Title: Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me -- Part 3 (of 3)
Rating: M for language, adult situations and some sexual content
Pairing: Harry Osborn/Peter Parker
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: Movie-verse; AU. Spoilers for SM3. In the tragic aftermath, two broken lives and two lonely beds have somehow become one.
Warnings: Borderline NCS. H/C. Angst. Twist ending. (Don't like, don't read!)
Archive?: Only with permission.

Author's Notes: At last, the final chapter -- hope it was worth the wait. Once again, this story focuses on a somewhat-abusive relationship, so no hard feelings if you choose to take a pass this time around. This is my first attempt at an AU in this fandom, not to mention my first foray into writing these boys in the first-person, so your feedback is very much appreciated. And extra-special thanks to Tara (aka "juliajewels") without whose beta-work and encouragement I would never have been able to get this far. Thanks again, friend. *hugs*

Be Aware! This is an edited version of Chapter 3, revised to comply with FFN's Ratings and Content Policies. The original, unexpurgated chapter 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!

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Part 3

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The oak floor feels like a sheet of ice under my bare feet, as shocking to my system as the vice-like grip pulling me along, and I moan a little at the sensation. He reads this as reluctance and hurries to undress, the tangle of unwanted pajama bottoms and boxer shorts kicked to one side of the bed.

"Are you clean?" He asks, a whisper in my ear. I freeze when I feel his wicked fingers curling at my backside.

"Everywhere," I answer. There's never been anyone else, he knows that. Who else would want me this way but him?

"Good."

He turns me around to face the headboard, and as those hands map a path towards my hips I focus my gaze on a blank spot on the wall. Soon he's bumping his thighs hard against the backs of my own, making my torso lurch forward. That's the signal for me to crawl up onto the mattress, go down on my hands and knees and wait for him to follow. There's a sense of urgency in the air now, an energy that charges the atmosphere like a thunderstorm and makes the hairs on my arms stand on end.

"I know what I said last time...but I have to." His hand trembles as one finger slides in. I'm no virgin yet the sensation still makes me wince, and my back automatically arches with the touch. Whatever I might say in protest would make no difference, since he never has enough patience to get me fully ready for this.

"Have to get inside of you..."

I know he does.

One heavy palm presses on the small of my back, possessive and hot like a brand; a silent warning...but I'm not going anywhere. It's all part and parcel of the game we play, a rule that was set in stone from the very start, and if he were to suddenly act all considerate and loving about the whole thing it wouldn't feel right.

To hell with love anyway. I don't need it anymore. It doesn't change anything, and it won't bring anyone back from the dead. All I've ever needed is right here, right here in this one lonely room -- with him.

Two fingers are working inside me now, his free hand sliding down to hold me open. A fresh jolt of pain turns my breath sharp, but I keep still, my arms quivering with the effort. There's a gasp he makes once he feels my body surrender, a sound of relief uttered with the realization that I won't stop him.

I can't. I'm too far gone to ever say "no"...but I won't admit that to his face.

That's my dark secret. What's one more between friends anyway?

"Just once more," he begs, the declaration clipped off when he hears me groan, and for a moment it almost sounds sincere. "I promise..."

My knees are practically buckling under the strain, and since I'm already half-crazy from the aching and the wanting and everything else I tell him to just shut the hell up and do it.

He does.

Inch by inch he sinks into me, struggling with the effort to go slow. And just when I think I can't take it, he stops, pulling back just as slowly before pushing in all over again. This attempt at gentleness is just for show, however. I know what's in store once the leash breaks, but I steel my resolve to let it happen. His desperation is a fierce thing, and it takes him over so swiftly that I barely sense the change coming on. A switch flips, the world goes red, and suddenly he's pounding deeper, harder. The brutal rhythm of his body against mine is loud in my ears, piercing the stillness of the bedroom. No mercy.

Sweat drips down from my forehead and stings my eyes, and I have to squint to keep the salt from blinding me. When I manage to get them clear again, I find myself staring at the portraits on the walls, at the carved headboard thumping against the sheet rock, at those velvet drapes covering the tall windows, making the room resemble a funeral parlor.

It's all so perfect, in a way -- for something did die here, a long time ago. And I'm not so arrogant to believe that I didn't have a hand in that.

Of course I did. He told me so...didn't he?

He's moving faster now, giving himself over completely to his own desire while forcing me face-down into the mattress. I curse loudly into the bunched-up sheets, squeezing tight to keep him right where he is, keep him bearing down with short, sharp motions, riding Satan's alley all the way to Hell.

Close my eyes again and I've left my body behind, floating high on a wave of delirium that's better than any drug; a seesaw high, soaring up towards the bright blue above. The elevation is so glorious I feel drunk on it; want to go even higher...only he won't let me down easy when it's over. I'm going to crash hard, I know it. Gonna go down right on my face and into the ground.

I'm scared.

I can't breathe, can't see, but the fear has fed my need so well that I've swelled to the bursting point. I won't last much longer, and he knows it, so he pulls my arms behind my back to keep me from finishing myself off. That's how he likes to "discipline" me.

I start to struggle in his grasp, my shoulders popping, my head thrashing from side to side, the pillows barely muffling the stream of vulgar nonsense tumbling out of my mouth.

Thankfully, he tightens his hold and picks up the pace.

Maybe he thinks this is my punishment...but what he doesn't understand is that when he takes me like this, he sets me free. I don't have to take control, or be anyone's hero. I don't have to do a goddamned thing...and it feels so good.

It's the end of the line, and I rise up, shouting my assent at the top of my lungs when I finally reach it. He follows me into oblivion, pressed up against my body as he lets it all go, digging his teeth deep into my shoulder. It does nothing to silence the long shuddering cry that I didn't realize he was holding. He collapses against my back when he's finished, then pulls me down with him as he rolls to one side, fading fast, tongue swiping at the stinging wounds he'd just made. It burns like fire when he does that.

No doubt he's left his mark on me, both inside and out.

Minutes later I'm still shaking, still pumped on adrenaline and running with sweat. The last shocks of pleasure have faded away, the proof of what we've done already cooling on my skin. Usually I can't wait to jump up and wash it all off. But the emptiness that's left behind when it's all over is indescribable, and it paralyzes me. It's a reminder of the missing part of my soul that once was hers. The piece I'll never get back. The piece I'm learning to live without.

I'm still broken. And there's nothing that can fix that. Nothing. Not even having my best friend in my bed like this.

I feel a tugging at the crook of my arm, someone pulling me back from the precipice of my dark thoughts. More salt on my lips; so much wetness streaming over my hot cheeks now -- did he know I was crying? Damn it. I said I wouldn't do that in front of him, ever -- and I hastily scrub the evidence away.

The tender look in his eyes now makes me wonder if he can read minds too, for when he cups my cheek and draws me closer I can almost hear him say, You think too much, you know that?

And you don't? I tell him, and wait.

But it's just my imagination. All that gets past his parted wet lips is breath, and before I know it they move in to seal themselves tightly over mine.

His kiss is overwhelming, his tongue exploring the depths of my mouth and stealing my breath away. It's as if he's sucking the remaining life right out of me.

Good.

Part of me is so tired of everything that I wish he would. Just get it over and done with. Then maybe we both can put this thing between us to rest.

But that's not what he wants; no, not at all. We part, and he lets me live again.

Satisfied, he curls his body close to mine, pulling the discarded comforter off of the floor to cover us. It's old, like everything else in this house is, and though the down has shifted around it creates a nice pocket of body heat that's good enough to share. One of his legs drapes over me possessively, and I think back to a more innocent time, the two of us sharing a sleeping bag once in his tiny backyard under the stars, that one summer I got drunk at a Fourth of July barbecue and had to stay the night. I woke up the next morning with a sore back, a nice hard-on, and one of his thighs jammed right between my own. And to think we blamed what happened next on the beer.

Seems there's still a couple of good memories left in me, even though they're hard to find, like an old photograph lying at the bottom of a cluttered drawer. I just have to keep on digging, I guess.

"You okay now?" I ask him. Stupid question, I know, but it's the first thing that comes to mind.

He looks up at me, and I can hear the emotion in his voice when he says, "I should be asking you that." He reaches up to stroke my ravaged face, curious fingertips tracing my scars over and over again like he's never seen them before. The examination ends with him grazing what's left of the eyebrow over my clouded eye, the one that will never shed a tear again, and that's when I flinch. His eyes widen in surprise, his sins and mine both reflected in the guilt now plain on his face.

I could lie and tell him it was just a reflex, some instinctual reaction to an unexpected touch -- but he's too smart to fall for that.

Times like this, I wish he had that damn mask on. Then I wouldn't have to see his naked face and know what's going through his mind when he looks at me, kisses me, holds me. Does he feel as hollow as I do when I can't even trust a single caress?

He stops and turns away from me, then a moment later slides an arm across my stomach.

"Yeah." He settles against my body, his head a pleasant weight upon my chest. "It's better. Just...get some sleep. We'll talk later."

"Alright."

There are a million questions nagging at my conscience, like, What am I to you? How long can we live like this? Will you ever let me go?

But I never ask them. Why bother? I mean, what the hell do I ask of the man who both saved my life and ended it, all at once? And do I even want an answer?

I don't know anymore. About the only thing I do know is this: he will never take my life. So I let him take my body. It's the only thing I have left to give. Someday, it might be enough to save us.

"Night, Peter," I say softly, leaning down so my lips brush against his silky hair.

"Mmm..." He mumbles, already halfway there. "Later" will be here before I know it, but I've got a long wait before sleep pulls me under.

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~finis~