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    Summary

    His hips shifted against the wall before he told them to. His breath hitched, audible, humiliating, and he felt it land somewhere under his sternum like a stone dropped in still water. His pulse wasn't in his throat anymore, it was everywhere, thick and insistent, pooling low and stupid and undeniable, and underneath it, worse than all of it, was the low animal hum starting up at the back of his skull that he only ever felt right before something in him went sharp and wrong and other — except this didn't feel wrong. This didn't feel like the black-eyed thing that came out for monsters. This felt like his own skin had turned traitor and was asking for more.

    "...Webs?"

    Wade's voice. Different now — the manic edge gone out of it, replaced with something careful. He'd felt it too, probably. Felt Peter's whole body change under his hands, go tight and trembling in a way that had nothing to do with pain, and even Wade, motormouth Wade, apparently knew when to stop talking.

    Peter realized, distantly, that he hadn't moved. Hadn't pulled away. His wrist was still caught, still pinned, and some new and horrible part of him did not want that to change.

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