Spider-Son & Iron Dad two shots

the thing in common with sleep and stars

a/n: this isss probably the most vulnerable note i'm gonna write in the history of my time on wattpad, and i'm sorry in advance (you can skip past it if you want, it's just blabber)

so, i last updated january 12th... well it is now april!! sorry for the long wait everyone. i've written maybe a million oneshots and then never posted them, never finished them, all hidden away for the moment i felt like i was "good enough" again, like the lack of motivation and confidence would somehow fix itself if i took a break. it hasn't, yet, but i'm trying my best!

i wanted to come back to you all with some superb story, something lengthy, something rich in value that i could be proud of, but the longer it's taken, the heavier the expectation i've put on myself. logistically— i can't just let my own high expectations dig me further into this little spiraling hole i've found myself in since like, december. that's just silly of me, i think.

the reason i'm writing this, putting this all out there, is because sometimes, honesty is really important. maybe not for everyone, but for one person, two people, who are in the same situation that i'm in and just feel so alone about it. mindsets like these are the most powerful and annoying because they make you feel like you're the only one, like you're weak for feeling like this, because it doesn't look like it's affecting anyone else. you're not alone. you're not weak. i see you. i hear you. you are doing great.

with that being said: i don't think this oneshot is a fantastic example of my skill level, i don't think this is the best thing I've ever written, but that's okay. not everything has to be the best, and i'm trying to learn that. <3

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The new apartment smells too clean. It's too empty— the sounds are all different, from the footsteps in his carpet to the neighbours on his level. It's about two in the morning, almost nearing three, and Peter Parker is dwelling on these useless notes of his surroundings because he is restless.

He's usually restless these days. It's sort of like a fact of life. He can't imagine being in this stage, in these long stretching months and weeks since he's been dusted, where he doesn't have trouble sleeping. It's something that's just intrinsically linked to who he is now, for better or for worse.

There's sweat running down his forehead, making his hair stick uncomfortably in thick curls, but taking a blanket off makes him cold. That February chill, the dreariness, the rain, it makes him want to stay bundled up with as much pressure on him as possible.

Wildly, all of it makes him think of how different everything is now. His thoughts are rumbling, rocks that are being carried through a river, and he doesn't really care for it either way; because he is a rock, but also in the grand scheme of things, time is frozen like a bug in amber— and he is the bug.

Peter huffs. He sits up, stretches his arms up, twists left and right to get the cricks out of his aching back. A look at the window tells him pretty much what he already knew— that time hadn't been passing, but also that it had. He's in this weird purgatory where the sun isn't out, but it isn't nighttime, and exhaustion rests stickily like moss on brick, like mold on tile.

Maybe it'll be better on the other side of the bed, he thinks, so he moves his pillow grumpily to the other side. He maneuvers it with some not-so-gentle shoving under his head and shoulder, and pushes his face into it. It smells like sweat and faintly of old blood. He should wash it in the morning, if he can remember.

He won't remember. This starts nagging at him like a needle pressing into his skin. Not sharply, not deeply, but poking repeatedly and annoying him until he does something about it.

He grunts, sits up, and pulls the sheet off his pillow, tossing it into the abyss of more dirty laundry on the floor which he still has yet to take care of. He'll remember it better tomorrow if he sees it on the floor with all the other laundry to be done. (He will not have the energy tomorrow to do the laundry. This is a repetitive pattern he has. He knows this as well.)