peter parker/tom holland imagines

choices | p.p.

i didn't really proof-read this so show me mercy

um

a couple curse words, not really angst but kinda?? reader is team steve, and tony's your dad

1.6k+ words

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i lay in the dim-lit room, my eyes tracing the ridges of the metal headboard. it was tarnished, the orange-y color burning itself into my eyelids. specks of brown fluttered upon the rusted splotches.

there was this putrid smell in the room, one that made my nostrils flair out slightly, and i had an overwhelming urge to breathe through my mouth.

the sight and the aromas wove together to form a single picture in my memory, and i knew this was something that i'd never be able to forget.

isn't it funny how at times, we yearn to remember the things we can't, yet struggle to forget the horrid things?

this was something i knew that i wanted to get rid of, this one moment in time. i didn't like it, any of it. maybe if things were different, if i had a choice.

well, i did have a choice.

i made mine.

so, actually, let me rephrase that; maybe if things were different, if i knew what the right choice was. if i'm being honest, i may never know what that is.

it's not my place to decide what's right, but rather to do what i think is right.

because that's how this world works, yeah?

we do what we can.

i know they would never understand, and part of that may be because they don't want to, and there's not much i can do about that.

it hurts to think that i may have ruined everything, and they'll never speak to me again.

i know they don't agree with my actions, and, well, that's okay, too.

they have their own reasons and decisions that i couldn't ever stand for, either.

the thing is, no one knows what they'd do in a certain situation until they're actually in it. it's very easy to judge someone else's actions by what you assume yours would be, if you were in their shoes.

 but we'd only do what we think we'd do, not what we'd actually do.

i could hear bucky and steve conversing from the other side of the door. they'd given me the bed, which was nice, but i think it was out of pity, which was fair.

they were speaking in hushed voice, and i knew it was on purpose, so i wouldn't hear. i didn't try and strain my ears to listen, because it was obvious that they were talking about me.

i flipped onto my back, looking at the ceiling instead, trying to distract myself. the grooves and cracks made shapes and i focused on them instead.

i knew that if i closed my eyes, i'd end up picturing peter in my head. i was trying not to think of him, but i wasn't succeeding very well at that.

he was engraved into every part of my brain, in the worst of ways, and the best of ways. he was a distraction to and from everything.

when i thought of peter, everything around me faded away, and all that was left was his honey-brown eyes.

but now, as i feel trapped in this room (that feels like is getting smaller), thinking of him makes a pit in my stomach. it makes me feel like i'm suffocating, stuck in a chokehold that i know will take me under, and there's nothing to do but allow myself to go numb­­­ and succumb to that fate entirely.