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Hey, everything okay?
Call me back when you can.
I’m getting really worried — I know you weren’t feeling well last night, can you just let me know if you’re alive?
I’m coming over.
You let out a sigh, scrolling through your messages to Miguel over the past twelve hours. He’s not a big texter, but it’s odd for him to go this long without responding to you. When you’d seen him last night you could tell something was up, but he’d just waved you off after you’d asked if he was feeling alright.
He hadn’t only looked exhausted, he seemed seriously on edge, his responses stiff and almost strained. The two of you hadn’t planned much for the day, seeing as he was currently on “vacation” with Jess and Peter B. holding down the fort at HQ. Something about mandatory quarterly time off to protect the spiders’ mental health. You’d thought it was a nice policy.
It wasn’t long after you’d arrived at his apartment above the HQ that you noticed how dazed Miguel was, movements sluggish as he grabbed the remote from the coffee table, responding to you only after you’d had to repeat yourself.
After the third instance of this, you got a bit concerned. “You tired, baby? I wouldn’t mind a nap before we start the movie.”
He pauses, sighing. “I think I’m getting sick,” he said, running a palm over his face.
“Oh no, really? You sure?” you asked with concern, shifting toward him on the couch with one hand raised to press against his forehead. Miguel hardly ever got sick. In fact, you thought it wasn’t even possible .
Miguel pulled away from you, just out of your reach. “Don’t get too close. I don’t want you to catch whatever it is,” he said. “Honestly, you should just go home. We can watch the movie another day.”
You frowned, then. “I don’t care about the movie, baby. Have you eaten at all today?” you asked.
Miguel’s guilty pause was answer enough.
“I can stay over,” you declared. “I’ll sleep on the couch, so you won’t get me sick. I don’t want you to have to do everything by yourself while you’re like this.
An odd look had crossed his face, then. Anxious, almost pained. “I’m not a child.”
Though he hadn’t snapped at you, the words had come out shockingly cold. “I can take care of myself. You don’t have to mother me.”
That took you by surprise, your eyes going wide. It was unlike Miguel to take that tone with you. “I-I’m not trying to-“ you stuttered, hurt bleeding into your tone. “I’m just worried,” you said, looking down at your hands in your lap.
His eyes softened as he took in the furrow of your brow. Another sigh. He sounded so tired.
“I’m sorry, I know,” he said, reaching his hand out to lace his fingers through yours. “I’m alright, querida. I really don’t want to get you sick. Just go home, okay? I’ll text you.”
You gave him a long look, then. He was paler than usual, dark rings under his eyes looking more pronounced as evidence to his exhaustion. You hated the thought of leaving him alone like that, but you didn’t want to push him.
“Okay, just-,” you sighed. “Just stay hydrated, and keep me updated on how you’re feeling. Call me if you need anything.”
He nodded, trailing after you to walk you to the door. “Text me when you get home. I love you,” he said, pressing a quick, chaste kiss to the top of your head.
Now, you were standing in front of Miguel’s door, a plastic bag full of supplies in your hand. Since you weren’t sure what he was sick with, you’d brought a few different medicines, a large water bottle, empanadas and some pozole. You decide that if he gets upset, you’ll just drop everything off and go back home. Though you might just force him to accept your care, depending on how ill he is.
You take another breath before pushing the door open.
“Miguel?” you call, looking around the entranceway. All the lights are off, save for the glow of the TV in the bedroom. You kick your shoes off, walking towards the light. A quick glance into the kitchen tells you that he has either been well enough to do his dishes (and not text you back), or that he just hasn’t eaten at all. Both possibilities worry you for different reasons.
When you reach the doorway to the bedroom, you finally spot your boyfriend swaddled underneath the comforter, seemingly out cold. The TV’s volume is low enough to have lulled him to sleep, and you can’t help the fondness you feel for him when you see the Ghibli movie he’s put on.
You pad towards the bed, carefully placing the bag on the nightstand and taking a seat beside him on the edge of the mattress. “Miguel?” you call gently, smoothing away the stray hairs matted against his sweaty hairline. The heat emanating from his skin makes your eyes go wide. “Shit, you’re burning up, baby.”
You lean forward, digging through the plastic bag for the cooling towelettes you’d picked up at the drugstore. Miguel shifts behind you as you search, the mattress sinking under his weight. By the time you turn your head he’s already sitting up, arms snaking around your waist to hug you from behind.
“Why’re you here?” he murmurs weakly. “Told you I could take care of myself.” There’s no malice in his tone. Just him, nosing into the side of your neck.
“You call this taking care of yourself?” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “Lay back down, Miguel.” You’ve got the cooling towelettes in your hand now, ready to slap one on his forehead and then maybe slap him for making you worry so much.
“You smell so good,” he sighs dreamily, tugging you backwards so that you’re practically in his lap. His grip is surprisingly strong for how ill he seems to be. “Shouldn’t have come. You should go home.”
“Stop hugging me before you tell me to go home,” you respond. But he just pulls you with him as he leans back against the headboard, pressing little kisses along your neck and awakening butterflies in your stomach. It’s so warm and comfortable having him pressed against your back that you nearly forget why you came in the first place.
“Hey! Come on, Miguel. Stop being weird. I thought you didn’t want to get me sick?” you frown, smacking lightly at his arms. “I brought medicine and stuff. We have to get your fever down.”
“It’s not going to help. M’not sick like that,” he slurs, exhaustion tinging his voice.
“What do you mean, you’re not sick like that? You have a fever, baby,” you say, twisting at the waist to press the towelette to his forehead. “You gotta drink some water next.”
“Don’t need water.”
“Stop being difficult,” you sigh.
“I’m not trying to be,” he says, breath hot at your neck. “You smell so good .”
“You said that already,” you say, cheeks heating.
He may be sick, but it’s never taken much for Miguel to get you flustered. You’re feeling the effect he has on you especially hard now, with his towering form swelteringly hot and wrapped around you like this.
You sigh as his hands slide underneath the hem of your shirt, rough hands skirting along the skin of your waist.
“Can you just let me take care of you, please? At least take some of the medicine I bought you -”
“M’not sick like that,” he sighs, switching to open-mouthed kisses along the side of your throat that have your breath shallowing.
“You’re repeating yourself again,” you murmur, though you’re not really focused on what you’re saying as he hums against your neck.
“Miguel,” you start again, sliding a hand along the back of his neck and threading your fingers through the hair at his nape. “You keep saying weird stuff. What are you talking about?”
Miguel shudders behind you as your nails graze his skin, and his forehead drops to your shoulder. “You love me, right?” he asks, voice barely a whisper.
“You know I do.”
“Mmm, need you to say it.”
“I love you, Miguel.”
“You wanna take care of me?” He asks, lips pressing against your shoulder blade.
“Any way I can,” you whisper. You have the inkling feeling that he expects you to respond badly to whatever he’s about to tell you, but whatever it is, you know you’ll be with him for the long run.
“M’not sick with the flu,” he slurs, turning his head against your shoulder to meet your gaze. He’s still so handsome, even like this.
“Can’t get you sick. I’m- m’thirsty,” he breathes, warm breath huffing over your skin.
“For blood.”
“Blood?” you ask, brows furrowing. “Like, like you want to kill someone or-”
“It’s a spider thing. My specific genetic makeup gives me more… vampiric qualities,” he interrupts, though a light smile stretches across his pallid face at your assumption.
“M’sorry I- I should have told you from the start,” he adds. It looks exhausting for him to even get the words out, but to add even one more shred of context while he’s in this state, he’ll do it. “I usually have a stock of blood bags on-hand, but there was a situation in the med bay. They needed it more than me. It’s why I’ve been off for a few days. With no blood, my powers are on low output.”
You pause, absorbing the information. He has no reason to lie to you.
“O-okay,” you say.
“Okay?”
“Okay,” you repeat. “Do you know when they’ll have-”
You freeze when another violent shudder rips through him, and both of you are reminded of the reason why he’s told you all this in the first place.
“Miguel, you can drink from me, right?” You ask gently, cupping his face in your palms. He’s getting even warmer, you think, watching a drop of sweat slide down his temple. “C-can you just bite me? Does it work like that?”
He can only hum an affirmative, brows furrowed and eyes screwed shut at the awful lurching in his belly.
“Okay- okay baby, go ahead,” you say, peeling your shirt off and tossing it aside as you turn back around and bring a hand up to the back of his neck, guiding him into yours.
His mouth hovers over your neck, warm breath whispering over your skin. “You trust me?” he mumbles weakly.
“Yes,” you respond hastily, tilting your neck for him as he presses a gentle, lingering kiss to your skin. “Yes, of course.”
That’s all he needs to hear. His mouth opens wide, and he bites.
You jerk as pain blooms along your pulse point, but Miguel’s arms hold you in place, four little incisions from his fangs drawing blood to the surface. Then he sucks , audibly swallowing down a mouthful of your blood, your fingers tightening in his hair at the sensation. It had hurt when he’d bitten you, but now… you’re not so sure.
“It- it’s okay, baby, it’s okay,” you whisper, loosening your grip on his hair and combing through it in apology. “This’ll make you feel better right? T-take as much as you need.”
Miguel moans against your throat at your go-ahead. For a few moments you’re stiff, avoiding any movement that could jostle his fangs in your neck. He uses his hands to soothe you, resuming their movement against your skin, palms running up and down your sides in a gentle caress.
In moments you’re feeling warm all over, loose and comfortable in Miguel’s arms. The feeling of his feverish hands on you is so nice, every sensation heightened though you’ve gotten so lax — like there’s nothing you can do but take what he gives you and feel .
You’re surprised at how quickly the pain completely subsides, your senses focusing in on the feeling of his hands on your skin and the pleasurable heat spreading outwards from the bite. That sensation you’d picked up when he’d first bitten you – it’s clearer now, making your mind hazy. His venom.
—
Miguel lets his eyes flutter closed as he finally tastes your blood. He’s always loved the scent of you, but your taste is so much more concentrated, sends his mind to mush.
It had never been this difficult for him to curb his thirst for you in the past. For all the years he’s known you, he’d never needed to push you away like last night to keep from biting you. The throbbing in his gums had been so painful then, the scent of your skin so near. Even now, the conscious part of him feels guilty for biting you without a more extensive explanation. This isn’t how he’d wanted you to find out, but the euphoria of finally quenching his thirst far outweighs his hesitance to continue.
You’re feeling the effects of his venom now, he’s sure of it. He can feel it under his lips, your pulse slowing beneath your skin as you relax into him. He’s drinking slow, hyper aware of how much he’s taking. He wants to make this last so that he can show you that it isn’t something to be afraid of.
His eyelids lift, dark eyes looking down at his hands splayed across your skin. The sight that greets him is tempting; your skirt is rucked up around your thighs, the fabric just barely covering what lies underneath. The straps of your bra had fallen down your shoulders in your haste to pull him towards your neck, and he takes a deep breath through his nose as his gaze roves over the swell of your chest underneath the lacy edge.
He can’t see your face at this angle, but he knows your body. He knows how needy you’re getting, soft pants echoing in the quiet room as you rub your thighs together under his gaze. His venom has you the same as him, after all — achy and wanting.
A different kind of thirst plagues him now, one that has his cock throbbing where it’s pressed up against your ass. And with the taste of your blood coating his tongue – making his head spin, he thinks he might go mad from how badly he wants you.
His hands leave your waist, skirting up over your belly to reach your chest. Gently, he tugs the cups of your bra down, bringing both his hands to your tits and squeezing. The moan you let out when he tweaks your nipples is so wanton that he can’t help but echo you.
“Sensitive,” you breathe. “Feels good.”
I know, he thinks. And he’s hoping to make it feel even better.
He drops a hand down to your thighs, sliding his palm lazily along your skin as he eases them open. You’re so pliant, spreading your legs wide so that he can feel the softness of your inner thigh beneath your skirt. You really are so sensitive, breathing out a soft sound as his fingers skate upwards until he grazes the hem of your panties, teasing.
“More, Miguel,” you whine. “Please, want more.”
And who is he to deny you?
He takes one last gulp before pulling away from your neck, licking blood from his lips. He’s taken enough for now. What he really wants is to see how your body reacts to his venom – how much harder he can make you cum while you’re under its effects.
“You’re so wet, amor,” he marvels, finally sliding his fingers over your covered slit and feeling the wetness soaking through your underwear.
You whine as he brings his digits to your clit, rubbing little circles to the bud over the fabric while his free hand wraps gently around your throat. “How are you feeling?” he asks carefully.
“So good, Miguel,” you murmur hazily. “Feels amazing.”
“Does it?” he asks carefully, licking away at the blood oozing from the bite.
You nod against his chest, and a little mewl escapes you when he presses his fingers in just a bit harder. “M’so sensitive.”
“It’s my venom,” he says. “It’s supposed to make you let your guard down — stop you from struggling.”
“Not that you are,” he adds, huffing a soft laugh against your skin.
Your head lolls back against his shoulder as he continues playing with your clit. You’re so cute that he can hardly resist dipping his head, sweetly brushing his nose against yours before meeting your mouth. You’re so eager , sighing into the kiss and reaching your hand up to his cheek, pulling him closer despite the coppery tang of your blood coating his tongue.
He’s no better off, on a high after finally satisfying the thirst that had him run ragged for days. Any other time he would have touched you slowly, running his hands and his lips over your skin before reaching this point, but all he can think of is you. He can feel his cock spilling pre into his sweats, but the press of your ass against him is enough to relieve some of the tension. All he wants now is to make you cum hard , and to make you cum fast .
He can tell that you’re getting close, lashes brushing against his cheek and rhythmic little pants breaching your lips as you grind backwards into his lap. You’ve still got one hand on the back of his neck, and he can feel your nails giving him crescent-shaped bite marks of his own.
The taste of your blood is still fresh on his tongue, but he already wants another bite — wants to feel the way your pulse jumps under his lips and your blood rushes into his mouth when you cum. And once he’s had his fill, he’ll fuck you all boneless and lazy into the mattress, if you want it. You won’t have to lift a finger. He has to pay you back for taking care of him, after all.
You whine as his fingers leave your clit to wrap around the waistband of your underwear. “Shh, it’s okay , ” he murmurs, tugging the lace down and cooing praise into your ear as you lift your hips for him.
“Good girl, ángel. Being so good for me,” he says against your lips, dropping your underwear to the ground before bringing his hand back to your pussy to spread your folds open for him. His cock throbs at the sight of your little hole fluttering around nothing. He’ll make sure to fill it up for you soon enough.
You whine as the hand on your throat moves to your jaw, tilting your neck just a bit further for him so he can lap at the bite mark there.
“You taste so sweet, querida. Will you be okay if I keep going?” he asks, fingers rolling over your bare clit while he waits for you to answer. Some part of him is still hesitant, still wants to make sure you’re alright with him like this.
“Y-yeah, please, Miguel — it felt so good before.”
He hides his smile in the curve of your throat, nosing lovingly into your skin at your response. He’s always happy making you feel good, but this time it’s different. He’s not just giving — he’s taking, too. So he needs to make it all up to you.
“Yeah?” he asks. “Think you’ll cum if I bite you again?”
“I-I might,” you breathe. He can tell — you’re so tense, veins straining beneath his lips as his middle finger dips into your entrance. “I want it.”
“Good,” he murmurs, sliding his finger inside you to the knuckle as you let out another shuddering moan. “Just relax for me, mi amor. Relax for me and I’ll give you what you want — that’s it,” he coos, pumping slowly in and out. You’re so tight, walls pulsing around the digit even as you rest your weight against his chest, trying to follow his instructions.
“ That’s it, good job, ángel.” he says, pulling all the way out just to push back in with two fingers, his own breath stuttering at the way your pussy sucks them in deeper at the stretch. “It won’t hurt this time if you’re relaxed, okay?”
You let out a little hum of affirmation, cheek sliding against his hair as his fangs graze over the juncture between your neck and your shoulder. He can spot your reflection in the mirror on the dresser at this angle, and the sight has him biting down, injecting you with another dose of his sweet venom.
He can’t tear his eyes away from the mirror, watching you writhe with pleasure; eyes screwed shut, pretty mouth agape, lips swollen and smeared with red, tits spilling out over the cups of your bra. His eyes drink it all in, and his stomach lurches when his gaze drops down to watch his fingers fuck you open just the way you like it.
You’d already been so close before he’d pulled away earlier. It’s not long before you’re trembling in his hold, walls getting tighter and tighter around his fingers as he pushes you closer to the edge. He wants you to cum — fucks his fingers into you a little harder, a little faster, prodding upwards just to moan against your skin when he feels a little burst of wetness hit his palm as he hits your favorite spot.
You’re slurring your words, practically drooling as you tell him how good it is, how close you are.
He gets to watch it all in the mirror — the sight of you spread open and dripping around his fingers is so obscene that it’s a wonder how he doesn’t cum in his pants. Most especially when your hips jerk, catching his tip in the slippery mess dripping down to your ass.
“Cumming, cumming -“ you cry, breath hitching as he finally brings you to your peak.
There’s blood slipping past the seal of his mouth and dripping down your shoulder as he fucks his fingers in faster, banging against your spot to fuck more squirt out of you, spraying across his wrist and up to his forearm. Your blood gets so hot when you cum, the flavor sweetening in his mouth as it spikes with endorphins and makes his mind hazy.
Miguel pulls his fangs out of your neck and his fingers out of your pussy, resting his hands on your hips. He holds you steady as he drops his head down to your shoulder blade, flattening his tongue against your skin to chase a crimson bead rolling down your back. You let out a tired moan as he presses a trail of kisses from your neck to your hair, arms wrapping back around your waist.
“You did so well, mi amor,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the space behind your ear. “Thank you for taking care of me.”
You hum sleepily as Miguel continues to shower you with affection, barely registering his movements as he reaches for the plastic bag you’d left on the nightstand and pulls out the bottle of water you’d originally bought for him .
He thinks he may have overdone it, making you cum so hard while so low on blood, but you deserve it. You deserve the world.
“Drink up, ángel,” he says, lifting the bottle up to your lips and coaxing you into taking a few sips. Once he’s satisfied with your intake, he sets the bottle on the counter, using the extra towelette in the bag to wipe your cum from his fingers before pulling an empanada out for you.
He’s still cradling you against his chest, legs all tangled up with his as you twist into him, nudging your cheek against the fabric of his shirt.
“How are you feeling?” you ask, looking up at him through your lashes.
“I should be asking you that question,” he replies, dropping the wrapper into the plastic bag. “I’m fine, thanks to you. But you lost a lot of blood. You need to eat something, okay?”
He lifts the empanada to your mouth and watches you take a bite. The two of you are quiet as he feeds you, and once you’re finished, you lean forward to kiss the tips of his fingers. The action is so loving that it makes him shiver.
“You’re really okay with this? With me?” Miguel asks, skirting the back of his index finger over your cheekbone. The two of you are lying down now, your head on his chest as he runs a palm over your back. You’re still so sensitive, his touch sending shivers down your spine.
“Of course I am, Miguel,” you say, peering up at him through your lashes. “I love you.”
He lets out a shuddering breath as you cup his cheek, the softness in your tone making his heart throb. He turns his head, pressing a kiss into your palm.
“I love you, querida,” he murmurs into your skin. “Thank you.”