Marvel Angst/Comfort Oneshots

"Mᴀʏʙᴇ ɪᴛ's ᴍʏ ғᴀᴜʟᴛ." rewritten

𝑪𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒏 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒓(𝒔): 𝑺𝒑𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒂𝒏 - 𝑻𝒐𝒎 𝑯𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒅

𝑭𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒎: 𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒗𝒆𝒍
ꨄ︎

𝑻𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒈𝒆𝒓 𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝑰𝒏𝒄𝒍𝒖𝒅𝒆:
𝑺𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝑯𝒂𝒓𝒎 𝑫𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒑𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔
𝑴𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝑳𝒐𝒔𝒔
𝑫𝒆𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝑻𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔
𝑷𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒄 𝑨𝒕𝒕𝒂𝒄𝒌
𝑺𝒂𝒅 𝑺𝒑𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒓

ꨄ︎

𝑨𝒓𝒕 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒃𝒚 @𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒓𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒐𝒏 𝑰𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒎

ꨄ︎

Peter sat limp on his mattress. Staring straight ahead, his face only showed an expression of sorrow. Small tracks of tears trailed down his pale face, glistening in the moonlight. A small window was on his left-side, the wind causing the curtains to wave slightly. Shivers coated his arms.

He didn't know what to think.

Was it all his fault?

Everyone seems to die around him. It's almost like a life-threatening poison. Slowly sucking the life out of people the longer they stay by his side.

Peter's eyes fluttered close as he turned to lay on his side.

His eyebrows furrowed as he made little effort to open his eyes again. His bottom lip quivered, tears slipping down his red cheeks swiftly.

Turning to his bedside window, Peter's dull-hazel eyes stared out. The skin underneath his eyes was a vibrant red, his nose being raw from continuously rubbing it.

A huge billboard of Tony Stark was almost perfectly in his sight line. It's supposed to cheer people up, talking about all of the billionaire's achievements, yet all it did was remind Peter of his lost father figure.

His eyes shifted to his restroom door.

𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘥𝘰 𝘪𝘵.

𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵.

Despite Peter's thoughts, his body began to sit up. He felt as if he was moving against his will, following the command of a puppetmaster.

His footsteps patted against the wood floor. His right arm reached for the silver handle.

Turning on the bathroom light, the lightbulb flickered slightly before a dusk yellow hue emitted throughout the small room.

Peter stood in front of the small mirror above the procelian sink. He peered into the messy reflection that stared back at him.

His hair was knotted and unkempt. The white shirt he lazily threw on covered the skeleton outline from his ribcage and the spine. The vibrant red pants barely hung around his boney hips. A small white string was tied tightly, holding the clothing up.

A razorblade was grasped tightly in his shakey fist. Its silver metal shone in the pale lighting, bekoning the boy more.

He had thought about ending it several times. Maybe people would stop dying. Sure, this logic was flawed. People would die no matter what happened. But logic couldn't reach the boy.

Peter hovered the razor over his pulsing veins. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. He felt the blood rushing in his blue and purple veins. Well, he couldn't actually feel it, but that thought made him feel as if he could.

Peter's hands continued to shake as anxiety trailed down his back. His chest heaved with shallow breaths.

Placing the blade against his ashen wrist, he slid the cold metal. It barely cut. Repositioning the razor, drops of blood soon formed. Four angry wounds almost blended together as crimson outlined them.

Moving downwards, Peter repeated the process. His forearms were covered in the Seething red liquid.

Peter's head rolled back as he squeezed his eyes shut in agony. His messy brown hair began to stick to his forehead from the sweat.

Multiple cuts were lined up almost perfectly to the crease in his elbow. Sliced skin overlapped, causing the blood to smear.

It wasn't enough.

Peter moved the blade to his other arm. The boy being ambidextrous seemed to come in handy.

He slid the razor down the wrist, and droplets of blood slipped. Trails of red lined the sides of his arms and hit the tiles of the bathroom floor without a sound.

A small buzz filled his ears as his vision blurred with tears. Dried tears tracked his pale cheeks.

Peter placed the damaging object on the edge of the sink. Blood dripped down its blades, dripping farther into the bowl.

Peter then ran the cold water, showing his arms underneath the clear liquid. Sharp gasps sounded from his mouth. Water mixed with the dark red, causing droplets of blood and water to coat the rim of the bowl.

After he deems his arms to be clean enough, he runs the razor underneath.

Peter then opened the cabinet above and took out some antibiotics and gauze bandages. Peter focused on wrapping his arms tightly. He droned out any sound around him.

Peter went to his bathroom tub and sat down in front of the outer rim. His knees were brung to his chest, and his arms were loosely folded around.

Peter's heart was racing. Adrenaline spread throughout his body. His breathing was labored and uneven.

The boy's eyes were dilated. Small beads of sweat slipped down his forehead. His mouth was dry, and his whole body was quivering.

He felt as though all the air in him had been knocked out.

Peter gasped, trying to get more air. He gasped again. No matter how much air he tried to breathe in, it wasn't working.

He couldn't breathe.

Small black dots flooded his vision, his eyesight becoming hazy.

His fingers clawed at his throat, desperate to breathe in air.

Tears were pouring down Peter's face, his eyes stinging. His nose was runny and clogged. The boy's neck had angry scratch marks. Some had small dots of blood.

Through his ragged breathing, he could hear the rain pattering against his window. His panicked eyes glazed over to that direction outside the suffocating room. Peter focused on that. It sounds stupid, but if felt as if the rain's pattern was talking to him. As if it was saying that he'd be okay. Whether it's his imagination or him just trying to reassure himself, he didn't know. He didn't care for that matter.

That's when he noticed the familiar beat of his heart.

Being able to feel his heartbeat caused the teen to let out a sigh of relief he didn't realize he was holding. He was alive. He 𝙞𝙨 alive.

Peter decided he'd get rest there that night, too exhausted to even stand, let alone walk. Resting his forehead on his arms, Peter sighed quietly. Sleep slowly came, and when it did, a sudden wave of relief hit the teen.