Peter found himself looking out on a snowstorm of truly epic proportions. The latest blip had been kind enough to leave him in an alcove between buildings with just enough shelter to keep him from being completely exposed to the elements. If he had been, he was fairly certain that the blustering winds would have bowled him over before the vertigo of the jump faded.
Observing his surroundings was comically pointless. The world was a plane of blank white on a shadowy backdrop. Formless mounds of snow hid everyday objects, but appeared only as hills and valleys across the colorless expanse. Peter could have been standing on his very own street, looking at his own apartment building, and not known it.
Across the street, warm light glowed from within the first floor of a squat building. From where he stood Peter could just barely make out a sign hanging above the door, dragged nearly horizontal by the wind. Instinct bade him to follow the enticing promise of heat, so Peter did.
Stuffing both hands into his pockets, Peter ducked his head and tried to hide his nose in the collar of his coat. Immediately, the wind tried to unbalance him. A walk of maybe thirty feet suddenly felt like trying to cross the entirety of the Arctic tundra. But he persevered, head down and legs dragging slowly through the snow.
A bell above the door chimed cheerily when he entered, announcing his arrival. Peter shoved the door shut behind him and breathed a sigh of relief once the catch clicked into place. The howling wind became a muffled moan and warmth began to tentatively seep in past the layers of cold.
Peter had stepped into a pub lit by dim yellow bulbs. The polished mahogany of the bar took up nearly the entirety of the wall to his right, while the rest of the space was rimmed by large, semi-circular booths. He stamped his feet on the welcome mat to dislodge the quickly melting snow from his shoes.
Tables sat scattered in the space between the bar and booths, occupied by a smattering of people who had chosen to take refuge from the storm. A young couple holding hands atop the table sat in the center of the room, and several tables over, a businessman frowning at his phone. Various people who looked like regulars arranged themselves elsewhere, two settled properly at the bar nursing bottles of beer. And in the corner booth at the back, there was Quentin Beck.
They locked eyes across the bar. Quentin sat right beneath one of the twin bulbs, haloed by golden light. A glass of something amber rested against his lips, tipped as if to drink, but stalled there as they stared at one another. He lowered the glass slowly and licked his teeth.
Glass clicked against glass from behind the bar, drawing Peter's attention. The barman nodded to him in greeting, stacking another set of tumblers without looking.
"What'll it be?" he asked gruffly.
Peter jerked his chin in Quentin's direction.
"I'll have whatever he's drinking."
A second nod before the barman turned away. He selected a glass and poured two fingers from a bottle of malt whiskey, then slid it across the polished bartop.
"On the house." he said.
Peter smiled his thanks and took the drink.
Shocking blue eyes remained locked onto him as he wove through the tables towards the back of the bar. Quentin sat, relaxed and expectant, as though he'd been waiting for him the whole time. He looked good like that, at ease, top buttons of his shirt undone and fingers resting around his glass.
Peter shrugged his coat off his shoulders as he slid into the curved booth. He left only enough space between them to slip the rest of the way out of his coat.
"About time you showed up, daydream."
Quentin's voice was low and rich, smooth like the whiskey in his glass. The beard made him look older, more dignified. Peter liked it.
"Am I too late?" he asked.
"Never."
A hand reached for the side of Peter's neck, cupping the length of his throat in one huge palm. It stayed there for a moment, then eased up to cradle his cheek. He leaned into Quentin's touch with a happy sigh, eyes fluttering half shut.
"You're cold." Quentin observed idly, his thumb stroking over the soft skin beneath Peter's eye.
The storm outside rattled the windows in their frames.
"Not so much anymore."
They sat in comfortable silence, nursing their whiskey. Quentin's hand became an arm around his shoulders, and before long, Peter was tucked against his side. He couldn't help noting how well he fit there.
A clock hung behind the bar, but it had stopped who knew how long ago. Time was irrelevant here. There was a cacophony of nature outside, but inside was warm and quiet. The whiskey was good, the company better, and nothing prevented them from staying right where they were until the next blip took him home.
It was some time before either of them spoke. Quentin finished his whiskey, then set the glass down and stared at it a while.
"I was fired." he said at last.
Peter paused and placed his half-finished whiskey back on the table.
"Why?"
"It doesn't matter." Quentin sighed. "It boils down to me making too much noise. I wouldn't let the fucking fiasco with B.A.R.F go and they got sick of me."
"Did you ever get to talk to Mr. Stark?"
"No."
Peter frowned at his glass.
Maybe Mr. Stark had been busy. Maybe Quentin's requests for a meeting had never made it all the way up the line. Maybe Mr. Stark really had no intention of explaining himself. Maybe so very many things, none of them important, because that chapter of Quentin's life was over.
"Are you angry, Quin?"
"I was." he admitted. "I should be."
Quentin looked tired and worn at the edges. All the energy, born both of ambition and anger, had been drained from him.
"But you aren't?" Peter prompted.
"I was expecting it. I tried to be patient, do everything the right way, but it just didn't work out. I figured I'd go out being a pain in the ass or get my way."
A world-weary sigh exhaled from his chest.
"I'm not angry." he said. "I just don't feel seen, y'know? I don't feel heard. Like I don't exist or something."
"I hear you." Peter met his eyes. "I see you."
An expression of veneration melted over Quentin's face. In the golden glow of the faux-lamplight, he looked softer than he had in a very long time.
"I know you do, daydream."
They had been on a collision course since they met that snowy night so long ago. Peter couldn't avoid it, even if he had sincerely tried. And had he, really? Even when Quin revealed himself as Quentin Beck, Peter still found his way back to him. He was a constant in his universe, a certainty in the midst of chaos. This felt, in many ways, inevitable.
When Quentin bent down to kiss him, Peter met him halfway. It wasn't perfect, the angle was all wrong and Peter's head was tilted too far back. Their noses bumped and they laughed, breathless and soft, and then they tried again. They lingered, neither willing to be the one to pull away.
Abandoning all pretense of chastity, Quentin licked Peter's mouth open and pressed his tongue between his teeth. Peter allowed his jaw to go slack, mirroring what was done to him and learning by example. Quentin was a fantastic kisser. Every flick of his tongue deliberate, all the desire Peter poured into the kiss, reciprocated.
It would have gone on longer, had they not needed to breathe. Breaking for oxygen was just an excuse to stare at one another, cheeks pink and eyes bright with a mutual flame.
This made three kisses that Peter had shared with Quentin Beck. Their first, beneath the mistletoe, had been one-sided and melancholy. The second, on a park bench in the cold, had been done in impulse. And this, the third, was done out of pure and honest affection for one another.
The magnitude of adoring Quentin Beck was overwhelming. Rather than allow it to consume him, Peter slid a hand against the nape of his neck and guided him into another kiss.
A second kiss became a third, then a fourth. No one seemed to care that their embrace was steadily growing more heated. Isolated by the blizzard, the pub's patrons all seemed content to remain in their own bubble of anonymity. Who cared what the couple in the back booth were doing?
It could have gone on for hours for all Peter knew. He felt wild and untethered, the burden of responsibility sloughed from his shoulders. There was only the two of them, with their wandering hands and quiet laughter between deepening liplocks. And he could have happily stayed there until quantum vibrations took him home, except that Quentin said;
"Wanna get out of here?"
The implications alone were enough to send a shiver down Peter's spine. Caution had been thrown to the wind a long time ago, but inhibitions chose now to join it.
"Yes." he breathed eagerly. "Let's go."
Fifteen minutes later found them stumbling through the front door of a converted apartment building into a shabby hotel lobby. They leaned into one another heavily, trying to regain their balance after being tossed about by the wind. Outside, the blizzard continued its rampage.
There was snow in Quentin's beard, which Peter brushed away with numb hands. He was freezing, underdressed for the weather, but his favorite set of blue eyes were sparkling with mirth and he had to kiss him again. Peter used Quentin's scarf to drag him down, smiling into the coldest kiss he'd ever had.
It felt wonderful.
A drowsy receptionist greeted them in monotone as they approached the front desk. She didn't bother to ask what kind of room they wanted, just named a price and lazily reached for a keycard.
Peter wound his arms around Quentin's middle and rested against his side while he paid, occupying himself by glancing around the neglected lobby. It was empty and poorly furnished, save some threadbare armchairs and an ancient looking vending machine. The vending machine caught his eye, because aside from the usual snacks and sodas, at the very top corner it had also stocked such essentials as lubricant and condoms.
"Hey," he hummed, leaning up to speak against Quentin's jaw. "Gimme a five?"
Quentin stole a kiss and handed him a five dollar bill.
Shortly thereafter, a hand swatted Peter's ass as he bent over to retrieve their supplies from the vending machine. His indignant yelp dissolved into laughter because Quentin was grinning at him, keycard in hand. It was easier to kiss him and bite his bottom lip than find the words to reprimand him.
Supplies stuffed into his pocket and room paid for, they hurried into the outdated elevator. No sooner had the door creaked its way shut than Quentin was on him, lips pressed to his neck and hands fumbling to undo the front of Peter's jacket.
"What floor?"
"Mmh?" Quentin mumbled against his neck. "Six."
Peter felt for the right button blindly, gasping as cold hands slid beneath the hem of his shirt.
In the time it took to rise slowly to the sixth floor, they began to warm up again.
Their room was in the middle of a long hallway, which gave them enough time to get distracted kissing, but not enough to really lose any sense of decency. It was a coordinated effort to pry themselves apart long enough to scramble through the door and lock it behind them.
Miraculously, they found a light switch and managed to move from the entryway into the main room without pausing more than twice. Quentin stepped away with the promise to be back as soon as he turned the heat up. While he cranked the thermostat, Peter kicked off his shoes and left his coat on the back of the room's only chair. He tossed the lube and condoms onto the bed, then dropped down on the edge to wait.
Humming filled the room as hot air began circulating from the vents, joining the howls of the tempest outside.
Peter leaned back on his palms and watched as Quentin divested himself of his outer layers. First his gloves, then his scarf, and finally his coat. Watching nimble fingers undo quarter-sized buttons had never seemed erotic before, but in this context Peter found himself bewitched. Those same fingers had been under his shirt not ten minutes ago, stealing his body heat after being out in the snow.
Finally, Quentin came to stand between his knees. He undid his cuffs and smiled when an adventurous set of hands reached up to help unbutton the rest of his shirt. Once his button-down had been discarded, Peter pressed affectionate kisses to his belly, fingers toying with his belt buckle.
As his belt loosened, Quentin carded thick curls back from Peter's forehead. His hands trailed down the back of his skull and slid up, cradling his face between both palms.
"God, you're so damn pretty, daydream." Quentin sighed. "Always have been."
"Shut up." Peter blushed. "You're one to talk."
He bit the thumb that drifted over his bottom lip and watched as Quentin's eyes darkened with lust. Deliberately holding his gaze, Peter popped the button on his jeans and tugged the zipper slowly downward.
"Get down here, handsome."
Quentin obeyed.
The bed shifted and groaned beneath them, complaining feebly as the eager couple made themselves comfortable. Nothing had even happened and the headboard was already tapping against the wall like something out of a cliche. Peter spared a thought for any neighbors they may have in the rooms next door. Sorry!
He kept himself just out of reach, prompting a growl from the man prowling over him. One cheeky smile and Quentin was baring his teeth, diving down to kiss him harshly. Peter moaned into it, opening his mouth wide to welcome the demanding kiss. And while the larger man was distracted, he caught his waist and pushed him over, switching their positions.
Peter sat back, straddling Quentin's waist and paused to admire the view. He looked startled, aroused, and delighted by the young man sitting on his torso. Being looked at like that was a hell of an ego boost, and he hadn't even taken his clothes off yet.
His shirt was first to go, discarded carelessly off to the side. Quentin's hands dragged up his thighs, firmly kneading the muscles there.
"Fuck, look at you." he breathed.
Peter bit his bottom lip. He rocked back, grinding down against the growing mound between Quentin's thighs. A throaty moan and the hands on his hips clenched down harder, holding him in place to maintain friction.
Nothing could quite describe the giddy revelation that he could feel Quentin getting hard underneath him. Peter dropped his head back and rolled his hips experimentally, grinning to himself when it earned him another deep groan. Lolling his head down again, he found Quentin's pupils blown so wide his eyes were nearly black.
He growled, bracing one hand on Peter's hip while the other shoved down the back of his jeans. Nails bit into the tender flesh of his ass as Quentin yanked him up. Off balance, he fell forward easily, catching himself on his arms before their bodies collided. Quentin's hand was in his hair again, guiding him into an open mouthed kiss.
Peter panted, hips churning as he frotted against the firm body beneath him. They were moving together, not in synch, but with the same intent. Both of Quentin's hands found their way into his pants, fussing the denim down his thighs until Peter could shimmy out of them entirely. As he kicked them off, their positions flipped again.
Naked underneath Quentin Beck was not somewhere Peter had never anticipated being, but fuck was he glad to be there now.
Quentin was a vision of hunger and lust distilled down to a tongue running over sharp canines and tousled hair. The way his eyes trailed over the length of Peter's body was caught somewhere between the reverence of a devout man and the desire of a sinner. He looked like he couldn't decide what he wanted, aside from everything.
He chose to begin with his mouth on Peter's chest. Teeth and lips took turns on the sensitive skin around his nipples, then trailed down to suck a bruise on his ribs. Peter rested his hands on Quentin's shoulders, tracing patterns on his skin as his mouth traveled downward.
Across his fluttering stomach, where his teeth drew gasps from Peter's throat and left marks behind. He stopped at his hip, kissed down, down, down before stopping to ask;
"Lube?"
Oh.
Good question, actually.
After some squirming and patting the sheets, they realized the bottle had slid off the bed at some point. Quentin retrieved both it and the condoms, taking the opportunity to step out of his jeans and underwear. And, well... If Peter thought he looked good in his clothes, he looked even better out of them.
Nothing described Quentin quite as well as masculine. He was built for physical labor, broad and muscled with a deep V cutting from his hips to pelvis. The definition in his torso was subtle, an implication more than a statement, and his biceps bulged just slightly when he moved. The hair on his chest trailed down his body into a forest of curls at the base of his dick, which angled down just slightly with the weight of itself.
And though he was allowed to be staring, Peter still flushed when he glanced up and caught Quentin's knowing smirk.
"See something you like, Peter?" he teased.
"Yeah." He watched as Quentin settled back into place between his thighs, like he was accustomed to being there. "You're gorgeous."
There was a moment of startled silence, broken by the quietest breath of his name.
"Peter..."
Quentin kissed him like he was fire and Peter was oxygen, like all that mattered in the whole universe was being in this moment.
He trailed back down his body, slower this time, mouth following a path set by his hands. Soon enough, Peter was squirming and trying to urge Quentin to go faster as his mouth drew closer to his sex. Distantly, he heard the cap pop on the lube bottle, but it fled his mind the moment lips pressed to the crown of his prick.
His hands slid into thick tresses, anchoring himself with fingers tangled in Quentin's hair. The moan forming in his throat came out choked.
"Quin-!"
Nothing prepared him for the feeling of being being swallowed effortlessly, like gag reflexes just didn't exist.
"Ohmygod-"
Peter's head fell back against the cheap hotel pillows, neck arched. Quentin's cheeks hollowed around him and stars exploded behind his eyelids. He sucked and swallowed and did interesting things with his tongue that made it impossible to think straight.
Testament to how incredible he was with his mouth, Peter didn't notice the slick fingers massaging his hole until Quentin pulled off him with a pop. He focused his attentions on the vein running the underside of his cock instead, applying pressure against the tight ring of muscle in warning. The first thick digit slid into him, sinking inside with almost no resistance from Peter's body.
Peter canted his hips up eagerly, nails scratching down Quentin's scalp to the nape of his neck. Just one finger was almost enough to undo him then and there. Precum dripped onto his belly, chest heaving with the effort to control his own breathing. Everything was blurred at the edges by the heatwave pooling in the pit of his stomach.
A second finger pried him open, forcing a cry from his gaping mouth. Quentin rotated his wrist, curving his fingers up until he found the squishy bundle of nerves he was after. Peter almost screamed when he pressed against his prostate, whole body arching in response. He could feel Quentin's grin against his hip, and then his mouth was sliding back down his prick and the world went fuzzy.
His first orgasm hit him like a physical weight, knocking the breath from his lungs. What could have been a wail came out in a staccato warble as his body bowed upward, trying desperately to get closer to the man between his legs. Quentin's fingers were relentless, fucking into him even as his orgasm wracked his body with tremors. He swallowed as Peter spilled down his throat, humming his satisfaction around his overly sensitive prick.
The descent was as tumultuous as his release. Peter collapsed against the bed, gasping for breath, bones turned to jelly. He was shaking, the aftershocks twitching through him every few seconds. Quentin pulled away slowly, extracting his fingers and pressing kisses up his shuddering belly.
"So fucking beautiful." he sighed once he reached his neck, leaving a kiss at the junction of his jaw.
Peter whined in reply until Quentin took pity on him and lowered himself to his elbows, pressing him down into the mattress. He exhaled happily, eyes drifting shut as soft kisses feathered over his face. The weight of Quentin's erection lay nestled against his hip, a heavy promise of what was to come. Every now and then he would grind down against him, rubbing slick precum onto his belly.
It didn't take Peter long to recover. He started squirming and rolling his hips up, frotting against the firm muscle of Quentin's thigh.
"Raring to go already?" Quentin chuckled.
"Uh-huh."
"You sure, daydream?"
"Yes." Peter bit his shoulder, reaching between them to wrap a hand around Quentin's leaking prick. "Wanna ride you, Quin. Let me?"
A full body shiver traveled down Quentin's spine.
"God, yes," he growled. "Absolutely."
Thankfully, the condoms had not gone missing a second time.
Peter straddled Quentin's hips, one hand braced on his chest while the other reached back to hold his cock steady. He couldn't help sliding him teasingly between his cheeks, just to hear another growl and feel powerful hands flexing on his thighs.
"Peter..."
"What?" he said innocently.
Before Quentin could reply, he lifted himself and sank down onto his dick. Their moans echoed loudly around the small room, tinged with relief.
The burn of being stretched around the girth of his cock created the most exquisite play between pain and pleasure. With each inch he lowered himself, Peter became more sure he could feel Quentin pressing against his stomach, sometimes all the way up to the back of his throat. It was better than any shot of adrenaline to his system, rocketing him toward sensory overload.
"Alright, daydream?" Quentin breathed, smoothing his large palms up Peter's sides and down along his thighs again.
"Yeah, yeah, just... need a second."
Peter bowed his head and braced both hands on Quentin's chest, breathing deeply as he adjusted. He rose experimentally and slid back down, prompting another moan from both of them. Again, he rocked upwards and sank back, leveraging himself on the hands fondling Quentin's pecs to steady his movements. Fingers curled around his waist and helped to guide him into a consistent rhythm.
The pace they set was quick and hard, building with Peter's confidence. He swiveled his hips experimentally, smiling when it garnered a loud moan from the man underneath him. In retaliation, Quentin met his next fall by thrusting up, burying himself even deeper inside his body.
Peter keened, nails biting into Quentin's chest as he drove up into him with each bounce. And despite the stamina he should have had, he felt his thighs beginning to shake and his breathing becoming frantic. The end was rushing up to meet him much faster this time, the build of fire in his belly too hot for him to prolong.
Quentin pulled him down by the nape of his neck, smashing their mouths together in a violent kiss that was more tongue and teeth than anything else. Peter's hips rocked erratically, only to be stilled by a hand on his sex and a snarl against his lips. Feet braced on the bed, Quentin set a punishing pace of fucking into him, slamming relentlessly into his prostate as soon as he found the right angle.
Peter felt like he was coming apart. Like his atoms were splitting and cells dividing, like being pulled through time but hot and blinding and incredible. His senses were tuned up so high he couldn't see or hear, could barely feel besides a persistent ecstasy burning through him like wildfire. All he could do was cry Quentin's name and clutch at the sheets until finally he broke.
The orgasm that ripped through him was revolutionary. Peter could feel himself shattering, falling apart in sobs and wails of euphoria. It felt as though the earth had shifted on its axis. As if everything was different now.
He collapsed against Quentin's heaving chest, the world faded white at the edges and consciousness slipping through his fingers like sand. Peter was dimly aware of warm hands stroking up and down his back and lips against the shell of his ear.
Quentin murmured something, but it was lost to his subconscious as he drifted off.
Peter woke not long after, having only dozed for perhaps half an hour in the wake of his second orgasm. The storm had quieted outside. The room was warm and Quentin's chest rose and fell steadily beneath his cheek. A digital clock blinked on the side table.
He could have laid there forever, comforted by the gentle thudding of Quentin's heartbeat. If only the universe were less cruel and they had more time.
Easing himself from Quentin's chest felt like ripping off a bandaid. He was sore and empty without him, colder despite the temperature of the room. It took everything to convince himself that this was the better way, that he had to leave the bed.
As he stood, a hand caught his wrist.
"Wait," Quentin murmured. "Don't go yet."
His clear blue eyes stared straight through Peter, digging grooves into his heart. Longing echoed mournfully in his chest, like a wraith haunting his soul.
"I have to." he said.
Quentin didn't ask why and he didn't let go. He forced Peter to be the one to pull away.
It felt like tearing himself in two.
Peter dressed and left the room in silence.
He took the elevator to the lobby and left through a door marked with a faded exit sign. There was the definitive snap of a lock behind him and then he was trapped outside. Peter looked up, through the delicate flurries the great squall had been reduced to, at the snowbound city.
It was still cold enough outside that his tears froze as they slid down his cheeks.
"Peter?" Dr. Pym frowned. "Peter! We need to know-!"
"Later." Hope said, laying a hand on her father's shoulder.
Scott hovered by the door, watching as Peter dragged himself towards the bathroom.
The shower in the observation suite was pretty awful. Either it was the correct temperature with shit water pressure, or the water pressure was right and the temperature was at one of two extremes. Usually, Peter suffered through the weak shower rather than freeze or boil.
Tonight, he stood beneath the pounding spray, steam clouding the world around him, and rested his head against the wall.
Thoughts clamoured senselessly for his attention, scrambling for purchase in the footholds of his mind. He felt too much, emotions piling atop emotions until he broke under their weight and felt nothing at all. Peter closed his eyes and tried to let the water drown out the world.
For the first time in a long while, he thought about Tony Stark. He thought of his accomplishments and his failings, how beneath the suit he was only human. How knowing his idol had made Peter a better man and a worse hero, because if Tony Stark was anything, he was a hero. Self-sacrificing, desperate to save the world, and ultimately flawed.
People were what the world made them. Tony Stark cared about people, protected what he believed in, until it killed him. Quentin Beck lost everything no matter how he tried to hold tight to what he cared about, and it made him a monster. And Peter Parker tried, over and over, to do the right thing.
With his eyes closed, scalding water pounding against the back of his neck, all Peter could hear was Quentin's voice whispering "I love you" as he drifted off.