spiderson oneshots

What if I left?

TRIGGER WARNINGS: attempted suicide, self-harm, and underage consumption of alcohol

A/N: this is a sad one

Breathe in, breathe out.

Breathe in, breathe out.

But what can you do when you can't breathe?

What happens when you can't open your mouth, because it feels as though it's been stitched closed?

What happens when you feel like there's this weight piled on your chest?

What happens when all you can do is silently cry as you stare at yourself in the mirror, tears rushing down your face as all you can think of is how such a fuck up you are?

How can you handle the voice stuck in your head, endlessly taunting you, digging up every single one of your flaws?

Would you tell someone?

Or would you keep it buried deep down, because you already feel like a burden to your family, your friends?

Do you put on a fake smile, brighten your dull eyes and pretend everything's fine?

Do you pretend because you need to be strong for the people around you?

Do you slice away at your wrists and thighs, using self-harm as an escape from reality?

Do nightmares haunt you every time you attempt to sleep?

Do you cry yourself to exhaustion every night?

Do you push yourself over your limits?

Do the people around you forget your even there?

Because Peter Parker-Stark feels all these things, and with no one to turn to, he's slowly breaking apart from the inside.

From dealing with bullies, PTSD, an eating disorder, anxiety, and self doubt, and don't forget to pile all that on top of being his alter ego, Spider-Man, and constant nightmares, he has had a pretty rough life for all of his sixteen years on Earth.

It was just past three in the morning when Peter snuck back into his bedroom window at Avengers Tower, closing the pane and locking it once he was on the soft carpet. The teen hero slipped his mask off, taking a deep- yet shaky, breath.

Quickly, he changed from his high-tech suit into some sweatpants and a t-shirt that once fit snuggly on his defined body, but now hung loosely around his skinny frame. Peter stared down at his marked up wrists. Small, long, red, grey, old and fresh lines scattered his pale skin, reminding him of all the pain he suffers from in his daily life.

A soft sigh escaped the teen's lips before he collapsed into his desk chair, pulling his homework out from his book bag, placing the thick textbooks on his desk. He grabbed a pencil from his pencil holder and began to work on the amass of work sat in front of him.

Precisely two hours and fifty-seven minutes later, the clock struck six o'clock. Peter grunted tiredly as he shoved his now-completed homework into his book bag, zipping it up and tossing it to the side.

Then it hit him. The sudden urge to grab his blade and slice away at his skin. The burning sensation of the sleek metal sinking into his arm called out to him. Self-harm was almost like a drug to Peter; just like drugs, it makes his pain disappear for a while, giving him peace.

Abruptly standing up from his chair, Peter quickly walked into his bathroom, flicking on the light and locking the handle. He opened the drawer and pulled out the rusted and blood-stained blade and slid down the wall, twirling the metal between his pointer finger and thumb.

Slowly, he lowered the sharp object onto his wrist before yanking it across, the smell of iron immediately filling his nose. Blood oozed from the fresh wound, but it began to quickly repair itself, skin weaving over the cut.

Peter repeated the process over and over, a calming sensation washing over him each time a stinging sensation tickled his senses. He breathed deeply through his nose and relaxed his tense muscles, hands dropping to his lap. The blade clattered onto the tiled floor as Peter lazily started at the wall.

"What if I just end it all? Not like anyone would care..." he thought, darkness and pain clouding his mind. As if his body was on auto-pilot, Peter stood up and walked out the bathroom, not even caring to clean his torn up arms. He kneeled down on the floor and pulled out a bin, taking the lid off and staring down at its contents.

A rope, a lighter, and alcohol.

He picked up the alcohol and popped the lid off before taking a long swig, wincing at the burning in the back of his throat. He quickly downed the entire bottle before setting it down, starting to become woozy. Picking up the rope from the bin, Peter stood and stumbled over to the middle of his room, tying the rope to the ceiling fan.

Peter pushed his chair over and stood up on it, making the rope into a noose. Tears pooled in his brown eyes as he shakily grabbed the rope. Just as he was about to slip it over his head, though, Clint came rushing in.

"Peter!" he pleaded. "Please, bud. Get down from there." Peter choked on a sob.

"W-Why should I? I'm just a b-burden," he cried. Clint shook his head.

"Peter, you could never be a burden to any of us. You're what makes the Avengers a family. Now please, get down from there," he replied.

Reluctantly, Peter got off the chair and Clint immediately held him in a tight embrace, raking his fingers through the crying teen's chestnut curls, whispering soft delicacies into his ear.

"I-I'm sorry," Peter whimpered against the archer's chest. Clint only held him tighter.

"Don't be sorry, bud," he replied quietly. "Now how about we get you cleaned up?"

Peter nodded and Clint let him out of his bedroom and to his own, sat him on his bed and grabbed the first aid kit from the closet. The arched carefully applied rubbing alcohol to a cotton pad before pressing it to Peter's cut and bruised arms, wiping the excess blood away with a warm, damp
towel. Peter sniffed as Clint cleaned his wounds.

"There you go," the arched said as he did the final wrapping. He looked up to Peter who had guilt written on his features. "How about me and you go get some hot cocoa and popcorn and we can put on a movie in here. Sound good? And you're not going to school today."

"O-Okay..." Peter responded, voice hoarse from crying. Clint left to go get the snacks and came back to find Peter in the same position he left him in.

"Lets get comfortable, shall we?"

Clint pulled the covers back and both boys got under them, the bowl of popcorn in the middle and the hot cocoas in their hands. Clint put on the movie, "Benedril Cucumber," a classic comedic film.

"Thank you, Clint..." Peter whispered, taking a sip of his hot drink. The arched smiled.

"Of course, kiddo. And please, talk to me next time it gets to be too much," he replied. Peter nodded.

"And remember, you are not and never will be a burden, Peter. You complete us."

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this was a really sensitive topic, and i just wanted to let you know that if you ever need someone to vent, talk, and/or rant to, i'm always here <3