Chapter Text
he doesn't like not being in control. he doesn't like to be weak. it's the same way that a shark will die when it stops swimming. he can't allow that to happen.
the great expanse of miguel's back is contorted with knots, ones even your hands, tiny in comparison, cannot work out of his angry skin. stretched across your lap on the couch after a shift, his distinctive musk starts to drive you a little crazy. sandalwood cologne, sweat, something oddly sweet about it. on a normal day, you might drag him to the shower, not so receptive to it as you are now. peppering his neck with tiny kisses, he groans a little, too tired to push you away, yet too contented to do anything about it. your hands brisk his tiny waist, the one you know he's secretly so insecure about, and linger there as you make your way down.
"i'm tired, baby," miguel pushes you away, his face blushing red and lured out of sleep. still, that fanged smile of his slowly creeps out. by now, your head meets his broad chest, laying kisses on his nipples through the cloth of his shirt. another hand sneaks below it, squeezing one hard. he lets out a small whine, embarrassed at how good it feels. he doesn't let just anyone touch him like this.
"you just smell so good, miguelito," you purr, continuing to caress and stroke him. resigning to his fate, his body softens. he can't stand when you use those pet names. shimmying away his boxers, you nip at his inner thighs, leaving hickeys where only you'll see.
suddenly, your thumb passes over his clit, already feeling swollen and wet with arousal. he tenses.
"ay- wait," he hisses, swatting your hand away. he's never felt more vulnerable, staring down at you with almost a sense of fear. maybe he isn't ready for this. no, he isn't. he nearly verges on panic, before you place a hand on his chest, feeling his thumping heart, miles a minute.
"okay, my love," you say, ever-patient with your boyfriend. you're just about to snuggle up next to him, perhaps even turn in for the night, when he grabs your wrist, uttering two words.
"gentle, please."
oh.
settling between his great thighs, you finally take in the scent of his cunt, the ambrosia you've secretly craved since the two of you started fucking. you could spend the rest of your life here with little complaint. sucking away at his clit, kissing it and overstimulating it with the greatest amount of care, miguel whines, covering his mouth to prevent himself from moaning: you want to change that. with one hand still lingering at his slutty waist, you stabilize yourself, and with the other, two fingers wiggle up his pussy, finding a hammering-rhythm. finally, he roars, scratching the cushions of the sofa so hard that cotton spills from them. this is exactly how you've always wanted to see him: your little kitty, so incredibly fussy and bratty.
"careful, gatito," you tease, stuffing a third finger inside him. you want to get drunk on his slick, occasionally pulling out your fingers only to admire the webby globs in which they stick. maybe this is some part of miguel's spider-dna, why it smells and tastes so fucking good. were it not for his size, you would be begging him to sit on your face, his hips bucking in battle against your skillful tongue. you can see in his face that he's close: his eyes flutter, rolling back in his head, his lips pursed and refusing to moan again. you would never have guessed that he was so inexperienced.
"fuckfuckfuck," he mutters, trying to suppress it. "i'm gonna..." he can't bring himself to say it. you're still lapping away at his pussy, nearly four fingers fitting in his walls now, when he finally says it. "mamí, i'm gonna come," he cries, swallowing his pride.
slower now, lingering between his legs, you lap up the mixture of slick and come, loving him more than you thought was possible. finally, you creep up to meet his face, planting a kiss on his full lips, letting him taste himself.
what a good boy.