Tom Holland & Peter Parker Imagines

Let Go Of Me | P.P

A broken home, a broken place

If Peter Parker was ever one thing, it was focused. Whether he was focusing on his back in high school homework or taking down bad guys- even trying to focus on a recipe despite the fact that no matter how hard he tried he just couldn't cook. The boy could burn water and god knows he has even if Aunt May wasn't home to see it with her own two eyes.

The twenty-year-old would find himself with eyebrows furrowed together, eyes boring holes into whatever it was that he was focusing on with a steady beating heart no matter what he felt. Sometimes it was boredom, sometimes confusion and on the most frequent occasion- Adoration.

As much as Peter Parker use to enjoy staring at his chemistry homework for hours on end at the honeymoon phase of your relationship, or focusing on having a conversation with his AI (he was amazed every time), Karen, his favourite thing to focus on was you- and it always would be- or at least four days ago he thought that. Now he knew he'd have to find a new muse and god knows it was going to take a while. Peter Parker doubted that he could even replace you- he couldn't.

"Look at the front!" You protested, sending Peter a look lost somewhere between a cheeky smirk and a glare as he stared at you from across the table.

"I can't." He whines, casting his eyes down at his now discarded chemistry paper. "You look so good today. I mean you look good every day- but today you look-"

You cheeks heat up dramatically, immediately straightening up as your boyfriend of 7 months looks down at his hands in embarrassment. They were intertwined together but he only wished that he could be holding yours right now- stupid seating plans.

"How do I look today, Peter? Finish." You prompt him, wanting to hear the words come from him.

Peter hesitates for a moment. It's not because he has to think about it, or because he didn't want to say it but simply because he was nervous about your reaction. Despite the fact that he'd called you gorgeous one hundred times over. "You look beautiful."

You look down at your hands quickly grow slightly clammy, heart skipping a beat and before you can stop yourself a giggle falls from your lips Before Peter follows by letting out a small laugh.

"Mr. Parker, Ms. Y/L/N, Something you want to share?"

Now he couldn't get the image of you out of his head, body cold and stiff- eye's shut loosely and body limp. He couldn't get the image out of his head of you gripping the edge of the building, fingertips desperately grasping the cement roof with a look of pure shock at terror. That look may haunt him more than the first.

Your coffee sitting on the counter, cold

I can't throw it away

"Peter! P-please," You called, voice strained as sobs slipped your lips.

"I'm coming- I'm coming, pretty girl." He was struggling- voice holding false hope because with every passing second he could sense your arms getting weaker and fingernails aching. Your entire body was begging you to give up and let go and he knew it.

"I can't hold on." You cried, legs flailing over the edge of the highest building in Queens.

"I know it hurts," He struggled, wetting his dry lips. "But hold on, darling."

It wasn't just a fight gone wrong- but it was more then that. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time and he just happened to find you. One hand was wrapped around your neck and the other held a gun to the boy in the blue and red mask. He was ready to drop anything and everything there to save you, but the enemy seemed to have the same idea with a different purpose.

And all the things we haven't done

He always thought that you'd be fifty-three and married, living in a small apartment in the city and he'd still be tracing the gentle wrinkles that ran across your forehead like waves with his eyes. You could be eighty-seven and Peter thought that he'd find himself gushing at the site of your lips curving upwards just past dawn and though he would've lost most of his eyesight and the creases were mere blurs he'd have your features imprinted into his memory like a landmark. Ninety-two and rocking gently back and forth in your rocking chair, he'd focus on the gold band that decorated your ring finger like it was his lifeline and Peter hoped that as he took his very last breath, he'd be staring into your eyes. But you were the first to take your last breath, he was the one that had to watch the color leave your eyes.

Your goddamn eyes that he swore went on for miles without end, like a galaxy far, far away. He was infatuated with them and didn't even need to tell you that anymore- well if he could he honestly would have despite the fact that he'd told you a hundred and one times before. He couldn't even begin to describe the shade, no matter how many times he looked through the thesaurus but now he wanted to try harder than ever. To look through thesauruses from different countries even ones in French and Russian.

He'd hold your hand on the way home from school and thanks to his spidey senses he was aware of what temperature yours were before he even took your hand. Peter found it odd really, how sometimes your palms could be icy cold- fingertips a different shade than normal and sometimes they'd be hot and slightly clammy (however, he never minded)

The only word he could come up with was 'pretty' as you lay on the bed, flat on your stomach and one of his oversized sweaters strewn over your body messily. Your hair was a mess too- but he liked it that way. Peter liked it when you didn't put too much effort into how you looked, happy that you were comfortable around him after months of dating.

And all the battles never won

It wasn't like the last time he saw you with your hair matted to your forehead, a pile of blood pooling around your near empty corpse. The sickening crunch of your body hitting the grubby concrete still echoed in his ears and that was somehow louder then all of the gasps and cries of the people around him.

And Peter didn't even care if the whole of Queens saw him with his mask off- he didn't give two fucks that he had just exposed his identity because he sat on his knees in the very middle of the street surrounded by a mess of absolute strangers, his mask discarded by the corner shop as he cradled you in his arms.

I need your light to help me see again

Peter dropped his mug- his second favorite mug and the one that you'd got him for your two year anniversary because his favorite was the one he got most recently- just last Christmas in fact. It was red and blue, a white spider web delectably drawn on either side and he remembered you telling him that you'd painted it yourself. Even if it wasn't the best he still adored it and it was his first pick every time he reached into the mug cabinet.

It shattered with a deafening crack, shards of glass scattering around his feet accordingly but he stares at the beige wall. That same darn look that he'd been wearing all weak covering his features.

It was like the look of a broken man. A broken man that was trying his best to stay strong but on the inside his heart had crippled and collapsed and was now scattered into a million and one unfixable pieces. His toes stung, and not because of the shards of glass that had pricked his skin but from the weight of carrying your death over his shoulders like a backpack filled with the heaviest rocks.

So let go of me.