Archive of Our Own

“What do you want me to do?”

Miguel seems genuinely surprised, turning back to look at you with a start. The blue glow from the refrigerator cuts through the darkness of your kitchen, bathing his face in cool shadows. He raises a lithe, dark eyebrow at the prospect. 

“You heard me,” you say. 

You’re perched on the countertop, the smooth laminate against your thighs, fingers curled around the edge. The t-shirt and athletic shorts you wear as pajamas feel a little too casual in comparison to the angular red lines and sleek navy material of his spidersuit, albeit without the mask. But then again, he was the one that woke you up when he swung through your window at god knows what hour. 

“Absolutely not,” he replies, a shake of his head as he fills up a glass with water. 

You can’t tear your eyes away from the way his back muscles undulate as he bends down to reach for your Brita filter. How his torso gently slopes inwards from his broad shoulders to his tapered waist. Now that, you think, is a view that excuses the late-night interruption. You'll never get tired of it. Even after all this time. 

“Why?” you implore. Watching as he pours the water into the glass. Glug glug glug. 

“It’s too dangerous.”

He walks over to your sink and starts refilling the Brita. Downright gentlemanly. He’s going to be the end of you.

“You bite people all the time,” you say with a roll of your eyes. 

“I bite people sometimes. And I do it to escaping convicts. Or criminals threatening the balance of the multiverse. Not on you.”

You watch as he places the pitcher back into the fridge and stands upright once again. He absentmindedly runs a hand through his dark hair, unruly from the long day. All you can think of is how you want to do the same thing. 

“Okay, I’ll go disrupt a canon event. Will you do it then?”

Miguel sets the glass down on the countertop with a thunk .

“This isn’t funny,” he insists, full lips curling into a sour grimace. 

“Of course it isn’t,” you grumble with a huff. 

The man was seemingly the only Spider-person around without even a shred of a sense of humor. It was what had initially drawn you to him the first time you’d been brought into the headquarters in Nueva York. That controlled demeanor of his. The stony stoicism chiseled into every artful plane of his face. His steadfast surety in the face of any conflict, providing the strong, guiding hand to anyone who needed it. 

Or so you thought at first. The more time you spent with him, swinging through missions and cleaning up messes, the more you’d pick up on that demeanor being more like a mask than his actual mask. Headquarters had a tendency of operating less like a well-oiled machine and more like a junkyard robot prone to breaking down at any given moment. Miguel was in charge of making sure it looked like a pristine new build anyway, and as you returned again and again to deal with the week’s latest villain or anomaly, you could tell more and more just how heavily the task weighed on him. And god help anyone who got on his bad side.

You hadn’t even known about the fangs until you accompanied Miguel on a mission chasing down a grumpy Green Goblin that wasn’t backing down, even after Miguel had him cornered. The fight had been long, and the two of you were both tired and frustrated. With his forearm pinning the squirming Goblin’s chest to the wall, Miguel had had enough. In one moment, his mask pulled back from his face to bare sharp teeth you’d never seen before. You heard a nasty snarl pour from Miguel’s mouth, and in the next, he had his fangs buried in the foe’s neck. In a matter of seconds, the Green Goblin was completely limp in his arms. 

“What?” Miguel had asked, slinging the Goblin’s body up over his shoulder like it was a sack of potatoes. 

It was only then that you realized you were gaping like a codfish behind your mask, a shock so intense that it must’ve been apparent even on the other side of it.  

“What the hell did you do to him?” you asked. 

Miguel activated his wristband and the portal swirled up in front of you.

“Paralytic venom,” he explained. “He’ll be fine.”

And then he was swinging through, leaving you utterly bewildered in his wake.

“You have paralytic venom?” 

Make that utterly bewildered and horny. And aware that the ever stoic Miguel O'Hara had the capacity to snap. 

Instead of the episode turning you away, it only made you want him more. You missed debrief, but later in the evening, you had found him in his office. You toyed with that crack in his armor, practically offering yourself up on a silver platter. You snapped his resolve, or maybe he was the one that had lured you in. A web snatched around your waist, a flick of his wrist, and the next thing you knew he had you bent over his desk. The mission clearly hadn’t been enough of an outlet to let out all the accumulated stress he’d been carrying. 

Then it happened again. And again. Happened until you couldn’t chalk it up to him just letting off steam anymore. Miguel seemed to have a fondness for you, a mutual connection that had you both slipping between portals and in and out of each other’s beds on nights just like this one. Weaving a precarious web of interactions that left you a little achy in the aftermath. He was… well endowed, to say the least, and he could get as ruthless in bed as he was in the field. Not that you minded in the slightest. You liked it when he got ruthless.

Even as Miguel left hickeys on your thighs and fingerprints on your hips, all you could think of was the other way you wanted him to mark you, to pierce your flesh with his fangs and render you completely pliant beneath him. The things he could do to you then…

And now here you are, trying to make your case from your place on the counter. 

“Come on,” you venture with a good-natured smile. “My immune system will back me up. The effects shouldn’t last that long, right? The only thing these spidey senses are good for is letting me take just about anything you dish out.”

“The only thing?” Miguel casts you a reproachful glance.

“Along with saving people and maintaining the stability of the multiverse,” you comply. “Those are nice too.”

And Miguel’s still got his holier-than-thou charade going, mouth pulled taut into a stern line, brows furrowed, but he’s also inching closer to you by the second. You follow the line of his gaze to where your knees touch together at the edge of the counter, feet dangling down. Even with your elevated stature it still feels like he towers over you when he finally arrives at your side.  

“The combined expertise of every spiderman in the building wouldn’t be able to explain what goes on in that twisted little mind of yours,” Miguel says, voice low and close to your ear. 

“You don’t know half of it,” you respond, and something flickers deep in his eyes, a spark of darkness that works like gasoline on the fiery warmth building in your abdomen. 

Miguel shakes his head before raising the glass to his lips once more. He gulps down the rest of his water and even him doing something as mundane as that has you aching all the harder. A drop lingers on his lips and makes a break for his chin, and quick as a flash you reach out and drag your thumb across his mouth to stop it. His lips are so pink, so soft and tempting. 

Pretty , you think, arousal churning with a greater intensity. You note the way his lips part just slightly in response to your touch. You trail your hand along his jaw, feeling the roughness of new stubble under your palm, the clench of muscle as his molars grind together. You linger on the pulse in his throat for a moment, the steady-even beat hitching faster by the second. You press down ever so slightly and hear his breath stutter next to your ear. 

“What are you doing?” he asks.

You can’t help but smile. You’ve gotten more perceptive over your time with Miguel, picking up the sly signals and subdued clues. Hitches in breath, trembles of voice, tightening grip like the hold he’s got on your knees, easing them apart so he can step between them. 

“What do you mean what am I doing? I want to fuck you, Sherlock.”

“You’re trying to convince me is what you’re doing.”

His large, warm hands slide up and down your bare thighs, inching closer to the place between them where you’re aching for his touch the most. 

“Is it working?” You search his face for a sign of definite refusal. “If you really think it’s that dangerous, I’ll let it go.”

You almost expect him to pull back and leave with you having given him nothing but a glass of water for the night, and that would be his right to do so. But you’ve got a sneaking suspicion you’ve unlocked another thirst within him that hasn’t been satisfied yet.

Your suspicion seems to fall on the right track. Miguel leans closer.

“It’s working a little,” he admits. “Build the case for me.” 

His lips ghost against your forehead and you let out a shuddery breath. 

“You know that first time we hooked up after that Green Goblin mission?” you propose. “You know how I didn’t show up to debrief after?”

“Yeah. You came to my office later.”

And came in your office later, you want to remind him. Three times, was it? But you hold it back. You’ve got him circling the lure right now, and you want to hook him in fully. 

“Exactly. It was because I was so turned on after watching you put him down with your venom I had to go take care of it. Had to find an empty corner and fuck myself to the thought of you doing it to me.”

Now it’s Miguel’s turn to let out a shuddery breath. He moves down to nose along your jaw, taking in the softness and soft scent of your skin. 

“Why?”

“Because I like dangerous.”

He nips at your earlobe, tugging it for a moment and tugging a pleased mewl from you. 

“Go on,” he encourages.

“Because I trust that you’ll make it good.” Another nip, this time on your throat. Kissing in a mark that’ll last. “You always make it good.”

You can feel the hum reverberating in his throat as he continues his exploration of your neck, making you shiver. You trace your fingertips along his collarbones, down his sternum, then trail lower.  

“Because,” you continue, slowing your touch as he pulls you in closer by your hips, “I think the idea of me being completely at your mercy turns you on as much as it does for me.”

Your touch ventures past his navel and down, down until the feeling of his bulge straining against his suit confirms your suspicions. You can’t restrain the smile that breaks across your face.

“I knew it-”

You barely get a moment to celebrate before he’s kissing the words right out of your mouth, because if there’s anything Miguel O’Hara seemingly likes less than quips, it’s someone telling him he isn’t 100% correct about everything all the time. In this moment, though, with his lips on yours and his hands bringing your hips closer to grind you against his bulge, you’re happy to indulge him. 

It’s a moment that’s short lived. 

“Are you sure?” he asks.

Miguel’s teeth latch onto your lower lip and tug your mouth open so his tongue can slip inside. The faint sting that lingers sends a shiver down your spine. You’ve never been more sure of anything in your life. You need to feel his fangs sinking into your throat, even if it’ll be the end of you. You luxuriate in the feeling of him kissing you stupid for a few more moments before you finally reply.

“I’m sure.”

Miguel’s hands slide down your thighs, encouraging you to lock them around his hips. 

“We’re not doing this on the kitchen counter,” he tells you. 

The next thing you know Miguel’s got you completely naked and splayed out on your bed, your t-shirt and shorts nothing but a crumpled afterthought on your bedroom floor. Something about being so bare and vulnerable in contrast to him being still suited up is surely frying your brain in real time. You hardly have a moment to even process it before he’s caging you in with his hands latched onto your waist and his knee wedged between your legs to keep them apart. It’s dangerously close to grinding against your wet, needy pussy. 

Miguel’s eyes practically glow red with desire as he rakes his gaze down your naked body, taking in the sight of you wanting and ready for him. You feel a prickle against your skin beneath his hands, the claws unfurling from his fingertips. He rakes them up your sides and your back arches as the sensation, the tightrope walk of danger and tickling pleasure. He traces across your shoulders, over your breasts, leaving ephemeral red lines like threads of his web behind. Your sensitive nipples pebble beneath his feather-light caresses. He’s taking his sweet, sweet time making you squirm. The fucker wants you to beg, doesn’t he?

“Please,” you say.

“Please what?” he replies with a flicker of a sing-song lilt. 

He definitely wants you to beg. He’s practically panting now. His lips part, revealing a sight that burns right through you. A sight you’ve only ever caught in glimpses, in silhouettes and half glances. Bearing a pair of elegantly curved, sharp teeth, catching the faint glint of moonlight.  A lion’s jaw you’ll happily stick your head into. 

You reach up towards him, cradling his jaw in your hands once more and bringing your thumb to tease along the point of his fang, feeling the sharp edge pry into your skin. Just a push and you’d draw blood. 

“Pretty,” you mumble to yourself, then meet his gaze once more with batting lashes and a sweet smile. “Pretty please? Bite me. I want you to use me”

“Joder. ”

His claws dig into your wrist as he grabs it and pins it onto the bed, going down with it to bury his face into the crook of your neck. He holds you there as you practically writhe in anticipation, arousal roaring like a fucking inferno as he pinions you with his hands and teases the sharp edge of his fangs up and down the column of your throat. 

“Say it again.”

Your cheeks flush hot at his words, the way he says it. Sharp and certain and right to the point. A direct order. Not that you’ll take it as one. 

“Say what?” you reply coyly. 

Miguel rolls his eyes in frustration as you smirk up at him. Oh, the short-lived joy of turning tables. It never gets old. 

“That you want me to use you,” he says. “Say it again.”

“I want you to use me, Miguel. Anything you want. I’m yours-”

And then he bites down, and you can’t contain the gasp that breaks from your throat, the raw shock manifesting in a delirious moan. It takes a second for it to set in. You were expecting pain, but you can’t call what you’re feeling painful. It’s a mellow sting, a dull throbbing in time with your pounding heart. Your body doesn’t recoil against the sensation but leans into it, welcoming the feeling deeper and deeper. 

Miguel’s hold on your wrists moves to your neck to gingerly tilt your head to the side so he can nuzzle in deeper, the tip of his thumb brushing against your jaw. He moans too, low and resonant like a roll of thunder, but as he rolls his hips against you, you know that the real storm is still on the horizon. 

You feel a faint trickle of warmth down the side of your throat. A drop of blood, the consequence of broken skin. A reasonable reaction, but one you hadn’t considered. Miguel’s hair tickles against your ear as he dips down to catch it on his tongue, and the thought of him tasting you like that , holding a pinprick of your life force in his mouth, is a turn-on you’re discovering in real time. It’s a deadly combination of tenderness and carnality that has your skin breaking out in goosebumps. You file the observation away to return to in a future encounter. When Miguel pulls back with a hum of approval and blown pupils, palming himself through his suit as he swipes the remnants of red from his plush lower lip with his tongue, it’s hard to focus on anything else. 

“It works fast,” he tells you. 

And you can feel it already, the venom circulating into your muscles, cool as a shiver. Your limbs rapidly grow heavier, your whole body feeling like it’s sinking down into the mattress and floating above it at the same time. Testingly, you go to curl your hand into a fist, and suddenly it feels like every mechanism in your body grinds to a halt at once. Your mind processes the order, but the line’s all tangled. Your fingers buzz with the pins-and-needles prickle you get when you hang upside down for too long, body lethargic from all the blood rushed to your head. With every ounce of effort you can muster and about thirty seconds, you’re able to form a limp claw, but nothing more. 

“Wow,” you say, the word pooling in your mouth like molasses. 

“You okay?” he asks. 

He gently strokes a hand through your hair, claws now tucked away. You manage to tilt your chin up and bring it down once. 

“Yes,” you reply. 

“And what do we say if that changes?”

The two of you had a system in place to check in, to mediate the roughness. You agreed on the traffic light system after confirming that your universes had the same color traffic lights that meant the same things. You could never be too careful about consistencies like that in this line of work. 

“Red,” you say. Stop, no questions asked. Clean up and regroup. “We say red.”

“Good girl.”

His hand trails down your body towards where you’re aching between your legs. 

“Are… you okay?” you ask him.

Finally, finally , he touches your cunt, sliding his fingers up and down your folds, dragging through the wetness that’s accumulated there. On instinct, you try to bring your hips up, to encourage him to probe deeper. But in your incapacitated state, you can hardly hover a half inch off the ground before your body collapses back onto the bed. You let out a frustrated groan and Miguel’s mouth curls up into a cat’s smile. 

“Perfectamente bien. ”

Miguel pushes two long fingers inside of you. Crooked up slightly, well-practiced, hitting you deep. He assumes a slow, tantalizing pace, pumping in and out with maddening patience and precision. His other hand drifts up to knead at the soft flesh of your breast. Feeding your fire piece by piece, making sure not to let the flames spike just yet. You bite down on your lower lip, eyelids fluttering as he traces a teasing circle around your clit with his thumb. 

“You look so good like this,” Miguel says. 

He leans down and presses a gentle kiss to your sternum before moving to swirl his tongue around your nipple. You cry out as his teeth quirk against it, kicking your sensitivity into overdrive. He also zeroes in on your clit with his thumb, building up the intensity of your pending orgasm. 

“Told you,” you mutter.

This is heaven. His hands all over you, filling up your needy cunt, curling up to hit your g-spot as he lavishes your breasts with sweet attention from his sweet mouth. That and proving you right? It’s a deadly combination you’re practically drunk on. You can feel yourself approaching the crest of your orgasm, everything building and building-

And then he pulls back, thumb retreating from your clit so his fingers can resume the same languorous pace as before. Your pussy practically seizes as you find yourself pulled back from the edge, hitting pause just before the free-fall. You can see yourself hovering in thin air like Wile-y fucking cayote, scrambling forward, coasting on fumes. It’s not nearly fucking enough and you both know it. Just because you had the audacity to imply that you told him so. Real mature. 

“You…” Your words seem to move in slow motion as you force the frustration through. “Tease.”

Miguel just hums contentedly.

“Don’t forget,” he chides, “you told me to use you however I wanted.”

“I told you-” your indignant protest cuts off as he plunges his finger back into your cunt, fingertips curling up into the spot where you need him. Your stomach immediately wrenches up tight in reaction to the intensity and your eyes roll back with a moan. “Ohhh…”

Miguel smiles, but just calling it a smile doesn’t account for the hunger it holds, the glint of his fangs and curl of his lip that threatens to consume you whole. Through the blear that blurs your periphery, you make out his other arm moving back and forth, groping at his hard cock to the sight of you. You admittedly feel kind of smug at the knowledge of just how much he’s enjoying this. What you’d give to give him a hand, but your limbs are still completely stagnant against the mattress, forcing you to lie down and take what he gives you. You can feel your orgasm building up once more, reaching its peak as every melty muscle in your body tries to seize around it. 

“I’m close,” you all but whimper, golden honey coos trailing from your lips. “ Please . I’m-”

“I know, I know,” Miguel answers, leaning down to kiss you as if to taste them. His thumb presses into your clit and your cunt clamps down around his hand. “ Mierda . I can feel it. Do it, come all over my hand-”

He bites into your lower lip again and it’s the finishing touch you didn’t know you were craving. Everything wrenches tight between your legs before your orgasm implodes in a flood of pleasure wrecking through every leaden limb in your body. You whimper as your hips stutter forward, trying to ride his fingers through it, but you can’t summon the strength to do so. Miguel, ever perceptive, catches on and works you through it himself, prolonging the high until the euphoria morphs into oversensitivity. 

“Too… much,” you protest.

After one final tap to your clit to make you writhe just a little bit more, Miguel complies, retracting his hand from your cunt. He brings it up to his face to clean your arousal away with his tongue, and that’s almost worse. He moans around his fingers and you can already feel the sparks in your core starting up again.  

"Sabes exquisita,” he murmurs, and you can’t help the heat which rushes to your cheeks and pools between your legs at the compliment. “Need to feel you.”

Miguel recalls his suit with a flicker of pixels and scurrying nanothreads that you admittedly can’t wrap your head around the technology for in the slightest, and in the blink of an eye he’s bare before you. You hardly have a moment to take in the lovely sight of his body, all muscular grace and old scars even his super-healing can't get rid of in full, before he’s kissing you again. You can taste the faint saline tang of your wetness in his mouth. As he kisses you, he pushes your legs further apart to situate himself between them. He nudges the tip of his hard length against your clit and your breath hitches in response. 

“Need to… feel you too,” you tell him. 

You can feel him smile against your mouth as he pushes in. Once again slow, maddeningly patient, giving you time to get accustomed to the stretch. Drinking down your moans as he licks into your mouth, claiming it completely with his tongue. Pushing until he’s bottomed out completely, hips heavy against yours. 

He gives a testing thrust, watching you intently as you bite your tongue against the wealth of moans fighting up your throat. Miguel bullies his thumb between your lips, giving you no choice but to let them go, a susurrus of moans rising up into the dark of your room. You leave your tongue over his thumb, giving it a suggestive suck. His grip wavers for a moment, as he watches before his resolve quickly snaps back into place. His thumb skirts down to your chin, holding you to meet his gaze. 

Then Miguel starts fucking you in earnest. Taking a measured approach. His thrusts hit deep inside of you, and every so often he goes just a bit harder to reach that absolutely ruinous spot inside you that makes you see stars. 

Over time, you've come under the impression that what makes Miguel good fucking is what makes him good at fighting: his stunning precision and razor sharp perception. Using each encounter to build a case of all the ways he can take you apart and put you back together beneath his touch. He’s got a stockpile of your weak points on mental file. Making efforts to hit them, but just not enough. To keep you suspended in the moment with him for as long as he can. You almost feel a pang of guilt as you lay beneath him at his complete mercy, at the thought making him do all the work, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. The man’s got the stamina of a fucking gladiator, it’s almost scary. He’s even holding back a bit, keeping some semblance of gentleness about him. As good as it feels, it isn’t quite enough to satiate the craving roiling like a cauldron in your gut, begging to boil over. 

“More,” you gasp, the word stretching on your tongue and growing whiny. “Harder.”

“Dios mio. ” His gaze darkens. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” You blink up at him, tugging your lower lip between your teeth. “Use me. Remember?”

Something snaps in Miguel at that. He pulls out all at once and his rough grip returns. He manhandles you with ease, a combined effort of his immense strength and your venom-induced languor. Your limbs bend to his will, one knee splayed to the side and the other hooked over his shoulder. It’s only a second before he plunges back into you with a swift snap of his hips.  

From that moment on his pace is relentless, almost punishing in its consistency. He adjusts himself forward to hover over you, strong forearms crowding near your head, casting a shadow over you with his broad shoulders. Any other night and you’d be wrapping your arms around them in an instant, clinging on for dear life. Tonight you can only note the memory and press your cheek against his wrist, pressing a sloppy kiss into his pulse point. A token of appreciation for the pleasure he’s rending through you, urging the tumult in your gut to new heights. You can hear the slickness of your arousal meeting each sure thrust of his hips, resonating the wanton thrall into every corner of the room. You do everything in your meager power to tighten your walls down around him, intensifying it more by the moment. 

On top of that are the sounds Miguel is making, pouring forth from his lips right into your ear. You can tell he’s chasing his own release too, albeit with a tad more grace than you. He’s using you alright, but he’s bringing you along for the ride. His hand returns to your clit, rubbing unrelenting circles against it until it’s too much to take and you unravel beneath him with a cry. 

Miguel’s hips stutter as you clamp down on him, drenching his cock in release. Your orgasm wrecks through every nerve ending in your body, saturating your leadened limbs with an acute, electrical pleasure you have no choice but to lie back and withstand to the best of your ability. Married with the floaty buzz the venom provides, you feel like you’ll amost pass out from the overstimulation. Your heart thunders in your chest, a swell and crush so strong it almost hurts as the muscle attempts to catch up. 

As your eyes wrench shut with exhaustion, your other senses pick up the slack. The slam of Miguel’s hips against you as his pleasure overtakes him and he picks up speed. The prick of his claws once more, unsheathing seemingly on their own terms to dig against your hips and hold you just where he needs you as his orgasm escalates. The feeling of loss as he pulls out of you. The rough timbre of his voice as he comes with a moan and string of swears and praise your brain is too scrambled to unpack. Fuck. Yes. Good girl. Mía. The warm, slick sensation of him spilling his release over your stomach. The comforting weight of him against your side as he collapses next to you, breathing hard, his hold on your hips lightening into a gentle caress while he collects his wits about him. He rests for just a moment before the mattress springs up as he gets out of bed. 

Typical Miguel. Seemingly incapable of taking an extended break, even when he desperately needs it. 

Against the velvety darkness of your still-shut eyes, you feel the warmth returning to your fingers and toes. The effects of the venom waning away. As sensation returns, the full effects of what’s just happened start to set in. The acute, gratifying ache in your thighs. The prickle of the wound closing in your neck. Your lips, throbbing slightly with the memory of being bitten by him and you alike. You stretch out against the sheets, growing more situated with each passing second. 

“Look who’s back in action,” Miguel remarks upon his return, warm washcloth in hand. 

He makes quick work of the mess he’s left behind. It’s the little things, you think as he disposes of the cloth, that matter with him. There’s no need for sappy promises or sweet nothings. Even with his terseness, he fills the Brita filter. He cleans you up. The sly signals and subdued clues. Showing you that even if it’s just sex, he cares. 

By the time he returns to you, pulling back the sheets to pull them over both of your bodies, you’re completely back to normal. You turn over to face him. 

“So?” you implore. “Debrief. I’d say that went pretty damn well.”

“That twisted little mind has a couple good ideas,” he admits. 

You widen your eyes and drop your jaw with exaggerated mockery.

“Wow. The notoriously stubborn Miguel O’Hara admitting someone else is right?”

“I’ve been nothing if not accommodating tonight,” he shoots back.

But he still wraps an arm around your waist. He pulls you flush against his warm chest. 

“I know,” you relent, nuzzling your cheek against his pectoral. “It’s a joke. Ever heard of those?”

Miguel lets out a hmph just good-natured enough you’re suspecting it might be a suppressed laugh. A rare occurrence, a victory to add to the list. 

“Besides,” you continue, “I have some more ideas I think you’d like.”

You catch a ghost of a smile on Miguel’s lips as he turns to look at you. There’s an orangey neon light pouring in from the sign on the club across the street, bathing his face in a warm glow. 

He raises his eyebrow at the prospect. 

“What do you want me to do?”