Boys like Boys|| Peter Parker

.26.

Warnings: This part contains mentions of  self harm and dysphoria (like the entire chapter is about Oliver's dysphoria). Please take care of yourself. Not all trans people experience dysphoria and not all experience it in the same way. Of course, all of what Oliver is going through and feeling is based upon my  experiences and feelings. Everyone has self doubt but you're not wrong to be yourself  :) There's no one way to be queer. <3

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

His mind screamed at him. It was all wrong. Sometimes he wished he could claw out the parts if him that he didn't want. 

He remembered all the girls around him present stoic and collected, but they would let their mask drop for a second and he would catch a glimpse of their fear and sadness, about how they would never be "Real women" after graduation. He had piped up, asking what a real woman was defined as. They hadn't said anything at that. 

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

His face was wrong, the hair was wrong, the curves of his body were wrong. Everything was wrong. 

Voices in his head, 

wrong, wrong, wrong. 

What if this too was a lie? What if just like everything else in his life, he made this up too? Attention seeking? To seem quirky? Cool?

Was being beaten up cool?

Girl, Girl, Girl, Girl, Girl. 

He clenched his teeth until it was painful. 

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

The way his hair looked, the shape of his face, his thighs, his chest, in between his legs. It was all wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. He wished he could just carve out the parts of himself he didn't want. How easy would it be? A flick of his hand and then relief...

No. 

He wasn't going to do that again. He'd been there, causing himself pain, it never helped. But the relief...

Fuck. 

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. 

It was almost as if his mind was against him. He looked up at the mirror, fuck. He shouldn't have done that. 

All he saw was everything he hated about himself. Boys don't have rounded faces, boys don't have necks like that, boys are taller, boys have wider shoulders, boys don't have lips like that, boys don't sound like that, boys-

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. 

Oliver hated this, hated being like this. Sure he was proud of being transgender, but he didn't want any of this. He hated the longing looks he gave cis guys, the hate he gave his own body. He just wished he could be what he wanted for once. 

Did he have to be born female? Why did stuff like this always happen to him? It isn't fair. None of it is fair. 

Was he faking this? What if he's just a girl going through a phase? What if he's being dramatic? What if-

"Deadname" "Deadname" "Deadname" "Deadname" "Deadname" "Deadname" "Deadname" "Deadname" "Deadname" "Deadname" "Deadname" "Deadname". 

Fuck. 

Oliver didn't register his fist flying towards the mirror, but he registered the pain coursing through his right arm. 

"AH FUCK"

He jumped back. clutching his bloody arm. His knuckles were covered in blood, white, hot pain flowing through him, but he was also cut in various places. His palm and his forearm were litered with crisscross cuts. Some of them were bleeding already while the others were just scratches. 

"Fuck. Fuck-" He leaned against the bathroom wall. "Fuck!"

He was just so tired, tired of everything. He wished he could be "normal"- in a body he liked, with a voice he liked, with a flat chest and wide shoulders, some facial hair and a tall body, oh yeah and a dick. 

Then he was sobbing, ugly crying, curling into a ball and just letting the tears flow. 

It just wasn't fair. Why would god or creator or whatever, if they even exist, do this to him? surely no one deserved to feel like this in their own body. Maybe it was a sort of punishment for his crimes? But then again, what about all the other trans people? 

This isn't a punishment, but Oliver wished he didn't have to go through it. 

He needed to get out, out of his own body, out of the bathroom, out of the house. He could feel himself going crazy with the dysphoria. He needed to go out. 

He caught himself wanting to call out for Bucky. But of course, Bucky wasn't here. 

He desperately needed someone to wrap their arms around him, treat him like a child, make the pain go away. He needed Bucky. 

Oliver tried to regulate his breathing, he felt pathetic sitting on the bathroom floor, mirror shards around him. 

Slowly, but surely, he picked up his own pieces. He couldn't go out looking like a mess. He didn't want anyone to worry. Carefully, he packed all his vulnerable pieces inside the box and shut it behind closed doors in his mind. 

If he pretended he was fine, it would go away.. for now. He simply chose to pretend to be fine. He'd done this for years, this was not a new thing. 

Suck it up. 

Deep breaths, he told himself. Deep breaths. 

He gave himself till the count of twenty to calm down. And then he got up, cutting himself a bit more in the process, but he didn't even feel the pain. 

His actions were robotic. Clean his wounds, take care of the cuts, bandage his arm, band-aids in places where he could use a bandage, drink some water, fingers through his hair, a hoodie for the rapidly cooling temperature, pulling on a pair of pants and taking his phone from the couch. 

3:49 pm

Perfect. Spidey was exactly what he needed right now, a distraction. 

Maybe if he distracted himself enough, he wouldn't be feeling all that. Maybe if he pretended to be fine, he would be enough for himself. Maybe if he relaxed, he would be comfortable in his own body. 

"Fuck" He grabbed the armrest of the couch to steady himself. "Stop fucking thinking"