Harry Ryan has two first names (sybarite) wrote in rooms,
Re: harry/mj: toxin
She was screaming, and Harry was losing her. Even if he'd never had her entirely, and maybe never truly wanted to, the loss of something that justifiably belonged to him felt monumental. This was just like when Oscorp got taken away from him, just like when his projects got renamed, just like when Gwen went away. Personal accountability didn't contribute to the selfish love he shared with both the girls in his life. Those relationships had always been built on secrets, there'd never been anything pure to pave smooth as a basis. The common denominator in both of those situations was him, of course, and Harry didn't have any misconceptions about his own contributing issues. He was the poison in both of their lives. But knowing that didn't help with knowing how to stop.
When she fight and tried to pull away, his fingers dug impressions down to the bones of her arms. When she tried to run, he pushed her against the outer wall of the building with both hands on her shoulders until one finally went to cover her mouth because she was still screaming. He drew back a moment later when Mary Jane was suddenly, frighteningly still. It was like a switch was flipped and she could see him again. She could see him and not the horrible things he'd done. Harry?
"Yeah," he whispered. It began to dawn on him that she wasn't well, and in an entirely different way than his latent serum state of unwell. "Its me," he told her, and his fingers unhooked from her arm to slide down to her hand, he held there. He was breathing heavy and unsure, like maybe the worst was over, but maybe not. He wasn't going to hurt her. He didn't want to, did he? There were marks on her arm, red skin where he'd held her and shook, where he'd held her and pushed. Everything felt weird and distant, and like it hadn't happened to him at all… but it had, and it seemed a little funny somehow, like he should laugh. But Mary Jane's eyes were big like shock, and he brushed some of the hair out of her face, while he tried to swallow down the feeling of not right.
She'd said his name like she hadn't been sure it was him, and that made his heart hiccup in a way that echoed through his blood like a bad dream. Because his sense of self was slipping, and he didn't know where it was going, and he didn't know what was going to live in its place.