Title: "Better The Devil You Know Than The One You Don't"

Rating: M for language, adult situations and some sexual content

Pairing: Harry Osborn/Peter Parker

Word Count: 1377

Disclaimer: These characters and their film incarnations are the sole property of Stan Lee, Steve Ditko, Marvel Entertainment, and Sony Pictures. No copyright infringement is intended, no disrespect is meant, and no profit will ever be made.

Summary: Raimi-verse. Spoilers for SM1 and 2. It's a sloppy and complicated dance.

Warnings: Borderline dub!con. Angst.

Archive?: Only with permission.

Author's Note: Originally written for the Comment Fic-A-Thon "Porn Battle 12: The Dirty Dozen", hosted by oxoniensis on Dreamwidth and LiveJournal. What follows differs a bit from the original entry, since I always wind up second- and third-guessing EVERY SINGLE THING I manage to come up with long after the story has already been posted. *sigh* More plot and angst here than smut, alas - but that's how I roll.

Be Aware! This is an edited version, revised to comply with FFN's Ratings and Content Policies. The original, unexpurgated work will ONLY be archived at LiveJournal. You will need to be a site member who is 18 years old or older to read it there. Thanks for your understanding!

.

..

...

Prompt: Spider-Man (movie-verse); Harry Osborn/Peter Parker, sucking

...

..

.

It's well-past midnight when Harry shows up at Peter's door, grinning ear-to-ear in a way that could only mean he was up to something, what with a bag of Chinese take-out in one hand and a six-pack of Tsing Tao dangling from the other. He doesn't seem to notice that Peter's new apartment is a dump, or that his friend was sporting a bad case of bed-head; only that he wanted to celebrate his good fortune with somebody, "before the sesame noodles turn to glue."

Harry rambles on and on about Oscorp between bites, about alternative energy and saving the planet and how he was finally going to redeem himself. Peter fumbles with his chopsticks as he listens, watching Harry draw odd shapes in the air with one finger, trying to be attentive despite the anxiety weighing on his mind. He can't sleep, can't study; only lie in bed and worry when the next call to action might come. Sitting still and making small talk just wasn't in Spider-Man's job description.

If only he could tell someone, anyone. But who?

Not Harry, of course. Never Harry.

Things between them are about as one-sided as they have ever been...and all Peter can do is smile and nod, telling himself that the bitterness stinging his throat is just malt and hops.

Something about tritium catches his attention, but only briefly. Peter isn't even sure he heard him right. The details are hard to pick out now, the excited jumble of Harry's words like so much street noise in the background. A second beer starts to give Peter ideas, and as his resolve loosens its grip on his judgment he contemplates what a confession might sound like between each suck from the bottle, each wet slurp of a dumpling.

I'm Spider-Man. I'm Spiderman. I'm...

What tumbles out instead is, "I'm tired."

"Oh." Harry slumps his shoulders, the wind taken out of his sails.

Peter grimaces. "Hey. I didn't mean it that way." He reaches across the tiny table to cover Harry's stilled hand with one of his own. "I'm happy for you, buddy. Really. It's just that...well, it's late...and if I miss another front-page deadline, Jameson is gonna demote me to the mail room. You know?"

He knew in an instant that it was the wrong excuse.

"I see." Harry's hand balls into a fist before tearing itself free. "So...what did your meal ticket do this time? Help a troop of Girl Scouts cross Bushwick Avenue?"

Peter shakes his head, looks away.

"You still won't tell me how to find him...will you?"

"I can't." Back to square one.

"Not good enough!" Harry shouts, slamming his fist against the table. "You are the only person in this whole damn city who can help me put my father's soul to rest, and you won't do it!" His look is pained, on the verge of tears, and in a tight voice he asks, "Why? Why are you doing this to me?"

"Please, Harry," Peter begs him, clutching his forehead in a desperate attempt to stave off the weaker part of his nature, the part that wants to give up and give in so that life could go back to the way it used to be. As if such a thing were even possible now. "Don't make this any harder on me than it already is."

"You act like this is all about you. Well, guess what? It isn't." Harry spins out of his chair, its legs scraping loudly against the worn linoleum floor. "It never was."

It can't end like this, Peter thinks. It can't. "Harry, wait-"

But Harry was already at the door, his hand closing over the knob. "Forget it. Sorry to have bothered you, pal."

"I said STOP!" Peter closes the distance between them with blinding speed, grabbing Harry by the shoulder without thinking and tossing him aside. The force is strong enough to send Harry's body flying across the room, missing the bed by a hair to land flat on his back upon the floor with a heavy thud.

Peter's heart stopped. Oh my God...

The shock at what a sudden flare of superhuman temper could do was cancelled out by the sight of Harry, dumbstruck and staring at the tarnished brass knob still clenched tightly in his grasp. He starts laughing, then coughing, a bloody tinge now crawling up his throat to his cheeks, his whole body shuddering from the attempt at catching his breath.

"Fucking...doorknob!" Harry gasps out. "What a...shithole!" Tears started to gather in the corners of his eyes, and he reaches out to Peter with his other arm. "Help...help me up, you bastard. Think I might have...my back...can't breathe-"

A mixture of fear and relief spurs Peter into action, and he moves on shaky legs to help his friend without saying a word. Thank God. Thank God he's not dead...or paralyzed...or-

One of Harry's legs unexpectedly slides out just as Peter leans over, tripping up his would-be rescuer at the right moment so that Peter drops down hard on one knee. Before he can recover Harry rolls onto his side, leveraging his weight and height to gain the upper hand, flipping them both over in one deft move and bracing the whole of his trembling body forcefully against Peter's own.

Something cold and sharp was pressing against Peter's neck. It was the broken doorknob, turned screw-end out. A weapon.

Alcohol or no, Peter should have expected it would come to blows one day.

"Anyone else...and I would have slit your throat by now," Harry warned, voice still raspy and strained. They were nose to nose now, each close enough to share the others breath. "Give me a reason why I still shouldn't," he pants, the tip of the long screw moving ever so slightly forward.

"Do it, " Peter replies, his words choked with emotion. Any semblance of a friendship was now in tatters. What difference would a little bloodletting make?

He swallows hard. "If this is the only way to make things right between us...then just do it."

Harry's breathing slows, deepens, evening out to match the thrum of his pulse. "That's what I thought you'd say." His grip tightens, dark eyes searching for something in Peter's own...and that's when Peter can't look at him anymore. He closes his own eyes, and waits...

...and waits...

...for warm lips to crush against his own.

Peter's eyes snap open at the unexpected contact, the sucking wetness of Harry's fevered and demanding mouth sending a rush of electric pleasure straight along his spine. With great effort he manages to shove Harry away, and once he's safely at arm's length and breathing his own air again does Peter dare ask the obvious.

"What are you doing?"

Whatever this is, it isn't what Harry wants. It can't be. He's flying high on a mixture of adrenaline and anger, loneliness and frustration, shot through with cheap beer and some MSG for good measure. Deep down, he craves the same things that Peter does: love; desire; soft skin under his touch; a yielding body that he can slip inside of and get forever lost in.

He won't find any of that here. But that doesn't discourage him from looking for it.

Harry answers by throwing the knob as far across the room as he can before kissing Peter again, his skillful tongue pushing forward to flicker against Peter's own. There's no hesitation when his fingers unzip Peter's fly, no second guessing as to how much pressure to apply to make Peter's arousal jump in his grip.

Clothes are soon discarded, limbs entwined. It's a sloppy and complicated dance, and Peter secretly hates the fact that they both know the steps by heart.

Harry is already there, hard and quivering against Peter's thigh as he draws himself further downward, lips kissing and suckling at every inch of bare flesh he finds along the way. He hooks one of Peter's knees over his shoulder, desperate fingers searching for the secret place. Peter moans his assent once he finds it.

"You won't send me away," Harry vows. "Not tonight."

He's right, of course. But the door gets fixed come morning.

...

..

.