Wrong number :/~~Spider-Man

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(To catch those who needed to pass the TW, Skip threatened Tony and Peter's friends, and some not great things happened)

Peter sat at the edge of a building.

He didn't bother dressing into the whole suit before he'd left, just a lazy mask. He had to get out of there fast before he lost it.

Peter didn't feel like he deserved to wear the suit anymore anyways. Not with the same symbolism, at least.

By now, the mask was just about the same percentage of water as he was. It was soaked with his tears, and he refused to remove it in case some other "great stalker" was at his tail.

He sniffled, watching the cars pass by below him.

He could feel his phone buzzing behind him on the concrete where he'd thrown his bag, but he ignored it as he stared idly to the stupid people and their stupid lives.

Everything was just so fucking stupid.

He let out a shot of anger as he slammed his fist into the concrete next to him, busting it up a bit. Who cared if that was going to leave a mark. Be it on the building or on him.

From there, it all sort of just slipped out.

Things were finally going good. Every time he felt things going good for once, some dumb shit action of his set off some sort of time limit till his next breakdown.

He was sick of it.

He screamed into the bustling streets, silencing the sounds around him with his own, controllable audio. A personalized white noise, if you will.

No one would care. It's too noisy to anyways. He was too high up. Anyone who would even pick up on it would just assume it's some movie being filmed or some daily normal life bullshit no one could care less about.

Because that's all it is, isn't it?

You either care too much or too little.

That's all it would ever be. 

Peter wanted to be the latter, but his nature betrayed him. He was here to help people.

Why weren't they there to help him?

Why didn't they care about him?

Why did it seem like no matter what he did, no matter who he helped, no matter what he sacrificed, someone was always out to get him?

Once he had ran his throat dry, he allowed himself to fall back onto the concrete roof behind him, apathetic to the slamming of his head when it made contact to the hard floor.

He couldn't face anyone right now.

He didn't ever want to face anyone again.

He felt gross.

Peter sat there, crying to himself with his worn voice, a heartbreaking audio to anyone who might here.

That'd never happen though, because who could be bothered to deal with something like this?

He lay there, bawling his eyes out. He felt disgusting in every way. His skin tingled, and he found himself tugging at the mask through the ugly cries.

Once off, he caught the whiff of that man on his shirt as he used it to wipe his nose off a bit, immediately causing him to choke up. This led to dry heaving, where Peter found himself having to sit up and lean over as the contents of his stomach escaped him.

It wasn't over then. He didn't get a second to recover before the idea of You Know Who's arms on his. Touching him. He clawed at those spots, trying to get rid of the feeling. Trying to clean himself in some entranced way.