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indouloureux · 2 years

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debauched angels (and brazen escapades) - Ⅱ

not my gif!

summary (for part two): as spider-man goes MIA, so does black cat. this gives peter an opportunity to get to know you more - receiving information more than he expected.

word count: 11, 442

warnings: SMUT SMUT SMUT mentions of blood, violence, enemies to lovers, awful writing (?) bc english isn't my first language. mentions of character death (not major!), giving (y/n) that one of a kind background past, patriarchal men maybe.

(EXTENDED WARNINGS BELOW THE CUT)

a/n: part two is here yay! tbh i really love this mini-series and i'm happy that so did you guys <3. silkscream read this on AO3 so hey if you see this, i'm in love with your writing. part three is still in the works so i'm sorry if it will take a while to release it. hope you all enjoy!

MASTERLIST ; SERIES MASTERLIST

༻✦༺ . ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ . ༻✧༺

explicit warnings: smut, poorly written. praise kink, breeding kink, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, biting?, spitting, oral + fingering (fem receiving), unprotected sex (pls practice safe sex!) maybe cum-dumpster reader, dom/sub dynamics ft. slightly switch!peter and slightly switch!reader (but peter's mostly sub in here lol), possessiveness in the dirty talk, lotus sex position, cum eating. this is like rough smut and a lot of submission but its very sweet in the end

༻✦༺ . ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒

so, what am i gonna be doin’ for a while?

said, i’m gonna play with myself

show them, now, we’ve come off the shelf

It had been a very long three weeks.

And in those three weeks, Peter had not seen Black Cat but you.

Peter doesn't lament about her absence, nor does he yearn to see her every night during his patrols, too captivated by the bliss you've been providing him for the preceding several weeks.

Despite the fact that his minor remorse is steadily eating him alive. You have no idea he's Spider-Man, one of the people who have broken into your gallery, but when he decided to tell you he was willing to help decipher the clue Black Cat left, he no longer had to worry about giving you any justification why he's so determined to get his sticky fingers on the hint left behind in quest of the turbulent Cat.

You both decided it was best to keep the police out of this, too.

Peter’s temporarily taken a break from being Spider-Man, realizing that figuring out the clue was much more important at the moment. Besides, it seemed like Black Cat was MIA too.

Both of you shifted from each other’s places. He’d finally introduced you to Ned (“Oh! Peter’s Emily” “What?”) and MJ. And he wanted to wait for a few weeks before introducing you to aunt May.

And as Ned had said: Go Ross Geller on her.

He spent those weeks, whilst figuring out what the clue meant, getting to know you. Other than the fact that you’re super into Greek Mythology, Peter discovers you’re into dystopian fiction. You’d adorably gushed about your love of The Maze Runner series – having to read the books and watch the movies at a young age spiced up your so-called addiction.

Piquing his curiosity even more, he finds out your hands, in all their finesse, are not only adaptable in painting in canvases – you told him you’d been dabbling in tailoring (including embroidery and crocheting) after you graduated high school as a method of catharsis for tough moments. One night, after restless hours reading and browsing the internet, you’d ended up crocheting him a blue and red beanie.

He knows your favorite film was Shutter Island; he knows you prefer your tea with three teaspoons of sugar; he knows you only drink vanilla latte for coffee; he knows you're allergic to eggs but eat them anyway because you said, and he quotes, "you only live once."

Peter had gotten those simple facts about you in a span of seven weeks and he craves for more.

Distracting him from his earnest researching (both for the clue and his recent homework), you went inside your apartment with a large empty canvas in your arms, dragging it behind you.

What had been a placid mood before you left had turned to a somewhat panicked state as he approached you (he heard your heartbeat before you left and right after you entered the door). “Hey,” he greets through a small smile. “Do you need some help?”

“Hi, no thank you,” you say back. “Sorry for suddenly barging in. The whole solving thing is driving me fucking crazy and I couldn’t just sit down and stare at books and screens reading things my brain can’t comprehend.”

Peter chuckles at your small rant as you gently placing the canvas against the wall. “’s alright. I’d be nice to watch you paint, anyway.” He replies. “Oh, I-uh- made Branzino. But, I, didn’t make it. Like, I just cooked it. Because I can’t make fish…so…”

“I know what you meant,” you give him a tight smile. “I like Branzino. Thank you.”

As Peter retreats to his comfy seat, fingertips haltingly resting on the keyboard as before, dark eyes flickering between his notebook filled with his scrawny handwriting and his laptop, which had at least seven sites open – three of which were clue related – silence falls between the two of you.

Once you changed your clothes your heartbeat had calmed down. Peter watches you walk towards the box on the side of your bookshelf, picking up a few acrylics and paint brushes before busying yourself to get ready.

Peter, ever the inquisitive, pauses his typing to gaze at you after your stillness, rotating his torso to rest his arm on the back of his chair and look at you. "Um...I have a question."

Peter is a smart person – book wise. Prior to becoming Spider-Man, he'd spend idle hours with his nose buried in a book and his eyeglasses so tight on his eyes that they left a red imprint on the top of his face

Unfortunately, he was never very astute when it comes to privacy and cognizance. A couple months ago, Happy’s seven-year-old fish had died and came to May’s apartment finding solace while she had been on a call with Peter.

He'd never seen Happy so pensive before. He was so distraught that he sobbed in front of Peter during the video call on May's laptop, tears splattering on the gaps between the letters of the board. And Peter had inquired insensitively if his fish had learnt any tricks, enabling his thoughts to speak for itself.

Aforementioned, he never really knew why he had thought that first before thinking of comforting Happy for the death of his pet.

And now, as he starts to rise from his seat and approach you at the front of the easel, he's deliberately paraphrasing the question over and over in his brain.

“Shoot,” you reply, fiddling with the brush between your fingers.

The second the word leaves your lips, the question leaves his head so quickly that he begins to wonder if he even thought about the question in the first place.

"Um," he feels the rush of blood to his cheeks, the apples rendering his pale opalescent skin consolidate the crimson that somewhat turns his cheeks baby-ish; defacing his cheekbones.

You're halfway through your first stroke, the white bristles tainted by the murky black resin. Although barely begun, there's already paint daubed on your skin, constricting your pores.

Your imposing eyes, tad apprehensive, glance up at his rapidly blinking ones. He notices you take in the perspiration dripping down his forehead to his unkempt brow. "Are you alright?"

Peter stammers. “Yeah. Just, forgot what the question was.” He looks down on his scarred knuckles, observing the bumps decorating his fair skin. “Can – can you talk first?”

Most of the days it went like this – Peter itching to ask you a question about anything, but the second you look into his eyes it’s as if he’s been hit by a car and given amnesia, having to forget the question all the time.

And then you’d fill the awkward silence he created, being the first to ask him a question instead.

Which is how he learned things about you - via scrupulous scrutiny, like a vigilant cat with his ears perked and eyes immobile, tail swishing in lieu of what's impending.

“Sure,” you clear your throat. “Um. Come sit beside me first.”

Peter happily obliges.

Eyes too scared to meet yours, they glue themselves on the white canvas as you begin to delicately move your wrist to your desired direction. Peter doesn’t know much about painting, merely having only to know how to sketch. So he is unaware of the exquisite daintiness and importance of integrating to suffuse the aspect;

He observes as you swivel your wrist to trace the graphite line that pinches onto your canvas, filling the white space with the darkness of the pigment that paints the ambience of your adroitness.

“I remember my question now,” he speaks out loud, fighting the urge to rest his head on your shoulder. “Why…do you paint a lot?” (that wasn’t his real question, but it had popped into his head)

The question’s followed by a silence that, unbeknownst to him, is filled by your contemplating thoughts. But he waits for you patiently, expecting at least an answer he’s able to comprehend.

You take a deep breath. “The thing about painting is that it doesn’t matter how you stroke your brushes, or how thick the amount of paint you use, or how broad the bristles are – it’s all about dedication and ingenuity. Unearth the hidden proclivity that pervades the versatility of your hands and the exigent mind that strives for you to envisage and put your sentiments to life.”

When he thinks you’re done, you continue. “My mother loved to paint,” you say softly. “She loved staying inside her gallery, spending hours and hours painting on canvases with different sizes. If I wasn’t busy with school she’d bring me with her and we’d paint together – either she gives me my own canvas or I help her paint her recent one.”

Usually the topic of domestic bliss between parent and child would envy him, the opportunity to experience those taken away from him at such a young age. Though he’s long over by their deaths, this doesn’t stop him from wanting to be loved by a parent—

(But then he realizes he has May, the woman who’s been working her ass off for years to give him a better life; a woman who stayed strong despite grieving alone still. And he adores that woman with his whole heart, thanking him for the love she’s given him.)

—Now he listens to you talk about your mother, unscathed by the faint jealousy. “I watched her think for just a second before starting a new one,” you continue, never looking at him. “and just watching her do that – bring her thoughts to life – it’s something that I wanted to do and I did. Which is why I paint so much.”

You dip the brush on the pallet. “She told me I could be anyone who I wanted myself to be. Told me I should be my own woman, not let a man control me and change my life. So I became my own woman that’s…influenced by her.”

Peter sweetly smiles to himself. “Where’s she now?”

“Dead.”

So much for smiling, huh? Thought you did something there, didn’t you?

“Oh,” he mumbles. “So-sorry.”

You shrug, dragging your brush downward. “It’s alright.” You slightly smile at him. “She…I found her dead in front of our doorstep one night. My dad and I never really knew how she died, or who killed her or what happened. But, but we’d given up a long time ago, y’know? Didn’t see any point of solving her death when we’ve both moved on.” You sighed deeply. “Would-would’ve been nice to know how she died, though. For some closure, I guess.”

Peter nods, his hands on his lap casually rubbing the denim over his knees. “My parents died, too.” He says, more in a way of sympathy than story-telling. “They-they got into an accident. So my aunt and my uncle took care of me ever since. Then my uncle died a couple years ago.”

It was your turn to apologize. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” he smiles softly. His gaze is drawn to the silver hair that stood out and hung over your shoulder. Peter points timidly at the hair. “Why do you have-”

“This?" Your hand combs through your silver, your fingertips caressing the dainty threads. “Oh. My mom and I did this thing every birthday of hers. We’d always get this strand bleached until it’s almost white, and we’d douse it in that purple shampoo until it becomes silver,” you chuckle softly at the memory. “People say we look so much alike except for the hair and she wanted us to have something in common in everything."

Peter frowns a little. “Did-did your hair never die?”

“Oh, it did,” you giggle, tracing the curve drawn on the canvas. “We don’t, like, bleach yearly. The first time we did it, my hair died. So she told me we’d only bleach it on her birthday when the silver disappears.”

“What happens when you don’t bleach on your birthday?”

“We’d paint,” you reply, looking forward. “Sometimes she’d teach me how to defend myself. ‘Cause my dad never did those things with me.”

When your unoccupied hand settles on the diminutive area between your thighs, his fingers twitch in an attempt to lace themselves over yours, or maybe just rest them on top of your hand. “Why not?”

“My father’s really…how do I say this without making him look bad,” you mutter before you bite your lip, gnawing on the slightly chapped skin. “My father is very old-fashioned. He wanted a son. But when he got me, he would sometimes treat me like his son rather than his daughter.

“He didn’t like it when I wore high heels, but I do,” you say. “He didn’t like it when I wore dresses. Said it was too ‘provocative’. I was ten,” you spare him a pointed look. “He would never get all rough-and-tumble on me. But he took me to the golf course once a month to teach me. And he’d bring me to the gun range a day before my birthday ever since I turned thirteen. But he never really believed too much in me to be his heir.”

Heir. Peter thinks there’s more in your life than he thought so.

Testing the spasmodic curiosity on the back of his head, Peter scoots closer, his thigh grazing your finger. “Heir, huh?” his tongue clicks over the roof of his mouth. “What does your dad do?”

“He’s a business man,” You respond haphazardly. You're halfway through your painting, but Peter is too engrossed in your tale to fathom what you're painting. “He wanted a man to rule over his company. And when he had me, he thinks that I’m not capable of the responsibilities laid upon men in the business industry,” you inhale sharply. “Well, guess what dad? I’ve been doing almost all your work ever since mom died, so, eat shit.”

Finally, Peter fucks over his conscience, calling him a coward, before reaching wantonly for the hand that's holding the paintbrush, heedless about the black paint infusing his bruised-tainted hand.

Your skin is frigid and almost unwelcoming to him, almost as if it had been Lilliputian to physical affection for such a long time. But when his hand envelopes yours, it’s almost as if it’s intrinsic to his saccharinely palpable hand; adding succor to your neglected heart.

And he oh-so-desperately wishes his hand could travel anywhere than just your calloused hands.

Though quietly, he could hear your breathing hitch and feel your accelerating heartbeat. Peter senses your reluctance when his clean thumb grazes your painted knuckles. The action nearly disappoints him if it weren’t for your eyes that softened when they traced the spaces between.

“No one’s held my hand in…years,” you whisper, almost unsure with your wordings. “The last person to ever hold my hand was my mom, and that was almost ten years ago.”

“Your dad’s a dickhead,” Peter declares. “You’re strong and you can do everything that he thinks you can’t. His incompetency relies on you, for fuck’s sake; he shouldn’t underestimate you like this.”

“He’s been misjudging me since I came out of my mother,” your breath is shaking, rapidly blinking away the tears he spots. “I’ve done everything to prove myself. What more could he want?”

“You can prove him wrong,” he nods his head, grasping your hand in his tightly. “You’re going to prove him wrong. And you’re going to amaze him so much it takes his breath away.”

When you smile through the lachrymose tears you’d finally let go, his other hand reaches up to wipe the tears off your soft skin.

“Hell, you took my breath away,” Peter softly confesses. “You didn’t do anything yet you took my breath away. That’s how powerful you are, (y/n). Because my whole life, the only thing that took my breath away was when I watched Star Wars for the first time and that was years ago.”

His thumb is dampened by your warm tears. Despite the fact that your face is moist and swollen from crying, he believes you've never been more breathtaking.

Peter leans in to try to kiss you, but your clean fingers place itself over his mouth, index finger tracing his thin pink lips that are gently pursed.

“As much as I want to kiss you too right now,” your thumb drags his bottom lip. “Take me out to dinner first.” You give him a small smile, looking up at him through your eyelashes – the sight melts his heart. “I’m also old-fashioned. Romantically.”

He leans back, slightly upset at the lost of your touch on his lips. “Okay.” He says. “I’ll take you out on the most beautiful date ever. Tonight.”

You raise your brow. “That was quick.”

“I know a lot of people who can help me find a special spot,” his eyes teasingly squint, hand never letting go of yours. “Dress however you want, as long as it’s a bit fancy.”

“Are you going to pick me up?”

“I…I’ll see…” he sheepishly declares.

“Why don’t we just eat the branzino?” you suggest, whispering. “So it won’t have to go to waste.”

Peter pulls back away from you, eyes widening slightly. “That is smart. Let’s do that. But, we won’t have the date here.”

“Is there something wrong with my apartment?”

His eyes yield itself panicked, leaning forward once more to grip your hands rather tightly. “No! No. It’s just – I’d like to take you to someplace else, if that’s alright? If you want to have the date here, that would be alright.”

Your subsequent giggle reverberates around his ears, finding its way to his hammering heart to which it makes him squirm lightly on his seat. “Okay,” you reply with a soft smile. “I’ll let you take me someplace else.”

Can my hands be this sweaty?

Peter's hands feel as though they've been immersed into a tub of water. He could feel perspiration flow from his arm to the tips of his fingers, falling to the ground beneath him, not to mention that his hair is growing moist from nervosity, despite having taken a bath over an hour ago.

He’s waiting outside your flat with three Scabiosas in his left hand. He had not-so-casually asked what your favorite flowers were earlier (“So, just for school research, does your friend have a favorite flower? And can you put in yours, too? I’m collecting everyone’s favorite flowers.”), and as soon as you answered him, he sprinted to every flower store that offered your beloved flower.

The Scabiosa’s a glorious scabious, with long, wiry stems producing rich crimson, suavely fragranced pincushions. The smell is addicting – familiar; the vaporizing scent trailing up his nose until his brain registers a moment of clarity. And the familiarity irritates him, because it ends up making him think of someone he wished he didn’t.

The door opens, allowing you to step out of your home.

Beautiful.

Your angelic vogue mollifies his anxieties; Peter becomes privy to the sweet, unbound serenity you brought upon; reign at the discretion of someone as alluring as you smile.

For a moment he thinks died. That when you stepped through the door, you’ve come to take him to heaven as you besieged his body with your surreal, antique wings; holding his hand to bring him to amnesty, pardoning his sins.

But you take him away from his subspace when your hand brushes his shyly, tucking your hair behind your ear.

“Black Cat Scabiosas,” you softly declare. “My favorite.”

Peter offers you the flowers, almost shoving them to your chest (though he didn’t mean to.) “Yeah,” he nods. “I looked for them everywhere.”

“Within an hour?” you raise your brow. “That was quick. It’s hard to find these flowers here.”

“I had my aunt’s boyfriend go to somewhere really far to get me these things,” Peter can never forget the irritated look Happy gave him when he brought the flowers to his place. “It’s no biggie. Anything to- to make you smile,”

And you do smile, smelling the flowers. “Thank you, Peter.”

The interaction is unintentionally limited as of the moment, both silently dying from excitement and eternal delight as Peter opens the car door for her to sit inside in before moving to his side of the door.

And during the ride he’d introduced you to his less-embarrassing favorite songs that he connected to his aux, singing softly to the lyrics as you bobbed your head with him; and if you did know one of the songs, you’d sing along with him with your gentle tone that he finds so comforting he could just sleep if he wasn’t driving.

Observing you from the corner of his eye, he would notice you sit straighter when you’d pass an ice cream store. He makes a mental note to take you there before bringing you home.

It’s almost an hour drive to his desired destination. And you wait patiently until he reaches a spot with almost little to no people in the area.

He gently guides you through the rutted and gravelly road. A hand on your waist that he wishes he could hold whenever he wanted, and another on your hand that he was only lucky enough to hold earlier.

“Where are you taking me, Peter?” you laugh nervously. “This is not the way I want to be blindfolded.”

Peter blushes. “Relax. We’re almost there, angel.”

He doesn’t notice how you slightly stiffen at the nickname. “What are you, like an ax murderer or something?”

“Worse,” he replies. “I won’t tell you what it is, though.”

“I’m going to claw you and repeatedly scream for help, Parker.”

The laughter that occurs stops when you reach the spot. Peter carefully removes the blind fold wrapped around your eyes, shoving it on the backside of his pocket. But he never lets go of your hand.

The sun meets the pristine edge of the mirrored panorama from the lake's flawless oval, which remains completely immobile due to the tranquility and paucity of disturbance. The trees harbor a soft harmony of its leaves swishing against each other to the decaying foliage falling on the dirt below.

There’s a blanket towards the near edge of the pier that leads to the middle, a basket in the center. Peter hears the hitch in your breathing as you (sadly) drop his hand to carefully make your way to the spot.

“Peter,” there’s a tremble in the way you say his name. “Peter, this – this is beautiful. Thank you.”

“Nothing to be thankful for,” he comes up behind you, resting his hands on your shoulders. “I told you I’d take you on the most beautiful date ever.”

As you walk hand by hand towards the blanket, there’s a soft meow behind you.

Turning around, there’s a black cat passing by, though still looking at the two of you with its threatening green eyes before sauntering away.

And the date goes by uninterrupted – stories shared from memories at old schools, hobbies picked up as children that continued up until now, favorite movies (even though he already knew yours), and embarrassing reencounters. Much to his chagrin, however, you seemed to avoid any topics that included your plans about your future. Yet Peter doesn’t mind.

Within those hours he managed to pick up small quirks from you – how you rub your nose when a chill breeze passes by, or how the nail of your index finger picks on the skin of your thumb when you’re nervous (which he manages to stop when he pretends to hand you things such as glasses and treats).

“So are you planning on telling me the truth behind Atë?” he asked you at some point, halfway through his first glass of champagne. “You said you’d be telling me when we meet again.”

Much to his chagrin, you’d shrugged, taking a bite of the branzino. “Unfortunately I’ve still yet to find out. Been caught up with work to find out.”

“You’ve submitted your project about the Gods too, though, right?”

You shrugged again.

Before he knows it, the date’s done. Stories shared, food enjoyed, champagne drank through their problems.

You’d gotten home late at night.

Guaranteed, each of you were slightly tipsy from the champagne Peter brought. But you were sober enough to fathom what you were both doing as you fumble with shoving the key through the hole before stepping in, Peter following behind you.

Peter watches as you take courtesy on removing your shoes that had been making your toes ache ever since you wore them. He also removes his after your approval, gently placing them on top of the welcome mat.

The lights are dim, though enough to accentuate both your figures like a painting drawn beneath the night sky. There’s a soft inebriated gloss on your eyes as you hand him a glass filled with cold water.

“I had a great time,” you speak out after he takes a long sip of the water. “Thank you. So much.”

“Like I said earlier, (y/n),” he walks closer, placing the glass on the table behind you. “Nothing to be thankful for. I’d take you out on a million dates if you want to. If it means I could kiss you.

Your nails are no longer sharp, now designed in a sage green squoval that matches your outfit perfectly. “So like…did you only take me out on a date to kiss me?”

Peter’s eyes widened, mouth parting. But he stumbles with his words like how he stumbles on his feet. “N-no! I mean, I did want to take you out on a date. But I also wanted to kiss you. And if you-you wanted to go on a date first before kissing me, then I’ll do it,” he looks down on his trembling fingers. “If you want me to do things for you before I kiss you, I’ll do it and wait. Hell, even if you want to wait a whole year or two, I’ll still wait. Because I still get to kiss you, and the whole waiting will be worth it.”

He senses how your uneasiness that tautened your muscles relaxed, back slumping slightly. “That’s really-really nice.” You whisper, voice barely echoing off the walls but loud enough for him to hear. “Really sweet. You’re like…the first guy to be this genuinely sweet…to me.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” he meekly chuckles. But when you don’t laugh with him, his chuckle dies down. “Have you, never, been on a date?”

Silence.

“Or-or a relationship?”

Head hanging low, your finger traces the lips of your glass. “It’s not like a relationship, per se,” you correct him. “It’s more like a mutual understanding. Like, we both know that we like each other but we never really do anything to make it official.”

Peter hums in understatement. “So you’ve never had a boyfriend? Or a girlfriend?”

You shake your head. “I guess I’ve never really had enough time to, y’know, look for the right person amidst all the chaos my father put me into my whole life. Every decision I made in those ‘relationships’ were too brash.” You tut. “And, they’re like scared of my dad.”

He takes this as an opportunity to prove himself. Accost the threshold that separates the secrets that await for revelation; he desires to indulge in something more between the two of you that continues to greet him with derision the longer he makes the both of you wait.

Overwhelmed by a sudden wave of drunken confidence does Peter take a bold stride towards you. He towers you, shadow consuming your figure; but instead of scaring you, it comforts you.

“Has anyone made you feel their love?”

You look up at him. Peter reels in the sudden darken in your eyes and the erratic broadening of your pupils. He respectfully tries to pry his eyes away from your heaving chest that’s almost exposed by your attire, but he fails when he feels your chest meet his.

The curls of your hair sharpens your cheekbones, almost as sharp as your mind. Your lips are suddenly luscious – suddenly kissable. Overall, you appear delectable to Peter; making him crave for you and wonder what kind of sweet sounds you’d make for him when he shows you his love-

“No,” you shake your head, tucking your bottom lip between your teeth. “Not that I have remembered, no. I’m a difficult person to please, Peter.”

“Well, lucky for you, I don’t give up that easily." He doesn’t know how they got there – maybe they weren’t that sober. But the state you’re in proves that you’re both only treading lightly in a drunken mind that tells you what you’ve been wanting this entire time.

“Are you going to kiss me, Peter?” you whisper. “Are you going to prove to me that those people I’ve been with are incompetent in achieving my pleasures?” standing taller, Peter feels just a smidge of submission. “Are you gonna stop waiting?”

His hand reaches up to cup the side of your scathing cheek, tilting your head upwards so his thumb could trace your wet lips, dragging the bottom lip down.

“I don’t give in easily,” he replies, the other hand tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. He leans closer to the side of your face until his lips graze the skin of your earlobe. “Beg for it,” he whispers.

Your nail scratches the soft exposed skin of his arm, tracing the bulging on his forearm with a touch so delicate and burning it sends shivers down his spine.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you whisper when he leans back to graze his nose with yours, inhaling in your sweet scent. “I want you to prove yourself. So you beg for it.”

Peter swallows thickly, your risqué tone alone makes the blood rush down to where he’s starting to get rock hard against his briefs.

And it's as if you've bewitched him because he's suddenly leaning in nearer till your lips brush. “Kiss me,” he whispers against your lips. “Fuck me. And I’ll fuck you so good you won’t be able to walk for days, angel.”

And then he kisses you.

It tastes of champagne, cherry, and you. You, you, you. All he feels is you as your hands wander everywhere – his biceps, his back, the flush skin of his arms.

Despite the irreverent remarks spoken thus far, the kiss begins delicately, and he takes his time reeling in the cherry-flavored lipbalm that you had applied earlier in the evening. As he rubs your back, you faintly hum as you lay your hands on the back of his neck, toying with his wild locks.

He's had hopes and aspirations that never came true. But he never expected this to happen - your tender lips on his rough ones. It starts slowly, enabling all of the passion and intensity to flow from your exquisite mouths while Peter kisses you harder.

But he's envisioned kissing you - what you'd taste like, what noises you'd make, how you'd feel. And they were much, far better than he had expected.

His crooked nose bumps yours, digging onto the skin beside your nose when he moves in deeper, his right calloused hand moving up to place itself on the soft skin of your cheek to which contrasts to his, thumb rubbing the skin adjacent to your eyes.

Peter carefully walks you to your bedroom, lips never leaving yours.

And then it’s a mixture of tongue and teeth. His tongue probes your mouth, sucking in your enticing taste. His hand moves down to cup the broad curve of your ass, and he groans when your hands rip the button of his shirt, allowing you to rake your nails through his scarred abs.

The moment is flawed; an angel committing a sin and you’d done it to pleasure yourself. But neither of you care as his lips physically avow itself to treat you like the woman you are – respected, believed in, loved, praised.

His lips move to your neck, kissing everywhere until he sucks on the spot that lets you release the most innocent whimper he’s heard.

“Tell me what you want,” he huffs, voice husky. “Tell me where you want me. What you want to do with me—fuck. Do what you want to me. Ruin me.”

Your breath is hot against his neck as you bite the curve of his neck that meets his shoulder, discarding his shirt that’d been wrinkled by your needy hands. “I want you to use that pretty mouth of yours to good use,” you pant.

He doesn’t oblige immediately, though knowing what you meant. Instead, he takes his time to take your top off, throwing it to the ground where you threw his shirt.

He doesn't spend any time unclasping your bra and staring at your bare breasts. And God, did they taunt him into doing such heinous things that no one would ever forgive him for his misdeeds but you – the fellow sinner.

Peter ducks to take one nipple in his mouth, nipping at the soft bud before sucking on it until it’s perked and painfully erected. He sucks on the top curve of your breasts before he lets his lips wrap around your bud again, his other hand kneeding the vacant tit, thumb rolling through and overstimulating the delicate skin.

His clothed crotch grinds itself over yours, friction just enough for him to smell how wet you’ve gotten underneath your bottoms. You release a high-pitched moan right through his ear and he almost came in his pants.

“You’re so pretty,” Peter murmurs. “So, so pretty. So beautiful. But I bet you’d look more beautiful when I look up to you.”

Peter then kneels in front of you, yanking your hems down so you would step aside and shed the superfluous apparel.

When he kisses the soft skin of your inner thigh, he’s able to take a small whiff of your arousal leaking through your underwear that’s calling for him. But now he’s painstakingly taking his time with you, sucking on your supple flesh until he’s sure it’ll mark the next day.

You moan, throwing your head back as your hands cards itself through his unkempt curls. “Stop teasing me or I’ll finish myself off,” you pant.

So in response, his hands rip the material of your lace.

Peter’s hands guide your leg to rest on his shoulder, giving him a better view of your cunt that glistens beneath the moonlight that seeps through your curtains. The engorged bud waiting for his greedy lips.

His slender finger raises to swipe through your slick folds, feeling your wetness spread throughout his index, only to be cleaned when his mouth sucks on his finger.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he growls. “And you taste amazing. Who made you this wet, hm?” he marks another on your thigh, and another, drawing an arrow to where your sweet nectar is.

Your hands push his head near your aching pussy, his nose grazing your clit. “You. Fuck. You made me this wet. Do something, please.”

Finally, Peter licks through your cunt. His thick muscle starting from your pulsating hole to your clit, sucking on the bud like his life depended on it as his tongue focuses on kitten-licks.

Is this what ambrosia tastes like? When he’s kneeling on the ground with your legs as the arches to your sacred sanctuary. And you give him the taste he’s been waiting for, letting him devour you like it’s his last meal before he’s dragged down to perish with you.

“You taste amazing,” he chuckles through your cunt, sucking greedily on your clit before letting the tip of his tongue tease your folds.

“Fuck,” you hiss. “Fuck, don’t stop.”

As he continues to suck on your clit, his fingers reach up to shove two of them inside your hungry mouth, pressing down your tongue to mimic how his cock might feel inside your mouth when he fucks your face. Without having to be told to, you suck on his fingers, tasting his skin that tastes of salty sweat, letting the tip of your tongue brush his fingertips.

“Good girl, sucking on my fingers,” he groans against your clit, voice vibrating on your pussy. “Got them wet enough, huh? You like it when you suck on things?”

You whimper only to respond, the feeling of his lips wrapped loosely around your clit being the only thing clouding his mind.

He pulls the fingers out, dragging them down to wet the valley of your breasts, the swell of your nipples, the smooth skin of your abdomen until it reaches your folds.

Peter swipes it across your petals, soaking his fingers even more before they tease your dripping hole. “Peter,” you mewl. “Fuck. Please.”

“Where do you want them?”

The hand on his hair tugs harshly, knocking his head back so that he’d look at you. With a slack jaw, Peter looks up at you through hooded eyes, his fingers still drawing circles around your entrance.

Your thumb comes across your engorged bud, rubbing a single harsh circle before prying it away. Your thumb, coated with your arousal, traces his bottom lip before prying his mouth open, thumb slipping in and pressing down on his tongue, moving deeper until he gags lightly on your finger.

And then your lips purse, making a soft hum, before you spit in his mouth.

Peter swallows, enjoying the taste of you and the sweet champagne.

“Inside me, pretty boy,” you purr. “Put those pretty little fingers inside me.”

He abides, intensions of prolonged foreplay thrown to the side. Peter finds this hot – your thumb in his mouth, gagging him as you tell him what to do; like a plaything made only to pleasure you. And he doesn’t mind you manhandling him. In fact, it fuels him even more, making him even more excruciatingly hard.

Peter likes seeing you powerful; unfettered dominancy consolidated by his adroit fingers that plunge itself inside your hole, moving rapidly as if anarchy was seconds away from ruining the irrevocable culmination of an illicit affair.

He lets go of your thumb with a harsh suck before a loud pop, delirious mouth reaching for your piquant cunt. When the sight alone causes him to slip into delirium, what more could happen when he finally properly ravishes you?

As crooked fingers move in and out of you quickly, his lips are back on your clit with fierce suckles. You moan loudly, fingers raking his scalp to push him unbelievably close to your pussy that he’s breathing through his nose.

The soft skin of his cheeks turn pink, the tip of his nose glistens with your arousal. Peter’s curls are wild and his eyes are darkened with obscene paramnesia, pupils dilated as if you’d gotten him so intoxicated by your lascivious virtu.

Lewd fingers stretch you out, curling a ‘come-hither’ at each thrust that goes licentiously deeper until he reaches that spot that has you moaning loudly, throwing your head back.

Peter looks up at you, catching sight of your accentuated neck. “That feel good, angel?” he jibes, hitting your g-spot over and over again.

You hum, licking your drying lips. “Mm. Yes. Fuck yes. Just like that. Don’t stop.”

Vigor increased, Peter’s lips return to your clit, tongue licking up and down as his fingers trace your walls. His other finger reaches up behind to spank your ass, the ripples making him vibrate.

“Fuck,” you gasp. “I’m close.”

You moan vociferously above him with a couple more thrusts, your legs trembling from your climax. Peter coaxes you through it, gently placing his hands behind you to hold you as his tongue goes to your hole to gather your cum, swallowing it as it drops on his thick muscle.

“Did so good for me,” he moves up, trailing kisses from your navel, to your breasts, neck, until he reaches your lips. He’s sure you can taste yourself through his tongue, making you moan on his mouth. “Can you lay down for me, miss?”

Your eyes open, dusk settles in your irises. And you oblige, laying down with your legs spread open as your back meets your soft sheets with an anticipated shudder.

Peter kneels on the end of the bed, stomach on the mattress. His crotch slowly ruts itself on the bed as his hands push your legs back until your knees meet your chest. “Think you can give me another one?”

With a loss for words, you nod eagerly.

He suddenly licks a bold stripe on your exposed cunt once more, middle and index finger parting your folds in a V as he licks the sweet muscle until the tip of his tongue teases your sensitive hole.

With your entrance stretched out from the previous disquisition, his tongue easily slips in inside you. Moaning, you clench around his tongue that goes deeper at each thrust.

“Fuck, you’re making me feel so good,” your hand reaches up to play with your nipples, only to be pushed away by Peter who traces circles around your buds. “You’re doing so good, Pete.”

His hips continue to rut on the bed, though making sure he didn’t came in his pants, he goes slowly. Peter leans forward, shoving his tongue deeper inside you. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, and he’s doing everything he can to not do the same as he tastes your dewy entrance.

Tasting you was sensational, and it was enough to entice him to his upcoming orgasm. But he wants to satisfy you, to make you pleased - as if this is the one mission he wants to succeed at.

He hums against you, bringing his thumb to apply pressure to your aching clit, rubbing circles. “So fucking sweet,” he growls.

Your orgasm comes no longer than the other, coating his tongue with your cum and juices. He moans at the taste, pulling back to admire your sensitive, reddening pussy.

Your fluids coat the late dusky shimmer of his chin, and your arousal radiates through the white filaments of your cum. Your hands reach out to cradle his face, crushing your lips together.

“As much as I want for you to fuck my face,” you begin, breath hot with excitement. “I need you inside me now.”

“Maybe you could suck me off next time,” he grins.

Rolling your eyes, you slightly push him off you to sit up. You pull on his arm, letting him rest on the headboard.

Peter unbuckles his trousers, lifting his ass up to push it down until he kicks it off to the side where you’d thrown your clothes at.

You’re the one who almost rips his briefs off, gaping when his painfully erected cock springs from its entrapment, swell tip slapping on his stomach.

Carefully, you swing your legs on either side of his thighs, slit on his shaft, grinding on his hard cock as you shove your tongue inside his mouth to kiss him.

“Do you have a condom?” you ask against his lips.

Peter, too infatuated, replies, “No.”

You lean back, hands on his face. “You’re telling me you never thought our date would end in sex?” the question was never meant to be delivered as if you’d been offended; to him, he thinks you found it funny,

His ears turn red. “No! I thought about it, duh. I just got too excited to buy a pack of condoms, ‘s all.”

“Okay,” you nod. “I’m-I’m on the pill, anyway. For some reason. ‘ve been taking them since I turned eighteen.”

Sitting on your knees, Peter’s hand raises his cock, tip teasing your entrance. And he all but cries when you finally sink down on him, your cunt engulfing him.

Peter’s face etches in worry when he senses the slight discomfort you resonate. “You alright?” he asks, hands coming around to wrap itself around you, hand caressing your sweaty back.

“I’m okay,” you nod. “Just give me a sec.”

“Take your time,” he presses a soft kiss on the space between your eyebrows. “Take as many times as you want. Then you can fuck me as hard as you want.”

With that you smirk. And it takes you a whole ten seconds before you start moving yourself up, relying the movement on your knees before sinking back down on his cock.

Your cunt’s snug around his cock, bounding his girth. And it’s as if you’re now whole – a puzzle piece completing a masterpiece of two flawed souls. A shattered mosaic mended by two sweaty bodies; reign at the disposal of gratuitously tedious mutual pining.

It begins slowly. His gaze is fixated on your contorted face of pleasure, which evokes out quiet gasps and whimpers as his tip attains your g-spot with each bounce; his hands never leave your back, stroking your skin with notorious strokes.

“God, you have no idea what you do to me,” you purr in his ear, beginning to bounce faster. Peter moans at the sight of his cock disappearing inside your cunt, seeing white-hot stripes of your cum coating his thick veins. “You feel so good.”

Your head nestles on the crook of his neck, arms around his torso. It’s a glorious moment, a juxtaposition to such a corrupt deed. Peter kisses your neck, sucking on the skin after. And his tongue soothes the pain.

“You’re so pretty like this,” you let out an imposing chuckle. “Beneath me. Being controlled.

When your hands remove themselves from his torso, your right hand reaches up to wrap itself around Peter’s throat. “Fuck,” he pants, swallowing thickly. “You’re taking me so well—ah.”

“Yeah? You like that?” you whisper in his ear when you squeeze the side of his neck. He can feel your nails digging into his flesh, almost drawing blood if you so desire. But he wouldn't regret if you made his neck bleed — if you were the one who caused his ecstatic anguish, he'd bleed for you any time.

“Fucking love it,” he moans. “I love the way your hand feels around my throat”

“Of course you do,” you chuckle darkly. “Filthy fuckin’ thing.” Sighing on his neck, you suck on the salty skin until you start to see the purple forming. “Do you like it when I touch you?”

Your skins colliding fills the quiet room aside from your frenzied cries. And the sound is nothing short of obscene – applauding the both of you for such an abhorrent act. But Peter doesn’t care—it's an epistle for you, a woman who deserves to have her demands fulfilled, whether it's independence or the ability to do whatever she wants without being restricted.

Peter feels like he’s a man who looked for the dirtiest angel to fuck. Or in this case, the dirtiest angel to fuck him.

He sees your navel bulging slightly. Peter’s in too fucking deep he finds it hard to speak. With a sweaty hand, it reaches down to cup your navel. “I’m in so deep, baby?” he rasps. “‘d you feel me?”

“Yes,” you moan.

“You own me, (y/n),” he declares loudly amidst the amoral requisition of skin clapping. “I’m yours.”

He's now fully devoted himself to you, a woman he's just met for a few weeks has already found her way to his conquered heart; filling it with her paradoxical epiphanies of her way of love. Cacophonies of prismatic declarations of each bounce, it brings him closer to the edge.

I’m yours to ruin, to fuck, to love.

You only moan in response, albeit because Peter’s added his thumb to rub on your clit. “Fuck, Pete.” You pull on his hair again, nestling your head on the crook of his neck. “Cum for me.”

And then he’s spilling into you, marking you as his just as much as he was yours. Moaning with your name rolling off his tongue as he hugs you close to his chest. And you cum on him too, finally making him yours. Peter feels you clench around him, making him hiss.

When you pull out, Peter’s hand reaches for his semi-hard cock and uses his tip to push his cum into you, fucking his seed back. You clench around his tip.

He nearly cums again when he sees his seed drip out of your cunt, smearing around your thighs and on your ass, slick with his spit and your arousal.

I’m yours.

The sight is obscene; almost unforgivably besmirched to the sight of the pristine minds whose innocence will be sullied with one look of the mess between your legs. But your mellifluous sounds combined were so piquant that he doesn’t care for the judgment of his dirty acts; as you drunkenly waver between the threshold of subspace and reality, Peter takes in the euphoric denouement as he calms down from his climax.

Your breathing calms, eyes opening to reveal its feigned innocence to appear as an ingénue to judgmental people – but Peter knows how truly daring and naughty you are.

And it’s as if you weren’t just fucked into next week as you plant such a sweet kiss on his swollen, wet lips. His heart beats faster, butterflies filling his stomach.

He hopes you feel the same way.

“You’re mine,” you say against his lips. “No man should own me,” with foreheads touching, you let your eyes closed. “But you do. I’m yours.”

I’m yours.

And you are mine.

When Peter wakes up the next day with his arms still around you and your face nestled against his bare chest, he knows thinks he’ll never get used to this.

He’s unsure if this is the start of something new. You only had sex, it’s not like you both told each other ‘I love you’s’ while you’re fucking him. But he ignores the thought and tells himself to just enjoy the moment before it’s gone.

Your hair’s splayed out on your pillow, slightly ajar lips releasing a rhythm of soft, heavy sighs of content slumber. His hand that wasn’t wrapped around your waist reaches up to tuck a strand behind your ear.

When you don’t move, he leans in to place the softest kiss on the tip of your nose.

You groan and gently push his chest away from you before sinking further into his embrace. He bites his lower lip, concealing a chuckle so as to not disrupt your sleep. His shirt, draped around you to mask yourself, was comfortable against his skin, and the fragrance of you infused with his made it more comforting.

He’d slipped it on you after he took care of you, wiping off the sweat and mess he created between your legs. And when you asked for him to stay right when he began to ponder if you wanted him to leave, he obliged.

Because there's nowhere he'd rather be in the world than with you.

Peter assiduously hoped time would stop so he could hold you longer; it was already midday, and he knew you'd both have to get up and start your days eventually. And he thinks that after you've gone about your days, you'll either do some serious reflecting and decide that having sex with him was a mistake, or you'll pretend that nothing happened and sleep in your respective beds.

And God, he wished your decisions would be neither.

“You know it’s rude to stare,” you murmur, eyes still closed and face smushed on the pillow. “I’d make a mom joke but both of our moms are dead and I don’t want to make you cry early in the morning or else I’ll put myself in an awkward situation."

Peter laughs. “Make all the mom jokes you want. Even the ‘your mom’ ones. It’s also midday,” he corrects you. “And how can I not stare? When I woke up I thought I died and went to heaven because there was an angel in front of me.”

You peek one eye open, though still heavy from sleep. “What book ‘d you get that?”

“My head,” he smirks. “What? Can’t an awkward guy make the cheesiest compliment ever? Do you want me to compare you to a PlayStation?”

He laughs louder when you smack his chest. “Don’t compare me to an object. Your mom taught you better than that!”

Elated, he wraps his arms around you, pulling you back to his chest with his legs tangled with yours. Then he presses loud, smacking kisses across your face – cheeks, forehead, nose, anywhere but your lips. “I’m sorry, pretty girl,” he giggles. “I’m sorry for trying to compare you to a PlayStation. You’re just both fun to play with.”

You groan loudly, attempting to turn away from him. But he's stronger, and as he pins your left arm to the mattress, he pulls you back down. Peter then hovers above you, slotting himself between your legs.

“Peter,” you whine.

“I know, I know.” He says.

His elbows are propped up on either side of your head. Peter balances himself on his right elbow, left hand reaching to cup your cheek that shines from the sunray that slips past the curtains. For a second he thinks he might have been hallucinating – you were shining beneath the sun, like glitter was poured over you to shine brightly and show people your true beauty.

“You’re so – so beautiful,” he whispers, smitten. “Can I kiss you?”

His hand feels the heat radiate to your cheek. You nod. “You fucked me with your tongue last night. I think you can kiss me whenever you want to.”

I think you can kiss me whenever you want to.

(Either you meant that as a way of saying you’re willing to be with him forever, or make this whole incident a friends-with-benefits thing.)

“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?” he mutters before pressing his lips on yours.

It’s chapped, having to sleep for hours on end undisturbed. And your breath is hot, but so is his and neither of you seem to care about the morning breath slipping past your still-swollen, dry lips. Yet to Peter, no matter what state your lips were in, they’re still soft.

“The bedroom smells like sex,” you mutter against his lips.

“Do you not like the smell?”

“No it’s just-” you place your hands on his shoulders, nails scraping on his skin that had been reddened by you. “My room usually smells like mint. Do you know what catnip smells like?”

Peter frowns. “Not sure.”

“Well, my friend gave me some mint scented candles on my birthday. So my room smells like mint – or catnip.”

“Huh,” he pulls back. “That’s oddly specific,”

“I tend to say random things when I’m out of it,” you murmur with your eyes closed. “Please let me go back to sleep.”

Peter shakes his head. “You have to wake up, angel,” he whines softly, pushing imaginary hair off your cheeks, fingertips gently caressing the back of your ear. “It’s lunch time.”

You pout. “Can we just stay in bed all day? I’m not in the mood to be productive right now.”

He kisses the pout away from your lips, making him smile when you smiled. “Well, Black Cat could be productive right now. And she could be getting impatient.”

“I highly doubt that,” you snort. “I bet she’s also still in bed, trying to beg her girlfriend or boyfriend to let her go to sleep.”

Did you just call me your boyfriend? “And how would you know?”

“Because I want to go back to sleep and you’re not letting me,” you poke your tongue out, making a face at him. “Unless you’re cooking breakfast, I’d like to go back to sleep.”

He rolls his eyes, propping his left elbow on the side of your face so he can caress the soft material of his shirt that adorns your waist. With meek fingers, they slither their way beneath your shirt to engulf your warmth on his hands, sighing in satisfaction.

“Fine, I’ll cook you breakfast,” Peter offers.

Your eyes snap open. “Yay!”

After hours of your eyes being sequestered by slumber, Peter never knew how much he’d missed looking into them. They’re luminous beneath the natural glow of the sunshine – your irises lightened by the solari. Your eyes, to which coquettish prior this morning, is tenacity on delivering dulcet spectrum to placate his derisive self-doubt from your affections.

Feeling your fingers trace the supple opalescent skin of his cheeks, your right hand slowly comes up to tame his wild eyebrow, massaging the slight crease on his forehead.

“I think I know what you’re thinking,” you whisper, even though it’s only just the two of you in the bedroom. Your features are fleeced with sincerity – showing great care to the boy above you. And your touch is delicate, fearing that he might break down any minute.

“Yeah?”

“And if I am right, I just want you to know that I’ll stay,” you caress his cheeks. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll…I’ll be staying with you. If that’s what you want.”

There’s a hint of reluctance in your voice, as if you’d been half-lying, but Peter’s blinded by the sweetness of the words to even fathom the tone.

“Of course I do,” he murmurs. “You’re worth staying for.”

You both got out of the bed after sharing a sweet, innocent kiss. Clad in nothing but the largest sweatpants you could offer in your closet, Peter saunters his way to your kitchen to look for anything to eat that he thinks you’ll enjoy to elevate your hungry state.

After brushing your teeth – and making Peter coffee – he watches you make your way to the chair in front of the easel, picking up where you left off and taint your fingers with black once more.

The music he played on his phone to entertain himself suddenly stops and is replaced with the obnoxious sound of his ring tone. The picture of Ned making a face back in high school appears, the yodeling matching the mood of the photo.

He stumbles to swipe right. “Hey dude.”

“Hey dude,” Ned repeats. “Listen, I’m coming by to drop off the books for the English History essay we’re assigned. You kinda forgot it back at our place and I figured you’d be staying there a bit longer.”

Peter lets out a short laugh. “Oh, I’m definitely staying here a bit longer.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he just knows Ned rolled his eyes at him. “Anyway. Are you coming back tonight? Because Betty’s coming over and I’d rather not you walk in on us.”

“Walk in on what? To your crying face?”

“I’ll just take that ‘crying face’ as a good sign if ever Betty tells me she still loves me,” He snaps. “Right. I’m going to (y/n)’s apartment now. Damn, do these buildings look all the same?”

“Hers has that spinning door.” Peter explains. “Has MJ gone back from her trip? She hasn’t answered any of my texts. She’s acting…weird.”

“What kind of weird,”

“Like, scheming weird. You know, like how she acts when she’s up to something and investigating things or when she’s suspicious,”

“Oh, yeah. She hasn’t replied to me, either. I’ve been texting her girlfriend, though. They’ve been together, staying at Queens for a couple of days.”

Peter nods, glancing at you quickly. “‘lright. Text me when you’re inside the building. Love you.”

“Dude…” Ned sighs. “I know.”

Ned arrives ten minutes after the call, dropping off his books (along with his anagram book that he accidentally picked up). You had offered for him to stay for breakfast, but he seemed to be in a hurry, muttering quick words of “thank you” before speeding off.

When Peter returns to the kitchen to finish what he's preparing, he hears your footsteps approaching him. Then he feels your mellow cheek resting on his broad shouldered back as your arms wrap around his torso from behind.

“Isn’t it dangerous to cook topless?” you say. “You could get hurt.”

“Well, you didn’t have any shirts for me, sweetheart.”

“You could always wear mine,” you offer. “They’re stretchable. Plus, I think you’ll look good wearing a crop top.”

“I look good in anything,” he teasingly replies, turning off the stove. “Breakfast’s ready.”

“Can we watch Shutter Island again while eating?” you ask him with a pout, a light of expectance in your eyes.

Peter chuckles. “Anything you want.” He says, turning his torso to plant a kiss on your forehead. “I’ll just charge my phone inside the room and I’ll be out.”

You both finished eating thirty minutes in to the movie, sharing minimal small talk in between bites, you being almost too enthralled on the film played that was supposed to be only background noise.

As you requested, Peter stayed in your apartment. And he’s doing that thing where he’s focusing on two things at once – homework and the clue. The movie continues still even as you sat in front of the easel once more, your phone propped up as you ever-so-often scrolled to read the website Peter sent to help him analyze the clue.

The voice of Dolores Chanal fills the concentrated silence. “Get out of here, Teddy. This place is gonna be the end of you.”

It’s followed by a soliloquy from Edward Daniels and John Cawley that Peter pays no attention to – if he’s being honest, he’s not an entire fan of these kind of movies, having to prefer sci-fi than thrillers. But he enjoyed it, nonetheless.

“Let’s try this another way. Your wife’s maiden name is Chanal, am I correct?” You’re quoting Cawley, memorized the whole scene from how many times you’ve watched the movie. And Peter laughs when you even mimicked his accent behind the canvas.

Peter shifts his direction from his laptop to the TV, watching Cawley remove a sheet off the board to reveal four names. “Focus, Andrew! What do you see? The names have the same letters.”

Even Peter focuses, eyes narrowing to get a better view of the four names.

Confirmed, the names did have all the same letters. “Edward Daniels has exactly the same 13 letters as Andrew Laeddis. The same as Rachel Solando and Dolores Chanal. The names are anagrams for each other.”

Anagrams.

Peter’s eyes move away from the TV to look for the anagram book Ned brought beneath the pile of papers. He picks the book up, accidentally slamming it open on the table.

He hears you yelp. “Peter?” you call out. “You alright?”

“Yes!” he replies hastily. “I think I just figured out what the clue meant.”

There’s a quick silence before you reply through the loud scraping of your chair, taking long strides to him before standing behind his chair to lean over his hunched figure. “Really?” you ask in disbelief.

“Yes,” he repeats. “The movie gave me an idea.”

“What, when Teddy found out his real name?”

“Yes.”

“The anagram?”

“Yes.”

Peter skims the pages with his finger, almost tearing his flesh by flicking them too abruptly. And you stood behind him, observing how his eyes aided and abetted his mind with what he saw, his brain analyzing the words offered by the book.

The eyes. Thee yes. Th eyes. They se?

They see.

When he pats down the papers on the table in search for a pen, he groans when he doesn’t feel the shape. But you’d given him a pen without him asking for, knowing what he was already looking for.

He repays you with a quick kiss to the corner of your mouth before picking up a random piece of scribbled up paper and writing down words they see.

“What’s next, darling?”

You pick up the crumpled up piece of paper that was stuck to the fridge, reading the clue out loud. “Is no amity.”

Belligerent impulses amassed, incorrigible minds repudiated. Peter's mind intermittently assesses the words on his text book, swapping words until he believes he has the right one. And he thinks it should be simple (with a book given, after all), but he's so filled with adrenaline from his enthusiasm that it takes him a while to put the pieces together.

In the end, though, he’s finally done.

the eyes is no amity; unship the molarity, enured the veil

they see animosity; punish the morality, endure the evil

Peter rereads the sentence over and over again to see if something in his mind would click – for a book to open, a memory to unlock. But nothing happens, each search his patience withers into something as a sliver of annoyance.

“I don’t – I don’t understand,” he says angrily under his breath. “What, what’s this supposed to mean?”

“Maybe it’s describing something,” it’s obvious you’re trying to appease his sudden impatience. “Pete, it’s okay. We can still solve it-”

“It’s not okay!” he stands up, throwing the paper aside to run a hand through his hair frustratingly. “I don’t want to wait anymore. I want – I want to catch her. Fuck!”

He’s thankful you don’t question his eagerness; albeit you’re clueless to why he wants to catch Black Cat, you consider not to anger him anymore.

Peter hasn’t thought of her in days, too engrossed in the clue and you. And right when he thought he’d be able to see her again, it all comes back to square one – except this time he’s got a solved clue.

“It’s not okay,” he repeats with a soft whimper, sitting back down and slumping his back. “It’s not okay.”

“I know,” you coo, wrapping your arms around his head, running your own fingers through his hair, untangling the knots. “I know it’s not okay. I’m sorry.”

He breathes, resting his forehead on your stomach and softly rubbing his skin on the fabric of your shirt. When your hands slide through Peter's curls, tugging to relieve stress, he sighs faintly.

“We’ll catch her,” you tell him. “I’m sure she’s still waiting. We – we don’t have all the time in the world but we still got time.”

“I know,” when he nods, your shirt rises a little. “I’m sorry for shouting.”

“It’s okay,”

“Can I-” he stands up, gently grasping your hand to remove themselves from his hair, “I’ll just grab my phone from your room. I need to text Ned.”

You appear reticent to let him inside your room, your gaze flitting between the open door and his eyes that waits for approval. You eventually nod and place a light kiss on his cheek before returning to your seat behind the easel.

Peter then saunters into your unoccupied room, the stench of which has been illuminated by the candle you lighted not long ago to alleviate the odor from the previous night (not that you both complained). Mint fills his nostrils, smoothing out the crease on his forehead. His shoulders relax as he approaches the charging phone on the bedside table.

There’s at least a couple of unread messages – three from May greeting him good morning and what her plans were, five from Ned about something Star Wars related, one from Flash (which was porn, obvi), and -

MJ.

An hour ago.

He abruptly sits down on the bed with frantic hands rushing to open his phone. When MJ texts it usually means two things (it used to be three when they were together): there’s a crisis happening, or she found something out.

Nervous fingers open the messaging app and clicks on her name. MJ: peter, i’ve got bad news

He looks behind him to see if you were standing on the doorway in case his senses detect you as harmless and don’t alarm him of your presence before he replies. whats wrong?

Though MJ’s text had been an hour ago, she reads the text immediately as if she’d been waiting for his reply. The typing bubble appears and reappears five times before she finally says:

MJ: It’s about (y/n)

Peter responses. what abt her?

MJ: she’s not who we think she is.

what are u talking about?

MJ: lexi’s saw

lexi? Whos lexi

MJ: my girlfriend. didn’t i introduce you two?

sorry. Must’ve forgot

MJ: whatever. Anyway, lexi came to (y/n)’s gallery the same day you saw black cat in the gallery.

And?

MJ: well, she said she saw her change into her costume. Like, saw her change into black cat

Peter's fingers ground to a halt on top of the keyboard, rereading the text with startled eyes and perplexed brows. What?