It’s been a few weeks since you were first abducted. You haven’t fallen into complacency, no—there’s just never been a good chance to make a move and you’ve found it’s true that your good behavior encourages Miguel to treat you well… to a degree… and you don’t want to lose it until you have a surefire way to be free. Supporting your decision to play nice is that he still hasn’t touched you even though you share his bed every night. You check your body whenever you get a chance, watching for blooming bruises or unaccounted-for wetness or the like. So far, there hasn’t been anything noteworthy. Miguel also does try to take good care of you, though it feels more like you’re a pet and he’s your benevolent owner than anything else. He feeds you, makes sure you clean, gives you shelter, keeps you busy when he’s not at home—well, the list goes on. But it’s not like the two of you have shared intellectually stimulating conversation or gotten to know each other, though you suspect that’s partially because Miguel already knows you so well. Still, whatever this is, it isn’t a relationship. To be fair, Miguel had never wanted a relationship with you. You have come to believe him that he probably did rescue you a few times, thinking about all the dangers of New York City and some of the risks you’d taken that might have been supposed to turn out differently. So all this while, one could argue that he’s been taking care of you, just from afar, the way he’d claimed when you first ‘met.’ So really, the only thing that’s changed for Miguel is that you’re physically present and he takes care of you in a more direct way. He’d never sought a relationship of equals, so this works out just fine for him, but for you, you fear it might become a hell on earth. Right now it’s bearable, but you can feel a shift coming. This morning, you’d woken up cuddled up to him. He’d been spooning you from behind, not like you’d reached for him unconsciously. Even the deepest reaches of your hindbrain that might normally long for touch recognize the danger Miguel poses to you. This isn’t the first time it’s happened, but it’s happening more and more frequently, and you’re not so naïve as to think that this is completely random. You’d bet money that Miguel is trying to acclimate you to his touch, maybe butter you up even, before try for more. As you sit on the living room floor—sometimes you like a break from the couch—you ponder this and wonder what you’ll do when it all comes to a head. So far it’s just been a waiting game. You’ve had enough time to consider what to do when the situation arises but even thinking about it makes you sick to your stomach, so planning hasn’t gotten all that far. You’re left with the original plans you’d made before you were kidnapped: fight, give in, or reciprocate, if only to get on his good side? None of them sound any more achievable than before. You won’t get away even if you fight but you could end up hurt; if you give up then he rapes you and you let it happen, an unforgiveable betrayal of yourself; and if reciprocation were even an option—you’re pretty sure it’s impossible, you’re not that good of an actress—it would make you a participant in your own rape. You can’t stand the thought of it so much that it physically sickens you. Sighing, you rest your head against the seat of the couch. When it comes down to it, it will happen the way it happens. But you don’t want it to happen. You really, really don’t. Setting down your tablet on the rug beneath you, you accept that you’re not getting any more reading done today and let yourself cry. Miguel has been more than patient with you. You seem to be adjusting well enough. You listen to him without complaint as long as he makes reasonable requests, and he’s gone to lengths to make sure that his requests are reasonable in your eyes. He’s actively avoided conflict with you to make you comfortable in his presence; he’s done a lot more than strictly necessary to make sure you’re happy and well-cared for. But a man has needs, Miguel’s have been becoming unbearable, and you’re showing no signs of truly warming up to him. It shows just how much he cares about you that he’s waited this long to make a move, he thinks to himself as he soars his way home via web-slinging. He usually uses a portal but today he wants to get all his thoughts straight before arriving home. He plans to introduce you to a bit more freedom, and then tonight he’s going to try to initiate more than just cuddling. It’s soothing to have your small body in his arms while he sleeps, but he wants more than that. Other than the basic interactions of your care, Miguel hasn’t been able to build much of a relationship with you. And originally he hadn’t cared about that—or rather, he had but wrote it off as an impossibility—but now he has the option of more and he wants. He doesn’t just want to be your caretaker like you’re a child he’s responsible for. He wants to come home to home-cooked meals, a clean house, someone to talk to over dinner and relax on the couch with a glass of wine. In all honesty, the weeks that you’ve been in Nueva York have been lonelier than before he’d kidnapped you. At least when he’d been stalking you, the solitude in your presence was expected. Now, he has everything he wants at his fingertips and yet none of it at the same time. Tonight, he’s going to act. He’s going to have you help him cook dinner. Then, he’s going to try to start a conversation afterwards. He bought a bottle of your favorite Moscato before work and has been keeping it chilled all day for you. Hopefully, loosening you up with some alcohol will make you more open to his advances before you go to bed. Miguel is trying very, very hard to convince himself that he’ll be able to stop once he gets started. He almost believes it now. He’s determined not to take things too far; he doesn’t want to lose all the progress he’s made with you. (A deeper, darker voice tells him that so far, giving you your space hasn’t worked and he’s just going to have to force it on you if he wants it.) When he gets home, he’s come up with a workable plan that he hopes won’t ruin the fragile trust he’s built with you. He opens the door to find you sitting on the floor between the coffee table and the couch, and you look comfortable enough with your legs crossed and your head reclined. You don’t notice him immediately and he takes the moment to observe you inconspicuously. You’re just so gorgeous. Every single one of your features enraptures him. From your breasts to your hips; your soft belly he’s felt when cuddling you; the length of your legs and the strength of your arms; your facial structure; even your hair color is his favorite on a woman; all of you, you’re perfect. He doesn’t know how he’s resisted for this long. He should have taken you to bed the first night, but you’d begged him so earnestly not to touch you that he’d decided to take the slow route. Miguel isn’t feeling quite so benevolent anymore. The door shuts behind him and you look up. When you see him, your lips automatically purse and your features tighten in stress. He hates that you view him as such a villain. He’s not, he’s protected you for years now, done everything in his power to make you happy. Really, taking you to his dimension has practically been good for you. You might not be happy here but you weren’t happy in your dimension either—here, at least, you’re cared for, money no issue, no rent to pay or dead-end job to barely pay the bills, no more loneliness if you’d just let him in. “Welcome home,” you say, then look surprise that you’d said it at all. “Happy to be back,” he grunts. “How was your day?” This is already more than you’ve given him in the past. Maybe you are warming up to him. Maybe this is a sign that tonight’s the night to push. “Oh, you know, the usual,” you say bitterly. “Reading all day, confined to a 5 by 5 on a couch. Real exciting.” Your snark and sarcasm almost have him smiling. Even though he knows it’s not from a place of humor, hearing some tone, some personality to your voice, sounds like progress. Yes, tonight is the night. Miguel presses a button on his wristband and the orange cage deactivates. You sigh before standing and stretching, and he can’t help but admire you. Every inch of you: perfect. “I was thinking that you might want to help with dinner tonight.” You freeze mid-stretch, staring at him incredulously. “Really? You’re not afraid of me pulling a knife on you?” “Clearly not, since I’m asking,” he replies dryly. “You don’t have to. I just thought you might want to contribute something.” Your face twists as you consider his offer. Miguel takes the moment to go further into the apartment and drop off his work things and change into more comfortable clothing. So far he hasn’t informed you of truth of his job. You don’t know about Spiders or the Spiderverse, and he’s done it that way on purpose. He doesn’t want you getting any ideas about asking his team—of heroes—for help. While Jess might be amenable to the situation—she understands the need for a partner and is generally pragmatic to the point of greyish morality at times—Margo, Peter, Hobie, they won’t understand. Strictly speaking, they don’t need to understand, but he’s already a hard-ass enough that he doesn’t want to sow contention when it’s avoidable. No, you can find out about his alter ego once you’re loyal enough to him that you won’t seek help from a potentially sympathetic, or even just troublesome, source. He’s broken from his thoughts when you speak next. “I guess I can help…” Right, with dinner. He mentally shakes himself free from his thoughts. You don’t sound very sure of yourself but that’s okay. It’s a bonding experience, and you both need those if the relationship is ever going to progress from captor-captive to something more. “What are we making?” He likes the way you say ‘we.’ It’s all he wants from you. ‘We.’ Now and forever. “I was thinking…” Miguel rattles off your favorite dish. Your eyebrows raise in surprise before furrowing. You’re probably thinking of the fact that he’d acquired the knowledge of your favorite food through his stalking. He had, of course, but he’d hoped you’d let it slide. Clearly that’s not going to be the case. “Really?” you ask with a scowl. “Yes.” A pause. “If you don’t want it, we can always make something else.” It takes a moment but you eventually concede, following him into the kitchen where he stows the Moscato. “Is that for me?” you wonder as he puts it into the fridge. “Yes,” he replies. “Uh… thanks, I guess.” There’s some begrudging gratitude in your voice now and Miguel relishes it. This is exactly the kind of progress he’s wanted. This is good. He can work with it. Together you cook dinner, although you’re mostly just taking orders as he does most of the work. He doesn’t trust you with chopping, of course, or any kitchen utensils that could potentially be used as a weapon. You sigh when he says no to your request to cut up some of the vegetables for a side dish but don’t seem all that surprised. Finally, food is served and you sit across from him at the dining table. He pours you a glass of wine and allows himself two fingers of whiskey—the good stuff, too. You don’t know it but it’s his private celebration that things are starting to look up. When he tries to initiate conversation, though, you balk and retreat into yourself. That’s a disappointment, but he reasons that there’s not much he doesn’t know about you, at this point you don’t want to know anything about him—and he’d have to censor too much for it to be a safe topic anyways—and really, there’s nothing the two of you can share, even over a meal. He does make an attempt to ask you about the books you’re reading but you give truncated answers and nothing of substance that he can turn into more. Then, after the dishes are washed and leftovers put away, he gives you free rein of the apartment. He settles down into the couch in the living room with his whiskey and turns on the TV—which, in this case, is no longer a bulky square on the wall but a holographic projection. It’s better than anything your world has and even though he’s left you to your devices to wander the apartment, you naturally gravitate towards the movie. Miguel thinks about trying to hold you, he really does. But you’re sitting so far away, curled up in defense of any kind of contact, that he decides not to risk ruining the night. He’ll wait until you’re drowsy, he thinks, before doing anything. He fills your wine glass for the third time. You don’t seem to notice how much you’ve been drinking and he’s not going to tell you. The movie ends. He lets you use the bathroom first, where you shower and get ready for bed, before him. He wants you relaxed. When he’s done, he finds you already dozing on the bed, a little more sprawled out than you usually are. The wine has obviously had a positive influence on you. Stripping down to his boxers, he quietly takes up his larger portion of the bed. Normally he would say good night to you, which you sometimes respond to and sometimes don’t, but he doesn’t want to stir you, so he holds his tongue. He waits. Waits some more. When you shift onto your side, away from him, Miguel makes his move. Gently, he pulls you closer. Your body is loose and easy to move as he presses your back to his chest. You shift, give a little breathy moan, and then settle. Just from that alone, his cock swells and his libido rages. It’s been too long. Starting with your neck, Miguel places hot, open-mouthed kisses. Over your pulse point, in the crook of your shoulder, down to your collarbone. You taste divine and it only excites him more to see what else of you tastes good. He starts nipping and laving his tongue over the abused skin. His hand reaches over your side and begins to knead your breasts. You’re wearing a worn, thin t-shirt and baggy shorts, so when his thumb starts to circle one of your areolas in between pinching lightly, there’s little protection from his touch. Nibbling your earlobe, he pinches a little harder before attending to your other breast. When you moan and clench your thighs together, he almost loses it. Yes, far too long. He needs you. His hand slips under your nightshirt to feel skin on skin. You’re so soft; his hand wanders lowers while the other pulls you closer so that he can grind his cock against your ass. Massaging your belly as he moves downward has him impulsively thinking about it round and swollen with his child. He pushes the thought away. No one can replace Gabi and he’s not interested in trying for another child. He couldn’t take another loss like that, and he’s already so fortunate to have you here, an anomaly in itself, that he won’t risk it. Won’t risk you. His hand slips below the band of your shorts and finds you dripping wet. That’s right—you haven’t had any stimulation in far longer than he has. While towards the end of his protection he’d been masturbating over you almost every other night, he hasn’t seen you touch yourself in at least a year. He doesn’t know why you’d stopped—one of the few things he doesn’t know about you—but he supposes you just were so bogged down by your meaningless existence that it just didn’t matter to you. Still, it means you’re more than ready to reciprocate. While your mind might say you don’t want it, your body is more than eager. Your slick coats his fingers as he caresses your labia. He can’t help but work himself up by taking it slow, fingertips just barely glancing over your swollen clit. All the while he’s grinding into you, but when he takes his hand out to taste you, he has to stop so he doesn’t come on the spot. A little—a lot—less gently, he shoves his hand back under your shorts. He quickly relocates your clit and starts firmly rubbing it. You gasp and buck into his hand, still mostly asleep but he can feel you rousing. Miguel doesn’t know why, but he rubs harder instead of trying to keep you asleep. Fingers coated in slick, he dips a single digit inside you. You’re tight. Too tight, he thinks, to really take him. He’s above average in all ways; proportional, one might say. It’s not a good thing when you’re so small comparatively. It takes a little more force than he’d like, but he pushes his finger deeper, to the first knuckle. At the intrusion, you gasp again and then fully wake up. You’re disoriented even as he continues to pump his hand, finger stretching you open and heel of his palm grinding against your clit, but lucidity comes eventually. You shout and begin to fight him. “Miguel! Miguel, stop! Please stop!” you cry. He uses the arm he’d wrapped under your waist to still you. “Calm down, chiquita,” he murmurs soothingly. “Just calm down. Give in.” You let out a sob and keep struggling, even though his arm is a steel band around you, keeping you in place. “Please! Please! No!” He forces another finger inside you, stretching you uncomfortably. He knows because you whine from the back of your throat and try to escape his hold. Holding you tight, he scissors his fingers to open you up; he’ll need to use three fingers to get you there, maybe even four. Miguel is big. “Shh, shh, cariño. You’re fine. It’s all okay.” “Please…” you whimper. “Shh. It’s all okay.” You keep resisting but he ignores it; you won’t get away. He fits in three, scissoring all the while, and manages to locate your sensitive bundles of nerves in the process. Some of your arousal receded once the pain of the stretch hit, but he makes sure to keep pressure on your clit and when he can, stroke your g-spot. In the end, Miguel decides three fingers is enough; he can’t wait any longer. He almost rips your shorts off but doesn’t bother with your shirt. Instead, he shoves his boxers down before quickly aligning himself with your opening. You shriek. “No!” With almost superhuman strength, you twist yourself away from him and actually manage to loosen his grip. Your struggles are actually somewhat powerful with the engagement of what he can only suppose is adrenaline flooding your body, and because you’re so small, you start to slip out of his grip. Well. He hadn’t wanted to take you from behind for your first time anyways. Lengthening his fangs, he whispers, “Sorry, little one, but I can’t have you like this,” and plunges the sharp canines into the side of your neck. You scream, but his venom is powerful and his surges through your body quickly, aided by the rapid beating of your heart. You start to weaken, wriggling decreasing until you’re pliant in his arms. “What… what did you do?” you whisper weakly, tears soaking the pillow under your head. “Wh-what are you…?” “Shh, relax now,” he says, ignoring your questions. It’s not the time for that. Maneuvering you underneath him, Miguel is able to gaze into your eyes and see your expression. It breaks his heart to see you in such pain, but he can’t stop now. He’s gone too far—he should have known he wouldn’t be able to hold back. He had known, just pretended not to. It’s fine. He has all the time in the world. Besides, he’s not going to hurt you beyond a little stretch. He won’t be breaking his word. “Why… why?” you sob, your voice cracking. He ignores you again, focused on finding your opening with the tip of his cock. Miguel quickly realizes that three fingers wasn’t quite enough, but he can’t bring himself to care. He presses the head past the first ring of muscle, just testing, and you shriek. “No! NO!” He keeps pushing. Better to go steadily onwards than go slow and make it take longer or just spear himself inside you like he so wants. “Please, Miguel, it hurts. It hurts! Please!” He’s getting impatient. Your soft, velvety walls are clenching around him, whether to welcome or reject, he doesn’t care. He’s never felt anything so divine. You were truly made for him; you really are meant to be. Fate gave you to him, he realizes then, reparation for all the loss and pain he’s gone through. He deserves you; he’s owed you. He’s only doing what’s right. Besides, you’ll get over it. He shoves the rest of his cock inside you all at once, a good five inches more. It only proves that you’re made for him once again when despite your size, you’re able to fit all of him. He’s never been able to bottom out before, but you’re taking him like a champ. “Miguel,” you sob. “You—you said—you said you wouldn’t h-hurt m-me…” Your voice is strangled, pleading, and it does sadden him a little that it had to happen this way. But he’d given you time and you hadn’t taken it. What’s happening now isn’t his fault. “Te amo,” he groans without thinking, and at the words he knows you understand, you go quiet, the only sound your continued muted sobbing. He wonders if you realize just how much he means it. It’s alright, he tells himself. No matter what happens here, this is meant to be. Everything is going to be fine. Just fine.