Irondad & Spiderson Oneshots

I Just Wanted You (To Know)

Hey y'all! This was born out of pure impulse, projecting, and an unhealthy amount of Folklore streaming. Just a very short drabble!

The title is from "this is me trying", which I highly recommend you listen to 'cause the mood of it fits with the story!

Warnings for mentions of blood/tiny injury, mentions of anxiety & depression and acting out of anxiety & depression, a tiny cigarette appearance, a bit of cussing though nothing too bad, and Peter's murky mindset. I swear I am in the middle of drafting an enormous WIP that is 110% fluff, I don't know where all this angst is coming from oops. Read safe <3<3

Hope you enjoy and thank you so much for reading! If you have any Irondad oneshot ideas, feel free to comment about what I could write! Have a great day/night!

Bye :)

Peter didn't know where he was going.

He didn't care much. The soles of his sneakers clomped, clomped, clomped. Where am I, why am I here, what's going on.

Clomp. Clomp. Clomp.

Argh- his toe hit something sharp.

Peter felt his eyes focus as if sliding back into their own sockets. He glared down at the blood currently dousing his shoe. The villain of this story, a shard of glass, lay beside the boy's foot, leading the way to a trail of continuous sharp bits.

Peter tilted his head. Why was there broken glass all over the place? Where was he? Why was he there?

What was going on?

Peter caught a glimpse of his face in the clear material as he walked further into the night, finding bigger chunks. Red rimmed eyes gazed back at him, giving him clues to his current catastrophe like a twisted board game of his messed up life.

Red rimmed eyes meant crying, obviously. He must have broken down at home and let his feet lead him wherever they might go.

Peter shuffled in place. Huh. That didn't sound particularly safe.

What did it matter, though?

Two and a half days after Peter's therapist had told him over Zoom he was being referred to a Special Doctor for anxiety and depression, Tony had decided enough was enough, and moved himself and his son to a quieter part of New York.

Peter hadn't had the heart to tell Tony that his anxiety was not sprouting from endless horns blaring and his depression was not sprouting from the dreary weather of the city. The man was trying, so Peter figured he'd better try, too.

The more rural neighborhood Peter barely called home these days was void of honking, void of forty-dozen midnight walkers, so the boy strolled alone, encompassed in darkness, earplugs in, ignoring the gash in his toe with a vehemence.

He would not have noticed the fellow brooding teen if he hadn't picked up his drearily hung head at exactly the right time.

The other kid seemed perhaps the same age- fifteen? Sixteen?- with spiky black hair, a pale face, and a seemingly unused cigarette dangling from his bruised lower lip.

"What the hell are you doing out at two a.m.?" the stranger called out to Peter.

Peter tried to nonchalantly lean against the side of the brick building next to him, not-quite meeting the other boy's eyes. Peter shrugged simply. "I could, um, I could say the same thing to you."