Summary: Maybe some debts are just too steep and can only be repaid with blood and flesh and pain.
Disclaimer: Many large companies own these things, but not this little wannabe.
Warnings: Could be seen as non-consensual, though it depends on your view of the characters. This is also raw out of word processor, so beware. ;-)
Cross-posted to spideyslash
Don't hurt Peter.
Don't hurt Peter.
He isn't sure if it's the alcohol or the coke he'd bought off some young fuck at the club that's making him flip so bad, but he is sure that he's hearing those goddamn words over and over in his head and he's pretty close to taking a blade to his forehead to try to carve them out.
Then again, he's thinking about doing a lot of things with that blade, and most of his plans are contingent on Peter. Spider-Man. The face that all the drunken fucks in the world couldn't scrape out of his mind. Whatever the fuck he wants to call him in the privacy of his drug-addled head.
Peter is standing in front of him in street clothes and he's at least half thankful for that because he doesn't know what would've happened if he'd shown up wearing his Spider-Man get-up. It doesn't make him any less edgy, though, and his fingers are twitching. Neither has said a word and Harry has the suspicion that Peter's just waiting for him to lunge, dagger in hand.
Harry strides toward him and roughly grabs his shoulders to stare into the eye's of the man that had stolen his heart and never given it back -- had, in fact, crushed it under his heel and ground it into the dirt. He clenches his fists in Peter's shirt and grinds his teeth, not knowing what to do with the rage flowing through his body as swiftly as the adrenalin, both making his knees weak. Spider-Man may be the enemy, but he still wears the face of Peter Parker.
But the voices are back and they give him a headache, so it‘s hard to think.
I swear on my father's grave Spider-Man will pay.
Peter doesn’t resist when Harry shoves him into a table and knocks over a vase and a box of cigars. He looks like he’s waiting for it, ready to offer his body in recompense for Norman Osborn’s, in a desperate attempt to repay Harry for things that were his fault, and then a lot of things that weren’t.
And maybe this is my payment, Harry thinks. Maybe some debts are just too steep and can only be repaid with blood and flesh and pain. Maybe Harry is all right with this because his whole life he's learned to take and take and take until there was nothing left because that's what it meant to be an Osborn, what it was to check emotion at the boardroom door and most of the time never pick it up again.
Maybe Peter agrees, because he's strangely acquiescent while Harry pushes him to the floor and straddles his stomach, as Harry takes his wrists in both hands and pins them to the floor so tightly that his own knuckles turn white. Maybe this was what it meant to be a Parker -- to give until there was nothing. Harry lowers his head to Peter's neck and breathes raggedly before he hears it again.
Don't hurt Peter.
Well, he thinks as he grinds himself against the man beneath him and feels the shuddering buck of hips against his ass, the hitched gasp against his hair, he might've said not to hurt Peter, but he never said a word about Spider-Man.
When the voices are gone again and the rage subsides a little, he thinks about the places between the day he buried a father he never knew and this precise moment of violently seducing his unrequited love object, where he's left pieces of himself blown into the heavens -- scattered into this ill-reputed club or that dank alleyway. He isn't sure there's much left of him anymore, and as he stares down into Peter's dull blue eyes and breathes heavily, he thinks that it's ridiculous that splayed beneath him is the one thing he’s always been sure he wanted, and the one thing he’s truly hated.
He can’t kill one and keep the other locked away in his heart and arms. He doesn’t know what to do now, but he knows what he was about to do, and his mind is a rushing void of confusion. His muscles feel like weights, like he's being dragged under a tumultuous wave, and he thinks that the coke is definitely wearing off now.
He shakily lets Peter's wrists go, opening his mouth to say something -- anything -- but then knows that all the words in the world will never overcome what they’ve both done.
Like everything, he's realized it all too late, after the seeds of his recklessness have already been sown. He laughs and laughs because he knows he's going to lose it all, but he wants to go down defiantly, like he'd always planned, and laughing at everyone and everything.
Harry pushes himself upward, a twisted grin on his face as he hovers over Peter’s bright eyes and figures that as long as it's all going to hell, he might as well take a memento, so he descends on Peter's mouth and snatches a kiss that's hard, with teeth and tongue and raw feeling with flailing limbs that wrap around him, and carries it with him into the abyss. He falls back to the floor and doesn’t recall anything after that.
Later, he can't remember if Peter kissed him back, but sometimes Peter will look at him like he did, and lost just as much.
*"Recompense" is taken from the song "Fly" by Nick Drake in which the lyrics are:
Now, if it's time for recompense for what's done.
These are also the words on my icon, in case you can't read them. And don't forget to keep this pairing alive with feedback! ;-) I appreciate every word that comes my way in advance.