TW: smut. so much smut. No minors!!!! Breeding kink. Biting. Blood. My very descent into hell itself
If last chapter was the baby chapter then this one is the smut chapter. To the person who commented weeks ago about wanting suit sex - merry christmas
This is the grossest thing I've ever written bye 🏃♀️💨
I seriously don't know how much longer I can wait until this stupid patch stops me from sprouting a foetus.
It started alright. I thought I could happily distract myself throughout the 144 hours it would take. I thought I could handle it without struggle - it's just six days with no sex. It's fine.
But I've slowly been descending into madness since.
It wouldn't be so difficult if Miguel wasn't so good in bed. It also wouldn't be so difficult if the fucker hadn't been whispering lewd, sinful things about what he'll do to me in my ear, all hours of the goddamn day and night, just to see me blush. He won't even touch me to alleviate the struggle.
Miguel's trying to torture me. He's probably torturing himself too, but finds my reactions too amusing to leave me in peace.
54 hours blink back at me in the darkness of the night. I groan and drop my wrist with the gizmo onto the duvet. I haven't been this pent up since before the encounter that destroyed the old couch, and that was bad. This, somehow, is even worse.
Miguel's not even here to offer me a brief reprieve by way of hand or tongue - not that he would, anyway. He's off on a mission that's dragged deep into the night. I want to scream my frustration into the nether.
I roll over and bury my face into the pillow. This is horrible. Awful. Excruciating. My thighs itch for something to clench around. The pillow between them is pitiful, does nothing. I have never needed Miguel's dick so badly before in my life.
This is probably exactly what he wants. He probably wants me to be so out of my mind that by the time the six days are up, I'll be on my knees and begging for it. Hell - I'd be begging for it already if it weren't for the patch not working yet. I'm horny, not stupid.
So, so horny.
A replay of everything Miguel's whispered to me over the past few days cycle through my brain - of him promising to bend me over the kitchen counter and fuck me from behind. Promising to bite me until each limb, each section of my skin is littered with the marks of his fangs. Promising to tie me up with web and have his way. Promising to fuck me hard, deep, until all I can see is him, all I can say is his name.
And still, never touching. Touching is off-limits.
"Fuck," I complain, and shove the pillow away. My hand isn't half as good as Miguel's but it does the job. I need relief - any relief.
A gasp is sucked from my mouth and I jolt, sensitive, needy, when my fingertips brush my clit. I'm so empty that it's despairing, and I rock against an imaginary partner as my fingers slide across the bundle of nerves that Miguel usually treats so well.
My eyes close. I kick off the covers that restrict my movement and slide my pants down my legs, cotton resting against my ankles. My knees spread, toes curling, gasping. My fingers press and push in the same way I've done all week, and my core churns with growing heat.
I'm already so wet. I'm ready for a man who won't give me any reprieve, and currently I fucking despise him for toying with me this cruelly, but nonetheless, his name is the only thing that tangles within my moans.
"Mig," I whimper. My head lifts, my neck stretches. "Oh, fuck, Mig."
I imagine he's here. I imagine that it's his thick, dexterous fingers rolling against my clit instead of my own. I imagine he's crouching over me, knees on either side of my hips, his breath tumbling down my neck and the bites that have almost completely healed. That's it, hermosa, he'd say. You're doing so well.
My end comes too fast, and it's not even satisfying. It spins me high and then crashes without the pleasure, leaving me nothing but tired and unhappy. I stifle a cry of dismay.
"Was that fun, cariño?"
My eyes fly open. I sit up with a gasp and find Miguel standing at the end of the bed with a dark smile, still in his spidey suit, touched by the shadows, arms crossed and muscles so inviting, so big and strong and- focus.
"When did you get here?" I breathlessly ask.
"Since you stuck your pretty little hand between your thighs." Miguel's knees rest onto the end of the bed, sinking into the mattress beneath his weight. He tilts his head, eyes grazing my body predatorily. "Gracias, mi amor. I enjoyed watching you."
"I'm glad one of us got something out of it," I mutter. I grab my pillow and throw it at him grumpily.
Miguel lets it hit him silently. It falls to the mattress, and then he drops onto his hands, movements heavy and slow as he crawls towards me. My breath hitches. My eyes widen. That begging he's waiting for sits prettily on the tip of my tongue.
I gasp when he grabs beneath my knee and yanks my leg to his face. He runs his nose down the inside of my thigh, inhaling the scent of my skin. His lips press to the sensitive divot between my crotch and my leg, and I jump, holding my breath. My heart races. His molten, insidious gaze drifts to my burning face.
"I love the way you say my name," Miguel whispers. He nips my thin skin and I drop my head back with a shaky sigh. "Dí mi nombre."
"Miguel," I sigh obediently. My arms tremble beneath my weight. His breath caresses my pussy and I shift with a groan.
Miguel nips me a second time. "Again."
"Miguel." My voice is brittle, yearning. His hot, wet tongue slowly drags along the crease of my leg until I collapse onto my elbows with a moan that quivers. He's the only one who can take this pain of pent-up unrelease away. "Please. Please, Miguel."
"So needy," he murmurs. He drags kisses up my thigh, to the back of my knee, and sits my leg on his shoulder with a devious smirk. "Only a few more days."
I arch with a devastated groan. "It hurts."
"I know, amor." Miguel nuzzles his cheek into my calf. He massages my thigh - so close, not close enough. "But watching you writhe is so much fun." His teeth tug at the skin of my leg. "Muy atractiva."
I fall onto my back so I can cover my face with my hands. My sob catches in my palms as he slowly rakes his nails up my leg.
Torture. This is simply torture.
••🕷️••
It's gotten worse since Miguel found me touching myself to the thought of him. It's bolstered his ego. I've just made the game so much more exciting for him.
For example, this morning; when I woke up to my shirt bunched around my collar and Miguel lathing his tongue over one of my nipples and kneading my boobs. The very welcomed surprise sent me spiralling headfirst into startled ecstasy, but he snatched my wrist before I could slip my hand beneath my panties and slammed it into the pillow with a muffled chuckle.
He left me shaking, full of bliss and unresolved arousal and furious frustration. He knew how much I loved being woken up like that and used it exactly to his advantage. His plays are too calculated - they hit his target every time.
This wasn't what I meant about wishing for him to touch me again, dammit.
And touching me he has been; lingering fingers on the inside of my thighs, nails down the column of my spine, hip squeezes, lewd whispering against my ear, my neck. He's touching me everywhere but the one place I need him to.
So, in an effort to regain my dignity, I now sit in a booth overlooking the city in the Spider-HQ's cafeteria, where I've relocated my laptop and myself for the day. I'm weak. Working in Miguel's station while he's wearing that damn skin-tight suit of his only encourages my wandering mind to fall further into sin.
I have deadlines to meet. I'm too distracted to even write my bullet points.
Jess slips into the seat across from me. I don't look up from my screen - where I should be writing, but unfortunately, am not. My brain power is being used up by the idea of Miguel pinning me against the windows of his penthouse and ramming into my ass.
"Y/n!" Jess' snapping fingers in front of my eyes pulls me from my daydream. I focus on her concerned gaze. "Are you alright, hun? You look exhausted."
That sentence alone makes my forgotten fatigue slam right back into the centre of my attention. I slide halfway down the seat and hide my face beneath the hem of my jersey. Stupid goddamn fucking slow-activating patch.
Jess makes a sound of worry. "Do you want to talk about something?"
I shake my head.
"Y/n," she insists. "If there's something I can do, let me know."
Do you think you can convince my stubborn, narcissistic husband to shove my legs apart and finally fuck me? I doubt she'd want to hear about the depravity of our sex life - though, then again, she's a woman who's one of my closest friends, so maybe she does. My old friend Elle and I would talk about our sex lives all the time.
I pull the hem down from over my eyes and consider my options. Maybe Jess could help me. Maybe she could threaten to re-break Miguel's arm. She'd make a killer wingwoman, right?
"Can I be TMI for a second?" I wearily ask.
Jess leans forward, intrigued. "Always."
I close my eyes in despair. "He's been edging me for five days."
I don't need to see her face know the shock that's plastered on there. The silence speaks enough.
"Girl," Jess finally exclaims. "Five days?!"
I slowly nod my head.
"Jesus Christ," she says. Her hands cover mine in support. I feel like I've just admitted to being addicted to drugs, or something of the same caliber. "How are you doing?"
"Not great," I thinly laugh. It's mere seconds away from twisting into tears. "I thought I could make it six days - what's wrong with me?"
"If he's teasing you the way I think he's been teasing, then it's not your fault. Sometimes these men can make seconds feel like years," Jess says, and there's a hint of amusement in her brown eyes. She's mere seconds away from laughing at my misery. "Oh, honey. You poor thing."
I drop my head onto my forearms. She does laugh now, but pats my shoulder sympathetically.
"Speak of the spider-devil," Jess chortles. A looming presence arrives at our table and the back of my neck prickles. I don't bother lifting my head. "Miguel. What are you doing to your poor wife?"
The table creaks when he rests his weight on it. I can taste the smugness that emanates from him, an aura of cockiness that irritates me.
"Hola, Jess." Miguel places a warm palm on the back of my neck and I jolt. "I have no clue what you're talking about."
Oh, he is such a liar. He absolutely knows - the humour in his voice gives him away. I turn onto my cheek and send him a withering glare. Miguel smirks down at me, thumb caressing the line of my throat, while Ben Reilly stands behind him and looks confused.
"Maybe Mrs. O'Hara is suffering beneath the weight of her agonising memories like I am," Ben suggests, balling his fist in front of his face and shuddering through an inhale. Jess rolls her eyes with a snort.
"Here we go again," she mutters.
"Yep," I mumble. "That's the one."
"You are so strong." Ben squeezes my shoulder with a look of intense camaraderie. "We can get through this. Together."
Miguel hides his smirk. I slowly nod.
"Absolutely," I tiredly agree.
Miguel chuckles lightly before turning to Jess to address the reason of his appearance. I sit upright and rub my forehead tiredly.
"I want to send Margo out on a mission with Ben." Miguel scratches the tips of his nails down the base of my neck. I struggle to keep my eyes from closing. "She's ready for one without you."
"Sure, if you think so," Jess agrees. "She's made great strides. Really coming into her own."
Ben inspects his muscles and nods in triumph when he clenches his fist. "These could stop any man in his tracks just from the sight of them. Wablam!"
The two leaders share a concerned look. My hand stops brushing my forehead. Ben Reilly doesn't say things he doesn't wholeheartedly mean - he never speaks metaphorically.
"It'll be good for both of them," Jess says. Miguel grimly nods. "Do you have a mission in mind?"
"Only patrol to begin with," Miguel answers. "Lyla will keep an eye on them, make sure they don't run into any trouble they won't be able to handle."
"I can handle anything," Ben confidently declares. "I can outsmart anyone here."
"Aren't you literally the textbook definition of a jock?" Jess asks. "Like, the stereotype incarnate?"
Ben turns his blue eyes to her with a frown. "... if 'incarnate' means to be superior-ally powerful, smart and incredibly handsome, then yes, I am incarnate."
"It's not," she says. Ben's frown deepens. "Go find Margo and tell her to get ready for a patrol."
"You're not my mom," Ben mutters. At Jess' raised brows, he hastily backtracks. "Fine. But only because you're pregnant."
He leaves before Jess can even comprehend his sentence. I laugh weakly at the baffled look on her face.
"That boy..." she says, glancing between Miguel and I. "I'm gonna strangle him one of these days."
"Just don't get HR involved."
My brows furrow. "This place has HR..?"
Miguel runs a palm over my hair. "I have a mission to get to." His hand drops from my hair to stroke the whispering touch of a single fingertip down the line of my jaw. My skin prickles with hot pleasure. His voice lowers an octave. "Hasta luego, cariño."
I can't help but lean after him when his fingers drift away with his departure. My eyes close with an exasperated exhale.
"Oh, girl," Jess says.
"He's trying to kill me," I sob.
"And you're dying like a bug in his palm," she agrees.
I bury my head back into my arms and whine. I can't even argue. She's so right.
••🕷️••
"You're giving me the silent treatment, now?"
I stubbornly refuse to answer as I stare out the car window, keeping my mouth clamped tight and jutting my chin. I've been angrily quiet towards Miguel after he returned from his mission, making my current displeasure towards him strongly known. It only serves to amuse him.
My peripherals catch Miguel's grin as he shakes his head.
"Adorable," he murmurs to himself as he guides the car through the heavy Nueva York traffic. My irritation grows. Am I being childish? Maybe. Am I adult enough to let Miguel's teasing go and move on? Absolutely not.
He continues chuckling to himself when Rosalina hops into the car and tells us all about her day. I do break my silence then, but only for my daughter. I still don't speak to Miguel. I don't speak to him while we cook, eat, clean, or after we put Rosalina to bed and kiss her goodnight. His amusement fades the longer I refuse to look at him.
"Are you really that mad?" Miguel asks as he leans against the bathroom door while I unlatch my earrings. I don't answer him. "Come on, amor. It's just a bit of fun."
I shoot him a seething glare. He sighs and lifts himself from the doorframe.
"I might have taken it too far," Miguel realises. He stands behind me in the mirror and wraps his arms around my waist, finding my squint with a pout. "Let me make it up to you."
"After the week you've given me?" I detangle myself from his arms with a huff and turn the shower on. I hold my hand under the spray, waiting for the cold water to heat. "I don't trust you."
"Then let me show you that you can."
I scowl at him from over my shoulder. Miguel tilts his head with an imploring look on his face, one of genuineness that I can't quite debunk. He lifts his hand. His pinkie's outstretched.
My glare loses its edge. Miguel never fucks with pinkie promises.
I roll my eyes, but my anger's swiftly faded at his unspoken vow. My pinkie hooks around his. "You really are a nuisance."
"You love it," Miguel says, before pulling me forward by our pinkies and cupping my chin for a kiss.
My nose huffs. He always has to get the last word.
Unhooking our pinkies, my hands fall to rest against the hot skin of his waist. They slowly inch upwards, dragging his shirt with them. My palms follow the valleys of his body as he kisses me, slow, comfortable, languid in passion. It's an apology and a promise.
Miguel's shirt falls to the floor, and mine follows, and then the rest of our clothes is impatiently shoved off and joining them in rapid succession. I'm still kicking off a sock when I pull Miguel into the shower, touch searching, lip-locked. His hand blindingly finds the door and shuts it behind us.
The heat of the water flushes my body twice as hot. It plasters my hair, drowning me dry, and all I can see are brief flashes of Miguel's wet skin, the blood-colour of his lidded eyes, the spray of the shower. His hands explore me, pull me flush against his nakedness.
"See?" Miguel murmurs between kisses. "You win, cariño. I couldn't even last six days without giving in."
My fingers slide through his soaked hair. "Oh, fuck off," I breathlessly scold. I chase his lips when he splits to frown. "Don't be cute just because I got mad at you."
"You gotta make up your mind, baby." Miguel draws his lips down my cheek to nip his blunt teeth at the skin above my pulse. "Am I cute or not?"
My groan of frustration slips into a gasp when he hooks my leg around his slick waist, imprisoning me between the cold glass of the shower wall and the heat of his chest. His palm slides along my thigh, stroking it, as though committing the feeling of me to memory - as though he can't get enough.
The bite-scars on my neck are fading. Miguel nips at each one, counting, praising. My breath shudders against his temple. Water drips from my gasping, open lips. The shower rains upon my closed eyes.
"You're the worst person who's ever shown up on my doorstep," I whisper.
Miguel pecks the dip between my collarbones. "You've had other people show up on your doorstep?"
My back arches into his chest when his hand slips between my legs, ghosting at my entrance. His thumb caresses my silky, sensitive folds, and I whimper. Arousal flares within my body like dry wood caught aflame.
"So many," I sigh. "I had to beat them off with a stick."
Miguel exhales a laugh against my sternum. I haul his chin up so I can press my mouth against his again, and he obeys with vigour. He kisses me so hard, so possessively, that the back of my skull digs into the glass. My lashes droop with water.
He slides his palm up my forearm, latching around my wrist. He takes my hand from his hair and guides it between my legs. "I want to see you touch yourself again, amor," he hums.
"I've been touching myself," I complain, but am promptly silenced when Miguel slides his tongue against my lips and into my mouth at the same time he pushes my fingers onto my clit. My gasp is swallowed by him.
His hand tutors mine in my own body, touching me through my fingertips. They glide into my pussy, easy with the lubrication of my want that's been growing over the past week, and my breath hitches at the feeling of our fingers brushing against my tight walls. His tongue glides along mine slowly, sensually, sucking and tugging and weakening my knees.
His fingers spread mine within myself, curling and spearing in all the right spots, and I can't even properly moan with his tongue down my throat. I touch myself just like this, but Miguel makes everything feel so much more. The size of both our fingers within me feels so much more. The intensity sparks electricity behind my eyelids, sends my heart into spasms.
Miguel parts from our entwined kiss and catches his breath. He rests his forehead against mine, and my dazed eyes follow the shower water rolling rivulets down his wet face. He looks like the incarnation of a god before me, soaked and naked and fingering my pussy with the touch of an expert in myself.
"Buena chica," Miguel sighs reverently as he watches the movements of our hands. Pleasure bubbles within me, swelling with heat and tangling me with endorphins. I'm soaring and falling to pieces. "Look at you, cariño. You're so fucking beautiful."
His thumb brushes against my clit, and I buckle. Miguel catches me with his arm around my waist and holds me upright as he pumps our fingers into my pussy, focused, streamlined. I'm limp in his hold, boneless with bliss, breathless. The only thing I can say is his name. It's all I want to say, entangled within a broken whine of ecstasy. His name is so beautiful.
He nuzzles his mouth beneath my jaw. "Do you forgive me now?" Miguel whispers.
I can do nothing but nod. My hands clench around his shoulders, searching for purchase and failing on the smooth wetness of his skin. He's making me fall and is the only thing keeping me upright at the same time, the breaking of my universe and my steadfast lifeline. My brain is fuzzy with static, with the splashing of Miguel's pumping arm, with the pitter-patter of the artificial rainfall around us.
He pushes my fingers until they hold me open, a strategy for the ease of spearing me himself. I fidget with the stomach-churning heat of my core that he brushes against, the singular spot that makes me see stars. Miguel kisses me feverishly, needily, drinking my gasps of his name like it's nectar and he's a dehydrated man.
"Mig," I whimper. I can see the horizon of heaven. My pleasure builds and builds, and I'm struck by the sudden fear that he'll leave me again before I can reach my end. I hold him desperately. My nails pierce his dark flesh. "Please, please, por favor. Don't stop. Don't stop."
"I won't, cariño. Promise." As if to prove himself, he begins curling his fingers faster, more fluid. The bliss builds swiftly and draws me up with tingling energy. My cry is stolen and stuttering, nothing more than a thin exhale of dizzy desire.
My body convulses, desperately chasing the pleasure Miguel gives me. It doesn't take long until I'm folding into his chest with a sob when the mounting pressure snaps, showering me with the blinding nirvana of an orgasm that almost disassembles my body, leaving me foggy, relieved. I slump against him and catch my breath.
"Was that good?" Miguel murmurs sweetly into my hair. His hand still glides within me, patient and slow. "Did that take the edge off?"
I listlessly nod. I press a kiss to the wet skin of his pec, tired and dazed and grateful in the aftershock. Miguel slips his hand out and he lifts it, admiring with a dark gaze the white, thick coating of my release that strings between his strong fingers. Glancing at me, he opens his mouth wide, sharp fangs unsheathed, and gathers the slick upon his tongue.
My breath burrows deep into my lungs at the lewd sight. My face grows a thousand shades darker, hotter than the water that coats us. The corners of Miguel's lips curl at my reaction as he sucks upon his fingers like he belongs in some vulgar porno one would find in the back alleys of the internet.
"Por Dios mío," I whisper. My hands gather at the back of his head and I pull him down for a kiss. My taste sits on his tongue; salty and bitter and watery from the shower, and it spins my eyes into the back of my head. He's just incited my need for him tenfold.
He's so good at making me feel amazing. He's so good at driving me insane. Miguel is a drug of a man, one I'm severely, exclusively addicted to.
Only one more day. I can survive one more day.
••🕷️••
The bubbling water of the hot tub in Miguel's penthouse encompasses my hand when I swish my fingers through its heat. I sigh, bored and impatient.
It's late morning. The countdown on my Gizmo has reduced to mere minutes from completion. I explore Miguel's empty penthouse and wait.
He's caught up in a mission halfway across dimensions, fighting to return anomalies to their own realities and bring the multiverse back to order. I linger in his characterless house like a war wife, waiting for his return so we can finally make use of the long-awaited infertility the patch will grant me in-
I glance at my Gizmo.
- in seventeen minutes.
I flick my wet hand and wipe it dry on my jersey. My feet take me to his large TV, but there's no buttons anywhere and I'm lost. I give up on trying to turn it on.
If I wasn't so jittery I'd actually do my work like I'm supposed to be doing. I'd tried to, I really had, but before Miguel left for his mission he'd pulled me aside and kissed me soemthing fierce, and then lifted his lips to my ear.
"Be at my place," Miguel had whispered. "I want you naked and ready for me."
So, obviously, I was never going to be able to focus. My laptop sits on his kitchen bench, untouched and forgotten.
My gaze keeps drifting down to my Gizmo. Time passes sluggishly, and I feel as though I'm trapped in limbo. Who's to say that Miguel will even return by the time the countdown is up, anyway? It's not exactly as if he can keep his fights on a tight schedule just because he wants to.
My head drops back with a groan. I could very well be waiting for hours.
I venture upstairs to Miguel's bedroom. I've never been here before by myself, and my curiosity drives me to explore the geometric-looking bedside table. In the top drawer and covered in dust is a framed photo of Miguel and Y/n during a tramp, overlooking a snowy mountain valley. Beside it sits a small, velvet box. I don't need to open it to know what's inside.
With a heavy heart, I promptly decide to stop snooping.
My next distraction technique is scouring social media as I sprawl across his pristine bed. It works somewhat, but time still passes slowly - and though my hopes rise with each minute that disappears, I remind myself of the very high possibility that Miguel won't even arrive on time.
Still, I groan with relief when my Gizmo's timer goes off. I toss my phone to the side, skimming it across the duvet, and close my eyes in disappointment. Just as I thought. Miguel wasn't on time.
"I told you to be ready."
I scramble upright with a gasp. Perched like a creature on the lip of one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, talons dug into the white steel frame, is Miguel. The red crescents of his eyes are narrow with coolness, with apathy. He seemed to have materialised right out of thin air.
"Hi." I have to take a moment to calm my startled heart. I bring myself from the mattress to stand. "I- I didn't expect you to be here on time..."
His eyes stare me down and my excuse dies on my tongue. My apprehension rises beneath his masked, emotionless glare. Is this what it's like to be hunted by the vigilante Spider-Man? Is this what it's like to be scared of him? The terror of it makes me shiver; it's horrifying, it's nightmarish.
And I am so into it.
Silent, Miguel slips inside and rises to his full height, towering, gargantuan. My eyes rise with him, and my heart stumbles before racing twice as fast - anticipation, adoration. I'd do anything for him. I'd crawl to his feet and beg if he so desired.
And his suit looks so good on him. So sleek, so dangerous. I shift beneath the sinful thoughts that poison my brain.
"Can I make a request?" I whisper. Miguel's chin lifts, intrigued. "Keep the suit on. I really wanna be fucked by Spider-Man, today."
Miguel's red-moons widen in his first show of emotion. His exhale is heavy, laden with need. He nods to the bed.
"Get on."
I obediently sit onto the edge of the mattress. My arms haul me backwards towards the pillows.
Miguel approaches, using that same slow, predatory stalk of his. The mask fizzles down his face in swatches of white static and stops at his neck, obeying my wishes. He prowls onto the mattress between my legs and regards me with a faint smirk, his sultry reds following the lines of my body. Quietly impatient, I tremble beneath the weight of his want.
"You want to be fucked by Spider-Man, huh?" Miguel murmurs. I swallow, mouth dry, and nod. He shakes his head with a low, rolling chuckle, smoothing his palms along my thighs. "Such a bad, bad girl. My girl."
He rubs his thumbs against my clothed crotch. The breath I suck in is sharp, body lurching with the sparks of pleasure that ignites along the tangles of my nerves. My fingers lock through his hair.
"Yours," I sigh. My eyes close at the sensations of his ministrations against denim. "All yours."
"Do you want to know how many times I stroked my cock to the thought of you, cariño?" Miguel hums. His fingers slip the button of my jeans through its hole and he guides my hips up so he can slide them down my legs. I watch ravenously. "I lost count."
My reply is lost in a gasp when he nips the skin of my calf. My jeans are thrown to the floor. My shirt is ripped by a talon and joins it.
"You kept complaining," Miguel grounds out through gritted teeth. He yanks me closer towards him, wrenching me down the comforter. My heart jumps. "As if it wasn't difficult for me to not bend you over - to not fuck you and spill right inside your pretty little pussy." He shoves my thighs apart and rests my ass on the bends of his knees, leering at me. "It's called restraint, amor. You think I wouldn't want to breed a baby into you?"
A hot, twisting sensation bubbles in the centre of my core from his words alone. "Mig," I gasp. "Please."
He grabs my knees and pushes them towards my chest, opening me wide. I cry at the strain of my muscles, the chill upon my pussy. The webs he shoots against my thighs tie them to my shoulders, pins me in place for him. I'm completely at his mercy.
"Look at you." Miguel pushes two fingers inside without warning and my back arches with a sob. "Coño, Y/n, you're so wet. You must've looked so fucking beautiful all round and pregnant."
I stretch my head back and whine, low and long and shaky. His rhythm is torturous, his touch masterful. His fingers slide against the spot that turns my vision white relentlessly; he knows exactly where to press to get me blubbering. His fingers are already so slick. I'm already so unhinged.
"One of these days, I'm gonna knock you up," Miguel wildly promises. His talons dig into the mattress beside my ear, but I can hardly hear the rip of fabric over his voice, my heartbeat, our harsh breaths. "You'll be so full of my cum that you'll feel it in you for fucking weeks. And you're going to enjoy being my little breeding bitch, won't you?"
My nod is listless, feverish. Miguel's suit simmers away at his crotch and his cock escapes, bobbing against his stomach at full height. He wastes no time in grabbing it and smearing his leaky tip against my slit, spreading his thick cream within my folds. I grit my teeth with a cry at the stings of pleasure that shoot straight into the back of my head.
"¿Sì? ¿Sì?" Miguel seethes. "¿Se siente bien? ¿Quieres probrarlo dentro? ¿Te gustaría follarte a ti misma con mi verga?"
"¡Sí!" I sob. My hands clench desperately at his hair, as if I could guide him inside me through his dark curls. Any and all dignity of mine has long flown out the window. "Miguel, I need you! I c- I can't-!"
"Use your words, hermosa." He strokes himself, using our slick to glide his palm over his thick, hard length with ease. "I can't understand you over all this whining."
I've already waited too long to be ruined by his dick for him to start dangling the promise of relief before me. I groan. "Fuck you."
Miguel tsk's. "That's not very nice." He lines himself up and presses his tip upon my entrance, just at the edge of resistance. I writhe in my spider-silk bonds. "¿Dónde estan tus modales?"
"Lo siento, lo siento." I close my teary eyes in desperation. "Please- please, Miguito, fuck me."
Mercifully, he doesn't wait for me to slur more begging. He grabs my hips and hilts himself inside within one thrust and a curse, and my breath is knocked from my body with a shriek. Miguel sets a swift pace, snapping inside with brutal accuracy, sliding his length through the tight, silky column of my walls.
He gasps for breath, open-mouthed in his bliss. The reds of his eyes darken as they watch our joining, glazed over and foggy. The ache of my entrance hastily accomodating for his size sends my brain into spirals.
"Oh, fuck, fuck yeah," Miguel breathes. His thumb swivels circles against my bundle of nerves and my body jolts, quivering with need. The sounds I make are incoherent, inhuman. "Shit, you're so tight, cariño. Tamalo, tamalo."
I yank at his hair, hauling him down to kiss me. He sinks his fangs into my bottom lip and draws blood, draws a whine from my throat. My limbs stiffen, grow a little heavy, but that's okay. I'm just being used - and that's perfect.
"Verga," Miguel groans. He repositions himself onto his knees and yanks my hips up to him. His pace resumes, faster, stronger. "You're so fucking pretty."
His fangs pierce my neck, but he doesn't drink. He just bites me again and again, littering my healed skin with new wounds. Tears flood from my eyes as I watch his face twist with each thrust, each clench of my pussy around his length, the red of my blood on his lips.
"Miguito," I heave, kissing at his hairline, sloppy with the jerking of my body. His sweat beads salt on my lips. He tastes divine. "Miguito, fill me up. Put a baby in me."
Miguel's groan is broken at my encouragement. He slashes the silk bonds and rolls onto his back, lifting his knees and pistoning up into me before my dizzy brain even has a chance to realise our new position.
I fall forward onto his chest with a shrill gasp. My hands splay against the spider emblem, swathed with the thin, white silk of broken webs.
"Fuck - oh, Mig." Overwhelmed tears trail down my cheeks. My orgasm bursts abruptly, leaving me choking on dry air, thriving with ecstasy - the relief of a week of not having him like this, the feeling of being demolished so thoroughly, so perfectly. It's so vivid that I shatter.
Miguel's groan is deep and reverberating as I flutter around his stiff cock, rocking through my intense bout of pleasure. My orgasm drags long, endless, and I shiver through it, nails digging into his skin with each world-breaking wave of bliss.
"Ay, Dios," Miguel gasps. His hands massage the flesh of my hips and I suck in a breath when he takes my thighs and brings me further down his length, draws himself even deeper, pace slow and explorative. The look he sends me is ferity in its most potent form; bared fangs, blown pupils - he's lost. "Another one, amor. Give- give me another one."
My body shudders. I'll give him another. I'll give him as many as he wants, just as long as he keeps touching me like this.
His hands climb my body, squeezing, kneading my boobs. Beneath my foggy euphoria I'm fascinated by Miguel's fangs, never really seeing them unless it's the split-second before they're in my skin. My shaking thumb presses against his gritted teeth, and then they part and it's wrapped by his tongue and sucked upon, bitten, gnawed. His name slips from my lips in a sigh.
His stare is lewd upon mine as I explore his mouth with my touch. Experimentally, I press my fingertips against his fangs, prick a little blood, deep maroon against glistening white. Miguel lathes at it eagerly, as if it's the most delectable thing he's ever tasted. His satisfied groan makes my walls tighten. I gasp for breath.
"You're so..." Gorgeous. Beautiful. Godly. The words die before I can reach for them, because how can such mediocrity be used to describe Miguel? I never get to finish my sentence, though, as my voice is stolen when he thrusts up sharply. My hands land on the mattress on either side of his head, and he takes the opportunity to lick my tears away. "Ahh!"
"That's it, that's it," Miguel murmurs, spitting encouragement. His lashes flutter, chasing his pleasure with each lunge of his cock, each yank of me down onto him. His hand reels back and smacks my ass. My wail splits from me, shrill and wanton. "Fuck, you take me so-." He cuts himself off with a devastated, blissed-out moan.
My hands find their purchase and, using all the scraps of strength I have, push my hips down in blinding rhythm. My neck begins to ache from all the bites he'd given me but I shove the discomfort aside. I can't focus on them when the glorious look of Miguel almost hitting his end sits right in front of my face. That look alone makes life worth living.
"Come on, baby," I whisper. My fingers trace the designs of his suit, squeezes his broad, rock-like tit. "Come on. Breed me, Mig. I- I want your cum spilling from me. Make- make me a mess."
Miguel claws for breath. His thumb turns to my clit and circles it, and my mouth parts with a sob. I'm close again, he's closer. His cock twitches, and he gasps, groaning so loudly that it sounds like thunder to my ears.
"Oh, my god," he exhales. Miguel grabs my head and brings me down for a kiss, gasping against my lips, into my mouth as I ride him ruthlessly. "Coño, coño, coño."
His arms snatch around me with startling swiftness, he locking me down upon him and shoving into my pussy with desperate, singular thrusts. He cries my name with guttural reverence, a prayer, as his hot cum spurts inside my walls. My fingers join his at my clit, yearning for my own release, a joint effort. When it bursts it explodes, and I shudder a whimper.
Miguel slumps and closes his eyes, boneless. I hang my head and join him in catching our breath. We're both covered with sweat and sticky with spit and cum and blood. I float on the gentle river of afterglow, and glowing I am, oscillating against the slick-coated dick still hilted inside me.
It almost makes the six days of torture worth it. Almost.
I wince as my body returns to normalcy, slinking back from the ethereal state of nirvana. My arms shake. My neck burns.
Exhausted, I settle myself onto Miguel's chest like a kitten in a sunspot. He brushes his lips against my hair. His fingers draw down my spine, a line of feather-touch that would make me shiver if I had the energy to. I fight off the urge to nap and lift my chin onto Miguel's pecs. There's a smear of my blood on him, leaking from the fang-wounds my neck's been riddled with.
"You really need to stop biting my neck," I announce breathlessly. I press my palm against my throat and it comes away bloodied, and I frown. "I can't wear scarves in summer."
Miguel's foggy eyes peek open. He sits up suddenly at the sight of my near-mauled neck and we both shudder at the shift of his softening cock inside me. I hiss through my teeth as he pulls out. A gush of white joins it, staining my thighs, stringing his length to me.
"Santa Marta," Miguel huffs at the sight of it all, and shakes his head to clear away the fogginess of overstimulation. "I should edge you like this more often."
I drop onto the mattress beside him with an exhausted exhale and close my eyes. "Never again."
I hear Miguel chuckle. Then, my lips are covered by the warmth of his, and I crane my head up to kiss him. I ignore the deep ache of my neck.
"I'll get you some towels and bandages." He runs his fingers down the side of my face and I nuzzle into them. "Be right back."
I turn onto my side and watch him depart the room, eyes greedily taking in the strong sculpt of his blue-clad ass. My chin buries into the pillow with a smile.
Miguel returns with a haul of aftercare goodies and grins boyishly when I stretch my arms up and call him my hero. Neck bandaged, mess cleaned, water drunk and painkillers taken, and I'm feeling a little less scattered.
I'm just pulling on a shirt that Miguel's given me to wear when his Gizmo rings with Gabriel's hologram. He stares at it in confusion. I watch, curious.
"Gabe," Miguel greets the glowing, teeny bust of his brother. He's still loose with the bliss of sex, and his smile comes easy. "What can I do for you, hermano?"
Gabriel doesn't spare any pleasantries. His face is dark; a mix of fury and realisation and regret. Miguel's grin slips. My attention turns entirely towards the brothers.
"I need you down at the lab," Gabriel demands. "Right now."