Chapter Text
When Peter wakes up, his head feels heavy, and it’s throbbing painfully. Surrounded by nothing but pitch black darkness, the boy starts to fumble around; he’s still naked and, so it seems, still lying on the same mattress as the last two days. The chain around his ankle clinks as he carefully sits up.
“H-Harley?” Peter croaks, whimpering when he’s met with silence.
Did Quentin actually take Harley away or is he lying on the ground somewhere, unconscious due to the stun-gun Quentin supposedly shot him with? Trembling, Peter moves to the edge of the bed, but his head is spinning so badly that he doesn’t dare to get up. Instead, he kneels down and starts to crawl, scraping his naked knees on the cold, hard concrete floor. Groping his way forward, Peter searches the areas of the small room that he can reach, saying Harley’s name out loud every now and then.
After a few minutes or so, Peter has to accept that Harley isn’t here anymore. Feeling desperate and scared, Peter tries to refrain from crying. As embarrassing as it was to have Harley witness Peter’s abuse, it was still somewhat comforting to have someone here with him… to not be completely alone… But now, Harley is gone, possibly – hopefully – reunited with Tony.
Oh god, please let him be alive, please...
Dissolving into tears after all, Peter crawls back to the mattress, where he curls into a ball and sobs quietly, waiting for the inevitable; for Quentin to come back and hurt him again...
Peter doesn’t know how long he’s been lying in the darkness before the light suddenly goes on, causing him to yelp in shock. The bright light burns through Peter’s closed lids, but he forces them open once he hears fast footsteps approaching him.
“He betrayed me!” Quentin yells, sputtering with anger. Peter can’t do anything to defend himself when Quentin grabs him by the throat and pulls him up. “You wanna know what your oh-so precious Tony did?!” Peter winces as fine drops of spit rain down on his face. “He screwed me over. And you know why? Because Tony cares more about his fucking money than he cares about you.”
Wheezing, Peter desperately scrapes his nails over Quentin’s hand, trying to get the man to loosen his grip and get some air. Quentin doesn’t seem to care and grabs Peter even tighter; he leans forward until their noses almost touch.
“Tony doesn’t give a single fuck that I still have you. As soon as he had Harley back, he called the cops on my men.”
Even though Peter is scared for his life right now, he can’t help but gain hope. If Quentin let Harley go, and if his men got arrested, then maybe Peter would be found and rescued soon...
The hope and relief must be showing on Peter’s face because Quentin’s mouth twists into a sneer. “Oh, there’s no need for you to start celebrating, sweetheart. Those two idiots know nothing about me or where I’m keeping you.”
With a disdainful snort, Quentin throws Peter back onto the bed. Coughing and wheezing, Peter takes a few hitched breaths, greedily pumping air into his lungs. Without warning, Quentin then starts laughing.
“You know, when I think about it, it doesn’t matter all that much. Tony still gave me ten million dollars in BitCoin, which is far more than I thought I would have when I decided to settle down with you.”
Rubbing his aching neck, Peter croaks, “This is what you call settling down? Chaining me up in a basement?”
“Of course not,” Quentin huffs, looking offended. “I will take you somewhere else soon, but first, I have to let things cool down a little and get a few more things done. Once everything’s ready, we're gonna move into the holiday home that I used to go to with Jeanne.”
Jeanne? Does she exist after all?
“What... happened to her?” Peter asks, stomach clenching as a sense of foreboding grabs hold of him.
“The same thing that happened to Harley,” Quentin says, lips curling into a mean smile.
Peter draws air in sharply. “W-What do you mean? What did you do to him?”
“Don’t worry your pretty head about it,” Quentin smirks, doing a flourish with his hand. “After everything that Harley did to you, you shouldn’t give a fuck about him in the first place.”
“What did you do?” Peter demands, voice shaking. “D-Did you kill him? Tell me, please.”
Quentin seems to enjoy seeing Peter so desperate. “If you prove to me that you are trustworthy, then maybe I’ll tell you... one day. But first, you gotta find a way to earn my trust. I haven’t forgotten that you wanted to bite my cock off. Fortunately, there are other things I can do to you.”
With a hungry look in his eyes, Quentin comes closer, taking out a pair of handcuffs from the back pocket of his pants. Horrified, Peter tries to back away. “P-Please, Quentin... Please don’t–”
The rest of Peter’s sentence gets drowned out by the scream ripped from his throat when Quentin’s left fist collides with his already bruised face.
“New rule,” the man hisses, fisting Peter’s hair as he kneels down on the mattress. “From now on, the words ‘no’, ‘stop’, and all variations of ‘not’ are forbidden. As my boyfriend, you are to do as I say. Besides, showing a little gratitude that I still love you after everything that you put me through is the least you can do, don’t you think?”
Never before has Peter ever been more concerned about the mental health of a person. For a few moments, he just gapes at Quentin with tears in his eyes, unable to determine whether the man is bullshitting him or if he actually means all of that. But considering all the other insane things that Quentin has said since he kidnapped Peter, he really seems to be that far gone.
“I asked you a question,” Quentin growls, shaking Peter.
The boy whimpers in pain as strands of hair are ripped from his skull. He knows it’s stupid to fight; knows it’s stupid to show defiance and blow his chance of surviving and escaping. But he can’t let Quentin believe his own delusions.
“O-Only one man has ever truly loved me, and his name is Tony Stark,” Peter whispers, allowing tears to drop down his cheeks. “In contrast to you, he treated me k-kindly and with respect.” Ignoring the fiery rage flaming up in Quentin’s eyes, Peter forces his lips into a sneer. “I will never be your boyfriend. You disgust me.”
“Oh yeah?”
Eyes narrowed to slits, Quentin lets go of Peter’s hair and gives him a shove that has the boy falling back against the wall, hitting his head on the concrete. Peter struggles when Quentin grabs him, but the man is too big and strong for the sleep-deprived, malnutritioned teenager. A few moments later, Peter finds his hands cuffed to the bar of the headboard of the bed. He’s still kneeling, with his head facing the wall and his back turned towards Quentin.
Glancing back in fear, Peter can see Quentin unbuckling his belt. Even though he knows it’s useless, Peter tugs at the cuffs in panic, not caring about the sharp edges cutting into his skin.
“Th-This is all you can do, right?” he whimpers when Quentin climbs onto the bed behind him, placing his hands on Peter’s bottom. “Hurt me.”
“Only if you force me to,” the man replies harshly.
Trembling with fear, Peter closes his eyes and curls his fingers around the bar to keep himself steady... But the pain doesn’t come. Instead, he can feel Quentin’s left arm sneaking around Peter’s waist to close his hand around Peter’s cock.
Letting out a defeated sob, Peter rests his head against the wall, trying to ignore what Quentin is doing. However, just like last time, his body eventually reacts to the stimulation, drawing a triumphant chuckle from Quentin.
Leaning forward, Quentin whispers, his breath tickling in Peter’s ear, “If I really disgust you, then why is your cock leaking, sweetheart?”
Forcing his eyes open, the teen turns his head to glance at Quentin through a veil of tears. “You can force my body to respond to your touches, but no matter what you do, you can’t force my mind to love you. The only person I love is Tony, and nothing will ever change about that.”
“Are you saying that I should kill you?” Quentin growls, letting go of Peter’s cock to grab him tightly by the chin. Cold fear rushes through Peter’s body when Quentin takes out his knife with his bandaged hand, bringing it close to Peter’s eye. “Is this what you want?”
Is it? Compared to getting raped and beaten by a fucking psychopath, dying doesn’t sound that bad anymore. However, deep down, Peter knows that he isn’t ready to die. He’s not even twenty yet, and... What if Harley wasn’t able to tell Tony and May how much Peter loves them, due to whatever it is that Quentin did to him? They need to know… Also, the handover hasn’t even been that long ago, so maybe Quentin is wrong… Maybe Tony will find them soon…
“N-No, I… Please, Quentin. Please, just…” Peter almost chokes on his words when Quentin presses the knife against a spot just under Peter’s eye, drawing blood. “Please… p-please don’t hurt me.”
Quentin takes his time to remove the knife; his voice is harsh and unforgiving when he speaks. “I already told you that I will only have to hurt you if you force me to. I don’t want to hurt you, but you were disrespectful to me. And you've already broken the rules that I had just laid down.”
Standing up, Quentin unloops his belt from his pants. His cold, blue eyes show a sign of regret when he folds the belt and raises his hand. “I’m sorry, Pete, but I have no other choice.”
Peter barely has time to brace himself before the belt comes down on his back. Screaming in agony, Peter tries to flinch back, but there’s nowhere to go; shortly thereafter, the second blow, which landed on his bottom, knocks all air out of him. Accepting that there’s no use in pleading with an unhinged lunatic, Peter grabs the metal bar and tries to take the hits with as much dignity as possible.
His voice is still hoarse by the time Quentin has served his tenth – and, hopefully, last – blow.
Sobbing in earnest, Peter tries to remember how to breathe properly. His back and bottom are burning like hell, no doubt swollen and bruised. This isn’t comparable to the light spanking that Tony sometimes did after Peter had been a brat on purpose. Not even close.
“Will you be a good boy from now on?” Quentin’s voice sounds through the dumb ringing in Peter’s ears.
But Quentin’s voice isn’t the only one that Peter can hear… It’s Harley’s, too.
‘Please don’t fight him, just… do whatever he wants so he doesn’t hurt you too badly.’
Peter should’ve listened to Harley right from the beginning, but he was too proud, too stupid, to do so.
“Y-Yes. I… I’m s-sorry,” Peter croaks, his whole body shaking from exhaustion, pain, and from his sobs.
“Remember, this was your fault,” Quentin says, sounding almost soothing. Peter winces when he feels Quentin softly touch his cheek. “Sssh… stop crying, sweetheart. Daddy’s gonna make love to you now. I’m going to take good care of you.”
Getting up, Quentin leaves to fetch the lube. Peter gives another useless tug at the cuffs chaining him to the bed, but the only thing that happens is that he ultimately cuts open the sore and bruised skin of his wrists. So, when Quentin comes back, Peter can’t do anything but continue to sob despicably, praying that it will be over soon and not hurt too badly.
The second he feels Quentin's lubed-up finger push into him, Harley’s voice echoes in Peter’s head for a second time. ‘There’s no need to be ashamed.’
Oh yes, there is.
It’s why Peter stays as quiet as possible. Sure, he grunts and hisses in pain, but he doesn't scream again… Not even when he bites down on his bottom lip until it starts bleeding. And when Quentin does everything he can to get Peter off, Peter doesn't moan or beg or plead. Not once. Not even when his body eventually succumbs to the stimulation, giving in just seconds before Quentin does.
“I've never had anyone who cums as easily as you,” the man sneers as he presses his sweaty stomach against Peter’s back, panting. “We are made for each other, my love.”
Easily? Quentin had prepped and jerked Peter off for almost ten minutes before he started fucking him, and, even then, it took the man twice as long as it would've taken Tony.
Knowing better than to talk back again, Peter just closes his burning eyes in defeat, waiting for Quentin to get off of him. When Quentin finally does, he uncuffs Peter, but the boy is too exhausted to move; both mentally and physically.
“Goodnight, sweetheart,” Quentin whispers, leaning down to place a tender kiss on Peter’s lips. “I love you.”
Peter feels dead inside as Quentin gathers his clothes and walks to the door. He turns off the light, and when the door closes a few seconds later, Peter is once again left in complete darkness. Even though Peter has never felt more hopeless in his life, he tries to force himself to believe; to believe that Quentin’s men will know where Peter is kept, and that Harley will be able to tell Tony that it was Quentin.
Before morning comes, Tony will come bursting through the door and save him...
Peter knows he will.
~~
But Tony doesn’t come.
Nobody comes... Nobody, apart from Quentin.
Peter assumes it’s the next day because Quentin wishes him a good morning and hands him a bowl with milk and some cereal. The man seems way more cheerful than yesterday, which means that Quentin told Peter the truth… His men know nothing, and Harley is most likely dead.
The idea that Tony could’ve actually lost Peter and Harley is too much. Dissolving into tears, Peter almost drops the bowl Quentin handed him. Of course, Quentin finds a way to make Peter’s distress about him.
“Aw, poor thing… I knew you would love to have some cereal. You’re welcome, sweetheart.”
This is so pathetic and stupid that Peter doesn’t know what to say. Instead, he urges himself to calm down and eat as much of the cereal as he can, despite feeling nauseous already. Quentin watches him with a pleased smile and puts his left hand on Peter’s naked thigh, gently caressing it. If only Quentin had given him a fork… Peter would've make sure to ram it into–
“Once we’ve moved into our new home, maybe we can eat together one day,” Quentin interrupts Peter’s thoughts, giving the boy’s thigh a light squeeze. “I could cook for us, or we could order in and watch a movie together?”
Gross.
And yet, Peter finds himself gaining a tiny bit of hope. If there comes a day when Quentin lets his guard down, maybe he can try to escape or call for help…
“That... would be nice,” Peter forces himself to say, hoping that he didn't lay the lie on too thick.
Fortunately, Quentin buys into what Peter says. “It would, but we have a long way to go. Finish up.” He points at the half-empty cereal bowl. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to visit you until late evening, so you should eat.”
“I… I’m trying, but my stomach… It aches a little.”
Sighing, Quentin looks deeply into Peter’s eyes. “Okay. If you promise that you will finish it later, you can stop now. Don’t try to flush it down the toilet, though… Remember, I’m watching you.”
A shiver runs down Peter’s spine. “I won’t. I promise.”
“What did I tell you about using the word not?” Quentin hisses, tightening his grip on Peter's thigh until it feels bruising.
Shit. “I didn– I-I mean, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Quentin. I meant to say that I will eat it later.”
To Peter’s relief, Quentin’s anger seems to vanish as quickly as it came. “It’s all right. I know what you meant, but you should still try to avoid using negative words from now on, no matter what context you’re using them in.”
Peter nods his head. “S-Sure. I will try.”
Lips curling into a forgiving smile, Quentin takes the cereal bowl out of Peter’s hands and puts it on the floor. Then, he stands up and walks over to his bag, taking out the handcuffs and something that Peter doesn’t recognize.
Not daring to plead with Quentin, Peter lets the man cuff Peter’s hands behind his back. However, once Quentin orders Peter to open his mouth, the boy loses his inhibitions; he just realized what that other thing is... It’s the ring gag that Quentin has threatened him with in the past.
“P-Please, don– I will do what you want, Quentin. I will be good,” Peter begs, fresh tears forming in his eyes.
But Quentin shakes his head. “I’m sorry, sweetie, but I can’t trust you yet. Open up.”
Letting out a defeated sob, Peter does as he’s told.
The next couple of minutes are nothing but horrible … even worse than Peter imagined.
Not being able to close his mouth – not even for a second – to swallow or take a deep breath as Quentin abuses his throat, is one of the scariest and most disgraceful things Peter has ever had to do. It’s so bad that Peter swears to himself that he will never bite any part of Quentin again; not his fingers, his tongue, or his cock. It wouldn't help anyways… It would only force Peter back into this same position.
When it's finally over, Peter is gasping and coughing so badly that Quentin drags him to the toilet in case he has to throw up.
“You had this coming, Peter,” Quentin says, voice hard and unforgiving. Then, he gets up, leaving Peter sitting at the toilet by himself. “Remember to finish your cereal.”
The man is barely out the door when Peter holds him back with a question. He hates himself for it, but he suddenly feels even colder than before. “C-Can you… Can I please have a blanket? I… I’m so cold...”
Quentin hesitates for a few moments before he says, “Not yet. But... I can give you a towel.” The man opens the door, steps out for a brief moment, and returns with a towel-sized rag that he tosses over to Peter. “Actually, make sure to wash yourself daily from now on. You’re starting to smell.”
~~
In the days that follow, Peter loses all sense of time. Quentin only turns on the light when he comes into the basement, which, Peter assumes, happens twice – or even thrice – a day. He can’t be sure because Quentin plays deaf whenever Peter asks him what day or time it is, and the visits seem to happen at random times; sometimes, Peter’s hunger (that he starts to feel once he’s stopped feeling sick all the time) is still somewhat bearable when Quentin comes, but most of the time, he already feels faint with hunger by he time the door opens.
Quentin doesn’t even talk to Peter a lot in the first place; mostly, the man is too busy pressing Peter’s face into the mattress or fucking his throat. Not that Peter would want to talk to Quentin, but the lack of knowledge of how much time has passed since Harley left takes a lot out of the teenager. Only the light stubble growing on Peter’s chin, jawline, and the small part between his lips and nose eventually gives him back some sense of time. As someone blessed (or cursed?) with a very weak beard growth, Peter only has to shave every four to six days. As Quentin comes and leaves, the stubble slowly gets a little more dense, but then, it seems to stop growing.
After what could've been one or two weeks – but felt like a year – Quentin finally brings Peter a blanket and a pillow. Though, he doesn’t actually give it to Peter until Peter gives Quentin the best blowjob of his life; without the ring gag. The last couple of times, Quentin didn’t even tie Peter up anymore when he assaulted him. At first, Peter assumes that it was due to his weak physical state, but then Quentin tells him that he never takes the key to Peter’s ankle chain with him.
“Just in case you ever consider doing something stupid,” the man winks, smiling as he watches Peter cover himself with the blanket.
“I will be good,” Peter says dully, voice raspy from disuse. He would’ve said ‘I won’t do anything', but it would’ve earned him a slap. Therefore, he usually just says ‘I will be good’ whenever he wants to avoid using one of Quentin’s forbidden words.
“Do you like it?” Quentin nods his head at the blanket.
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“I told you that you don’t have to call me sir, Peter,” Quentin sighs, sounding slightly irritated. “Just call me Quentin, like you always did. Or you can use a nickname, if you want.”
“Okay...” Shithead. “...Quentin.”
In an instant, Quentin smiles brightly. “Good boy,” he praises, leaning forward to kiss Peter’s temple.
For what seems like the millionth time, Peter is painfully reminded of Tony. He misses him so much… Tears start to build in Peter’s eyes, but he feels too weak to even cry anymore.
~~
One day, Quentin brings Peter three packages of cookies, some bread, and a book. “There’s some things I need to take care of, but I’ll be back soon.”
“What do you mean? H-How long will you be gone for?” Peter asks fearfully.
“There's no need to be sad, sweetheart,” Quentin coos, cupping Peter’s cheek. “It will only be a couple of days, and I will leave the lights on so you can read a little and pass the time until I'm back.”
Days? Peter’s stomach churns. “B-But… What if you get into an accident or something?”
Quentin has never looked more touched. “You don’t need to worry about me, I will drive carefully.”
Internally, Peter is screaming. He’s not worried about Quentin, he’s worried about himself. If Quentin gets into an accident that puts him into the hospital – or into a fucking grave – then Peter will be doomed to slowly, and miserably starve to death. It’s not the first time that Peter has thought about this, but it has never scared him as much as it does now.
Feeling desperate, Peter tries to calm down and look at the positive side. If Quentin’s gone for a few days, then he’ll get a break from getting raped and beaten, at least.
However, being completely alone for so long turns out to be harder to endure than Peter expected. At first, he passes the time by reading the book, almost glad that he finally has some sort of entertainment. But once he’s finished the book and most of the food that Quentin gave him, the isolation, the constant worry, and the fear of dying and rotting away in this hellhole gets a hold of Peter.
Therefore, Peter finds himself hoping for Quentin to be back soon, and when the door finally opens after what felt like a lifetime, Peter shamefully realizes that the tears he sheds are tears of relief rather than tears of fear. He doesn’t even scrunch up his face when Quentin hugs and cuddles him.
Yet, once Quentin is balls deep into Peter for the first time in days, the boy's relief quickly gets replaced with disgust and sorrow again. Maybe it would've been better if they had both died...
He can't take this anymore.
~~
A while later, during one of Quentin’s visits, he brings a syringe and a roll of duct tape. When he notices Peter staring at them with wide, fearful eyes, he smiles softly. “Don’t be scared, sweetheart. I’m just gonna put you in a deep, peaceful sleep for a couple of hours.”
“W-Why?” Peter asks, wrapping his blanket around him protectively. The idea of being at Quentin’s mercy and unconscious scares him even more than being awake.
“We’re going to move today.”
Peter’s mind starts racing. Even though he doesn’t know if being held at a different place would actually decrease his chance of being found (at this point, Peter has completely given up hope on that), he always figured that the best chance of escaping would be the move itself. However, if Quentin stuns him, Peter’s chances to get away or catch a neighbor’s or a pedestrian’s attention, or something, will be zero.
“B-But... I will be good,” Peter says, swallowing thickly. “P-Please. I d– uh… You've sedated me before, and it makes me sick and… and weak. The last time you did this, I was a lot stronger than now, so I don– My body could be affected a lot worse than before.”
“Hm.” Quentin seems to think about it, but then, he shakes his head. “I’m sure you understand that I can’t risk you being conscious during the move. I still don’t trust you, Peter.”
Peter’s heart drops. “Please…” he begs when Quentin grabs the duct tape and orders Peter to turn around and put his hands behind his back. “Please don’t.”
Quentin growls threateningly. “Turn. Around. Or I’ll make you. ”
A few minutes later, Peter is lying on the bed with his hands and legs tied, unable to prevent Quentin from injecting the serum in his neck. He tries to fight the instant fogginess and fatigue that threatens to overcome him, but it’s pointless.
In a matter of seconds, Peter can feel himself drifting away.
When he comes to, he’s – yet again – surrounded by darkness. However, once the worst of the dizziness has vanished, Peter notices some differences: it doesn’t smell as musty as in the basement, and it’s not nearly as cold; he also doesn't seem to be lying on a naked mattress anymore, but on soft sheets, and, most importantly, Peter is wearing clothes for the first time since forever.
A quiet sob escapes Peter’s lips. While he’s still extremely scared, Peter hasn’t felt so… human and valued in a long time. And that gives him back a tiny bit of hope. Maybe Quentin will actually treat him better, now that they’re here... Wherever ‘here’ even is...
Peter desperately tries to hold onto his spark of hope when the light gets turned on. Squinting, Peter sees that he’s lying on a queen-sized bed, wearing sweatpants and a shirt. There’s no chain around his ankle anymore, and his heart skips a beat when he notices that there is a window in his room. Yet, once he notices the closed, light-tight shutters and the bars in front of it, Peter shivers. Of course.
Sitting up, Peter quickly scans as much of the room as he can. It’s almost as tiny as the basement, but it’s an actual room with wooden planks and wallpaper on the walls. The window is at the wall to Peter’s left, whereas on the right wall, there’s a door leading into a tiny bathroom with a toilet, sink, and a shower. Opposite of the bed is the only other furniture in the room: an empty drawer. It’s standing next to another door, which has a fingerprint lock and a small, sealed-off opening. Peter also detects three cameras; the first one is filming the bed and window, with the second one looking at the main door and the bathroom door, and the third one is facing the shower.
Peter has just started to debate whether he should take a shower regardless, when the door leading into the room gets unlocked. It’s Quentin (duh), beaming at Peter.
“I see you’ve started to explore your new room. Do you like it?”
“Um…” Considering that Peter has lived in a dirty basement for god-knows how long… “Y-Yes. Thank you so much,” he says, forcing his lips into a fake smile. “And… Thank you for the clothes. I haven’t felt this warm in a while.”
Stepping into the room, Quentin closes the door behind him; the lock clicks threateningly. “You’re welcome, love,” he says softly. “But, I expect you to take them off without hesitation when I tell you to. Can you do that?”
“S-Sure.” Peter nods his head.
Quentin’s eyes sparkle with lust. “Do it now.”
Swallowing thickly, Peter does as he’s told. As he’s standing there in front of Quentin, stark naked, he immediately feels less protected again, and even more so when the man advances with big steps, but Peter forces himself not to flinch back. Don’t anger him...
He still shudders when Quentin wraps his arms around him, pulling Peter close. Cupping Peter’s cheeks, Quentin leans down to give Peter a gentle, yet hungry kiss. Like always, Peter can’t bring himself to respond to it, but Quentin seems to mistake his reluctance as submissiveness anyways.
“How about we take a shower together and get you cleaned?” Quentin breathes against Peter’s lips.
A knot forms in Peter’s stomach. Great.
“I… I’d like that,” Peter lies, desperate to hold back tears as he allows Quentin to pull him into the bathroom.
While it’s amazing to feel fresh, clean water trickling down his skin, Peter can’t thoroughly enjoy it. Not with Quentin standing behind him, slathering body wash and shampoo on Peter’s body and hair, groping and scrubbing every inch of Peter that he can reach.
Quentin’s cock is fully hard at the time he orders Peter to kneel down in the tub of the shower and suck him off. Once he’s had enough, Quentin takes things to the bedroom, where he bends Peter over the bed and pounds into him with even more force than usual.
Afterwards, Peter quickly realizes the disadvantage of having a queen-size bed with clean sheets: it allows Quentin to comfortably lie down next to Peter, which he does once they’re done.
“I’m so happy we’re finally home, sweetheart.” Wrapping his arms around Peter from behind, Quentin places a soft kiss on Peter’s ear. “Now, we can finally be together in peace… Just you and me… For the rest of our lives.”
For the rest of your life, maybe, Peter thinks grimly. He doesn’t know how, or when, but one day, Quentin will let his guard down... And when he does, Peter’s going to be ready.
Ready to run…
… And ready to kill.