Alana

You let your head fall back against the pillow, your eyes already drifting closed as sleep begins to pull you back under again. It's only then, just as you're comfortable, that the next sound tears through your bedroom.

Your bedroom window, old and creaky, is slid open. The curtains stir as something, a big something, slips past them. There are no footsteps or creaks of the floorboards to prove it happens, just the rustle of the curtains as more breeze flies through.

"...P–Peter."

The name slips from your mouth before your mind has even fully caught up. It has to be him, he's the only person reckless enough to slip in at three in the morning, and the only one who would consider your fourteenth story window as a perfectly reasonable front door, despite having a key.

There's no response, so you reach for the lamp. A soft, yellow glow fills the bedroom, your eyes taking another second to adjust before immediately settling on the wall.

Peter's halfway up your bedroom wall, crouched close to the ceiling with his weight resting on his feet. He has one hand on the opposite wall, as if he needs it to keep him balanced.

He's still not turned to look at you, opting to watch the city through the gap the wind creates in the curtains. One shoulder in his suit has been ripped almost clean off, exposing bruised skin beneath streaks of drying blood. There's more dried blood along the side of his face, disappearing beneath his jaw and into the collar of his suit. Fresh crimson still trickles from a cut above his eyebrow, his curls clinging damply to his forehead.

You chew your bottom lip as you take him in. It's become the norm for him to crawl through your window at night after patrol, but never this late and never looking this banged up. Dating Spider-Man has its perks but now it brings you an uncomfortable swirl in your stomach.

"Pete?"

When he finally looks over to you, the breath in your throat catches. His eyes, usually so soft and brown when they look at you, are gone, replaced by darkness. You blink a few times, as if that will reset your sight and give you something more familiar.

It doesn't and your brow furrows. You've spent enough time looking into Peter's eyes to know every shade of brown that they could be in a different light. This wasn't that. The colour has been swallowed whole, replaced by a black glossy enough to catch the light from your bedside lamp.

Over time, you've learnt to just roll with the things that happen to and around Peter. Now, for the first time really, he's beaten, he's bloody, his eyes are pitch black, and he just stares at you.

It's probably one of the most unsettling things you've ever seen, which makes it deeply irritating that your first coherent thought is still 'God, he's attractive'.

"That's... new," you finally say.

His head tilts ever so slightly, the movement smooth enough that it reminds you he isn't entirely human, as if him clinging on your wall without a regard for gravity wasn't reminder enough.

"What happened, handsome?" You ask softly.

One corner of his mouth twitches at the nickname, it's barely a smile, but it's enough to loosen the knot that has been tightening in your chest from since you turned the light on.

"Suit yourself," you say.

The silence feels wrong on him. Usually, Peter feels silence the way other people breathe. He apologises, makes terrible jokes, and talks himself into circles until you have to interrupt him just to get a word in. Even after the worst patrols, he somehow finds the energy to ramble on about the criminal who threw a microwave at him or complain about New York's pigeons' vendetta against him.

Tonight, he just watches you. His gaze follows you as you kneel beside the bed and pull out the first-aid kit you stashed there for times like this. It tracks the movement of your hands while you sort through gauze and antiseptic, placing them on the bed.

"Come here."

This, he obeys immediately. Usually there's some sort of protest, "I'm fine." "You don't need to fuss." "It's not even my blood."

But today, he walks down the wall, each step carrying him lower until both feet settle quietly onto the carpet. He walks the short distance over to you, stopping close enough that you can smell the rain and city dust beneath the metallic tang of blood.

There's tiny cuts scattered across his jaw, already looking like they're healing. "You really got beat up, huh?"

He nods in response.

"The other guy look worse than you?"

Another nod.

"Good."

It's your turn to watch him, your eyes trailing down from where his hair is still damp to the way his muscles bulge out of his suit. A hum of approval slips past your lips, and the corner of Peter's mouth lifts again.

"Missed you." His voice is rough, quieter than usual, as though he hasn't spoken in hours. Knowing Peter, that is unlikely.

"I missed you too." You reach for the antiseptic. "Suit off, sit down."

It's a routine you've done time and time again. He's out of the suit in no time, then on your bed in only his boxers. His chest and stomach is no better than his face, scrapes and bruises littered across him.

You kneel between his open legs, soaking a cotton pad with antiseptic before lifting it towards the cut above his eyebrow. "This is going to sting."

Normally, he'd flinch before you'd enough touched him, already complaining about your bedside manner despite being the one who'd shown up at your window and begging you to take care of him with those puppy-dog eyes.

But, the antiseptic touches raw skin without so much as a wince or bad joke about how it hurts worse than anything he fought as an Avenger.

The furrow in your brow deepens for the second time today as you carefully clean his face. "Peter."

His black eyes flick briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes. "What?"

"You've been staring at me for the past... I don't know. Like five minutes."

"I know." Is his simple response.

There's something in his voice that somehow manages to sound not quite like Peter but also entirely like Peter at the same time. A hint of brown peaks through his eyes as you study him.

You find yourself looking away first, pretending to concentrate on cleaning the cut along his jaw even though you've already wiped it clean.

When your thumb accidentally brushes against the corner of his mouth, any hint of brown disappears, replaced by pitch black again as there's a faint hitch in his breath.

The effects of his reaction rolls through your body in a way that you're not sure you can admit out loud. Although he doesn't show it, he's probably in pain, and the worry you'd had initially is very quickly being replaced by a burning desire.

"I think we're done."

You stand to throw the used cotton aside. The moment you try to leave, warm fingers close around your wrist. It's not tight enough to bruise, but it's enough to stop you in your tracks, to stop you from even thinking of pulling away.

The tug on your arm is done with hardly any force at all, but it still has you tumbling forward. Your hands land on his shoulders to steady yourself, and he lets go of your wrist only to settle one hand against your waist.

Lifting you with ease, he puts you on his lap.

For a brief second, he looks almost puzzled by the contact, as though some part of him is only catching up to what the rest of him decided several seconds ago.

As your fingers trace down the lines of his chest, over the faint bruising, his eyes drop to your chest, watching how your chest begins to rise and fall faster as your heart thuds in your chest.

His nipples are already erect, so perky and tempting and you can't help but slide your thumbs over them. It's as if the touch sparks something within him, his hands tighten on your waist, drawing you closer until there's barely any space between your bodies.

The streets of New York sound even more distant as the sounds of ragged breathing fills the room, it's all consuming and desire pools in your stomach without even being touched.

"Pete," you moan, and the restraint snaps.

Peter's hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you down to crash his lips to yours. It's not really a kiss, it's too messy and too desperate, and he groans in your mouth as your teeth accidentally catch the cut on his lip. Still, he doesn't pull away. In fact, he craves more.

His hands run over your back and then down to cup your ass, tilting your hips forward in an attempt to press you harder against him. He hums quietly against your mouth, the sound vibrating somewhere deep in his chest.

Somehow, he calms down enough that his lips move against yours in a way more resembling real kiss, his tongue sliding over yours. The motion has heat prickling under your skin and a throb blooming between your thighs. Your nails scratch at his back, adding to the collection of marks there.

Without breaking the kiss, Peter eases you both backwards. You barely notice you're being moved until you suddenly feel him, all of him, press against you. He arranges you so he's flat on his back, your knees on either side of his hips.

The thin fabric of your panties is damp in a way that you're sure he can feel through his boxers. He's done nothing so far to warrant that.

"Fuck," you groan against his mouth as you shift against him. The friction sending little sparks of pleasure through you, but not enough to satisfy the ache.

He pulls back just enough to look up at you. You could always tell what he was thinking through his eyes, but they're still black, probably darker than before if that's possible. But, the expression on his face gives you all the reassurances that his eyes can't.

"My senses are going crazy." It's the first sentence that was more than two words he's pulled together all night, so you sit up straight, looking down at him. He closes his eyes, drawing in a deep and ragged breath. "Fu-. You smell so..."

The praise went straight to your core, more wetness dampening your panties and Peter whimpered.

He didn't open his eyes immediately, taking another long, shuddering breath of air as if your scene was an intoxicant he couldn't get enough of.

Shifting in his lap, you grind down against him with as much pressure as you could manage. His hands on your hips twitched, his fingers digging into your skin with enough pressure that you knew it would bruise tomorrow. Good.

His eyes lock on to yours, the void in his gaze terrifying in a way that only made you ache more. "I can hear your blood rushing. I can feel... no, I can smell how warm and wet you are."

Leaning forward, you drag your chest against his bare skin until your noses almost brush.

"So, then you know I'm ready for you." You kissed the bottom of his jaw, where a bruise has formed. "I'm begging for it." Another kiss and shift against him. His full body tremors underneath you. "I need you."

Before you can blink, his hand flies up to wrap around the back of your neck, and then the room spins. Peter's over you in an instant, pressing his erection against your core.

There's a wet patch on his boxers where his precum has pooled and each roll of his hips coats his boxers as it glides over your damp panties.

"Fuck... Pete."

Your nails find their way to his back again, leaving him with marks that you know he'll appreciate in the mirror in the morning.

Peter whimpers, hair flopping over his face and eyes half-lidded as he moves faster against you. You reach up, thumb flicking over his nipples in time with his grinds against you. Electricity runs through his veins at every wipe.

"I-I'm not- I'm close already," he stutters, his dick twitching in his boxers.

"But I want you inside of me," you all but whined.

"Okay, yes."

If you weren't as aroused as you are now, you would have laughed at the unnecessary acrobatics as he jumps back to pull your panties off in one swoop. The cold air hits your soaked folds, and his throat bobs as he watches the way it glistens in the light.

"Hurry up," you begged, legs closing slightly. It was a silly thing to feel so self-conscious in front of the man who's been between your legs more times than you could count, but he's also not seen you this desperate before.

He stands to pull his boxers down, a soft moan escaping his lips as the fabric catches on his sensitive tip. He turns to look at you as you swallow hard. His dick is beautiful, slightly curved and thick in a way that fills you up completely every time. It's flushed a pretty pink at the tip. Your tongue moves in your throat, craving the feeling of how heavy it would feel on you.

Settling between your legs again, Peter spreads your legs wide. He rubs the tip of his length through your slick folds, his precum and your arousal mixing. He uses the tip to circle your clit with extra pressure, and you cannot help the grind of your hips.

Peter taps his dick on your clit once, then once again, running it through your folds again.

Your hands hook under the backs of your thighs, pulling them to your chest and exposing yourself to him. "Peter, please."

"I'm sorry, baby," he coos.

Just the tip is eased past your hole, and it's enough for your mouth to go slack, eyes rolling back as the stretch burns so well. He continues to push in slowly, face scrunched as your walls wrap around him like a specialised glove.

Every ridge, every vein, and every pulse drags hits against the walls of your pussy. He fills you up completely, thick and veiny, and neither of you move for a moment, too lost in the feeling.

"Won't last long," he grits out.

Sweat already beads at his forehead. Sex with Peter is usually a stamina war, he goes rounds and rounds before even tiring. But whatever's happened to him has heightened his senses in a way that he cannot yet control, the feelings overwhelming him to the point of almost overstimulation.

"That's okay, take what you need."

He begins to move, pulling out so just the tip is left in before pushing back forward. He finds the right angle immediately, hitting against your spot and making your toes curl.

Without missing a thrust, Peter grabs hold of your ankles, using them to spread your legs further. The new angle has you both sighing, moans mixing in the room with the sounds of his skin clapping against yours.

"Feels s'good, s'tight," he groans. "Touch... self."

Three of your fingers immediately find your clit, circling with the pressure that you know you like. It only takes a few tightly pressured circles for the first waves of your orgasm to shake through your body.

Peter watches your body arch as your orgasm hits you in full force. You clench around him and that combined with the pure ecstasy on your face has him burying himself deep inside of you, giving you a few more frantic thrusts before he's whimpering and groaning, his nerve endings going haywire.

Seconds later, he's shooting hot, ropey cum into you. He falls forward but keeps his body hovering over yours. Your hands cup his cheeks, pressing kisses to his face as you both come down from your highs. He mumbles praises to you between kisses, making your heart squeeze.

"Feeling better, Pete?" You ask.

"Yeah, thanks to you," he sighs. He sits back on his heels, still buried inside of you.

As you watch him, his eyes slowly clear of the black, his soft brown eyes finding yours.