Spider-Man oneshots

Self Harm

Requested by Booksarelife84! hope you enjoy! This is gonna have 2 parts btw,             this takes place after the snap but nobody is dead, they didn't sell the tower

маленький паук is "Little Spider" in russian (please correct me if i'm wrong!)

Мама паук is "mama spider" in russian (again PLEASE correct me if i'm wrong)

Peter shut the bathroom door down the hall as quietly as he could. In the pitch black that followed, he could hear blood racing in his ears.

He sat on the edge of the bathtub as his eyes adjusted, and retrieved his pocket knife from the waistband of his boxers.

The dream had felt so real. One hand clutched the tile beneath him while the other clutched the knife, both hands white-knuckled as he tried to breathe, in through his nose and out through his mouth. Those few intense, remaining flashes in his thankfully-dissolving memory lingered, though, in the way those from nightmares tend to, the way every single one of Peter's seemed to lately. He didn't know what to do about it.

His heard a cough from the Starks' room a short distance away. With his spider senses, he could hear the many steady, slow heartbeats of the tower's other occupants. Their pulses beat quietly in their respective slumbers alongside his own, which was still rapid and fluttering in his chest.

After listening to their breathing for a moment with his eyes closed, Peter carefully and silently pushed up his left sleeve. He lightly grazed his fingertips over the neat, short raised lines of scar tissue that ran up and down his forearm, like a ladder. Part of him winced internally, but the flash of pride at his handiwork made it easy to ignore.

They were the product of months of secrecy, lies, lack of sleep, boxes upon boxes of band-aids, and a heavy, heavy weight that had settled onto Peter's shoulders and into his chest. And he just didn't understand why.

He was anxious all the time, worried about what others were thinking of him. And he was so exhausted. It was a bone-deep kind of tired. He couldn't do anything anymore, except sit and walk and talk and try to keep up his mask of normalcy, which was rapidly beginning to crumble no matter what he did about it. He wasn't eating, or sleeping- the nightmares made sure of that when he actually managed to get his brain to shut up and go to sleep please I'm so fucking tired...

Lately, it wasn't even really tired anymore, this feeling that sat in his chest like ice. He was sad. He was so, so sad. All the time. It was a physical ache between his ribs that he just couldn't reach.

At first, Peter had thought it must be so obvious that something was wrong with him, that surely May or The avengers would notice that something was wrong with him and he had no fucking clue what to do about it, but the days flew by faster than Peter could count them, and every single one of them got harder. And harder. And harder. And May took more shifts at work, so exhausted most of the time that it was too easy for Peter let his mask slip around her in the brief windows of the day when they were both home and awake. The Avengers were different, less familiar with Peter, but still quick on the uptake. There were days Peter could tell that they knew something was different, and maybe just didn't know how or what to ask. But nevertheless, Peter waited for someone to just take over the controls for him, for one or both of them to let him rest and tell him everything was going to be fine and fix him.

And then Peter had cut himself for the first time.

He felt... drained. Hollow. Apathetic. He just didn't care anymore.