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" Please. " Peter pants, his breath is so humid in the miniscule space between him and the wall that it's almost condensing. Even if it did, between the sweat and tears and yes even a little bit of drool running down his neck, well, it wouldn't make much of a difference. He's a mess, plain and simple. Bodily fluids and the miscellaneous grime that a long day of Spider-Manning accumulates is enough to cement that.
But what really makes him feel filthy? It's not the saliva sticky on his chin or the grit of salty tears at the corners of his eyes or even the cock buried so deep inside him he can feel it in his throat . No, instead it's the sweet words Miguel friggin' O'Hara's voice has been dripping over his skin like honey, like molasses, like the nectar of forgotten gods and goddesses of revelry and ecstasy and hedonism.
There's a dissonance between the iron grip on his hips keeping him in place and the worship being pressed into his skin. Well, technically into his suit. Because Miguel hadn't given Peter time to much else than take the full weight of his want. Had just pressed up behind him, placed a large, warm hand on his soft stomach and started whispering all sorts of sinful things in his ear. Peter hadn't caught all of it, a little dazed from how quickly his body had been overthrown by want and still not fluent enough in Spanish to translate in the heat of things.
In a moment that could have taken hours or seconds, Peter B. Parker found himself bracing against a cold wall, palms flat for maximum spider sticking, and crumbling under the assault that was the leader of the Spider Society's full attention and affections.
He had no idea where Miguel had found lube, that suit of his didn't exactly have pocket space as a projection. Right, the suits. Because Peter was still in his. pants shoved halfway down his thighs, and Miguel had done something to get his cock free. However, in the rare glimpses Peter got that weren't wall or ceiling he saw his own feet hanging with his toes against the ground and Miguel's planted firmly to fuck into Peter again and again and again still protected by blue and red.
Miguel shifts his grip, running a hand up Peter's side under the top half of his suit, lingering to squeeze at the softness he finds that Peter never seems to be rid of these days. With the way Miguel has been content to sink both fingers and teeth into it with a hunger in his eyes, Peter has been minding the extra padding less and less. The hand goes higher, up Peter's chest to brush over a nipple and flatten against his sternum. It lifts his chest away from where he'd fallen against the wall to press him back against Miguel's furnace of a chest. The kisses smudged over his shoulders between sweet nothings trail upward. Plush lips land on the back of his neck just below the hairline and Peter shudders knowing the sharp fangs shielded behind them. He spares a thought to wonder where he'd left his mask before he'd been cornered, but it's gone with the next thrust.
"Please, Miguel ." Peter's voice hitches and hiccups between sobs so much that it's a fight to get words out. He's hanging onto coherency by the tips of his fingers and the force of Miguel's thrusts aren't helping in the slightest. At this point it's unclear to even Peter what he's asking for, or if it'd make a difference either way. He starts to say Miguel's name again but gets cut off by his own gasping moan when the remaining hand on his hip squeezes and he can feel the tips of Miguel's talons prick his skin. The last analytical part of his brain that hasn't yet shut down from the pleasure thrills at being the reason Miguel lost control of something he's always so conscious of.
"Peter. " Miguel's voice is more growl than anything else. Hissing slightly through his fangs and breathy from exertion. It's a miracle Peter can make sense of it at all, but his every sense is attuned to the man behind him right now and the words are so familiar they might as well be etched into Peter’s bones. "Cariño, tesoro, querido."
Peter whines so high he'd be certain only dogs could hear it if he weren't in a hub full of superheroes. Miguel knows what the pet names do to him. Peter clenches down in response, partly in revenge and partly in pure need because no matter how sweet the words are they sear down Peter's spine like fire. Hell, Miguel makes Peter burn, has since that first heated kiss and will forever more as far as Peter can reckon.
Peter isn't sure what makes him more satisfied, the wounded sound Miguel makes or the way his perfect enhanced stamina rhythm falters. He doesn't get to savor either for long because Miguel shifts his stance and redoubles his efforts. Before must have just been about taking Peter apart, now Miguel is driving them both home to the finish.
He hopes Lyla soundproofed this room. Peter wails as Miguel drills into that perfect spot inside him with the same precision and dedication he applies to hunting down anomalies. It's heaven in a word, mind-blowing in a hyphenate, and absolutely fucking glorious in a phrase. Peter can't seem to get enough breath before it's fucked out of him again. Miguel's talons are fully out as every ounce of his concentration is centered on Peter. The marks will be gone by morning and he might even miss them enough to ask Miguel to leave more. In the moment they force Peter back into his body in a way that makes it impossible not to feel everything. His suit is designed so that he can feel anything on him in case it becomes a threat. It does nothing to block Miguel's warmth but still feels like too much between him and the hands wreaking sweet havoc on his body, just holds his sweat against his skin and reminds him where exactly they are. Honestly, he thinks the barrier is part of what's driving him so wild. He wants to feel the exact shape of Miguel's lips against his shoulder. He wants to feel the sweat-slick slide of their skin against each other. He wants to feel the sharp edge of Miguel's fangs dripping venom before they even pierce skin.
The hand on his hip moves forward and around his front. Miguel is always so careful taking him in hand like this and the gentleness in the face of their brutal pace makes Peter sob even harder. Miguel's suit doesn't feel like any fabric Peter knows but it could be sandpaper for all he cares right now. The friction is awful and wonderful and Peter is seeing galaxies dancing on the backs of his eyelids. Gravity makes his body shift and they both groan at how it sinks Miguel infinitesimally deeper into Peter. It dawns on Peter that with Miguel's hands kneading at his chest and stripping his dick respectively, he's currently only being held up by his own desperate grip on the wall and Miguel's cock inside him.
Peter gathers just enough air to breathe out a fully felt " fuck! " and comes so hard his vision whites out.
He comes back to his body twitching and starstruck. His head has fallen forward against his chest and he can't find the strength of will to pick it up. His feet are dangling and a little bit numb but he can't bring himself to worry about it. His hands are still planted on the wall as sure as ever.
And Miguel is still fucking into him like a man possessed.
Peter knows he's keening, distantly. The same way he knows his ass is going to be bruised to hell and back when this is over. The same way he knows what he has to do next. Well, not exactly has to do, more like is extremely enthusiastic to do despite his lack of energy.
"C'mon baby, please Miguel." He's going to need hot tea with extra lemon and honey ASAP for how ruined his voice sounds. Miguel buries a growl into the sweaty hair on the back of Peter's head. "Give it to me darling, I want it so bad Miguel. Please."
Miguel's hands, placed back on Peter's hips some time while Peter was still universes away, flex. Peter feels him move away from where they'd been plastered together and feels something bump at his nape above the suit neck. Miguel is balanced on the knife's edge so Peter pushes once more.
"Come for me, Miguel."
Miguel sinks his neck into Peter's nape and comes. Peter can't help the groan he lets out at the feeling. He's so warm. Oh, he can already feel it trickling out of him. Fuck, that's going to be a pain to clean up. Glancing down, he catches sight of his own spend splattered on the wall in front of him. Damn, but Miguel always knows how to make him a mess. Miguel's hips jerk a few more times before he stills and removes his teeth from Peter's skin. He laps at the wound with a warm tongue and it sends sparks of electricity straight to Peter's brain.
If it was half as good as Peter's orgasm then it's worth being scuffed. Speaking of which, Peter can feel the creeping effects of Miguel's venom locking his limbs in place. The injection sight is probably already closing but he can't focus on it. Miguel nuzzles his nose against Peter's hair, pressing kisses wherever he can reach. The first time they'd done this Peter had been surprised by how cuddly Miguel got after sex. Now he just revels in it, soaking up every soft word and soothing touch.
"Peter." Miguel breathes against his ear, seemingly content just to say it.
"Welcome back to the land of the living baby. Care to lend me a hand?" Peter is still trembling but in a few seconds he'll be fully paralyzed from the neck down. He won't deny he enjoys it when Miguel bites him, but it can be a pain when it comes to the immediate aftermath.
Miguel hums something vaguely affirmative and adjusts his grip on Peter once again, careful in the wake of things. He pulls out slowly but it still sends them both groaning again. It feels like it goes on forever and is also somehow over far too quickly. When they're fully separated Peter can feel the rapidly cooling evidence of their activities trailing down his leg.
"Damn baby, you made a mess of me." Peter can't help but laugh when he feels Miguel hide his face in his neck with a wordless whine. "Aw don't be so shy about it, darling, that's what you wanted wasn't it? To mess me up a little? Make sure good ole Spider-Man can't just swing home and has to stay a while?"
"Stop talking Peter." Miguel's voice is worn out in the best way.
"There he is, c'mon, either you put me somewhere or we wait it out and I don't think you want to scrape this off the wall when it's dry."
Miguel makes a disgusted noise and withdraws from his hiding place. He wraps an arm securely around Peter's waist and uses his free hand to snag something with a web that Peter can't see. For his part, Peter just tries to detach from the wall. He knows Miguel could just pull him off but he'd rather not have to explain why there are hand-shaped chunks ripped out of the wall to whoever would have to fix it. Back home he might have found a believable excuse but here, well, there were certain things all Spiders knew. The natural reaction after he'd been bit was he stuck to everything. It made sense, in a way, stress made him stick and while his brain knew the venom would be gone in a few minutes his body went a little haywire while burning through it.
Miguel wipes Peter's mess off the wall, grumbling to himself in Spanish. Peter hums in acknowledgement when it feels appropriate and does his level best to luxuriate in his position. Miguel isn't exactly soft but he was comfy to lay back against. Eventually Peter's humming morphs into a song he might've heard before as he tips his head back onto Miguel's shoulder. He's good. Sure his arms are still linked to the wall and his feet are dangling above the ground and the spend drying on his skin is starting to get annoying, but he's safe.
Satisfied the wall was clean, Miguel chucks what turned out to be a pack of wipes back wherever he'd snatched them from. His now free hand gravitates back to Peter as it always would. Petting up Peter's flank to his shoulder, Miguel transitioned from grumbling to cooing although it was still mostly Spanish Peter didn't know. Yet, Peter tells himself, didn't know yet. A broad palm snakes down Peter's arm to cup the inside of his wrist. Miguel traces two fingers along the seam between Peter's hand and the wall. It might have tickled if it were anyone else but Miguel keeps a grounding pressure that has Peter sighing in contentment. A single stubborn finger pokes at the dip in the heel of his palm and the hand unsticks to allow Miguel to cradle it in his own. Miguel squeezes the hand affectionately and pulls it close to press a kiss to the palm. He lets it go to hang and repeats the process with Peter's second hand.
Peter knows he's smiling like an idiot right now. It's about all he can do until he gets control over his limbs again. Miguel crouches and gets his arm under Peter's knees, shifting him into a bridal carry that Peter can admit makes him feel special.
"Okay big guy, I don't know about you but I need to spot treat this suit before we’re both asked a lot of uncomfortable questions."
Miguel huffs out what Peter knows is a rather biting insult about his intelligence but his voice is so fond that Peter's grin only strengthens. "Lyla, scrub the security footage in this room for the last thirty minutes."
"You got it, boss!" Lyla chirps but doesn't appear. Peter is somewhat grateful, for some reason just hearing her is better than seeing her projection while he's still got his dick out. "Should I tell Jess you'll be unavailable for the rest of the night?"
"Yes, please."
"Good, you two have a fun night." Peter snorts because he can't see her winking but he knows she would be.
"Thank you, Lyla." Miguel starts carrying back to his private rooms.
"Yes, thank you Lyla!" Peter calls out over Miguel's shoulder. "We will!"
Lylas giggles and Miguel grumbles, but Peter just basks in being held. He has enough strength to loosely wrap his arms around Miguel's neck already so he has high hopes for the rest of the night. When he tilts his chin up hopefully, Miguel is there to kiss him long and sweet and divine.
Yeah, he's good.