, but that added to the realism. That's a good thing.

But it started to feel real.

Tom looked dead. Actually dead. He'd done so many death scenes, and here added a new one.

I grabbed his limp shoulders, pleading. The director watched.

Like always.

When 'cut!' was yelled, I dropped my hands, staring at the fake blood, panting. Tom laughed, deep and happy.

I didn't see why he was laughing.

He sat up, patting his stomach, which was soaked in blood, and made a goofy sound. "Bleh. I'm dead, again."

I let out a strangled sob in my throat, and Tom blinked, but didn't acknowledge it.

He stood, waving at the clapping crew, who were all too tired to actually mean it.

He held out his hands, which I took, still crying.

The director frowned. "Are you alright?"

I nodded, crying.

Tom shook his head. "She doesn't want me to die. Again."

I half-heartedly smacked his chest, and he used that arm to tug me to him, whispering, "it's alright, it's all fake. It's pretend."

As if I were five. And like a true five year old, I held onto him tightly and cried. I noticed he was shaking.

"I'm okay, I've got you. It's okay baby," he repeated, calmly and sweetly. He did this before every show, after every show, and during any panic attack.

This was new for him.

"Alright everyone, go to bed. I don't want you all exhausted beyond repair tomorrow." The director stood, sighing, bending their back around a bit in effort to pop it.

I held tighter to Tom's chest, soaking fake blood into my own clothes.

As soon as the camera crew dispersed, Tom patted my shoulder. "Let's get you clean, you're covered in blood."