veralyonn

fictional men do it better

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Let Me In Your Ocean; [tasm!peter Imagine]

let me in your ocean; [tasm!peter imagine]

— Pairing: TASM!Peter Parker x F!Reader

— Summary: Peter's been running away from his duties ever since he came back from there. Another universe. A different reality. He's been so busy trying to wrap his head around the fact that it's all real; trying his best to process all of the guilt and shame from his months of taking out his anger in the bad guys, that he stopped doing his job. Stopped being Spider-Man for a second.

Meeting you changes that.

— Word count: 9.7k

— Warning(s): Heavy angst ahead. Mentions of death, violence. Reader's going through grief, Peter finds her and they bond through shared pain.

Let Me In Your Ocean; [tasm!peter Imagine]

main master list | marvel master list | ko-fi ❥

Peter hears the cries when he's coming out of Techno Lab at the end of an afternoon.

It startles him for more than one reason.

Number one—it's heartbreaking. Peter hears the choked sobs and broken whines from where he is in the corridor, and right after his spidey senses hit that there were unfamiliar noises close by, his second assessment was one of hurt.

Number two—his hearing picked up on it, despite his best efforts to train his hypersensitivity. It had been working since he came back from there—the other universe. Two days in disarray with his abilities all over the place again as if he were a recently bitten newbie, and Peter decided to get his heightened senses in check. He wasn't supposed to be listening to anything, much less the crying of someone.

Number three and most important of them all, it makes his skin crawl.

Vibrate, shiver, tremble. However you call it, Peter feels it, and the second he takes note of it, his feet are carrying him through the corridors of Empire State University and going straight to the source of those heart-wrenching sounds.

He climbs two floors, walks through staircases and at last, finds the open door that leads to the terrace outside.

His heart freezes in his chest, and Peter stops with his hands inches away from the doorknob, trying to collect the pieces of his heart from the ground and convince himself to just go for it, at the same time as his head is screaming to him what the hell are you doing?

What will you tell them? Hey, this is Peter, I heard you crying like someone just died—

No.

He's not doing this right now.

It also does not matter.

Peter pushes the door open wider and walks to one of the University's open towers. They're on the East Wing here, right where the Science and Math courses meet, and right over the tower, pacing back and forth in front of the edge of the building, there's the source of the tears.

Her sobs are as painful and as unstoppable as before.

Peter feels out of place, and at the same time, like looking in front of a mirror.

He stands there, frozen by fear, and the knot that out of nowhere lives on his throat, trying to gather any strength left in him to just go.

You're crying like someone reached inside of you and broke something.

He knows what that feels like.

Peter wonders if it'd be best to just let you be alone right now.

He sighs, letting the pain bloom and take over his chest like spring always takes over the snow at some point, like he knew it would when he saw the source of the pain. Why did he even come? Why would he interrupt someone in such a private moment?

You don't want him here.

Peter doesn't even know you. All he knows is that you're almost screaming right now, standing alone in one of your school's towers at the end of the day, probably after a whole morning and afternoon of pretending to be a person.

Of holding that all in.

It's when your body collapses against the rail of the roof and you keep crying over it that his instinct kicks in—this is the sixth floor. This is tall, you should not be leaning in this much—please step away, this is dangerous, you can't be this careless—

Peter takes the first step, letting go of the door, and the noise calls your attention. Fuck.

You turn sharply to him, and Peter raises both hands in the air in a gesture he's all too familiar with.

"I—I come in peace," he tries. It's a feeble joke, and it falls on deaf ears.

Your face is red, swollen, and your chest is still breathing rapidly since you're out of breath from how hard you'd been crying.

You turn away from him sharply, and Peter grimaces with the way he did not think this through.

"I'm so sorry," he tries again. "I promise I didn't—" didn't what? Look for you? He did. He grimaces again, and fights against his stupid brain who makes rash decisions without thinking of outcomes. "I didn't mean to interrupt you." There. That's a decent half-truth.

You're wiping your face on the sleeve of your hoodie, and that pulls Peter's eyes to it. It's a Tweety hoodie, big enough to be a dress for any occasion.

"I just... heard someone stealing my crying spot," he finishes in a lame whisper. He looks up to you and—oh. There it is. It looks like your soul's back on your body, and woah. Those are intense eyes. "You can just... go back to it. I won't bother you. I'm just gonna--can I stay? I'll just stick by. In case you want any company. Or, you know. If you want, I can go. If you say 'go' right now, I swear I'll go."

"Do you usually talk this much around people you don't know?"

Her voice is nice.

Peter almost smiles at the exasperation in her tone, and registers that she manages to give a piercing look almost as penetrating as Aunt May's.

He nods, keeping the smile down. "Yes. Unfortunately. It's a big problem, I've heard complaints about it before."

To that, you have no answer.

All you do is stare at him for a moment, wiping your face clean again.

Peter looks away from you because staring at you is suddenly very hard.

His heart spikes—something it hasn't done in a while.

Not since he stepped on a damn portal.

Slowly and with deliberate moves, almost as if he's dealing with a wounded animal, Peter kneels down, and sits on the edge of the rail.

He can feel your eyes following his movements, and his heart feels big and heavy inside his chest the whole time.

Why the hell did you come, man? What, was she gonna jump? You don't know that. That's ridiculous.

He breathes in, then out. Counts to ten in his head, all while listening to your breathing that's coming down since he stepped outside on the roof with you.

Finally, after what it seems like forever, you ask him. "This is your crying spot?"

Peter had been joking about that.

He looks to his side—your eyes are very much intent on watching him, and Peter finds that lying to you is kinda hard. His neck twitches, and he narrows his eyes, "Ah... technically, no. No, it's not. That was an impulsive lie—my crying spot is usually the bathroom."

He hears a scoff. "I can't cry in the bathroom. D'you know how many girls would come asking me if I'm okay if I did that?"

Peter turns to you, swinging his legs back and forth in the air. "Girls do that?"

"Yeah." You nod. "Girls' bathrooms are one of the best places on Earth."

"Wow." He's never heard that one before, but your heartbeat remained the same while you said it, so it must be true. "Never knew that before. I'm kinda sad now I'll never get to experience that for myself."

The next scoff was more of a chuckle—you just snorted air out of your nose in tiny laughter.

Peter wondered how hard it was to make you laugh.

"I am so sorry that as a white, probably hetero, cisgender man, this is a privilege you won't get to experience," your voice dripped in sarcasm.

Peter's jaw fell open, and for the first time, you two exchanged a proper look.

Him, looking at you dumbfounded. When he left his last class of the day and was suddenly caught by the sound of a heart breaking, Peter didn't expect to be met with so much attitude.

You, looking at him pleased with yourself. Seeing the awe on his face, your air-nose laugh slowly becomes a smile.

It never reaches your eyes, and Peter recalls why he's here in the first place.

"You know what?" He nods to himself. "You're right. That is a tragedy," he adds the last bit just to see if it gets something else from you.

There's nothing. Peter looks to his side again and sees he has lost you once more, and to his surprise, he's okay with that.

He came here for... well, he's unsure of the reason yet, but it wasn't to try and brush off your pain.

"I mean it, you know." He says those next words without looking at you. It's easier talking to you when your eyes aren't on him, for some reason. "If you wanna just... go back to crying, I can just... sit tight."

"Why would you want to listen to someone crying?" There was no malice in your question or any strangeness. Just confusion.

Peter shrugs his shoulders. "I don't know." He truly didn't. If it were any other day, Peter might not even have heard you. "I just know sometimes it sucks feeling all that pain alone."

Well. That sure is something you can tell a complete and total stranger.

There's no reply from your side, but Peter knows it's okay. Your heart's still beating the same way, and he hears the sound of your clothes shuffling until you're sitting in the same position as he is.

That makes him worry.

If he falls, Peter doesn't get past the fifth floor. He'll hold on to the wall with his adherent fingerprints, but you had a one-way ticket to the floor down there unless you were hiding radioactive bites somewhere, too.

"Why d'you cry?"

Your question pulls him out of the worst-case scenarios his mind was drawing and the different ways he could save you and get away with it.

Peter looks at you and sees you observing the trees in your line of sight. They're gorgeous Ipe trees, and they're blooming with white, purple and pink flowers.

"Because loss hurts so much that you just wanna scream or cry through every stage of it?" It was supposed to be an answer, but it comes out as an embarrassing confession.

Your eyes squint at his awkward, close-lipped smile, and then soften.

You look at every inch of Peter's face, and whatever it is that you see there, it softens every feature in your face.

"It does, doesn't it?" You agree. Turning away sharply, Peter sees your chin trembling. When you speak again after a few moments, your voice sounds hoarse and choked-up. "I... I don't..."

Peter waits.

Sometimes, people become unaware of how grief deteriorates their ability to see beyond it. To think, rationalize, or be logical with it.

Flashes of the punches he stopped pulling make him wince.

Images of the people he hurt before he took his inter-dimensional trip and discovered not everything had to be lost all the time come to haunt him, and Peter has to shake his head from side to side.

Thankfully, you don't see him fighting his ghosts. Your eyes are distant and blinded by your own, and Peter breathes in shaky, squeezing the concrete underneath him to ground him here.

Empire State University. 2022. You're Peter Parker. (The third one.) Things are okay.

Your voice pulls him back. "I don't think... I've had a single thought these past six months... That hasn't been related to her."

Peter listens to that, and feels the words in the chemic of his bones.

"Yeah, it feels like that," he agrees. "Like..." He thinks about it. Survivor's guilt. Attachment. The passage of time. How time mends, heals, erases. "Like they have nowhere else to go, so they just... live in the corners and cracks of our minds."

"Yeah. Yeah," you nod. Peter hears you swallow down thickly, and when he looks to you again, your cheeks are glistening with the tears coming down.

The sky behind you starts going through the phases of Twilight, and it should be a crime to have a scenario that might as well have been painted by Van Gogh when there's so much pain at the center of this painting.

While your pain bleeds red down the concrete of the school's walls, the sky behind you paints your frame in light pink and warm orange.

Your tears look like Renassaince details, and Peter's fingers itch for his camera for the first time in years.

The silence between you both is neither heavy nor uncomfortable.

You cry in silence now, staring at the Ipes like the trees froze your gaze in their direction. While you stare ahead, Peter stares at you.

Your hair is curly and right now, wild.

Your cheeks are big, rounded and so red. Your lips are big, and it matches well with those big, intense eyes of yours.

Peter looks away, thinking about why did he never see your face around here.

Because you haven't looked up in months.

Not even your job you've been doing.

He shakes his head again.

This time, you catch it. The gesture seems to break your spell because you look away from the trees to him and, sniffling, ask him. "I feel like—am I going crazy? Why do I feel insane right now?"

And there they are.

Peter sees the dam breaking again—the resolve you'd built when he crashed your pain parade is crumbling, and Peter wants to stay as badly as he wants you to be okay, so he has to offer one last time.

"You're not going crazy. You're hurt. And you probably have people telling you a bunch of stuff that doesn't help all the time." He knows that, because he remembers how unhelpful everybody is when someone is gone. "Can I...?"

He leaves the question unfinished, but you understand it nonetheless. Can I stay?

You nod with trembling lips, and then you do something that personally, Peter finds very brave.

You go right back to crying, just as you were before he came in here.

It's not as loud as it was before, but it comes from the exact same place.

Peter wants to inch a little closer and maybe offer a hand. Some comfort.

He stays where he is, though, and for some reason, he feels like it helps.

To his surprise, you speak up, mid-sobs and tears. "I—I don't want to be okay with it. Th—that's why I'm so—so angry. People—keep telling me 'it'll b—be okay' but they fail to fucking get that I—I—" your sob cuts your sentence, and Peter finishes for you.

"You don't want it to be okay," his own eyes sting. He came here for the heavens know what reason, and now he's forced to deal with the fact that he gets that. "Fuck people," Peter adds.

It's probably delivered with more heat than he intended because, through your cries, he hears a choked burst of laughter.

It makes him smile, and he wipes the tear coming down his cheek. "No, I'm serious. Fuck people." Your laughter comes out again, and Peter laughs with you. "What the hell do they know?"

You scoff. "Considering the state our world's in, absolutely nothing."

"Oh, wow. You're definitely a student here."

That makes you laugh again.

Just like that, Peter's enchanted by the warmth your laughter brings.

Silence falls over you two like a blanket, and Peter looks away so you can clean the traces of your tears one more time.

He hopes his presence felt like a comforting hand over yours, even if you two are strangers.

That reminds him—, "I'm Peter, by the way," he introduces himself.

You look to your side, and the smile that blooms on your face is sad, but not as hopeless as one would expect from the girl who was crying her heart out in the roof. "Hi, Peter. I'm really sorry you had to meet me like this."

"It's fine," he shrugs it off. "I've met people in much worse ways, you'll just have to believe me on that."

"Oh, really?"

"Oh, I promise you. Terrible ways," he waves his hands. "Compromising positions—you've got nothing going on, actually. I caused horrible first impressions in the past. It's all good. If you ask me, second impressions are where the money's at. I think judging someone by the first encounter is a very, uhm, harsh. And unfair decision."

When his ramble ends, Peter's eyes find yours.

This time, your laughter is definitely at him. "That's good to know. I'm Y/n." You extend your hand. "Nice to meet you."

Peter sends a silent prayer to whatever he's supposed to believe in that his hand doesn't stick to yours, and shakes it.

Your palms are so freaking soft and when you lean in, Peter catches a whiff of what must be your shampoo or conditioner because—hmm. That's nice.

"Thanks for keeping me company during my breakdown, I guess," you tell him with an awkward chuckle. You two pull back, and Peter sees the tip of your ears painted on the same shade as the sky in the background. "I... definitely didn't expect today to end like this."

"How did you expect it to end?"

"I don't know." Something tells Peter that you do know. He stores that information for later. "I've just been—getting by, as people try to convince me that 'everything's alright' and the nine yards. Like—," you scoff. "Like that's just gonna... make it go away."

"Hey." Your head snaps in his direction at his call. Peter puts on his best smile. "As someone who's been hearing that bullshit for three years now, here's my hot take: you're the only one who decides what goes away, and when."

At his words, Peter watches your face fall. Your lips part and some of the ghosts must come out for a haunt because he sees a shadow in your eyes.

It's been almost four years now, and Peter's got no idea where this is coming from or how it's coming out, but he goes on before he loses those words. Something tells him he needs to hear them too.

"Sometimes... you forget." He swallows thickly and focuses on the orange taking over the pink behind you to get through it. "Like—a day will go by and you notice you haven't thought about it, and—that'll absolutely destroy you. The fact that you forgot, you know? It'll make it worse, and nothing will make it better. But then... one day... out of nowhere, okay? No one can tell you when, not even you. One day, you'll just—" he chuckles, and recalls her annoying fake laughter. "You'll just remember something so funny. So... incredibly fucking funny, or disastrous. Just... a good memory. And trust me—you'll have a blast. All on your own, too," he laughs. "You'll about it, and then you'll probably cry because you're laughing alone."

For him, it was the day he took off all of Gwen's polaroids from inside his wardrobe.

One week before his second year in college.

Almost a whole year ago, now.

"And that'll be when it starts registering. Dust settling, and stuff. The fact that it happened, and that... it's a part of all this."

He looks at the Ipe, and thinks about three months ago when they were bare—nothing but brown branches, dry and devoid of any life.

"I just wanna be able to play some word association with my friends without breaking down in the middle of class right now," you whisper to him. Ah—so that was what happened to you. A trigger, something so personal and related to the missing piece that you wanna ruin the whole puzzle. "That's all I want."

He nods in understanding. "That's fair." And probably still a bit far for you. "It'll happen. In your time."

The next heartbeat you two share Peter feels it.

In slow motion.

He hears the thump-thump of your heart pumping blood, strong and sound in the middle of your chest. He hears the birds and the ruffling of the trees, and the way your breathing is still a little clogged from all the crying you did.

What surprises him is that he doesn't mind.

"Do you think they could ruin something for us?" The question slips out of his lips almost as if it was by someone else.

Peter feels exposed, but you look at him the same way you did since he sat down. Even though you're seeing something Harry never does, or Aunt May rarely sees—there's no pity in your face like there usually is in hers, and instead, he finds you looking pensive.

Thoughtful.

"For some time, maybe? Yeah... definitely." Your mind goes away somewhere when your gaze leaves his face. "If someone played Tchaikovsky right now, I would definitely eat a bullet."

Peter's eyes widen, meets yours, and then you two burst out laughing together.

"Wow," he comments. That is some dark humor if I ever heard it.

"My bad," you laugh. "But yeah. For some time. But—forever?" You shake your head. "Nah. If there was love, it washes away. Anything that you put on love is just a taint. Real love, of course. It can be a big taint, a resilient one—my mami said and I stand by it: anything washes away if you know the right product. Or wash it enough times."

His Uncle Ben's voice comes from somewhere in the deep corridors of his memories, and the words come out from his mouth. "Constant dripping of water wears away the stone.”

You smile at him. "Yeah. Exactly."

That is a pain he hasn't felt in a while.

The significance of you bringing that small little idiom Uncle Ben was so fond of back to him hits him in the chest like a common nemesis loves doing—hard, right in the center, where it hurts.

"My uncle used to say that," he tells you.

His tone must be what gives away the grief in that part of his life, too, because your smile dims.

Then, after a second, you say. "My best friend used to say, 'having a good discussion is like having riches', and—I used to laugh," you chuckle. Your eyes set on him with a weight that means something, and Peter feels compelled to keep his eyes on you as well. "Guess she was right."

Peter smiles at the look of surprise on your face.

He wants to ask you something more—maybe what brought her to say that, or how often did she usually deliver those cheesy lines; as often as Uncle Ben delivered his, maybe?

Fuck, she's the one that's gone.

Before he can open his mouth, though, a ringtone pierces through the bubble you two have created against the outside world and you rush to find your device inside your backpack, muttering apologies to him.

Peter shakes his hand to you, and gestures for you to go head.

He bounces on his feet awkwardly, hating how now that his senses are somehow back to their crisp precision.

"Hey, Diva," you greet.

Peter grabs his skateboard in hands and starts playing with it. On the other side of the line, he hears. "Bitch, where the fuck are you? Oh my god, babe! We've been looking for you like crazy, you're not at the classroom, or the—"

"Diva, babe. Calm down. Breathe," you interrupt. It's safe to assume this Diva character must be a friend of yours given the tone and the way of speaking with you.

"Don't 'Diva' me, I was worried sick, babes."

"I'm sorry. I lost track of time—I came upstairs for a smoke and I met a new friend, that's all." The chillness in your tone impresses him. Peter looks up at the mention of 'new friend', and you give him a small smile.

"...Right." Diva does not sound convinced. "Well, are you coming? We're waiting at the car for you. If you still wanna ride we'll wait a few more minutes."

A silent and yet respectful request for you to wrap it up with your 'new friend'. Peter likes this Diva person. They sound caring, and worried, even through the static and distant voice in the phone.

"Alright, I'm coming. Lemme say bye to Peter, kay?"

"Ahhhh," now with a name, Diva's confidence that you must be speaking the truth seems to rise. "Alright. Yeah, sure. Say bye. We'll be here waiting. Ten minutes, kay?"

"Sure."

"Love, you babes."

You roll your eyes, and the fondness written on your face is priceeless. "Love you too."

"Oh—Y/n?"

"Yes?"

"I'm happy you're there making new friends, Miss Joy. Seriously."

To that, you have no answers. Diva seems to need none, though, because they hang up right after.

You look down at your phone, put it back in your backpack and this time, the silence is a little weirder.

Strange how you two find comfort in one another so easily when your hearts are bleeding out of your sleeves, but now that you have to make 'normal people' interactions, Peter's awkwardness comes back in full swing.

"So—I'll definitely see you around, right?" Ugh, Peter. He scrunches his nose at his horrible attemp. "I don't know what course you take. I imagine we'll see each other again."

"Biochem Engineer. Y/n Y/L/N," you extend your hard again, and your smile tells him it's okay, I'm a little awkward, too.

Peter realizes he now has a way to all your social media. And that it was a deliberate choice on your behalf. He smiles and shakes your hand again, one, two, three times. You laugh, and he smiles as he does a proper introduction. "Peter Parker. Biophysics."

You whistle. "Damn, Peter Parker."

"What?" He chuckles, embarrassed.

"You're a massive nerd."

"You're an engineering student!" He laughs.

"Yeah, which is one degree less nerdy than physics department." Your smile is contagious.

Peter hasn't smiled like this in a while.

You look down between your bodies and he follows your gaze, and—oh. He's still holding your hand. Again.

He drops it, and scratches the back of his neck. "Thanks for the words of wisdom," he whispers.

You take a second to reply and when you do, it's with the first real, full smile he's ever seen on your face. "Unbelievable," you whisper to yourself. If Peter's hearing was lesser than it is, he'd have missed it. "Thank you for the kind and... rare act of keeping me company in my grief rage," you chuckle humorlessly. "You didn't think I was gonna jump or anything, did ya?"

Peter's jaw drops again, and he laughs one more time at how blunt you are with your humor.

"No, I didn't." He's still unsure of what brought him here in the first place. "I just—I heard the pain. Decided to come to land a helping presence."

"And succeeded."

"Mission accomplished," he nods.

"Indeed." Your sarcastic grin is as contagious as your true — and rare — smile. "I gotta go. But, it was nice meeting you, Peter Parker."

"You too, Y/n Y/l/n."

When you leave, Peter stays on the roof for another hour before swinging his webs all the way back home.

It's instinctive.

One minute, he's sitting on the edge where you were, crying your heart out. The next, he's dropping his body in the direction of the parking lot and using the web-shooters that's been collecting dust on his wrists for three months and he's home.

Aunt May looks at him strangely, but fondly throughout dinner. She seems to be happy that whatever made him happy has him talking, and they have one of the nicest conversations they've had in a long time.

Even Uncle Ben is mentioned.

Later that night, Peter sits on the fire escape with the mask he's been neglecting in hands.

It's heavy.

It carries the weight of much more than a persona or a superhero.

It's heavier than any of the loads he's supported in these two hands, and yet...

Anything that you put on love is just a taint.

Is it? Peter asks the image of you.

Is everything he's failed at just a taint? Can he wash it away?

Is he worth the effort of it?

For some reason, it's your voice that answers him.

You won't know it 'till you try it, Peter Parker.

Peter breathes in, shakily. Exhales steadily.

He did things wrong for months after Uncle Ben died.

After Gwen, he did things very wrong, for a good while.

Then, he was transported to somewhere else, a whole other universe, and everything he knew had to be rewritten.

He knows there's still the outline of all his stains. Just a shadow of it, maybe, but—it won't go away if you don't put in the work, he thinks.

He'll have to do better.

Peter took three months and shut himself out of the world, but it left him only empty. Processing all you never processed before. He shut down everything around him, ignoring the sounds, the cries, the sirens.

Now, as if a button was turned on, he hears it all again.

He's aware now that all the weigth of New York City's safety isn't and cannot be in his hands, but he can help. He's proven that before, and if wants all the pain attached in this red and blue suit to go away, he'll have to try again.

Peter puts on the suit.

Slowly, he slips on the mask.

Maybe if he washes his eyes out of the sights that haunt him, he'll be able to see the city in the same lights he used to. He'll want to photograph it, just like he wanted to photograph the sky.

Photograph you.

Peter shoots the first web, and opens his ears to any trouble. He'll do some difference tonight and maybe, who knows—tomorrow is another day.

Maybe tomorrow he'll cook Aunt May breakfast for a change. Finish his homework before he gets to class and not five minutes before the teacher walks in.

Maybe he'll discover what corridor is the Biochem Engineer course.

Peter missed the clarity that only the night city can bring.