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“Don’t be ashamed of your story— It will inspire others!
Is what Peter always said. Whether it was a villain attack, an abuse case, having a ‘dangerous’ power, or anything like that.
He poured his heart into waxing poetic about being a proud survivor and how your label doesn’t define you, that the scars across your body mean nothing
That you can be a survivor and a living breathing human, that it didn’t encompass your whole body and suffocate you from the inside out.
That being a survivor wasn’t like somebody breaking open your ribs and reaching out of your chest for more, to be more, to be seen as more.
He pretended that being a ‘survivor’ didn’t kill you from the inside out like a withering flower. You can let it fester and die, you can pray, beg, and feed the flower but it will not stop the all consuming rot that leads to its death. He pretended that he and many others weren’t withering flowers. Petals falling between fingers like sand.
But, Peter stood up tall with a grin on his face, eyes wide open and ready to save everybody he could in need. He let himself fall to rock bottom to pick everybody else up, to save them as Tony saved him.
Every morning, he got up without fail; Even if his bones protested and his mind was as fragile as a child’s, begging to be held with care, to be called gentle and kind. To be more than a self-sacrificing hero and a lonely victim.
He worked hard so he could forget it all, chasing the title of the upcoming hero Spiderman and not the fragile child that was once called Peter Parker.
And yeah, it works for him; He runs himself ragged after training at SI, exams, and working for Tony under the guise of being an intern. Peter lets himself get lost in the simple routine
Breathe, Peter Parker.
Eat, Peter Parker.
Train, Peter Parker.
Study, Peter Parker.
Sleep, Peter Parker.
If he was a little stronger back then he could have fought back the hands that swore to swaddle him in love and never less. He trained until his arms were on fire and his legs would not sustain any more abuse, he sought nothing but retribution for himself.
Not for Spiderman: The young vigilante turned hero. But for Peter Parker– The lonely child that he cradled in his heart, locked away in hopes that he will grow to be something more, something better than what they had turned him into. He fought for the child who was too young to even understand the concept of fighting back
But every little moment wasn’t enough to stop it from falling through the cracks of his empty moments. Moments when he woke up panting with tears streaming down his face, alone with nobody to call but himself, he would sit there rocking back and forth endlessly until his limbs were too tired to keep up with his haunted mind and send him back to a haunting yet dreamless sleep.
Guilty little moments when he found himself waking up hard, then promptly hurling into the toilet with the acrid taste of bile sitting in his throat. It clawed its way out of his stomach, desperately throwing itself out of his mouth as he gagged for what felt like forever before slumping over the toilet seat in defeat and bone deep exhaustion.
It frankly disgusted him, how his body responded to it all.
Peter could treat his body like a temple all he wanted, feign innocence as the girls fawned over his lack of inexperience.
But, like a stain on a white sweaterー once it is stained, no amount of washing it out will restore it.
“Never have I ever. . topped somebody!” Herman chuckled into his drink as if he was drunk. He definitely wasn't, they couldn’t get alcohol into Betty’s house without her dad noticing, nor would they want to try. Some people didn’t want to get drunk anyway.
Why did he even come, oh right— Ned. Ned and Betty had been dating for a while, and Betty wanted to get to know Peter considering how close the two boys were.
Gasps and laughter resounded as a few people, including Betty herself (surprisingly.) took a sip of the gross concoction they had made in their cups; Gagging and coughing over the gross taste.
Gagging. Gagging like Peter did when they pulled him apart and laid him bare at such a young age, pulling apart a flower that was not yet ready to bloom.
Laughing. Laughing like Skip did when he heard his childish squeals, mocking him with questions of “This is okay, right? Does it hurt?”
“Dude? Are you okay? Earth to Parker?” Ned waved his hand in front of his face.
Peter let out a dry laugh and nodded, assuring the other he was fine. He stared down into his drink, it was a weird amalgamation of tomato juice and hot sauce, and other things his brain was too fuzzy to remember.
“You gonna take a drink, Peter?” He looked up, there was MJ sitting across from him with a curious eyebrow raised, stifling a laugh
Oh. A drink. Right. He really didn’t want to, but he didn’t want to disappoint them.
Peter had already disappointed Skip enough before he’d gone into Tony’s custody, he remembers the shallow tears streaming down his face as he proclaimed that Peter ‘didn’t love him’ and ‘wanted him to be taken away’.
Shudders overtook his body, but he replaced the, with a sheepish grinned as his face warmed, a hand snaking into his curly brown locks (Now thin and frail. They used to be his pride and joy, unending and just as wild as him.) “Ah, no I’m not”
Rounds of “Ooh” and similar noises ensnared the group.
Flash wasn’t surprised, barking out a remark of how ‘the nerd wouldn’t have a chance with anybody’
Peter laughed along, though every chuckle burned his throat.
The liquid in the cup was dark, dark enough to see his own reflection in itー Gaunt cheeks stared back at him, eye bags that seemed to encompass his entire face, and thin curls that used to be the brightest green. He couldn't tell where Peter started and Spiderman ended anymore.
Most heroes had always told them to avoid that as much as possible.
“You’re young, don’t forget— Always separate yourself from your hero identity. Take pride in who you are, but make sure you know when to be a civilian and when to be a hero. This job is taxing, and knowing when to wind down your ‘hero brain.’ You all may have seen a lot, but no one is immune emotionally to everything they see as a hero on a daily basis. Even I have a space to wind down, and a therapist to talk to. Tony and I (If he wasn’t the one with the little pep talk) are always here if you need to talk.”
“Parker– Watch your cup! Don’t wreck the carpet” Betty’s voice cut through his internal monologue; Only then did he notice his hands covered in the exact same drink he’d been staring into. His hand was clenched around the cup.
Apologies were murmured with a flushed face and shaky hands let go of the red solo cup, a soft smile overtaking his face at the jokes of his shyness.
He had to take good care to avoid crushing the cup in his hands, Peter definitely gotten better at controlling the immense power he had suddenly thrust into his hands, but there were still times he couldn't keep his hold on it
Peter’s head snapped up at another voice. “Can we hurry up? I wanna get into the juicy stuff!” Betty gushed, she likes these games, though everyone was pretty sure it was so she had material to gossip about later.
A general agreement from the rest of the game set it back into motion. There were a few arguments on who's turn it was, and some people who wanted to go sooner than the circle order, but they eventually settled down into mostly silent waiting. Betty had been next in line, and Peter shuddered just thinking about the questions she’d ask
Her face split into a grin; “To bounce off Herman’s question, never have I ever bottomed!”
Sounds of teasing annoyance filled the room, Betty yet again took a sip herself, and maybe a few others. Not that he was paying attention
Peter’s ears filled with TV static, thrumming endlessly with the white noise. Hands shaking, tunnel vision, dilated eyes.
Black pupils swallowed up the carmel brown in his eyes, though it was if he was looking through people, rather than at them.
He couldn't let himself go like this, Betty and Flash had already commented on it, and he didn't need more people crowding his space.
With everyone’s eyes on him, he can’t help but quiver. It feels like he’s back in that room that always felt too small with Skip’s hands all over him and oh god please make it stop. Why was he so angry with him all the time? What did Peter do to him to make him deserve this. Peter was just a kid.
The teen takes a sip. The liquid burns its way down his throat and his spice sensitivity kicks in, it makes his eyes water and the capsaicin on his tongue makes it burn well beyond what’s comfortable for him. People in his circle whisper and giggle, prodding him for details and a few (Flash, in particular) call bullshit on it.
But when he comes to his senses he drops the cup as if it burned him, though, his hands still shake.
Peter knows people are staring, crowding him, confused by his actions. But frankly, he doesn't care. He got up as fast as possible, practically running out the door as he felt the instinctive thwip of his web-shooters. His body wasn’t his own, he felt like a passenger in it and whoever was controlling was taking him for a little ride.
He’d much rather this disgusting body not be his own, and so he falls into the static stasis of dissociation.
The boy wanted to apologise endlessly, explain everything, or at the very minimum give an excuse to leave, but his mind couldn't quite keep up with his body as it fired up his webs over and over again, directing him back to the tower he had sought solace in.
His room was safe, it was practically his home as he hadn’t actually gone stayed home for more than a few nights a week. One talk with Aunt May about wanting to train over his breaks, and that he’d keep in touch with her during the holidays allowed him to stay the majority of things like summer and winter break. He still went home for Christmas, he couldn’t do that to May.
But God did the soft yellow ceiling haunt him as he looked up at it every night, haunting memories of wandering hands and hushed whispers clouding his mind.
Peter didn't keep contact with him but he didn’t pursue legal action. It wasn’t needed, as long as he;d never have to face the monster that was Skip Westcott, he’d be okay.
When May had fallen down the stairs, and ended up with a fractured tailbone— She was unable to care for Peter at his young age. That’s when the dad-like saviour that was Scott ‘Skip’ Wescott stepped up to care for Peter while May was getting better.
He’d stayed with them, taking up May’s room while she took the guest one downstairs, it was easier for her to get to the kitchen and restroom that way. Therefore, she only came upstairs every few days to shower.
But that left Peter and Skip alone upstairs most if not all of the time.
It started small, he’d praised Peter—
” Wow, you’re so smart for your age! You’re a little Einstein, aren’t you buddy?”
Then he began to initiate physical contact.
“Hugs and kisses aren’t weird, Peter. We’re practically family!”
It all built up, like a slow tempo that creeped up on you, speeding up so slowly you wouldn’t even notice the crescendo of it until it hit you.
It started with teaching Peter about anatomy— since he was so smart, why not get ahead of the curve and learn all about human anatomy up close and personal?
That ended with crescent fingernails dug into pale skin and quiet sniffles, just quiet enough for no one to hear.
Then, he began to teach Peter more.
“You’re just so mature, Einstein. School’s gonna hold you back so I’m gonna teach you everything you need to know!”
And ‘more’ ended with hand shaped bruises on his hips, tears, and bile creeping up his throat.
Peter slammed the door to his room so hard he faintly heard the hinges squeak, though that wasn't a priority at the moment.
The routine was familiar to him: Headphones. Plushie. Bed. Then cry.
Peter pulled the headphones onto his head and practically threw himself onto his mattress, a slight sigh of relief at the feeling of the world drowning out around him.
Usually? he’d put on music, grab a snack, and wait out these flashback attack things. But right now he didn't have the luxury to do that, he didn't have the strength to go and find his phone at Betty’s, nor did he want to get up.
The door clicked open.
Oh God .
“Please don’t. I’m sorry. Please don’t. I’m not bad” Peter chanted it like a prayer, a desperate and begging one.
Breathe In, Breathe Out. Breathe, Peter. Why aren't you breathing?
His body inputted as many sensations as possible, and it made his skin burn like a hot iron was being pressed to it. He could hear the murmurs of orjer people in the building, the gentle comforts of a disembodied voice, the flashlight shining in his eyes that was god-awfully bright and moving side to side.
Tony. That was Tony was speaking to him, but he couldn't even comprehend the words being said to him. This was his mentor, practically his dad even! Why was he afraid?
Well, not every touch had hurt him, but enough that he’d shy away from every one. If you got bit by a venomous snake, you would stay away from them all, wouldn't you?
“C’mon, breathe for me kid. No one’s gonna hurt you. It’s just me here an’ Pepper’s across the hall.”
Tony’s voice was a low mumble, the rumbling of his chest was noticed as the other pressed himself to Peter, cradling him in his embrace. With one hand in his hair, Tony used the other to rub circles into the teens back.
It was comforting, nothing like Skip’s loud and cocky voice, accompanied with an almost always teasing tone. Skip was sadistic, Tony was caring. Peter was trying his best and that was all Tony cared for. He’d hiccup and sniffle between breaths but he was getting enough oxygen to not pass out, and that was a win the two would take.
“I’m not going to rush you to tell me, but I’d like to know one day what caused this. It doesn’t have to be today, Underoos.”
But unlike any other situation, Peter wanted to tell Tony. He wanted validation and comfort and to be told it was okay to hurt like this.
And so, with a strained voice and slurred words, Peter spoke.
“Started when Aunt May g’t hurt…”