What Peter was up to - kinda sex scene, but not really
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Wade lies, of course, about still being in control, this time Spidey totally got him, even the dirty trick with pressing his third katana tighter to that lovely hot place in-between boy's thighs doesn't shoo Peter away, not shy anymore, my little one, nor ashamed, so sweet, pliant, soft, and yet at the same time so – ah, damn, Wade thrashes under Peter and kicks – so adamant and resolved in some ways. No, Wade still can shake him off with a full body momentum, just a good jerk, oh, he will show you the jerk…
And Peter indeed smiles and slightly leans back, not even looking at how his wrists dance easily, graciously and the pearly strings of web glue Wade's legs to the walls.
“Gotcha.” He whispers.
Perfect. Wade is now laying all stretched and exposed like a fuckin frog ready to be prepared. He pulls once more at the webs, muscles tensing, but the ties are strong, he only feels them vibrating like singing strings, heart strings, nerves – tug all you want, Pool, tied up tight, helpless. Better not to close his eyes or he might get – ideas, some things are just imprinted on the retina, burned into the neural pathways, stuck into his fucked up mind forever, and for Peter to be there – in that nightmarish picture – is just wrong, even the twilight zone of Wade's everyday life is a deterioration, a downfall, because Peter is from the other side, from the sun-lit part, the ends of his soft brown hair are glowing in the morning light and the skin looks golden and shining, the amber syrupy gaze trickles lazily all over the strained body, it’s sores and blemishes, sticking to every square inch, to every mark, and finally stopping at the face, but Peter’s hands are still wandering along Wade’s arms, shoulders, chest and there it is – the tenderness if not the shyness. And he is drowning in it, the honey syrup is now all over Wade, it’s thick in the air and heavy in the breathless lungs, a deep pool of the sick sweetness building up in his groin – and Peter kisses and touches and wriggles, leaning over and pressing closer, wrapping himself around Wade, melting over and into him – wet fingers, slick tongue on every piece of skin and inside every willing opening… He hasn’t noticed being freed – because he is caught, indeed, moaning and trembling, he is cut open, heart leaping like an ugly frog, – till Peter pushes inside him and he jerks forward to meet his boy, arms and legs wrapping around Peter’s thin frame, catching him, too, lulling and pulling him closer and dragging deeper into the treacle pool, and they both, fly and spider alike, are drowning in the amber of this golden morning, bodies entangled, muscles strained with the sweet effort, longing for the final wave to hit and carry them away...
And then, Wade lazily thinks, stroking soft brown strands, spent and motionless Peter stretched across his sticky chest and their heartbeats playing one ragged broken rhythm, then they will go for a walk along the beach later in the evening and the sea will wash up a golden stone right under Peter’s feet…