Chapter Text
New York had never felt colder, despite the summer heat suffocating the city in thick, oppressive waves. The air itself seemed to pulse with something unseen, a presence that slithered through the streets, making the city tremble beneath its watchful gaze. It wasn't just fear. It was something deeper—an awareness that Spider-Man was no longer its savior.
Peter Parker had changed.
His reign over New York was one of silent terror. The criminals whispered about him in hushed tones, afraid to even breathe his name in the wrong place at the wrong time. The shadows belonged to him. The city belonged to him. And as far as Peter was concerned, so did Harry Osborn.
Too bad Harry hadn’t realized it yet.
Harry sat in the dim light of his penthouse, fingers curled around the crystal glass of bourbon he hadn't touched in hours. The skyline stretched before him, but he wasn’t admiring the view. His thoughts were elsewhere—trapped in a web he couldn't escape.
Peter.
His childhood friend. His first love. His obsession.
He exhaled sharply, hating himself for the way his heart clenched at the thought of Peter’s name, for the way he still wanted him, despite the fear curling in his gut. Because Peter wasn’t the boy he used to know. He wasn’t the awkward kid with a camera slung around his neck, full of nervous laughter and quiet dreams. That Peter was gone.
This new Peter—his Peter—was something else entirely. A predator cloaked in the skin of a man.
Harry had felt it, seen it in the way Peter looked at him now, eyes sharp and dark, too knowing, too possessive. Like he was something Peter had already claimed long ago.
Like he had never really left his grasp at all.
A shiver crawled down Harry’s spine, though the room was warm. He had locked the doors. He had checked twice. And yet—
"You’re thinking about me, aren’t you?"
The voice was low, silk-smooth, teasing.
Harry froze, his blood turning to ice. He didn’t need to turn around to know Peter was there.
He always found a way inside.
Slowly, Harry turned, his breath caught somewhere between his ribs. Peter was standing just beyond the balcony doors, bathed in the eerie glow of the city lights. His suit clung to him like a second skin, the deep crimson almost black in the dimness. The mask was gone, revealing sharp cheekbones, dark eyes that burned with something unreadable. His lips curled into a slow, lazy smirk.
Harry swallowed hard. "You broke in again."
Peter tilted his head. "You should really stop acting surprised."
He moved closer, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring the moment—like a spider closing in on something already caught in its web.
Harry forced himself to hold his ground. "What do you want?"
Peter let out a low, amused chuckle. "You."
The word was final. Absolute. Like it was a fact, not a desire.
Harry hated the way his stomach clenched at that. Hated the heat that flared to life under his skin, the way his body still responded to Peter despite everything. Despite the fear.
Peter reached out, his fingers brushing over Harry’s cheek, feather-light yet unyielding. "You should stop trying to run, Harry. We both know how this ends."
Harry exhaled shakily. "You think this is normal?"
Peter smiled, slow and wolfish, his fingers curling around Harry’s wrist with just enough pressure to remind him of exactly who was stronger. "Normal is boring."
His other hand lifted, fingers ghosting over Harry’s jaw, tilting his face upward. "I don’t like chasing you, you know. But I will if I have to."
Harry clenched his jaw. "You’re insane."
Peter’s eyes gleamed. "No. I’m yours."
And then, before Harry could protest, Peter kissed him.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle.
It was a claim. A promise. A warning.
And Harry?
He kissed him back.
Because no matter how much he tried to deny it—he had never truly wanted to escape.
Part 2: Tangled in You
The kiss was suffocating.
Harry could feel Peter in every part of him—his fingers gripping his wrist, his body pressing him against the cold glass of the balcony doors, the taste of him dark and possessive, claiming him in a way that made his knees weak.
It was too much.
It was never enough.
Harry tore his mouth away, chest heaving, his breath coming too fast, too shallow. "You can’t just—just break in and—"
Peter’s grip on his wrist tightened, just enough to make Harry shudder. "You’re shaking." His voice was deceptively soft, but the weight behind it was undeniable. "Is it fear, or something else?"
Harry glared. "Let me go."
Peter’s smirk only grew. "But you don’t really want that, do you?"
Harry hated how Peter could read him so easily, how his body betrayed him even when his mind screamed at him to resist.
Because Peter was right.
He should be afraid. He should be furious. He should be fighting harder. But instead, his pulse was racing for an entirely different reason.
Peter leaned in again, his breath warm against Harry’s ear. "You don’t want me to stop."
Harry clenched his jaw, refusing to answer.
Peter chuckled, the sound dark and knowing. "That’s what I thought."
His fingers traced up Harry’s arm, featherlight, teasing. The way Peter touched him wasn’t careful—it was deliberate. Like he was savoring every reaction, every unsteady breath. His other hand came up, brushing through Harry’s hair, tilting his chin just slightly, his touch both possessive and almost reverent.
"You don’t get it, do you?" Peter murmured. "You were mine before you even knew it."
Something cold slithered down Harry’s spine. "That’s not how this works."
Peter tilted his head, studying him with unsettling patience. "Oh? And how does it work, then?" His fingers trailed lower, over Harry’s pulse, feeling the rapid beat beneath his skin. "You think you can keep pretending you don’t need me?"
Harry jerked his wrist free, stepping back, putting distance between them. He needed distance.
"You’re out of control," Harry forced out. "Whatever the hell happened to you, this—this isn't you, Pete."
Peter’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes darkened. "You still don’t understand, do you?"
Harry swallowed. "Understand what?"
Peter’s voice was almost tender when he answered.
"That I would burn this whole city down before I let anyone else have you."
Part 3: Caught in the Web
Harry didn’t sleep that night.
He sat on the edge of his bed, running a hand through his hair, staring at the locked balcony doors. He should call someone. Tell someone.
But who?
Who would believe that Spider-Man—New York’s supposed protector—had turned into something else?
Something terrifying.
Something that still made Harry’s heart clench with longing despite every instinct telling him to run.
He hated himself for it.
But most of all, he hated the truth buried beneath his fear.
Peter had always been intense. Obsessive. Even back in high school, there had been something about the way Peter looked at him, like Harry was the only thing in the world that mattered. Back then, it had been easy to ignore, to pretend it was just the way Peter was.
Now?
Now there was nothing holding him back.
And Harry had no idea what to do with that.
The knock at his door made him jump. His pulse spiked. It was late—too late for visitors.
He hesitated, then stood slowly, moving toward the door. "Who is it?"
Silence.
His heart pounded.
And then—
"Open up, Harry."
Peter’s voice was muffled, but unmistakable.
Harry’s fingers curled into a fist at his side. "Go away."
A low chuckle. "You know I won’t."
Harry exhaled sharply, pressing his forehead against the wood. "You can’t keep doing this, Pete."
"Doing what?" Peter’s tone was light, teasing, but there was an edge beneath it. "Watching out for you? Making sure you’re safe?"
"Breaking in. Stalking me. Acting like you own me."
A pause.
Then, softer—"But I do."
Harry’s breath caught in his throat.
Peter sighed, his weight shifting against the door. "I don’t want to scare you, Harry. But you make it so damn hard when you keep pushing me away."
Harry squeezed his eyes shut. "You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to come back into my life and decide—"
Peter’s voice dropped, something dark threading through it. "I never left."
Harry swallowed. "What?"
Silence.
Then—"I’ve always been here. Watching. Protecting."
A shiver crawled down Harry’s spine. "You’re insane."
Peter let out a slow breath. "Maybe."
There was a pause, as if he was considering something.
Then, just barely above a whisper—"But you’re still going to open the door."
Harry’s fingers hovered over the lock.
His pulse thundered.
Peter was right.
And that scared him more than anything else.
Part 4: The Lock Breaks
Harry knew he shouldn’t.
Every logical part of him screamed to leave the door closed, to call security, to do anything but let Peter in.
And yet—
His fingers trembled over the lock.
Peter’s breathing was steady on the other side of the door, patient but expectant. He knew. He knew. That was the worst part—Peter always knew how to pull him closer, how to make Harry need him despite every reason not to.
Harry exhaled sharply and flicked the lock open.
The second the latch clicked, the door burst open.
Peter was on him before he could react, slamming the door shut behind him and pressing Harry against it, one hand braced beside his head, the other curling tight around his jaw. His grip wasn’t rough, but it was firm—unshakable.
"Good boy," Peter murmured, his thumb brushing over Harry’s lower lip, voice thick with approval.
Harry hated how those words sent heat curling through his spine, how the sheer rightness of Peter’s touch made him dizzy.
"Fuck you," he muttered, trying to turn his head, but Peter tightened his grip, forcing him to look at him.
"You say that," Peter said, tilting his head, "but you let me in anyway."
Harry clenched his jaw. "I wanted to hear what you had to say."
Peter’s smirk deepened, dark amusement flickering in his eyes. "No, you wanted to see me. You always do."
Harry shoved at his chest, but Peter didn’t budge. "You don’t get to act like you know me."
Peter chuckled, low and dangerous. "Harry. I know you better than you know yourself."
His fingers trailed lower, ghosting down Harry’s throat, pressing lightly against his pulse. "You're shaking again." His voice was pure silk. "Tell me, is it because you’re scared, or because you like it?"
Harry refused to answer.
Peter leaned in, his lips brushing just below Harry’s ear. "I bet it’s both."
Harry shivered before he could stop himself. Damn him.
Peter felt it. He pulled back just enough to meet Harry’s eyes, something dark and unchained flickering beneath his amusement.
"You still don’t get it," Peter murmured. "You keep acting like you have a choice."
Harry’s breath hitched. "What—"
Peter’s hand slid lower, over his chest, pressing lightly against his ribs. His touch was possessive. Claiming. "You belong to me, Harry."
Harry’s heart pounded against Peter’s palm.
"And I don’t share," Peter whispered.
Then, before Harry could even think of responding, Peter’s lips crashed against his.
Part 5: Sticky Situations
Kissing Peter Parker was like being caught in a storm.
There was no escape. No room to breathe.
Only the overwhelming force of him—his heat, his hands gripping Harry’s waist, his body pressing him into the door like he was trying to crawl inside him.
Harry gasped against Peter’s lips, but Peter didn’t let up. He swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss, his tongue sliding against Harry’s like he was starving.
And God, Harry hated how easily he let him.
His hands curled into Peter’s suit, gripping tight, like that could stop the way his body melted into him.
Like that could stop the fire raging under his skin.
Peter pulled back just enough to murmur, "I missed this."
Harry’s breath was ragged. "We— we shouldn’t—"
Peter’s fingers dug into his waist. "Why not?"
Harry clenched his jaw, refusing to look at him.
Peter exhaled through his nose. "You know what’s funny?" His tone was light, almost teasing. "You act like you don’t want me. Like I’m forcing you into this."
He gripped Harry’s chin, forcing his gaze up.
"But you’re hard."
Heat rushed through Harry’s face. "Shut up."
Peter smirked. "Make me."
His lips crushed against Harry’s again, ruthless.
Harry groaned, half in frustration, half in surrender, and Peter felt it.
He yanked Harry away from the door and pushed him onto the bed.
Before Harry could even process it, Peter was on top of him, straddling his waist, pinning him down.
"Fuck, you look good like this," Peter murmured, voice thick with hunger.
Harry’s breath stuttered. "Peter—"
"Shhh." Peter traced his fingers down Harry’s throat, feeling his pulse race. "I like you better when you’re quiet."
Harry should push him away. Shouldn’t let this happen.
But the second Peter rolled his hips against him, rubbing against him just right—
Harry’s brain short-circuited.
He let out a sharp, needy gasp before he could stop it.
Peter froze.
Then—slowly, so damn slowly—he grinned.
"There it is," he murmured, pressing another slow, teasing grind against him.
Harry arched involuntarily, pleasure sparking hot and unbearable in his spine.
Peter’s breath ghosted over his lips. "I could make you beg, you know."
Harry hated that he believed him.
Part 6: Strings Attached
Harry didn’t know how long it went on—how long he let himself be kissed, touched, owned.
But eventually, Peter slowed. Pulled back.
His eyes gleamed with something dark and satisfied.
Like he’d gotten exactly what he wanted.
Harry felt stripped bare under that gaze.
Peter traced his thumb over Harry’s kiss-swollen lips, like he was memorizing them.
"You can lie to yourself all you want," he murmured. "But I know the truth now."
Harry swallowed. "What truth?"
Peter smirked, leaning down until their noses brushed.
"You want me just as much as I want you."
And with that, he was gone.
Just like that.
One second, Peter was straddling him, owning him, making him forget how to breathe—
The next?
Nothing but the cold emptiness of the room.
Harry sat up too fast, heart slamming against his ribs. He turned wildly, eyes darting toward the balcony—
And there he was.
Peter stood just outside the glass doors, perched on the railing, watching.
His mask was back in place, but Harry could still feel his smirk.
"You’re mine, Harry," Peter said softly.
His voice was so sure.
So final.
And then, with a flick of his wrist, he was gone.
Vanishing into the night.
Leaving Harry breathless, wrecked, and utterly tangled in his web.
Part 7: A Fly in the Trap
Harry barely slept.
His body ached—not just from the bruising grip of Peter’s hands, but from the absence of him.
The silence of his penthouse felt suffocating now. Every shadow made his pulse spike, every flicker of movement outside his window made his skin prickle. He told himself it was paranoia.
But he knew better.
Peter was watching.
He always was.
The morning brought little relief.
Harry sat in the OsCorp boardroom, barely listening as executives droned on about profits and stock projections. His head throbbed, his fingers tapping absently against the table. He tried to focus, but his mind kept replaying last night—the weight of Peter on top of him, the taste of his kiss, the way he had disappeared like smoke, leaving only his words behind.
"You’re mine, Harry."
His stomach twisted.
Because the worst part?
He wanted Peter to come back.
Pathetic.
Harry exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. He needed to shake this off. He needed to get Peter out of his head.
A sharp buzz from his phone snapped him back to the present.
A text.
Unknown Number: You’re not paying attention. Tsk, tsk.
Cold fear spiked through Harry’s veins.
His eyes snapped up, scanning the room. The executives were still talking, oblivious.
Slowly, he reached for his phone again, fingers tight around it.
Another text.
Unknown Number: Look outside, sweetheart.
His heart stuttered.
He turned his head, gaze flicking toward the floor-to-ceiling windows.
And there, perched twenty stories up on the side of the OsCorp Tower, was Peter.
His mask was in place, but Harry could feel his smirk from here.
A slow, mocking wave.
Harry’s pulse thundered.
Fucking hell.
Part 8: Caught Red-Handed
He didn’t confront Peter. Not at work.
He refused to give him the satisfaction.
But by the time he got back to his penthouse that night, tension was coiled so tight in his chest it was suffocating.
He barely stepped inside before he slammed the door shut and hissed, "I know you’re here."
Silence.
Then, a slow, deliberate clap.
Harry whipped around.
Peter was lounging on his couch like he owned the place. Legs spread, arms stretched out along the back, completely at ease. His mask was pulled up just enough to reveal that cocky, knowing smirk.
"Miss me?"
Harry’s jaw clenched. "You need to stop."
Peter tilted his head. "Stop what?"
"This. Breaking in. Following me. Watching me like—like—"
Peter leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Like I can’t stand the thought of you being somewhere I’m not?"
Harry faltered.
Peter’s eyes gleamed. "Like I can’t sleep unless I know you’re safe?"
Harry took a step back.
A mistake.
Peter moved fast, launching off the couch in a blur of red and black.
Before Harry could react, he was against the wall.
Peter’s hands were everywhere—pinning his wrists, caging him in, his body pressing close, too close.
Harry sucked in a sharp breath. "Peter—"
Peter hummed, dragging his lips along Harry’s jawline. Not kissing—just teasing, hovering.
"Say it," Peter murmured.
Harry swallowed hard. "Say what?"
Peter’s fingers tightened around his wrists. "That you missed me."
Harry’s breath was shaky. "I—"
Peter nipped at the corner of his mouth. A brief, barely-there bite.
"Say it," Peter urged again, voice lower, rougher.
Damn him.
"…I missed you," Harry whispered.
Peter smiled.
And then he kissed him.
Part 9: No Escape
The second their lips met, Harry knew he was done for.
Peter kissed him like he had all the time in the world—slow and deep, teasing, devouring.
Harry hated how easily he melted.
Peter must’ve felt it, because he let out a low, pleased hum, his grip on Harry’s wrists loosening just enough to trail his hands down. Over his shoulders. His chest. His waist.
Harry’s fingers curled into Peter’s suit, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away.
"You make this too easy," Peter murmured, pressing another hot, lazy kiss to Harry’s throat.
"Fuck you," Harry hissed.
Peter chuckled against his skin. "Oh, sweetheart. You will."
Heat flared through Harry’s body.
Peter felt it.
He knew.
And he was going to ruin him for it.
Part 10: Entangled
They didn’t make it to the bed.
Harry barely remembered how they ended up on the couch—how Peter pushed him down, how his fingers curled around Harry’s throat just enough to tease.
"Still pretending you don’t like this?" Peter mused, tilting Harry’s chin up.
Harry glared. "You think this means you own me?"
Peter’s smirk was lethal. "I don’t think. I know."
Harry opened his mouth to retort, but Peter crushed their lips together again, swallowing whatever weak protest he had left.
Harry gave in.
Because of course he did.
Because this was always going to happen.
Peter had spun his web long ago.
And Harry was never getting out.
Part 11: Strands of Control
Peter kissed like he fought—ruthless, overwhelming, and in control.
Harry knew he should resist, should fight harder, should break free.
But the second Peter’s hands slipped beneath his shirt, fingers teasing across his skin, he was lost.
Heat coiled low in his stomach, his body betraying him. He hated how much he craved Peter’s touch, how much he needed him even after everything—after the stalking, the possessiveness, the way Peter treated him like something to be owned.
But was it really ownership if part of him wanted to be caught?
Peter pulled back, barely an inch away, watching him with those dark, predatory eyes. "You always did like playing hard to get," he murmured. "But we both know how this ends, don’t we?"
Harry’s breath came fast, uneven. "Fuck you," he bit out, but even he could hear the way his voice wavered.
Peter just smirked. "I plan to."
And then, he was gone.
The weight of him disappeared, his warmth vanishing like it had never been there.
Harry blinked, dazed, realizing Peter was already across the room, adjusting his suit like he hadn’t just wrecked him with a few well-placed touches.
"What the—" Harry started, but Peter shot him a look, something dark and amused.
"Not tonight," Peter said smoothly. "I want you desperate first."
Harry felt his whole body flush with heat. "You—"
Peter flicked his wrist.
Thwip.
A strand of webbing wrapped around Harry’s wrist, snapping his hand to the couch.
Harry cursed, struggling, but the more he pulled, the tighter it got.
Peter chuckled, tilting his head. "Still fighting?"
Harry glared. "You think you can just—just break in and fuck with my head and leave whenever you feel like it?"
Peter shrugged. "Worked so far."
Harry snarled, yanking at the webbing again. "I’m not some—some pet you can keep on a leash."
Peter moved fast.
One second, he was across the room. The next, he was right there, his knee pressing between Harry’s thighs, his gloved fingers gripping Harry’s jaw, forcing him to meet his gaze.
His voice was low, dark with something dangerous. "You say that, Harry," he murmured. "But you keep letting me in."
Harry swallowed hard, his pulse pounding.
Peter’s lips curled into a slow, satisfied smirk. "You’re mine," he whispered, voice so sure. "You always have been."
Then, just to prove his goddamn point, he leaned in—not to kiss him, but to bite.
Harry jerked, a sharp gasp escaping as Peter’s teeth sank into his throat, a mark that would definitely be there in the morning.
Peter pulled back, smug.
"See you soon, sweetheart," he murmured, voice dripping with wicked satisfaction.
And just like that—he was gone.
Harry sat there, wrecked, breathless, and tangled in his fucking web.
Part 12: The Web Tightens
Harry didn't leave his penthouse for three days.
He told himself it was because he was busy, that OsCorp needed his full attention, that he had too many goddamn meetings to deal with Peter’s bullshit.
But that was a lie.
The real reason?
He was waiting.
Waiting for the next flicker of movement outside his window.
Waiting for the next message.
Waiting for Peter to come back.
And that?
That was fucking terrifying.
Because if he was waiting for Peter, what did that make him?
The fourth night, it happened.
Harry was in his office, pouring over reports, when the hair on the back of his neck stood up.
He didn’t turn around.
Didn’t need to.
He felt Peter before he saw him.
"That’s new," Peter mused, his voice silk-smooth. "You usually at least pretend to be surprised."
Harry exhaled slowly. "I figured it was about time."
Peter chuckled, stepping into view. "You almost sound eager."
Harry forced a smirk, hiding the way his pulse jumped. "You’re not that special, Parker."
Peter moved.
One second, he was across the room. The next?
He was right there, crowding into Harry’s space, pressing a palm flat against his desk, caging him in.
"Say that again," Peter murmured, voice low.
Harry’s breath hitched. "You’re not that spe—"
Peter’s hand shot out, wrapping around his throat.
Not tight—not yet.
Just enough to make Harry’s breath catch, to send a dangerous thrill racing through his veins.
"Lie to me again," Peter said softly, tilting his head. "I dare you."
Harry’s heart slammed against his ribs.
He should fight.
Should shove Peter away.
But instead?
His fingers curled into Peter’s suit.
Pulling him closer.
Peter’s lips curved.
"There’s my good boy," he murmured.
Then, he kissed him.
And Harry?
Harry kissed him back.
Part 13: Bound in Silk
This time, Harry didn’t stop it.
Didn’t fight.
Didn’t push away.
He let it happen.
Peter’s hands were everywhere. Sliding up his back, twisting into his hair, claiming every inch of him like he had the right.
And maybe?
Maybe he did.
Harry hated that.
Hated that when Peter shoved him onto the desk, when he climbed on top of him, when he tangled his fingers in his hair and whispered mine, he didn’t want to resist.
He wanted more.
Peter pulled back, his breath uneven.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured.
Harry’s fingers tightened in his suit.
He couldn’t.
Peter smirked, already knowing.
His fingers trailed down, down, down, settling at Harry’s waistband.
"You’re gonna let me ruin you, aren’t you?"
Harry swallowed hard.
And nodded.
Peter hummed. "Good boy."
Then, slowly, deliberately—
He made good on his promise.
Part 14: No Turning Back
When it was over, Harry lay boneless on the desk, papers scattered on the floor and his skin marked, bruised, wrecked.
Peter pressed one last kiss against his throat.
"Mine," he murmured again.
And Harry?
He didn’t argue.
Didn’t deny it.
Because what was the point?
Peter had spun his web around him long ago.
And now?
Now he had no desire to escape.
Part 15: Fractured Control
Harry stood in front of the mirror, his fingers brushing over the marks Peter had left on his skin.
A bruise just below his collarbone. Faint, red crescents along his ribs where Peter’s fingers had dug in. A deeper mark on his throat—one Peter had left with his teeth.
His reflection looked unfamiliar.
Not just because of the bruises, but because of the way he felt looking at them.
He should be angry.
He should be disgusted.
But instead, his pulse thrummed beneath his fingertips, something warm curling in his stomach at the memory of how Peter had put them there—how hungry he had been, how he had whispered, mine with every touch, every kiss, every bite.
Harry gritted his teeth and turned away from the mirror.
This wasn’t happening.
He wasn’t craving Peter.
He wasn’t waiting for him to come back.
He wasn’t.
Harry threw himself into work.
Meetings, numbers, research—anything to keep his mind occupied.
It didn’t help.
Because Peter was everywhere.
Lurking in the edges of his vision, watching from the rooftops, sending those damn texts.
Unknown Number: You looked good in blue today.
Unknown Number: Tired? You should get more sleep, sweetheart.
Unknown Number: Did you miss me yet?
Harry clenched his fists, jaw tight.
He deleted them. Ignored them. Refused to reply.
But Peter didn’t need a response.
Peter already knew.
The breaking point came two weeks later.
Harry was sitting in his office, finally getting through a full day without thinking about Peter every damn second—
CRASH.
The window shattered.
Before he could react, a web yanked his wrist, slamming him against the desk.
Glass glittered on the floor. The wind howled through the open space.
And standing in the wreckage, mask pulled up just enough to reveal that smirk, was Peter.
"Hi, sweetheart," he murmured.
Harry’s blood ran cold.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Harry snarled, struggling against the webbing.
Peter tilted his head, stepping closer. "You’ve been ignoring me."
Harry glared. "Maybe take the hint."
Peter tsked, crouching in front of him. "You think I’m gonna let you go that easy?" His gloved fingers traced along Harry’s jawline, tilting his face up. "You know better than that, don’t you?"
Harry hated how his breath caught.
Hated the way his skin burned under Peter’s touch.
Peter smirked. "You do."
His thumb brushed over Harry’s lower lip, slow and teasing.
"You can fight all you want," Peter whispered, leaning in. "But you and I both know—"
His lips hovered over Harry’s.
"You don’t really want me to stop."
Harry’s heart slammed against his ribs.
And then he did the stupidest thing imaginable.
He leaned in.
For half a second, he let himself sink into Peter’s gravity—let himself feel the warmth of him, the way he smelled like rain and static, the way his lips were so close—
Then, just before they touched, he stopped.
Pulled back, just an inch.
Enough to deny him.
Peter stilled.
The air between them crackled.
Harry smirked. "Thought you said I was the one who wanted this?"
Peter’s eyes darkened.
Something sharp flickered in them—something dangerous.
Then—suddenly, brutally—
Peter ripped him forward and crushed their mouths together.
Harry whined before he could stop himself, hating how easily he fell apart at the first real kiss in weeks.
Peter didn’t just kiss him—he devoured him.
It was teeth, tongue, heat, possession.
Harry fought for control, tried to turn it into a battle, but Peter wasn’t playing fair.
His hands were everywhere—gripping his throat, twisting into his hair, pressing him against the desk like he was something precious and breakable.
Harry shuddered, hating how easily he melted, hating how his body responded like it had been aching for this.
Peter felt it.
He smirked against Harry’s lips. "There’s my good boy."
Harry bit him.
Peter moaned.
Then, just as suddenly as he started—he pulled away.
Leaving Harry wrecked, panting, furious.
Peter tilted his head. "You’re getting better at this."
Harry clenched his fists. "I fucking hate you."
Peter grinned. "No, you don’t."
And the worst part?
The worst part was that he was right.
Because despite everything—
Despite the broken glass, the bruises, the possessiveness, the sheer fucking insanity of it all—
Harry wanted him to do it again.
Part 16: The Art of Losing
Harry didn’t sleep that night.
He sat on the floor of his bedroom, his back against the bed, staring at his own hands.
He had kissed Peter back.
Had let him take control.
Had enjoyed it.
Pathetic.
He ran his hands through his hair, gripping it tight, trying to force himself to think.
He couldn’t keep doing this.
Couldn’t keep letting Peter win.
Because the more he gave in, the more Peter tightened his grip.
And one day?
One day, he might wake up and realize he didn’t want to fight anymore.
That he had stopped wanting to escape.
And that scared him more than anything.
Because if that happened…
It would mean Peter had already won.
Part 17: Denial is a Pretty Lie
Harry spent the next week avoiding him.
No responses. No glances out the window. No acknowledging Peter’s presence, no matter how often he felt that gaze on him.
It didn’t last.
Because Peter was done waiting.
Harry stepped into his penthouse that night, tossing his coat onto the couch—
And froze.
The air was different.
Charged.
Then, a voice—low, smug, dangerous.
"You really thought you could ignore me?"
Harry turned slowly.
Peter sat in his chair, one leg draped over the armrest, mask pulled back, watching him like a predator watching prey.
Harry’s stomach tightened.
"I told you," Peter murmured, pushing to his feet, stalking forward. "I don’t share."
Harry stepped back. "I’m not yours."
Peter smiled, slow and cruel.
"That’s cute."
Then, webbing shot out, yanking Harry forward.
He stumbled, crashing into Peter’s chest, hands caught between them.
Peter’s fingers traced over his jawline, his touch deceptively soft.
"Try again," Peter whispered.
Harry swallowed hard, heart pounding.
Because this time?
He wasn’t sure if he wanted to fight.
And that was the real problem.
Part 18: A Dangerous Game
Peter hadn’t come back.
For four days.
No shattered windows. No cryptic texts. No sudden appearances to steal Harry’s breath and unravel him from the inside out.
Nothing.
And that was the problem.
Because Peter didn’t just let things go. Peter didn’t just disappear.
Harry should have been relieved.
But instead, he felt restless.
It was humiliating, the way he ached for Peter’s attention—how he found himself staring at his phone, expecting a message. How he checked the shadows outside his window, waiting for some sign of him.
Like a fucking lovesick idiot.
And the worst part?
Peter knew.
He had to know.
This was a punishment.
Peter had spent weeks hunting him, chasing him, breaking him down, and now he was waiting for Harry to break on his own.
Not happening.
If Peter wanted to play games, Harry could play too.
And he would win.
Phase One: The Plan
The idea hit him fast and sharp.
If Peter wanted to test him, if he wanted to sit back and see how long Harry lasted without him, then Harry would make him regret it.
He would force Peter out of hiding.
And there was only one way to do that.
Jealousy.
Because Peter could be obsessive, possessive, relentless—
But rational?
Never.
Harry smirked.
Game on.
Phase Two: The Setup
The gala was perfect.
An OsCorp charity event—exclusive, high-profile, crawling with the kind of men Peter would hate seeing him with.
And Harry knew exactly who to pick.
Nathaniel King.
Handsome, wealthy, arrogant. The kind of guy who thought he was untouchable.
Harry didn’t like him.
But that wasn’t the point.
The point was that Nathaniel looked exactly like the type of guy Peter would want to put in the fucking ground.
Which made him perfect.
Phase Three: The Execution
The second Harry stepped into the ballroom, he felt it.
The weight of someone watching.
His pulse jumped.
He’s here.
He didn’t look for Peter. Didn’t give any sign that he had noticed.
Instead, he smiled, shook hands, played the part.
Then, slowly, carefully, he made his way to Nathaniel.
The man smirked as Harry approached, looking far too confident.
"Osborn," Nathaniel greeted, taking a sip of his drink. "Didn’t think you liked these things."
Harry let his lips curl into something just shy of flirtation. "I don’t."
Nathaniel chuckled. "Then why are you here?"
Harry tilted his head. "Maybe I was waiting for the right company."
Nathaniel’s grin widened. "Lucky me."
Harry didn’t let himself hesitate.
He reached out, touched Nathaniel’s arm, just lightly, just enough to make it look intimate.
Then he laughed at something he didn’t hear.
And waited.
For the reaction.
For the storm.
For Peter to snap.
Because Harry knew he was watching.
And he was right.
Because the air suddenly felt thicker.
Darker.
Like the whole room had dipped a few degrees, the warmth sucked out of it.
A prickle ran down Harry’s spine, a warning.
Oh. There you are.
Harry’s fingers tightened around his champagne glass.
But he didn’t look.
He forced himself to stay with Nathaniel, to keep up the act, to pretend like he wasn’t already shaking inside.
Because he had won.
Peter had taken the bait.
And now, all Harry had to do was wait for the fallout.
Phase Four: The Consequence
Harry barely made it home before the storm broke.
The second he stepped inside his penthouse, something moved.
And then, suddenly, brutally—
Webbing snapped around his wrists.
Yanked him forward.
Slammed him against the wall.
His breath punched out of him.
The room was dark, suffocating, silent.
And then—
A voice.
Low. Lethal.
"Was it fun?"
Harry swallowed hard. "Peter—"
"Did you enjoy touching him?"
A sharp yank of the webbing.
Harry gasped, struggling. "Let me go."
A low, humorless chuckle.
Then—a hand on his throat.
Not tight. Not choking.
Just reminding.
Peter stepped into the light, mask off, eyes burning.
"You really thought that would work?" he murmured, tilting his head.
Harry forced himself to glare. "You’ve been ignoring me. Thought I’d get your attention."
Peter’s lips curled into something not quite a smile.
"Oh, sweetheart." He traced his fingers over Harry’s throat, right where Nathaniel had touched him. "You always have my attention."
Harry’s pulse spiked.
Peter’s smirk vanished.
"You want to know where your little friend is?"
Harry froze.
The air went dead.
Peter leaned in, voice nothing but a whispered threat.
"He’s not going to be touching you again."
Harry’s stomach dropped.
"You didn’t—"
Peter’s smirk returned. "What do you think?"
Harry yanked against the webbing, furious. "You fucking psychopath—"
Peter cut him off.
Not with words.
With his hand.
Sliding up, over Harry’s jaw, over his lips, fingers pressing.
"Shhh," Peter murmured.
Harry tried to jerk away.
Peter tightened his grip.
"Do you think I wouldn’t remind you who you belong to?"
His tone was so calm, so fucking patient.
Like this was inevitable.
Like Harry had been a stupid, reckless thing that needed to be taught a lesson.
Harry’s heart pounded.
Peter leaned in, lips brushing just beneath his ear.
"Do it again," he whispered. "I dare you."
Harry shuddered.
Because he knew.
He knew Peter wouldn’t hurt him.
But the way he spoke—the way he made him feel like prey—
It was terrifying.
And worse?
It was thrilling.
Peter pressed a slow, possessive kiss against Harry’s throat.
"You’re mine," he murmured.
Harry’s breath shook.
He should fight. He should scream.
But instead—
Instead, he stayed still.
Letting Peter win.
Letting himself lose.
Because, deep down—
Maybe he had never really wanted to win in the first place.
Part 19: No Exit
Harry didn't fight the webbing this time.
Didn’t yank at the strands. Didn’t struggle against Peter’s hold.
Because what was the point?
Peter had already won.
The air was thick with it—his victory. The way he loomed over Harry, watching him like a predator watching something caught.
Like he was waiting.
Waiting for Harry to admit it.
That there was no way out.
That he had lost.
That he had always belonged to him.
Harry swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep his breath even. "You killed him."
Peter didn’t blink. Didn’t hesitate. "Of course I did."
A slow, steady answer.
Like it was obvious.
Like it didn’t matter.
Harry’s stomach curled.
"You didn’t have to—"
Peter cut him off with a look.
"You really think I’d let him touch you?"
His fingers trailed up Harry’s jaw, slow, teasing. "You thought you could make me jealous, sweetheart?"
Harry clenched his jaw.
Peter smirked.
"Admit it." His fingers pressed into Harry’s pulse. "You wanted this."
Harry snorted. "I wanted you to lose your shit, not fucking kill a guy."
Peter’s grip tightened. "No, Harry." His voice darkened. "You wanted me to remind you."
A sharp pull of the webbing, dragging Harry forward, chest to chest.
Peter’s breath was warm against his skin. "You needed me to show you who you belong to."
Harry’s breath hitched.
Because fuck him.
Fuck him for being right.
For knowing Harry so well.
Peter hummed, pleased.
Then, slowly—tauntingly—
He kissed Harry’s throat.
Not rushed. Not brutal.
Just claiming.
"You want to be mine?" he murmured against his skin. "Say it."
Harry’s pulse jumped.
He clenched his fists, refusing.
Peter pulled back just enough to smile. "Still pretending?"
Harry gritted his teeth. "Let me go."
Peter tilted his head. "Say it first."
Harry glared.
Peter’s hand trailed lower.
Fingers brushing over his hip. Sliding beneath his belt. Dangerous.
"Say it," Peter murmured. "Or I’ll make you."
Harry shivered.
Peter felt it.
Saw it.
And grinned.
Because Harry had already lost.
Part 20: Breaking Point
Harry didn’t leave his penthouse for three days.
Peter didn’t let him.
Every time he tried to step outside, webbing snapped around his wrist. Yanked him back. Pressed him against a wall, the door, the fucking floor.
And Peter would just smile.
"Going somewhere?"
Like it was a joke.
Like Harry had a choice.
He didn’t.
Not anymore.
Peter had made sure of that.
And maybe Harry didn’t want one anyway.
Maybe he had already decided—long ago, deep down—
That he didn’t want to escape.
That he just wanted Peter to stop pretending.
To take.
To claim.
To keep him.
It happened on the fourth night.
Harry sat on the bed, staring at the ceiling, exhaustion settling into his bones.
He heard Peter’s footsteps before he saw him.
The soft whisper of movement, the weight of the bed shifting.
Then, warmth.
A body beside his.
Peter.
Silent. Waiting.
Like he was giving Harry a chance to speak first.
To admit something neither of them wanted to say.
Harry exhaled slowly.
"You’re not going to let me go, are you?"
Peter was quiet for a moment. Then—soft, final, sure.
"No."
Harry’s breath shook.
A warm hand curled around his wrist. Possessive.
Peter’s lips brushed against his ear.
"You don’t really want me to, do you?"
Harry closed his eyes.
Didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
Peter already knew.
And that was the worst part.
That was what made this real.
Because Harry didn’t want to run anymore.
And Peter had been waiting for him to realize it.
Waiting for him to break.
And now?
Now there was no going back.
Part 21: No One Else
The next morning, Harry woke up to an empty bed.
For the first time in days, Peter was gone.
No webbing. No lingering presence in the shadows.
Just absence.
Harry sat up slowly, pulse uneven.
It felt wrong.
Like something was missing.
Like a part of him had been carved out.
He ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake the feeling.
But it clung to him.
The weight of something inevitable.
Then—his phone buzzed.
A message.
Unknown Number: Breakfast at six. Wear something pretty.
Harry stared at the screen.
Then—without thinking—
He smiled.
Because this?
This was acceptance.
Peter had won.
And Harry was done pretending he didn’t love it.
Part 22: Sweet as Venom
Harry had stopped fighting.
He had accepted it—accepted Peter.
And Peter?
Peter had felt it.
Had known.
And now he was making up for lost time.
Everywhere Harry went, Peter was there.
Not lurking. Not hiding.
Just watching.
Watching him eat. Watching him sleep. Watching him like Harry was his favorite thing in the world.
And the worst part?
Harry believed it.
Because Peter didn’t just watch.
He worshiped.
It started small.
A hand on his lower back when they walked together.
A kiss against his temple when Harry muttered something sarcastic.
Soft, slow touches when they lay in bed—like Peter was memorizing him, like he couldn’t believe he was finally allowed to touch him without resistance.
It was intoxicating.
Because it wasn’t just possession anymore.
It was affection.
A love that was sharp, consuming, unhinged.
And Harry?
Harry was terrified of how much he loved it.
Part 23: My Pretty Thing
"Sit down."
Harry blinked. "Excuse me?"
Peter smiled.
And that should have been the first warning.
Peter smiling—actually smiling—was more dangerous than when he was pissed.
"You heard me," Peter said, tugging Harry toward the chair. "Sit."
Harry rolled his eyes. "Why?"
Peter leaned in, brushing his lips over Harry’s ear.
"Because I want to take care of you."
Harry’s breath hitched.
Peter pushed him down, then knelt in front of him, hands curling over his thighs.
And fuck.
That was new.
Harry stiffened. "Peter—"
Peter hummed, rubbing slow circles against his legs. "Let me."
Harry swallowed hard.
His fingers clenched at the armrests.
Peter’s hands drifted higher.
"You’ve been so good lately," Peter murmured. "Letting me have you. Letting me keep you."
Harry’s heart pounded.
"You like it, don’t you?" Peter teased, pressing a kiss to his knee.
Harry exhaled sharply. "Shut up."
Peter chuckled.
Then—slowly, deliberately—
He bit the inside of Harry’s thigh.
Harry jerked. "Peter—!"
Peter just grinned. "There’s my good boy."
Harry groaned, hating how his body reacted.
How he was already so far gone.
Because Peter had never done this before.
Had never been so soft.
So slow.
And that scared him more than anything.
Because if Peter could be like this—if he could be gentle, patient, adoring—
Then that meant he wasn’t just obsessed.
He loved him.
And that was so much worse.
Part 24: The Things I Do for You
"You know I’d do anything for you, right?"
Harry looked up from his drink, eyes narrowing. "Peter."
Peter just smirked, leaning against the bar. "What?"
Harry set the glass down. "Don’t start."
Peter’s fingers curled around his wrist.
His voice dropped.
"I mean it."
Harry swallowed.
Because he did.
Peter meant every word.
And that was the problem.
Because Peter didn’t just love him.
He worshiped him.
And he was willing to kill for it.
"You’re thinking too much," Peter murmured, tilting Harry’s chin up. "Stop it."
Harry inhaled sharply. "I—"
Peter kissed him.
Soft. Deep. Drugging.
Like he knew exactly how to break him apart.
When Peter pulled back, his gaze was hungry.
"See? Doesn’t that feel better?"
Harry glared. "You can’t just kiss me every time I start thinking about how fucking crazy you are."
Peter grinned.
"Sure I can."
Part 25: The Fear That Lingers
Harry should have felt safe.
Peter was gentle now. Romantic. Sweet.
He held Harry’s hand when they walked together.
He kissed him in public like he wanted the whole world to know Harry was his.
He whispered I love you in the dark, like he wasn’t dangerous.
Like he wasn’t a killer.
But Harry knew the truth.
He had seen what Peter had done to Nathaniel.
And he knew—deep down, where the fear never left—
That if anyone touched him again, if anyone so much as looked at him the wrong way—
Peter would paint the walls red with their blood.
And the worst part?
Harry wasn’t sure if he wanted to stop him.
Part 26: The Breaking Point
"You’re thinking about it again."
Harry stiffened. "Thinking about what?"
Peter leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes dark.
Harry looked away. "Nothing."
Peter was suddenly right there, fingers wrapping around Harry’s throat—not tight, just a reminder.
"Don’t lie to me," Peter murmured.
Harry clenched his jaw. "I don’t like the way you—"
Peter’s grip tightened.
Not enough to hurt.
Just enough to make Harry’s pulse jump.
"Try again," Peter said softly.
Harry exhaled. "I love you."
Peter smiled.
"Good boy."
A slow kiss.
A promise.
Then, against his lips—a whisper.
"I’ll be good for you."
A pause.
"But only if you let me be bad for everyone else."
Harry’s breath shook.
Because that was it.
That was the real choice.
It wasn’t about escaping.
It wasn’t about leaving.
It was about letting Peter love him the only way he knew how.
Unhinged. Obsessive. Terrifying.
And completely, undeniably his.
And Harry?
Harry wasn’t sure if he cared anymore.
Part 27: Fractures
Harry stirred his coffee absently, gaze drifting out the window.
MJ sat across from him, her hands wrapped around her cup, eyes flicking over his face with that too-knowing look of hers.
"So," she said, stretching out the word. "Are we going to talk about it?"
Harry blinked, snapping out of his thoughts. "Talk about what?"
MJ raised an eyebrow. "You’re kidding, right?"
Harry forced a smirk. "You’re gonna have to be a little more specific, Watson."
She leaned forward, serious now. "Harry."
His stomach tightened.
"You look—" She hesitated. "Different."
Harry rolled his eyes. "Great. Thanks for that."
MJ didn’t laugh.
She just watched him.
Waiting.
Harry sighed, setting his cup down. "I’m fine, MJ."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
"You don’t—" She paused. "You don’t sound sure."
Harry forced a smile. Too practiced. Too fake.
"I promise," he said, voice light. "I’m okay."
MJ frowned, but didn’t push.
Instead, she reached across the table, giving his hand a quick squeeze.
"Alright," she said softly.
Harry exhaled, relief curling in his chest.
She didn’t believe him.
But she let it go.
For now.
When they stepped outside, MJ turned to him with a small, affectionate smile.
"Take care of yourself, okay?"
Before Harry could respond, she leaned in and pressed a quick kiss against his cheek.
Warm. Sweet.
Gone in a second.
Harry huffed. "Really?"
MJ grinned. "Deal with it, Osborn."
Harry rolled his eyes, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Yeah, yeah."
Then he turned, walking off into the night.
Part 28: Rage in Red
Harry didn’t feel the danger at first.
Didn’t hear it.
Didn’t see it.
Not until he stepped into his penthouse, closing the door behind him—
And then a shadow moved.
Harry barely had time to react before something slammed into him, pinning him against the wall.
He gasped, heart hammering—but it wasn’t pain that froze him.
It was Peter.
Peter, mask gone, eyes burning.
His grip was too tight.
His breath came fast. Too fast.
And when he spoke—his voice was shaking.
"Where were you?"
Harry stared at him. "What—"
"Where the fuck were you?" Peter snapped.
Harry’s stomach turned.
Because this was different.
Peter wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t smug.
He was pissed.
And then Harry understood.
"You were watching," he breathed.
Peter laughed.
A harsh, ugly sound.
"Of course I was watching," he growled.
His fingers dug into Harry’s arms, too tight.
"You didn’t tell me."
Harry’s pulse spiked.
"You didn’t tell me," Peter repeated, voice sharper now, ragged.
Harry swallowed hard. "Peter, you need to—"
And then he snapped.
A table went flying.
Glass shattered.
The lamp exploded against the wall.
Harry flinched, panic rising.
Peter didn’t stop.
"Do you have any idea what that looked like?" Peter yelled, knocking over the chair, fists clenching and unclenching.
"You let her touch you!"
Harry froze.
His chest tightened.
"Peter," he tried again. "It wasn’t like—"
CRACK.
Something splintered.
Wood, glass—Harry didn’t know.
Because all he could focus on was Peter’s face.
His rage.
His eyes, wild, unhinged, terrifying.
Harry took a shaky step back, stomach twisting.
And Peter—
Peter moved too fast.
His hand shot out—
Harry braced for it—but it didn’t hit him.
It stopped.
Fingers gripping his wrist instead—too hard, too rough.
Harry sucked in a sharp breath, a sting blooming beneath Peter’s hold.
Peter froze.
Harry’s throat felt tight.
The room was too quiet.
Too still.
Peter’s grip immediately loosened.
His rage vanished.
And in its place?
Horror.
"Harry," he breathed, voice cracking.
Harry just stared at him.
Peter stepped back.
Shaking now.
His eyes darted to Harry’s wrist—red, bruising fast.
And then he broke.
"Fuck," Peter whispered, running a hand through his hair. "Fuck, I—"
His breath hitched.
"I didn’t mean—"
Harry took another step back, chest heaving.
Because he wasn’t hurt.
Not really.
But he was scared.
And Peter saw it.
Saw the tears in his eyes.
Saw the way he had flinched.
Peter’s face crumpled.
"Harry," he whispered. "Please."
Harry didn’t respond.
Couldn’t.
Because Peter—Peter had never done this before.
Had never hurt him.
Had never made him feel unsafe.
And now?
Now Harry didn’t know what to do.
Because Peter was breaking.
Right in front of him.
Hands shaking. Chest rising too fast.
Eyes wide, lost, desperate.
And Harry?
Harry was crying.
Not because of the bruise.
Not because of the pain.
But because for the first time, Peter Parker looked truly afraid.
Afraid of himself.
Afraid of what he’d done.
Afraid of what he might do next.
And Harry?
Harry had no idea how to fix it.
Part 29: Shattered Pieces
The silence stretched.
Thick. Heavy. Suffocating.
Peter’s hands still shook.
Harry could see it—his fingers twitching, his breath coming in uneven gasps, his whole body coiled tight like a live wire.
And his eyes.
Wide. Panic-stricken.
Like he couldn’t believe what he had done.
Like he was afraid to move.
Like if he touched Harry again, he might break him completely.
Harry swallowed hard, his own breath unsteady.
He looked down at his wrist—already darkening, bruising.
A stupid little mark. Nothing serious.
But it wasn’t the pain that made his chest tighten.
It was the rage.
The way Peter had exploded.
The way he had lost control.
Over nothing.
Harry blinked fast, forcing down the lump in his throat.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Peter was obsessive.
Possessive.
But he had never been violent.
Not with him.
Never with him.
And yet—
Peter took a step back, breath still ragged.
His hands clenched into fists.
"Harry," he whispered. "I—"
He cut himself off.
Like he didn’t know what to say.
Like he knew there was no excuse.
Harry didn’t respond.
Couldn’t.
Because what the hell was he supposed to say?
It’s fine?
It’s okay?
It wasn’t.
For the first time since this whole twisted thing started—
Harry felt unsafe.
Part 30: The Cracks Show
Peter left.
Just like that.
One second, he was standing there, shaking, ruined—
And the next?
Gone.
Harry exhaled sharply, shoulders sagging.
His whole body felt weak.
Shattered glass still littered the floor. The air smelled like dust and broken things.
And Harry just stood there.
Staring.
Hands still trembling.
Because this was different.
Peter had hurt him.
Not badly. Not on purpose.
But it had happened.
And it could happen again.
Harry swallowed hard, rubbing his bruised wrist, hating the way his stomach twisted.
He shouldn’t be scared.
This was Peter.
The same Peter who kissed his forehead before bed.
Who whispered mine in the dark.
Who loved him.
But love wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
Love wasn’t supposed to feel like walking a tightrope over a storm.
One misstep, and—
Harry squeezed his eyes shut.
He didn’t want to think about it.
Didn’t want to admit the truth.
That for the first time—he wasn’t sure if Peter could be trusted.
Part 31: The Reckoning
Peter was gone for two days.
No calls. No texts. No late-night visits.
Just absence.
And Harry hated how much it hurt.
Because this was what he wanted, right?
Space.
A chance to breathe.
A chance to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do.
But instead, all he could think about was Peter’s face before he left.
The panic.
The guilt.
The way he had looked at Harry like he was something fragile.
Something he had ruined.
And maybe?
Maybe he had.
The third night, Peter came back.
Harry didn’t see him at first.
Didn’t hear him.
But then—
A whisper.
"Harry."
Harry froze.
Then turned.
Peter stood in the corner of the room, in the shadows.
His mask was off. His suit still on.
But he looked… wrecked.
Dark circles under his eyes. Shoulders hunched. Hollow.
Like he hadn’t slept. Like he hadn’t breathed since that night.
Harry swallowed. "You’re back."
Peter’s jaw clenched. "I shouldn’t be."
A pause.
Then—softer.
"But I had to see you."
Harry inhaled slowly. "Peter—"
Peter moved.
Not fast.
Not aggressive.
Just tired.
He sank to his knees in front of Harry, hands curled into fists, head bowed.
Like he was praying.
Like he was begging.
"Tell me what to do," Peter murmured.
Harry’s breath caught.
"Tell me how to fix this."
Harry’s throat tightened.
Because fuck.
Fuck, Peter sounded broken.
Like he didn’t know how to exist if Harry was scared of him.
Harry let out a slow breath.
Then—hesitantly, carefully—
He reached out.
Fingers shaky as they brushed against Peter’s cheek.
Peter’s eyes fluttered shut.
Like he had been starving for his touch.
Like he had been drowning without it.
"You can’t do that again," Harry whispered.
Peter nodded.
Fast. Desperate.
"Never," he breathed. "I swear."
Harry exhaled sharply.
Then—quieter now.
"I was scared of you."
Peter flinched.
Like the words had physically hurt him.
His hands trembled where they rested on Harry’s thighs.
"Harry," he whispered. "Please."
Harry swallowed.
"Promise me," he said softly.
Peter’s fingers curled tight.
And then—without hesitation.
"I promise."
Harry studied him.
Really looked at him.
At the way he shook.
At the way he still wouldn’t meet his eyes.
At the way he had been waiting for Harry to tell him it was okay to stay.
Harry sighed.
Then, slowly—carefully—
He leaned forward.
Pressed a soft, hesitant kiss against Peter’s forehead.
Peter broke.
A sharp inhale. A shudder.
Then his arms were around Harry, holding him like he was afraid to let go.
Harry didn’t pull away.
Didn’t fight it.
Just let it happen.
Let Peter fall apart in his arms.
Because this wasn’t over.
Peter was still dangerous.
Still possessive. Still terrifying.
But for now?
For now, Harry just let him hold on.
Because maybe Peter wasn’t the only one who needed it.
Part 32: The Price of Forgiveness
Harry should have known.
He should have known that Peter’s promises were just words.
That love—Peter’s love—was not something that could be contained.
It wasn’t something soft or gentle or safe.
It was obsession.
It was something dark and unyielding.
And it would never let him go.
MJ Should Have Known Better
MJ felt it before she saw him.
That prickling, unshakable feeling of being watched.
She walked faster, clutching her bag a little tighter, the city lights flickering overhead as she made her way down the quiet street.
Then—a sound.
A whisper of movement.
She froze.
And then—a voice.
Low. Silken.
"That was cute."
Her breath hitched.
A shadow dropped from above, landing smoothly in front of her.
Red and black.
Spider-Man.
But not the one she knew.
Not the Peter Parker who used to laugh with her, who used to be awkward and bright-eyed and kind.
No.
This Peter?
This one was something else entirely.
MJ stepped back.
Peter tilted his head. "What’s wrong?"
She swallowed hard. "Peter—"
His smirk deepened.
"You kissed him," he said, voice light. Too light.
MJ’s stomach dropped.
"It wasn’t—"
Peter’s hand shot out, slamming against the wall beside her.
She flinched.
Peter smiled.
"You must be confused," he murmured, voice dangerously soft. "Because Harry doesn’t belong to you."
MJ’s pulse raced.
Peter leaned in, his breath warm against her ear.
"You’re lucky I’m feeling generous," he whispered.
A pause.
Then, colder now.
"But if you ever touch him like that again, I’ll remind you exactly what happens to people who don’t listen."
MJ felt a chill crawl down her spine.
Then, before she could respond—he was gone.
Vanishing into the night.
Like he had never been there at all.
But MJ knew better.
Because even after he left, the fear remained.
Part 33: Unrelenting
Harry could feel the shift.
Peter was different now.
More touchy.
More demanding.
Like he was trying to mark his territory.
Like he wanted to remind Harry who he belonged to.
Harry noticed it in the little things.
The way Peter’s fingers lingered when they touched.
The way his hand would slide down Harry’s back, lower than necessary, gripping his ass in broad daylight just to make Harry gasp and swat him away.
The way he pulled Harry into random, searing kisses in public—uncaring of who was watching.
And when they were alone?
It was so much worse.
Part 34: Silk and Steel
Harry barely stepped into the penthouse before he was pinned against the door.
A gasp punched out of him, his back pressing against the wood as Peter’s mouth crashed into his.
Hot. Unyielding.
A claim.
Harry’s fingers fisted into Peter’s suit, pushing, pulling, not sure whether he wanted to escape or disappear into it.
"Peter," he breathed between kisses, chest heaving.
Peter bit his lower lip. "What?"
Harry glared. "You’re insatiable."
Peter smirked. "And you love it."
Harry didn’t answer.
Didn’t have to.
Because Peter’s hands were already moving.
Sliding up his waist. Down his hips. Squeezing. Gripping.
Harry let out a shaky breath, his body betraying him as Peter kissed down his throat.
"You’re mine," Peter murmured against his skin.
Harry shuddered.
Peter’s teeth grazed over his pulse.
"Say it."
Harry’s breath hitched. "Peter—"
Peter’s hands tightened. "Say it."
Harry’s fingers curled into Peter’s suit.
His pulse raced.
He hated him.
He loved him.
"Yours," Harry whispered.
Peter groaned.
Then—faster than Harry could react—
He lifted him off the ground, wrapping Harry’s legs around his waist, walking them toward the bedroom.
"Good boy," Peter murmured.
Harry bit his lip.
Because he was falling again.
Drowning in Peter’s web.
And he had no intention of escaping.
Part 35: No Way Out
Harry should have known that forgiving Peter would only make things worse.
Peter had always been insatiable. Always demanding.
But now?
Now it was like he couldn’t keep his hands to himself at all.
It was the way his touch never left Harry’s body for long—a hand on his thigh, fingers brushing over his throat, gripping his wrist just tight enough to remind him that Peter was always there.
It was the way Peter kissed him—deep, messy, drugging. Random and sudden, like he couldn’t go more than a few minutes without tasting him.
And then there were the other moments.
The ones that made Harry’s stomach twist.
The ones where Peter would look at him for too long, too intently.
Like he was trying to memorize every inch of him.
Like he was afraid he would disappear.
Like he had something to lose.
And that?
That was terrifying.
Because Peter didn’t just love him.
He needed him.
And people like Peter—people who needed that much, who loved that much—
They never let go.
Not willingly.
Not without destroying everything in their path.
Part 36: You Were Never Free
Harry tried.
He tried to set boundaries.
Tried to get Peter to slow down.
But Peter was like a storm.
Like a force of nature.
"You don’t get it, do you?" Peter murmured, pushing Harry down onto the couch, straddling him.
Harry’s breath hitched. "Peter—"
Peter pressed a firm hand to his chest, keeping him in place.
"Why do you keep pretending?" Peter asked softly, fingers tracing Harry’s jaw.
Harry clenched his fists. "Pretending what?"
Peter tilted his head, his lips curving.
"That you were ever free."
Harry’s chest tightened.
Peter leaned in, kissing him slow, deep.
Harry tried to fight it.
Tried to remind himself that this wasn’t normal.
That Peter was dangerous.
That he had threatened MJ.
That he had hurt him.
But the second Peter’s hand slid between his thighs, gripping, teasing, demanding—
Harry gave in.
Because Peter was right.
He had never been free.
Not since the day Peter decided to keep him.
And now?
Now there was no way out.
Part 37: The Lie of Safety
The next morning, Harry woke up before Peter.
That never happened.
Peter was always restless.
Always watching him.
But today?
Today he was still.
Harry turned his head, watching him—the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers still curled around Harry’s wrist even in sleep.
Even unconscious, Peter refused to let him go.
Harry sighed.
He knew he shouldn’t stay.
Shouldn’t keep letting this happen.
But then Peter shifted, murmuring something soft under his breath.
Harry stilled.
Because it wasn’t just anything.
It was his name.
Spoken like a prayer.
Like a plea.
Like he was the only thing keeping Peter tethered to this world.
Harry closed his eyes.
Because that?
That was what kept him here.
Not fear.
Not possession.
Not obsession.
But the simple, terrifying truth.
That Peter needed him.
And he wasn’t strong enough to walk away.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
Part 38: The Escape That Never Was
Harry knew running wouldn’t work.
Knew that Peter was always watching.
That his every move was being monitored, controlled, anticipated.
But tonight?
Tonight, he had to try.
Because for the first time, he felt something worse than fear.
He felt trapped.
It started when he found Peter’s notebook.
He hadn’t meant to.
Hadn’t been looking.
But Peter had left it open on the kitchen counter.
And Harry?
Harry had always been too curious for his own good.
The first few pages had been normal.
Messy notes. Doodles. Rambling thoughts.
But then—
Then it got worse.
Pages filled with his name.
With sketches of him—his face, his hands, his lips.
And then, written over and over—
"Mine."
Harry’s stomach turned.
And then he saw the list.
Names.
Crossed out.
Nathaniel King.
Two others.
And—
Harry’s blood ran cold.
MJ.
Not crossed out.
Still there.
Still alive.
For now.
Harry’s breath came fast.
His pulse raced.
And for the first time in weeks, he realized—
He wasn’t safe.
Neither was MJ.
Not if he stayed.
Not if he let Peter keep winning.
So he did the only thing he could.
He ran.
Part 39: The Hunt Begins
Harry should have known better.
Should have known that the second he stepped outside, the game was already over.
Because Peter had let him think he was free.
Had waited for him to try.
Had known it would come to this.
And when Harry turned the corner—
Peter was already there.
Leaning against the alley wall.
Waiting.
Smiling.
Like he had been expecting him all along.
Harry’s heart stopped.
Peter tsked, shaking his head.
"You actually thought you could leave?"
His voice was calm.
Amused.
Like this was just another game.
Like Harry’s desperation was nothing but entertainment.
Harry swallowed hard, forcing himself to stand his ground.
"I know what you did."
Peter tilted his head. "Oh?"
"The list," Harry spat. "The names. Nathaniel. MJ."
Peter’s smirk vanished.
And in its place—
Darkness.
He moved fast.
Harry barely had time to react before he was slammed against the wall, webbing snapping around his wrists.
His breath punched out of him, fear lancing through his chest.
Peter loomed over him, eyes sharp, voice lethal.
"You went through my things?"
Harry struggled. "You were going to kill her—"
Peter growled.
"Do you really think I’d let her live after she put her lips on you?"
Harry froze.
Peter leaned in, breath warm against his ear.
"You think you can leave me," he whispered. "You think you can run."
His grip tightened.
"You have no idea how wrong you are."
Then—before Harry could react—
Peter yanked him forward, tossing him over his shoulder.
"Peter!" Harry gasped, kicking, struggling. "Put me the fuck down!"
Peter just laughed.
And then, with one swift motion—
He swung into the night.
Taking Harry with him.
Taking him back.
Back to where he belonged.
Part 40: You Were Always Mine
Harry’s lungs burned.
The world blurred around him, buildings flashing by as Peter swung them higher, faster, unstoppable.
Harry thrashed, trying to break free.
"Let me go!"
Peter tightened his grip.
"Never."
The wind howled around them, the city stretching out far below.
And then—just as suddenly as they had taken off—
They landed.
Peter’s penthouse.
Their prison.
Harry barely had a second to react before he was thrown onto the bed, webbing snapping around his ankles, wrists, holding him down.
Peter stood over him, chest heaving, eyes wild.
"You don’t get it, do you?"
Harry snarled. "You’re fucking insane."
Peter smirked.
Then, softer now—dangerously soft.
"You’re mine, Harry."
He crawled onto the bed, hovering over him.
"Mine to love."
A kiss, deep and dizzying.
"Mine to protect."
Another kiss.
"Mine to keep."
His hands slid lower, possessive, teasing.
Harry shivered.
Hating how his body betrayed him.
Hating how Peter always won.
Peter kissed down his throat, whispering—soft, dark, final.
"You were never leaving me."
A pause.
Then—a promise.
"And I’ll kill anyone who tries to take you away."
Harry’s breath hitched.
Because he believed him.
And the worst part?
The worst part was that he didn’t fight.
Not this time.
Not anymore.
Because Peter was right.
Harry had never really been free.
And maybe he didn’t want to be.
Part 41: The Fire in Him
Harry knew this wasn’t over.
He knew Peter expected him to break.
To accept.
To stay.
But Harry Osborn had never been someone’s possession.
And he would be damned if he let Peter decide his fate.
So he did the only thing he could.
He planned.
He waited.
And then, when the time was right—
He ran.
Again.
Part 42: The Game He Loves to Play
Peter always knew.
Always felt it.
That tingle in his spine when Harry was about to do something stupid.
And tonight?
Tonight, he felt it before it even happened.
Which made it so much better.
Because Harry thought he was winning.
Thought he was smart.
Thought he could actually outplay him.
Peter let him believe it.
Let him taste that moment of freedom.
Then, when Harry stepped outside, when he finally exhaled, thinking he was safe—
Peter made his move.
But not by taking Harry.
Not this time.
No.
This time, he needed to teach him a lesson.
Which meant taking someone else.
Someone Harry cared about.
Someone who had already touched what belonged to him.
MJ.
Part 43: The Bait
Harry had barely made it five blocks before his phone buzzed.
A text.
Unknown Number: Oops.
His stomach dropped.
Then, before he could react—
A picture.
MJ.
Tied to a chair.
Lip bloody.
Eyes wide.
And standing behind her?
Peter.
Smiling.
Harry’s breath caught.
His hands shook.
Then—another message.
Unknown Number: Come home, sweetheart.
Harry’s pulse roared.
And he knew.
He was caught.
Again.
Part 44: The Fall
Harry burst into the penthouse.
Peter was already there, waiting.
Waiting for him to come crawling back.
And MJ?
MJ was sitting in the chair, alive.
But shaken.
Tears in her eyes.
Peter leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching Harry with amusement.
Like this was just another game.
"That was fast," he mused. "Almost like you actually care about her."
Harry’s hands shook with rage.
"You’re a fucking monster," he spat.
Peter grinned.
"You say that," he murmured, stepping closer, gripping Harry’s chin, forcing their eyes to meet.
"But you keep coming back to me."
Harry’s breath hitched.
Because Peter was right.
Again.
And Harry?
He was so, so tired of losing.
Part 45: The Last Fight in Him
Harry had never felt this tired.
Not physically.
Not even emotionally.
But somewhere deep inside, in that part of him that used to believe he could still fight this, that he could still win.
That part was gone.
Peter had taken it.
Had ripped it out of him.
Had won.
And Harry had nothing left to give.
MJ was safe.
That was the important part.
Peter had let her go the second Harry walked in.
Because, really?
She had never been the prize.
She had just been the reminder.
The lesson.
A demonstration of what happened when Harry thought he could escape.
And now?
Now he knew better.
Part 46: The Breaking Point
Harry sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, breath shaking.
He could still feel it.
The weight of failure.
The realization that there was no way out.
That every time he ran, every time he fought, Peter would just pull him back.
He was trapped.
Completely.
Forever.
And the worst part?
He wasn’t sure he wanted to leave anymore.
Peter watched him in silence.
Studying him.
Taking in the defeat in his posture, the slight tremble in his fingers.
Then, finally—he spoke.
Soft. Patient.
Like he was comforting a child.
"Shhh," Peter murmured, stepping closer.
Harry didn’t move.
Didn’t react when Peter knelt in front of him, hands sliding over his knees, up his thighs, gripping gently.
"See?" Peter whispered. "You’re home now."
Harry’s breath hitched.
Peter’s hands slid up, brushing against his ribs, wrapping around him, pulling him closer.
"You should’ve listened to me," Peter sighed, resting his head against Harry’s stomach.
His voice was mocking in its softness.
Patronizing.
"You can’t escape me, sweetheart."
A kiss against his hip.
"You never could."
A hand tightening around his waist.
"You belong here."
Harry broke.
A sharp, shuddering inhale.
Then—a sob.
Peter sighed.
And smiled.
"There we go," he murmured. "Let it out."
Harry hated him.
Hated him for winning.
For knowing.
For being right.
Again.
Always.
Peter shifted, pulling Harry onto his lap, pressing him against his chest, cradling him.
Like he was something precious.
Something breakable.
Something his.
"I need you," Peter whispered, lips brushing against Harry’s temple.
"You keep me sane."
Harry let out a shaky breath, fists clenching into Peter’s shirt.
"You make me better."
Another kiss.
"You make me whole."
Harry squeezed his eyes shut, another sob escaping.
Peter’s arms tightened.
"That’s right," he murmured.
"You understand now, don’t you?"
Harry nodded.
Because what else could he do?
He was trapped.
He was ruined.
He was Peter’s.
And there was nothing he could do about it.
Part 47: The Final Thread
Harry stopped counting the days.
Stopped tracking the time.
Because there was no point.
There was no before and no after.
There was only Peter.
Only this.
A cage wrapped in silk, spun with whispers and kisses and promises.
A love so dark and twisted that it didn’t feel like love at all—just possession wearing a pretty face.
And now?
Now Harry didn’t even try to fight it.
Because what was the point?
Peter always won.
Part 48: The Proposal
It happened so casually that Harry almost laughed.
They were in bed.
Peter’s arm draped over his waist, fingers tracing lazy circles on his hip.
Harry was half-asleep, his mind hazy and quiet, for once at peace.
Then—soft.
Deceptively soft.
"We should get married."
Harry’s entire body tensed.
His eyes snapped open.
Peter didn’t move.
Didn’t even seem to realize what he had just said.
Just kept tracing shapes into his skin, like he had suggested something as simple as getting coffee.
Harry’s breath hitched.
"You—" He swallowed. "You’re joking."
Peter hummed.
"Not at all."
His fingers tightened on Harry’s waist.
"You’re already mine."
A kiss against his shoulder.
"This would just make it official."
Harry felt lightheaded.
Felt like the walls were closing in.
Peter wanted to marry him.
Peter wanted to own him completely.
Harry’s heart pounded.
"You’re insane," he whispered.
Peter smiled.
And bit his throat.
"Only for you."
Part 49: There Is No Escape
Harry’s hands shook.
He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the silver band in Peter’s palm.
It was simple. Elegant.
A cage in the shape of a ring.
Peter knelt in front of him, eyes glowing.
Excited.
Unhinged.
"Say yes," Peter whispered.
Harry felt trapped.
Because if he said no—
If he denied Peter this—
He didn’t know what would happen.
Didn’t know if Peter would lose himself again.
If he would snap.
If he would break something.
Someone.
Maybe Harry.
Maybe MJ.
Maybe himself.
Harry’s breath shook.
Peter tilted his head.
Waiting.
Patient.
Like he already knew the answer.
Because he did.
Because there was only ever one answer.
Harry clenched his jaw.
And then, quiet, broken—
"Yes."
Peter sighed in relief.
And slid the ring onto his finger.
"There," Peter murmured, kissing his knuckles.
His grip tightened.
"Now you really can’t leave."
Harry swallowed hard.
Because he knew.
He never would.
Part 50: The Nightmare That Felt Too Real
Harry’s breath hitched.
His hands were shaking.
His chest ached.
He could still feel the weight of the ring on his finger, the way Peter had slid it on so easily, like it had always belonged there.
Like he had always belonged to him.
But when he looked down—
His fingers were bare.
No ring.
No silver cage wrapped around his skin.
His breath came fast, shallow, uneven.
Because it wasn’t real.
It had been a dream.
A nightmare.
Harry sucked in a sharp breath, fingers fisting into the sheets.
He was in bed.
Still in bed.
And beside him—
A warm presence.
A slow, steady rhythm of breath.
Peter.
Sleeping.
Calm. Peaceful.
Not twisted in rage. Not demanding marriage. Not breaking him all over again.
Just… Peter.
Harry felt something inside him break.
Because even though it had been a dream, even though he hadn’t truly been trapped in an engagement he never wanted—
The feeling hadn’t left.
The weight of it still pressed heavy on his chest.
Because one day, it wouldn’t be a nightmare.
One day, Peter would wake up and decide Harry wasn’t enough as just a possession.
That he needed to be something more.
Something permanent.
Something forever.
And then what?
Harry squeezed his eyes shut, willing the thought away.
But the tears still came.
Slow. Silent.
Because even now, in the stillness of the night, he could remember a time when Peter had just been… Peter.
Not this.
Not obsessed.
Not broken.
Not the man who had ruined him beyond repair.