Work Text:
Peter must have noticed something was wrong long before Miguel could catch that it had washed over his face and drawn the shadows to impossible lengths. He must have watched his eyes sink like slow motion, with the way he could read O'Hara like his guts were spilling out of him, like he was made of paper and he was flipping through with damp fingers. To his delight, Peter says nothing, choosing to allow Miguel to sit on his own couch- but the way the other spider looks at him tells him that he holds it in his memory that he sits with one leg tucked underneath him, folded, the other bent to his chest in a way that makes him look far too small. He's thinking. And he must be, with the way his eyes have gone vacant, the way his fingers twitch in a manner that would be microscopic if the tips of his claws never peeked through.
He's turning in his head all the reasons that Peter B Parker could have looked at him and felt anything other than sterile comradery for his boss. Why his hands lingered on Miguel for too long, and more importantly why he chased the warmth of them, why it drove him mad mad mad enough to threaten to pull the answer out of Peter's throat with his fingers. And when he did get his answer he contemplated why he almost collapsed, and why he felt so much relief, so much dread; this is an odd time to be mulling over this, when the man is in his apartment for probably the one too many-eth time this week. He doesn't recognize this, stuck in a backwards loop that his mind ensnares him in when it's feeling particularly torturous. It flickers all the possibilities of what could happen.
He drifts his eyes to the gadget wrapped around Peter's wrist. A solid reminder that he is not supposed to be here. There's a twist in his gut at the thought of removing it, of kicking Peter back into his own realm, far away from Miguel's, far away from getting caught up in the wrong dimension at the wrong time. That would be the right thing to do. That would send him back to his kid, to MJ who insists it's fine Peter's here- that Peter's with him, that would ensure he's always fine. It's purpose now, though, is to keep Peter from glitching. To keep his universe from trying to drag him back in pieces. It keeps him sprawled in the recliner of Miguel's apartment, in sweatpants and a hoodie suspiciously too large for him, indulging in a TV show that's probably dumb enough to melt his brain for weeks.
Miguel draws in breaths through his nose that feel like they cut him all the way in. He exhales just as sharp, his heart rate spiking in a way that makes his chest feel like it will run away from him; he does not look like he's in this state, however. He sits silently, glazed eyes seeing nothing in front of them, depictions of Peter perishing inside them and in his arms his home his hands his chest. His chest that is much too tight, choking breaths out of him, resisting when he tries to draw them in.
His face is warm now.
He ignores it, his mind cranks as it tries to drag him deeper, and the warm turns into pressure. Pressure on his cheeks. The sides of his face. It pulls him forward, makes him blink, makes him focus in on what is not the wall. Focus on something other than his mind.
He exhales and it is choppy, staggering. Hands.
That's what they are.
Peter's hands. Peter's hands on his face, and he's standing in front of him- over him- and tipping his head up, brushing the pads of his fingers over Miguel's eyes and his cheekbones. He must have finally had enough of watching him sit still as stone. It's unusual for him to do this without at least some acknowledgment and permission from Miguel, but he doesn't pull his head away. He thinks he needs it.
He faintly registers something like "There he is," ghosting past Peter's lips, and there's a familiar gleen in the other spider's eyes that makes him understand the question. Not spoken, but requested, the close proximity of Peter and the way he's filled his space. Taken it over. He stepped in- and everything else stepped out, scurrying into the recesses of his mind in surrender.
Miguel doesn't peel his lips back in a dog snarl when Peter leans in. He doesn't snap his jaw with an audible clackclack that promises something that will hurt. And thus Peter doesn't falter, doesn't hesitate to put his lips to the maw of the devil, and has the audacity to hum in delight when the hellish thing wraps its arms around him. Miguel seems to be fighting to stay within his own skin, to stay seated, tugging at Parker with steady pressure that screams staystaystay, as if he was thinking of leaving anyway.
He wasn't.
Eventually, Peter pulls away altogether, prying himself from Miguel's velcro grip and watching as his limbs follow, his body coming to life after being still for so long. When he turns and fucking strolls to the bedroom, quipping something about having an idea, Miguel is left standing alone.
And then the noise begins. A rushing in his head, a hundred voices you could have done something you could have saved them this never would have happened it's all your fault it's all your fault it's all your fault and he's moving. He's trailing behind Peter, craving that silence again, anything to keep it away for another minute. Anything to be closer. Anything to not let go.
He does not expect to find the man in his bed, however, rid of the hoodie- it isn't Peter's, Miguel confirms now- and stops in his tracks in the door. He didn't have anything under the hoodie, either, the garment discarded on the edge of the bed. He was in Miguel's clothes, is in Miguel's bed, a bed he never touches and he might again if it smells like him. If it smells a little safer to sleep. Peter is babbling something and it's hitting him like background noise. "It might help you, Mig, it always helps me. Not that you have to, and you can say no- it just might take your mind off things for a while, huh? How about it, big guy?" he's saying, and Miguel isn't registering the full weight quite yet, simply walking forward and resuming the kiss like it never ended. Peter's laughing into his mouth, Miguel is holding him close by the back of his neck and practically climbing into his lap, and he takes it as a yes.
It doesn't take long for Miguel to stray from Peter's lips, mouthing under his jaw and down his throat, those fangs scraping against skin when he gets too careless. He does not miss the way this makes Peter's skin tighten and his body tense in microlevels, and he absently assumes this must be due in part by the spidey sense. He's indulging quite happily in laving his tongue over Peter's skin, feeling vibrations as he speaks, and maybe he really should be paying attention because he thinks maybe that was a warning. In the next instant there is a hand at his shoulder and one at his hip. He's pulled by his torso sideways and lifted by his hips, and Peter has gotten out from under him, letting Miguel fall backwards onto his bed when the hands retreat. It scrambles his mind a little; he's used to always being bigger, being stronger. He's never been moved like he weighed nothing, and it makes him hot all over.
He is not nearly quick enough.
Peter is on top of him, straddling his hips and pinning him in place with a strength that he might've forgotten about. The grip on his wrists above his head tightens momentarily in a particularly bruising hold. His eyebrows furrow as he waits for an explanation, waits for a funny quip or line, and gets nothing. Peter just smiles at him, and somehow it makes things worse, makes his stomach flip flop and it's never done that before like this.
Peter's staring. He's sitting on top of Miguel O'Hara and he's staring like a school boy, his head tilted all candy-eyed and sweet. It bleeds into his touches as he drags his hands down Miguel's arms, every one gentle, and Miguel isn't sure what to make of it when he discards Miguel's shirt and runs his hands back up from his hips up to his chest. He marvels, dragging fingertips over scars and lines and dips, and it takes everything in Miguel to not evaporate. "Gorgeous," Peter breathes, and it feels like he's been gutted. Flayed open and laid out, and nerves prickle at the back of his neck, the reflexive want to activate his suit. He doesn't. Peter isn't being malicious. People stare at him all the time like he's a piece of meat, but this was not that. This was far too tender than what he was anticipating.
And it felt like far too much.
He considers throwing him off. He considers grabbing him by the shoulders and yanking him sideways, freeing himself from the agony that wasn't really agony. It wasn't. It was devotion. There must be a wild look in his eyes because the thighs keeping his hips down squeeze, and Miguel is right back where he started.
With Peter. In his body. Not floating a hundred miles above his head.
Peter's hands find his neck, and he tenses, his breath stopping and his whole body rolling as each muscle tightens in a wave. But he doesn't push or squeeze. He splays his fingers out, traces along the line of his throat and down to his chest, and Miguel eases. When Peter leans down again it's to replace his hands with his mouth, and he thinks he hears something like sorry murmured into his jaw. He can feel the way his lips drag across his skin, leaving wet trails and grazes of teeth, and it draws a hiss out of him when he's prompted with a cheeky nip dangerously close to a nipple. He's quickly reminded this is Peter B when there's an airy laugh that tickles across his stomach at that.
He tries, then, to swipe and grab Peter by the head, to drag him down and kiss him with too much teeth. Parker ducks easily, Miguel's hand meets air, and Peter chooses to use this opportunity to yank Miguel's shorts off his legs in a clean swoop.
What the fuck was happening. Humiliation is what was happening, he thinks, but that's not true. Peter was happening. And he was perching back on top of Miguel, giving him no room to think, no room to truly process that he was bested and now completely naked in the same beat. It was disorienting, this weird pace, it was entirely too feathery and slow for it to suddenly be lightning like that. It made it hard for Miguel to think, to react. Worse, now, when his fingers are wrapped around his dick lazily and working slow enough he wants to eat Peter alive for it. He's breathing ragged, his legs twitching under Peter in at attempt to move closer closer more more, and the pace never quickens. Peter laughs, "sensitive?", and Miguel considers throwing him off entirely again. In reality he can't; easy, languid strokes have him writhing, and he's going to kill him, he's going to die.
Peter leans down again against his ear. "This okay?" he asks, and Miguel snarls, open-mouthed and flashing teeth. "No," he seethes, and regrets it the second Peter's hand stops moving. He exhales a pathetic sound that's definitely not supposed to come out of a man that large, hooking a set of claws into Peter's shoulder. "Are you good?" Peter asks- he's ignored the punctures in his arm in favor of shooting his partner a concerned look- and Miguel sneers.
"I won't break, Parker. You don't have to be so light," he says, and for a minute Peter's face looks.. lost. Like he's trying to remember something. Miguel is on fire, trying his best to stay still, to understand the issue here. He faintly recalls being this gentle with… Ah, Peter must be this gentle with MJ, he thinks. He must have to be or he'd break her bones in a heartbeat.
And then Peter isn't lost anymore. His eyes refocus, boring into Miguel in a way they hadn't before, a grin far too big to not be dangerous plastering itself on his face. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything, he thinks, but anything was better than the-
Peter's hand begins the same pace as before, and he begins to squirm again, panting. What the fuck. Nothing has changed– nothing has changed except Peter's expression, that smile still sitting on his face like he's played a prank.
He's thrown an arm over his eyes by now. He's not even able to stay angry, he can't- every time he tries to retort Peter just quits and Miguel can't do anything but whine high in his throat, and he might be crazy, he thinks he's losing his mind.
Peter shushes him, something something so good for me, and Miguel settles back into the bed again. "You've got a good heal factor, right?" Peter asks like an afterthought.
Miguel begins to move his arm off his eyes to reply when there's a strange plastic pop sound. He finds the answer to that mystery before he can see it, because Peter's hauled himself between Miguel's legs and-
A strangled sound is punched straight from Miguel's chest. His arms fling themselves to push away and pull cling keep at the same time, claws sinking once again into the other man's flesh. Peter had bottomed out in one thrust, and he's laughing draped over him, tsking at him for being greedy. It burns and stings and he's suddenly impossibly full, and Miguel thinks that was cruel, especially since he hasn't been properly fucked since long before his wi- since college. He hadn't expected it, and this was not the way he thought it would go.
But maybe he deserved that, really, for what he's already done to Peter. For the blood running in fine streams and smeared by his hand on his shoulder. For dragging him into this mess, for loving him, for being as broken as he is. If anything, he can at the very least be good at this, for him, let him have this. Have him.
What he thinks is more cruel is the way Peter soothes. He's carding his fingers through his hair, kissing at the corner of his mouth, gentle gentle gentle, and he can't stand it. He can't stand it. After all of this he is dripping sugar and honey down his throat like he deserves it. He curls his lips back in something that might be disgust, fangs long and itching to plunge into flesh, and Peter moves.
Miguel grits his teeth and a yelp that dies in his throat escapes as a strained breath. The pace Peter sets is nothing short of brutal, something that Miguel thinks would shatter a normal person's pelvis. It feels like it should break his. His inhales are gasps, his exhales are forced out of him with each thrust, and Peter calls him beautifulperfectallforme in an endless chant into his ear and against the flesh of his throat. He can feel his fingers slick with blood, slipping, and when he digs in Peter hisses through his teeth. Changes his angle. And suddenly there's a short wave of something white-hot that rolls through Miguel, and he keens, tossing his head back into the pillow. Peter isn't mumbling anymore, and that must have done something to him because he's just panting hot against Miguel's neck and repeating the process over and over until Miguel starts to tremble with it. It feels like he's being electrocuted, nervous system entirely overstimulated, not designed to handle something like this. Not designed to feel like his guts are being shoved into his ribcage, not designed to lay and take it like he is, to feel so full. His mind shrieking and melting into a goopy mess that sticks to the inside of his skull. He couldn't form a thought if he wanted to now, not a good one, and every time he tries Peter rolls his hips and he never makes it.
His mouth hangs open, breath coming out in please, please, please, please, and Peter gives. He gives and Miguel takes, groaning when he grabs his cock again. "Go ahead, sweetheart, that's it," Peter mumbles against his hair, breathless, stroking in time with his thrusts. He tips his head forward and plunges his teeth into the soft flesh of Peter's shoulder.
Peter does nothing but cant his hips to drive deeper.
He tastes iron when he's fucked through his orgasm, body taut and held down effortlessly by the hips as he spasms; this must be what it feels like to be so full of love you can't fucking breathe. He's burning, scrabbling uselessly at his partner to stop stop stop too much, muscles tremoring in response. And then there's new warmth in his gut, foreign, and Peter sighs quietly by his head and slows to a stop.
Miguel begrudgingly pries his fingers out of Peter's skin and releases him from his fangs. He stays motionless for a minute, watching Peter breathe, trying to catch his own breath. Trying to pick his mind up off the floor and put it back together. Peter's hand relinquishes his hip, leaving red imprints promising black and blue, and uses this arm to hold himself up above Miguel. His other hand is seized by the wrist, and Miguel brings it to his mouth, warm tongue lapping at his fingers and cleaning off the mess he spilled on Peter's hand.
There's a mural of dark spots sucked into his neck and his chest, things Peter put there, on the head of Spider Society who whined underneath him- who is fucking licking his own cum off his fingers and-
If Peter does not get out of him right now there will be a round two and he isn't sure MJ would like it very much if he had more scratches to heal.
Miguel grimaces when the other man moves, sucking in air through his teeth when he pulls out, his limbs falling bonelessly into the bed with nothing to grip. He processes now that Peter came inside him, and it causes his stomach to curl with hot aftershocks that make his legs twitch.
Peter falls on top of him.
"I'll get a towel inna minute," he says, and Miguel has no idea what he's talking about, unwilling to speak to find out. He licks at the bite wound he was responsible for, delving his tongue in the deep punctures and collecting the fresh blood seeping out. He gets a hand half-assedly plapped onto his face about it.
He doesn't care.
He swallows audibly, hums, and he thinks he feels Peter shudder against his chest.