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#quentin beck x reader
charliehoennam · 6 months
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The Conception
A/N: another request by the lovely @juniebugg ❤ didn't have time to proofread so sorry for any mistakes!
Pairing: Dark!quentin beck x f!reader
Summary: quentin concocts a plan to test his precious technology (takes place before he goes rogue)
Warnings: smut, dub-con/non-con, sex without protection (wrap ur willy when it gets silly), rough sex, language. 18+ ONLY.
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Obsession can lead to either one of two ways. It can take you on the path of success or it can take you to dark journeys with lasting consequences. Quentin was – with no doubt – an obsessive man.
The long working hours he had dedicated into developing his technology is a result of his obsession. And now that he has you, he can finally bring together the only two things that satisfy him.
You find yourself walking on eggshells again as your high heels clack their way through against the white marble floor. Quentin had forgotten a briefcase at home, containing some important blueprints. He politely demanded asked you to bring it into the lab for him. You call for him as you quietly walk inside. There are dismantled drones crowding the work stations. The lab looks a mess with small bolts, screws and motherboards everywhere.
You don’t know to expect or what state you’ll find him in. Granted he had always been self-centered and short-fused – you wish you had noticed the red flags before you said the official “I do” – he could be worse when he worked on his projects. Far worse.
“About time. What the hell took you so long?” he sighs setting the tools in his hands down on the glossy white table in front of him to walk over and rip the briefcase from your hands.
 “I’m sorry. I got caught in traffic. It’s not like I wanted to be late” you retort. “I know how you get” you add with a mumble.
You freeze the second the words leave your mouth. You realize you were thinking out loud when you catch Quin’s scowl.
 “Oh? And how exactly do I get?”
“N-nothing, Quin. I didn’t say anything.”
“So now I’m hearing things? I’m going schizo?”
 He takes a threatening step towards you, his broad size shrinking you in comparison. His shoulders stretch as he stands up straight. He wants to remind you that you are essentially powerless against him.
 “No. That’s not what I meant. I-I didn’t mean it.”
“Obviously, you did. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have said it. So, enlighten me, princess. How do I get?”
You gulp heavily as you lower your fearful agaze. His sights are locked on you like a wolf circling its prey. You’re in for it now.
As you open your mouth and try to build the courage the speak, the words seem to get stuck in your throat.
Frighteningly calm, his hand wraps around the underside of your chin. His fingertips press into one cheek as his thumb sinks into the other, forcing you to face him.
“I asked you a question, princess. It’s impolite to leave someone hanging.”
“Just a little s-scary sometimes, Quin. That’s all.”
He doesn’t need to feel your trembling to know that you’re afraid of him. As he smirks to himself, his fingertips ease the pressure they’re applying to your cheeks. He caresses them, soothing the red indents on your skin.
The change of his persona is almost too eerie.
Slow, repeated, tender kisses that make you bubble from the inside. You can’t deny him. You fear what he’d do if you did and you find him oddly irresistible.
“You’re not wrong about that. I know sometimes I can get a little impatient. I think I just need a break.I think I’ve just been in here on my own for too long. But now that I have you here...” He trailed off as he kisses you.
The small of your back is guided by his hands on your hips to meet the table as he entraps you against it with his hunching frame. His feet stand firm on either side of you, locking you in.
As his kisses grow hungry, you cling to the edge of the table to steady yourself from his mauling. His lips connect to your neck, nibbling and sucking your skin. His 5 o’clock shadow grazes you roughly as his fingers work the buttons on your shirt to reveal your black lace bra.
Your eyes dart towards the one-sided wall of glass. An office of busy workers and overflowing desks lay just outside. Even though you know they can’t see in from the outside, your cheeks still flush warmly at the sight of his co-workers.
“Quin, maybe we shouldn’t. You’re at work. Someone could see us.”
“And what’s the problem with that?” he mumbles against your flesh, too busy savoring the fullness of your breast in his hand after he shoved it under the black garment.
You hold his wrists trying to resist him as you struggle to ignore how good they feel.
“Quin, we can’t.”
“Who the fuck says when I can and can’t fuck my wife. If I wanna fuck you right here and right now, I’m gonna fuck you.”
“I-i just don’t want anyone to see, Quin.”
“Don’t worry. No one will see” he smiles darkly as a light bulb lit up upon his head. His hand retracts from your breast, rendering you confused. Had you upset him?
“No one will see. You’re for my eyes only, princess.”
You gasp when his hand reaches under your skirt and squeezes your pussy over your panties. You close your eyes to steady yourself, but they shoot open when you hear a faint blip. Closing them again, you ignore it thinking you might have imagined the sound.
“You don’t wanna disappoint your husband, do ya?” His voice is low and soft, manipulating you into surrendering to him.
“N-no, I don’t.”
“You don’t what?”
“I don’t want to disappoint you, sir.”
“That’s my girl” he chuckles dimly.
While one hand teases your clothed pussy, his other hand pulls your bra down. As the garment bunches under your fully exposed tits, it pushes them up and perfectly displays them to Quin.
You can hear a very low hum vibrating around you but you assume it’s only the AC kicking in.
“So fucking beautiful for me” he mumbles.
He’s quick to wrap his mouth around your nipple, kneading the tender flesh in his large hand. His tongue twirls around your hard nipple, stopping only to greedily suck on it. You moan as he alters. Left to right, right to left; giving them each the attention they deserve.
You watch him ravage your tits. His hand slides out from under your skirt and assists him in taking off your shirt. He leaves the bra on. He loves black on you, but personally he’s already thinking about how white they’ll be when he stains them with his cum.
“You know how much I fucking love your tits, princess.”
A telephone rings from a desk outside the lab and catches your attention. You look to the glass wall and are quickly reminded how many people are just on the other side.
“You’re such a filthy fucking whore for me” he grumbles groping your chest roughly with his hands and mouth.
“Quin, someone could walk in on us” you plead trying to remind him. He feels so good on you, but you don’t want to do this right here.
“They could” he nods looking up at you. “They could see the little slut you are for me.”
“Quin, please. Not here.”
  He ignores your pleads to stop. He knows you’re turned on by it. The wetness sinking through your panties was the only confirmation he needed.
Pushing your skirt up to expose your dampening cunt, he sits down on a rolling stool and wheels it closer.
He sits you on the table behind you and your legs spread open on their own to allow him access. You hate the puppet you become at his fingertips.
“No, Quentin. Stop it” you plead trying to get his attention.
He responds with a hard slap on your breast. The sting sends sparks straight down to your core, fueling the fire that burns in your womb.
“What’d ya call me?”
“S-sir. Please.”
“I’m gonna fuck you right here, you got that? I’m not taking no for an answer.”
Ripping your panties to the side, he buries his face between your thighs. Any shred of resistance you have melts away. Your eyes squeeze shut, but you’re reminded you have to watch the door since Quentin doesn’t seem to care at all about the people working behind him.
You alter between watching his co-workers going about their day - without the slightest knowledge of the filth going on so close to them- and his mouth as it engulfs your juicy lips. It’s almost exciting to think about. You feel so dirty and yet, so fucking good letting him use you so openly.
Your muscles burn as Quin shoves your knees apart. His lips hungrily wraps around your lips, letting his tongue lap up the wetness building up. You lean back on your elbows to let him get more of you.
You moan at his tongue swirls around your sensitive nub, sending sparks of electricity throughout your body. How can you resist him when he feels so good?
“Sir, feels so good” you whisper.
You lick your dry lips as you lay spread with his head between your legs. He hums with delight as he catches you watching the glass walls.
“You like it don’t you?” he mumbles sliding two fingers into your hole.
You hear the vibrating hum again, but nod at his question. Why is the AC so strange here?
His fingers push into the sides of your entrance, prying your hole open with the most delicious burn. His tongue slides into the hole, eagerly lapping up your sweet juice. He fucks you with his tongue and you finally surrender yourself to him completely.
There is no use in fighting back. He wins. Quentin always gets what he wants when he wants it. And he wants you now. His only argument is devouring your pussy with a hunger so deep that you’re not sure if you’re enough to satisfy. 
“Pussy so juice, baby” he mutters to your cunt. “Gotta fuck it with my cock now. Need you so bad.”
His cock feels as if it’s about to break through his pants. He wastes no time and stands up between your legs, quickly unfastening his belt and pants.
His cock springs free from it’s confines, hard already. You wince biting your lower lip. The low hum that you’ve been hearing seems even closer now. You frown and try to find the source, but you’re forced out your thoughts when Quin’s tip glides up your swollen folds and pokes at your nub.
Your eyes roll to the back of your head. Your cunt is soaking wet as he lathers his cock with it. You watch his face contort from the pleasure. He moans and rolls his head back. He could cum just from the feeling your puffy lips hugging his dick.
He looks back down to watch himself penetrate you. His cock feels so big in you. It parts you in half as it pushes in deeper. The stretch hurts a bit, but he’s not going to ease up. This isn’t about your comfort; it’s about his need for release.
You remind yourself to breathe. The tightness around his cock feels heavenly to him, but you force yourself to relax to make it less painful.
As he hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, you reach down to caress your sensitive clit to try and enjoy it more.
“Such a dirty fucking slut. Look at you. You wanna cum on my cock, princess?”
“Yes, sir.”
He chuckles and delivers a couple more slaps to your exposed breasts, leaving them red and warmly tender to the touch.
He orders you to lie on your back and squeeze your own tits. His cock bottoms out inside of you. From some reason, the deep humming seems to be coming from right above you. You look up at the ceiling trying to find the source again, but there’s nothing there.
As his hips move back to retract from your cunt, he pushes your knees to your chest. Just when you think your pussy couldn’t be anymore exposed.
With his hands on the back of your thighs, he leans down to spit on your cunt. It’s spread so open; he doesn’t even need his hands to guide his head inside your hole. His dick glides into your stretched wetness.
He fucks so rough and hard; you know you’ll be sore for days.
The panties bundled into a string rub along the side of your cunt. It burns your skin, but all you think about is how good his cock starting to feel.
Your clit trembles at the pleasure.
“P-please, sir. Can I touch myself?”
His dark smile grows wide.
“Only ‘cause you remembered to ask, princess.”
You quickly reach down to your cunt to rub yourself where you need it most. It finally feels so good.
“Pussy so fucking wet. Make yourself cum on my cock.”
You can hear how wet you really are. You can feel your slick spread all around and stick to his groin. You wish you weren’t as wet as you are. You know he takes so much pride in knowing he makes you that way.
His balls thump faster against your ass as he picks up his pace. You’re so full of him; it’s pushing you over the edge. The bundling pressure finally bursts inside you.
As your walls contract and tighten around his pounding cock, you keep your eyes locked on the glass wall praying no one would hear or enter the lab. He wishes he could spend all day doing this; just fucking you silly until he’s too spent.
 His throbbing cock shows he’s so close.
Leaving you aching to be full again, he pulls himself out and finally cums. He coats your swollen pussy lips with his warm string of white beads, painting you like a canvas.  He haphazardly pulls your panties back over your drenched cunt to pump his final load over your panties.
He chuckles tiredly feeling his cum quickly soak through the lace with the tip of his cock. The idea of you walking out that door and down the building, all the way home with your pussy and panties coated with his cum excites him.
“Stay dirty until you get home.”
You nod as he lets you climb down from the table. You both redress and adjust your clothes to return to your day. Your legs feel like they barely hold you up.
“Give sir a kiss goodbye” he smiles enjoying the power he has over you.
You obey and press your lips to his, letting it linger for as long as he wants.
“We having steak for dinner tonight?” he whispers holding your hips.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I’ll be home early.”
You smile as he reaches up your skirt to confirm his cum is still where he wants it.
“Keep ‘em on all day. I’d better come home and find this still on my pussy.”
“You will, sir” you nodded obediently. Your pussy tingles at his touch, anxious for more.
He gives you one more kiss to let you go and slaps your ass as you turn to walk to the door. With your pussy beyond soaked, your wetness mixes with his cum and trickle down your inner thighs. It makes your walk a little difficult as you pray it doesn’t drip out.
You make your way out of the lab and walk towards the elevator, hoping no one will notice. You feel a few pairs of eyes on you. Whether they know or not, you can’t be sure. So, you just smile shyly at them and keep your gaze down.
Quentin watches you step into the elevator from the lab. Finally sitting back at his station, he lifts a thin tablet from his desk and presses an icon.
The drone, which is controlled by the tablet, reveals itself as it deactivates its cloaking device. Now fully visible, he lands it on the table to deactivate the drone entirely.
Quin leans back in his chair with a mischievous grin as he raises the tablet. Pressing a few more icons on the touchscreen tablet, he smirks grimly as he watches the previous recording saved on the device. With the touch of a button, he expands the video into holograph mode.
His technology finally worked.
The holograph shows you with your cunt fully exposed, being fucked by him on the table. He rewinds it to watch it from the start, laughing to himself proudly.
“Thank you, princess.”
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gyllenflower · 11 months
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16 with Quentin beck?
Quentin’s energy is so sexy, but I have such a hard time writing for him. hehehe😭 I hope you enjoy <3
Warnings: Mean Quentin, jealous reader, punishing, manhandling, spanking, clit rubbing, pussy eating
16. “What the fuck did you just say to me?” (I want Mr. Beck to talk to me like this so bad)
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“Wanna tell me why you’re huffing, pretty girl?” Quentin asked, his eyes flicking over to you briefly. He undid his tie through his reflection.
You didn’t answer. Just crossed your arms and looked away with an angry face.
Quentin looked at you and lowered his eyes, hardening his expression towards you. He walked towards you, leaning over you and the chair and placing both arms on either side of you.
“I’m not asking you again.” He warned.
You shrunk into your seat and avoided eye contact with the intimidating man in front of you.
“You were staring back at her.” You mumbled. Quentin laughed at you.
“Sure I was.” He brushed it off.
“I saw you!” You snapped at him, getting in his face.
“Watch your fucking tone with me, Y/n. You’re really pushing it.” His eyes burned into you and you brought your face back.
“You don’t love me.” You mumbled, looking away from Quentin.
“What the fuck did you just say to me?” He questioned you harshly. His hands grabbed your arms and brought you up, “Who do you think this is all for, huh?” He shook you against him. “Us.” He growled. He pushed you to the top of the cushion, turning you away from him and bending you over. You could feel his hard-on through his dress pants, begging to be freed.
He lifted up your dress and quickly pulled down the panties under them. He moaned at the sight of you and smacked your ass hard, making you gasp out loudly. He shoved one hand in your mouth and spanked you again with the other. You bit down on his fingers and he grunted.
“You didn’t wanna tell me what’s wrong, so now you don’t make a fucking sound.” He commanded you. You nodded in obedience. The tie he had undone around his neck was suddenly around your mouth, and you moaned against it.
“Shut the fuck up.” He spat, yanking the tie against you tighter. You hushed and he grinded his erection into your wetness and groaned with desire. “I can feel you through my pants.”
Quentin tied his silk tie around your mouth and trailed his hand down between your legs. He massaged your clit softly. You wanted to moan out so bad, but you held yourself back.
“You think I want anyone else?” He asked you, moving his fingers in slow, small circles. “I do all of this for you, and you think I have the brain to look at some other girl? When I’ve got a woman right here. A good fucking woman.” He pressed his fingers into you more harshly, moving his fingers quicker. Your body jolted against him and you struggled to keep a moan inside of your throat. It came out small and broken.
Quentin’s pants grew tighter at your struggled sound. He loved to hear you obey him. He loved when you trembled at his every command. You began as his assistant, getting him everything he needed on the job, and now you were his lover. If anyone working for him was to talk bad about you (or to you), he’d make them sorry.
Quentin leaned down and kissed your shoulder. His lips trailed down your back, leaving various bites.
“Look at this pussy.” He said, coming face to face with your glistening entrance. He grabbed your ass in his hands and spread you apart. Quentin pushed his fingers into you and shoved his face between your legs. His tongue flicked against you quickly, making you gasp out against the silk material.
“Gonna show you how much I want you. Only you.” He growled, giving your ass one last hard slap before devouring you.
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astxrwar · 4 months
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ties that bind [3/8]
SUMMARY: Quentin Beck-- your old college biology professor-- is still a bastard. Apparently, you’re kind of in to that.
RATING: Explicit
WORD COUNT: 7k+
CONTENT WARNINGS: extremely under-negotiated kink, character-typical behavior (negging, being manipulative and an asshole, etc), me bestowing upon reader!character my own shameless oral fixation/pathological lack of a gag reflex, gratuitous sex, overstimulation, me pretending that condoms are optional (they are not irl!) the most FUBAR relationship ever etc.
PART 1 | PART 2 | [PART 3] | PART 4
In the spirit of Thanksgiving, there are many things that you are immeasurably grateful for in the aftermath.
One of the most immediate ones– which might have been surprising in the moment, if there were any parts of your brain capable of engaging in conscious thought at the time– is Beck’s ability to be completely unmoved by anything . The knock on the door had made your blood run cold, sent a shock of nervous adrenaline lancing through your body that had cut clean through the not-unpleasant haze of whatever the fuck you had been feeling before that–
Beyond cursing under his breath, his eyes flashing dark with some unidentifiable emotion, Beck didn’t react– didn’t panic– at all. He had fixed you with a pointed stare and pressed a finger to his lips– be quiet – and then, apparently otherwise unfazed, he had reached for his belt from the desk and began working it back through the loops of his dress pants. 
The knocking– a student, presumably, because it was office hours, after all– stopped after a few minutes, and then there was silence, and when that silence had dragged on for what you deemed to be an appropriately safe amount of time, you slipped out the door of his office, not looking back once. Beck didn’t say anything to you, and didn’t make any attempt to stop you from leaving – your brain had been buzzing, overstimulated and racing with frantic, scattered thoughts that you couldn’t hold onto long enough to complete before they would disappear from you and others would take their place, and because of that none of it had actually felt real then. It would have, probably, if you’d been forced to focus on him again for even a moment– but he didn’t say a word, and so you didn’t have to, and you were glad for that, too.
You don’t remember getting back home, only that you must have. It had been a Friday, another thing you’re grateful for, because looking at yourself in the mirror of your apartment bathroom after having mechanically directed yourself through the process of a too-hot shower, there was a rapidly-darkening bruise at the base of your throat, another right over your jugular– something you knew, instinctively, in a distant and far-away part of your brain, would be there for a while. The sight of it triggered a twinge of something, like an echo, the flutter of your slightly-uneven pulse quickening in response– but it was still too recent to really register, then, still felt like a fantasy, or some strange hallucination existing in the realm somewhere between a dream and a nightmare.
It’s not until probably about eleven at night that everything slots into place and the memory fully realizes itself, integrates into the collection of all the other facts and realities that you know to be true. You’re laying sprawled out on your bed, motionless, staring up at the slowly-turning blades of the ceiling fan in the dark; these moments trickle back in reverse-order, in broad strokes, mostly. And maybe it’s because it’s late and you’re tired and you’re not thinking straight or really thinking much at all, but also maybe for other reasons that you refuse to acknowledge or elaborate on– but the very first thing you recall in its’ entirety, in brilliant, blinding detail, is what he’d said to you, his mouth low over your ear and his breath coming fast and hot–
Come on, honey. It plays back in your head, the edge to it, biting and cruel, not really urging you on as much as just telling you, like he knew that he was going to make you cum and he knew that there was nothing you could do to stop him if you’d even wanted to–
The surge of heat that flushes through you at the memory is so immediate and overpowering that it shocks you to your core. Your breath catches and then escapes in a totally involuntary, inarticulate sound, and you cover your mouth with your hand and screw your eyes shut as tight as you can— because after that it’s like the floodgates have opened or the dam has been breached and whatever wall you’d constructed between yourself and what had happened is gone, destroyed, swept away in the rush of everything you’d repressed rearing up to the forefront of your mind again, drowning out any other thought in a sea of white noise.
The mess of emotions that surges up with it is thorny and unfathomable and entirely too complicated for you to even begin to extricate, but you can recognize immediate, surface sensations, and wanting is one of them, the strongest one, probably, followed by fury and frustration and shame, none of which, you realize– alone or together– even come close to the intensity of your desire. Which is fucking embarrassing, honestly, what the fuck had he done to you? What the fuck had you let him do? And more importantly why and how do you already know with such a crushing and steadfast and terrible certainty that you’d let him do it again?
Your mind brings to the forefront, completely unbidden, the thought of what Beck might be doing, right now– you wonder if he’s thinking about it, like you are, but your instinct tells you that he’s probably not. He’s probably doing whatever the fuck it is he normally does at this time, collected and generally unfazed; you imagine that if he had any idea of you, the state you’re in, he’d smile one of those infuriatingly condescending smiles like every other time he’s managed to burrow his way under your skin, and your cheeks and your chest burn with an all-too-familiar embarrassment.
It’s not fair.
There’s an ache between your thighs again, a need, pulsing and trembling and wearing incessantly on the foundations of your fucking psyche, and you really, really, really want nothing more than to ignore it, to just roll over and go to sleep and not give him another inch of your resolve or the fucking satisfaction, but–
But the look he had fixed on you, before he kissed you, it plays behind your eyes; the feeling when he did kiss you, finally, how it had sated that frustration inside in a way that the confrontation hadn’t, better than anything else ever had to a degree that it was fucking frightening. 
You don’t push the thoughts away. 
So. Yeah. You’re grateful for a lot of stuff, in the immediate aftermath. Most of all, you’re grateful that it’s Thanksgiving break– that there are a whole ten days before you have to see Beck again, if only because it’s reason enough to justify that touching yourself to the thought of him later that night isn’t going to just make this whole thing that much fucking worse.
Ten days, it turns out, is not actually long enough for any of what you’re feeling to fade.
Come Monday morning you’re so high-strung that your anxiety is palpable– you drop your backpack on the floor twice just trying to hang it on the hooks on the wall outside of the lab, which is apparently out of character enough to warrant a concerned Hey, everything all right? from Dr. Banner, which absolutely does not help. Somehow, you manage to spin something about underestimating what a ten-day-break from XL coffees does to a person’s overall tolerance for caffeine, a spur-of-the-moment excuse that you’re quite proud of, especially considering it gets a laugh out of both him and your fellow grad students. 
You don’t actually see him at all that day. There are moments where you can almost completely forget about it, absorbed in lab busywork or chatting with labmates or grading assignments for Dr. Banner’s undergraduate microbiology class, but then there are also the moments where you’re alone and unoccupied and the thoughts are unavoidable, that same turmoil of emotions leeching up to the surface like a fresh bruise that you just can’t stop yourself from pressing down on.
Tuesday, too, is much of the same, and then Wednesday and Thursday after that; you’d have thought it would get easier with time, but it actually doesn’t– the longer it’s been since that day the fuzzier and more distant the memory, sure, but that frustration starts to build again in its’ absence. It’s kind of ironic, in a grating, infuriating way, the fact that you’re pissed off this time– for the first time– because he’s avoiding you, instead of the opposite. But it’s also so just like him– of course he’s unaffected, immune to this, and of course you aren’t, and of course he doesn’t give a shit. None of this is new, not really, it’s just different.
On Friday you end up having to stay late because one of your labmates fucks up a chemical extraction procedure that you were meant to be handling for the undergrads, meaning somebody has to remain in the lab for an extra three hours to run the dry ice bath and then transfer and separate the extract– it can’t be the person who actually fucked up, because they have work, apparently. But it could be you, of course, with nothing better to do, and you readily volunteer, because doing something is actually leagues better than sitting at home and wallowing in your myriad of unresolved issues– anger, mostly, but also other less appropriate things that you don’t want to think about.
So.
It’s five-thirty when the extraction is finally finished. You’ve run through the motions of locking up, putting all of the supplies back in their respective places, shutting off the overhead lights, kicking the door jamb out from where it’s wedged, the door itself having already been locked when Dr. Banner left at three. It’s November– December, now, actually– and so it’s dark and near-freezing outside by the time you’re done; the other end of the chemistry building is nearest to the parking lot, and so you decide that, in the interest of retaining feeling in your fingers, you’ll go down through the building and exit on the other side, thereby limiting the amount of time you actually have to spend out in the cold. 10/10, all-around solid plan.
Except Beck’s office is on this end of the building. You know that, and the knowledge prickles somewhere at the base of your spine as you sling your backpack over your shoulder and head in that direction, but you also know that it’s late, and that he doesn’t really ever try to hang around past four– much less past four on a Friday– so you’re comfortably certain he’ll have already gone.
(You’re wrong, because of course you are.)
You’d been thinking about what you were going to make for dinner, staring down at the faded tiling pattern on the floor and not really paying attention, until the sound of a door closing echoes down the hallway. You glance up, instinctively, drawn towards the noise, and–
Oh, fuck.
You see him before he sees you, and your brain kind of– short-circuits , freezes and stalls and shuts down like a glitchy computer. He’s turned with his back facing you, probably locking up. If you were thinking more clearly, maybe you would have turned back before he finished, but you don’t, can’t, frozen to the spot and unblinking.
Beck turns from the door, stowing the key ring in his pants pocket, and when he sees you his expression shifts from a kind of neutral ambivalence to one of those too-knowing smiles that had always struck you as just a little bit wrong in ways you hadn’t been able to figure out, not until he’d pinned you against his desk and–
You swallow, screw your eyes shut tight for a moment, and try your best to rid your mind of the thought. 
“Hey,” Beck calls out to you, “Heard you might be here late, honey.”
His tone is deceptively mild, conversational, but even so the nickname still kindles that heat again, brings all those thoughts you were trying so hard to suppress flooding right back to the surface, the echo of come on, honey that had played back endlessly any time you’d so much as closed your eyes ringing in your ears, somehow even louder than your thundering heartbeat. It takes an embarrassingly long second before the rest of what he’d said starts to filter in, drowned out at first by the immediate surge of heat that had flooded you; he knew you were here, you realize, and he’d probably been waiting for you. Waiting to get you alone.
Three weeks ago that thought would have made you furious. Now, though–
“Yeah,” you say, still moving towards him– towards the door, fuck; even the way you phrase the thought in the privacy of your own head feels like you’ve betrayed yourself. You’re aiming for nonchalance in your reply but you miss that mark terribly, breathless with anticipation and unable to fight off the impulse to shiver.  “Somebody fucked up an extraction that we needed to have ready for Monday, so I said I would stay—Dr. Banner’s gone to New York City for a conference, or I would have just come in over the weekend.”
You’re talking a lot, you realize, the words tumbling out of your mouth with a far greater ease than you’re used to when it comes to him; you know he’s able to tell, that he’s aware of the difference, he must be. But he doesn’t react or respond to it at all, just watches you, eyes dark and warm and expression infuriatingly unreadable.
“You’re a good student, to help out like that,” he says, after a long, unbearable pause, “Bruce is lucky to have you.”
A part of you has trouble comprehending the sentence as complete, still waiting for the other shoe to drop; the inevitable backhanded insult you’ve learned to expect whenever he says something even remotely positive, but it doesn’t come. That’s-- actually worse, somehow.
Beck tips his head towards the door. “Leaving? I’ll walk with you.”
That hum that had started in your body at the sight of him, the one that felt like it reached every part of you, even down to your bones; it ramps up higher. “Yeah, okay.”
He doesn’t smile, but his mouth quirks up at the corners, like he wants to.
You walk in silence, your heart in your throat, a rush of energy flooding through your body, suffusing your cheeks with warmth and filling your ears with the thunderous echo of your pulse and driving a reflexive, arrhythmic twitch in your fingers that you try to hide in the bulky sleeves of your coat. This is probably the longest amount of time you’ve spent in each other’s company without him trying to upset you on purpose or you barely restraining yourself from ending up at his throat since– the last time. The thought of it– what had happened the last time, even as abstract and ill-defined as the notion was– still makes things worse, heightens your awareness of the space between your bodies; closer than you ever would have allowed him to be, before all of this. Still not close enough.
Beck trails to a stop at the end of the hall where the staircase to the upper floors sits across from the double doors that lead to the parking lot outside, having ended up a few steps ahead of you. You mean to just keep going; the door is within your line of sight, barely ten feet away, but it’s like as soon as you’re faced with having to move past him your feet are rooted to the ground, frozen, immobilized.
He’s staring at you again. You fold your arms over your chest, glad for the shapeless mass of your oversized winter coat that hides your reflexive, miniscule shiver.
“Ah–Y’know what, I forgot, there’s some things I need to grab for my lab,” he says after a moment, as if it had only just occurred to him,  jerking his head towards the door to the supply closet that’s tucked underneath the adjacent staircase and offering you an apologetic grimace that feels— exaggerated. Pre-planned. Performative. “This’ll probably take a minute. I wouldn’t want to keep you.”
You have a response already half-formulated in the pause that follows before he adds, somehow still casual, “Unless you think you could stay a little longer and help me out.”
The implication isn’t even really an implication at all, evident in the way that he’s looking at you, obvious and unrepentant, and the tremble that it elicits from somewhere near the base of your spine, that knot of anticipation in your belly twisting and turning and coiling tighter– you already want it, him, and you’re certain he must be able to tell, the way your pupils, which are probably dilated already, must blow out even wider, like planets, like deep, endless oceans of black–
“It’s late, though, and I’m sure there’s other things you’d rather be doing.” That edge is back, mocking, sly, manipulative like he’s trying to trick the words out of you– no, actually, nothing. He turns to the door underneath the staircase and reaches for the key ring he’d shoved in his pocket earlier; you’re jealous, somewhere deep down, at how steady his hands are, firm and methodical, as he flips through a set of near-identical keys until he finds the one to the closet.The click of the lock is nearly drowned out by the sound of your own pulse thundering inside your head, every inch as unsteady and as volatile as you feel. 
The door swings outwards on creaking hinges. Beck fixes you with this look; like he’s already won, just by virtue of the fact that you haven’t moved. Maybe he’s right. He’s always been capable of deciphering exactly what you were feeling at any given moment in time, regardless of whether or not you wanted him to, always been better at getting you to rise to his bullshit than you ever were at getting him to rise to yours. He knows you, knows what you’ll do oftentimes much sooner than even you do. And maybe that shouldn’t be so surprising— he’s a tenured professor, he taught you for four years, and he’s got nearly two decades on you. He was always going to be better at this.
Whatever. You don’t really care if you’re proving him right. You’re tired of fighting it, and you were never all that good at it anyway.
The inside of the supply closet is dim and dusty and cluttered and probably covered in cobwebs, but you don’t care. He’s touching you before the door has even closed all the way, stripping your coat from your shoulders and pulling you towards him by the waist, the press of his hand wide and firm and so fucking warm even through the fabric of your sweater; and fuck yes, god, even that, that one point of contact, it soothes that burning restless ache that had built inside of you for the past two weeks better than any of your own attempts at doing so ever did—
You’re the one who closes that last sliver of space, this time– and it should probably be surprising, how eager you are to do it, to drag him down by his shirt collar and push yourself up on your toes and kiss him, that nameless thing inside that’s followed you for the last two fucking weeks finally going quiet. He makes this noise against your mouth in the very first few moments, a rough and low and surprised sound, like he’s taken aback for a second. But it’s only a second, and then your back collides with the sharp plastic edges of the overstuffed rows of shelving that line the walls of the room hard enough that it forces the breath right out of your lungs, and in the moments where that gasp has your mouth opened up he licks into it, his tongue curling over your teeth and sliding against your own and wringing out a sound from you that you don’t even really try to stop this time. 
Beck hasn’t even taken his coat off, you realize dimly. It doesn’t fucking matter. His thigh is pressed up between your legs, the pressure obliging the warmth there, and you can feel his cock already hard against the jut of your hip– you wonder, hazy and far-away, if he was hard before this, before you’d even kissed him, if he had been thinking about it the whole time he was walking you to the door. He works a hand up under your sweater, and you lean into it– rough, large, warm, god, he must just run hot, because you can feel him even in the spaces where your bodies aren’t touching, his presence, like the air around you is made a few degrees warmer for it. 
When that hand under your sweater smooths down your abdomen to thumb over the button of your jeans there’s this frantic swell of panic at the immediate and overwhelming flush of heat that accompanies it, the trembling pulse between your legs— he hasn’t even touched you yet. He’s going to take you apart, again, and it’s not even going to be fucking hard. You want him to, shivering at the thought, but it’s your pride that stops you– for all that bullshit about being done fighting him, you’re not, really. 
A four-year habit is hard to break. Go figure.
It doesn’t take all that much force to push him the grand total of two feet backwards until his back is to the opposite row of shelves in the closet; he lets you, or more accurately, he doesn’t resist, if only because you don’t think he’s expecting it. With the door closed the little room is dark, the shape of him just a darker outline against a field of murky, shapeless gray, the only light the sliver of it from outside that spills out at your feet. It works out, though, because you can see everything that clutters the floor– old paint cans and ancient long-retired confocal microscopes and unlabeled industrial-sized plastic buckets of god-knows-what– and you can see right where there’s the space for you to kneel.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Beck says when you do; the question is clearly rhetorical, amused and a little patronizing, like he thinks you’re out of your depth again. You hate that it gets to you, but it does, brings that familiar annoyance searing back, bright and vicious and spiteful in the pit of your stomach. It’s the way that he’s looking at you that really does it– like he thinks that this is beyond you, or maybe just that he thinks he’s somehow uniquely fucking special, impossible to satisfy, and all of that– every possibility, every interpretation– it all pisses you off. 
“You’re such an asshole,” you reply, irritated, stubbornness ticking at the muscle of your jaw. “Do you want me to or not?”
Beck laughs at that, loud and sharp and something that might have even been pleased. He reaches to run his fingers through your hair and pulls, just a little, the pinpricks of pain rippling across your scalp as he forces your head back so that you’re looking at him, really looking at him, not just sneaking glances like you had been before. He has one of those bared-teeth smiles, something that base and instinctive part of you interprets as a challenge, even though it doesn’t really feel like it’s meant to be one. It feels like it’s meant to be a warning, maybe. Or a threat.
“Go ahead, honey,” he says, grinning wider. 
Beck doesn’t react at all when your hands find his belt, his breathing steady and his expression even and his posture annoyingly fucking relaxed; doesn’t move to help you with it, either, satisfied to just watch as you work it open and tug his jeans and his boxers down his thighs. He’s still unaffected even when your palm slides over the hard outline of his dick through his boxer briefs, and, god, if that doesn’t just piss you off more– the way that he’s just so effortlessly immune to this, the same way he’s always been immune to any of your retaliatory attempts to incite him. The painfully obvious way that you’re not; the way the sight of his cock, hard, twitching lazily, makes this unbearable warmth pool somewhere inside of you, your breath catching somewhere, hesitating enough that you know he must notice. No, you– you’re whatever the complete opposite of immune is. Vulnerable. Hyperreactive. Exposed. 
Except– 
When you reach out to touch him, several things happen at once; the muscles in his thighs twitch and his posture stiffens and his breathing goes still, all just for a fraction of a second before he’s relaxed again. That  tension is gone so quickly that you might have thought you’d imagined it, if it didn’t happen again when you lick a long wet stripe all the way up from the base of his cock and then again when you curl your tongue in a slow circle around the tip–
Maybe, you think, maybe he’s not really immune to any of it. Maybe he just hides it better.
It becomes more obvious when you put your mouth on him, not even really halfway; in the near-dark of the room you can see the shadow of him as he drags his hand down the lower half of his face, can hear, as wound-up and hyper-aware you are, the trembling breath as it leaves him, hitching when your tongue presses up against the underside of his cock as you pull back and move down again, further each time–
“Fuck,” Beck groans under his breath, the sound rough and low. “Oh, fuck, honey.” 
Yes, you think, the rush of satisfaction so immediate that it takes you by surprise; whatever flicker of shame that inspires in you is ridiculously easy to silence. Beck makes another noise, wordless and low, pretense of invulnerability abandoned-- his other hand has wrapped around one of the supporting beams of the shelf, like he’s trying to steady himself, and when you finally reach all the way down to the base and stay there, just for a moment, unmoving, his grip tightens around it so hard that the flimsy plastic cracks in his fist. Your answering laugh when you pull back is more of a hum than anything, muffled by him, cheeky and pleased– but that ruins it, whatever small amount of control he’d granted to you, something bordering on growl vibrating out of him that you would probably call touchy if you were able to speak, and then his other hand fists in your hair and he pulls, hard, drags your head back down until his cock is buried in your throat and your nose is pressed right up against his stomach. 
It shouldn’t make you feel the way it does— your tongue pressed flat against the base of his dick, your mouth flooding with saliva and your throat working around him and his hand on the back of your head, holding you there, the tremble that shudders through the solid muscles of his abdomen so close you can feel it — but your body is betraying you, again, again, just like before, your thighs pressing together with your hand squeezed between them, and even the insignificant pressure of your own palm through your jeans is enough that you wouldn’t have been able to stop yourself from making some embarrassing involuntary sound if it wasn’t for him, the way he’s compressing your fucking voice box–
There’s the snap of plastic again, that same beam from earlier; he needs to let go of it, you think, the thought fuzzy as he pulls his cock out and saliva trails down your chin and then fuzzier still as he rocks it back in again, or he’s going to break it clean in half. 
He moves like that for a while and you just let him, or worse, you fucking enjoy it; until eventually the pressure of his hand at the base of your skull lessens and his grip goes slack and you can move again, your tongue curling up around the tip of his cock and then pressing firm to the underside of it when you take him back into your mouth– 
“God, honey, you’re such— such a terminal fucking overachiever, aren’t you,” Beck says, that edge in his voice, biting and mean, and you would roll your eyes at him if you could trust yourself enough to even open them, terrified that whatever way he must be looking at you right now would simply cause you to evaporate on the spot. The words alone are rough and cruel and dripping with condescension, but there’s still, contained within them, that begrudging admission that it’s good, that compliment hidden inside an insult or maybe the other way around, and it pleases you in a way that you know it really shouldn’t. He makes another sound, slurred and inarticulate, fist tightening in your hair— that control, it’s slipping through his fingers, that immaculate and insufferable level of self-constraint shattered and crumbling, and you’re dizzy with the thought of it; that you might be able to finally do something–even just once– that might actually get to him.
It doesn’t take long, after that. He wavers between letting you move, as willing and embarrassingly fucking eager as you are to do it, and moving for you, hand firm on the back of your head as he fucks your open, waiting mouth. You can tell when he starts to get close, passes the point of being able to fight it off just by slowing down, the muscles in his thighs twitching and his breathing turning rough and irregular, hitching and catching and forced out of his chest–
“Fuck,” He grits out, his palm suddenly flat against your forehead, pushing you back, away, muscles gone rigid and still. “Don’t.”
“Why,” you reply, breathless, aiming for something like teasing or taunting but ending up so shot through with desire that it doesn’t matter what you were even trying for anyways. 
He doesn’t even warrant that with a response, just looks at you, eyes dark and pupils blown out so wide that you can’t even tell where the sliver of his irises even begins– he looks at you like you must be fucking stupid, like the answer is obvious, and—
You shiver.
Yeah. It is, actually, obvious.
He drags you up from the ground by the collar, pulls so hard that you stumble to your feet, off-balance, and nearly come crashing into him. He only looks at you— at your mouth, swollen and bruised and spit-slick and red— for a moment, and then he kisses you again and you melt for it without so much as a single fucking thought. 
Beck forces you back against the other set of shelves; it’s not hard, with only about four feet of space spanning the whole room and with you swaying and unsteady and caught up in chasing his tongue as it roves through your mouth, for him to push you until the hard plastic corners are digging into your spine and the backs of your thighs again. He doesn’t let you touch him, grabs your wrist and pins it to the edge of the highest shelf up above your head when you try, fingers squeezing so hard that it hurts a little bit– that sends a sharp thrill of self-satisfaction flickering through you, the thought that he can’t take it, that you got him that close–and then he tears at the button of your jeans, the zipper, yanks them and your underwear only halfway down your thighs, just far enough to be able to–
The noise you make when he touches you is drawn from you so abruptly that you can’t soften it or even really try to make it sound less desperate; not that it would matter anyways, with the way that your body arches up, into him, how wet you know you already are despite having spent the last fifteen fucking minutes with his dick in your mouth and without him even really touching you at all–
“You fucking liked that– you were getting off on it, weren’t you, honey,” His mouth breaks from yours just to say it, like he knows what you’re thinking or maybe just like he’d been thinking the same thing, not even really asking as much as just stating a fucking fact,  that stupid smug smile spreading wide across his face again.
“Fuck you,” you manage to reply, not even really succeeding in saying it with any amount of vitriol, voice breaking at the last syllable; all he has to do is touch you again and everything inside of you goes hot and white and blank , your free hand flying out to grab a fistful of his shirt, so tight that your knuckles are drawn and bloodless, squirming uselessly against the solid unyielding hold he has on your other wrist as he works two fingers inside of you and curls them and finds some horribly sensitive something that you hadn’t even known was there, rubs the rough pad of his thumb against your clit as he works them deeper and no, no, fuck, it’s not fair–
He doesn’t make you come like that, even though it probably would have been so easy, and maybe later tonight or tomorrow or sometime next week you’ll remember to be ashamed of how absurdly fucking easy it always is for him to get anything from you, even this, but right now you can’t bring yourself to care. He fucks you open on his fingers until you’re whining and rocking back against him and begging for it in all but actual words, and as soon as the muscles in your abdomen start to tense and the pitch of your moans shifts up higher he stops short and tells you to turn around. You don’t bother to suppress the sound that elicits from you, petulant, frustrated and wavering, but you still do what he says; when he tells you to bend, to put your hands out flat on the shelf, you do that, too, without even really thinking about it. There’s something in the back of your mind that’s absolutely indignant at your immediate compliance– add it to the fucking long list of things you’ll think about later– but it falls silent as soon as he takes the space behind you.
His hand skims your hip and you take in a shaky, shuddering breath– you can’t see him, what he’s doing, and everything in your body is still wound so tight, the combination driving such a vicious surge of anticipation that it feels for a second like you’re going to come apart at the seams, or that you might have already and just failed to notice.
Beck notches the head of his dick right between your thighs, presses forward a little, urges you up on your toes until he’s aligned just right– there, right there, you think, trembling, yes, fuck, come on, please— and then he leans over you, his arms caging yours, his much bigger hands covering your smaller ones so completely, pushing them harder into the gridded plastic lattice of the shelf. You can feel his breath against your neck, warm, the heat of his body bleeding right through his clothes, soothing the prickle of goosebumps that had spread across the exposed skin of your lower back where the edge of your sweater has ridden up, bunched around your waist. It’s cold, here, much colder than it had been in the hall– presumably because there’s no heat to the storage closet, because why would there be– and that just makes it better, honestly, how much larger he is, how fucking warm. 
Please, you want to say, only remembering your pride at the last second, but then he moves closer and pushes into you anyways like he already knows what you want, and that’s fucking gone, too.
This time— balanced up on your toes, your hands braced against the shelf, the latticed plastic surface biting into your palms and his hands over them, keeping them there, your legs only spread as wide as the jeans pulled half down your thighs will even allow— you know it will take even less to break you than it did the day in his office. Beck is barely moving, short shallow motions as he works you open, but even still he’s already nudging something sensitive and electric inside of you that has your head dropping down against your outstretched arms, against his, too, where they overlay your own. It’s the angle, probably, you manage to think,  flushed and shivery and barely breathing; or maybe it’s just him, and he’s just too good at this. He finally bottoms out and the noise you make– stretched out and filled up and satisfied, that stupid needy thing inside of you gone completely fucking silent at last-– is so unlike you that for a second you don’t even really register it as your own, even muffled as it is by the fabric of his shirt where your face is pressed to the inside of his arm. There’s a twitch in your fingers, like you’re searching for something to hold onto, and Beck obliges that with a mocking chuckle that rumbles out low in his chest and vibrates against your back– he threads his fingers through yours, his palms over the tops of your hands. There you go, honey, he murmurs against your neck, saccharine, patronizing, like you’re this poor pathetic helpless thing, and any other time you probably would have hated him for it. Maybe you still do, even now, and maybe that just makes it even better.
There is something– probably something significant– that is just deeply wrong with you both, you realize, and then he starts to fuck you in earnest and the thought vanishes. 
This isn’t anything like the last time– every inch of you goes soft and pliant like you’re melting beneath him, not fighting it or fighting him or even trying to. Every time he rocks into you it wrings out this desperate hiccupping keen that might have just been the same continuous sound, stretched out, fading and then brought back to life again before it can ever really end. He releases one of your hands to reach down to touch you, the rough pads of his fingers dragging across your clit, and that involuntary noise he’s pulling out of you pitches up higher in response, taking on this breathless shivering quality that you recognize– you’re still fucking wound up from before, vibrating with it.
You realize far far too late that he fucking did this to you on purpose, made sure to keep you from touching him, make sure to get you close before he’d even started. The thought of him fucking you past your rapidly-approaching orgasm triggers something panicky and nervous inside of you; anticipation and apprehension and the sinking realization that you had missed something like you always do, and he had gotten the better of you, again. But there’s nothing you can do about it, really, not now, its’ approach inevitable no matter how hard you try to force your breathing to steady or your muscles to relax–
You know he must be able to feel it, just like last time, the way that you tighten around his cock, the shivering pulse of your muscles and the tremble that runs the length of your whole body. He still hasn’t stopped touching you, and he hasn’t stopped moving, either, the shelf and all its’ contents shaking with the rhythm of it, and you can’t silence the sounds or even try to mute them, the wordless inarticulate whine that pitches up higher each time his cock sinks back inside— 
“Be quiet,” he pants against your shoulder. His hand– the one that had still been covering yours and pressing it harder against the latticed surface of the shelf– it moves up to your throat and then higher still, curling around your jaw, and you should remember to be embarrassed about how quick you are to just let him when he pushes his fingers into your mouth, should be fucking ashamed the way your tongue roves around them, instinctive, obedient, but you can’t think , can barely even remember to breathe. It’s somehow even worse, more overwhelming, now that he’s not bracing his weight on the shelf, the bulk of it resting against you, makes it so that his cock reaches somewhere even deeper inside, his other hand still splayed flat below your stomach, his fingers still against your clit, firm, not really even moving, the friction generated just from the force of him fucking you enough to make something drop out of the pit of your stomach like you’re free-falling because you know with a startling and crystal-clear certainty that you’re going to— that he’s going to make you— again—
Beck must know it too (of course he does, of course) because he presses the fingers in your mouth further in and down firm against your tongue to quiet the noise that breaks out of you when you come for a second time, something that probably would have been closer to a sob than anything, but stifled as it is it just comes out as another incoherent sound. You’re shivering, muscles in your calves and your thighs strung taut, sore and burning like they might give out under you, and when he starts to really touch you again you almost bite down on his fingers, hypersensitive and overstimulated and unable to even move to escape it, with the shelf in front of you and the weight of him pressed to your back–
Maybe he makes you come again, or maybe he doesn’t— it doesn’t really matter, anyways,  the usually-clear delineation between your orgasm and the build to it has been erased, your body so high-strung you can’t even tell the difference anymore. It all just bleeds together, like trying to stay standing and upright in the ocean, in water that’s chest-deep, knocked down by a wave and only barely able to regain your footing before there’s another, and another, and another, rhythmic and relentless and entirely without respite. Beck chuckles, breathless, the sound low and mocking and warm against the shell of your ear,  laughing at you, at the state of you, presumably, and it just drives that tide even higher, until you can’t keep your head above water even in the spaces between the waves.
You should have expected this, you think, with whatever part of your brain that’s still even capable of it— just like any other time you’d ever tried to get the better of him. He always pays you back tenfold.
It could be forever or it could be ten seconds before his own breathing starts to catch and turn ragged, you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference anyway, each of his thrusts making something bloom hot and bright across the backs of your eyelids, closed as they are– actual physical evidence of your brain short-circuiting, of everything falling apart; your thoughts, your sense of time, your tenuous, tattered hold on fucking reality. He moves both hands to your waist to pull you back against him, pace growing rougher, more erratic, and without his fingers in your mouth to mute the sound you have to bury your face in the crook of your arm to stifle it as best you can, fingers twitching uselessly, catching in the grids of the shelf and curling there even though it makes the tendons burn, holding tight like you’re trying to anchor yourself to it, to something , anything at all—
“God, fuck, yes,” Beck groans into the crook of your neck, one arm wrapped all the way around your waist and holding you there, flush against him, finishing so fucking deep inside that you think you can feel it in every inch of you, the steady, slowing pulse of his cock, the warmth of it, his trembling, indistinguishable from your own.
It takes a while for everything to settle, after that; for his breathing to steady and for your body to stop shaking and your brain to return to some approximation of functioning . You notice the details in pieces; the crisscrossed marks on your palms and forearms, bitten into the skin there from the latticed grid of the shelf, the ache in the muscles and tendons in your thighs and your calves , the feeling more pleasant than painful.
Eventually, Beck pulls out and his weight shifts away and a shiver runs right through you at the immediate chill of the air in the space he had occupied, the absence of that warmth; you try to straighten up, to stand, but make the fundamental mistake of letting go of the shelf before thinking to check if your numb, trembling legs can even support your weight–
The warmth is back, and you don’t fall.  “Careful, honey,” he says, mocking, mouth pressed against your hair, steadying you in his arms; you don’t even have to look at him to know that he’s grinning wide again.
“You be careful, asshole, you’re gonna stain my sweater,” you reply, unthinking, only fuzzily aware of how it’s slid back down from where it was rucked up around your waist and the solid pressure of his dick against the small of your back, still mostly hard.
He huffs out a laugh.
“Oh, right , of course, my mistake. I’ll be sure to just let you fall next time,” he replies, languid and amused and still a little breathless— and something inside of you trembles, somehow, even fucked-out and shivery and already sated as you are, going a little more lightheaded just at the thought.
Next time.
You don’t even bother to argue or to even act affronted at the presumption, the ability to even shape the words, much less deliver them convincingly, beyond anything you’re capable of right then.
His grip tightens around you for a split second before he lets go, and you’re sure that, like everything, Beck must have noticed that, too.
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rebelliousstories · 1 year
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I'm on a Jake Gyllenhaal kick right now... Anyone please. Give me a request for him or his characters!!!! Any crumb, any spec you can spare. I need to write about this man.
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sexy-monster-fucker · 11 months
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Deception [Part 1]
Mysterio x Reader | Read the original here
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This is an AU universe of the MCU Spider-Man.  The reader is a female version of Spider-Man and is an adult who is an Avenger.  Characters are pretty much the same, just a few AU adjustments.  This story closely follows the plot of Far From Home.  
a/n:  the reader was not dusted during the Blip.  I kept the Parker last name just out of personal preference (sorry if that ruins it for you lol), no I haven't decided if Mysterio is actually a villain or not that’s a decision I will make if I decide to continue the story.  I am not including the E.D.I.T.H. glasses in this AU.
~~~
You sat on top of a high building overlooking the city in front of you.  You could hear horns honking and the flutter of bat wings.  People chattered below you.  It felt nice to finally be home for good.  The events of the past five years had taken a serious tole on your mental health.  You had watched your mentor sacrifice his own life in order to make sure your biggest foe was gone for good.  It was hard knowing many of the heroes you had looked up to at a young age were gone forever.  You were one of the few remaining members of the Avengers left on Earth.  Many of them decided to go somewhere else to protect the universe.  But you stayed here.  
You were only sixteen when Tony recruited you for the Avengers.  You were twenty-one now.  An adult.  But you did not feel like an adult.  You still felt like the same scared little kid who almost got killed by Thanos a couple years ago.  You sometimes wake up from reliving that nightmare.  The feeling of getting thrown and slammed onto the ground.  The feeling of air escaping your lungs and not being able to return.  Your vision going blurry.  It was all still too real for you.  It was one of your weakest moments.  You felt like you had let everyone down in that moment.  If the others had not been there you would be dead.  You knew that.  But that was the point of having a team.  Stronger in numbers.
You continued staring out at the illuminating city.  You sometimes wish you had never been bit by that spider that day.  Things could have been so much simpler.   That was a stupid thought.  You remembered idolizing Iron Man as a child.  You always wanted to protect the world as he did.  He inspired you to be a better person.  He inspired you to want to help others.  He still inspired you today.  His sacrifice was a statement to the world that heroes would do anything to protect them.  
Suddenly, you felt your phone begin vibrating.  You grabbed it from your pocket.  It was Happy.  You picked up, “Hey, Hap.  What’s up, man?”  “Come back home, we have to talk about something,” Happy spoke through the phone.  You were concerned, “Okay.  I am on my way.  Is everything okay?”  Happy mumbled into the phone, “We will talk more when you get here.”  He hung up.  It worried you that Happy was speaking so fast and was fast to hang up.  You pulled your mask over your face and jumped off the building.
You landed on top of the building next to your apartment building.  You triple checked to make sure no one was around.  You crawled down the wall and hid behind the dumpster.  You took off your suit and threw it into the bag you had hidden, throwing it over your shoulder once the suit was hidden.  You climbed up the wall, reaching your window and crawling inside.  You threw your bag onto the bed and continued into the living room to see Happy sitting with your Uncle.  They were both smiling and laughing about something.  You cleared your throat, “I’m home.”  Happy and Uncle Ben turned to you.  Uncle Ben rose from the couch, “Hi, honey!  I am so glad you are home.  Happy and I were just catching up.”  You smiled at him.  But your smile quickly shifted when you began to address Happy, “What was it you needed to talk to me about, Happy?”  Happy smiled at you, “Sorry for the rush on the phone, Y/N.  I had just arrived here and I did not want to be rude to Ben.”  You exhaled a sigh of relief, “Happy!  You scared me.  I thought something was seriously wrong.”  Happy chuckled, “Sorry about that.  Now.  As I told Ben, we should be expecting a visitor soon.”  You were confused, “What do you mean a vi-”
There was a knock at the door.  Happy walked over and opened it to reveal Nick Fury standing in your doorway.  You shuttered.  “Now, I want to know why you are so hard to get in contact with, Miss Parker,” Fury began.  “I-I’ve been really busy,” you defended.  “Happy tells me you have been dodging my calls.  You shot a look at Happy.  “Don’t look at me like that, he’s my boss too,” Happy acknowledged your look.  “I don’t care about how you feel about me trying to contact you, Miss Parker.  You are an Avenger and I do not take kindly to someone not acting like it,” Fury shut down your dismay quickly.  You stared at the man in front of you.  He was right.  You had not been acting like an Avenger lately.  Truly.  You did not want to act like one.  You enjoyed getting to relax after watching everyone else leave.  You felt alone as an Avenger.  Fury was right.  You needed to begin acting like an Avenger.  “There will be a car here to pick you up at 5 a.m. tomorrow morning.  I suggest you don’t keep me waiting any longer.  I have someone for you to meet,” he was stern with his statement.  “Yes, sir,” you agreed.  “Now, since you made me come all the way here to get you, where can a brother get a drink,” Fury spoke.  
Fury and Happy were gone.  It was late.  You sat in the dim lit living room alone.  You hunched over your phone that laid on the table in front of you.  You stared at the picture of you and Tony.  Any time with Tony was a fun time.  You idolized the man.  He made you into the hero you are.  “What would he think of you like this,” you whispered to yourself.  You had been down lately.  What Tony did was marvelous.  You could never be like him.  He was the hero the world needed.  You are just some weird girl who can stick to stuff.  You felt your eyes begin to fill a little.  “Everything okay,” Uncle Ben sat down next to you.  You looked at him, “I’m fine.  Just thinking.”  He knew you were lying.  You could see it on his face.  He wrapped one of his arms around you, “I’m here if you need me, kiddo.”  You rested your head on his shoulder, “Thanks, Ben.”  
~
You did not sleep the night before.  You had began to take a shower, but instead you sat in the tub thinking about what tomorrow would hold.  You sat there for quite sometime thinking before you realized you needed to get out and get ready.  It was 4:45 now.  You grabbed your suit and put it on.  You had contemplated whether or not to wear the suit.  You decided it was best to.  You never knew who you could trust anymore.  You wrote Uncle Ben a note that read “Time for super stuff, love you.”  You knew he would understand.  He always understood.  You pulled your mask over your face and climbed out the window.  It was chilly out this early.  5 a.m. arrived and a large black vehicle arrived promptly.  You were escorted into the back where Nick Fury sat.  He eyeballed you, “Why the suit, kid?”  You were embarrassed under the mask, “I don’t know who I can trust, so I thought I shou-” “Don’t be an idiot.  Anyone I would bring into our headquarters is someone you can trust.  You know that,” he cut you off.  You shook your head in agreement, but did not remove the mask.  Despite everything, you felt unsafe.  Something felt off about the whole situation.  Your Spider-Sense was telling you so.
In what felt like the blink of an eye, you were in the secret headquarters.  Fury got out of the vehicle, you were close behind.  You followed him, passing many workers.  You did not recognize them.  They were all basically strangers to you.  It felt wrong.  You felt like you should not be here.  You and Fury entered the elevator together.  It went down many floors.  “Kid, you don’t have to be so tense.  I would not let anyone in here who could hurt you,” Fury reassured.  He could tell you were nervous.  You nodded.  
“Now then,” the elevator opened and you both stepped out, “Spider-Girl, I’d like you to meet Mr. Beck.”  A tall man in a cape stood in front of you.  He smiled, “So, you’re the one everyone has been telling me about.  It’s a pleasure.”  He extended his hand.  You placed your hand in his.  He leaned in and whispered, “You can call me Quentin.”  You shook his hand, “Hi.  H-Hold on.  I-I’m sorry, but are you the guy from the news?”  He chuckled, “Yeah, that’s me.  Wishing I had hidden my identity better.  But I thought it would help people to have a face with their hero.”  You snapped your fingers while trying to remember, “Now then, what was it they called you?  Mysterio?”  He smiled, “Yep.  That’s the name they’ve given me.”  You were amazed at the man in front of you.  He had came out of no where and was already loved and adored by the public.  You were always seen as a menace.  
Fury coughed, “If you two are finished...”  You and Quentin directed your attention to him.  “Now then.  We have been informed that there have been spikes in energy all across the globe.  I have decided that the two of you would be the best fit in handling this situation.  Spider-Girl, as one of the last remaining members of the Avengers, you will be heading the mission,” Fury was serious.  You shook your head in disbelief, “Wait.  Wait, isn’t there anyone else you can call on.  I’ve never really soloed a mission before.”  Fury furrowed his brows, “You are going to head this mission.”  “What about Carol?  Thor?  Any of the Guardians?  They are all way more qualified than I am,” you argued.  “They all have more important things to do.  But you, all you’ve been doing is swinging around this city stopping petty crime.  Now, as your superior, I am telling you what you will be doing.  I suggest you do not give me anymore lip about it.  You’re walking a fine line with me already.  Tony is not here to protect you anymore.  You have to learn to protect yourself,” Fury’s tone was growing frustrated.  You stood in silence.  “Do I make myself clear,” he asserted.  You nodded, “Yes sir.”  
You spent the next several hours discussing plans.  Where these anomalies were happening.  The best plan of attack.  This panicked you more than anything.  A huge responsibility was being put on your shoulders.  You did not know anything about this mission.  Nothing made sense.  It was all too convenient.  After the discussions were done, Fury directed you and Quentin further, “I got the two of you a hotel room.  There are two beds.  It will help the two of your bond to be that close.  You two need to get to know each other pretty well in order for this mission to succeed.”  “Wonderful,” you thought.  All you were wanting was to be alone.  You shook your head in agreement.  “I’m going to go out for a bit.  I need to think alone for a while,” you excused yourself.  Quentin smiled, “I’ll see you later.”
You sat on top of a building.  You seemed to do this a lot.  You loved admiring the city.  It was beautiful especially at night.  Suddenly, Quentin appeared in front of you.  You were not alarmed.  “What’s up, Spider-Girl,” he questioned as he sat down beside you.  His helmet disappeared revealing his handsome face once again.  “This whole hero thing... it’s always been different for me, Quentin.  I have always been the underdog no matter what I do.  I am one of the only Avengers he can call on and somehow I am still not good enough for him,” you spilled.  Quentin smiled at you, “I for one think you are an amazing hero.  I have no doubt you were born to be an amazing hero.”  You chuckled.  Quentin raised an eyebrow, “What’s so funny?”  You shook your head, “I used to be a scared high schooler who witnessed her aunt get murdered in front of her.  Then, I went from being a normal kid to fighting some crazy guy in a mechanical bird costume.  I never asked to be an Avenger.  It was a freak accident, Quentin.”  Quentin placed his hand on your thigh, “Everything happens for a reason.”  You blushed at his touch.  “You don’t even know me,” you muttered.  Quentin leaned closer to you, “I want to get to know you, Spider-Girl.”  He placed his hand on the under part of your mask and raised it up to your nose, you grabbed his wrist fast.  Quentin jumped slightly.  “I-I... I’m n-not ready for you to kn-know who I am,” you stuttered.  He smiled slightly, “That’s okay.  I understand.”  You let go of his wrist.  “It’s nothing per-personal, we just met.  Not many people know who I am,” you were embarrassed.  He smiled.  
You stood up, “I-I’m gonna go.  I should probably get some food in me.  I-I’ll see you back at the hotel.”  He followed you, “We can go together.  We are going to be spending a lot of time together.  I’d like to get to know the person I am working with.”  Your cheeks were red under your mask.  You were fighting yourself inside your head.  Should you or should you not?  It was difficult.  You wanted to open up to people, but that was too difficult.  “Sure, Quentin,” you agreed.  “But here’s the thing.  You’ll have to get the food and meet me back up here.  I can’t be seen just chilling in a local restaurant.  I don’t need that kind of press right now,” you told him.  His expression change into a frown, “Oh.”  You felt bad.  Maybe Quentin was safe.  Maybe you could trust him.  Maybe it was time to take a risk.  “Look,” you began, “Okay.  Meet me downstairs in like seven minutes.  We will walk somewhere together.  Just... put some normal clothes on.  Let’s do something not as supers for a while.”  Quentin’s face lit up.  He took your hands in his, “Seriously?  You’ll go to dinner with me?”  You smiled under your mask, “Yeah, I guess.”  Quentin smiled even wider, “You won’t regret this!”  Quentin rushed to the door and excused himself.  
You changed in one of the bathrooms up stairs.  You put on a plain t-shirt and a pair of jeans.  You wanted to look as normal as possible.  “Maybe this is all a mistake... don’t you think you’re rushing,” you thought.  You shook it off and headed for the elevator.  You took it down to the lobby.  You saw Quentin across the room.  He was wearing a blue button-up and jeans.  It seemed odd to see him outside of his suit.  “He’ll definitely feel the same,” you thought.  You walked over to him, “Hey, Quentin.”  He turned and stared at you.  You froze.  “Oh God, what have I done,” you thought in panic.  “Wow,” he spoke, “You’re beautiful.”  You felt your cheeks turn pink.  You shook off his compliment, “No, no.  I never got to formally introduce myself.  I’m Y/N Parker.  And yes, I am behind the mask.  Hope you aren’t disappointed.”  He shook his head, “I’m not disappointed at all.  I’m pleasantly surprised.”  Your face flooded with color again and you chuckled slightly.  “So,” you changed the subject, “You ready to walk?”  He smiled at you, “I’d be happy to walk with you anywhere, Y/N.”  
The two of you headed out.  You talked about what being a superhero from a young age was like, about how much you missed your friends and a normal life.  Quentin told you a story about what life was like for him before everything happened.  He told you about his family which he has lost.  The two of you sharing made you feel better about revealing who you are to him.  Your guard had been up nonstop since the giant fight with Thanos.  It was hard for you to allow new people into your life.  You had pushed away your friends from school, it was easier since they had blipped and you didn’t.  You regretted isolating yourself.  
Quentin went inside a restaurant and ordered food for the both of you then you both walked back.  Of course the two of you could not go out without him getting recognized.  He is the most popular hero on the scene right now.  A couple of girls your age ran up confirming it was him and snapping a picture with him.  One of them making a quick comment about how handsome he was, and you couldn’t help the slight feeling of jealousy in your stomach.  You shook the feeling off, the two of you were not dating.  You were thankful the girls only took a picture of him and did not snap a photo of you together.  It would be suspicious for a picture of Mysterio with a random girl to surface once you two are inevitably spotted together as heroes.  He walked back over to you and smiled.  “Super star, eh?” You jabbed at him.  He blew his breath out and smiled, “No... you think so?”  You laughed with him, 
Your guard was lower than it had been in years.  You felt a weight you'd been carrying for a while begin to lift.  You could not deny the slight crush you were developing on Quentin.  He was charming and funny.  Not to mention handsome.  You enjoyed his company.  He attempted to take your hand in his causing you to jump at the sudden touch.  “Oh- Sorry,” Quentin’s face flushed with embarrassment.  You shook your head, “No-No you’re fine.  Just caught me off guard is all.”  It was strange that your body did not warn you of him about to touch you.  You must have sensed no danger on him.  This was new for you.  The rest of the walk was silent between you two.  
You returned back to your hotel room with the food.  You could not help but feel embarrassment for making what was developing between you two awkward.  You were beating yourself up and on top of it, your room key decided to give you a hard time.  You leaned your head against the hotel door, sighing in frustration.  You felt Quentin get closer to you, reaching for your wrist to help you with the door key.  “You just have to give it a little longer,” he spoke softly.  The door clicked and you tried the handle again.  It opened.  “Thank you,” you mumbled looking at him.  He was smiling at you.  
The two of you sat at the tiny coffee table together.  He pulled the food out of the bags, handing you yours first.  You picked at your food, too anxious to really eat.  There were a billion things on your mind, yet you could not focus on one of them.  “Y/N?”  You had gotten lost in your own thoughts.  “Sorry, just a lot on my mind,” you shot a fake smile at him.  He reached across the table and placed his hand on yours, “You can talk to me.”  You sighed.  Struggling to look at him, “Fury just puts so much pressure on me.  It’s like he expects me to... I don't know.  I barely know what I’m doing.”  Quentin squeezed your hand slightly, “Fury believes in you.  He knows you can be the next Iron Man.  The next leader of the Avengers!”  You chuckled, “I don’t want to be the next Iron Man.  Tony... he never wanted me to end up like him.  I love being a hero, but I’m a friendly neighborhood Spider-Girl.  I wasn’t ready to fight a giant titan in space and nearly die.”  There was a silence between you both.  You sure did know how to get people to stop talking to you, didn’t you?  You felt tears building up in your eyes.  Quentin caressed your hand with one of his fingers, “It’s okay to be scared, Y/N.  You haven’t had a break.”  You looked up at him and smiled, “Thank you.”  His gaze lingered on you.  You felt your cheeks growing a little pink.  “You’re so beautiful, Y/N.  I wish we had met under different circumstances,” Quentin intertwined fingers with you.  
You both finished what you wanted of your food then sat on your separate beds.  You scrolled mindlessly on your phone for a bit.  Of course, videos of Mysterio were everywhere.  The public adored him worldwide.  You were happy to be working with him.  You stretched slightly and stood up, “I’m gonna go get ready for bed.”  Quentin mumbled an “Okay” not looking up from his book.  You walked into the tiny bathroom and splashed some water in your face.  You changed into some sleep shorts and a tank top.  You were brushing your teeth when he knocked on the door.  
“Yeah?”
“Can I come in?” 
That’s weird...
“Sure, I’m decent,” you joked.  
Quentin opened the door only wearing his boxers.  You looked at him in the mirror and an indistinguishable look was on his face.  He walked up to you slowly, wrapping his hands around your waist.  He made sure his hands ran over every inch of your skin until they met for him to pull you close.  You felt chills run all over your body.  He rested his chin on your shoulder, looking into your eyes through the mirror.  His beard hairs tickled your exposed skin.  You wanted to ask what he wanted, but you knew.  You decided to just enjoy this intimacy.  He began to kiss your shoulder, all the way up to your neck.  You could feel something poking your back.  Your body was flooding with heat.  Could you really be this vulnerable with someone?  You were loving the attention his mouth was giving to your neck.  You placed one of your hands on his head, groaning with pleasure.  
“Quentin?”
“Yes?,” he mumbled into your neck.  
“What exactly are you trying to do?” you smiled softly at him in the mirror.  
“Whatever you’re comfortable with,” he kissed your neck more.  
You can’t do this.  Not yet.  
You tugged at his arms around you, turning to face him.  “Don’t... don’t be mad at me,” you sighed.  He smiled softly at you, “I would never be mad at you for telling me no when you aren’t ready.”  He cupped your cheek, you closed your eyes enjoying his touch.  “I... I’m so exhausted.  You make me feel so safe... I think this is the first time I have relaxed in years,” you kissed his palm.  “Let’s get you to bed then,” he grabbed your hand and led you to your bed.  You both crawled into your beds.  You rolled over to look at him from the other side.  He was smiling at you.  
“Goodnight, beautiful,” he spoke softly leaning for the lamp.  
“Goodnight, Quinn,” you yawned.  
~~~
END PART 1
[Thank you for reading!  If you are interested in being tagging in any of my writings don’t be afraid to message me!  All tag lists are open!  I have a master taglist and one for each character!]
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romeulusroy · 1 year
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Imagine having the power to control technology and Quentin underestimating you:
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There was no right way to describe it. The machines, the technology, all the buzzing, you could feel it crawling under your skin and pounding in your head. The more there was of them, the more intense it became. Mysterio backed away, unsure of what you were doing, why you were on your hands and knees and muffling your own screams. What were you doing? One by one, you could see the inside of every machine, looking through, seeing how they function. He thought he was so sophisticated but you've broken into Tony's tech using nothing but your mind. This was nothing. If you weren't in such pain you would have laughed. He was pathetic. Jeslous and stubborn and stupid. Peter watched in awe as, slowly, the drones went from facing you and him to all pointing at Mysterio, ignoring the orders he barked to kill you. You would have laughed if it wasn't taking everything out of you to control so much at once. All you needed were Tony's glasses. Give them up, and you wouldn't have to kill him with his own drones. If not, there was no guarantee he'd make it out alive. You difnt care either way.
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happy74827 · 20 days
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I forgot how good this movie is 👀
Song: Pathetic — Society
Movie: Spiderman: Far From Home
Character: Quentin Beck/Mysterio
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mr-voorhees-husband · 2 years
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More Yandere headcanons for Tssm Mysterio, please.
Oh. Oh YES.
Of course anon, my beloved, I will be GLAD to.
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Warnings: Yandere (obv), slight non-con, kidnapping, nsfw mentions (NO RAPE), toxic relationships
Reader - Gender Neutral, knows about the sinister eleven
So, first of all, he’s definitely an Impulsive Yandere. Tssm!Mysterio doesn't think it through before he decides to kidnap you. He’s also a bit delusional and self-indulgent. He’s caught off guard if you don’t immediately go to him like a moth to a flame, hell, he might even cry if you react badly enough.
Quentin treats you amazingly, though. Even if he’s a bit impulsive, he has enough brain to prepare them a proper room in his safe house, away from the Sinister Eleven. The room itself is luxurious, fit for royalty, which he believes you to be. (Now that you're dating the great Mysterio, of course you're royalty)
While he believes himself to be a gentleman, as said earlier, he is extremely impulsive. Without thinking he’ll pull you into a hug, grab you, sometimes even lift up your shirt. He doesn't mean anything by it, he promises, he just gets so excited that he actually has you he doesn't think about it.
Speaking of excitement, he would never do anything else without your consent. Maybe the occasional kiss, but anything past that he needs your explicit consent. He’s delusional, but even boyfriends wait for consent. (at least the good kind do)
He's not very jealous, Quentin believes completely and wholeheartedly he’s the best of the best. He thinks you can't get any better than him, not that you couldn't land someone else, but he knows you’re not stupid enough to fall for someone less than him.
The only person he might be jealous of would be the Spider, only because he’s worried you’d fall for the hero. So when he does get a hold of you, it becomes a lot less ‘beat the bug’ and a lot more ‘rip the bug’s heart out’. Quentin can't have anyone stealing you away, even if you don't want to go with the bug.
Murder is rare with him, but not unheard of. Though, usually he’d just talk Rhino or Shocker into doing his dirty work. He has more than enough blackmail on the rest of the eleven that he might as well be the leader. The only time he’d get his hands dirty himself is if the person seriously hurt you, either an abuser, rapist, etc.
Speaking of blackmail, as his darling, you get to know everything. Maybe one day he’ll let you talk to the eleven again, but until then, you're his confidant. From what the eleven of them did that morning, to the argument they had that ended in Ox almost killing Goblin.
Quentin doesn't like holding you captive though, even if he does it for so long. I feel like it’d take him at least a couple months before he lets you go out, especially if you fought him in the beginning. The first taste of freedom you’d get would be when he takes you to the Sinister Eleven’s base, and even then he keeps you in an iron grip the entire time. Most of the group is happy to see you after so long, the only one who’d be a bit concerned, or suspicious, I feel like would be Mason and Flint.
Quentin is quick to dissuade their worries though, after all, he’s a wonderful boyfriend, why would he ever harm you. Mason for the most part believes him, but Flint is a bit unsure. He’s the one that you’d have to go to if you wanted to get out. While any of the Eleven would try to help, he’d probably be the only one able to actually help.
Trying to escape never goes well. Quentin throws tantrums if something goes wrong, and this is no exception. When you try to escape, the punishments are swift and on the edge of being torturous. If you actually escape, he’d tear apart the city to find you. It's almost scary how tunnel vision he gets. When he reaches you, and you're screaming at him to stop, to leave you alone. He doesn't understand it.
After all, you love him. Don't you?
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mlmxreader · 1 year
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Cold Beds | Quentin Beck x m!reader
@areyouwaiting asked: :]
Quentin Beck x male reader
“Can I stay the night?” as the prompt? I love that manipulative bastard so much.
I‘d honestly let him gaslight and manipulate me don’t @ me
summary: you're bed's too cold and you're doing your best to stay up just to wait for a single man
tws: swearing
Another rerun of an old television programme was playing on the television, its dull light filling the room and the quiet volume seemingly screaming as the wind blew harshly against the windows and the rain cried softly; despite the thick duvet and the extra blanket and the dressing gown that wrapped your body, the bed still felt cold and empty, and you wished that there was something that you could have done to change it. Your eyelids felt heavy, and yawns kept bubbling up at the back of your throat, but the one thing that kept you up and awake was the text that had come through not even ten minutes ago; a promise from a wanted man, that he would soon be with you and that he would not be long at all. It was the only thing that stopped you from falling asleep as you watched the characters on the television don surgical robes and masks; a flash of blue, and suddenly the adverts were on and you felt your bones ache and protest when you trudged to the kitchen.
Waiting for you, ever so casually leaning against the kitchen counter, his arms folded and that goddamn fish bowl he called a helmet resting on the table, was the man you so very much yearned to see; his brown hair was ragged and messy, knotted in places from sweat and dirt that he absolutely detested. His blue eyes were blanketed with exhaustion, but when he saw you, that sickly smile didn't even take a second to spread across his face. He was nearly fucking grinning, the asshole.
"Oh," you checked your phone to make sure you had not missed any messages. "I didn't hear you come in."
Quentin didn't move, watching you as he clenched his jaw; he wanted your attention, your applause and your admiration, he wanted your focus to be entirely on him at all times. But you didn't fucking give it to him as your busied yourself with making a cup of coffee. He could be manipulative, sly and cunning and dangerous, he could weaponise his good looks and his intelligence and his charm. But he was so fucking tired he couldn't even bring himself to do any of that. He just craved your admiration.
Finally, Quentin gathered himself, and he spoke, "you were still in bed. You didn't even think of checking?"
"Not really," you admitted with a soft chuckle. "I know you, Quentin, I mean, I'm your boyfriend for fuck's sake, I know you wouldn't give a shit if I did come and check."
He hummed, but as soon as you had made it for yourself, he stole your coffee, taking a long swig as he let the caffeine do its work. "Can I stay the night?"
"Yeah," you shrugged. "But you're not changing the channel. I've finally found the one that plays all the old shit like Magnum PI."
Quentin didn't say anything further, just huffed as he knocked back the rest of the coffee and left the mug on the side, not even bothering to put it in the sink; he wasn't about to tell you, but he had gotten a new job, and his first paycheck was due - which meant that he could finally win your favour a little more by buying you all that shit you said you wanted. Anything to keep you right there, right at his side and letting him stay every single night, right at his side and quietly telling him that you wanted more when he got jealous of your friends and decided to kiss you so harsh that your bottom lip bled. He followed you to bed once you had made and drank your own coffee, immediately commanding your attention when he got you cuddled into his side, his arm lazily drifting up and down your arm; the quiet television was playing one of those old programmes you had mentioned.
You noticed it after a while, the feeling that the bed wasn't cold any more, that the icy grip it had had was now gone and that it was warm. Cosy. Comfortable. You realised what you had been missing, it wasn't the heating and it wasn't extra layers of clothes or extra blankets, it was Quentin. Your Quentin. The one who had wanted so badly to take revenge on the man who stole his invention, the man who ruined his life by stealing his work and not even paying him a fucking penny, that he ended up becoming a supervillain in the process. Your Quentin.
"I'm glad you stopped by," you admitted quietly. "It was so fucking cold without you in my bed."
"Yeah," he grumbled. "I know."
if you liked this fic, REBLOG IT - you SHOULD reblog it; spam likers WILL be blocked. as will blogs that refuse to reblog or to give feedback. if you don't wanna reblog, then you'll get blocked; reblogging is the BARE MINIMUM. don't just "like", REBLOG
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cemeteryspider · 1 month
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Just A Little Mysterious
Mysterio!/Quentin Beck x Vigilante!/ Wife! Reader
*Set during the events of Spiderman 2*
Summary: What-if Quentin Beck had a wife during the events of Spider-Man 2, and helped Miles fix the situation
Trigger Warning: Kidnapping, Unconsciousness, Violence, and Emotional Distress
Word Count: 1243 Words
Quentin Beck was rushing to the main Mysterium in the Coney Island Fair. A work of art expertly designed by him and his team.
Although hesitant at first of using the Mysterio name and image to advertise and promote the new form of entertainment, Betsey and Cole told him that they were remaking his image and showing the world that he is not a bad guy, just that he had done bad things in the past. When his lovely wife Y/n got hold of this information she just about burst.
~~~
"God, they can't just force you to be someone you're not anymore. This is ridiculous. You are Quentin Beck not some super-villain. You've done so much to move past that life and to dredge that up for some ad-revenue, it's sickening"
She furiously started typing on her phone presumably to Betsey or Cole or both. Carefully I removed the phone from her frenzied hands and turned it off.
"Sweetheart it's okay. I think it will be good to give a new life to Mysterio. Show the world that people can change. Maybe inspire some others to change along the way"
Quentin wrapped his arms around her gently and started to sway. He could feel her anger drip away with every deep breath she took.
He knew she learned this technique from the same therapist he was court mandated. When she was calm enough she gave him a big squeeze signaling she was ready to talk and that she wasn't going to speak out of anger.
"Sorry, I just know how hard you've worked to separate Mysterio from Quentin. I just don't want to you lose progress over some buisness decision someone forced upon you"
"I know but I understand that Mysterio is an act I will put on to help the world now. Quentin is the man behind the mask who deals with the paperwork and who has a loving wife to come home to"
She smiled up at him with her soft lips. He leaned down to give her a quick peck.
"As long as you always come home to me"
"There is no one else in the world that I rather would"
~~~
He should have listened to her that day. Took himself and his former villain name off the menu. Now he was running to save his wife from what ever mess he had got her into in the first place.
Once Beck arrived at the Mysterium he was swiftly deal with. Told to put handcuffs on and his (now former) business partners would lead him to Y/n.
Only, once he was standing in a maintenance closet, and he turned around to demand to know where his wife was, he was swiftly knocked out with the butt of a gun and his head smacked against the cabinet beside him.
He could only hope his wife was okay wherever she was.
~~~
Inside a stupid snow globe of New York with nothing to do except hope to find a way out. Which for however long Y/n was in there, she couldn't find.
Frustration brewing, she preemptively started her breathing exercises. She wanted to call out to Quentin, but knowing exactly who was behind the mystery now it seemed useless.
Her friend Miles Morales asked for her help with solving the cases with the Mysteriums, which she happily obliged. She knew this would help Quentin and Spider-Man solve the case laid out before them. However, the more they uncovered the more her husband seemed to be the culprit, but she knew him like no one else.
She saw him cry when he came home from work, and get frustrated at the technology as well as his co-founders. Never angry enough to do the things the dev tapes insinuated.
Then she thought back to the day when she lost her cool in front of Beck. He calmed her down and everything was starting to make sense. Then she went to confront the two women, Quentin had once called friends, and she landed here.
In a snow globe.
Just as she was starting to lose hope Miles crashed into the tiny New York City and a fight ensued.
She knew what Miles thought, after all he dismissed her help and told her to stop looking into the case. "Conflict of interest", he stated. But went he saw her in the same predicament as him, he understood he had the situation pegged wrong.
She gave him a little wave and they got to work. He was taking out the Mysterio floating around while she was taking out the green goons on the ground with a baton and her Red Room training.
Once Miles turned Mysterio to green mist, he grabbed her hand and we swung towards the portal. Her hair swung around as they whipped through an upside down New York City.
When they swung through the next portal Quentin Beck was standing there holding his chest and breathing heavily in his Mysterio costume.
"Baby"
Y/n was running towards him and held him up a little. He smiled at her and brushed a strand of hair behind her hear.
"I'm so glad you're okay, Darling" He quietly whispered in her ear.
He did his best to turn to Spider-Man, and said the best advice he could,
"Keep fighting. Keep doubting. It is the only way to defeat him"
After a bright flash of purple both Y/n and Miles were in a Coney Island graveyard facing multiple Mysterios. Together they made quick work of the copies finally facing the 'true' Mysterio. The fight was happening fast and Mysterio held Y/n is a chokehold and threw her into a gravestone.
While worried about her the fight for their lives continued. In one final punch Mysterio disappeared and they were in the main room once again.
The illusion broke for the final time, and Miles finally saw Y/n sprawled out on the ground, unconscious. Quickly, he broke the door down to reveal Cole furiously typing on a computer and Betsey yelling to get the illusion back on.
Miles made quick work webbing them up, and inspecting the bumps coming from the closet door.
"I knew you'd find us"
~~~
As the police took Betsey and Cole away. Quentin took Y/n to a nearby ambulance, which she was trying to resist but eventually gave into.
Miles rested on top on the Mysterium roof. When Y/n was getting checked out Quentin appeared on the roof next to him.
"still have a lot of questions"
"this should clear things up"
"so can I tell everyone Mysterio's a good guy now?"
A small laugh escaped Beck's mouth.
"Mysterio will always be a villain. Just as Spider-Man always be a hero. It's when you start looking at the people behind the masks that things get messy"
They both looked at Y/n who was laughing at Quentin's jokes, and when Miles turned to look at Beck he was gone.
~~~
"Are you truly okay Darling?" Quentin asked as they closed the door to their apartment.
"Yeah I promise I'm doing just fine"
He looked deep into Y/n's eyes and held her close to him. He breathed in the scent of her hair which mingled with sweat and blood.
"I almost lost you"
That's when the tears started to make their way down his face. She held him a little tighter.
"I'm here and I'm not going anywhere"
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donovan-writes · 2 years
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Part 2 of Quentin Beck x Reader Headcannons
@stephen-writes said he wanted more
Again In Gender Neutral Perspective <3
(If you use the photo above please credit me I made it myself)
Comment if you wanna be tagged for part 3
• When he’s sick he’s a big snuggler
• Like he doesn’t want you to get sick either but he so badly wants you with him when he’s not feeling good. He hates being alone when he’s sick
• If his day was bad he wants to lay on your chest and just sit there. Sometimes he ends up crying because it’s so relaxing
• He watches kids shows sometimes
• He gets you guys matching onesies
• You guys get into roast battles sometimes and he doesn’t go for anything really personal but he’ll make some bitching roasts
• If you ask to paint his nails it’s an immediate yes. However makeup for him he is reluctant
• He asks for head massages all the time. Especially if he gets a migraine
• If he’s ever jealous (like cause someone was staring at you cause you’re all beautiful don’t tell him other wise <3) you’ll know by the fact his arm will always be around your shoulder, even when you get home
• When he misses you he holds a pillow when he can’t hold you, if you ever FaceTime him you will witness it
• He said “I love you” 50 times before you hang up on any calls
• I feel like he can get stressed out with his work sometimes, but the moment he’s with you he’s calm. Especially if you rub his shoulders
• Any form of encouragement makes him feel like he can conquer the world. You could say “great job. 👍” and he’s like “Oh my God ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE CAUSE MY BABY BELIEVES IN ME”
• He’s so proud to have you. Literally tells anyone he can “hey, I have the g r e a t e s t partner lemme tell ya”
• He thinks your laugh is adorable and when you smile it melts his heart
• Sometimes he’ll stare into your eyes and compare them to a gem
• Oh you like jewelry? He buys you ALL. KINDS.
• When you’re sad and in need of lovin’ he’s on👏🏻the👏🏻case👏🏻. Blankets, pillows, stuffed animals, and you’re in his arms being swayed
• Every time you meet up at the end of the day he asks how your day was first
• He always wants to know how you’re doing. You can always be honest with him
• If there’s drama where you work he wants to know ALL of it cause lemme tell you this man LOVES a good drama
• He reads to you if you can’t sleep
• Have a nightmare? He’s on the case👏🏻. He will lay with you, hold you, massage your head or something, he’ll even sing for you. Anything to help you sleep
• He gets matching fuzzy socks for you both
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dearviper · 2 years
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gyllenflower · 11 months
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What They’re Like When They’re High
I tried to make some of these gender non-specific!! I’ve noticed a few new followers who are guys and I know I always write female!Reader stuff, so I wanted to make something everyone can read and feel included in! <3 Happy 4/20, babes!!
WARNINGS: 18+ please!!! Weed!! Happy 4/20 Y’all!! WEED EVERYWHERE <3 Smut!!! profanity <3
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gif has nothing to do with the writing, just a reminder to my fellow stoner babies to go smoke today!! Also go watch this movie
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=====~
Jake Gyllenhaal
Jake is the silliest dude when he’s high! I mean, he’s already really silly when sober, and my God, he does not need any help. He is literally the most clingy and (cutely) annoying person when he’s high. He is so heavy on munchies!! Jake loves cooking for y’all when he’s high, even though he makes mistakes and sometimes puts too much of one ingredient, and you’re always glad to try some food when you’re high, so it all works out. Always poking your damn face. He loves your pretty face <3
This man will get down on his knees for you when y’all are high!!! There have been a few times where he’s been eating you out and you had to snap him out of it. You know once he stops growling into your pussy and making eye contact, he’s fallen into his own pussy drunk world. Oh, yeah - Jake is definitely a bitch boy when you’re fucking him after smoking a blunt or a joint. I’m talking moaning, begging, whimpering, and crying for you. His cock just gets so sensitive when he’s high and it drives reader absolutely insane ☺️
Donnie Darko
I really love the idea of Donnie having a stoner gf and her never pressuring him, but he wants to try it at some point. I feel like Donnie tries not to smoke very much, though, because he’s afraid it’ll mix badly with his schizophrenia. When he does smoke with you, he’s always very giggly. Everything makes him laugh so hard. HUGE cartoon watcher!!! I can just imagine him laying his head in your lap, pissing himself cause of how funny SpongeBob is to him. Another one of his favorites is The Jetsons. He thinks those dudes are so funny. Always talking about how he wants to pet Astro. “He’s not real, baby.” You would explain, “Don’t say that!” He shushes you, placing a finger over your mouth.
I think it takes a long time for Donnie to actually have sex while high, and when he does, he falls in love with it. It’s like slow motion, like nothing else around you matters. He adores making love to you like that🤭 and he never cums harder
David Loki
Man, oh, mannnn, you had to really convince David to smoke with you. I like the idea of David falling for an informant and she convinces him to smoke with him.
“Come on, i’m a cop, I can’t do that shit.” He blinked harshly, waving it away with his hand.
“Okay. Pussy.” You teased meanly, smiling at him as you lit the joint up. You inhaled the smoke and blew it in the opposite direction of him.
“Fuck you. I’m not a pussy.” He would reply calmly, not making eye contact with you.
“Then…” Your voice trailed off and you walked your hand up his chest, waving the joint in front of his eyes. David would smirk at you, finally making eye contact,
“You’re gonna get me in trouble.” He whispered teasingly, taking your hand and leading the joint to his mouth. You held it for him as he took a long hit, impressing you. David ends up really liking weed. Anyway, long story short, he fucked you in an alleyway that night <3
Lou Bloom
He would not fucking allow you to smoke around him and if he ever smelled it on you… well. He wasn’t nice about it. And, obviously, he would never smoke “that shit”.
Jack Twist (X M!Reader)
Hey, this one is for my guys!!! You were a farmer, but not the fruit and vegetable kind, you know. You grew that zaza. The good stuff. Being good friends with Jack and wanting him to smoke with you makes me sofftttt. Maybe there’s a little something between y’all too. Jack smoked once back in high school and it didn’t take you that much convincing to have him try it again.
“Wait… my mouth is really dry. Is that part of it?” He questioned, his eyes trying to stay open.
Always leaning his head on your shoulder. He wants to pet EVERYTHING when he’s high. Every blanket, every pillow, your hair, every animal you had on your little farm. Accidentally admitting he thinks you’re handsome when you’re both high 🤭
“Wait, what’d you say?” You made sure your high brain wasn’t tricking you.
“Um… I - Nothing.” He laughed out, punching your arm playfully.
“Tell me.” Your voice dropped an octave and you looked him in the eye.
Jack’s pants got tighter at your tone of voice, and he tried to cover up with his arms, but you noticed☺️
Danny Sharp
This man just wants to get you high and fuck you, okay!!! Respectfully!!!!! That’s all I have to say about him. I think he’s a rough man, in general, but when he’s high, he doesn’t give a fuck about anything except for making you cum on his dick <3 You come (& cum) first with him.
Billy Hope
BITCH PLEASEE!! When Leila gets to high school/college, you and Billy smoke it the fuck uppppp! Ok! I can imagine him wanting to get some weed just for the nostalgia, something to remind him of when him and Mo used to smoke together, but then when you smoke with him, it turns into a frequent thing, maybe every two days or so. He would smoke every day, but he spends too much time with Leila and isn’t willing to give that up! He also opens up to Maureen to you when he gets high, which is vv nice. Billy also probably fucks u rlly hard when y’all get high together - This man loves fucking you from behind <3 Also, he loves edibles! I can’t explain it, but I feel like Billy Hope is a big edible guy.
Quentin Beck
I think Quentin is like Lou and would get mad if you smoked and tried to get him to. He is HEAVY on “your body is a temple, baby.” Anyone who disrespects that, even you, will get a punishment. But yours is the best punishment! If yk what I mean (;
Adam Bell
This little baby boy just get absolutely shut down when he smokes weed!! He is always so stressed and pent up, and it really helps him take the edge off. His favorite day of the week is when you come over with your joint. Soon, every week turned into every Friday and Saturday, (you used Sunday to help him grade papers).
Morf Vandewalt
Never, ever, ever smoke inside this man’s house!!! He will absolutely murder(fuck) you so hard! He loves smoking with you, but he’s a little princess when it comes to it. He always wears a certain outfit, because he doesn’t want to make any of his other clothes smell like weed. And he always throws them in the washer after.
“Just smoke naked.” You would smirk at him, teasingly.
“Ha ha.” He would say dryly.
This man always had to have a filter! And you always roll his joints or his blunts. “Thank you, sugar.” He’d say every time you handed him a freshly rolled joint.
Morf is the only person you know who always has a lighter nearby. It’s a gesture for you, though! He’s sweet like that. Since you started dating, he carries a lighter around for you, since you’re always losing it. That’s why he prefers outfits with pockets. Anytime he sees your hands searching your pockets frantically, or if he catches you scrambling around the house with a joint in your mouth, “Here, baby.” He’d pull the lighter out, holding it up in your direction.
“Thank you, my angel.” You would tell him, placing a kiss on his forehead.
=====~
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astxrwar · 4 months
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ties that bind [4/8]
SUMMARY: Quentin Beck– your old college biology professor– is still a bastard. Apparently, you’re kind of in to that.
RATING: Explicit
WORD COUNT: 8k+
CONTENT WARNINGS: extremely under-negotiated kink, character-typical behavior, more sex albeit less gratuitous, established-dynamic-typical Everything. Some plot in this one, finally!
PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | [PART 4] | PART 5
The thing about lab work is–
There’s generally always going to be something that could use doing after-hours.
Dr. Banner presumably interprets your sudden apparent willingness to be the one to sacrifice your evenings once or twice a week or so as an attempt to suck up; or maybe just a deep, avowed interest in microbiology.
Neither are true.
You’re not sure how Beck even knows; who he must be talking to– interrogating, more likely– to figure out when you’ll be there, at night, with everyone else gone. You don’t care. On those days you wind yourself so tight with anticipation that you can hardly think straight, never more grateful for your deep familiarity with the lab procedures, given you’re so fucking distracted. It’s hard not to be– after that second time, Beck goes right back to showing up everywhere, like he’d only been waiting, the week before, biding his time until you inevitably came back within reach of him again, and once you were and once he knew beyond suspicion that you still– that you wanted– that you would let him –
It’s like after that, all bets are off. Before, he’d always been careful, words measured and insinuations meticulous, pre-planned, balancing so expertly on the knife’s-edge boundary of appropriate and acceptable that half the time you felt like you must have been imagining it, the way he tormented you. You don’t really even have to imagine anymore; he crosses the line with impunity, now, with an unrepentant and unapologetic enjoyment. All he ever has to do is look at you the way that he does, for too long, the sum of it too familiar, the way his eyes swallow up every inch of you, or press his palm to your lower back to move past you through a doorway, just for a dizzying fraction of a second, or call you honey in that voice– sly and deliberate and fucking patronizing, that twitching half-smile hidden behind a cup of dining hall coffee at seven in the morning, so early that you’re unable to remember to even try to hide the reflexive, immediate shiver that trembles straight through you, every nerve in your body already humming and alive.
Most times Beck’s waiting for you when you leave, lingering at the other end of the building, engaged in some plausibly-deniable excuse of an activity like grading exams or stocking lab supplies or writing up. Once, though, you run into him before you’re even finished, when you step out to grab something for the lab, and that’s both better and worse– he fucks you in the closed-off third-floor bathroom, the one that’s been disconnected from the water main and essentially abandoned for the last six months, and then you just have to go back to work like nothing happened, your muscles twitching, your body liquid and sated and sore–
He gets off on that, probably. 
So do you, though, is the thing.
It’s worse this time around, too, because of that– because this time you can identify attraction and desire and wanting and name them for what they are, something you couldn’t have done before. It was so much easier when those feelings were distant and incomprehensible, when the worst thing he could ever elicit in you was anger, when you could say that you hated him and still wholeheartedly believe that it wasn’t more complicated.
Needless to say, it’s actually extremely complicated.
You do this for the entire rest of the semester– you actively make time for it, even towards the end with finals on the horizon for you and the undergrads that you TA for, glad for the fact that there’s actually no possible way for him to know that you’re, technically, prioritizing this over review for your structural biochemistry final. 
It’s six-thirty in the evening and you’re in his office when you should be anywhere else, in the library or in the commuter lounge or just fucking home, the exam is tomorrow, and instead of studying or preparing or even really thinking about it at all you’re letting him stick his tongue in your mouth and his hands under your skirt, letting him bend you flat over his desk until your hands can reach all the way across to the other side of it, until your fingers can curl around the edges so tight that your knuckles go pale and bloodless when he fists a hand in your hair and pulls it until it hurts and aligns himself with an ease that is, by now, practiced and familiar, bottoms out inside of you with a groan that reverbates through your whole body like some kind of horrible electric fucking shock–
He fucks you hard, and it wipes from your brain anything about your exam or your fucked priorities or the abysmally fucking long to-do list of your responsibilities that apparently all came second to this, a terrible and grating truth that he would never let you live down– but he doesn’t know, and you don’t tell him, and the stress of the entire fucking week thus far and the tension that had built in you trying to manage all the end-of-semester bullshit stops mattering for all of a horribly gratifying fifteen minutes.
When you let go of the edge of his desk to touch yourself, turning to the crook of your arm to muffle the traitorous and immediate gasp that breaks out of you, he chuckles, the tenor of his voice ragged and rough and split in pieces by the absolutely fucking ruthless rhythm of his thrusts– like he’s trying to break you, shatter your resolve, like that’s what he wants most out of all of this. “You gonna come for me, honey?”
“Fuck you,” you bite back at him, the words dissolving into a choked-off moan, and then you do.
And then you go home and you study for your structural biochemistry exam and you still do pretty decently on it, somehow, and you resolve to take to your grave the fact that your ability to weigh the relative importance of immediate gratification versus the entirely less gratifying things that you should be doing is broken beyond all repair. That he broke it. Or maybe you both did; combined effort. Irrelevant, really. You’re not anything, you and him, you’re not friends, or acquaintances, and you don’t, strictly speaking, even actually like each other, which means that you never have to tell him any of that.
And so you don’t. 
You do, though, see him on the last day before break, coat already on and stupid little expensive leather laptop bag slung over one shoulder, and you do walk a little faster to catch up to him before he reaches the door, glancing at him sidelong and saying with far less nonchalance than you’d intended, far more want– “Leaving?”
Beck turns to you and stares and his eyes are dark and amused and the sight of that alone sends some merciless heat searing right through your stomach. “Yeah,” he says, the silence after just as pointed and intentional as the fact that he hasn’t moved.
He wants you to ask for it, and you know that, and maybe the fact that you don’t care can be blamed on the abject fucking lack of adequate sleep you’ve gotten all week or the burning bright pulse of want that thunders dangerously through your nervous system or maybe just on– whatever. Who cares.
“Do you have to be somewhere right now?” you say, so blunt that it almost surprises you, “Or in the next, what, ten to fifteen minutes?” 
The smile that spreads slow across his face is arrogant and vicious and deeply self-satisfied and if it inspires any sort of anger in you at all, you can’t even begin to separate it from the frenetic surge of desire and the dizzying rush of anticipation that ramps up even higher at the sight, and later you can be upset about it or pissed off or whatever, but right now you can’t even really summon the barest fucking remnants of any of that. Can’t do anything but want.
“No,” he says, grinning like a wolf, “No, I don’t.”
Whatever complete absence of ability for rational thought or logic or reasoning you’re experiencing then – it doesn’t magically abate after the door to that same stupid small supply closet is closed, certainly doesn’t when his hands are on you again, his mouth , not even when he breaks from kissing you to to whisper against your jaw you want it that bad you’re gonna have to do something for me, honey, and still not even when he says, lower, rougher, the words dripping with implication and so clearly a power play that you should, rationally, tell him to go fuck himself, but–
“On your knees,” he tells you, and–
And you let him, god, you let him tell you to kneel and you let him wind his fingers through your hair and pull, tip your head back to force you to look up at him, to witness whatever wild and vicious thing is swirling in the dark of his irises; you let him reach for you and press the pad of his thumb past your lips and against your tongue and you let him squeeze the hinge of your jaw to force it open and you let him work the head of his cock into the heat of your mouth and urge you to take it, take more, all of it, just like that, fuck, honey, there you go, his hand steady and firm and warm at the base of your skull–
Something absolutely fucking treacherous inside of you vibrates when he doesn’t even really try to cage back an immediate groan this time, lazy and dark and satisfied.
Yeah. Okay. This–
You don’t actually think about it then, not when he’s fucking your mouth and not when you’re letting him and not when he’s rucking up the hem of the little t-shirt dress you’d worn because you couldn’t be bothered with pants on the fucking last day of class. Definitely not when he’s dragging your panties to the side or when his cock is pressing hot and solid between your legs and slipping and sliding up and nudging your clit and missing the mark more than once with the way you’re fucking dripping for him, god, and not when he grits out fuck all breathless and disbelieving and still somehow fucking smug, not when he has to actually use a hand around the base of his dick to guide it into you and not when he fills you up, again, the second time in two days–
You don’t, in that moment, really think about how your reaction to any of this– all of it, really, to all of it, or maybe just to him in general, whatever’s worse– may, technically, potentially, be approaching territory that is getting dangerously close to an actual fucking problem.
In your defense, it’s really fucking easy to not think about it, with the dull plastic edge of the shelf digging into the small of your back and one of your legs hitched over the crook of his arm and your entire center of balance so dependent on him like this that you don’t even have to actually move at all, your bodies so close together that the warmth of him bleeds right through his clothes. His stupid coat and that satchel-thing- whatever are discarded and forgotten somewhere on the dusty, cobwebbed floor, and him even doing that conflicts with fucking everything you know about him, but that, too, is conveniently not something you think about. He bites at your bottom lip and plies your mouth open with his tongue and licks into it like he can take this and anything else he wants from you and you’d just– let him. You’d like it. He barely even has to touch you this time and you’re already just– gone, and maybe the immediacy of it is what drags him over the edge too, because he doesn’t last much longer after that, either.
“Wait,” you say, breathless, when he moves to pull back, your head dropping onto his shoulder and your thoughts spinning, directionless, bouncing around inside your skull like it’s fucking empty in there, like your brain is the size of a fucking ping-pong ball, god, embarrassing, terrible – “Hold on, give me a second, or I really am going to fall this time.”
Beck just laughs, only vaguely mocking, breathing ragged but steadying, and holds you until your perception of things like gravity and your own center of balance and the otherwise generally simple concept of, like, standing upright, realign themselves in the disarray that must be your motor cortex. And he laughs, too, when you make a whiny and petulant noise at the fucking mess that’s between your legs, fumbles around in the dark of the supply closet until he finds one of those rolls of scratchy recycled paper towels that the bathrooms are all stocked with, and then you laugh when he grumbles under his breath at the dust clinging stubbornly to the heavy wool outer lining of his coat when he picks it up off the floor again. 
You do not think about any of that, either, at least not until you’re home, and then you do think about it– all of it, the weird parts and the concerning parts and the fact that there’s still, even now, that tiny little flicker of warmth somewhere inside of you.
Bad, you think, lying in your room in the dark, very bad.
But by then the semester is over, and it’s winter break for four weeks, and there’s the holidays to think about; Christmas, and all the logistical details that need to be worked out for that, and then New Years, which you’re pretty sure nobody even counts as a real holiday anyways, and then you realize you forgot to work out a second lab rotation and spend the rest of the break frantically sending emails– life happens, basically, and everything with Beck ends up on the back-burner, at least while he’s not within your immediate line of sight.
Maybe, you think, sometime in early January, the upcoming semester looming in the distance, maybe in the span of time between now and when you see him again, you’ll manage to get your head screwed back on straight.
---------------------
Perhaps predictably, that is not what happens at all.
Beck corners you in the east stairwell your second day back. This is despite his office being on the west side and despite the fact that there’s absolutely no fucking reason for him to even be there– he still is, of course, smiling, smirking, pressing his palm flat to the dusty brick wall near your head, his arm between you and the ascending stair. None of this is new, anymore, technically, and you’d spent the last month promising yourself that you’d fucking get over this, but for whatever reason it’s like that little base and instinctive part of your hindbrain– or maybe just your body, your entire nervous system, the way it reacts to him– hasn’t realized any of that, yet. Or just doesn’t care.
“Hey, honey,” he says, grinning wide,  “Miss me?”
“No,” you reply, dry and emphatic and somehow mostly steady, rolling your eyes if only to avoid looking at him and wishing it was more than only half-true.
Later– when you’re done for the day at one-thirty, stupidly and unusually early, and when you’re walking the long way out to the parking lot through the length of the still-mostly-empty biology building for absolutely no justifiable reason at all, you pass the cracked-open door to his office, and–
You just cannot seem to fucking help yourself. 
Beck is at his desk, posture relaxed and attention directed at something important, ostensibly; the door creaks even though you don’t so much as touch it, drifting further ajar behind you by a matter of what must have only been millimeters. The sound draws his attention and it’s like the second his eyes are on you or the second it registers he’s standing and across the room in an impossibly small number of strides, so fast that you don’t really have time to move or breathe or think . And maybe if you had time to do any of those things you would have thought to taunt him for it, how quick he is to just abandon everything else, the single-minded ferocity of his focus and how much it undercuts him when he says “You need it that bad, honey?” all arrogant and mocking like you’re alone in that, like the total sum of his own actions when laid out side by side doesn’t absolutely fucking betray him too—
“Fuck you,” is what you say instead, because it doesn’t register, not with him slamming the door shut with his hand above your head and forcing you right back against it, not with the immediate, precarious, dizzying lurch of adrenaline that vibrates right through you, brighter and warmer and sharper than anything you’ve felt in the month since you last saw him.
And, god, you will think, still later and still not then, not when it’s happening, because you never do– isn’t that just the fucking worst.
---------------------
You don’t actually come back from break early to get railed by your undergraduate biology professor. No, the actual reason is to help out in Dr. Banner’s lab, assisting in setup for his introduction to microbiology class both as part of the terms of your scholarship as well as in exchange for his advice on your nebulous future plans— you needed to at least tentatively have picked out a lab to do your thesis in and an actual official faculty advisor to pursue by the end of the semester, and you still hadn’t seriously started on either, yet.
“I was thinking about immunology, actually,” you tell him, sifting through a dusty, crumpled cardboard box full of micropipettes that you’ve been tasked with sorting by size, “I took intro in undergrad, and I did really well and I thought it was interesting, so I’m taking advanced immunology this semester with Dr. Stark– I was going to ask if he has space in his lab for me to do my third rotation.”
Dr. Banner doesn’t look up from where he’s painstakingly filling rows of those annoying too-small centrifuge tubes with pre-mixed DNA primer; yet another of an endless array of menial, boring tasks that need to be done to get everything set up for the class. 
“I think that’s a great idea.The only thing, though,” he says, reaching the end of the row, snapping closed all of the tiny plastic caps, and then starting on the next one, “Tony’s the Dean, and everybody’s always falling over themselves trying to get into his lab, so I would keep your options open. Just in case. I can talk to him for you, put a good word in, and if you do well in the class I don’t see why he wouldn’t be up for it, because your grades are otherwise great, but– still, y’know?”
You make a noncommittal sound, catching your bottom lip between your teeth and worrying at it; with the micropipettes now sorted, you work your way methodically around the room to set one of each size at every seat. “Yeah, I know– I just don’t know what I would want to do otherwise.”
“Who do you have for your second rotation?”
“Dr. Cho.”
“And, what– you’re not thinking about asking her?”
You shrug, emptying the box at the last bench. “I’m less interested in structural biochemistry,” you reply, and the degree to which you’re actually incredibly not interested in structural biochemistry must be evident in your expression, because Dr. Banner chuckles under his breath.
“Don’t let her hear that, it’ll break her heart,” he says, smiling. 
There’s a brief, not-uncomfortable silence, filled only with the sounds of the plastic casing of the micropipettes set down on the epoxy surface of the lab benches, the quiet, rhythmic click-click of the syringe depressing as he fills and then empties it over and over.
Finally, he makes this noise, a hum, kind of, like he’s considering the merits of whatever he’s about to say. “Tony’s not the only one who does immunology research. If that’s what you really want to pursue, I mean.”
You’re halfway into the adjacent storage room when he says it, off to fill the empty box with pipette tips that you’d have to similarly deposit at each lab station– god, you don’t know how he does this, year after year, it’s so fucking boring– but something about the tone of his voice makes you pause in the doorway. “He’s the only one listed on the department research page,” you reply, nonplussed, “I’ve checked.”
“Yeah, I know.” The prickle of annoyance underlying his voice– one that you recognize– betrays who he must be talking about before he even says it. “Beck’s lab isn’t listed, because he doesn’t want to have to deal with taking on undergrads for research experience. And Tony, he just– lets him, for whatever reason.”
Your mouth goes a little dry and that stupid traitorous thing inside of you trembles, the response so embarrassingly pavlovian that you should honestly be multiple times more ashamed than you are. You ignore it, and focus instead on the fact that somewhere in the back of your mind you were at least marginally aware of what he’s told you– that Beck had a lab, he did research, he wasn’t just teaching faculty. 
“It’s really not worth asking, though,” Dr. Banner continues; if he’s at all cognizant of the way you’d gone suddenly and uncharacteristically silent, he doesn’t make mention of it at all. “He’s– I mean, you know how he is.”
Yeah, you think; yeah, I do. 
“What does he– um, what’s his research area?” you ask, kicking yourself internally at the way that you stumble through the question, awkward and stilted and uncomfortable, trying to focus instead on stacking the little sachets of pipette tips into the cardboard box in neat, orderly rows. You only need forty-two– one of each of three sizes, for fourteen lab benches– but somewhere along the way you realize you’ve lost count and just mindlessly filled the entire thing.
“You’re not seriously considering it, are you?” Dr. Banner’s voice, incredulous, drifts from somewhere in the lab room proper.
“I’m seriously considering needing a backup plan,” you reply, bringing the too-full box of pipette sachets back into the lab classroom and beginning to lay those out, too. 
That much, at least, is true.
He makes another sound that could best be described as the wordless equivalent of the phrase your funeral, which is distressingly appropriate. “I think he mostly does biologics. Developing new immune regulators, monoclonal antibodies, stuff like that.”
Right. 
It would work out that way, wouldn’t it– that Beck’s research aligns so neatly with the only ideas about your future that aren’t ill-defined. You’re sure of at least one thing; that being you wanted to go into industry after this, private research and development for some pharmaceutical company, ideally; something that pays well and that’s far outside the bureaucracy and tedium and bullshit that is academia. Dr. Stark’s research is in a similar vein, but focused more on exploratory models of immune systems than the development of novel treatment strategies for, like, humans ; the difference, while small, is meaningful in the grand scheme of considering how well your PhD experience would translate to valuable skills in industry.
“Look at it this way,” Dr. Banner says, having finished filling up the primer tubes, moving past you to the storage room ostensibly to start on whatever the next menial, repetitive task needed to be accomplished, “At least you have time to figure it out. And who knows, you might get into Tony’s lab, and then you won’t have to worry about it.”
“Yeah,” you sigh, “I guess,” staring down at the box of pipette tips, still half-full even after all the lab benches were stocked, mind racing and thoughts elsewhere and not feeling all that much better about it.
---------------------
Your rotation in Dr. Cho’s lab goes fine. That is the best descriptor because it is itself the most nondescript; nothing special, but nothing bad, either.
You become gradually acquainted beyond a vague theoretical understanding with stuff like x-ray crystallography and nuclear magnetic resonance imaging and cryoelectron microscopy, familiar with the weird and kind of janky processing software that analyzes the data and renders the images of the molecules and the cell receptors and essential enzymes and whatever else, and eventually you become friendly with a new set of labmates. It’s not boring, it’s just that it’s not what you think you want to do for the five (but, really, in life sciences it’s always more like six or seven) years of your PhD, and markedly less adjacent than the work you’d done in Dr. Banner’s lab in your rotation last semester. 
A not-insignificant part of your uneasy ambivalence might be attributable to just how goddamn much you hated organic chemistry. 
Nonetheless, you do the work, and the semester does the same things all semesters always do– it starts off slow, and then sometime after the third week it starts to pick up, until around the fifth or sixth it’s just this never-ending stream of assignments to complete and projects to finish and responsibilities to fulfill; an endless march towards some nebulous, ill-defined end.
Somehow through all of it, for reasons that you could not explain, you still end up seeing Beck.
A lot.
---------------------
Well, no-
The reasons are not that difficult to explain. They are, actually, extremely simple.
The sex is really good. 
End of story.
---------------------
Dr. Banner gets the flu towards the end of February.
This is important only because it means his intro microbiology laboratory class falls a week behind. Normally, they’d have done the first few baby steps of their extractions that week, and you and the other TAs would have handled the rest of the process the following week. With him out, the lab gets pushed back, meaning the kids do their part the first week in March, and somebody would need to do the rest of it over the week of spring break, or the entire course would fall even further behind.
Dr. Banner explains this to you in his office on Friday morning in that still-kind-of-sick voice that sounds like somebody’s forcibly holding his nose shut, growing increasingly dismayed.
“Please,” he says finally, slumping in his chair, looking far too pale and far too wan to be even out of bed, much less back to work yet, “If you could. I know you always get stuck doing it, but everyone else has plans for spring break, and I’m supposed to be giving a presentation at a conference in Toronto, and–”
“It’s fine,” you reply, “Don’t even worry about it. I haven’t done anything for spring break since, like, sophomore year.”
“Thank you,” he says, visibly relieved. “You are a lifesaver. Really.”
Later, as you’re leaving his office after stressing to him that he really should go home and rest if he’s insisting on still going to a conference he’ll have to leave for in less than six hours, you allow yourself to think about the things that usually tended to happen last semester, all the other times you stayed late.
And then you think about it for what amounts to basically the entire day. Which, you know– fine. It’s the Friday before spring break. It’s not like you’re actually doing anything.
You’re still thinking about it when you’re in lab, as you work mindlessly through the familiar task of the extractions, as you siphon pungent ethyl acetone off from the bottles you’d done last week, the smell like drug-store nail polish remover still making your nose burn despite the fume hood; as you wait, otherwise unoccupied, for the rows of neatly-labeled glass bottles to finish steeping in the steaming vat of dry ice. It’s perhaps slightly– perhaps more than slightly– embarrassing, how much time you actually spend thinking about it– him– but by now when you’re by yourself you don’t even bother warring with the thoughts anymore. Whatever you think about when you’re alone stays between you and god– it doesn’t count.
(That, the still-rational piece of you thinks– the piece that hasn’t been reduced to a hormone-addled perpetually-horny teenager, however small it might be – that’s a terrible excuse.)
You’re still thinking about it as you clean and lock up the lab, though, right up until the moment that you’re not.
 In the hallway, you fumble for your car keys in the pockets of your coat, outside ones first, and then the inside pocket, anxiety starting to prickle, and then your jeans, and then your backpack— and come up empty.
Oh, fuck.
You try to peer through the little rectangular frame of glass in the door to the lab to see if you’d left them on the stainless steel tabletops or the back counter, squinting into the dark of the room. In your head you’re already retracing your steps, the pace of your thoughts rapidly bordering on frantic, trying to figure out where you had–
“Hey, honey. Long day?” 
You nearly jump out of your skin, the mounting stress having already done a number on your startle response– Beck is standing there, watching you quizzically, hands in his pockets. For once, you’re too focused on something else for the immediate, instinctive pang of warmth that flares at the sight of him to be anything more than an afterthought, and you’re kind of glad for that, unfortunate circumstances aside– that you’re at all capable of prioritizing this.
“I think I just locked my car keys in the lab,” you tell him in lieu of returning his greeting, a frown worrying at the corners of your mouth. 
“Oh yeah?” His bark of answering laughter grates on your nerves, and, god, isn’t that just like him, you think sourly, already pissing you off. “Amazing job. Really proud of you.”
“Fuck off,” you tell him, acerbic and sharp and so not in the mood, even as that stupid impulsive part of you remains painfully aware of the shrinking distance between you when he moves closer, your pulse stubbornly ticking up, your autonomous nervous system incapable of caring whether you want it to or not.
“Relax,” Beck says, unaffected, “I have a key.”
You’re too irritated to thank him, and he looks at you with amusement, because he knows that, presumably, and because it’s funny to him. That heat you’d felt at the sight of him you think must be mostly frustration, now;  it should maybe be a little concerning how difficult it is to even tell the difference in the first place, but you’re still too anxious to care.
He unlocks the door for you and flicks on the two rows of industrial overhead lights, which buzz to flickering life, bathing the room back in artificial brightness. You know within the first few seconds of glancing around that they’re not there, a realization that triggers a panic that lurches through your stomach like a cold stone.
“God damn it,” you grit out, dragging your hand over your face, the other clenching into a fist at your side, not even wanting to say out loud what you’ve realized– wishing more than anything that he wasn’t here, his particular brand of smug, condescending bullshit the exact opposite of what you needed right now.  “They’ve got to be in Dr. Banner’s office, because they’re not here.”
You wait for another bordering-on-insulting remark, but it doesn’t come, even as the silence stretches on, pointed and expectant.
“Well, I can’t get you in there,” he says, trailing behind you as you leave the lab, flicking the lights back off and pulling the door shut behind him as you rifle through your pockets again, the pockets of your coat, too, anxiety driving the search to be disorganized and frenetic as your desperation ramps higher. “The master keys only work on the rooms with hazardous materials, for emergencies. Labs and storage, mostly.”
He watches you, impassive, as you tear your backpack apart, find nothing, and then dejectedly put everything back together again. “You should call Bruce, you know he’d come back.”
You slump forward, defeated, burying your face in your bag where it’s still hanging on the wall hook. “He’s in fucking Toronto,” you mutter into the fabric, muffled, “For three days.”
At a loss for what else to do, you eventually right yourself and take your backpack up off the hook, slinging it over your shoulder with a long-suffering sigh. When you turn in the direction of the door, Beck follows after you; you’re not really thinking about what he’s probably thinking about, not right now, too concerned with how you’re going to get home, but– and this triggers a wince and a flicker of shame, a feeling that has become a lot harder to elicit in you as of late– you could probably be convinced to stop thinking about that for some indeterminate length of time, if he were to try. 
“I can give you a ride to your apartment,” he offers.
Somehow, the realization hadn’t struck you until then, but– “Oh my god, my house keys. I can’t even get in.”
“Wow,” he says dryly, “You’ve really fucked up, huh?”
“Shut up.”
There’s a pause, as you near the doors; your mood somehow sinks even lower at the state of the sky outside, already an absolute pitch black. It’s only six, but it’s still somewhere between spring and winter; the time hasn’t changed yet and a late cold front had swept in earlier in the week, so not only is it dark, it’s freezing. And you still had no fucking idea what you were going to do. 
The lights are still on in the biology building, and because of the contrast you can see both yourself and Beck clearly reflected in the glass of the door; he’s looking at you, expression unreadable.
“You have a friend you can call? Roommate?”
“No roommates. I don’t even have a spare key.”
You chew on your bottom lip for a moment, and then turn to look at him– really look at him, not just his reflection, pointedly ignoring the way you have to squash down the rise of something warm up through your abdomen just to do it. “Look– I appreciate it, but I’ll be all right. It’s my fault I got into this stupid mess anyways, I’ll figure it out. You don’t have to stay any later.”
He looks at you a moment longer, eyes steady, and then his mouth twitches up at one corner, more of an acknowledgement than a proper smile. “No, I guess not, huh?” 
Part of you is more than a little irritated at that, at the implication, because, seriously, did he think you would just, what, decide to put off figuring out how you’re going to get home– where you’re even going to sleep– because he wanted to get laid? 
(A smaller part of you is angrier still at the fact that, yeah, you probably would, if only he were capable of being more empathetic and less of an asshole for all of a meager five fucking minutes –)
“You could come with me.”
Your brain stalls, grinds to a halt and then stutters and rights itself enough for the words to process and the meaning to crystallize– and, yeah, okay, there’s a spark of electricity that strikes up in your belly at the idea, the precarity of it, even just the notion triggering that spiraling, panicky, adrenaline-infused sensation of being wildly out of your depth-- but that same small idiotic impulsive part of you, though, likes that feeling. Wants to chase it, past the point of reason or excuse.
“No,” you blurt out, before you can think about it for any longer, resolutely ignoring the part of you that’s kind of disappointed in your response. You’re not going to his fucking house, that sounds like a horrible, horrible idea.
Beck looks at you a moment more, and then his expression seals off– you wonder absently if you’d upset him. Hurt his feelings, maybe? Did he even have those?-- and he moves towards the door. When he pushes it open there’s a blast of dry and frigid air that still tastes like winter, a mixture of wood smoke and car exhaust, and he looks at you one last time, his eyes tracking back and forth across your face like he’s searching for something. “Suit yourself,” he says finally, and then he’s gone.
You stand there for a while just staring at your solitary, sullen reflection in the glass, before you pull out your cell phone and try to call someone– anyone, really, family, a friend; you even consider the merits of calling the campus police until a cursory google search reveals that all available master keys for buildings lie with the corresponding department head and are then disbursed at their discretion. The department head, of course, being Dr. Banner. Who was in Toronto. For three fucking days.
No one answers their phones; you send a few text messages out to make sure they’re not just avoiding answering calls, and after that, having realized you’ve run out of Useful Things to do, you settle for just trying to not panic. It’s admittedly a task that requires most of what limited attention you still possess at six-thirty at night, and for that reason you don’t notice the car when it appears outside; not until the driver lays on the horn for several uninterrupted seconds.
The sound jolts you, violently, out of whatever dissociative trance you were in; you register beams of light from those obnoxious, blinding-bright LED headlights and the steady rumble of an engine, the car itself parked at such an angle that you can’t make out the model from inside for the glare. You hesitate for a while, squinting at the shape of it in the darkness and trying to make out the details from the nice comfy warmth of inside, until the driver punches the horn again, three times in quick succession.
“Okay, okay, Jesus Christ,” you mutter to yourself, zipping up your coat and bracing for the solid wall of cold air that rushes to meet you when you open the door. 
You have your arms wrapped around yourself as you approach the passenger side of the car— newer-model BMW, sedan, black, tinted windows, expensive— trying to ward off the cold and not succeeding. The window rolls down as you get close; without a light on, it’s still too dark for you to make out anything inside, but you know the voice when it calls out to you.  
“Come on; I’m not gonna just leave you here, honey.”
Beck must have reached out to pull the latch for the door, because it swings wide open. The interior light flicks on with it, illuminating his face and the inside of the car, which is spotless and leather-upholstered and warm, the glow rendering the heat visible, rising out of the cabin in wavering lines. Standing as close as you are you can feel it, radiating outwards, and you sway towards it without meaning to, drawn instinctively away from the cold.
“I said I’d be fine,” you protest, with far less conviction than the first time. 
“Yeah? You didn’t prop the door open, and you don’t have your keys,” he says, lips pressed together in a way that tells you he’s trying not to laugh, “So now you can either wait there or you can wait in my car, because I’m not getting out just to let you back in again.”
“Oh my god,” you reply, equal parts indignant and alarmed, glancing back to check— god damn it, you really had just locked yourself out. “I wouldn’t even be out here if you didn’t–”
“I know,” he says, cutting you off, properly smiling now– and of course he’d only been fucking with you, and of course you’d just headlong and blindly let him get you riled up. Again . “Look– were you even able to get ahold of anyone?”
A lengthy beat of silence passes; the wind picks up, the door sways on its hinges, and you try– fail– to hide a violent shiver.
“No,” you admit, reluctant.
“Jesus Christ,” he says, tone long-suffering but that stupid fucking smile still playing at his mouth, “Quit being so stubborn and just get in the car.”
You weigh your options for a moment, again, thinking about all the ways in which this is a spectacularly bad idea– there was probably somebody still inside who’d let you in the main door if you walked around to the front of the building, and once there you could wait and maybe somebody would respond to your texts– but it’s half-hearted. You don’t actually want to do any of that. When he’d first asked, there had been this part of you– stupid, impulsive, impetuous part of you– that wanted to just say yes , without forethought or consideration, interested only in the way that the offer had brought back the same feeling as when he had first cornered you in his office, like something inside of you had melted, turned liquid and pliable and hot . 
That part of you is an unabashed and committed hedonist, apparently, and a sucker for being totally out of your depth— and the second time around, that part wins.
Buzzing with adrenaline, you reach for the grab handle on the ceiling of his car and, wordlessly, you pull yourself into the passenger seat, yank the door closed behind you, and stow your backpack at your feet. 
The light shuts off as soon as the door closes, the process entirely automatic, and for a second you can’t make out much more than the outline of him, pitch black. You can’t breathe, at first, and you tell yourself it’s because of the heat shock, your body adjusting from the cold, but a not-significant part of it might just be you freezing up at the immediate reality of being somewhere that’s his . The office was one thing, but the inside of his car– maybe because it’s so small, too personal — it’s different. It makes you feel like you’re drifting, unmoored, beyond the realm of plausible deniability or excuse; where you could justify being in his office, technically justify being really anywhere in the building, there’s no justification here, and that awareness thrums, electric, just under your skin.
He shifts the car out of park, and something inside of you trembles. 
“I thought we were going to wait for–”
Beck chuckles, and there’s that familiar biting edge to it again. “No you didn’t,” he says blithely, eyes straight ahead as he pulls out of the lot.
The words are matter-of-fact and a little bit mean and the sound of them makes you feel like you’ve dropped ten stories–the floor pulled right out from under your feet, that weightless, shivery feeling pulsing in the pit of your stomach. Of course he knew that. You don’t bother trying to deny it. 
“D’you think we’ll pass a drugstore?” You ask instead, carefully and pointedly ignoring what he’d said– there was an insinuation inherent in that, too, though, an implicit admission that he’d been right, and you can see when you glance at him that it registers, the corner of his mouth twitching up. 
“Yeah,” he replies, shifting gears as he turns out of the university entrance and onto the main road– the fact that he drives a stick is unsurprising. You’d kind of figured he was the type. “Why?”
You stretch out in the passenger seat just to give yourself something to do, warm enough now to uncurl your shoulders and unwrap your arms from around yourself; you stretch your legs and reach up to stretch your arms, too, for good measure, the movement long and languid and so much more relaxed than you feel. Out of the corner of your eye you catch the glance he casts at you, sidelong, and feel an immediate rush of satisfaction.
 “I need to get a toothbrush,” you say eventually, working to keep your voice casual.
He makes a noncommittal noise in response. “You can use my toothbrush.”
You don’t reply, but the face you must have made at that, unintentional and reflexive, it makes him laugh– really laugh, something that seems like it isn’t entirely on purpose, a sound that’s softer and rougher around the edges than the ones you’ve heard him make before, his eyes crinkling up at the corners in a way that so utterly disarms him that for a second it’s like you’re looking at a totally different person. 
Whatever you feel at that sight, as strange as it is, is so fleeting that you don’t get the chance to examine it in any amount of detail.
“The things that you’ve let me put in your mouth and you draw the line at my toothbrush,” he says, grinning, shifting gears again with a familiar efficiency as the car picks up speed. "Really, just-- illogical."
You can feel yourself flush, the sensation running from your face right down to your toes; you’re glad, now, for how dark it is, the only light the rhythmic flashes of passing streetlamps that flicker through the cabin.  “Oh my god, don’t be fucking gross.”
“I’m being scientific,” he replies, humor still suffused into his expression, “It’s basic biology; do you know how many germs a person has on their—”
“Yes, oh my god,” You cut him off before he can finish the sentence, fighting back the admittedly childish desire to cover both your ears. “ I also majored in biology, asshole, I know about microbiomes. I draw the line at societal convention, which pretty much never has anything to do with science, anyway, so--"
“Okay, well, no, that’s definitely bullshit,” his voice has gotten lower, and while he’s still smiling, it’s not the same lighthearted one from before, that smug, self-satisfied edge back in it, “You don’t give a shit about societal convention, honey, you’ve spent the last four months proving how little you care about that.”
You don’t need him to elaborate to know what he’s talking about; the implication is clear– god, four fucking months, you think, how had that even happened?-- though you get the feeling if you don’t respond he’s going to say it out loud, and that would be worse. You know that this is something that you shouldn’t be doing– he was your professor, for fuck’s sake, he’s still technically your superior, you’re still technically a student, even if you’re not his– and you don’t particularly need or even want him to say any of that, especially not the way he is now; like he’s found some hole in your reasoning, a fundamental logical misstep. 
He used to do this when you were in class, too, when you’d argue then; pull these bizarre non-sequiturs that gave you whiplash, poke holes in arguments you hadn’t even made. And god, you hated it then and you still hate it now— how he twists the conversation, twists your words, often at random, pushes and prods and needles you until you’re made to be defensive, forced to justify the most pointless, insignificant bullshit that you’d never even said in the first place.
“Yeah, well,” You fold your arms over your chest, suddenly more irritated than anything that you’re in his car and not someplace where you can just tell him to fuck off and walk away. “I pick and choose which conventions I give a shit about. Like most people do. Happy?”
He’s gotten under your skin, again, so much so that you don’t realize he’s pulled into a space in the otherwise-empty parking lot of a Dollar General until he turns, pointedly, to look at you, mouth still twitching like he wants to smile but realizes that would just piss you off more. You stare right back, stubborn, irritation prickling hot at the nape of your neck— irritated both with him for always being such an unrepentant bastard but also with yourself, too, for the fact that you can’t ever seem to stop reacting to it.
When he leans over the car console and takes your face in both hands and holds you still so can kiss you, just for a moment, you’re dizzy with vertigo and burning up with frustration and playing desperate, disorganized catch-up with whatever the fuck is going on to the point where you never really get the chance to respond– but there’s still that heat that brims up inside of you, the spark of adrenaline, and it sucks, actually, how easy it is for you to forget that you were even angry in the first place. Or maybe it’s just that he’s gotten the wires in your brain crossed so completely that you can’t even tell what the difference is, anymore. When he lets go and pulls away, you have to fight the urge to sway forwards, and that sucks, too, the way that he doesn’t even really have to try to get this from you, the wanting; it’s just always there, right under the surface, and all he ever has to do is remind you of its’ existence and everything else in your head is gone.
 “Am I happy with which conventions you choose to ignore?” Beck clasps his hands behind his head, and reclines back in his seat, eyes closed. He’s still smiling, an arrogant and self-satisfied thing that fills you with frustration and want and shame, all in equal measure. “Take a guess. And then go get a toothbrush, before I decide I’m just going to leave.”
A muscle in your jaw ticks as you unbuckle your seatbelt and crack the car door. “You’re so fucking annoying.”
“See, if only you were brave enough to ever say that during your undergrad,” he calls out after you as you’re rounding the front of his car, having rolled down his driver’s side window to do so, leaning forwards so he can hold eye contact through the windshield. It’s kind of funny, actually— how willing he is to abandon that illusion of calm disinterest, dismissal, that he’d constructed only moments earlier, if it meant even just one more chance to get a rise out of you. 
You wonder if that’s new, or if he’s always been that way, and you were just too caught up in being angry to notice.
“I said it a lot, ” you inform him, unable to suppress the beginnings of a small, reflexive grin at the thought–that maybe it’s not just you. Maybe he can’t really help himself, either. “Just not to you.”
You don’t look back, after that, but you don’t need to; you can hear him laughing.
---------------------
A friend responds to your earlier frantic text as you’re waiting at the checkout for the solitary employee to return from where they’d been stocking product somewhere within the haphazardly-organized, labyrinthine maze of the local Dollar General. 
She’s back home in Connecticut for spring break, so it would take her two hours, maybe more, just to get here, and you had already set it up with the janitor to be let back into the lab to check on the extractions over the weekend, anyways– so there are plenty of perfectly rational, perfectly objective reasons for you to respond with a “ dw lol, figured it out already. thank u tho!! ”. 
Logistics, for one. Efficiency, for another. That winding, precarious sensation of anticipation creeping up inside of you– it’s not a factor, you tell yourself reasonably. If it had been any of your friends nearby, you’d have taken them up on the offer, because of course you would have.
(You don’t even know for sure if that’s true. Deep down, you might be a tiny bit relieved that it was her who answered, and not anyone else, not someone who lived within the general vicinity of campus–  you don’t really want to know what you would have done, then, what you would choose, and this way you don’t have to find out.)
You return to his car with the toothbrush, still in its flimsy cardboard and plastic packaging, and a crumpled receipt; you think you might see something in his expression that brightens at the sight of you, but maybe it’s just a trick of the light. The toothbrush goes immediately into one of the pockets of your backpack– you’re not really thinking all that much right now, and you don’t trust yourself not to lose it otherwise– and by the time you sit up again and reach to pull the seatbelt on, he’s already peeling out of the lot. 
Beck drives like an asshole, accelerates too fast and maneuvers around other cars and egregiously violates the speed limit– huge surprise– but it’s not distressing, which is to say, begrudgingly, that he’s good at it. It’s clear that he knows the car, what it can do, shifts through the gears to bring it humming from ten to thirty to sixty miles an hour over the span of a handful of seconds in a motion so smooth that it seems effortless. You know that it’s really not, if only because the one time you’d ever tried to drive stick– a friend’s car, an already-beat-to-shit Pontiac Firebird– you couldn’t even figure out how to time the clutch right. Never so much as made it out of the parking lot.
“You drive like a fucking maniac,” you say instead of admitting any of that, and then you ignore the way that his answering laugh makes something bright and warm and weird bloom in the general vicinity of your chest, and you ignore, too, how his immediate mocking of your proclivity towards using the word fuck and its’ derivatives as if it were the world’s most liberal and universal adjective doesn’t, actually, make you angry or irritated or anything even close. Not even when he says in that too-sweet patronizing tenor something about how it’s unbecoming behavior for a PhD student, inappropriate and far too unprofessional, evidence that, well, y’know, maybe you’re just not cut out for this after all, honey–
You tell him to shut up, kind-of-not-really meaning it, finding it probably a little too easy to ignore all those things, the same way you ignore everything else that’s ever inconvenient or uncomfortable about any of this– knowing, in some distant and far-off part of your brain, that you will probably have to deal with it eventually. 
Eventually, though–
The thing about instant gratification is that it always makes that eventually seem like it’s some meaningless, incomprehensible distance from you, miles and oceans and light-years away, and while you know, logically, intellectually, that that won’t always be the case, that it isn’t, technically, even the case now–
It doesn’t click. 
It doesn’t stick.
Beck turns into a concrete several-story parking garage attached to a mid-rise tower block of apartments– condos, actually, you catch the sign on the way in, large and deliberately eye-catching and illuminated brighter than anything around by a row of obnoxious spotlights– and when he pulls into a spot marked with the stenciled number 34 in white spray-paint and parks and shuts off the engine–
It doesn’t really matter, then, what clicks or sticks or even registers at all. The surge of adrenaline, of want and anticipation and warmth and whatever else–  as soon as he moves to get out of the car, it thunders back in like the rush of high tide, like something inevitable, and the ferocity of it has you wondering as you shrug your backpack over one shoulder and close the passenger door if there might actually be something wrong with your nervous system, if something inside of you was misfiring that would explain, logically, why you still fucking feel like this–
You decide, abruptly, to stop thinking about it.
(You’ve gotten really fucking good at that.)
“Got your toothbrush?” he says, grinning, sly, somehow managing to make an otherwise–innocuous phrase sound like it’s meant to be an insult.
You roll your eyes and he just smiles wider. “Yes, I have it, asshole.”
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rebelliousstories · 1 year
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Jake Gyllenhaal & Co.
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Jake Gyllenhaal
Love and Youth
The right person can make you feel young all the time. And having a relationship in the public can be extremely tough at times. So what happens when you combine these two things?
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Edward Sheffield
Favorite Feeling
After a long and hard day, Edward’s favorite thing is the cuddles on the couch with a movie and a bowl of ice cream.
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Detective David Loki
Safe In Your Arms
Loki hasn’t been home in days; no problem.
Tall, Dark, and Handsome
There were two things that David Loki knew to be true; 1. There was a mysterious cup of coffee on his table when ever he left the room. And 2. The woman he likes has no clue about his feelings.
The Secret to a Good Relationship
Everyone always says that the secret to a good relationship is communication. Now to see if you can teach an old dog new tricks.
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Donnie Darko
Eyes Open
There’s just something creepy about seeing someone sleep walk and talk.
With Friends Like These
Friends should always have your best interest at heart, and should never disrespect the bro code: do not disrespect the girl your friend has a crush on.
Sex, Drugs, Rock ‘N Roll
What was suppose to be a quiet and spooky night in, quickly turned into something a bit scarier, but a bit more relaxed.
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Jack Twist
Happily Ever After
Sometimes, Prince Charming is just a few years away.
Partner
A quick trip into town for a few cowboys turns into a trip down memory lane.
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cocainehours · 2 years
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i feel like i’ve consumed every single quentin beck fanfic in existence and i NEED MORE. WHERE are my people that write for quentin beck?
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