USM One Shots

Scars to Your Beautiful

I was just sitting in bed when this came to me. Yay. Also, I know the image is Percy Jackson but it fits, okay? Also, I don't own Spider-man, but I wish I did! 

If any of you out there think I don't update enough, I say: HAHAHAHA YOU THINK IT'S EASY TO COME UP WITH THESE IDEAS? IT ISN'T. WHO ELSE COULD COME UP WITH THE IDEA OF PETER RIDING A TALKING PEGASUS? NO ONE. jUsT ME. 

Okay, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and Happy New Year!

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   Peter was having a fairly normal day. He got up, trained, studied, ate, and taught a bit. He was proud of himself. It was all going well until he got back to his dorm he shared with his friends.

   He walked into his dorm to find Flash and Ben having a arm-wrestling contest, Harry and MJ arguing over something on MJ's bunk, and the rest of them having separate conversations. He walked over and sat on his bunk, taking off his mask. Sometimes it was annoying to breathe through spandex. 

   He took in a deep breath, opening his eyes. Nobody was paying attention to him. He grabbed his clothes, taking one last look around, and went to go change in the bathroom. 

   He changed into his grey sweatpants and white t-shirt, washing his face carefully. He gazed into the mirror, his eyes landing on a scar that poked out of his sleeves on his left arm. It was jagged, and only stuck out slightly. He stared at it for a moment, attempting to remember how he got it.

   Peter knew it was at least a year old. He guessed it was from a knife incident; he had a few more scars like that. He looked at his right arm, noting two smaller scars. One looked like it was from a bullet- a graze, possibly. The other came from a small blade- maybe a pocket-knife?- but he couldn't be sure. Those were less noticeable than the one on his left arm. 

   If Peter ever tried to count his scars, he would die of boredom before he got to a third of them. He had been doing this for, what, 4 years now? They let him stay at the academy to teach and train. He didn't have to stay. He could get a nice apartment, go to a good school, but for what? All he wanted to do was stay with his friends. He knew several places that would hire him. He didn't have to go to college. Norman Osborne would hire him. Maybe with a bit of convincing, Tony Stark would, too. 

   Peter hadn't told anyone, but he had been working on his degree. Psychology. He didn't quite know why he had chosen that. He was close to finished, though.

   He looked at his scars again. Maybe that's why, he thought. To help people with scars. Like me.

   He shook his head, dismissing his thoughts. He sighed, walking out of the bathroom. A few heads turned over to him, giving him a small smile as a hello, but turned back as fast as they had come. As he turned towards his bunk, his spidey sense went off- but it was too late. He was hit in the stomach with a water balloon that soaked his shirt. His sweatpants were fine, other than a few drops. Everyone in the room went silent, and they turned to look at a scarily calm Peter. 

   "Who threw it?" he asked. No one answered. "I said, who threw it?"

  He glared around the room, eyes landing on a pale Sam. He let out a sharp laugh, making everyone jump. "Your"- snort- "faces, oh my god!" 

  He burst out laughing, leaving everyone to stare at him in disbelief. Everyone was silent- no one was laughing with him. As his laughing died down, he rolled his eyes at his friends' expressions. He tore off his soaked t-shirt, smirking as he sat on his bunk. 

   Suddenly, as if it wasn't quiet already, everyone froze, staring at Peter intensely. Peter looked down at himself, trying to figure out what was wrong. His gaze landed on a few long, jagged scars stretching across his stomach. 

   "Oh" was all that came from Peter.

   "Dude, what happened?" Sam asked. 

   Peter rolled his eyes. "You guys are acting like you've never seen or had a scar before."

   Ben was the only one who wasn't shocked. He had scars of his own, too, and Peter knew it. Peter raised an eyebrow, looking around at the shocked faces once again. "You guys do have scars . . . right?"

   No one answered, so Peter looked down at his chest  again. He pointed to a small scar on the lower right side of his stomach. "Here's where I got shot a couple weeks back. You remember that, right?"

   "No, I don't," said Ava, who had been patrolling with him for the last month. "Was it the day you didn't show up for class after patrolling? You showed up the next day, and you seemed fine."

   "It's called a healing factor, Ava. I was busy removing the bullet. Isn't the first time I've been shot, either."

   "Oh," Ava said. Smart reply, Peter sarcastically thought.

   He pointed to a long one tracing across his collar bone onto his back. "This is from that one time Deadpool tried to teach me how to sword fight."

   Again, cue blank stares. Peter ignored them and named a few more. He was smiling, too. He had good memories from some of these scars. 

   Truth be told, Peter had no idea where most of the scars came from. He didn't regret any of them, though.

  Yes, Peter thought. I know why I chose Psychology. To help teach people that they don't need to regret their scars, too. Because with every scar, a star shines bright. With every scar, a lesson is learned. 

   Because scars are what make you beautiful.