Work Text:
You hovered curiously over the pot on your stove.
Add to taste, the recipe on your screen advised, but the lack of specific measurements only made you feel trepidation instead of liberty.
You gingerly sprinkled more salt into the red stew and stirred. The tendrils of steam and smothering heat flushed your face as you sipped from your spoon, scrutinizing the rich sauce with ferric determination. It tasted fine to you—amazing, actually, the spice washing over you with a pleasant buzz—but you hadn’t been rushing around this kitchen for the past four hours for “fine;” it wasn’t your tastes you were appealing to.
You tapped the salt shaker over your spoon with the delicacy of a wedding toast and sampled again, only to realize you’d overdone it. You tried a pinch of pepper—better, but maybe too simple. Would more cumin do the trick? A bit of acid to undercut the heat? Another bay leaf?
You rifled your cabinets and drawers until you found an unopened bottle of onion powder, digging into the plastic seal over your trash can. You looked down to see the remains of the chocoflan you planned to accompany tonight’s meal, its milky and undercooked chunks rivuleting down the rest of your garbage like tears.
You checked your phone; Miguel would be here soon, and the pressure of depleting time would only make you more prone to error. You deliberately replaced the lid of the pot before your full-course dinner ended up for the sewer rats.
Your living room window rattled fiercely, shocking your spine rod-straight. You turned the burner off and rushed to change into a more tasteful set of lounge clothes, throwing on Miguel’s white sweater(you didn’t want to stain it with your cooking) and fanning your face to tame your rubicund complexion into a more coquettish, rosy blush.
You turned the corner to see Miguel ducking through the window frame. His watch poked out from the cuff of a dark jacket and his hair was mussed. When you hugged, you realized he was a touch wind-bitten. And holding a takeout bag.
“What’s this for?”
“You said you had a bad day.” Well, you needed a reason to invite him here, and you assumed the despairing “Work sucked!!!!!” followed by ten crying emojis had communicated that it wasn’t actually that big of a deal.
“O-Oh! You didn’t have to—”
Miguel dropped the bag into your arms with a coolly smug air. You hadn’t realized how gargantuan it was when it dangled at his side, but the thing bulged with styrofoam containers and carry-out boxes: vermicelli, cabbage salad, veggie stir-fry, rare brisket, all embossed with the green script of one of your local haunts—Miguel must have ordered half the menu. You held it against your middle, tickled by the aroma of star anise and chicken broth. Your face flared in offense at the thought that you had lost some sort of competition.
Pleased with your surprise, Miguel stooped to press a chaste kiss to your mouth. You opened up to him despite your wounded ego. The apartment was a fuzzy oven and Miguel’s sweater hung off your body like a blanket.
Miguel hummed inquisitively against you, face pinched by his crinkling nose. He pulled back to lick his lips.
“Something wrong?” The eye contact was making it hard for you to totally control your expression.
Miguel testingly kissed you a few more times, brow furrowed as he pulled away. He crossed to the kitchen and sniffed the air as you orbited him, careening from the weight of the bag until you could set it on the counter.
“You’ve been cooking?”
“Uh-huh,” you glowed, “I wanted to surprise you.”
Neither of you exactly had the time to cook by yourselves, let alone for each other, so the closest you’d come to this level of domestic intimacy were toaster bagels and a pot of coffee for breakfast.
A pungent burst of steam swallowed Miguel’s head as he uncovered the silver stockpot. His gaze skipped between the white dots of hominy like it was playing hopscotch.
“This is pozole.”
“Wait, are you serious? The recipe said it was carne adovada!”
Miguel shot an acute glare of annoyance over his shoulder at you, but it was empty of any actual pressure.
“And you made this,” his body appeared taut, restrained; it sloped and hunched as though hyper-conscious of the space that it occupied, “for me.”
You leaned against the kitchen counter and crossed your arms. Doubt began corroding your confidence with the thought that this wasn’t going entirely how you had intended, but you committed to your resolve so that Miguel couldn’t modify his reaction based on yours. If nothing else, you refused to regret the gesture. You liked the bond you two shared, so you were… fairly confident this wasn’t an issue of boundaries, of violating the parameters of this relationship or misinterpreting what the rules were in the first place. There was really only the one: No big talks, no hard feelings.
“Yes.”
“Any particular reason?” Damn, a holiday would have been a good cover.
“Same reason you brought me phở, I’d imagine.”
Miguel turned to the takeout bag like it was a gauche installation piece. It appeared he was carefully still for the same reason you were, and that clarity tempered you like a brisk breeze. Neither of you wanted to show your hand. You didn’t want to disappoint one another.
You loaded up the fridge with your newly acquired stock, “I mean, this is great for me—I don’t have to worry about dinner tomorrow.”
Miguel continued staring at the pot like he didn’t know where else to settle his eyes. You used the sweater to wipe off your nervous sweat, thankful you were hidden by the refrigerator door. You just have to commit, you told yourself as you straightened out, just go for it, but your tongue was mincemeat and your pulse exploded like gunfire.
C’mon, stud, you summoned, part two, just like you practiced!
The trajectory of an arrow is determined by the power and aim of the archer’s draw, not the permission of the target! And even if Miguel were to dive out the window right now, you reasoned, you’d still be left with a whole pot of pozole to yourself. You cleared your throat.
“Lo hice para ti,” You spoke slowly, sculpting the words on your palate, paying attention to your accent, “Porque te extrañé.”
Miguel’s head whipped to you. “What was that?”
“Porque,” your voice was pitchy and faint, “Te extrañé?”
Miguel turned beet red.
You weren’t sure if it was the curling perfume of chiles, but your body bloomed with a capsaicin-esque tingle that numbed your discomfiture and sensitized you to the nuances of Miguel’s profile: he was completely, deliciously embarrassed. No wonder you had such a hard time assessing the situation, considering how Miguel spent so much of his time mirroring the threatening aura of Palaris’ bull.
“He estado practicando mi español.” You closed the fridge and caught Miguel's waist in your approach, staring at one another with animalistic pensiveness, “Acaso no te gusta?”
Miguel pulled up some fuzzy screens from his watch. Your pride deflated like a slashed sail.
“Need to go?”
“I’m making sure I’m in the right dimension.” He waved his hand through the holograms and rose to his full height above you. “Or, maybe I passed out.”
You pulled back with a blithe laugh. Of course he’d tease you.
“It’s nothing,” you dismissed, “Forget it.”
His nonplussed front toppled instantly into a pile of regret, "Wait, what?"
You turned up your nose, dramatically releasing Miguel from your hands. He met the edge of the counter with a little bounce. You gave an affronted shake like a bird ruffling its feathers.
"No, no, you're right, Miguel. I could never compare to you, anyway."
"I did not mean it like that!" he emphatically jabbed the air with his finger. "It's—I was trying to, you know—to be—"
You pushed your hair from your forehead, ignoring Miguel, savoring the moment.
Miguel grunted, humbled, and curled his finger back into his fist. "I'm sorry."
"Hmm?" You waggled your head, "Come again?"
"I'm sorry." Stronger this time.
"S'just a bit dim in this ear—"
He gently grasped your chin. “I want to hear it.”
He regarded you like he was coming into contact with a rare and enigmatic creature—he moved so slowly you couldn’t even tell when his chest expanded with breath.
“Repite lo que acabas de decir.”
“Te lo dije.” One of your grammar books said nailing the pronunciation was easier if you smiled. You perched the swell of your cheek on Miguel’s fingers, coaxing your strength back. You considered it a victory if Miguel remained the more shaken up party between the two of you. “Respóndeme, por favor.”
Miguel cocked his chin at you, nodding. “Bien hecho. Es muy bien.”
“En serio?” The intensity of your glee caught you off guard. “Qué opinas? Se honesto.”
“Estoy encantado. Te comprendo. Y me comprendes…”
You found yourself swooning at the devoted clemency with which Miguel spoke. His vowels were bodied, rounded notes balanced on cushiony consonants. You didn’t think you’d ever get used to it.
Hearing Miguel speak his mother tongue was by no means a difficult thing to come by; he talked to himself in Spanish all the time, as with dozens of Spiders at the Society and… well, to you too, though up until this point it was always isolated endearments and simple phrases and the… occasional moments, when you were in bed together, that Miguel would mumble to himself when he was close. You had initially thought it quite adorable, and extremely arousing, but the way he cagily dodged your pleas to translate what he meant inflamed your scientific curiosity. It was part of what motivated you to begin studying Spanish in the first place, since you discovered that whatever dirty talk Miguel used was either nonexistent or impossibly niche within the world of Spanish porn.
Still, being able to connect with Miguel in this way gave you a jellied feeling in your core. He could give you even more of his attention now that you had a new way of reciprocating it. All the self-doubt that leeched off your fatigue as you agonized over transitives and genitives and infinitives and accusatives on your lunch breaks revealed itself as a ghost, evaporating in the first light of dawn.
And Miguel looked so… tremendously pleased. The lines on his face seemed less harsh and his complexion more vibrant, youthful, and honeyed. You could get drunk off of it.
“Tienes hambre?” You began pulling out a set of bowls and silverware to hand to Miguel. Food was a common theme in all of your exercises, so you were positive that as long as you stuck to the script and rolled your “r’s” you could carry a conversation for an entire night. And if you couldn’t, you could always accelerate the natural course of your date.
“Siéntate, cena y disfruta.” You cushioned the pozole with a pot-holder as you set it on the table. “Vamos me comer!”
The silverware clattered to the table. Miguel’s eyebrows jumped to his hairline in a mixture of incredulity, bafflement, reproach, and amusement, like you’d chanted some sort of archaic spell.
You stared back at him, “What? What did I say?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head. “Muy gracioso.”
“Did I get it wrong?”
Miguel fixed you with such an exasperated stare that you believed you’d spontaneously combust. “Vamos a comer.”
“Oh!” You shyly laid your hand over your mouth as if it would grant you some modesty, “I should have figured you’d be a strict teacher. Disculpe.”
“Uh-huh.” Miguel remained unimpressed as you served his portion, but the first bite collapsed his mask of pretense into a picture of genuine bliss. He swallowed another spoonful, moaning into his bowl with the ecstasy of a wanderer reunited with a hearth after years in the tundra. He kept his elbows on the table, looming over his food. You tipped raptly forward in your chair.
The stress of a long day, of the cascading layers of days one experienced at once with a job like Miguel’s, seemed to melt off his shoulders as he supped. You chewed carefully on your own bite, attempting to savor it the same way Miguel did and catalog every detail of your cooking process for future reference. If such an occasion ever presented itself again.
Still, he was back to averting his gaze. You kept staring at him in silent adjuration, but eventually you’d break to focus on not spilling red sauce on your lap, and when you caught him looking at you, his gaze would tear away as if magnetically repelled.
“Miguel,” you felt rewarded by the way he shivered at the proper recitation of his name. You practiced that one most, “Dame tu atención por un segundo.”
“Si eso es lo que quieres.”
“Sí, te quiero ahora.” Miguel sputtered again and you cringed at yourself. You mouthed the phrase a few more times and seized at the realization of your error, quickly supplementing with, “Uh, I mean—por supuesto lo quiero,” but that sounded even worse, and before you could decide whether or not to play the whole thing off as intentionally salacious, you’d inhaled a cube of meat so fast that it blasted your windpipe and soured the scene into something incontestably unsexy.
“Asombroso. Nunca he visto nada como esto.”
“No me subestimes," you wheezed, "estoy pleno de sorpresas.”
You couldn’t believe yourself. You fucked this guy as consistently as you did laundry, a bit of risqué humor shouldn’t unravel you like this. But, naturally, you were exponentially more vulnerable in a language you couldn’t manipulate as effortlessly as your native lexicon. Every word was a potential landmine and you were spreading your puny limbs to make snow angels.
“Ya estas satisfecho?” You jabbed your spoon at Miguel’s drained bowl, desperate for any diversion from your baroque slapstick routine, “Todavía queda tanto.”
Miguel stared sidelong at the stockpot, but retained an almost stony countenance.
“Sería grosero. Trabajaste muy duro.”
“Necesitas escucharme.” You spoke wistfully, and you were blushing so hard that you weren’t exactly aware of the expression you were making or why Miguel suddenly lifted his head to impart a strange, revelatory focus, but you wallowed despairingly in endearment and humiliation as you said, “Es todo por ti.”
~~~
Miguel carried the dishes to the sink as you loaded your sponge with dish detergent. You channeled the entirety of your internal obloquy into scrubbing away every iota of oil and juice and, potentially, enamel clinging to your cookware.
Miguel, on the other hand, was either ignorant to the present atmosphere or ignited by it; he passed a towelette over everything you handed him as if such a mundane chore was the apex of spiritual serenity.
“Háblame,” he ribbed. “Estábamos teniendo una conversación tan agradable.”
It took you a second to decode his words. “I have nothing left to say.”
“No, lo estabas haciendo tan bien! ”
“I need so much practice. I literally can’t.”
“Estamos practicando ahora, no?” Miguel draped himself across your back, nuzzling your neck in a vague appeal. “Cuéntame acerca de tu día.”
“It was fine.” You tilted your head in a way you hoped seemed a casual reflex instead of the invitation it was, but you could feel Miguel smiling against your skin. “I have to catch up on some reports that I’ve been putting off.”
“Cuéntame en español.”
“I’m not that advanced yet, cut me some slack.”
“You’re kidding.” Miguel’s voice was airy, “Cuánto tiempo has estado estudiando?”
You hated how easily you were surrendering to him. He needed to dole out flattery more often so you could be immunized against it. “Solo unos meses.”
“Suenas increíble.” His teeth scraped the shell of your ear, “You’re a quick learner.”
“Estoy sumamente motivado.”
“Qué más sabes?”
You gripped the edge of the sink as Miguel rested his hands on your hips. There was no urgency or direction to what he did and it made you antsy.
“Las letras de canciones. Frases de películas. Comandos básicos.”
“Como qué?”
“No sé.” You slipped free to return your dishes in their rightful places. To your joy, Miguel followed you. You bent over to put the stockpot into a cabinet beside the oven, bumping against his thigh. You chanced a peek at his face, “Qué tienes en mente?”
Miguel smiled like conceding to you was painfully demeaning. He cornered you against the wall, his broad form dwarfing yours and blocking out the overhead lights, blending your bodies into one curvaceous shadow. You willed yourself to breathe deeper so you wouldn’t faint.
“Le daría todo lo que deseas.” Miguel bracketed your head with his forearms. “Solamente tienes que decirlo.”
The proximity sparked static in your nerves; you were enveloped by Miguel’s smell from your sweater, the warmth of his body in front of you, the weight of his consideration and patience as he waited for your cue. You were completely possessed. And, judging by Miguel’s quickening breaths, he was just as thoroughly captivated. You were encouraged to experiment.
“Dame tu boca,” you tried. You pressed your fingers to his mouth, but while he let you coast the pad of your thumb along his canines, he remained stubbornly out of reach when you tried to kiss him.
“Puedes hacer mejor que eso.” He bit your hand when you tried snaking your fingers down his throat. “You listened to Spanish music and couldn’t find one love song?”
You scoffed, but remained undaunted as you swept your thumb over his cheek. “Bésame.”
Miguel’s expression opened so sweetly you would have thought you told him he won a vacation to a deserted island. Still, he cocked a brow at you and shifted the goalpost again.
“No te escuché.” Bastard had superhuman senses. “Habla más fuerte.”
“Acércate un poquito nada más.”
Miguel swooped in so quickly you almost yelped. Your mouth went dry at the even tighter confinement.
“Inténtalo de nuevo.”
“B-Bésame,” you complied, even quieter than before.
Miguel angled his head like he was going to obey you, nearing with a drowsy draw to his eyes, but the second he saw your gaze flick to his lips he stopped completely.
“Beyh-sah-meh,” Miguel corrected. You grumbled.
You dutifully copied him, and he was so gratified by it that you wanted to kick him, but in the next second he kissed you with fluttering lightness and you decided to reserve your pride for pillow talk.
But Miguel was just kissing you, barely kissing you, and his arms were on either side of your head and his body distant enough from yours that it’d be too appropriate for a junior prom.
“Miguel—” you fixed him with a set of doe eyes, “—Cómo se dice ‘to be held’ en español?”
He hummed like it was an especially taxing feat of translation. This was a challenge of endurance.
“Te mostraré.” Miguel trailed a hand down your arm, “Estos se llaman ‘brazos’.”
“Claro.” You followed his demonstration by running your hands up his arms and squeezing his biceps. “Brazos. Y estas son ‘tetas’.”
You amply squeezed Miguel’s chest.
“Es un ‘pecho’,” he glowered.
“Y que perfecto es este pecho.” Miguel rolled his eyes but didn't move your hands, which you took as an encouraging sign. “‘Pecho’ means ‘todo el torso,’ también?”
You slithered your hands around Miguel’s back. This was fun—you’d learn the Spanish names for human anatomy in no time if Miguel would play “Doctor” with you.
“Usa tus palabras, cariño.”
You withdrew your hands, helpless to the charm of pet names. You could have barked out a string of broken Spanish, as you probably did throughout the evening, and succeeded in your aim by playing up your cluelessness or begging Miguel to go easy on you, but you wanted to show him you were serious. This word would be used again, and regardless, you wanted to be able to talk together in the future. To have a pocket of privacy in a room or on the street.
Oh, but that wasn’t practical. Heroes were made to sacrifice and be sacrificed.
You didn’t want to think about that right now.
“...Would it be, a-brazo-me?”
“Más o menos.” Miguel’s face flowed more than creased, like everything was pooling into his smile. “Abrázame.”
“Abrázame,” you repeated, but not quite how you were supposed to. You needed to open your mouth wider on the second syllable.
Your skin prickled as Miguel laid a hand on your shoulder. He pressed his forehead against yours and hovered his lips right above yours, speaking into your mouth like he was performing CPR, words low and vibrating into your bones: “Abrázame.”
You followed the peaks and valleys of Miguel's mouth. Your breaths mingled in swells of steam, fogging your psyche and condensing into dense, sticking percolations in your belly. Your next call-and-response might as well have seeped from you with how disarmed your tone was.
“Abrázame,” you crackled, like the word was carrying more intent than it was meant to: Hold me. Embrace me. Touch me. Please. What do I have to say to make you listen to me?
"Puedes lograrlo," Miguel whispered, the syllables blunted. You were basically eating his words.
You licked your lips, unconsciously inching forward. You had to catch up to him before he could leave you reeling.
“Ah-brah—mmph!”
Miguel closed the distance and kissed you, wide and deep and hungry, as though you were caught prey. His hands followed the weave of your obliques to splay on your spine, anchoring him to you. And just like that he was pulling you against him and you were locking your legs around his waist and he was carrying you to your bedroom.
Because of the zeal with which Miguel groped your ass, you weren’t aware of the bed beneath you until you banked backward, fear freezing your blood at the velocity and the impact punching a squeak out of you. You clung to Miguel as he scrambled atop you, fervidly kneading your thighs, the tips of his claws extending into and retracting from your skin as you writhed. You were too energetic—but could he blame you? Everything was going according to how you planned it! Mostly. You had trusted Miguel would weep immediately upon seeing one of his favorite dishes and beg for you to take him as he laid in besotted recumbency, but even if the actual execution detoured, you still ended up exactly where you wanted; Miguel plied his tongue against yours and his fingers along the seam of your pants, slower and more considered than your usual romps.
You cheered his name as you tugged on his shirt, digits slipping in the hem as you twitched from his ministrations. You raised your hips so he could shuck your sweats and underwear off you, and before you reunited, you stripped him of his tee and threw it in the general direction of your laundry hamper. You looped your hands around Miguel’s neck, eager to feel his bare skin on yours.
“Date prisa.”
“Pero no hay prisa por terminar.” He circled his palm on the jut of your hip, “Podría estar aquí toda la noche.”
All night. The only way that could be was by pure happenstance. His watch glowed in the darkness like a spectre.
Miguel caught you staring and covered the neon paneling with his other hand. You felt dumb for making yourself so obvious, but right as you were assuring him that I get it, really, it’s not that serious, because you didn’t want to be the reason the multiverse imploded, he silenced the watch and tugged you back him by the knees.
“Quiero estar aquí.”
“Okay,” you murmured, “Then—um…No pares.”
“Por supuesto que sí. Sin dudarlo.”
“Así es.” You directed his hands to burrow under your sweater. Miguel sharply inhaled as it rode past your stomach. “Me gustaría que me acariciaras el pecho.”
You chuckled, “O, ‘las tetas’ es correcto?”
“Sí, lo entiendo, te encanta meterte conmigo.” Miguel’s attention was consumed by the softness of your skin, “Que haré contigo?”
That same infuriating featheriness returned as he caressed you, nesting your nipple in the fold of his palm and skating back and forth, back and forth, never just grabbing. You were boiling over.
“Puedes ha—ah—acerme lo que quieras, just—ah, justo—abrázame otra vez. Que lo necesito tanto.” And this time you meant it.
Miguel surged to capture your mouth again, control slipping as he rucked up your sweater to expose you. You heard him shuffle out of his pants and tried sneaking a peek at how hard he was, but your back arched as he stroked your inner thigh. Miguel traced the contours of your muscles, holding you open as he swiped across your mess.
“Tan mojado,” he marveled, “Ésta para mi, también?”
You shrunk into the collar of his sweater, feeling infinitely more debauched than if you were just naked. You tried closing your legs, but he only scooted closer, pinning you down as he touched your lips.
“Te toca a ti.” He waited for you to invite him in. “Dame tu boca.”
You stared half-lidded at him as you held his hand still, licking into the soft divot that separated Miguel’s index and middle fingers. You sat up and—oh.
You could never accurately recall how big Miguel was until he was right in front of you.
You tried to dampen the involuntary choking sounds by moaning, bobbing your head until Miguel’s fingertips reached the back of your throat, staring at his hips, recalling the half-feral way he begged to mark you not too long ago as he traced your teeth and watched the cerise pick of your tongue lave his skin; Miguel studied with passion the mouth making his new favorite sounds.
Miguel pulled free, rubbing his fingers together to test their glide before bringing them to your core. He tugged your collar down to watch your face change as he worked. It was overwhelming, intense, and what made it intense was how he’d circle your thighs, dip inside you, carefully massage you, and then pass over your sweet spot when you’d finally relaxed, before pulling out and starting all over again. There was no way to predict if it’d be a quick pulse or a prolonged thrum, so the entire routine left you vacillating between extremes and producing a different cry each time. You would have killed him if only his stupidly thick neck didn’t prevent a good grip.
“Miguel,” you cried, trying to bear down on his hand. He forced your legs further apart, petting your trembling thighs and teasing your opening with his other thumb.
“Eso es todo lo que necesitas decir,” he encouraged. And now you were the one trying to divert your gaze while he analyzed you. “Dilo otra vez. Tantas veces como quieras.”
You only understood a couple of the words he said, the heat melting your rationale, but you could put it together. Your chest heaved, “Miguel, Mi—hngh—”
He added another finger, his pace just as languid but his arcs more concentrated. You raked your nails down his shoulders and keened, wanting him to go faster, just a little bit faster.
Miguel smothered your face with kisses, nosing down your jaw and across your collarbone. You were deafened by your own breathing and blinded by your wild hair and numb everywhere Miguel wasn’t touching you. You scrabbled to touch him too.
“Ah, aún no.” He pinned your wrists above your head. He clicked his tongue with such admonishment that your heart stuttered, but in his face you found neither disapproval nor vexation, only syrupy, smitten, mesmerized disbelief. “Nunca es suficiente para ti, huh? Lo quieres más profundo—?”
He accompanied his proposal with a deep plunge into you. Miguel touched you like he was certain there was still a mystery to your body, studying every hitch in your breath and quiver in your muscles as he kept pumping inside you.
“Sí,” you pleaded, no idea how to stop yourself from rambling—every whimper and shout further distilled Miguel’s doting, bewitched expression. You called his name, echoes of his orders, little reactions like sí and ngh and más, más, más, más. Yet the more you begged, the more his vigor increased—desperate to meet your demands—and the cloudier your mind became.
Your thoughts were like water; every time you tried to collect them, they’d mix and turn to vapor. You could only hold onto Miguel’s words.
Miguel bore the heel of his palm against your base and it was perfect—just right—the flat pressure a scorching wave over your nerves.
“T-There! Right there—”
“Ahí,” he corrected.
“Ahí?” How could you even argue at this point, “Ahí—Ah-A-Ahh,” the word dissolved into the rest of your whines as Miguel kissed your chest. He clamped down momentarily on one nipple, watching it perk and darken against the rest of your skin. He gave the other a firm suck just to replicate your whimper.
“Que una voz tan dulce.” His teeth grazed your throat. His tone was reverent and you felt all the more graceless for it.
You turned to muffle your voice in your shoulder and realized you were drooling, your spit soaking a damp patch into your sweater. Miguel wiped the corner of your mouth, ticking your face back toward him.
“Concéntrate en mí. Quiero escucharte, cariño.”
You deserved a reward by now, right? Well, those were more of your thing, but whatever he was doing was clearly to punish you for something, and you had given up already! He could only be gloating now.
“Cosa linda.” He nudged your neck, scissored his fingers. “Cosa mona. Eres tan precioso para mí. Dijiste que se siente bien aquí, verdad? Como este? Dime cuánto.”
Your brain launched into disorienting revolutions as you tried weaving together a response: Por favor dime—no, wait, dame … no, espera—
“S’too much.” You were red as a burn. Your legs fell against the bed in dissolute tremors.
“Aw, es demasiado difícil mantener las piernas en alta? No te preocupes.” He hiked your legs up to his shoulders. “Te prometo que te haré sentir bien. Tan solo ruega.”
Your brow furrowed, but out of frustration this time. You couldn’t put it together anymore. A ribbon of anxiety curled around your conscience, tiny but constricting, that whatever Miguel was saying was perhaps rather demeaning. You blanched at the thought that all those times Miguel moaned Spanish into your ear at his climax were because he was harboring some secret hatred for you, or maybe triumphing his ability to put you in so many degrading positions, or taking out the pent-up aggression that came with having to make so many tough calls to protect the fabric of existence, or something that needed to stay secret because it would justifiably provoke your anger.
You struggled against Miguel’s hands. It was a ridiculous notion, almost insulting to your perception of reality; your account was saved on his computers. Miguel had a toothbrush in your bathroom. You were wearing his clothes. He brought you a mountain of takeout because he thought you were upset. The only plausible explanation was that you had become too attached to him, and were now faced with the shame and horror that the best you could provide, provide under current circumstances, was not what either of you actually deserved.
“Miguel—” you were back to saying his name incorrectly, all warbly and with tinny syllables, like you had for everyday you knew him except tonight, “Miguel, wait. I don’t—don’t know what to say.” And, choking on a sob, you shouted, "I can't—!"
Why can’t you just play dumb, you seethed internally. Let what's supposed to happen, happen.
The swiftness with which he separated from you and the frigid emptiness that replaced his body made you flinch.
“What did I do?” Miguel sat back on his haunches. You pulled his sweater over your midsection and dropped your legs to the bed. “Do you want to stop?”
“No! No, I just… I feel a bit silly.” You laughed to disown your vulnerability. “My Spanish is awful. I didn’t understand you at all during that last bit.”
“It’s great.” He sounded cross, “I told you.”
“Maybe you were being nice.”
Miguel raised his brows at you with dry umbrage.
You sighed. “I was hoping to keep up with you.”
“You did. You are. Why does it make you so upset?”
You recalled his face in the kitchen, radiant and unburdened and staring at you like you chiseled the damn moon. “I wanted you to keep smiling at me like that.”
Miguel’s adam’s apple bobbed. He broke your gaze and shifted toward you in a careful way that reminded you of a stray cat. He brushed his knuckles over your hand and the two of you slanted toward one another, a strange tenderness coalescing between you.
“We’ll go at your pace.”
You pecked his cheek, “You should feel comfortable enough to be yourself. I know your culture is important to you.”
“I like myself when I'm with you.” He laid his head in the crook of your shoulder. You reclined, keeping your bodies flush.
“Te guiaré,” he finished, “I’ll guide you.”
“Te guiaré… I like that.”
“Cuídame.” Miguel took off your sweater and you enfolded your arms around his neck.
“Cuídame,” you echoed, “Do what for you?”
He couldn’t look at you, “Care.”
You delivered a hand to the taper of his waist, passing over his abdomen and grasping his sex. He bucked shallowly.
“Mier—,” he breathed, “Cariño.”
You knew that one, but you asked anyway, “Qué es ‘cariño’?”
Miguel blushed, “It’s… like ‘dear’.”
“You call me other things too,” you said. “What’s ‘mona’?”
“Cute.”
Your eyes crinkled, “Mona. Y ‘muñeco’?”
“Doll.”
“Mi muñeco. Precioso muñeco. Y ‘tesoro’?”
Miguel sabotaged a moan, plucking a white-hot chord between your ribs. His back muscles contracted as you kept touching him. “T-Treasure.”
“Tesoro. I’ll remember that one.”
He tucked your hair behind your ear. “Eres tan hermoso.” And, surprising you, “Beautiful.”
“Eres tan hermoso también,” you giggled, “tan, tan, tan hermoso. Te quiero.”
Miguel fisted the sheets. You shouldn’t be so brazen, but, in your defense, that phrase literally translates to “I want you.”
“Miguel,” you whispered, laying your other hand on his sternum. You’d been saving this word for just such a moment, “Fóllame. Por favor.”
Miguel enveloped you in his arms, one across your back and the other supporting your hips, bringing you into his broad body to shield you from the rest of the world. His angles molded to your gaps.
You moved in tandem with him, coaxing him inside you, meeting his thrusts in the middle, ghosting where the shades of his body met. You touched the dip between his collarbones, feeling the vibrations of his escaping groans. The irises of his eyes were red lines around his inky pupils, reflecting you. Full of you.
He spoke indistinctly against your mouth, something ending with “completamente…ío.” Or was it “yo”?
You cradled his face, “What are you saying?”
Miguel hesitated. “Confío en ti.”
That absolutely was not it.
You didn’t know that first word, your repetition lilting like your voice was balanced on a wobbly plank.
“Say it again,” Miguel supplicated. His voice was so gravelly and earnest you had to have said something important, but you could tell you weren’t going to get a complete answer out of him.
“Even if I don’t know what it means?”
“I like the way you say it.”
“Okay.” You crossed your ankles over the small of his back. “Confío en ti.”
Miguel laced your fingers together, “Repite después de mí. Te sientes tan bien.”
“Te sientes tan bien.” You nodded, panting.
“Solo para ti.”
“Solo para ti.” How the hell was this different from everything else he'd said?
He swallowed. “Di que eres mío, así como yo soy tuyo.”
Alright, that one was a bit difficult. Your brows knitted together, but, perplexingly, Miguel seemed relieved by your confusion. He was testing you.
“Me haces feliz. No es tan fácil de decir.” You could guess what that meant.
“Pero no puedo detenerme.” That one, not so much.
Miguel brought his mouth to your ear. His hair tickled your nose and his voice wrapped you like suede.
Perdido sin ti. Me siento débil cuando estoy sin ti. No puedo dejar de pensar en ti.
You’d heard this part before. You spoke it like you were trying to engrave it on your teeth.
Me muero si no te vuelvo a ver, y tenerte en mis brazos.
Your eyes widened in recognition: arms. Have you in my arms.
Eres todo lo que he soñado. Eres tú al que no puedo sacrificar.
You’re everything… can’t sacrifice…
Miguel drove into you in passionate torrents. Your breath knocked out of you in little gasps as you spread your legs to accommodate him, watching the cresting motion of his hips and the little glimpses at where your bodies connected.
Nunca podré vivir sin ti.
Miguel sped up as your voice broke into saccharine mewls. And you were so close to getting it, to understanding what he was saying, that you needed only a little more. Just a bit more.
Your toes curled as you clawed into Miguel’s back.
Quiero quedarme contigo. Eternamente.
~~~
You scrunched Miguel’s hair with a towel, your shampoo and soap blending with the salt of his skin. He sat on the floor and you on the bed, resting his head against your stomach with the most tranquil expression you’d seen on him in weeks.
“Really needed that shower, huh?”
He cracked open an eye, “Trying to tell me something?”
“That’s how making conversation works, yes. And then you respond. It’s rather fun.”
You eased back to admire your hard work. The locks of hair at the back of Miguel’s head were slightly wiry, but everything was thick and bouncy as though it were freshly spun. You raked your fingers through the tresses to break up any knots.
Miguel’s head lolled to the side, nodding, nodding, nodding off.
“Tienes sueño?”
He made a protesting noise at the back of his throat, like the mere reminder of the limits of his body was a pest.
You went to your dresser and rifled through until you found a pair of pants you wore home when you last visited his dimension, along with some top you were confident was made of cotton. You threw them haphazardly over your shoulder, smirking as you saw Miguel lunge for them out of the corner of your eye. He held up a blue stretch of fabric you recognized as a muscle tee, the arm holes exaggeratedly torn to the point where the thing was basically a vertical sash.
“I think it’d suit you very well,” you said, looking him over, “It brings out your eyes.”
He chucked it back. “‘Accentuating’ is different from ‘borderline flashing’.”
“Mmm, if it gets you the effect you want…” You removed your bathrobe and stepped into your own night clothes, sticking out your tongue at Miguel.
Between your love for hot showers and Miguel’s scrupulous force with a loofa, you’d emerged from the wash looking especially squeaky-clean. You crawled under your changed duvet and linens, not wanting to rush Miguel as he shuffled around. His shadow diffused over your bed from the shimmering skyline outside. The moon was halved.
You heard a button click. The chime of a notification immediately followed.
Miguel drew in a breath, puffed up and braced for whatever was waiting for him inside his inbox. His watch spat an orange slide in front of his face, illuminating the carpet and a piece of the wall.
Miguel’s exhale blew out of him like a machine releasing pressure. He closed the tab and dropped his arm, but he didn’t turn the watch off again. You had no idea what was happening.
Giving him permission to leave would have made it seem like you wanted him to leave, and asking him to stay would have made both his potential rejection and his stilted attempt at comfort hurt even more, so you said nothing. There was nothing to be done. You were supposed to do nothing.
You felt the bed dip as Miguel sidled up behind you, hugging you tightly, warming you up. He trailed light scratches up and down your arm. A downy, hazy cloud descended atop your eyes.
You should enjoy it while it lasts.
You straddled his leg between your calves. A pathetic effort to anchor him.
“Miguel.”
“Hmm,” was the acknowledgement.
“Wake me up when you have to take off.”
The room was silent for so long you thought he’d fallen asleep, but after a minute he gave a translucent “I will.”
“Get some rest,” he concluded, “You have a big day tomorrow.”
~~~
You woke up to a cold bed and a pan of scrambled eggs.