Tasm - Blog Posts

When I see

All I see is

Less Dire Situations | 1

Part 2

Peter liked you the moment he met you after moving in with his Aunt May. Unfortunately, he never got the guts to talk to you. The idea disappeared after grade school and high school graduation, so you can imagine how surprised he was when you answered his ad for Advanced Calculus tutoring. It felt like he could actually get a shot with you… and then you jumped off the Manhattan Bridge.

Peter Parker x Reader | 5k+ | cw: fem!reader, DD:DNE, suicidal thoughts/ideation, suicide attempt, themes of depression, social withdrawing, emotional masking, canon divergence, angst, hurt, typos, etc.

A/N: i have an andrew garfield brainrot and i needed a fic to help me escape, thus this fic. btw its originally posted on ao3

Tagging: @sloanexx @azperja

I groan and slam my head on the table.

"Brava," Peter laughs and claps his hand, a pencil between his grip, "she's done it, folks. All 22 questions." He shifts on his chair and checks his phone for the time, "and it only took 3 hours."

I begrudgingly lift my head and glare at him, "there would still be daylight had you let me cheat."

He chuckles and shakes his head, "you don't pay me enough for that."

I raise my brows, "I feel like your reasoning is skewed."

Peter puts his pencil down and crosses his arms. He watches me as I finally close my journal and maths book, gathering my things into my bag. He tidies up his things too, "hey. You genuinely did good though."

"Psh. Gee. Thanks," I throw my pencil case in my pack.

"No," he shakes his head, "I'm serious," he places a hand on my shoulder, "you did good. You understood the concept. I'm proud of you."

He looks genuine when he says this, solemn and earnest even. I can't help but smile back at him, the vexation in my system, shattering into a million pieces. I chuckle and nod, "thank you, Peter."

He smiles.

I make a face, "you're such a dad."

Peter laughs under his breath and gathers his things.

"You ever hear that before?"

"Wow," he says exaggeratedly, "it's almost like you don't call me that every chance you get," he stands as he brings his books in his arms. He points the eraser end of his pencil, "which is such a foul, considering I don't have one."

I cackle. Peter chuckles inwardly, shaking his head as he heads into his bedroom. He mutters breathily, "you're so messed up in the head."

I tidy the rest of my things and fix his two-seater dining table. I then stand and push the chairs under the table, putting my backpack on.

Peter comes out of his bedroom, hand in one pocket, the other adjusting his glasses, "I'll walk you home."

I shake my head, "nah. I'm gonna go get a hotdog."

"That's fine," he heads to his front door and grabs his coat, "my treat," he puts on his coat and looks over his shoulder, "using the money you paid me."

I roll my eyes and chuckle as he opens the door.

"Ladies first," he motions and bows.

"You're such a weirdo," I walk out his apartment.

"True," he closes the door.

We eat hotdogs, heaping with relish, mustard, and ketchup on a bench by the river. It was out of the way from my home, but it was always a welcome detour, in my opinion.

I lick my lips as I look at the massive monument across from us. The Manhattan Bridge; my final stop.

I point as I chew.

Peter looks as he takes a bite of his hotdog. He turns back to me, "Manhattan Bridge."

"My launch pad," I say. I swallow and hold the rest of my hotdog in both hands, "one day, I'll jump."

He stills in his spot. He refrains from eating his hotdog and wonders if he heard right as he watches me continue to eat mine. He shifts and turns to me.

I chomp, and chew, and look back at him.

"What?"

I was never one to repeat myself, so I don't.

"Don't joke like that."

I turn to my hotdog and mutter under my breath, "I'm not joking."

Peter hears this of course but he doesn't doesn't give it away.

I look back at him and stuff hotdog in my face. The worry and concern that radiates off his face eats at me. I regret saying it. Part of me wants to tell him, to seriously tell him I am messed up in the head. I want to tell him the idea of jump off such a pretty bridge that means so much to so many people sounds so... cathartic.

I want to tell him I don't want him to feel concerned or worried. I don't want anyone to feel that way for me, which is precisely why I want to do this.

I don't though, because I know he'll only be more concerned and worried.

I grin at him and nudge him with my elbow, "it'd be a great way to meet the Spoods, huh?"

I cackle to myself as Peter gets recoils.

He doesn't respond to my joke, not in anyway that counted. He straightens up and gives a sigh, "a Spiderman joke?"

I nod.

He shakes his head, "still not funny."

"Oh, come on, grampa. What? You can't take a dark joke?"

"Dark jokes are funny."

"Come on," I raise my arms, "it is. Spiderman has saved so many people from falling before! It's a great idea."

"Listen," he raises a hand, "if you want to meet Spiderman, I hear there's a spot he goes to a lot."

"Pshh," I wave him off, "where's your sense of adventure? Where's the serendipity?"

He shakes his head, looking at the last of his hotdog. He doesn't feel like eating it anymore.

I decide to lighten the mood by pointing at other things and commenting on them. I get a couple chuckles out of him by the time I finish the last of my hotdog. When I turn to him, I recognize how badly I've killed the mood.

He and I stare for a moment. I can only take so much until I decide to look at his hotdog.

I grab it and eat it myself. He watches as I stand and brush the crumbs off my hands. With a mouthful, I say, "you snooze, you lose."

Peter stands and places his hands in his pockets.

He walks me home like he always does, only this time the mood was not so chipper.

When I get to my building, I give him a smile and wave, "thanks for the hotdog, Parker."

We stand in front of the entrance.

"And for walking me," I add.

He nods and smiles, "you're welcome. You should still eat dinner though, particularly vegtables."

I snort and nod, "yes, dad." I head towards the door.

"And hey," he calls out, making me stop.

I look back at him and raise my brows.

Peter presses his lips together, "it was a joke, right? Just a silly, ha-ha joke."

My heart sinks. I smile and lie through my teeth, "of course, Peter."

Peter stares at me. He smiles. He nods, "good."

"Good," I nod back.

"There's still so much Algebra you have to learn."

"Good night, Peter."

He watches me as I go inside. He is deeply unsettled, "night."

It's been 30 minutes since I woke up. Where once was only shadow, at this point, the sunshine was trickling through. The glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling were no longer glowing.

My alarm goes off. It's now 8 o' clock.

I sit down on my bed and wipe my face. Time to check the news.

I grab my phone and finally end my alarm. I open my news and look at the latest headlines. My eyes are heavy as I scroll through the depressing articles: the war of Israel, the genocide of Palestine, the war crimes in Sudan, the human rights crisis in Afghanistan, the exploitation of Congo, the US missile strikes in Yemen, topped off with local crime and, neighborhood disturbances-- fuck, someone killed a 90-year-old at the K-mart two blocks down?

I chew on my lip as I feel desperation creep up my spine. My fingers are ice cold and my eyes water as I search the tabloids for something-- anything.

But there was nothing.

There was no news on Spiderman.

I throw my phone on the sheets in front of me.

I turn to my calendar on the wall, looking at today's date, encircled with red, just like every day before it.

I stand and grab my red marker, crossing today out, just like every date before it. I look at date tomorrow, fingers tingling with agitation.

Why won't he just come?

I encircle tomorrow's date and decide, fuck it. I toss the marker on my desk. Tomorrow's D-day regardless if Spiderman shows.

I grab my towel and take a cold shower.

The next thing I know, I'm freezing in first period. I exhale on my hands and rub them together as Ms. Vasquez explains today's activity, a study on good vs evil, a sketch that concisely depicts each side, utilizing the combination of techniques we've been discussing for the week.

She says while were drawing, she'll also make rounds to check on our the status of our final output.

By the time she comes to my desk, I'm halfway through my sketch.

Ms. Vasquez looks at my drawing pad and smiles. I look to her, then my work. It was what it was.

She places her tender, veiny hand on my shoulder, "exceptional work, my dear. As always."

I turn to her. I don't know what about 'as always' rubbed me the wrong way. Was it the implicit excellence constantly required of me? Was it the feeling I had nowhere else to go and therefore had to keep outdoing myself? Was it the fact I didn't actually believe I was always exceptional? Was it the fact it felt like it negated all the times I did feel exceptional but people couldn't discern it?

I smile, "thanks, Ms. V."

The middle aged woman purses her lips. She scrutinizes my expression and I get nervous. She motions with her head, "I especially like the rendering you did."

I turn to my drawing.

"There's more visual weight on the good side than the evil, making it look darker."

I release a chuckle and turn back to her.

"There's that smile," Ms. Vasquez said.

"Can't get anything past you," I mutter lowly. I rub my neck uncomfortably.

"That remains to be seen," the woman responds, "do you finally have something to show me for your finals?"

I press my lips into a small smile and examine my current drawing, only to release my pencil and give her a bashful expression. I make nonsensical sounds. She raises her thin brows in concern.

"Come on," she urges, tightening her cardigan around her, "not 1 sketch? Not even a doodle?"

I let out an airy chuckle, "I haven't really been seeing inspiring heroes lately."

I watch as her freckled face contorts, her smile lines turn to frown lines and her forehead curls with worry, "a lot of your classmates are doing their parents, siblings, friends. I've seen a lot of Spiderman sketches too. And Iron Man... And that one trapeze act from Hell's Kitchen."

I snort at the mention.

"You mind me looking at your sketchbook?"

"Sure," I push my open book towards her.

"I mean your personal sketchbook."

I freeze at the mention. I look at her, trying to figure if she was serious or not.

She raises her hands, "artist to artist, I know it's like opening your ribcage, so I won't judge. But teacher to student," she sighs, "I'm honestly concerned about you. You were so excited when I announced A Study on Heroes. I wanna know what's going on with your drawings at least."

Fuck. I rub my thumbs across my fingers and chuckle, "ah. What can I say," I take my backpack and rummage through my things, "burnout."

I hand her my notebook. It was tattered and crusty. It had pages clinging on for dear life and ones that didn't belong there at all.

Ms. Vasquez accepts the object with reverence. I gulp as I watch her open it. If she catches the page where I drafted my suicide notes, she either doesn't notice or doesn't note it. I'm sure as hell she saw my distressed drawings, but she doesn't say a word about that either. She is completely stoic as he works her way back into my work.

My heart nearly leaves me when she turns my book to me, "who's this?"

I look at the primitive sketch. I look at the faceless figure eating a block of something undistinguishable. I don't know how she knew it was someone at all, "that's Peter."

"Peter Matthew? From the other section?"

"No," I shake my head, "just Peter. He's studying bio-chem."

"Ah," she nods, tucking her dark curly hair behind her ear.

I wait for her to explain how she knew the sketch was a person, but she doesn't. She only brings the book back to her chest and continues flicking the pages.

After a while, she shows me again, "what about these?"

I look at the plump man who had a handless raised arm. The paper where his wrist ends was ripped, having been been erased so many times. There are other doodles of him surround that one, scenes of taking orders and making angry faces. I had forgotten about those. My teacher turns the page and I see more of him.

"That's Eddie," I point toward the whiteboard, "he sells-" I swallow the lump on my throat "... doughnuts."

She nods, "why not him?"

I look at my sketchbook as she places it before me.

"I-" I shake my head, "haven't bought doughnuts there in so long. I doubt I should even do him." I close my notebook and shove it back into my bag.

Ms. Vasquez takes a moment before replying, "there's light and dark within all of us. Sometimes acknowledging the darkness is the first step to letting it go, to make room for light."

My nerves begin to tighten when she says this.

She releases a breath, "if he was relevant enough for you to commit more than 5 pages, I'd say he impacted you enough."

Thank goodness she let it go. "... his doughnuts were pretty good."

"Good then," she nods, "find an angle. Think of how he impacted you, say--" she shakes her head in thought, "you eat his doughnuts when you're stressed and after, you feel like life isn't so bad."

I pick up my pencil and nod. I absentmindedly continue shading my current drawing.

I perk when she calls my name. I turn back to her.

"I've been lax on you because I know you're a good student," Ms. Vasquez explains, making my throat constrict. She continues, "and because the finals were still pretty far. But not anymore," she raises a finger, "I need something soon. And I mean within this week soon."

"Yes, Ms. Vasquez."

She nods, "it can be about the doughnut guy, or someone else entirely. Okay?"

"Okay."

She smiles when she walks away and so do I.

The next thing I know, I'm being yanked back to keep my balance.

I whip to my left, barely hearing what Peter had to say against the loud bustle of the street.

When he lets go of me, we stop by the corner of the pavement. He tucks his hands back into his jacket pocket, "you are so out of it."

"Sorry," I make a face then smile, "Ms. Vasquez really chewed me out."

His brows quirk, "she did?"

"Yeah," I look at the passing cars, then the streetlight, "I've been procrastinating the final work for too long. She said even I couldn't shit out a whole final output overnight."

Peter doesn't respond until after we cross the street. He nudges me with the hand buried in his jacket, "what was your final output again?"

"Ah, we're supposed to make a fleshed out character design on a hero of our choosing. They have to have impacted us someway."

He nods. He takes a chance on a joke, "so no Spidey for you."

I chuckle and shake my head, "a lot of people are actually doing Spiderman."

"For real?" he asks, genuinely surprised.

I laugh, looking back to where I was walking, "yeah. It's all about justifying it, you know."

Peter feels fuzzy inside. He chuckles, "he walked my dog once."

I laugh and follow-up, "he beat up my 6th grade bully."

Peter snorts then adjusts his glasses.

At this point, we take a turn and the smell of warm vanilla becomes apparent. It doesn't take long for us to reach Eduardo and Son's Doughnuts.

I stop at the entrance for a moment. Peter looks at me and pulls me back, so not to disrupt the flow of people. Even through it all, the place was busy as ever.

"You okay?" Peter asks me.

I nod as I turn to my feet. I give him a smile and impulsively push the glass doors open, walking into the store even though my chest was tightening.

Peter follows after me, not saying a word. We stand in line. The line was as long as I remember, maybe even longer.

The warmth of the store, which used to be so welcoming and comforting, felt suffocating now. I stare at the checkered floor; the tiles were new. It seems even the walls were freshly painted. I rub my hands together as the line moves.

"Hey," Peter says from behind, patting my shoulder. I look back and turn where he was pointing.

My heart gets nipped at when I see a portrait of Eddie on the wall. It was candid shot, his face was stoic as he fried donuts.

I gulp and look forward.

As I got closer and closer to the front, I turn to Peter and grab his arm. He looks at me with reassurance. He takes the lead when it was our turn.

"Hey Eduardo," Peter says.

"Peter," the man exclaims, "the-" he stops himself when he sees me. I make eye contact with Eduardo and muster up all the guts to smile at him.

He speaks my name with such surprise and fondness, guilt nearly paralyzes me.

"How've you been, Da Vinci?!" the beefy man chuckles with excitement, "it's been so long! We missed you here!"

Peter turns to me with a smile. My chest tightens as I smile back.

"Peter says you're gonna be a big shot animator soon!'

My lip slightly trembles, "nah. I'm barely even graduating."

Eduardo waves his large hands, "oh-ho-ho. Dad was crazy about your drawings. And you know him. He's not crazy about anything but doughnuts."

My smile crumbles at the weight of the conversation.

Eduardo turns to the baked goods before him, his profile on full display, a carbon copy of his father's, then back to us, "whatever you want, Da Vinci, you got it. On the house."

"I- E-Eduardo- it's fine."

"Oh no. I gotta convince you to be a regular again," he smiles. I notice he's got a golden tooth now. Eduardo shakes his head, "what was it? Boston Creme and a Bear Claw?"

I don't nod but he gets the order anyway.

"The regular for me too, Eduardo."

"Yeah, yeah, pay up, Parker."

Peter and I head to the register. There, we are assisted by Lorenzo, who immediately says, "sorry about my older brother."

The soft smile on his angular face soothes me enough that I actually manage to smile back.

"It is so nice to see you again though," Lorenzo says as he rings up our order, "really."

Peter watches as I rub my arm. Lorenzo says the amount due.

Peter turns to Lorenzo, passing a bill as he says, "hey. Last time my ham and cheese was cold."

Lorenzo raises a bushy brow, "tough luck, kid." The lanky man gives Peter his change and Eduardo himself comes to give us our order packed food.

"Nice to see you again, sweetheart," the older of the two brothers says, "make sure to come back; Chico would want to see you."

Peter takes our order. The three men look at me.

My face contorts, "I..." I suck in a breath, "I'm really sorry about your dad."

Lorenzo presses his lips. Eduardo smiles, "thank you. I'm sorry too. We all miss him here. I'm happy you had the courage to come back."

"It was hard to open up again after we closed up," Lorenzo says with a half smile, "but it's what dad would have wanted."

Peter and I eat our warm treats on our way back to campus. The crunch of the dough and the sweetness of the cream made me feel like I wasn't where I was right now. It was enough to make me cry, so I don't think about it too much.

"Are you gonna do it?" Peter asks, "the hero thing?"

I turn to him and shake my head, "I shouldn't. It wouldn't be right."

A loud car honk from afar fills the air.

"Maybe you could do it, in memoriam."

I chuckle under my breath.

The thought of coming back to ask for photos from the bereaved family sounds horrifying. I want to argue on this point, but I dismiss the thought altogether. It doesn't matter anyway.

"You know what," I smile at Peter, "when you put it that way, it sounds like a good idea."

Peter perks as he takes a bite of his food. He chews and nods, "it is."

I turn back to my doughnut, and speak without a second though, "I hate that he died. I hate that it was him. No one deserves to go out like that."

He doesn't get to respond.

"The police don't even care. No one cares." I shake my head, "not even Spiderman cares anymore."

Peter feels winded. He turns to his ham and cheese. He feels tempted to say 'cut the Spiderman some slack' about as much as he wants to say he was too busy with homework, too busy with Calculus... too busy enjoying tutoring to have time to put on the suit.

"I hate that we have to depend on some masked bozo for justice," I say out of spite.

Peter and I halt at a bend.

He looks at me as I look at the street, littered, polluted, and filthy. Peter thinks there's so much to unpack here.

He zones onto my face, studying the wafting strands of hair, the visible turmoil, and the tormented beauty.

"You know what, Pete?"

"Hmm?"

"Nevermind what I said. Good for him," I take a bite of my warm food, "I'd bail too. Probably build a web swing for myself and rob the Trump tower."

I laugh when I say this. Peter doesn't.

Peter decided Spiderman did care.

He got in his suit and spent the whole night waiting by the radio on his desk for a scene to help out on, not that he had to wait the whole night for something to happen.

There wasn't anything big, which was a good thing, just a few run away robbers and gang fights needing to be broken up.

It was, what, weeks, a month and a half since he put on the suit? It both felt so long and not long at all. What he knew for sure was that he missed this.

He missed it so much he swung around New York until he couldn't.

And then he missed his morning alarms.

When he finally woke up, he felt incredibly well-rested, a little too well-rested. When he realized he caught up with his sleep, he jolted into a panic and knew he fucked up.

He scrambles for his phone, slapping his hand on his bedside table. He checks his screen and jumps out of bed when he sees it's 2pm. He webs his backpack towards him and leaps out of the window, swinging through after lunch traffic.

He lands on campus, a little winded and sweaty, praying he could still catch what was left of his class that starts at 1:40. He sprints to his building, evading most of the people around. Just as he runs up to the entrance, he passes a woman who startles because of him.

It happens in slow-motion; Peter's spider senses cause him to turn and witness the aftermath just as it played out. She lady was carrying way too much for a person of her size; the heaps of paper in her arms comes crashing down.

His instincts get the best of him and he shoots a web at her water jug before it hits the ground. He makes an abrupt stop and grabs her arm before she loses her balance.

"Woah there," he huffs, keeping the woman upright.

She gasps as her things escape her.

Peter releases her arm and picks up the fallen objects.

She catches her breath and watches as he hands her the papers. He gives a guilty look, "sorry about that."

The middle aged woman knits her thin brows and huffs, "you running late or what?"

Peter chuckles with guilt, holding her water container by its handle, "I'm so late."

She grunts as she carries her papers. He makes a face when she leans back to carry the weight, clearly struggling.

Peter releases a breath and chuckles, "but uh-" he takes the papers back from her, "not too late."

"Oh, you don't-"

"No, ma'am, I insist," he says, "I'm guessing you're heading into the main building?"

"Actually," she slowly takes her water container from him, "I'm heading to my car. It's in the lot outside campus."

"Alright then," he smiles, "lead the way."

"Really? Are you sure? Because I really do need help..."

Peter chuckles, "yep. Yes. It's fine."

She smiles and nods, raising her arm forward.

They walk to her car and when they get there, he places the papers in the front seat.

"Thank you so much," she sighs, clutching her jug in her chest, "what's your college? Maybe I can put in good word to your teacher for getting you late."

Peter laughs, "no, it's fine really. I'm, uh, in bio-chem."

She raises a brow, "you wouldn't happen to be a Peter, would you?"

He's surprised, "woah, I am actually."

The woman chuckles, "what a coincidence."

Peter's heart leaps when she says your name and explains you're in her class, introducing herself as Ms. Vasquez. She says you mentioned him just yesterday, as he was the subject in one of your drawings. As quickly as his heart soars, it crashes when she tells him you had gifted her the water container in her hand.

Ms. Vasquez raises it, flaunting the familiar looking thing, "she's such a sweet girl."

That was your container.

"But you know," she adds, "I'm concerned about her. Has she been acting odd lately?"

Peter gulps, his entire body tenses. He can't speak.

"She hasn't been passing her requirements on time, and normally, I wouldn't think much of it, but she's been my student for 5 semesters, and she's never once been late, let alone missed a submission."

He uncomfortably smiles, "she's... I don't -she's going through some stuff."

Ms. Vasquez' brows furrow but she nods, "well I'm glad to know she has you in her life," she pats his shoulder, "thank you again, Peter."

Peter raises his hand in regard as the woman gets into her car. The moment she drives off, he pulls out his phone and calls you.

Except he doesn't call when he catches the 13 missed calls you've left him. His soul nearly slips out of his body as your 'this could have been a text, Parker,' line plays in his head; you hate calling.

He frantically presses his thumbs on your number. His pulse races as he hears the continuous ringing and did-not-pickup beep.

Fuck his 2pm class.

He looks for you all over campus. He checks almost every room in your building before realizing it was a waste of precious time. He revisits all the areas you've taken him, and visits places you've mentioned once before. He goes through the entire campus, then runs around the entire neighborhood.

He goes to your building but the guard to your dorm won't let him in without you there, even though he knew him well. He climbs up the fire exit but you had your curtains drawn and the windows locked. He tries knocking, then debates on breaking the window down. He decides against it.

He goes to the convenience store, the fast food chain, the café, the thrift shop, the bodega, the pharmacy, the record store, all of which you loved, but doesn't find you. He finds himself busting through the arcade you loathed because of how loud it was and the flower shop you scorned because they over-charged you once.

Nothing.

He finds himself busting into Eduardo and Son's Doughnuts, nearly breaking the glass door down with him.

The brothers turn to door and give a chorus of shocked exclamations.

"Jesucristo, hermano!" Eduardo shouts from the counter.

Lorenzo gasps and clutches his chest, leaning toward the register.

"You good, Pedrito?" Chico asks as he stops cleaning the tables.

Peter feels sweat on his neck and back begin to cling on his shirt. He surveys the unusually vacant establishment, finding only 3 customers present.

Chico wipes down the tables with his thick arms and large fingers, "you want an iced strawberry latte, kid? You looked stressed."

"He's in university," Lorenzo chuckles, going back on his phone, "what do you expect?"

Peter shakes his head and waves his hands, asking if they've, by any chance, seen you.

"Ah, yeah," Chico smiles, "she was just here."

"Wait, what?"

Eduardo grins and steps away from his station, pointing at the wall by Peter's side, "she set those up."

Chico and Peter turn to where Eduardo heads.

Peter surveys the wall that was bare just just yesterday. Where once only a small portrait of the brothers' father adorned the space, now had a framed illustration of Eddie and his kids beside a bulletin board where multiple pages were pinned. Most of them, he recognized, were your doodles of Eddie, ripped out of your sketchbook, the others were notes written with different handwriting.

"She asked if she could something to the wall," Eduardo said, "I thought she was gonna put one drawing of dad. I was shocked when she started ripping at her journal. She said... what did she say Chi-"

"Art keeps the memory of those we love alive," Chico raises a finger.

Lorenzo makes a face, "she literally only said art is meant to be shared."

"That's what she meant," Chico eyes his younger brother.

Lorenzo shakes his head and turns to Peter, "she was actually looking for you too."

His stomach drops, "she was?"

"Yeah," Lorenzo puts his phone down and rummages through the drawer behind him. He pulls out something and reaches out to Peter, "she said to give you this if you come."

Peter dashes forward and receives... a Tawagoshi.

"When she left, I realized she didn't think of why just giving it to you tomorrow," Lorenzo says, crossing his lean arms.

Peter looks at him in a panic, "did she say where she was headed?"

Lorenzo is taken aback by his expression, ".... uh... No? She- she didn't."

Just as Eduardo continues to muse about the new wall decorations and how so many people posted their letters to Eddie, Peter busts out of the place, just as roughly as he came in, causing Eduardo and Chico to yell at him in Spanish.

At this point, Peter is full on Spiderman. He puts on his suit and swings through the city. He's on high alert as he goes through each street.

Part of him wants to take thorough looks through every corner of the neighborhood, but his gut was urging him to speed through the avenue, dead set on a destination.

The sun begins to set on New York when he reaches the Manhattan Bridge. He looks down from the pillars of the structure. As the seconds pass, he feels more and more desperate.

He lies on his back and takes off his mask. He takes his phone out and calls you over and over and over.

He wonders if you already did it. He sits up and stares at the river, eyes watering as he imagines your lifeless body floating up the shoreline. He pulls his mask on, tugging it on his head way harder than need.

He realizes he started to cry when his lenses begins to fog. He tugs his mask on and snaps himself out of it. He battles with himself on what he should do next.

He's already off the other side of the bridge when he feels the urge to swing back. He wrestles with himself, unwilling to waste time, but ultimately he succumbs to that urge and perches himself back atop the pillar.

And then, the worst possible flavor of relief washes through him when he sees you. It's cruel how you don't even think twice when you reach the middle of the bridge.

"NO!" Peter yells as you climb onto the railing.

He swings towards you, using his body as a pendulum to reach you faster.

You're already free falling when Spiderman whips himself towards you.

He catches you.

You let out a grunt as your body cracks at the impact.

Peter has and arm and his legs around you, "what are you doing? What are you doing?!"

You look at him, eyes red and puffy. Your voice is hoarse, "S-pidey?"

The Mechanics Of A Soul

spider-man meets his soulmate far before she ever gets to knows peter parker. soulmate au- at the age of 18, you can meet your soulmate. ty @gotkindabored bc u made this possibleee

Knowing her comes easy.

She taught him the meaning of a guilty pleasure.

Because that’s what this is, the way he swings up to her window, breathless and lacking in restraint, hungry eyes desperate to see the only person that can bring him any sort of peace.

She looks beautiful, of course. This is a constant, looking at her. She is a sort of lovely you can’t stop looking at, one that grows warmer and kinder the more you fall into it. He sees her through the window, like he always does, before he knocks. Her hair is tucked behind her ear, and she’s wearing the shorts she wears to bed, and she’s chewing on her lower lip nervously.

He knocks on her window twice, pauses and then knocks again. There’s no real reason to do their little ritual- she lives alone, and it’s not like anyone else would feasibly be at her window.

(He doesn’t like the thought of anyone else being there. Not one bit.)

But he knows there isn’t anyone else. Knows that he monopolizes her time in a way that if he was a better man, the guilt would have prevented him from coming over in the first place.

“Hey stranger,” she says. He wants to hate it, how her honey sweet drawl pulls him in. He wants it to be the magic, wants it to be the soulmate pull, but unfortunately for Peter’s will power, she seems to have a magnetic force of her own.

She doesn’t know his name.

“Hey to you too,” he says back, crawling through her window with, nimble body slipping through and sitting beside her on her bedspread.

He studies her face, a luxury she can’t indulge in.

“I missed you tonight,” her eyes are unwavering on him, and they’re heavy. It’s a weight he’s lucky to bear. “Were you safe out there?”

It’s a Friday night, and he knows she might be out with friends, might be with someone else right now, if it wasn’t for him. She picked this, to be here with him.

He wonders if she’d pick it if she knew him as more than Spider-Man.

“It was okay,” Peter replies, “I just got held up.”

By a bank robber, and yeah, he’s got a raging headache from the sirens, but he’s fine. He’s here.

“You look radiant,” he says, it’s so, so cheesy, but he’s looking at her and he can’t look away. She’s his favorite thing to look at.

“You’re ridiculous,” she says, but she’s preening. It’s a little much, how much pride he feels from it.

He’s not wearing his regular suit- in fact, he looks a bit ridiculous. He swung over in sweatpants, a sweatshirt and the mask. It helps the whole thing feel more normal, like she didn’t meet her soulmate in a cafe being robbed.

It takes a couple of minutes, but they settle into their little groove- her laying on his chest, her little TV playing a show they binge together, his fingers running through her hair. It’s more peace than he ever imagined for himself.

He knows it. He knows she deserves more from the soul she was meant to love. And it doesn’t seem fair, that someone as kind as her has to love someone who can only give her half of himself.

Still, the night is young and she’s the love of his life, and this is more than he deserves.

The next time Peter sees her, he doesn’t have the mask on.

Of course, she doesn’t know who he is, and he’s planted to the ground, looking at her.

She’s fucking gorgeous. She looks like something out of a dream, and Peter wasn’t expecting to see the love of his life right now.

He should’ve checked the roster for the class he’s in, but he didn’t think to- he didn’t even know she went to the same university as he did.

He looks awful. Did he even do his hair this morning? She liked that actor with glasses, why the fuck didn’t he wear his glasses-

“Hey, you’re Peter, right?”

Peter.

He must look crazy right now, how he’s reacting to her saying his name- but she’s heard him say her name before. She’s never said his. He’s never heard the way it sounds, how her sweet tone wraps around the syllables, and he wants to hear it again.

“You know my name?”

“Do you mind if I sit here?” She asks, and he nods, faster than probably seems normal.

“Yeah, of course, go ahead.”

He’s talking too much.

“And yeah! We went to high school together. You took photos for yearbook, right?”

She knew who he was.

“Yeah,” he stammered back, “I did. I didn’t know you went to Midtown.”

Idiot.

“I think we ran in different circles,” she replies, “But it’s good to see you again.”

He was in her bed last night. He knows what shampoo she uses, knows how she feels pressed up against him, knows her heart like the back of his hand.

“It’s good to see you too.”

She giggles at that, and there it is, that burst of warmth in his chest. His girl.

And Peter doesn’t know if its their soul bond or just the fact that he’s in love with her, but the whole lecture (which he couldn’t tell you a thing about) is spent passing notes, genuine notes. Little scraps of paper, pieces of his heart on a line notebook.

It’s a waltz he told himself from day one that he’d never get to dance. Knowing her as Peter is scary. He can’t call her radiant. He isn’t a hero, isn’t even a particularly cool guy. He’s just in love.

She still smiles at his jokes, though.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he says, when he sneaks into her bedroom. This is routine, a pattern he adores, but this time it is different. She knows both versions of him. Not together, but she knows him.

She is of course, none the wiser. Her smile blooms like a rose, and he feels so selfish when she pulls him into an embrace. There’s a candle on, a dim lamp illuminating her beautiful face, and he shouldn’t be doing this.

It’s hedonistic. How can he be so greedy for her affection, take it as both versions of himself? It hardly seems fair.

“Are you okay?” her voice is muffled by his shirt, concern buried in her tone.

“I’m perfect,” he replies, “I’ve got you.”

It’s a delicate balance, and it doesn’t feel fair to her, but Peter is lucky.

It started simple enough, with them getting coffee after class, exchanging study details. Days slip into nights, hours into months, and she knows Peter. She knows him.

It’s easy with her. She loves the scent of vanilla and tells him about her favorite writers and Peter could spend years listening to her voice. And it’s not fair to her, to be two people, neither of which she can fully have.

A treacherous part of him wonders if she likes him as Peter.

Soulmates are one of those controversial things, but Peter- he had always wanted to meet his soulmate. He’d grown up watching Ben and May, how they danced to their favorite songs in the kitchen, how they seem to revolve around each other like oak trees, roots that had tangled together so much that separation seemed an improbable impossibility.

When he was a little boy, he wondered what his soulmate would be like. How would they look? Would they be kind? Would they want him back?

And god, she’s so much better than he could’ve ever imagined.

He never imagined he’d have to hide himself from her.

Gwen had left, and couldn’t blame her. She’d almost died, and it had scared her, and Peter- he knows that being with him is a flight risk, knows that loving him means a bit of self-sacrifice.

If he was a better man, he wouldn’t have gotten in this deep.

She’s his soulmate. There aren’t words to describe it, what it means to have her, what it means to be here, in the room with the other half of his heart.

He cannot risk it.

The tightrope walk had to end at some point, he supposes.

The liminal space finally ends on Saturday afternoon.

He’s Spider-Man to her, right now. It’s getting hard to keep track of what she knows about each version of him- he often almost slips, almost calls her darling when she can see his face.

“I have to ask you something.”

Peter knows what she is going to say before she opens her mouth.

There’s that sick feeling in his throat, the sense of dread.

“What’s going on?”

“There’s this guy in my class,” she says, and fuck, it’s like the world is in slow motion, like a bad movie, “And I think he likes me.”

Of course someone likes her. Of course they do. Liking her Is the natural succession of events after meeting her.

“Yeah?”

He wants to sound practiced. Poised. In control.

He doesn’t want to sound like he’s shaking, like the ground could fall out from under him at any given moment.

Like he’s about to lose the love of his life.

“It’s confusing for me, because you’re the only person I’ve ever felt this way around, and I didn’t I was able to feel this way around anyone else. You’re my soulmate.”

The term feels strange in Peter’s head, lulls around his mouth like a bitter candy. He normally loves that word. Carries the pride around like a limb, a piece of himself.

She’s right. She isn’t supposed to feel that way for anyone else. But anything’s possible, right?

He should say something. He knows he should. Except he can’t, feels like he’s going to choke on the too-thick air surrounding him.

It shouldn’t really be possible, Peter thinks to himself.

He’s supposed to be what she needs. He’s not supposed to have been able to mess this up.

“I see,” Peter replies, his voice isn’t loud enough. He should pull off his mask. He should say something. Anything. “Do you, uh, do you like him?”

He thinks back on it, nights where she plays music that sounds like if a fireplace embers had a more corporeal form, hours of time slipped into a space he never wished to leave.

It’s like watching a car crash. He’s just waiting for it to end.

He’d been naive.

She runs her hands through her hair, a nervous gesture he’s always been so endeared by, and this time, all it does is pull at the ache in his chest so much it almost tears it in half.

“His name is Peter.”

Oh. Oh.

It can’t be him.

“And he’s just- I don’t even know, he was in my class, and he’s my friend-“

“Photography class?”

He knows he sounds desperate, but he can’t care. And she’s closer to him, he can’t help it- she smells like roses and she’s looking up at him, wide doe eyes peering back at him. God, he’d do just about anything for her to mean it.

For her to have picked every version of him she’d know.

She nods, gingerly, and every breath feels like hope incarnate.

“Peter Parker?”

Realization blooms across her delicate features, and his heart beat’s so, so fast. Even still, she’s so close to him. He can feel her breath.

He’d pictured this moment before. Not that he ever believed it would come true, but in his more vulnerable moments of self indulgence, he would allow himself to consider what it would be like. He thought he’d get her flowers, propose some sort of affectation worthy of her time.

Loving her follows a rhythm, the beats of a song his soul had him dance to, until he could make the acquaintance of the woman he was meant to spend his life loving.

When she kisses him, arms wrapped around his waist, a helpless smile and an ardent urgency to her movements, far too late and still, always, just on time- he knows.

Every version of him was always going to end up here.

The Mechanics Of A Soul

spider-man meets his soulmate far before she ever gets to knows peter parker. soulmate au- at the age of 18, you can meet your soulmate. ty @gotkindabored bc u made this possibleee

Knowing her comes easy.

She taught him the meaning of a guilty pleasure.

Because that’s what this is, the way he swings up to her window, breathless and lacking in restraint, hungry eyes desperate to see the only person that can bring him any sort of peace.

She looks beautiful, of course. This is a constant, looking at her. She is a sort of lovely you can’t stop looking at, one that grows warmer and kinder the more you fall into it. He sees her through the window, like he always does, before he knocks. Her hair is tucked behind her ear, and she’s wearing the shorts she wears to bed, and she’s chewing on her lower lip nervously.

He knocks on her window twice, pauses and then knocks again. There’s no real reason to do their little ritual- she lives alone, and it’s not like anyone else would feasibly be at her window.

(He doesn’t like the thought of anyone else being there. Not one bit.)

But he knows there isn’t anyone else. Knows that he monopolizes her time in a way that if he was a better man, the guilt would have prevented him from coming over in the first place.

“Hey stranger,” she says. He wants to hate it, how her honey sweet drawl pulls him in. He wants it to be the magic, wants it to be the soulmate pull, but unfortunately for Peter’s will power, she seems to have a magnetic force of her own.

She doesn’t know his name.

“Hey to you too,” he says back, crawling through her window with, nimble body slipping through and sitting beside her on her bedspread.

He studies her face, a luxury she can’t indulge in.

“I missed you tonight,” her eyes are unwavering on him, and they’re heavy. It’s a weight he’s lucky to bear. “Were you safe out there?”

It’s a Friday night, and he knows she might be out with friends, might be with someone else right now, if it wasn’t for him. She picked this, to be here with him.

He wonders if she’d pick it if she knew him as more than Spider-Man.

“It was okay,” Peter replies, “I just got held up.”

By a bank robber, and yeah, he’s got a raging headache from the sirens, but he’s fine. He’s here.

“You look radiant,” he says, it’s so, so cheesy, but he’s looking at her and he can’t look away. She’s his favorite thing to look at.

“You’re ridiculous,” she says, but she’s preening. It’s a little much, how much pride he feels from it.

He’s not wearing his regular suit- in fact, he looks a bit ridiculous. He swung over in sweatpants, a sweatshirt and the mask. It helps the whole thing feel more normal, like she didn’t meet her soulmate in a cafe being robbed.

It takes a couple of minutes, but they settle into their little groove- her laying on his chest, her little TV playing a show they binge together, his fingers running through her hair. It’s more peace than he ever imagined for himself.

He knows it. He knows she deserves more from the soul she was meant to love. And it doesn’t seem fair, that someone as kind as her has to love someone who can only give her half of himself.

Still, the night is young and she’s the love of his life, and this is more than he deserves.

The next time Peter sees her, he doesn’t have the mask on.

Of course, she doesn’t know who he is, and he’s planted to the ground, looking at her.

She’s fucking gorgeous. She looks like something out of a dream, and Peter wasn’t expecting to see the love of his life right now.

He should’ve checked the roster for the class he’s in, but he didn’t think to- he didn’t even know she went to the same university as he did.

He looks awful. Did he even do his hair this morning? She liked that actor with glasses, why the fuck didn’t he wear his glasses-

“Hey, you’re Peter, right?”

Peter.

He must look crazy right now, how he’s reacting to her saying his name- but she’s heard him say her name before. She’s never said his. He’s never heard the way it sounds, how her sweet tone wraps around the syllables, and he wants to hear it again.

“You know my name?”

“Do you mind if I sit here?” She asks, and he nods, faster than probably seems normal.

“Yeah, of course, go ahead.”

He’s talking too much.

“And yeah! We went to high school together. You took photos for yearbook, right?”

She knew who he was.

“Yeah,” he stammered back, “I did. I didn’t know you went to Midtown.”

Idiot.

“I think we ran in different circles,” she replies, “But it’s good to see you again.”

He was in her bed last night. He knows what shampoo she uses, knows how she feels pressed up against him, knows her heart like the back of his hand.

“It’s good to see you too.”

She giggles at that, and there it is, that burst of warmth in his chest. His girl.

And Peter doesn’t know if its their soul bond or just the fact that he’s in love with her, but the whole lecture (which he couldn’t tell you a thing about) is spent passing notes, genuine notes. Little scraps of paper, pieces of his heart on a line notebook.

It’s a waltz he told himself from day one that he’d never get to dance. Knowing her as Peter is scary. He can’t call her radiant. He isn’t a hero, isn’t even a particularly cool guy. He’s just in love.

She still smiles at his jokes, though.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he says, when he sneaks into her bedroom. This is routine, a pattern he adores, but this time it is different. She knows both versions of him. Not together, but she knows him.

She is of course, none the wiser. Her smile blooms like a rose, and he feels so selfish when she pulls him into an embrace. There’s a candle on, a dim lamp illuminating her beautiful face, and he shouldn’t be doing this.

It’s hedonistic. How can he be so greedy for her affection, take it as both versions of himself? It hardly seems fair.

“Are you okay?” her voice is muffled by his shirt, concern buried in her tone.

“I’m perfect,” he replies, “I’ve got you.”

It’s a delicate balance, and it doesn’t feel fair to her, but Peter is lucky.

It started simple enough, with them getting coffee after class, exchanging study details. Days slip into nights, hours into months, and she knows Peter. She knows him.

It’s easy with her. She loves the scent of vanilla and tells him about her favorite writers and Peter could spend years listening to her voice. And it’s not fair to her, to be two people, neither of which she can fully have.

A treacherous part of him wonders if she likes him as Peter.

Soulmates are one of those controversial things, but Peter- he had always wanted to meet his soulmate. He’d grown up watching Ben and May, how they danced to their favorite songs in the kitchen, how they seem to revolve around each other like oak trees, roots that had tangled together so much that separation seemed an improbable impossibility.

When he was a little boy, he wondered what his soulmate would be like. How would they look? Would they be kind? Would they want him back?

And god, she’s so much better than he could’ve ever imagined.

He never imagined he’d have to hide himself from her.

Gwen had left, and couldn’t blame her. She’d almost died, and it had scared her, and Peter- he knows that being with him is a flight risk, knows that loving him means a bit of self-sacrifice.

If he was a better man, he wouldn’t have gotten in this deep.

She’s his soulmate. There aren’t words to describe it, what it means to have her, what it means to be here, in the room with the other half of his heart.

He cannot risk it.

The tightrope walk had to end at some point, he supposes.

The liminal space finally ends on Saturday afternoon.

He’s Spider-Man to her, right now. It’s getting hard to keep track of what she knows about each version of him- he often almost slips, almost calls her darling when she can see his face.

“I have to ask you something.”

Peter knows what she is going to say before she opens her mouth.

There’s that sick feeling in his throat, the sense of dread.

“What’s going on?”

“There’s this guy in my class,” she says, and fuck, it’s like the world is in slow motion, like a bad movie, “And I think he likes me.”

Of course someone likes her. Of course they do. Liking her Is the natural succession of events after meeting her.

“Yeah?”

He wants to sound practiced. Poised. In control.

He doesn’t want to sound like he’s shaking, like the ground could fall out from under him at any given moment.

Like he’s about to lose the love of his life.

“It’s confusing for me, because you’re the only person I’ve ever felt this way around, and I didn’t I was able to feel this way around anyone else. You’re my soulmate.”

The term feels strange in Peter’s head, lulls around his mouth like a bitter candy. He normally loves that word. Carries the pride around like a limb, a piece of himself.

She’s right. She isn’t supposed to feel that way for anyone else. But anything’s possible, right?

He should say something. He knows he should. Except he can’t, feels like he’s going to choke on the too-thick air surrounding him.

It shouldn’t really be possible, Peter thinks to himself.

He’s supposed to be what she needs. He’s not supposed to have been able to mess this up.

“I see,” Peter replies, his voice isn’t loud enough. He should pull off his mask. He should say something. Anything. “Do you, uh, do you like him?”

He thinks back on it, nights where she plays music that sounds like if a fireplace embers had a more corporeal form, hours of time slipped into a space he never wished to leave.

It’s like watching a car crash. He’s just waiting for it to end.

He’d been naive.

She runs her hands through her hair, a nervous gesture he’s always been so endeared by, and this time, all it does is pull at the ache in his chest so much it almost tears it in half.

“His name is Peter.”

Oh. Oh.

It can’t be him.

“And he’s just- I don’t even know, he was in my class, and he’s my friend-“

“Photography class?”

He knows he sounds desperate, but he can’t care. And she’s closer to him, he can’t help it- she smells like roses and she’s looking up at him, wide doe eyes peering back at him. God, he’d do just about anything for her to mean it.

For her to have picked every version of him she’d know.

She nods, gingerly, and every breath feels like hope incarnate.

“Peter Parker?”

Realization blooms across her delicate features, and his heart beat’s so, so fast. Even still, she’s so close to him. He can feel her breath.

He’d pictured this moment before. Not that he ever believed it would come true, but in his more vulnerable moments of self indulgence, he would allow himself to consider what it would be like. He thought he’d get her flowers, propose some sort of affectation worthy of her time.

Loving her follows a rhythm, the beats of a song his soul had him dance to, until he could make the acquaintance of the woman he was meant to spend his life loving.

When she kisses him, arms wrapped around his waist, a helpless smile and an ardent urgency to her movements, far too late and still, always, just on time- he knows.

Every version of him was always going to end up here.