tom holland + peter parker

my gut T.H.

request: can you write one where reader is claustrophobic (her and Tom are not dating) and he's protecting her while they are locked in a room/elevator ?

if you've read twenty questions, this is going to be a spin off... enjoy ! <3

also writing based on my own experiences with claustrophobia (yes, i have it), so please read with caution! this is your trigger warning for anxiety, crying, and anxiety/panic attacks.

wc | 1.5k <3

—

One more thing, you thought to yourself while apologizing to a man you'd just knocked right into. Give me one more thing to top my fucking day off. Go ahead, you glance up, perhaps in an epiphany or in hopes that somebody will respond, despite the fact that you're inside and you can't even see the sky. I fucking dare you.

You wipe a stray tear and speed walk to the elevator, watching as someone walks in just in time for the doors to start sliding shut.

"Hold the door!" You holler, holding a hand out while you run the last few steps. Fortunately, life seems to have taken a turn and switched to your side — the lone gentleman had kept the elevator down for you, and as you step inside, you make wary eye contact before glancing to your feet and replying to his question of "what floor?"
You try not to make this any more awkward than it needs to be — your coffee stained shirt sticks to you in the obnoxious way that things seem to, and you're afraid it might start to smell. You're almost positive you can feel a few grains of sugar on your stomach, but as you shiver in disgust, you drop the thoughts, focusing on your shitty day and the cute boy beside you.

"Everything alright?" His voice cuts the silence, soft and short and sweet — just like him.

"Uh, yeah."

Just then, before either of you can mutter another word, the elevator shakes and comes to a wobbly stop, halting in between floors with closed doors and no way out.

The brown-haired boy's finger hits the emergency button, and you sigh as no communication signal retreats back to the metal box to at least alert the two of you that help is on the way.

Suddenly, that thought hits you — you're stuck in a broken metal box. You don't know what to do, and this caffeine shirt is suffocating you. You want it off, the dried liquid sticking to your abdomen and the collar of the shirt rubbing against your neck. It's not a turtleneck, but yet you feel like it's wrapped around your throat, suffocating you until your pulse slows and your breathing faints.

"Are you alright?"

British boy speaks up, noticing your behavior and recognizing the signs immediately. He wants to help — he wants to try to prevent your outburst from proceeding any further and worsening your state — but, he doesn't want to overwhelm you with his voice and his touch.

You take a deep breath in before exhaling with a shake of your head. Your breathing picks up and soon enough, you fall against one mirror wall with vertigo, hands coming to your forehead in panic. Your palms lay against your temples while you try to control your breathing.

You slide down, sitting on the floor while you try to cover your eyes. It's no solution, no relief to your mind and body. You whine, and the boy comes closer while your tears start up again.

"Can you hear me?" You nod with closed eyes. "Okay good. Tell me three things you can feel."

"Emotions or- or- or," Sucking in a breath, you stop talking.

"Both are fine! Emotions or touch. You can give me both, it's alright."

"Okay," you exhale, chest heaving. "The- the ground, the coffee on my shirt, the cold mirror."