#THEY'RE THE BEST PART OF THE GAMES | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

serenity--writes · 11 days ago

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Devotion | Peter Parker x Reader

Being friends with Peter Parker is easy. You fit together so well, it’s like sliding a puzzle piece into its designated slot on the first try. It’s studying together, laughing together, having him take you up to the Empire State Building in the middle of the night because he can, gaping down at the city in awe because wow, New York really can be beautiful. Or, Peter Parker as your best friend, your boyfriend, and then your husband (to be). //3.7k~ words. Unedited. GN! Reader. Any Peter, I just really like Andrew Garfield's face (even though it's hidden in the gif lol).

You can’t sleep.

All you can think is, ‘Is he okay? What if he’s hurt?’ Your mind spins with each and every fear, and your body aches with it. Anxiety is nothing new, but it’s so constant now. You wake up and wonder if he’s still alive, if he’s safe, and it feels like you can’t breathe until you see him in person. Texting doesn’t help much anymore, because he could be texting you on his metaphorical deathbed and you wouldn’t know—

Your name echoes in the air. You whip around, eyes wild. “Peter?!” He’s barely inside your bedroom before you’re throwing yourself at him. The window falls shut as he slides his leg in with the rest of him.

Peter winces as you enclose his waist in your arms, groaning. Jerking back, you peer worriedly at him. You spot dark red on blue and your blood runs cold. “Do I need to get the med kit?”

He shuffles over to your desk chair with his breath stuttering in his chest. Despite the jerkiness of his movements, his voice is even. If you hadn’t seen him, you wouldn’t think anything was wrong. That thought frightens you. “Yeah. Please.”

You’ve done this what feels like hundreds of times, but your hands still shake as you grab the stocked up med kit, courtesy of your nurse mom. She probably never imagined you’d be using it for Spider-Man. Who also happens to be the little boy (now teenager) she’d watched grow up with her kid.

She would shake Peter up and down, asking why he was putting himself in so much danger.

In that, you and your mom are very similar.

You return with the cargo, watching as your idiot best friend inhales, then exhales. He’s sprawled out on your chair, all long legs and mussed hair. His face is pale. No shit.

“Okay,” you start, hands ghosting over his suit. You don’t know where to touch and where to avoid, anxiety cruising through you like it was on a fucking joyride. You kind of want to puke, but don’t feel like vomiting up chili right now. It would burn. “Suit off. Can’t stitch you closed if the suit’s in the way.”

Peter wiggles his eyebrows, eyes still closed. “If you wanted me to undress, all you had to do was ask—”

“You’ve been saying that line for six months, Parker, learn some new material.”

“Ouch,” he pouts, but complies. The suit is skin-tight, and he struggles to get it off without wincing so hard you’re afraid his face will stay that way, so you help him tug it off his shoulders, letting it pool around his waist. Blood soaks his stomach. “Last name already?”

Your stomach churns, his joke going in one ear and out the other. “Jesus Christ, Pete.”

He smiles shakily. “Not as bad as it looks, promise.”

Looks pretty fucking bad. You dig out the needle and suture kit without looking, then grab a disinfectant pad and steel yourself for another night of praying your hands don’t fail and you accidentally fuck him up even worse.

Peter grabs your shaking hand and squeezes. “You got this,” he says, soft. His eyes are tired, but so kind. “You’ve done this before, and you were perfect. Okay? You can do this.”

You nod, wiping your hands with the disinfectant pad before grabbing another. The wound looks daunting compared to the last, and it’s no wonder he’s drooping like a sunflower with too little sun; he’s losing a lot of blood. “Shit, okay. You’re right. Fuck, Peter, you really need to be more careful.”

His response is swallowed by a pained gasp as you run the pad over the serrated skin. “Fuck,” he whines. Then he laughs at himself. “Hurts more than getting stabbed, which is really w-weird.”

“Duh. Alcohol burns, and you were probably running on adrenaline back there.” Your lips will be ruined in the morning, with how much you’re biting them, but you can’t bring yourself to care. The small sting of pain helps you focus as you thread the needle and start sewing him up.

You try to distract him from the pain. And yourself from the heavy weight on your chest; if this gets any worse, you’ll start suffocating. “So, we’re still on for the Star Wars marathon this weekend, right?”

Peter grins, and the sight of it steadies your hands. “Smooth. But yeah, unless there’s, y’know.”

You roll your eyes, kissing your teeth as you complete the first stitch. “Not all of us are masters of conversation, Your Majesty. And yeah, I do—gonna ditch me for your heroics, huh?”

“Let’s hope t—they… all decide to take a day off,” Peter jokes. Despite the improbability of it happening, it’d be nice to have a night with him all to yourself. “Mandated time off, even. With pay.”

“Paying criminals now?” You tsk teasingly. “Spider-Man, the meddling menace who’s secretly working with his, quote, ‘greatest foes!’ to make a quick buck—”

Peter laughs so hard he almost dislodges the stitches; would have, too, if you didn’t put a hand on his stomach (wow, he’s toned) to keep the wound steady. “You did not just try to imitate Jameson. Oh fuck, that’s funny—” He giggles breathlessly.

“Laugh it up, Spidey, and there’ll be a new podcast out there slandering you any day now.”

The last stitch is done, and you don’t even attempt to hide your grin as you tie off your work. Peter hands you the bandages before you can reach for them, whispering a small ‘you’re welcome’ before you can say anything—typical Peter—and helps you wind it around his stomach.

“For the record, your podcast would suck.”

“Suck it, Parker.”

—

It’s… patching him up after a long day, taking him in your arms as he weeps because he couldn’t save her—God, I couldn’t—and trying not to cry as your hands shake and you feel like your body is an electric current, so in tune with him that it feels like you’re falling apart with him but not knowing why.

“Honey.”

You narrow your eyes. Shake your head.

“Love?”

You grimace.

“Yeah, not British enough.” His eyebrows furrow. “Love-er?”

“Pete, we are not British. We are also not in the middle ages.”

He laughs, throwing his hands up. “'Babe'! That’s literally a classic. Can’t go wrong. It’s like the bread and soup of pet names.”

You wrinkle your nose.

“C’mon, that’s perfect. You’re acting like a baby, so it fits, anyway.”

“Fighting works, Parker,” you warn him, biting your smile away.

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Right,” he drawls. You don’t look at him but you know he’s flexing his irritatingly good-looking arms. Yeah, you have eyes. And a functioning brain.

“Just call me by my name,” you suggest. Like a normal person.

He sighs like you’ve exhausted all of his patience. “I love you, babe, but you are seriously in need of some relationship etiquette lessons. I’m sure Aunt May would love to be president. She’d be great at it. And she wouldn’t charge you admission because being my boyfriend has benefits—”

“Yeah, gotta make up for the lack of health care somehow.”

You turn around to find him wide-eyed.

…

Okay, maybe that was too far. “Pete?”

He collapses onto the floor with a dramatic gasp. “Stone cold words from the love of my life! That hit harder than Rhino, and I gotta tell ya, he hits like a truck. Wow,” he chuckles breathlessly, eyes meeting yours.

You soften. “Hey, bugboy.”

He doesn’t make fun of the nickname, but you can tell he wants to. “Hey, lover.”

“... Still weird. Why’re you so bad at pet names?” You crawl over and lay down beside him, cushioning your head on his upper arm.

He shrugs his other shoulder. “I guess I just excel in every other field but that one. Don’t hold it against me?” Cue the puppy-dog eyes.

You snigger. “Help me with that chem question, and we’re all good.”

“Mmm, fair trade. I accept.”

—

You’re familiar with it: the longing. The loneliness. It doesn’t get better, but you adapt to it. It hurts less, even though the sting lasts longer now. You can’t brush it off as easily.

You know what you signed up for, and you’re not a quitter.

Especially not when it comes to Peter Parker.

He’s late, again, and you know why—it’d be hard to not see the fight happening a few miles away. Social media is blowing up with doom and gloom, worry for Spider-Man, hate for Spider-Man (you block people who post those comments; you don’t need to see that shit), and demands for better security.

Peter’s swinging circles around Electro, who blasts electricity at him in between moments of chase. How he got out of the Raft is anyone’s guess, but he did, and now your boyfriend is chasing him around Harlam like it’s life or death. Which—you guessed it—it most likely is.

Being in prison, much less one like the Raft, festers a type of hate that can only bring destruction for the person who put you in there.

People rush to the windows to gape at the scene, pressing you against it as they vie for a look. You’re suffocated literally and figuratively, your breath stuck in your chest and unable to escape. “C’mon, Spidey,” someone whispers from beside you.

You glance at the man, but he’s already walking away.

Your fists clench at your sides as you brave another look at the man who haunts and blesses your dreams. Electro staggers as Peter throws something—a car door?—at him. Your body lights up with hope from the inside. Yeah. C’mon, Peter. You can do it.

Soft, brown eyes. Gentle, calloused hands. Warm, inviting arms. Feathery, windswept hair. You breathe out slowly, remembering the feel of him. The sound of him. He’ll be okay.

He always is. Even if it takes a while. Even if it’s hard. Sometimes, it feels impossibly far away, but you’ve been there throughout it all. You know him.

And he promised—

“I’ll always come back to you.”

—

“Honey?”

You pause your stirring, heart beating so fast that you have to take a deep breath before turning around. Tears well in your eyes and he panics, stumbling forward. He calls your name as you tremble.

He holds you against his chest, knowing just what you need. Thump, thump—

Peter’s arm moves away from you, moving the pot off the burner. It makes a small clink against the glass stove. You exhale warily, knees shaking as the stress that weighed on your shoulders dissolves. Thump, thump, thump. It’s all you can hear, that lovely sound. His heart beating is your favorite thing to wake up to, and it’s so beautiful. Too perfect to put into words.

“You’re okay?” you ask, voice a whisper. You can’t manage anything more.

Peter’s grip tightens for a moment as he tugs you away from the kitchen and to the couch. “Just a little fried. I’m okay, everything’s pretty much healed already.” He pauses, and you wait. There’s more. “He wasn’t prepared like last time. I don’t know who got him out, but… it was a spur of the moment kind of thing.”

Not Octavius, then.

“I’m sorry for missing dinner. I—I really wanted to make it. I tried to text but he fried my phone.”

Thump, thump, thump.

You shake your head against his chest. His heartbeat jumps as you settle against him, and you smile. Thump, thump—thump. You want to crawl inside him, that’s how empowering your love is. It scares you, sometimes, how much you crave him. A world where only you and him exists doesn’t sound too bad on days like these. Love crawls up your throat like acid, but it’s sweet. You can’t help but let it go, let him experience your devotion—“I love you, Peter Parker.”

His name is like honey on your tongue.

Peter laughs, voice wet. “I love you, too. More than anything.”

You grab his wrist and slip your fingers between his, and marvel at the snug, comfortable fit. It’s perfect.

—

Being partners with Peter Parker is like a trip on acid, if you had to sum it up. It’s messy, full of ups and downs, euphoric but with a crash that’s unlike any other. But there’s always another rainbow on the horizon, another chance that maybe it’ll go better this time. It’s a life unlike any other, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Peter gets down on one knee the day he almost dies.

He’s pale as a ghost, blood crusting underneath his fingernails. His arms shake as the pain sets in, but his eyes never leave you.

Neither of you are dressed up, and you both desperately need a shower, but he gets down on one knee, no ring, and lets his devotion spill from his lips and the genuine love in his eyes make the emotions bubbling inside you burst. A sob tears through your throat, and you let him devour it with his lips, and it feels like healing.

Yes, yes, yes, yes—

It’s an easy choice.

Blood soaks your clothes as he falls into you, but his frantic eyes and strong hands pull you from your worry and you fall into pleasure. He’s lovely, this way, so fierce and vibrant, vigour pouring out from him in waves.

Thump, thump, thump—thump.

He murmurs your name, and that’s all it takes.

I love you.

—

“Blue,” you suggest. “And white. With hints of red.”

Peter side eyes you as you conspire with your mom about the colors of your wedding. You smirk at him when she turns away, and he grins back, bashful, before letting May steal his attention.

“You’re not at all patriotic,” your mom complains. “Where is this coming from? And why couldn’t you do this when we went to that football game—”

“Spider-Man wears red, white, and blue,” you explain. You know you’re confusing her, but it’s fun to watch. And Peter’s blushing face never gets old, even as you two do; teasing him is one of your favorite pastimes.

Your mom thinks Peter has a ‘man-crush’ on Spider-Man, and she doesn’t tolerate it. ‘His heart is meant for you, and only you, honey. This Spider-Man is a good man, but he’s not Peter’s man. Take some sense into him before I do.’

It’s hilarious.

Peter’s gone through this before, which makes it even more funny. Posts on Twitter about him dating Spider-Man have gone viral before, and you tease him about it mercilessly, more than a decade later.

“You’re not really planning our wedding based on Spider-Man, right, honey?” Peter slides an arm around your waist, placing a chaste kiss to your cheek as your mom watches in approval. She loves Peter, Spider-Man crush notwithstanding, and she makes sure he knows it. He’s been a part of your family for a while, but she doesn’t want him to question his place. Even your father loves Peter, which is a miracle in and of itself.

“They are,” your mother sighs, leaning back in her chair. You and Peter share an amused look. “I told them that blue and white were perfect, but they insisted.” She eyes you. “Talk with him, and get his opinion. It’s your day together, not just yours.” She smiles at Peter as she stands, patting his head like she always does. “Don’t let them strong-arm you into something you don’t want, Peter.”

You cross your arms, every bit the petulant child you were twenty years ago. She says that you’ll always be her little baby, and you’re kind of convinced she’s mind-controlled you or something. She did have a pocket watch when she was younger… Maybe she hypnotized you, like that one Scooby-Doo episode; you’ll ask Pete later, he’ll know. “Mom.”

She does that mom-thing, you know the one—she goes ‘ah-ah-ah’, finger wag included, and gives you a look. “You are stubborn, and Peter is madly in love with you. He will say yes to everything, despite what he wants. Be mature, child of mine.”

Peter pouts as she walks away. She throws her arms around May and laughs; they’re the perfect picture of best friends. You smile before turning back to your lovely fiancé, whose pout dies down as you snuggle up to him. “Hey,” he says breathlessly. “Love you.”

(… Your mom may have had a point earlier.)

If you thought you fit together perfectly before, years ago, then you are practically melded into one being now. His skin against yours was like being enveloped in warmth, and his breath mixing with yours could send you into a lovesick spiral if you weren’t careful, too drunk on him to do much else. But his smile, crooked and unabashedly stunning, stands out as the moon to your night sky.

You kiss him, slow and deep. He tastes like chocolate and mint tooth-paste. You pull away when your smiles become too wide to continue. Your voice is tinged with sweetness as you giggle into his neck. “I love you, too.”

—

The hectic day of wedding planning ends with the sky streaked in golden rays, oranges and yellows towering over the blues. It ends with long, dark eyelashes resting against soft cheeks, chocolate eyes hidden from the world. Soft, chestnut curls tickle your cheek from where Peter leans into you, and your thumb drifts over his hands, calloused and worn but ever-so gentle.

Your music hums in your ear, the artist crooning about love and life and the days that fly by. You tap your foot to the beat, the slow rhythm unfamiliar but lovely all the same. It gives you nostalgia for a life you’ve yet to live.

Suddenly, you get an idea.

Gently guiding Peter onto his back, your couch significantly better than the one he’d endured while he was fresh from May’s house, you press a kiss to his forehead.

Your earbuds stay in your ears, and you sway back and forth as you enter the kitchen, letting the infectious happiness of the music overtake you.

One thing you know Peter loves is wheat cakes, May’s recipe. Of which she’d just given you as the two of you left. ‘A little gift,’ she’d hummed, clicking her tongue as you stammered and thanked her. Her hug was warm and kind, and you had melted into it without a second thought. May Parker will always be a lovely woman, but she shone like diamonds to you in that moment, when she pulled away and told you that you were the best thing to ever happen to Peter.

Even now, just thinking about it makes you tear up.

Knowing how much Peter values May’s opinion makes it all the sweeter. You feel like you’re on top of the world. It’s almost too much, but the view you’re gazing at now is so much better than the one you saw on the Empire State Building; you’re staring at Peter, and he’s so bright, a star glowing amongst the dark, and he’s yours and you’re his, and he’s the best thing to ever happen to you, too.

—

You shake Peter’s shoulders, coaxing him out of sleep. He groans and wipes his eyes groggily. “Lover,” he says with a lop-sided grin as he takes you in. You’re wearing his clothes. A soft, faded MIT sweatshirt with sweatpants that hang low on your hips. You’re surrounded by the smell of him, and the only time you’ve felt safer was in his arms.

“Bugboy,” you retort fondly. The game is old and familiar, memories of nights spent play-arguing rushing to the forefront of your mind before they’re stolen by the lips pressing against yours. You smile against his lips as you wrap your arms around his shoulders. They’re broad, strong enough to hold the world upon them if they must. And your ankles, but that’s neither here nor there.

“I made food,” you say as he pulls away. He looks dizzyingly attractive, all flushed and pliant. You want to eat him instead, but you worked hard on that dinner, damn him.

He’s smug as though he knows what you’re thinking, scooping you up and into his arms as he waltzes into the dining room. Your music plays softly in the background, earbuds unplugged and set aside. The wheat cakes are finishing baking on the stovetop, the smell enough to make him perk up and remove his face from your neck.

Peter’s eyes sparkle. You want to grab his camera and capture him in the moment—you're rarely the one behind it, and it's a shame. “No way!”

Abruptly, the tension—the good kind—fades into lighthearted tones. From rose-red to tulip-pink, from dusk to sunrise. You grin. “May gave me the recipe,” you say, settling into your seat.

“Really? Oh wow, they smell so good…”

Without looking, you call out, “No dessert until after dinner. Y’know the one I just spent an hour making!” His chair, right beside you, sits distanced from the table, right where you left it.

“Whatever you say, honey.”

You grin smugly, swallowing your bite. “Good boy.”

He doesn’t whimper, but it’s a near thing.

—

Being (almost) married to Peter Parker is like… dancing in the dark, not knowing where you’re going but having so many feelings in your heart that you’re about to burst. It’s small moments of silence, comfortable in each other’s presence that no words are needed. It’s biting back tears as he grimaces and comforts you as he bleeds onto your floors. It’s the days where you wake up to his face, painted gold and flush by the morning sun.

It’s the small acts of devotion. Notes left in every nook and cranny of the house, small little assurances and reminders and nonsense that leaves you smiling. Dinner made and put away for him to reheat when he gets home, cold and hungry. Little things you had your eye on, placed perfectly in your space so you can’t miss them. Arms open, so he can soak in your presence and bask in your love for him. Music playing, low and crooning, as he takes you into his arms and twirls you around your home, laughter decorating the walls and saturating the air.

Thump, thump, thump.