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draculasfavoritewife · 3 months

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El Hambre (Hunger)

Summary: Getting Miguel to take a break is a full-time job unto itself, and requires a little extra incentive.

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x fem!Spider!Reader

Warnings: Lots of suggestive talk. Miguel being an ass hehe. A risky make-out in a public space, idiots in love CANNOT keep their hands to themselves. I put far too much of my descriptive powers into talking about how devastatingly sexy Miguel is. Also for my intents and purposes, Reader understands and speaks Spanish.

Note: I use the shortened version of his name "Mique" in my own writing just because I personally prefer it. Swap it with whatever nickname you prefer in your head :)

This is one of my personal favorite pieces I've written, and still makes me giggle like an evil maniac whenever I return to reread/edit it. I have shamelessly watched every Miguel scene in ATSV far too many times and will continue to do so; his image is already tattooed on the backs of my eyelids. As mentioned in my HCs, reader is a spider-hero, but I left her pretty vague on purpose -- feel free to fill in her costume/powers/skill set with your own spidersona!

*Spanish translations at the end! (I am fairly bilingual, but if I made a lil mistake here or there do forgive me)

He hasn’t turned away from his myriad glowing monitor screens in nearly ten minutes, standing like a damn statue with his feet wide apart and hands braced on his trim hips, only lifting to sharply swipe through any screens that serve him no purpose. Each tiny shift of weight, the rise and fall of his ribcage as he breathes, all the little things that prove he is still, in fact, alive, cast soft highlights over the swell and dip of taut muscle, every part of him coiled and ready to explode into action like the perfect hunting machine he is.

Right now, though, his eyes are burning from overexposure to even the dim interior of his watch station, and with an annoyed sigh he turns his face to the side, long fingers rubbing furiously at where the bridge of his nose meets his brow in the hope of chasing away the dull ache gnawing there.

“You do know that even though I don’t have spider-sense I can still hear you, right?”

You let go of your strand of web and drop lightly to the platform behind him, pulling off your mask and tucking it away. “What gave me away, the sound of me drooling as I stared too long?”

Shocking hell.

You’re in one of those moods.

Miguel can’t quite decide if he’s too tired for this right now or if he’s curious how far you’ll try and push him on his home turf. And it’s that indecision that starts him digging his own grave.

“I was going to say the way your heartbeat spikes every time you set foot in this room.” His voice comes out sweet and thick as honey, because he knows exactly what that tone does to you when he uses it.

“...And I can still smell my clothes on you. Did you sleep in my shirt again?”

“Maybe.”

Actually, you’d fallen asleep in a veritable pile of his clothes — it had been a bit since he’d had a free night, okay, and you weren’t desperate you just missed him.

That makes him chuckle. He can probably tell you’re omitting the whole truth.

Miguel finally turns to fully face you, and you inhale quickly as always, at the way he towers so far above your head, how his wide shoulders block out the light from his screens so his silhouette swallows you in darkness. His hair is messy, and there are deep shadows under his eyes, but his pretty mouth is slanted in a wry grin and the set of his thick eyebrows hints at underlying amusement.

“Cute,” is what he remarks at your wide blinking eyes and rapidly heating skin, and it makes him smirk wickedly, to see how that one word flusters you for the barest of seconds. You’ve told him multiple times that you hate being called “cute” by anybody else, but ever since the first time the word slipped past his lips when he really realized just how much smaller you were underneath his body….

Well, he knows the effect it can have.

You scowl and regain your composure. “Don’t call me that.”

Miguel’s only response is an easy shrug, a lift of one shoulder. “What’d you bring me?” He nods at the containers in your hands.

“Entitled prick.” With a dramatic flourish, you whip them away from his claw-tipped fingers. “What makes you think these are for you?” The exchange is back in your court with his query, and you intend to keep it there.

“Aren’t they always?” Dark eyes zero in on yours, their softness in the gloom betraying what the gesture means to him even if he won’t say it.

With a huff, you thrust the thermos and small box into his chest, pretending you don’t keenly notice the way the impact sends a ripple through his impressive pectorals. “Coffee. And those stupid little empanadas you love so much.”

“Not stupid.” He takes them from your grasp much more delicately than someone with hands so large should be able to. “Don’t tell me you’ve never had a single craving for subpar food? Keeps me human.”

He’s baiting you, knows that the words “not since I tasted you” are on the very tip of your tongue, because that’s just how your dirty mind works and he loves it. Can see the struggle on your face as you resolve not to say them aloud, and that almost goads him on more, to know you’re thinking it and just barely holding out so he doesn’t get the upper hand again quite yet.

You settle yourself on a nearby console and gaze expectantly at him, swinging your legs.

He gives you the side-eye as he sets your offerings down next to his work station.

“What.”

“I’m not going anywhere until I see you eat something,” you inform him sweetly.

Miguel groans. “Ay, loca, no eres mi madre. I’ll eat when I’m done running these last projections, okay?”

You obstinately sit cross-legged on the console and make a show of getting comfortable for the long haul. “Then I guess you’re stuck with me, Handsome. I meant what I said.”

He glares.

You glare back.

Finally he opens the box with painstaking slowness — you see the way his nostrils flare at the scent of hot food, though you know he’d deny it — and he takes a large bite, maintaining eye contact the entire time he chews and swallows, each motion dripping with mockery. His tongue runs across the length of his upper lip far too sensually to be accidental, and you just catch the points of his fangs glinting in the partial darkness.

“Better?” he drawls, dropping the empanada back in its container and leaning towards you.

“That was one miserable bite! Doesn’t count.”

His lip curls in a taunting sneer, and before you know what’s happening one of his powerful arms is on either side of you, his head cocked to one side as he studies you through half-lidded eyes. “Maybe your ears don’t work, Sweetheart. Tú no eres mi madre. ¿Comprendes?”

You decide to change tactics. “Fine, fine. I’ll let it go. But —“ you gently push a few stray strands of hair away from his forehead, pausing to kiss the stress lines between his eyebrows. “— when was the last time you slept, Mique?”

He rolls his eyes. “This morning —“

“For more than twenty minutes.”

That makes him think. And by the way his gaze guiltily slides away from yours, he knows you won’t like the answer. “…When was the last time I stayed with you?”

You sigh and cradle his strong jaw in your hands, thumbs massaging soft circles into his skin to get him to unclench his teeth. “That was four nights ago, Mique.”

A long exhale escapes him, and he rests his head against your chest. It warms you, that he feels safe enough in the moment to let down his guard and actually show such intimate affection in his workspace.

Or maybe he’s just that tired.

Either way, you’ll take it.

You start working his back and shoulder muscles, kneading deeply into the firm knots where you know he holds onto everything — anger, grief, guilt, worry — Miguel does not talk through the mess in his head, preferring instead to let it fuel his savage strength. But when the adrenaline at last wears off, you know the toll it can take on his body.

A sound halfway between a groan and a growl, and altogether far too suggestive for the time and place, rolls from deep in his chest and his hands tighten on the edge of the console, metal protesting as his talons curl into the hard surface. “Mierda. That’s tight.”

“Should I stop?” You can’t quite tell if his reactions are spurred more by pain or pleasure.

With Miguel, the two often travel hand-in hand, anyway.

“No.” To your disbelief, his hands uncurl from where they’re sunk into the console and travel to find your legs, teasing them apart so he can shove himself even closer and you have nowhere else to put them than around his waist, your heels resting just above his ass. “Keep going. Feels good.”

“Someone’s touchy today, huh? And not in the usual way,” you tease, and then suddenly yelp as his hot, searching mouth lands right in the center of your chest, very noticeable through the thin material of your suit. One of his hands immediately clamps over your mouth to stifle any further sounds.

“Cállate, Chula,” he warns, finally raising his eyes to yours again. You can see the crimson starting to smolder through in his irises, a sure sign that he’s giving in to having you right here in front of him, that you just might be a better use of his time than his projected calculations of multiverse-wide collapse.

He could use a break.

“You know people can hear you.”

You push his hand aside. “Right, and that was totally way more audible than whatever sound you just made a minute ago.”

“You know how I feel about it when you’re a brat to me,” he growls, snagging your lower lip with his thumb.

“I think you love it,” you whisper, one of your own hands sliding up the back of his head, tangling your fingers in his dark hair.

“I think that disrespectful mouth needs to be put to better use.”

He hasn’t ever kissed you in his workspace before, and the forbidden feeling of it as he pushes you down on your back, pinning you to the console and stopping your mouth with his own sends a jolt down the entire length of your spine. Miguel has always been a wild kisser when he’s properly worked up, and you gasp out loud as his sharp teeth nip your lip, immediately followed by his tongue soothing the momentary sting.

“I told you to be quiet,” he hums as he at last lets your mouths break apart.

“You didn’t say you were gonna bite me, Cariño!”

His answering smile is a wider one than you’ve seen in days. “Why would you ever assume no biting with me, Baby?”

“…Fair point.”

It takes you a minute to realize his fingertips are teasing the neck of your suit down bit by bit, leaving more and more of your throat exposed. “¿Qué haces, Mique?”

He shushes you, this kiss a little more romantic and drawn out than the last. “You said you’d sit here ’til I ate something, hmm?”

“Y-yes….”

His gaze burns dark red and you suddenly feel the entire weight of him trapping you in place.

“Well lucky you, pretty girl — you look a lot tastier than a cafeteria empanada right now.”

He keeps one hand over your mouth as he attacks your neck, your shoulders, your wrists, anywhere that he knows gets a shiver out of you and that you’ve told him he can leave a mark. You try to keep still, you really do, but it's almost impossible with the Spanish endearments he mutters in your ears and the way his lips, teeth, and tongue take you on a seemingly endless rollercoaster of sensation. You hear him hiss once or twice when his onslaught makes your thighs tighten around his hips, but you can’t help it, can’t help trying to pull his body even closer, even though his heartbeat is already thundering against yours and your desperate breaths are rocking his lungs.

When he finally uncovers your mouth again to let you take in more air, you splay your hands across his wide chest, prodding at the nearly-nonexistent layer of his digital suit. “Off.”

“Mmm, I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” he murmurs regretfully, and to your dismay, he suddenly releases you, picking up the coffee you brought him and swearing briefly in Spanish when he realizes it’s not as hot as he wanted anymore. “They’re looking for you.”

You sit up quickly at the sound of youthful voices echoing faintly in the corridors but getting closer — your spiderlings, no doubt, wondering what on earth took you so long bringing O’Hara his dinner. You’re a mess, you realize, hair disheveled and suit boasting several tears in unfortunate areas where his claws caught, the skin beneath already bruising wherever his mouth was.

“Catch your breath,” he advises around another bite of empanada, with all the smug tone of a life coach having just witnessed a breakdown (as if he wasn’t the sole cause of that breakdown). “You’ll need it, to explain away all of that.”

“I hate you, Miguel O’Hara.” You grit your teeth and slide off of his equipment, halfheartedly readjusting yourself and tamping down the rising tide of desire he had the audacity to start. “You and that fancy body glove of yours.”

“Just because no one can see what your nails have done to my back doesn’t mean it isn’t there,” he offers flippantly, as if that will do anything to fix your current state. “And I know by ‘hate’ you really mean ‘violently need me to make up for stopping short’. I have to come by for some of my missing clothes later anyway.”

Hope blossoms in your chest. “You’re coming over tonight?”

A thoughtful sip of coffee. “Unless LYLA kills me first for making her watch us go at it. I’ll pick something up for dinner, too. And who knows….” He steps closer, his free hand wandering from your back all the way down to your thigh and up again. “Maybe, if you tire me out real good, I’ll even get some sleep like you want?”

Anticipation bubbles through your veins at the thought.

“Yeah. I’ll be waiting.”

He gives your hip a sharp squeeze. “Atta girl.”

A burst of chatter below heralds the arrival of your little clan of doting spider-kids, so you gather your wits and swing down to meet them, praying none of them put two and two together and actually get four.

Miguel glances over the edge of the platform, and barely hides his satisfaction and amusement at the immediate flood of concern and questions that greets you: “What did this to you?! Are you okay?!”.

He almost considers coming down there and setting the record straight when he hears you say, “It’s okay, Kids, really, don’t worry about it. Just got chomped a few times by a giant angry spider while I was on a mission. But he’s gonna pay for it next time, I swear.”

No eres mi madre = You're not my mother

¿Comprendes? = Understand?

Mierda = (Expletive)

Cállate, Chula = Be quiet, Cutie

Cariño = Honey, Sweetheart

¿Qué haces? = What are you doing?