You roll your eyes and take another sip of your coffee — hearing your professor give yet another speech about how half the class has failed the most recent assignment isn’t the most exciting way to to be spending your morning. You glance down at your laptop, your screen lit up with your essay feedback, and you nibble the tip of your pen as you read through it, an annoying habit you really need to kick. He has literally ripped your work apart. 

“I think some of you just need to apply yourselves a little more and engage with the course material,” you hear him say in that monotonous tone that always makes your ears bleed on a gloomy Monday morning. “And that is why I will be assigning tutors.” A groan ripples across the room at his words, people muttering to their neighbour under the breath. 

“Settle down,” Professor Aiken’s voice booms again and the upset across the room dies down. “If you’ll all please see the list I’ve pinned to the door on your way out, you’ll find that you’ve either been assigned a tutor or you are now going to be a tutor. You’re free to go.”

You gather up your things, stuffing your laptop back into your bag, and in your clumsiness, accidentally slide your books off of your desk in the process. As you bend down to collect them, you find a pair of beat up converse appear beside the books and a hand reaches down to pick them up for you. 

“Think you dropped these,” the voice is somewhat familiar but you can’t quite place where you’ve heard it before. Looking up, you groan at the sight of the person in front of you. Tom Holland. Of course, the class heartthrob, the local fuck boy and the last person you want to talk to right now is handing you your books as if he’s just rode in on horseback and you’re supposed to bow down at his feet. You can almost feel the death glares you’re receiving from half the girls in the room, just for breathing the same air as him. He’s wearing a flannel shirt paired with a black leather jacket and black jeans. 

“Obviously,” you raise an eyebrow at him, why else would my books be on the floor? You might be short tempered but at least you have manners, so you bite back the sarcasm and tug your lips into a fake smile, “thanks.” 

“I don’t see you around that much, you’re Olivia, right?” He’s staring at you dead in the eyes as you take the books from his outstretched hand. 

“Y/N,” you correct. God, how hard is it to know the name of a girl you sit in class with every other day? “And I don’t get out all that much.”

“Oh,” his brow furrows in confusion and you give him a questioning look. “Why’d you fail then?”

Asshole. “How do you know I failed?” 

“I was sat just there,” he points to a chair in the row behind yours, three seats along, which would give him the perfect view of your laptop and your essay feedback. Great.

You huff and begin cramming your books back into your bag before you walk away, not bothering to explain why you’ve failed. The truth is, you don’t know why you’re failing; you’re reading all of the course material, every note, every piece of information you can find that’ll help you out. You’re studying almost every night but somehow you just can’t seem to wrap your head around the historical and cultural contexts of William Shakespeare. 

When you reach the door, Tom is hot on your heels, leaning over your shoulder to get a good look at the list pinned to the door. You scan the bill for your name and part of you wants to scream in anger when you find it. In block capitals, you read — 

Y/N → TOM HOLLAND

“Guess we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other then darling,” a grin spreads across his face when you turn to look at him. How the hell is this asshole not failing? He spends most of his time drinking and sleeping with anything with a pulse—scratch that, anything in a short skirt and a pulse—yet he’s top of the class? Bullshit. If you didn’t know better, you’d say that he’s sleeping with the professor.

You roll your eyes at him and hasten to make an exit, swinging the door open, but he’s still following you.

“So when shall we start?”

“We’re not going to,” you keep walking, picking up your pace.

“Seems like you don’t have a choice in the matter. The way I see it, you need all the help you can get, and I’m your saving grace.”

You snort and spin round, “please! Have you even got time to put down your fuck buddies long enough to tutor me?”

“Why,” his lips flick upwards into a smirk and his eyes narrow, “are you jealous? Because we can always-”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” you keep walking.

“Look,” he grabs your arm and pulls you back towards him, a soft look in his brown eyes. If you weren’t so cynical, you’d almost believe he really does want to help you. “You need a tutor and I’m not an idiot sweetheart, where’s the harm?”

You sigh. There’s no way you can afford to fail this class and have to retake it next year, so you huff and draw your arms into a fold across your chest, “fine, meet me at my dorm at seven?” 

“Seven it is,” he grins. You exchange your phones to give each other your phone numbers and addresses, and then he’s gone. 

-

At 7:15, you’re just about to text Tom to tell him to forget it when there’s a knock at the door. Huffing, you slam your book closed, tidying up the collection that is sprawled across your bed and get up to grab the front door.

Tom walks in with a smug look on his face, crossing the hallway to your room before turning to look at you.

“What?” He wears a bewildered expression after seeing the frustration painted all over your features.

“I said seven, you’re late,” you start and when Tom tries to explain, you cut him off, “if you’re not going to take this seriously then the deal is off!”

“Deal, huh? That implies that I get something in return,” he smirks and you roll your eyes.

“Keep dreaming,” you close your bedroom door as Tom settles himself down on your bed, “I’m not one of those girls who’s gonna throw herself at you for a quick fuck.”

“Is that really your only problem with me?” He raises an eyebrow at you as he picks up one of your textbooks, “that I sleep with lots of girls?”

“One of many.”

“Go on then, explain,” he flicks through the book, leaning back to relax into your pillows. “If we’re going to be spending all of this time together, we may as well get to know each other. Please tell me why I’m so disgusting to you.”

You take a deep breath, collecting your thoughts. Maybe you’ve been a bit harsh and rude to him, but he hasn’t exactly been a picnic to talk to either. “You’re not disgusting, you’re just- I just don’t understand how you can just sleep your way through girl after girl and not care.” 

“It’s just sex,” he shrugs, “why does it have to be such a big deal? Natural human instinct and all that,” he smirks and meets your eyes. For a second, your breath catches in your throat. If he wasn’t such a cocky asshole, he’d actually be pretty cute, but you brush off the feeling and chew your lip. 

“Because sex is a big deal...” you perch on the edge of the bed as if you’re the guest in his room. 

“God, miss goody two shoes, you’re such a prude,” Tom laughs, “anyone would think you’re a virgin.” Heat flushes your cheeks and you draw your knees up to your chest in embarrassment. The smile is wiped off his face when he sees the innocence in your eyes, the way you gulp at his accusation. “Oh my god, you are, aren’t you?”

“No! I’ve... done things,” you mutter and Tom raises an eyebrow at you, “I’m not a virgin!” God, you sound like a child having a tantrum, add stamping your feet to the mix and you’d be doing a spot on impersonation of a toddler.

“Prove it.” Just those two words from him are enough to make you stop breathing. What on earth does he mean, prove it? Does he really expect you to just jump his bones right this second? Even if you were experienced, it’d be a little strange for you to be tearing the clothes off of a guy you literally just met.

“I d-don’t-” your voice is raspy, your throat having gone so dry. 

“I’m just kidding angel,” Tom rolls his eyes, “but you’ve proven my point. So what’s the story? Saving yourself for marriage or something?” 

“Look, I just haven’t gotten round to it. I’ve had boyfriends and we’ve done other things but we’ve just never gotten down to the actual...” You trail off. The way he’s looking at you makes you feel like a complete idiot and tears sting your eyes. When he notices, his expression softens and he leans forwards, “hey, it’s no big deal,” he reaches out and wipes a stray tear that has managed to escape away from your cheek, causing you to flinch. “I’ll let it go, okay?”

“Thank you,” you mumble and pull a book into your lap. 

You both read in silence for a good half an hour, with Tom occasionally pointing out important notes for you to make. You’re biting your lip, hardly focused on the words on the page, when Tom cuts the silence again. “I could teach you?”

“Isn’t that kind of the point of-” you furrow your eyebrows and he shakes his head, cutting you off.

“No, I mean I could teach you.”

You’re still confused for a moment until you see the look in his eye and the realisation hits you. “You want to teach me how to have sex?!”

“Why not?” He shrugs, “you know I’m... experienced, and you obviously can’t stand me so there’s no chance of feelings getting in the way, it’d be the perfect arrangement.”

For a second, you almost consider it; he is good looking and it’s not as if you’re saving yourself for anything special. But god, it’s Tom freaking Holland, man-whore of the century. “This is ridiculous,” you shake your head and throw your book down, “it’s time for you to go anyway.”

Tom looks down at his watch and then back up at you, “fair enough, but just think about it, yeah?” He grabs his bag and you head for the door, seeing him out before you lean back against it, gathering your shaky breaths. Are you actually considering this?

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*