This is a dark story, please, be careful. If you don't like, then, don't read (simple, isn't it?)

Mention of violence, death, dubious consent, murder, and bad ending.

Thank you to my beta reader, alifetime :) she's golden.

Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel movies, or characters. I wish, though.

Enjoy ;)

His smile couldn't have been more disturbing.

While he remained hidden in the walkway of Tower Bridge, the crowd rushed to cheer Mysterio.

People were jostling one another and flocking from both sides of the bridge only to get a tiny glimpse of the hero who had saved their lives from a doom. They all swarmed around the illusion of Mysterio, projected by his drones, who was enjoying himself, greeting all those innocent faces wholeheartedly.

Quentin slowly licked his lips, reveling with the scene playing out at his feet, a few ten meters below. It was a spectacle he couldn't extricate himself of, far too engrossed with it. A spectacle he would probably never get enough of. Up there, proudly overlooking the crowd, he could finally rejoice in his so long desired victory.

"Congratulations, Quentin," E.D.I.T.H praised after a long silence. "Your objectives are achieved at ninety four per cent."

He arched an eyebrow, his mischievous smile stretching. "Well, hun', this isn't that bad, huh? We did good."

The cheering of the civilians was like music to his ears. He was the hero. All the eyes on him, and all that gratitude… just for him.

Mysterio offered some gestures and words to his admirers as the flashes of the cameras repeatedly illuminated him, a thunder of applause following his passage as he hovered above them. It was brilliant. A pure success.

Well, almost…

His initial plan had undergone a few modifications in the need of the emergency, but things had caught up wonderfully. As expected, and as always, people only saw what they needed to see — what Quentin wanted them to see. Manipulation was easy when you knew how to pull the strings. However, he had to admit that he was particularly proud of his new achievement. Nick Fury, his (ex) preoccupation number one, was no longer a problem, and any annoying witnesses that needed to disappear were ruled out of the equation. The truth was his. It belonged to him. And he could mold it over and over, endlessly, as he saw fit, without having to fear retaliation from a few oblivious, reckless opponents of his nascent reign.

Mysterio was the hero who saved the city.

Tilting his head slightly to the side, his gaze lingered on the cloak of his illusion that rippled lazily at the wind's discretion. He nodded absentmindedly to show his approval. "That's it! He's perfect. But, mmh… maybe more cheery? There are kids, give'em what they want."

It only took a few seconds to the illusion before it began to respond to his devotees.

"It was my duty. It's all over now, you're safe! I'll protect you as long as I live." Mysterio solemnly promised.

"YES!" Quentin exclaimed, slamming his fist into the palm of his other hand. "I love this!"

Adrenaline was still pulsing through his veins, creating and enlivening a feeling deep within his chest that, he wished, he would never have to part from. It was so good to be loved. All these people believed in him now. He had succeeded.

Suddenly, a low moan from behind him caught his attention.

He then turned, a hand overflying above the controls strapped on his wrist, ready to use drones if necessary to defend his life, when he noticed the lying, bloody, and trembling form of Spider-Man a few feet away from him.

Oh.

Peter.

Quentin closed his eyes for a second, berating himself for momentarily forgetting the brat. Let's say he let himself be caught in the heat of triumph and glory. There was not much to fear from him anyway. Spider-Man was already ancient history. The whole world was already spreading terrible news about him, denouncing his attack on the beautiful city of London and his treacherous conspiracy against the Avengers. Hatred was not far behind.

Poor kid, Quentin mused distractedly as he approached the petrified body on the ground. If only he had kept his nose out of his business.

"Told you, Peter... You should have listened to me."

A pair of tearful brown orbs landed on him, both terrified and murderous. Quentin sighed as he removed his helmet.

"Damn… Why did you make me do this? If I wanted someone to be spared, it was definitely you."

Peter was in a deplorable state; his suit was nothing more than a scorched and torn rag, soaked in grime. It was a sad sight, considering how majestic Spider-Man had been when he first appeared, showing off his new, first creation and upgrades. But nothing was beautiful because it was eternal, after all. Quentin noticed that his two legs were no longer moving. A leg, the left one, was slightly bent to the side. Conversely for his arms, while the left was limp to his side, his right arm was curved with his hand adjacent to his scratched cheek. Though, none of his limbs seemed to show any sign of obedient motor functions. Likewise for his young face whose features appeared frozen, although the emotions that crossed it were surprisingly flagrant. His eyes were perhaps the only thing the kid could still control, with his wheezing breathing. Some locks stuck to his forehead, bathed in sweat, and many bruises were observable; blood flowing from his nose, his mouth, also from a few oozing wounds here and there, and more abundantly from a deep cut on his left eyebrow arch.

Occasionally, his fingers twitched when his body spasmed. Maybe it was stimulation from his organism which was desperately trying to create surges of life, the last that could remain in him despite his pitiful condition, or maybe it was just pain. Understandable, Quentin chuckled inwardly. The boy's chest was entirely riddled with bullets.

"Sorry for the lack of tact, but… you look like a colander."

Peter only gasped painfully in return, lips slightly parted as a single red drop made his way down his cheek.

Another sigh.

What was he supposed to do, huh? Throw the kid's body into the lake? It was a start. Quentin knew he still had a lot to deal with. He had a cover to keep and protect. But…

But, somehow, he couldn't bring himself to abandon Peter either. Something was holding him back. And while he would have liked to turn a blind eye to that hint of guilt he was feeling as he witnessed the young Avenger's agony, he still couldn't deny his presence. Peter was a good person. Too naÏve for his own good, of course, but no less admirable.

"Ah, what a waste…" he mumbled as he now stood over Peter.

Afterwards, there was that short lapse of time in which their gaze met and nothing else around them mattered. It was as if he had been magnetized by the quivering form at his feet, unable to look away from that angelic face that kept staring at him with too much emotion to quote. And then he knew. Killing Peter Parker wouldn't be an easy task as he had hoped it would be.

He shouldn't have gotten attached to that ball of energy. To that damn smile.

"It's always the same people who have to do the dirty work, isn't it?" he complained whilst sitting down on the abdomen of the younger one, who gasped under his weight.

Quentin's legs were bent alongside the teenager's body, a hand against his wounded chest. Peter's blood was already staining his fingers.

Now that he was closer, Quentin noticed that the kid's mouth was moving weakly, indicating Peter's willingness to try to pronounce words. In vain, though. His body was broken. Unresponsive. It was the end for him, whether he liked it or not. The man wished to have remained insensitive to this fact, but he had to admit that he didn't like knowing Peter was in such distress. A bullet to the head from the start would have fixed everything. Quentin felt anger growing inside him, aware that this angel's end was as miserable as it was painful. No one was there for him. He was alone.

Which, in other words, also meant the kid was for Quentin, and him only. At his mercy. And that thought itself also tickled another feeling, something that surely came close to an unhealthy pride, and a possessiveness hitherto unknown, even to him.

He was going to be the last thing Peter would see.

A strangled moan brought Quentin back to reality as he blinked to meet the gaze of the fallen vigilante once again. Peter was crying. Panic erupted in the teenager's two brown eyes, and his body tremors intensified — Quentin felt it against his thighs. He could see it. Still, the only thing he could think of was how handsome, beautiful Peter was. Even through fear, pain, and death. The tears that ran down his temples, mingling with his blood and thus shaping discolored red trails on his skin, were the true spectacle, and Quentin understood that it was time to act if he wanted to decide on the kid's final moments. It was his right. He had won.

Gently, almost tenderly, Quentin pressed the palm of his hand against Peter's warm cheek.

"Hush, now... It'll be over soon, love."

A hint of fear haunted the boy's expression at his words.

"Hey, no no, don't be scared… I'll make it as quick as possible, I promise. Just relax, okay? It was inevitable, you knew it..."

Peter couldn't move, but Quentin didn't miss the anguished aura and the fleeing spirit that emanated from his entire body. The survival instinct. The man smiled warmly, wishing to give the kid a comforting image, no matter how vain it was. As insufferable and nosy he had been, he deserved a bit of kindness in his last moments.

"You did good, shhh..." His thumb brushed his bruised cheekbone, then moved down to touch the split, bloody lip. "Here, just let it happen, okay? Don't fight it, baby."

With this, both of his hands accompanied his words down to Peter's neck. Fingers perfectly hugging, conforming to the form, and thumbs pressed against the carotid artery, ready to give death. He could feel the kid's heartbeat under the skin, irregular and frantic, betraying his fear.

The tears doubled in Spider-Man's eyes. It was probably horrible for him to watch his own death coming without having the tiniest chance to do anything about it — to be a puppet destined to die. Did his enhanced senses also impose on him the familiar sensation of impending danger?

"Oh, c'mon, don't look at me like that… it won't work. And, besides, I'm feeling kinda bad, so if you can… you know, stop the puppy-eyes-thing…"

Peter could well be speechless, his stare alone was enough to convey his thoughts. Quentin knew he was trying to coax and soften him, to arouse in him some compassion, regret, doubts… but none of that would save him.

Briefly interrupting the silent, visual exchange to look skyward, Quentin's expression darkened. His features had become mischievous and mocking.

"I hope you're watching this, Stark."

Look what I'm about to do to your little protégé, the one for whom you sacrificed everything, including your own existence. Watch me steal from him what you fought to give him back: life.

And he pressed down.

"Here we go..."

Instantly, he felt every muscle in Peter's throat tighten and combat the assaulting pressure, his tongue clumsily shifting in an attempt to establish room for the already missing and desired air's passage. Peter was fighting.

"Shh, relax, it's okay." He whispered.

The power was in his hands. The decision of life or death. It was an exquisite feeling, which he already felt addicted to.

Peter wasn't meant to die, unlike Fury had. But perhaps it was for the best. He was dying, anyways. Quentin was putting a stop to his useless suffering. It was a gift, although Spider-Man surely didn't share the same point of view.

His face was already starting to darken with a shade close to purple, as Quentin kept pressing down on and on. He watched curiously the way his eyes widened in pain plus the excruciating lack of oxygen; his fingers were contracting in response to what must have been any attempt to counterattack. Futile, but still honorable. He expected no less from the vigilant. Even going through death he proved himself as deserving being an avenger. Courageous, valiant, and audacious. Such a waste. Utter and unnecessary waste. Spider-Man could have grown into someone so much bigger than the simple little neighborhood spider. Stark had not used his true potential. For that, Quentin felt like loathing the billionaire even more if that was possible.

"It's nothing against you, you know..."

No answer. Of course. Just tears, and a pleading look.

"To be honest, I kinda liked you. You would have been a precious ally, to say the least. You could have become a great figure for the world. So brilliant." His voice didn't exceed the level of the whisper. "Too bad you made the wrong decisions. Damn, I don't like to do this..."

Again, he admitted to himself that a bullet to the head would have been kinder. But Peter deserved something more worthy. And it turned out that a small part of Quentin enjoyed sharing the last instants of the little one. To steal them from him against his will, without him being able to have a say in the matter.

He met those eyes that kept imploring him; those beautiful, wet eyes, shadowed by sorrow, that only asked to live. Peter was only subject to the will of the great Mysterio. Against all odds, he found himself feeling an unexpected heartache. Peter was good. A real prodigy. He could almost have tricked him, with his innocent and bewitching air. The kid was good enough to bring some emotional distress to the man. Quentin chuckled, shaking slowly his head from right to left, as if refusing the condemned man's silent request. No mercy for today. It was not a part of the script.

A groan, louder and more desperate than the previous ones, left the boy's mouth, drawing Quentin's attention to his lips.

This beautiful pair of lips, thin and slightly pink — just enough to drive dreamy and bring temptation to life. And, oh, he was tempted. He remembered the numerous times this kiss could have taken place between them. Like on this rooftop, where they had chatted late at night, eye to eye, intimate, confidant, or like the other day in that bar where Peter had mentioned this girl, MJ. Though, his eyes had answered something else. "What do you want, Peter Parker?". Quentin smiled at this memory. At the way Peter had squirmed on his stool, flushed cheeks and hesitant gaze, glancing sideways at the man's lips, as shy as he was interested. However, it never happened. This kiss remained a dying hope.

"Oh, baby, I know it hurts, I'm sorry… You're doing great."

He squeezed the throat harder, if it was even feasible, hoping to shorten the ordeal, while Peter's mouth continued to open and close, hungry for air. Quentin then felt even more enchanted by this vision. More satisfied and possessive.

Without thinking, he leaned down and pressed his lips to Peter's.

From this, there was that moment when time froze, and the boy stiffened, probably flabbergasted by the man's action.

The cruel moment Peter realized it was both his first kiss and his last.

It was perfect.

The curves of their lips embraced each other beautifully, just as if they were meant to unite together sooner or later, even if it was only for an unfairly short instant. And although Quentin was the only one to move his mouth against the avenger's, to bring some life into the kiss, he knew that Peter was enduring the moment with no possibility for him to escape, and that he was testing the savors as much as he was, if not more, with all these new feelings that he couldn't do otherwise than assimilate. Quentin tasted the pungent, ferrous taste of blood as his tongue stroked Peter's half-open mouth. He would have given anything to make this experience fully reciprocal and interactive, to give the kid a chance to respond to the kiss and react as his body was leading him to do. So that they can be two to cooperate along this pleasure and relish it together. He would have treated Peter like a prince.

Ah, there was the salty taste of tears too.

Peter didn't want to die.

But it was happening nevertheless. It took a while, but after a few minutes of resistance from Spider-Man, Death came and reaped its due.

Peter's last breath was stolen by Quentin, who still hadn't broken the kiss. It was a mere, weak sigh that was wrest out for the last time from his punctured lungs. His body then became inert. Quiet. And his fate was definitely sealed.

When Quentin eventually straightened up, the sensation of Peter's lips still haunting his reddened, bloodstained mouth, he took a moment to observe the face of the boy lying beneath him. His brown eyes were still open, though empty of life: dull, with dilated pupils. There was no longer that lovely and playful little glow that characterized him so much. It was gone. It was done. Peter was dead.

Removing his hands from the Avenger's neck striped with fingers marks, Quentin used his thumbs to respectfully close his eyelids. Thus, it was just as if he was sleeping.

"You can rest now."

He left the body there after a final pat on the cheek.

At the end, he knew deep down that he had lost much more today than he would have admitted. He went back home with the conviction that he had suffered a failure instead of the victory mentioned by E.D.I.T.H..

.

Time didn't help.

Technology did, actually.

His technology, to be more precise. His invention. It took several weeks for Quentin to concede that something — someone — was undeniably missing to his life. But once he had put his finger on it...

"Quentin."

He looked up from the book he was reading on the sofa in his apartment, and turned to the holographic projection which had brought him out of his thoughts. It — he — was sitting next to him, staring kindly and peacefully. A smile was exchanged.

"Yes, baby?" He replied, his eyes already shining with affection for the lie who was holding his gaze.

The illusion, Peter, whispered the following words after a small silence. "I love you."

.