Title: Safe

Author: raven ([email protected])

Rating: R

Category: Slash, movie-verse.

Pairing: Peter/Norman, and kinda Spidey/GG, if you see what I mean.

Summary: In my twisted little mind, the `join me' scene happened a little differently� and so did the events surrounding it.

Warnings: slight non-con, PWP, slight angst.

Feedback: If you're gonna flame me, do it off list ;)

Disclaimer: Not mine by any stretch of the imagination, and other than the twisted thrill of writing this, I'm getting nothing out of it.

Distribution: Not that you'll want it, but I have a simple philosophy � want, take, have. Just let me know where it is.

Notes: My first (and probably last) Spidey fic, and I claim all mistakes as my own. Having only seen the movie once, and having the memory span of a goldfish, I can't say if it screws with canon dramatically. And I should warn you, there's absolutely no adequate explanation for what happens between Peter and Norman in this fic at all.

And a note to The Artful Dodger � I've just half an hour ago read your fic, `Vengeance�', and I've noticed certain similarities. That's not intentional; it's just the way it worked out. I wasn't going to post this because of the similarities, but then I realised that the point of the two fics is pretty different, and in many ways, so is the content. Hopefully you'll see that I didn't write a similar-ish fic on purpose. Have I mentioned that I loved `Vengeance�'? *g*

***
Safe
***

He came in through the open window, closing it quickly behind him against the pouring rain. He tore off the mask, tore off the suit, and headed for the bathroom.

He couldn't believe what had happened. Except he knew that it had � he could still feel it. He just didn't want to believe. But the shower wasn't hot enough to make him forget, no matter how much he hoped it could. He almost scoured his skin raw trying to make himself forget, but he could think of nothing else the whole time. He couldn't forget the eyes. The eyes behind the eyes. Just the thought of it made him sick.

And the burning water just kept on showering down, the heat biting, stinging against his eyes. It hit his face and his shoulders, ran down over the muscles of his chest, ran down over his flaccid sex as he scrubbed at it roughly with the washcloth. The water ran down over his shoulders, over his back, into the cleft of his ass and down further, caressing him like so many intimate, scalding fingers. He shuddered.

He ran the tip of his tongue over his lower lip and winced. He wished he hadn't bitten it. The taste of blood was still in his mouth.

But the hot water felt strangely good on his skin. He started to relax, the tension soothing from his shoulders. His head stopped spinning. Soon he was breathing easier, feeling a little more like himself, like maybe none of it mattered the way he'd thought it did. He didn't feel quite so sick anymore. A couple more hours and he'd be wondering why he'd made such a big deal of it. He left the shower and towelled dry, pulled on his robe and opened the bathroom door. It was going to be okay.

He froze. His breath caught in his throat. His eyes went wide. Oh God, it was him.

"Peter? Is something wrong?"

"Oh, Mr. Osborn!" Peter sighed, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I� I thought you were someone else".

He walked slowly around the couch and took a seat, dropping his head into his hands, running his fingers through his wet hair. He felt kinda stupid now, knowing who it was. His pulse was racing and his cheeks burned; he knew he'd overreacted, big time.

But he could still feel those hands on him. He shivered. He was wrong. It was still a big deal. Always.

"Peter, are you feeling all right?"

He glanced up at Norman, who was sitting on the opposite couch, and made a small attempt at a smile. "Yes, Sir, I'm fine", he said, though he could tell that neither his smile nor his tone were exactly convincing. He coughed, cleared his throat. "I've just had a� a long night, that's all. Thanks for asking".

Norman stood, and Peter listened to the click of his heels against the hardwood floor as he moved to the back of the couch. He felt it shift slightly under him as Norman leant down heavily on the back.

"I'm supposed to meeting Harry", he said. "No one answered the door and he's obviously not here, so I let myself in. I hope that's not a problem".

"Not at all, Sir".

Norman's weight shifted on the back of the couch. "Peter, are you sure there's nothing else? You don't seem yourself".

And this time, Peter didn't have an answer. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressed his thumbs tight to him temples and hoped for a second that it might all go away. That night, Norman Osborn's perception, the powers, everything that had happened. He wished it all away.

"Do you want to- - do you want to talk about it?" Norman asked as he rounded the end of the couch.

"No, Sir, I'd rather not".

"Then is it something I can help you with?" Norman took a seat beside him.

"No, no it's not".

"And you're sure about that?"

Norman shifted forward; Peter felt the shift in the cushions under him and heard it in the slight squeak of the frame. He flinched as he felt a hand on his hair and looked up, his slightly wide.

Norman's blue eyes were just inches in front of his own, their gaze intent as Norman rested the heel of his right hand against Peter's cheekbone, stroking his fingertips through the stray hair by his temple. Peter frowned.

"Mr. Osborn?"

Norman smiled, his hand trailing down to the back of Peter's neck before he leaned a little closer, his lips brushing lightly over Peter's.

"Norman", he said, looking him straight in the eye, that small smile still curving his lips. "Call me Norman". Peter smiled, a small nervous smile. And Norman kissed him again.

A tongue swept across his lips, was allowed inside, tasting him. Teeth caught his lower lip, and Norman licked at it, bit at it softly, and the fingers at the nape of his neck seemed to take away the pain. Then the warm, teasing mouth left his, and left him gasping.

Fingers worked at the belt of his robe and before he knew it, the robe was open and Norman was on his knees with his cock in that mouth.

Peter's breath caught and he clawed at the couch, looking down into Norman's smiling eyes. He teased him with his tongue and his teeth and his lips, one hand moving to clutch at his hip and the other to pluck at a nipple. Peter arched into the warm wetness of that mouth, letting Norman take him as deep as he could, deep into his throat. It felt too good for him to worry that this was his best friend's father deep-throating him on their couch.

Norman drew back. And before he had time to think about it, suddenly Peter was pulling him up and leading him up the stairs, into his room. He'd shoved the suit under the bed � the bed that he sat down on to watch as Norman quickly rid himself of his clothing.

It was happening so fast Peter was almost panicking. The problem was that he could remember the last time he'd felt that aroused and out of control; just the thought of it turned his stomach and brought a metallic taste to his mouth. It was like he was seeing it in flashes, hot and bright, all fevered and sweat-slicked. He bit his lip again and tasted blood as he watched Norman Osborn kiss his way down his chest. It felt so good, and somehow, it felt so right. He let Norman turn him. He knew he wouldn't hurt him.

Fingers stretched him, coated with something apparently fished from Norman's briefcase. It felt so good, the friction, the burst of pleasure as one fingertip grazed across that spot inside him that had him seeing stars. And then Norman was inside him, filling him completely, his breath and his kisses hot on the back of his neck as they moved together in Peter's bed. Norman's arm snaked under his body and took him in his hand, stroking firmly. Peter shuddered and something about the moment struck him as odd. Odd how that touch could feel so right with one person and so wrong with another.

And then they came, one after the other, and it didn't matter who was first. Norman collapsed against Peter's back, his chest hot and slick with sweat. Then he pulled him into his arms and they kissed, once, soft and deep, before they allowed themselves to be overcome by sleep.

***

He woke.

His vision was blurred, darkened. He couldn't move. His body felt heavy. He could barely even open his eyes. And when he did, he wished he hadn't. He'd wanted to find he was home, in his room, in his bed or even on the floor, find he'd had too much to drink and passed out or something, anything that meant he wasn't there. Before he opened his eyes he could almost have believed it. He'd almost had himself convinced.

A rooftop, night. For a second he had no idea how he'd got there, before the realisation closed in on him. But he couldn't see it, him. The rooftop was dark through his mask, his mask clinging close to his face, catching roughly around his stubble-lined jaw. Suddenly the mask, the costume, felt too tight around his neck. He couldn't breathe. He felt claustrophobic, panicked, oppressed by blue and red Spandex and something else. Something� something close by, a presence hanging heavy on the air.

The hand against his shoulder made him start, then shiver, deep, down his spine. It made him look up. And this time he saw him. It.

The yellow eyes peeled back. If he concentrated he could see inside the mask, into the eyes behind it. So he was human after all. He'd almost been able to imagine that he wasn't, and in a way that made it easier. It was easier to fight a monster than a human being, even one in a lurid green costume. It was the Green Goblin.

He pressure of the hand as it pressed against his shoulder was just enough to hurt, a dull sort of pain, just enough to bring him to his senses. The other hand moved to his other shoulder and pressed. He could feel the hard brick wall that he was slumped against, cold against his back. He could feel breath hot against his cheek, even through the mask. He could see the Goblin kneeling astride his thighs, so close, and if he'd been able to move, so easy to dislodge. But he couldn't move.

One of those hands snaked down his chest, raked over his nipples, making him shudder. He thought he could see a smile on the mouth beneath that green mask, before he closed his eyes. His head hurt and his body ached and he didn't want this. He felt sick.

The hand reached down and cupped the bulge between his legs. The gloved teased him torturously through the Spandex, squeezing, stroking, and he had to bite down on his lip to keep from moaning. God, this was wrong. So wrong it hurt and made hot tears spring to his eyes. He couldn't move and he couldn't stop it, he couldn't strike out, couldn't trust himself to say no� he couldn't even tense against the assault and hope that his body wouldn't respond to those hard, steady touches. He was helpless.

He wanted to struggle, tried, gave up. He tried to think of something else, anything else, photography, science, the feel of the web in his wrists, the spider, MJ's smile, anything to keep him as far away from that place and that touch. But he couldn't.

His whole body was paralysed and all he could think was how good it felt, every muscle relaxed, being teased through his suit. It felt better than he'd ever felt. It felt so good, so fucking good, because he couldn't move, because he couldn't control it, all he could do was feel. He couldn't even tense to take some of the feeling away from it, voluntarily or not. All he could feel was the heat spreading through him, the tingle in his spine, the hateful pleasure building, mounting, that gloved hand in his crotch, stroking him over and over.

He came a moment later, hot, sticky bursts in his suit, warm against the Goblin's hand. He knew a small moan must have escaped his lips, and the instant he heard the Goblin's laughter, he hated himself for it. He cringed.

"So you like that, little spider?" The voice chilled him. "You like feeling my hands on you? I can see you do". The green-suited chest pressed hard against his, the masked face came down beside his ear. "I can see you do".

***

He woke.

His vision was blurred. His body felt heavy. There was that same sick feeling in his stomach, uneasy and taunting.

Peter opened his eyes, his heart pounding.

For a second he almost believed that the eyes he saw were the Goblin's. But then Norman smiled and reached out to smooth back his sleep-ruffled hair, pressed a kiss to his forehead. Peter sighed and returned the smile. Strong arms came around his waist, pulled him in close to Norman's chest.

He'd been dreaming. And now he'd woken it didn't seem to matter that what he'd dreamt had really happened just the night before.

He was safe now; in Norman's arms the Goblin couldn't find him.

***
End
***