Chapter Text
Beck paced back and forth, back and forth, and then some more. Stopped, rubbed his hands down his face, and then resumed. He was no stranger to bad days. In fact, he was pretty much used to them. But this wasn’t the same as the dry cleaners misplacing his good suit, or the food truck putting cilantro on his taco.
This was cosmically worse.
Peter Parker was Spider-man.
His Peter Parker. His boyfriend. His scrawny, nerdy boyfriend, who couldn’t open a pickle jar, was the same infuriating kid in spandex who threw him into the side of a fucking Macy’s last week.
The thing was, Beck didn’t trust much, especially not tabloids, or the news, or off-hand rumors. But it wasn’t any of those things that told him Spider-man’s identity. It was what he trusted most—himself, his own eyes. He’d just got knocked down pretty good, enough that his helmet had cracked in the collision, and if he wanted to protect himself, his true self, that meant fleeing. Not that he was proud of it, but it was the most obvious solution. Clearly. And yeah, maybe Spider-man got a few good hits in, and he limped into a nondescript alley of his choosing to take a breather.
And maybe from the shadows, he saw Spider-man do the same, squatting down behind a totaled car and hanging his head while he panted.
And maybe he watched with rapt attention as Spider-man then reached behind his head and pulled off his mask.
And maybe the face revealed to him was uncomfortably familiar. A face that he’d seen nearly every day for years; and more recently, every morning when they woke tangled together in sheets.
And maybe none of this would particularly matter if Beck, himself, wasn’t Mysterio. The villain to the hero. Spider-man’s archnemesis.
“Fuck,” Beck hissed under his breath, tugging at his hair. Then louder— “Fuck!”
He was going to have to kill his boyfriend.
He really should have seen it coming, in retrospect. Peter was smart, super smart, it was one of the things that drew him in the first place. But was he smart enough to land a high-profile internship at Stark Enterprise before he even graduated high school? Actually, yeah, he definitely was.
Still, Beck should have read the signs. He should have known something was up.
But he was only human, albeit a human with extraordinary powers that he rarely used for the good of the world, but human all the same. Peter’s awkward charm hadn’t left him unaffected, nor did his clumsy attempts at flirtation. That all seemed so long ago now, before Beck allowed the advances, and before he realized he was actually pretty fond of the kid.
Before he let Peter kiss him on the night of his eighteenth birthday, and before Peter eventually, inexplicably, moved his stuff into Beck’s one-bedroom apartment.
Beck barely remembered a time when the cup on his sink didn’t house two toothbrushes.
Now here he was, a year later, in this fucked up predicament.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been pacing, fumbling, and cursing under his breath when he heard the sound of rattling keys and the front door opening. Beck’s heart seized in his chest and he froze in the middle of the living room, dropping his hands to his sides. He wasn’t ready for this, strangely enough. The destruction of New York, the demolition of buildings, and peppered civilian casualties? Easy. This? Not so much.
He hadn’t even put any thought into how he’d do it. This was all too sudden, he needed time to construct a master plan—
“So, you know how in the new Star Wars trailer—” Peter was already in a ramble before he even shrugged his jacket from his shoulders. No greeting, nothing, just mindless babble of his clearly inferior space-themed media. “Well, I read on—”
Beck shut him up with a kiss, pressing him up against the door. There was a surprised yelp muffled in his mouth, but Peter eventually relaxed into him, enough to open up. Just one kiss, Beck told himself, until he had to pull the trigger. The metaphorical trigger, of course. A real bullet would be too messy and hard to explain. He could work out the details later, right now he’d have this.
Luckily, Peter seemed too into it to ask questions. He scrambled for Beck’s shoulders, hauling him closer, and returned the kiss in vigor. Beck let him, relishing every desperate little noise he made against his mouth until that wasn’t enough either.
If this was the last time, better make it worth it. Right?
He felt Peter shiver under his touch as his hand trailed down his side to sneak under the hem of his shirt. His fingers roamed the expanse of his back where Peter arched from the door into him, breaking away to pant and gasp when Beck nudged a knee between his thighs. Already halfway to hard, he was almost jealous of that youthful stamina.
“Pete,” Beck groaned against his mouth. “You want this?”
“Yeah,” Peter whispered, starry-eyed and clouded. “Yeah, come on.”
Peter went effortlessly as Beck lifted him, immediately wrapping his legs around his waist and holding on, careful not to break their desperate kiss. He walked them back, bumping into the table, smiling when Peter laughed against his cheek, and then further into the hall, kicking open the bedroom door.
“Do you want me?” Beck tossed him down on the bed, not as gentle as he normally found himself, but enough to be interpreted as flirty or playful.
Peter didn’t seem all that convinced. He stared up at him with an odd look of confusion, his hair already mussed, his shirt rucked up and his pants too tight around the zipper. He watched as Beck stripped himself of his own shirt, shucking off his pants in a haste. Peter didn’t move at all.
“What’s going on?”
Beck crawled onto the bed, hovering over him so that he was left with no choice but to press back into the mattress. He couldn’t answer that, could he? To be honest, he wasn’t sure he could. He didn’t have a fucking clue what was going on, or what he was going to do after this—or during. That was a thought.
“Do you want me?” Beck asked again. This time he dipped down to kiss his cheek, and then his forehead, his nose, and his lips. An odd sort of desperation crept upon him. Fuck, he just needed to hear it. “Pete, please.”
“Yeah, I want you,” Peter said, still confused. His face was pinched, trying to figure out this bizarre puzzle before him. Then, with a shaky and unsure breath— “Do you want me?”
Beck groaned. “Kid, you have no idea.”
And he didn’t, did he? In this room, there was no Mysterio. There was only Quentin Beck, and Peter Parker liked Quentin Beck. He cupped his cheek instead of punching it—and Beck let out a long, suffering sigh. That was nice.
Beck wasted little to no time, rushed in a way he hadn’t felt in a while; like Peter might disappear if he took too long. He knew now that Peter could take whatever he dished out, those little quirks he hated about Spider-man, his ability to bounce back, might come in handy here. Especially when he’s already up to two fingers working inside. No use in being gentle.
Peter didn’t look the least bit worried about it, way too worked up and eager for it. All those concerned seemed to be conveniently slipped from his mind as he watched Beck roll the condom on. A part of him wished to forgo that all together, now that he knew the kid’s immune system was built like a steel fortress. But, appearances, and all that.
Peter still gasped and pawed, and nails still bit into the meat of his shoulder when Beck pushed in. A needy sound rang in Beck’s ears, and it wasn’t until he saw Peter’s face, glassy-eyed and staring up at him, that he realized it came from his own treacherous mouth.
“You feel so good.” He hadn’t meant to say that. “I could do this forever.” He hadn’t meant to say that either.
“Yeah?” Peter challenged, rocking his hips up in an attempt to get things going. “Aren’t—ahhh—Aren’t really doing much.”
Beck gave a breathless laugh and sat back, saddling those slender legs on either side of him. He rolled his hips slow and torturous until Peter gasped and grabbed at the sheets, twisting them in his hands. It was fun sometimes to tease and draw it out, and as much as he wanted this to be one of those times, a fire sparked and burned in his gut. An ugly thought and a reminder of who was really beneath him.
Fuck.
His pace picked up, and so did the nagging voice in his head. Peter had to die. Spider-man had to die. Why the hell was he wasting so much time fucking him?
Peter threw his head back, his pretty mouth falling open in a wordless, soundless moan.
Oh, right. That was why.
(Who cared that Beck spent hours picking apart his brain while they laid in bed, half-naked, with Peter’s head on his chest? Or that Peter remembered his order at the coffee shop on the corner, and watched his favorite TV shows even though they were “old” and “outdated”? That the spacious Manhattan condo felt both empty and claustrophobic when Peter was out of town? Who cared? Beck didn’t.)
Beck stared at the line of Peter’s throat, bared to him, unmarred and unbruised and the perfect shape for his hand. He could do this. Right now, while Peter was distracted, and he was comfortably buried to the hilt inside him. Poetic, in a way, right?
He trailed his fingertips lightly over Peter’s neck, wrapped his hand around it and squeezed. Fuck. Oh, god, this was too much. This wasn’t enough. Peter arched back, let out a whine, but he didn’t try to pull him off. If anything, he welcomed it; a daring, heated gleam in his eyes and the slightest twitch of his lips.
Beck recognized it for what it was. Trust.
He squeezed harder, enough brute pressure that he heard the slightest pained gasp slip from Peter’s lips. Beck watched him go red-faced and wide-eyed, but when Peter moved his hand, it wasn’t to claw at the hold around his throat but to reach between them and take himself in hand.
Beck’s elbows nearly buckled, his hand going slack. Peter let out a rushed, loud moan, hand working feverously while Beck’s own touch turned gentle, soft, and caressing.
He looked down at watery eyes and pink, spit-slick lips tucked between teeth. Beck couldn’t stand the sight of it, furious with himself for being unable to do the one thing he knew he needed to do. The one thing he spent countless, painful days physically trying to do as Mysterio.
Beck sat back, getting Peter’s ankles in both hands, nearly bending him in half, holding him open, while he took out all Mysterio’s frustrations in the form of brutal, unforgiving thrusts. His hand slid to Peter’s thigh and he clamped down hard enough to leave bruises. Whether or not they would remain, that was to be determined.
Suddenly, he was filled with an overwhelming desire to see how far he could push; how much Peter could take what he knew he had to give. How much this soft, gentle boy compared to his athletic and sturdy alter-ego.
“Quentin,” Peter whimpered. His body was pulled taut in a high arch, and Beck watched his hand fumble in quick, sloppy strokes. “Oh god, I’m gonna—I—”
“Come on.” Beck knocked his hand away, replacing it with his own expert fist. He knew how the kid liked it. Focus on the head, twist a little here, squeeze a little there. “That’s it,” he encouraged. “Come on.”
Peter came over his knuckles with a moan so sweet, Beck almost followed him. He worked him through it, his thrusts becoming slower but no less erratic. It was the picture of Peter panting and staring fondly up at him that did it. He pushed inside one last time, collapsing on top of the body beneath him.
They stayed like that, breathing each other in, until Beck finally rolled over to get a lungful of proper air, anything that wasn’t mostly Peter’s cologne and sweat. He wasn’t sure how long they laid like that, half on top of each other, chests heaving.
“Wow,” Peter said, finally breaking the silence. Beck rolled his head to the side to find him still staring up at the ceiling, but there was an unmistakably pleased grin on his face. “What was that for?”
He had about a million answers to that, but he settled on the one closest to the truth that he could muster.
“I just missed ya’, kid.”
Beck shuffled Peter into his arms, kissed the top of his head and rested his chin there. His gaze stayed unfocused on the wall.
And, he would miss him, when the inevitable came to pass. For now? He’d take this.