#wordsmithwrites

"Whyever are you looking at me like that?" Penelope laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners like the folds of the finest blankets she weaves. The greys in her hair sparkle like caught starlight, the faint brackets about her mouth deepening when she smiles over her shoulder at him. 

Odysseus cannot look away. He hasn’t been able to, not since he finally returned. 

He flexes his hands idly, letting them hang between his knees. The urge to grab Penelope and drag her back into the bed, with him, is nigh-on overwhelming. But he must let her out of his grip at some point—and she is weaving in front of the window, something he knows she loves. He couldn’t countenance taking her away from something she loves.

"Odysseus?" He blinks. Thoughts come and wash away like the gentle lapping of the tides on the shore for him. Now more than ever: the peace is making him into something soft. "Come here, strange man," Penelope beckons, turning sideways on her stool. “What are you thinking about so hard—?”

Penelope moves to get up, but he's too quick to settle on the floor at her feet, old bones creaking as he all but leaps off of the bed. She does little more than stand before he’s there, nuzzling his head into her thighs, coaxing with calloused hands on her hips for her to sit again. Penelope does, slowly, and then he sighs lowly in pure contentment. 

He places his head in her lap, leans against her shins with his torso. Penelope’s knees dig into the space just below his collarbones, his heartbeat thrumming against them like a plucked lyre-string. His fingers inch upwards, until he can clasp them around her waist, urging her further into his own body. Penelope giggles—and oh, what a wondrous sound! It makes his heart soar up on fluffed, downy wings. She parts her legs so he can be that much closer to her, her arms reaching out to cradle his shoulders, his head, against her belly and her bosom. He curls around her as she has curled around him and it is perfect. 

"Odysseus," she sighs, but under the exasperation is a fondness as deep and fathomless as the sea. "You lovely, wonderful, strange man."

"Dear woman," he murmurs into the plush of her breast, hands sliding down to her thighs, relishing in how they pudge out while she's sitting. He lets his palms be heavy and greedy on his way back up, grinning at the shiver he causes to creep up her spine. Odysseus can’t help but flex his fingers, testing her ribs, feeling as they move with every breath. "My dearest, my wife," he croons, looking up through his lashes.

She's blushing like a girl-child at him, and he knows from the heat in his own cheeks that he's not far off, himself. But that's alright. 

Let them be fools in love, now that they have the time. Penelope presses a palm to his face, thumb following the arc of upturned cheekbone. She bends downwards as he reaches up: mirrors of each other, always.

Forever. Never again shall they be parted. After all—he can’t countenance taking away something she loves, now can he?

Miguel gasped wetly, eyes blinking away tears, as he panted into the spit-dampened mattress. He mewled, inconsolable, a wounded little kitten where a tiger should be as his pussy was fucked open. He was jolted forward, again and again and again, little “uh, uh, uh,” noises forced out of his compressed lungs. His claws kneaded at the already torn bedding, the only weakened resistance he could put up. He felt suffocated in his suit. 

Long, lanky limbs wrapped around him, trapped him. He could feel the hot breaths, the looming threat of teeth at the nape of his neck as you pistoned your hips into his own, your knees bracketing his, one arm an immovable bar over the front of his pelvis, the bottom of his torn-open suit scrunched up. The other wrapped around his torso with its long-fingered hand cradling his Adam's apple in your palm. It would be so easy for you to simply squeeze. 

It was laughable, for you, to find him. To overpower him. So fuckin’ easy, baby, yeah? I’m faster than you. Stronger than you, you’d hissed as you’d cornered him, eyes glinting with the sheen of too-dark, too-predatory eyes. I let you play boss, honey, but that was too far. You don’t disrespect me in my own goddamn house. My territory. You were more spider than man, a product of your world just as much as Miguel was. You were the Huntsman, not Spiderman. Your dry sarcasm was easily earned and just as easily turned to threats.

Miguel shuddered as he felt your left hand leave his right hip to pet at where the two of you were joined, his lower lips plump with blood and clit engorged from cumming so many times. You made a vee with your fingers, pressing into his flesh, before jolting the both of you forward again. Miguel’s own slick and your sticky seed dripped from his tired, used hole with every thrust as it was scraped off of your shaft by his too-stretched rim. Where before there was resistance, there was tightness, all Miguel could do was whimper in quiet protest as you started up again, cock still hard despite everything. He was momentarily sure you were just going to keep going, like you had before—but you didn’t. He felt a tiny flicker of hope.

Instead, your tip came free with an obscene pop, and your fingers wasted no time in plunging into him, the two scissoring him open so your combined fluids spattered onto the already-ruined sheets. The little flame died. Miguel squirmed, but your fingers on his throat flexed, and he stilled. 

“Shh, little one,” you murmured in his ear, still playing with his soft, bruised insides, delving in with quiet squelching sounds as you pulled strings of slick from him, pinching his clit in slippery fingers. Your lips pressed into the vulnerable patch of skin just under his earlobe. Miguel wasn’t lulled by the softness of your wet lips, knowing just under them was shining white enamel. “Hush up now.” Your voice was a rasped, hissing croon, deceptively gentle. Your hand left his pussy. 

It came down with too much strength in a slap right over his entrance, catching Miguel’s clit with your palm. Miguel couldn’t find it in himself to do much more than let out a sob.

“You gonna be good f’me.” It was said like a fact, with the quiet confidence you were known for. Miguel shook his head as best as he could. “After you taunted a hunter, baby, what’d you expect?” You laughed, cruel, as you notched your cock and plunged in, in, in, Miguel’s walls spasming in protest as you went so deep so quick. Your dick stretched him so much that you pressed against all of his sensitive spots at once, rubbing his insides raw. Your inward thrust didn’t stop until your cockhead kissed against his cervix, notching there. You groaned, lifting up from where you’d been hunched over him like an animal, right hand moving so you instead held the back of his neck in a punishing grip. Miguel gasped as the threat of you choking him lessened, but his face was now shoved further into his own sheets as you leaned your weight forward. 

“One, more, baby, hm? One more,” you breathed, and Miguel was able to turn his head just enough to see the flash of your night-black eyes, your cruel smile, teeth too big and sharp in your mouth. Spit glistened on the strong tendons of your neck, your chin, in the neon lights of advertisements from the windows. Slavering hunger unsatiated. 

He’d been too cocky, too sure of his place in the multiverse, too assured that he knew best. This was one spider that Miguel was sure he’d never again tell you do what I say. I could beat you easily. “P’ease—por favor,” Miguel whimpered, “Merced!”

Mercy.

“So easy, such a good lil’ whore, Miguel.” There was no mercy to be found as you loomed over him in the near-dark, cock withdrawing only to plunge in again. Miguel felt his knees ache, thighs trembling as he was rutted into the mattress. He let his head fall back down, a whine caught in his throat. Your harsh breaths and the sickening, harsh slap of your balls against him was all he could focus on. 

“There, there—” you gasped, hold tightening until, despite Miguel’s enhanced healing, purpled handprints marred his skin. “I gotcha, yeah?” He felt an icy chill crawl up his bowed spine. 

“Mmh, I do, don’t I? All that runnin’ and ya came back here f’me to find,” you huffed mockingly, your sweat trickling from the tip of your nose and plinking onto Miguel’s back. Both Miguel’s and your hair was plastered to your skulls, and you panted, tired from the chase, the hunt, but unable to stop. Madness gripped you, the pillowy glide of the treasure between Miguel’s legs too good to ignore. Words spilled from your lips, more talking than you’ve ever done on any mission. 

“Been watchin’ ya—never thought you’d challenge me, you’d give me a chance.” Your arms flexed, in an effort to pull Miguel back and get deeper. A harsh slap resounded in the otherwise empty room, and you huffed, nostrils flaring as you took in your combined sex scents. The tang of Miguel’s slick in the air only made you snarl, “Now lookie here, you’re stuffed full a’me. Maybe I should keep you like this.”

You couldn’t take being so far away from Miguel, so you leant back over him, draping your longer torso across his broad back. The bloodied slashes in the front of your suit stung as you became practically glued together. Both your fists came up, leaning on your forearms, and you quickened your pace. Every time you plunged in, spread him open again, you felt his internal muscles flutter, a tiny little grunt leaving Miguel’s mouth. It was intoxicating, and you were quick becoming addicted. You hung your head and inhaled against Miguel’s hair, nuzzling just behind his ear. 

“Pretty, pretty lil thing,” you babbled, “So goddamn pretty in your reds and blues, ass like a peach, teasin’ every man with them tits.” Miguel whined, and you bit his ear as a flush spread to the tip near your teeth.

“Couldn’t resist,” and that wasn’t supposed to come out, but, “didn’t expect you to have this pretty pussy f’me,” you confessed. “Prettiest goddamn man I ever seen, and then you have this paradise ‘tween them thighs—fu-u-uck.”

You grunted as you felt his cunt clench up around you, rippling in the familiar sensation of Miguel’s orgasm. You let yourself jackrabbit into him, grinding close, baring down on him with all your weight. You shuddered and came, filling him up, unable to hold back anything, “Never gonna let you go, baby.” You thrust one more time, cock throbbing. Finally softening, but wanting to hear the filthy squelch. You felt yourself twitch just as Miguel slumped down, legs finally giving out.

Miguel was goddamn taunting you. Your anger flared, hot and heavy in your chest, acidically metallic on your tongue. The low lights of his office started irritating your eyes—too red, too bright. The neon of his screens burned your retinas. You could feel your teeth crowding your mouth, threatening to cut your lips up into shreds. You slammed your fist into your watch, knowing that your anger was dangerous. You’d do something that either one of you might regret if you let yourself stay here. If you gave into the slavering beast in you, that dark voice in your head demanding you put Miguel in his place. “I’m leaving,” you slurred around your mouthful of razor blades. 

“—Hey! Te crees muy muy, eh?” Miguel shouted, turning around after hearing the sickening sound of reality being torn apart. In that moment you could see every ring of his scarlet irises, each individual eyelash framing his eyes. The stubble beginning to grow on his cheeks. A smattering of freckles over his nose. The fine lines of his crow’s feet when he bared his teeth at you. Every time you thought you could look away, a new detail would appear. It was all too much.

Your breathing came deep and fast, barely thinking straight enough to turn away from his clenched, chiseled jawline to rip off your watch. It made you immediately glitch, your atoms screaming apart and snapping back together, too many eyes in strings of sticky darkness betraying your inhumanity. A horrorscape of crawling, chitinous limbs that were sucked back into you, so small on your hands and knees. The filtered, cold air of Miguel’s lair scraped your lungs. A shudder ran through you as your throat clicked when you swallowed. 

You forced yourself up, clutching at your chest as if to remind you that you were whole. Your hands fell back down, your breathing steadying. The watch thunked onto the ground.

You stepped into the portal. 

It was always the same sensation, of falling, of being squished and kneaded like dough before you were spit out at the other end, no worse for wear—your dimension still felt like home more than anywhere else. The darkened streets, the puddles so deep you were hardly the same person when you stepped back out of them. This was your city, your dimension, your hunting ground. The people here saw you and cheered for the vigilante that would choke out corrupt cops and kingpins alike. Here you weren’t another spider-person, you were the Huntsman. Here, you just were.

Your landing spot was the damp, trash-infested rooftop you’d know like the back of your hand. It was the place you always came back to, because it was high up enough and in a central location—the middle of your patrolling area. The middle of M1, which was the central district of the wider, crumbling megacity of Old York. Your feet impacted the rubbery shingles with a whumph and that was it. Your harsh breathing was louder than your footsteps as you paced and paced, trying to get Miguel’s pretty, pretentious face out of your head. It was like the man haunted you, constantly using that perfect cupid’s bow to get under your skin. He was so handsome that it hurt you, dug under your skin like his claws might. 

Sunlight orange, too bright for your dimension, washed over you, temporarily blinding. That ominous smell of ozone reached you before it winked out of existence, and you whipped around, tearing off your mask, letting the fabric fold into a cowl around your neck. 

Miguel.

There the menace to your psyche stood, easy as can be, hip cocked. Goddamn you wanted to put him on his plush fuckin’ ass. Another, pitch-steeped urge beckoned you to do so much worse. 

“And where do you think you’re going?” He huffed, crossing his arms. You steadfastly ignored the way you admired the curve of his biceps, the flex of his strong hands. 

Instead, you turned back around, groaning. So much for getting away—you could feel the barely-waning anger roar back ever stronger, pounding at your skull. You wanted to shove him to the ground, maybe suck his cock until he cried for you to stop—and then keep going. Your fingers came up and dug into your skull as if to pull the traitorous thought out. Goddammit. Fuck. 

“Huntsman! I am talking to you! Mierda!” His hand was on your shoulder. His hand was your fucking shoulder. Every muscle in you tensed up. This bratty goddamn bitch. “You don’t get to run away. You do what I say. I am the leader of Spider Society. Besides…” 

“Besides what?” You snarled, turning around slowly, eyes wide in the scant moonlight of your dimension’s nighttime. You stood up to your full height, towering over Miguel. Your slim form slashed a dark shadow, throwing Miguel’s face into blackness. His crimson eyes flared wide, as did his nostrils. 

Miguel had the audacity to look up at you and smirk, a vicious expression that showed off his little fangs. “Besides, I could beat you easily.”

That did it. Your mouth opens wide, and you let loose an unholy noise—double-toned, coming up from your chest in a thunderous rumble and whistling through the menacing, bone white forest between your lips. Miguel took one step back, eyes rounding. You could scent his burgeoning fear in the air, the nervous warmth of him licking at your body. 

You’d been so careful, keeping yourself under wraps. Keeping yourself kosher for all of these soft, squishy little spiderlings within the Society. But Miguel’d taken it too far, come here, to your territory, only to mock you. Well, the mockingjay only sings as long as the barn cat can’t catch him. 

And this barn cat was hungry.

You lunged, grabbing at Miguel’s shoulders, nearly taking him to the ground—except your prey threw out a web frantically, yanking himself out of your grip, your palms slipping through his suit as it partially disintegrated in order to avoid your sticky fingers. You sprinted after him, the shingles under your feet ripping free of their nails in your wake. 

Miguel’s eyes shone in panic, darting about as you both scrambled over rooftops. You were faster on foot, but he had more webs at his disposal, using their neon brightness to blind you occasionally. You easily kept track, Miguel’s footsteps too heavy, not used to regulating his noises. He panted hotly over his plush lips and you swear you could smell the sweetness of his breath. The flex of his strong muscles made something in you purr in delight, that satisfaction only growing the longer the chase went on. Miguel didn’t know where he was going, instinct only driving him away. Away from you. 

Again and again, you almost caught him. Your fingers scraped through the lower back of his suit, gash opening up to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of bronzed skin and dimpled spine. You nearly ended the chase before it was really through, just from that. Your cock throbbed in your cup, thick between your thighs. You could feel your zipper even through the padding. Your legs flexed, anticipatory. Everything in you was a live-wire. The wind on your face, the bounding strides Miguel made—it was all perfect. He was perfect.

Besides, what Miguel didn’t know was that you were constantly aware of each of your positions—you were herding him right where you wanted him. A narrow, dead-end alley between two very tall buildings, where some balconies overlapped too much to easily be able to swing upwards. He wouldn’t go down without a fight—in spars the two of you tended to be pretty evenly matched. Miguel fought dirty. So you needed to trap your prey and corner him somewhere you could… enjoy your meal. Your heart rate picked up the pace even more, and you licked the corner of your mouth before drool could drip down your chin. 

You put on a burst of speed, swinging to just above Miguel on the opposite highrise, the street a deep, dark uncertainty miles below the both of you. You made to pounce, jerking forward as if to jump to the building he was plastered against, air wheezing in his lungs like music in your ears. It scared him into letting his grip loosen, the winds tearing him from the concrete at the barest glimpse of weakness. Miguel’s claws scored along the sheer face as he scrambled, finally letting go when he reached the edge. You jumped to the other building, tracing the deep scratches adoringly as your eyes followed his figure plummeting to the ground, neon webbing arresting his fall. You grinned, a slash of white in the dark. Now, he was on the streets. 

Your streets. 

You let him run for a few blocks, chuckling at how he occasionally stumbled over the wreckage that littered the cracked asphalt, legs no doubt growing numb. His hair, plastered to his forehead with sweat, curled at his nape. A flush sat high on his cheeks. His ass flexed with every long stride. You couldn’t see his bulge from here, which was a shame. 

This whole chase was about endurance, though, and Miguel wasn’t built for endurance. Miguel was built for strength—explosive strength. He tripped, falling to his knees next to a burning shell of a car. The flames danced over his broad, heaving shoulders. 

The pit in your stomach yawned wider as you crawled downwards—only a hundred meters above Miguel, now. You didn’t let him rest for long—oh no. No, not after he’d taunted you. Not after making you look at his fucking smug little grin for hours as he berated you for doing your damn job. Your patience was worn thin. Besides, he was in the exact position you wanted him in.

You leapt out from under a balcony’s shadow to just in front Miguel, and he barely registered the long line of your shadow before he was bolting down a side road. Jumpy.

By the time Miguel, worn down from hours of avoiding your reaching hands, skidded to a halt on worn, wet concrete of the alley, eyes wide as he took in the dead end he was in—you’d nearly leaked through your suit. “Come out, come out, wher-e-ver you are…” you crooned mockingly. 

You could feel a new drop of precum slide down your cramped shaft as Miguel whipped around at the sound of your voice. You finally got close enough, in a boxed in enough space, to inhale deeply. The faint tang of iron and sweat, both exertion and terror. He smelled so sweet. Like salted fuckin’ caramel, melting on your tongue. 

“You stop right there,” Miguel warned you, but he was shuffling backwards. You just knew that the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end. 

“So fuckin’ easy, baby, yeah? I’m faster than you. Stronger than you,” you hiss as you continue to corner him, eyes glinting with the sheen of too-dark, too-predatory eyes. “I let you play boss, honey, but that was too far. You don’t disrespect me in my own goddamn house. My territory.”

Miguel bared his tiny little teeth at you. It was adorable. You loved the way his glass-shard sharp jaw flexed when he did. “That supposed to make me back off, honey?” You grinned, and he shuddered at the brutal display, mouth snapping shut. You wanted to pry it back open, let your fingers play with that pink tongue you just barely caught a glimpse of. 

“Nah, I thought so,” you hummed, stepping closer and closer, heel to toe, heel to toe. It wasn’t long until his back met with cool brick. A shiver ran up his spine that you tracked with a lick of your lips. You wanted him to lick into your mouth, cut himself on your teeth, so you both tasted blood. Miguel's eyes darted across the wall he was pinned to, but there was no escape. He quickly went back to watching you, too tense to keep his eyes off the threat for long. Smart. Goddamn, but the man was the whole package. 

You palmed your cock through the padding of your cup, unable to resist now you had Miguel right where you wanted him. You deserved it, chasing him halfway across the M1 cityscape after you’d helped secure an anomaly. You could feel the grit of dust and pollution clinging to you, even now. 

“Fu-u-uck,” you groaned, tilting your head back but keeping him within your sights, lidded gaze locked. You noticed how his eyes caught on the bob of your throat with a simmering smugness that lingered in the quirk of your mouth. “You have no idea how long I’ve been watchin’ that pretty ass bounce ‘round on that platform from below. No idea how much I’ve wanted to see if I could replace th’ stick up it wit’ my cock.” 

“What—? You’re sick,” Miguel snapped, turning his head away, cheeks burning. That was a mistake, because it gave you the ability to pin his face to the side, arm moving like a whip-crack through the air to shove him into the rough wall. “Wh—What the shocking hell! Huntsman!” It came out muffled, Miguel’s mouth squished as it was. 

He tried to shove you off, but your other hand gripped his hip and slammed it back. His claws pricked your skin. “I told you, you lil’ bitch,” you hissed, eyebrows raising as he tried and failed to budge your shoulders. Normally he could at least give you a shove, but maybe Miguel was more worn out than you thought. “I’m stronger than you.” You said it to taunt, to see if he would protest, give some sort of bigger resistance. Nothing. Your smirk widened. Miguel wanted this. 

You were so close you could catalogue the exact of shade red ringing his pupil, even as they dilated. Miguel might not be hard just yet—you ground your knee into his crotch—but it was only a matter of time. 

“Get away from me! Ay dios—!” he mewled as you shoved your thigh up between his own until he was fully straddling it. His back bowed, and he squirmed up onto his tip toes. His claws dug into your forearms. “Fine—ugh—!” Your eyes widened as his hands, free as they were, slammed onto his own dimensional watch. You were both surrounded by yellow-gold-red slashes, the veil between universes tearing apart as your bodies, still intertwined, tumbled through. 

—

Miguel jolts awake, looking around wildly to see if anyone noticed his lapse. The small room is quiet aside from the sounds of machinery, the steady beep of monitors. The wisps of his dream fade quickly as his tired eyes try and blink open, lashes tangled and lids practically glued shut. 

Miguel sits up fully, feeling a terrible crack of loneliness etch itself into his heart, lingering in the spaces between vertebrae. It’s different, seeing you pale and wan in sterile white hospital sheets instead of running and lunging and terrifying the newer Spiders. It’s different, being able to watch you go about your day on his monitors, seeing but not touching. Now he is touching you, but you still aren’t with him. He dips a rag into the cup of water at your bedside and dabs at your dry lips carefully. He then fiddles with it, wringing it in his hands accidentally, blinking rapidly. The cool water that’s dripping onto his sweatpants hardly registers. 

Miguel drops the cloth on the faded, plastic-y nightstand, thrusting his palms along his thighs. He inhales, letting it shakily free. Everything seems dreamlike, still, in this closed off space that’s so sterile and white. He looks at you, like he’s done for the past hours. Hesitant. Adoring, even if he’d never in all the arachno-humanoid poly-multiverse tell anybody else, even you, how he feels. But you’re handsome. Beautiful, even.

For most people it’s rare to see your face. You are one of the few Spiders who don’t take your mask off, even around headquarters—or so LYLA says. He knows, now, that he’s the exception. Jess had come by, once. You’d been there in his office, and she’d spent half the report looking at your unmasked face in surprise. He’d asked the AI about it after Jess’d left. LYLA’s eye roll had driven the shocking point home after he’d reviewed the compilation of security footage she’d thrust in his face. 

He’s… seen you without your mask a lot. First from after-mission reports, then in one-on-one meetings as you worked your way up to his left hand Spider. Miguel can trace every one of your features in his mind’s eye: the angle of your nose, the slash of your brows. Feel the phantom sensation of your too-smooth skin, like moulded clay under his fingertips. Hear the slow cadence of your breathing. 

It makes Miguel think, sitting there, knowing that tempo was off, too shallow. You always fill all of your lungs—as if you’re constantly ready to sprint. He doesn’t have to remember your features when you lay just in front of him, corpselike. The steady beep beep, beep beep of the heart monitor is the only thing that comforts him right now. He needs to know, needs it—Miguel’s hand spans your face, thumb carefully tracing along the crest of your cheekbone. Your breath brushes, featherlike, against the heel of his palm. 

Blood spots the antibacterial mesh over your sutured shoulder, spreading like spilt ink. 

You haunt Miguel. The way your nostrils flare when you’re angry, the sharpness of your grin. He missed the way a pit of heat bubbles in his stomach when your eyes are on him and him alone. The feel of your cock splitting him open. Mierda. Even now, you leak out of his throbbing cunt. You’d hurt him good. Miguel hates himself for liking it. For not being able to say no. He licks his lips.

…Maybe there’s one other thing that can comfort him. He shifts in his seat, and presses his free hand to his hip, feeling the bruises there throb. You’re one of the few Spiders who can surpass him in strength, given you’re angry enough. One of a handful that can bruise him, that can hold him down with certainty. The only one who can look him in the eye and laugh in his face. That treats him like a man.

And here you are. Too still, no smirk or biting comment or anything spilling from your own mouth. He wants you to see him, sitting here, craving your touch. It’s wrong. Everything about the two of you, your relationship—if he can even call it that—is wrong. He wishes you’d wake up, that you’d taunt him, you’d do something, anything…

“You… you’re not funny,” Miguel mutters, as if that would wake you up. Entice you into opening your eyes and arguing with him. Distract him from his circling thoughts of canon. Of loss. “Wake up. Ahorita.”

You remain unconscious. 

Miguel’s own eyes grow tired again, and so he rests his head next to your limp hand, his own sliding from your face. He uses both arms to pillow himself, intertwining his fingers with yours, careful of the IV. He’s staring at the slow rise and fall of your chest, but he can’t help it. Miguel slips into a fitful sleep to the beep beep beep of the monitors. 

—

Just as your atoms screamed into place, you felt Miguel’s claws dig into your chest and gouge out their pound of flesh. You screamed, the both of you tumbling through the air, separating when your grip on him spasmed loose from the sudden pain. 

You could feel how your whole body clenched up and rejected the air around you, too loud and bright and painful. You could barely open your unshielded eyes, and you fumbled at your wrist—but no. You didn’t have your watch. You’d taken it off. Fuck. Your atoms tore apart again, all black tar and oozing agony. You’d barely managed to force yourself to throw out a web, slamming against the side of one of Earth-2099’s sleek buildings. The metal and glass crunched, a crater booming into existence around your shoulderblades. 

You stuck to the side of it for long minutes, uncaring of where Miguel had sauntered off to. Your chest stung, and hesitant fingers probing it revealed it was a wide wound, but not deep. Already your healing was taking care of it. You grunted in frustration, knowing you’d have to make your way back to Headquarters—retrieve your goddamn fucking watch. 

Fuck Miguel. Fuck whatever you saw in shining ruby eyes and scented in the damp air of one of many of your dimension’s back alleys. You were done. Done with the way you mooned over some sunnovabitch that chewed you up and spit you out. You had enough of that back in your own damn dimension. You’d just have to find a way to scrub out of your fool fuckin’ head the feel of him slumping into your thigh, the press of his warm body against yours. 

You huffed out a steadying breath, and pulled your mask on. 

The swing and crawl back to Headquarters was agony. The cuts stung with every brush of sharp wind, the neons that slashed through the night in this dimension torture to your sensitive sight. Even your prodigious stamina was waning. By the time you slammed your hand on the doorframe of Miguel’s little office, all enjoyment had drained from you in sticky sweat that whipped off your hair in a mist when you ripped up your mask in one violent tug. You slumped further down against the frame, leaning your hot forehead against the cool metal. 

There your watch was, sitting innocently in the moody red lighting of the command zone that Miguel normally haunted. You shuffled over, grunting as you bent down and snatched it up. It was with little thought that you decided to use the rooms you had in Headquarters rather than going home. You’d been lucky to only glitch once more on the way here, and now that your watch was sitting heavy on your wrist, you didn’t feel like having yourself ripped to shreds again any time soon. Not even to go home, such as your dingy little flat was. Not before sleeping. Four times on that ride was a-fuckin’-nough, thank you kindly. 

So you navigated the warren of rooms and hallways with lead-lined feet, the place practically deserted at this time of night. Most went home, sleeping in their own beds. Your nerves were still jangling, every slight sound making you tense. Your adrenaline would spike, and goddamn you just knew you wouldn’t be able to actually get some shut eye. A subtle light from a cracked door caught your attention easily within the otherwise monotonous walk. You blinked, and your feet took you closer. 

Well I’ll be. You could see Miguel through the slit, could hear him pant into the sheets—he was trying to muffle himself, the tart, but you watched greedily as he played with his… fuck. Fuck.

As he played with his clit. 

It didn’t really register to you, the way metal bent under your grip as you forced the door open further. You kicked the tiny screw that had made it malfunction and remain that little bit open into the apartment, a sinister, sick satisfaction coiling in your belly as it hissed shut behind you. Miguel was too deep in his fantasies to hear the subtle creaking, the sounds that would clue him in to danger. He still wore his suit, torn up from your chase. The chase that Miguel himself had ended, inviting the big bad into his bed. 

Your cock chubbed up again, thickening, the wet confines of your cup suddenly even worse now that it was cold from your swing through Neuva York. You unzipped your own suit, sighing at the release of pressure, the material sticking to your chest because of dried and congealed blood. That was fine, though: your cock was free for you to stroke as you stalked closer to Miguel, where he whined and writhed in his sheets. You squeezed the base before releasing, hands reaching out and gripping a tiny waist. 

Miguel yelped, immediately taking his fingers away from his cunt—and wasn’t that sweet. “Thanks f’makin’ room, darlin’,” you moaned, thrusting forward and splitting those pretty pink petals with the head of your dick. You notched at Miguel’s opening easily, despite the way he was kicking, trying to sit up—you merely yanked him closer to the edge of the bed, his legs falling off and making him wheeze as his full weight thumped chest-first onto the mattress. Migs was cute, all breathless and red-faced. He couldn’t do anything as you leaned forward and pulled him back, his hole spasming like a greedy lil’ mouth, giving a kiss to your cockhead, the mushroom tip messy from precum and cunt alike. 

“There we are—there, th-there, fuck, yeah, baby,” you groaned, letting your length slide through slippery folds, slicking you up nice and good. And then you let one hip go to grip a handful of perfect, peachy asscheek, spreading Miguel wide open. When you notched your cock at his opening again, he started to feebly protest—

“No, n-no, we c-can’t, ah!” and it was barely half an inch that was in his greedy cunt, his rim not even over the flare of your head, “It’s—not right, ah, nn–nnn!”

You moaned, long and low as tight fuckin’ walls enveloped just the tip of your dick. He was squeezing you, tight as a vice. “Fuck, baby,” you breathed out, “you’re gonna be the death a’me.”

“Please—lo siento, lo siento—p-por fa-vor!” But Miguel was thrusting himself back onto your length, pleading pitching up into a whine as a few more inches slid in with an obscene sucking sound. He stretched his pussy out on your cock without your help. You simply watched in awe, because it was like a magic trick: where did the dick go? Surely not into that tiny lil’ hole. 

You weren’t just going to watch, though. You decided to put him out of his misery, and thrust all the way in in in, salivating as your balls slapped against his clit, making Miguel shout and start to squirm anew. That was fine, though. You’d just have to fuck the attitude outta him. 

—

The next time Miguel jolted awake, you were grunting in your sleep. He watched in horror as your back arched—a deep fissure marring your skin as it fault-lined down the middle of your sternum, cracking out to your limbs, up your neck. It was sick, your skin flaking off as you squirmed. 

And then it hit Miguel: spiders shed.

You jerked, all gangly, too-mobile limbs, terrifying wailing sounds coming from your throat, like a chorus of nails on a chalkboard. You weren’t awake, eyes still closed in a facsimile of slumber, but your mouth opened too-wide. The slick sounds of your new skin sliding out of the old, and then your eyes snapped open, deep pools of jett-black—only for three more tiny sets of eyes, under your original pair—to also blink. Massive teeth shone in the harsh medical lighting as you tore at the loose skin of your face and ate it. 

Miguel’s chair screeched as he forced it back, and you hissed at him, sliding to the floor on too-fragile limbs, folding like a handful of cooked spaghetti. You were bigger, Miguel realised, and your stomach rumbled loud enough even he could hear it from the other side of the room. You continued to rip chunks of your old flesh off of your shoulders, shoving it into your mouth with spindly fingers and crunching. You didn't stop squirming and clawing at your medical gown until it was in tatters around you.

“LYLA, bring us the biggest steak dinner you can,” Miguel murmured into the air, a twinkle of yellow in the corner of his eye and reflected in the abyssal blackness of your own the only acknowledgement he received. Miguel carefully sat down on the floor, watching as you groaned, more a two-toned hum than anything truly human. “And set the lights to twenty, no—fifteen percent.”

The wound on your shoulder was nowhere to be found. Miguel breathed a sigh of relief and smiled at the—no.