Peter was wearing him down. It is something Miguel didn’t start noticing until the third time they had slept together. Miguel knows yet he can’t cut it off, can’t seem to stop himself from accepting the advances. Even as Peter slips into his space, especially when Peter slips into his space, prods at his shoulder while making some dumb joke, kisses him, and lays him down.
The sound he makes starts out as a grunt, but naturally sweeps into a higher register. Peter loves it when he does that, has joked it was amazing for his ego, has sincerely whispered that he wants Miguel to feel good. Both statements met with zero tact, dismissed, or lashed out against. And Peter babbles, so fucking often. Miguel thought he might go insane sometimes.
In this moment he is unsure whether it’s his consciousness once again blocking out the words, or the fact that whatever shift in position Peter just made had driven him to a new high.
"Peter…" Miguel cannot help but whine, his breath hitching at almost every thrust now as he digs his hands into the sheets. He doesn’t know whether it’s a plea to stop or to continue, but he tries a few more times anyway. “Peter,” he repeats. And again, and again. Calling out but all the while failing to register any of the words responding as more than the moving of lips, the scratch of stubble, and a wisp of air against his skin.
The man in question, is working hard to keep him that way, and acutely aware of sweat dripping down his back. But Peter can’t stop, and doesn’t want to. The feeling of erratic clenching that can only be because a loss of control, rationality thrown out of the window and the reigns taken over by Miguel's body. Peter did that, had helped him get out of his head. If he wasn’t so sure Miguel is almost completely out of it, Peter thinks he would have told him this is a great entry to list under achievements on his resume. He chuckles at the thought, and in response he gets a strangled moan.
Well maybe in response to the fact that he momentarily stopped his ministrations and might have been pulling out torturously slow. Peter decides to switch strategies, and leans back to properly look at the state of Miguel. He’s incredibly flushed, red down all the way to his chest, disappearing under the coarse hairs covering him. Almost instinctually, Peter cannot help but touch, starting at the back of a plush thigh that he manages to squeeze with quite some effort. The skin is pulled taut, high-strung, muscles flexed in his pleasure.
Miguel is ticklish, and Peter adores that, but for once he reminds himself that there is a time and place. From there on, carefully avoiding his sides, Peter lets his hand trail up his stomach, watching as the hairs react to the motion, leaving a pattern, akin to a mark of sorts, that shows just where and how he had been touched. His nipples aren’t particularly sensitive, not like Peter’s are, but the sensation of the pressure, and the warmth of a hand are more than welcome on most days. And today is one of those, as the squeezing along with a sharp thrust has him keening and his torso lifting up to chase Peter’s firm hand.
Deeming his guard lowered enough, Peter leans forward once more until he’s covering Miguel with his body, however much of it as possible, and leans to rest his cheek against the side of Miguel’s head, whispering his praises into the damp hair. The change in angle has Miguel hissing through the first thrusts, claws out now and ripping into the bedsheets. He’s mouthing at Peter’s shoulder, mostly because it was just there now, and Miguel’s subconscious wants to be closer. Closer than they are now, even as their bodies are tangled together. Closer than possible.
And then it happens. Peter can feel the vibrations before they pick up enough to be auditory. Miguel is purring. It’s not like a cat, not at all. Not like the other Spiderpeople either. Miguel is different, with his injections, but it makes him oh-so-beautiful to Peter. If allowed to, Peter would press little kisses all over Miguel, claws to fangs and everything in between. But alas Miguel would never be able to take something like that without a near-immediate pushback, most likely ending with Peter on his ass halfway across the room. Even what he was doing now had its risks, a limit. They haven’t been able to figure it out exactly, but Peter wants to and upon his expression of that Miguel had not given a flat-out no. Now that didn’t exactly mean a vocal yes either, but Peter has grown to praise himself for just how easily he can read Miguel nowadays.
He had expected for it to happen soon, Peter. But not like this. In a split second, the purring ceased, Miguel seizing up and curling in on himself before he could—
Suddenly Peter’s whole body goes lax, falling onto Miguel’s chest with an audible oof.
“No, fuck!” Miguel curses loudly as he fully surfaces back from whatever place he lost himself to. Had he not been flushed already, Miguel would be turning red from the embarrassment. He bit Peter. On accident. It had been short, and his head angled in a way where only his right two fangs had caught the skin. A dose like that would unlikely last any longer than ten minutes, but still.
He wants to yell at Peter, tell him it’s all his fault, that if Peter didn’t insist on all of this, maybe… But he can’t. Instead, Miguel blames himself. This wouldn’t have happened if Miguel hadn’t let it. It wouldn’t have happened if he wasn’t so different from the others. Hot tears burn in his eyes as he tries to move, but fails. He feels too vulnerable, the bed too big, but the room claustrophobically small. If he wanted to, he could push Peter off, leave him to regain the power over his body. But Miguel doesn’t. He just lies there, thoughts racing, most of them calling him a failure. Until he feels a low hum.
“Sweetheart.” Peter’s voice sounds a little rough, but it appears to be the first muscles he regained. “It’s okay, it happens.” the words are whispered into his collarbone, but discernable nonetheless. Miguel wants to tear his own hair out. Slowly, he can feel Peter start to move his fingers. And then a twitch, where he has remained inside Miguel. Another wave of frustration washes over him.
“You were close, weren’t you?” Miguel is almost too quick to scoff at the ridiculous comment, but he makes the mistake of meeting Peter’s eyes. In it, he sees understanding, an opportunity. An out of the situation, if temporary. So he sniffs and drops his gaze in what Peter has come to know is a yes. He had been close, it’s not a lie.
Peter tries to pick up a pace, but there is a noticeable lack in the smoothness of his movements. “Come on, help me out. I’m a little stuck in the moment.”
It’s a horrible pun. Absolutely awful. So awful Miguel braces his feet on the mattress and lifts his hips to meet in the middle. If he is to be subjected to Peter’s humour, he at least deserves an orgasm or two. And that he gets. Peter stops pushing for his vulnerability for the day, continuing to reassure him of course, yet allowing Miguel to deflect and even straight up ignore him.
As per usual, Peter takes a short nap while Miguel gets back to work until the former wakes back up and comes to annoy him once more before he leaves. Only this time, it is accompanied by the press of a last kiss on the corner of Miguel’s mouth and a whispered
“You’re beautiful.”