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charliehoennam · 1 year ago

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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.

SHARING IS CARING, SO PLEASE REBLOG

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.

“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.

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.

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.”

#quentin beck #quentin beck imagine #quentin beck x reader #quentin beck x you #quentin beck x y/n #quentin beck x f!reader #jake gyllenhaal smut #jake gyllenhaal x reader #jake gyllenhaal imagine #jake gyllenhaal fanfic #jake gyllenhaal

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creelkobblelaufeyson69 · 3 months ago

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It’s just a spider series coming soon

#willem dafoe #alfred molina #michael keaton #jake gyllenhaal #spiderman #norman osborn x reader #otto octavius x reader #Adrien Toomes x reader #quentin beck x reader

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astxrwar · 1 year ago

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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.

#quentin beck x reader #ties that bind tag #mysterio x reader #jake gyllenhaal x reader #not actually i have a deep aversion to rpf but i want Attention and apparently ppl tag actors now

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happy74827 · 9 months ago

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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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sexy-monster-fucker · 2 years ago

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Deception [Part 1]

Mysterio x Reader | Read the original here

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!]

#mysterio x reader #quentin beck x reader #quentin beck #mysterio #spider man #spider man far from home #fanfic #writing #fanfiction #mcu #marvel x readeer #marvel #jake gyllenhaal #SexyMonsterFics #part 1 #part 2 coming soon #introduction

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cemeteryspider · 10 months ago

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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"

#quentin beck #quentin beck x reader #miles morales #spiderman #spiderman 2 ps5 #spiderman 2 spoilers #mysterio

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hughiecampbelle · 2 years ago

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Imagine having the power to control technology and Quentin underestimating you:

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.

#quentin beck #quentin beck imagine #quentin beck x reader #mysterio #mysterio imagine #mysterio x reader #spiderman #spiderman imagine #spiderman x reader #marvel #marvel imagine #marvel x reader

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charliehoennam · 5 months ago

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God damn this is fucking good!! I love that Quin didn't die because he lives on in my heart 🥹😍

Quin playing dead to keep her safe??? Quin giving up years of hard work for her??? THE MENTION OF KIDS???

Shout-out to the reader being so fucking badass, calling Victoria on her real plan and turning the tables!

What I would give to hideaway with him for the rest of my life 🥹😍

Só beautiful written as always, Laurie. You never fail to amaze me!!

HIGH HORSE — QUENTIN BECK

request: what about fighting with quentin beck for the first time, after he’s been all smug and acting like he doesn’t care about the reader and him realizing after they leave that he needs them in his life real bad - so he gets off his high horse for once and admits he cares about the reader?

warnings: canon divergent quentin (set in an alternate universe where quentin survived far from home), mentions of janice, guterman and a very out of character victoria, throwback scene (including violence, knives and manipulation),18+, MINORS DON’T INTERACT.

word count: 1525

gif credit: winterswake

notes: i was listening to dark horse by katy perry, high horse by kacey musgraves, save your tears by the weeknd and the raya soundtrack? weird mix, but it takes what it takes to get the angst juices flowing. thanks for reading, remember to reblog!

Continuar lendo

#quentin beck imagine #quentin beck x reader #jake gyllenhaal imagine #jake gyllenhaal x reader #jake gyllenhaal angst #jake gyllenhaal #quentin beck

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rebelliousstories · 2 years ago

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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.

#rebelliousstories #writing #jake gyllenhaal imagine #jake gyllenhaal #jake gyllenhaal x reader #david loki #detective loki x reader #detective loki #quentin beck #quentin beck imagine #quentin beck x reader #joe baylor #joe baylor x reader #joe baylor imagine

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creelkobblelaufeyson69 · 8 months ago

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Pursued

Warnings: smut

Being the Spiderman in the universe they were in was quite hard. But that is just how it goes with that line of work. They lost their parents during a fight, and they still hated it to this day, since they blamed themselves for their parent’s death. They just needed something- anything for them to make them truly feel like a hero

In this universe Spiderman is always viewed as the villain. No matter how much they help out, they are still viewed in such a negative manner. They just wanted to feel like everything wasn’t their fault. This is when their teammate Quentin Beck chimes in

Those two were in a relationship, but it took them a while to fully believe that he had a crush on them. It was real as well. He wanted to help them get viewed as a hero. He didn’t see them as a threat at all. So him finally revealing the big secret he’s kept from them for a moment like this, made him realize how worth it it was to keep this secret from them

They were quite impressed, and turned on about how smart he was. How he managed to make the real Nick Fury believe his act. They give him and his team an applause. Quentin gets up from the stool, and then bows. “Thank you, honey” he says as he stands up straight again

He walks over towards where they sat, and once he was close enough, he takes out his hand. “I can make you into that superhero you’ve always wanted to be. But you have to keep this a secret” he says, which makes them take his hand. He smiles; “I knew you’d say yes.” “Plus I would’ve been so pissed at myself if I did have to kill you”

This makes them confused that he had thought about that, but it was fair on his side to have a plan b if plan a didn’t work out. “I like my suit though, so that won’t be an illusion” they said as they take their hand out of his. They stood up, and was closer towards him

“I wouldn’t make that into an illusion anyway, since I like seeing you in that tight suit” they blushed madly now, which makes him smirk. “Perhaps we should celebrate, since you’re new here” he says with the smirk still on his face. “I like the sound of that” they said as their lips go for his now

The two start to make out, which makes everyone else uncomfortable. Once the two pull apart, Quentin is catching his breath. They do the same, and also remembers that the two are still in front of people. “Can we go somewhere more private?” They asked in a hushed voice

He nodded his head, and then the two leave without saying anything to the rest of team. The two were eventually at his place, and once the two were fully inside, he stood behind them. He unzipped their suit, and once it was on the ground, he pulls down their underwear

He notices how wet they were for him, and chuckles. “Of course this turns you on” he says as as he has an evil smirk on his face now. “You know, I also think you make a good superhero. If only others could see that in you though” he adds as their underwear hits the ground. “Can you jump for me?” They did as told and now their legs were on his back, and they had their hands on the wall

He begins to lick their pussy, which makes their head arch their head. Moans escaped their mouth as he grasped onto their thighs as he now sucks their folds. “Quentin” they moaned as he continues to suck their folds. Their walls clenched now, which makes him stop. He gets them back onto the ground, and now he takes his shirt off

“If there are people that still don’t like you even after I change their minds. I’ll kill them” he says as his shirt goes onto the ground. “You’re joking” they said as now takes his pants off. “I’m not. I’d kill anyone that still hates Spiderman” he says as his pants were now on the ground. “But I won’t do it directly towards them. My illusions will kill them” he says, which turns them on more

“That’s hot Quentin” they admit as he takes his boxers off. “Yeah?” His evil smirk returns now. “Yeah” they said as they leave hickeys onto his neck now. He moans as they mark him. He gets pinned to the wall now, but it was quite aggressive. He liked it though

Once they’ve stopped marking him, they looked deeply into his blue eyes. He kisses them onto their lips now. He guides them to their couch as the two made out. Once close enough to the couch, he pulls apart. They knew their couch was behind them, so they laid down now. He goes on top of them, and his lips go back onto theirs

He goes into them, which makes them pull apart. Their head almost arches back, but makes them continue to look at him. “I wanna see the faces you make while I’m pleasuring you. Understand?” They told him that they understood, and now he’s thrusting

Their eyes go to the back of their head as he fucks them. Moans escaped their mouth as he hits their g spot. He moans too, but he doesn’t allow himself to arch his head back. He needed to see their face, especially for when they cum. “Y/n” he moans as his hands were intertwined with theirs

The two were leaving nail marks on each other’s skin. But neither had cared. It had just added to pleasure for the two. “I don’t understand how no one could like Spiderman. Especially with how sweet they can be” he starts, which makes them excited. “And how hot they can be. People loved a masked person, but don’t like Spiderman. How depressing. Their missing out” he adds, which makes them cum

He stops, but they wanted him to continue. He smirks, and happily listens

#quentin beck x reader #quentin beck x reader smut #spiderman! reader #spiderman far from home #jake gylenhall #mysterio x reader

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astxrwar · 1 year ago

Text

ties that bind [5/x]

SUMMARY: Quentin Beck– your old college biology professor– is still a bastard. Apparently, you’re kind of in to that.

RATING: M

WORD COUNT: 7k+

CONTENT + WARNINGS: Emotional manipulation (a given,,,). The general vibes associated with that. Sex scene will be chapter 6 because it got too long, this one is just plot and developing the AU + character. I take liberties with RC because you kinda have to in long-form works; if you're an experienced cook no you're not and if you're allergic to sesame seeds no you're not.

If you're still reading this series we're married now btw. love u babes, mwah.

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | [PART 5]

Beck says nothing else between the car and the elevator, nothing as he presses the only slightly-tarnished silver button for the third floor, still nothing as the doors glide open and nothing when they close, either. The silence begins to coalesce like its own entity, something that pulses and breathes, alive, expanding to fill the rest of the too-small space of the elevator car; something he is, of course, unaffected by. Whatever tension is building inside of you feels precarious, uncontrolled, like a shaken-up can of coke in the seconds before an unsuspecting hand cracks the tab open, an unchecked ignition system with the fuse dwindled all the way down to nothing but a fine powder of ash, the silence before something explodes, because it has to, pressure building too high for too long, until there’s no other recourse or hope for respite. It’s nerves, and you know that, the feeling, but it’s not like anything you’ve ever felt before, better and worse and more, now, in ways that you still can’t fully comprehend or explain.

Beck studies you wordlessly from the opposite side of the elevator car as it moves upwards, the motion so fluid that if it weren’t for a small digital panel above the door, the floor numbers ticking by in glowing fluorescent red, you wouldn’t be able to tell it was even moving at all.

“Have you eaten?” He asks, cutting clean through that silence. It calms whatever tumultuous thing is coiling in your belly, even if only temporarily, the mundanity of the question striking and strange enough to draw your attention away from it for the moment.

“No,” you answer, quieter than you’d meant to, eyes flitting up to meet his and then glancing away again of their own accord, skittering back to the panel with the glowing red two now displayed and then to the doors, gleaming and reflective, the carpet, brand-new, only faintly discolored along the common path into and out of the car, a dappled pattern of overlapping shoe prints beginning to wear into it there. “I have my wallet, we can order something, if you want—“

Beck makes a sound; not a laugh, more just a particularly harsh exhale, dismissive and uninterested. “I’m making dinner, you can get yourself whatever you’d like if you won’t eat real food.”

The display panel ticks over to three and the doors slide open, a pleasant, bell-like chime announcing the stop; you follow him out into a carpeted hallway that’s painted a bland shade of steel blue and lined with wall-mounted lamps, like a hotel. There are windows on one side, spaced evenly down the length of the wall, and from this height you can see past the lines of barren, skeletal trees, the lights of cars as they trawl like beetles along the winding length of the road in the distance.

“What do you think I usually eat, then, if I don’t eat ‘real food’ ,” you say, instead of any of the other things that you’re thinking about— your nerves, still, trembling like the wings of a bird in the hollow of your throat, or the strangeness of him offering you dinner, or the entirely predictable way he can make that, even, sound like it’s a dig at your expense.

“Takeout,” Beck answers pointedly, mouth twitching up at the corners; you’ve arrived at his door, the numbers 34 pasted in neat silver leaf below the rounded inset glass of the peek-hole, reflective and glinting in the light from the hallway, and as he rummages in the pockets of his coat for his key and slots it into the lock you can hear your own pulse thrumming loud in your ears. “Frozen pizza, boxed mac and cheese, microwave ramen, anything they sell at the dollar store,” it clicks, and the door handle turns, and he looks at you, grinning in earnest now, “Hot pockets, probably.”

“Oh my god,” is all you can really say to that— because, yeah, he’s described to a T the off-campus-student-with-no-meal-plan diet, and you’re not even really any good at lying to him even when you’re not feeling some dubious combination of off-balance and dangerously out of your depth, so you decide that you’re better off not even trying. “You don’t have to be an asshole about it.”

“I’m actually not trying to be, this time,” he replies, amused, as he pushes the door open and moves into the darkened foyer, hand sliding along the wall until he finds the switch and the hall is illuminated by the artificially-white glow of the ceiling light. “I was also a grad student once; I do still remember it.”

As you pass the threshold and press the door closed behind you, he follows with, “Take off your shoes.”

You do, stepping on the heels of your well-worn sneakers to slide them off, one foot, and then the next, stacking them in the tray by the door next to his impeccably-clean and perfectly-polished black oxfords. There’s another set of sneakers there, too, much nicer and much newer than yours, and a pair of thick-treaded black winter boots, the laces wound up together in a neat little ring, tied off to keep them from unraveling, tucked in behind the tongues of the shoes.

Ahead of you, Beck has moved further into the apartment; he sheds his coat and hangs it in a small closet at the end of the hallway, his laptop bag, too, and gestures for you to do the same with your backpack. There are other doors, one on each side of the hall, and you wonder briefly what might lay beyond them as you trail behind him, your footsteps muted and the hardwood floor cool through the relatively thin barrier of your socks.

He flicks on another set of lights, brightening the kitchen enough for you to see the whole of it; a high ceiling and low-hanging light fixtures and clean granite countertops, the two-section sink and drying rack both empty of dishes, a keurig machine and a toaster and a blender and other assorted appliances all pushed back against the wall, spotless and free of dust. His apartment looks like a showroom, like some sort of facsimile edition of a place where real breathing people live, and you mean to say that to him in a way that you intend to be insulting, but you find when you go to speak that your mouth is dry and your tongue is uncooperative and the words don’t even arrange themselves correctly inside your head, anyways. All of this feels suddenly very real, the cool stone countertop when you press your fingers against it, the faint draft of air moving through his apartment, drawn from the windows lining one side of the wall– and his eyes on you, something you can feel without even having to look at him, like a warm, solid weight on your shoulders.

Behind you, you hear the sound of some door pulling open, the rush of colder air against your back; the fridge, probably.

“What are you making?” you say without turning, suppressing that nervous tension, forcing it down inside of you as deep as it will go.

“Nothing complicated,” he replies. “Stir fry. Probably one of the easiest things, actually, if you ever decide to stop eating garbage.”

“Didn’t we just establish you also ate like shit during grad school?” You do turn, at that, so that he can see your face when you pointedly roll your eyes. “Besides, I just– I don’t really have time to cook. Or the energy, honestly.”

“Cooking doesn’t take much time or energy, that’s a poor excuse,” he replies, and you’re halfway through formulating a more-than-slightly-defensive response when he continues, “Learning to cook takes time and energy. You don’t have time or energy to learn , right now.”

The abrupt transition from what you’d assumed would be another insult to a gentle and even understanding correction– it makes something inside of you lurch like the feeling you get when you miss a step walking down a staircase, your balance thrown off and your center of gravity ending up somewhere unexpected.

“Really unnecessary amount of semantic nitpicking,” you say, the words tumbling out uncertain and unsteady, not sure if the warmth you feel is irritation or something else entirely.

He grins, one of those calculating ones that makes you feel like he knows something you don’t. “It’s necessary if one statement is true and the other isn’t.”

You don’t respond to that, and in the silence you move further into the kitchen, taking residence on a bar stool on the side closest to the living room. You hadn’t seen, before, what Beck had taken from the freezer, but you can see it now; a block of tofu, semi-defrosted, dripping beads of condensation onto the countertop.

“You’re vegetarian?” You can’t keep the note of incredulity out of your voice, and you don’t try, either, knowing by now that he’d notice regardless.

Beck moves to the counter space by the sink, pulls a shining silver knife from the block on the counter and a cutting board from one of the cabinets below. “No,” he says, “But I don’t eat meat frequently. I assume you know enough about epidemiology to figure that out for yourself.”

He doesn’t say it like a compliment, more like a basic and trivial fact, but it still kind of– registers as one. That he just expects you to know things. You’d thought his general opinion of you to be markedly worse than that. “Lifestyle disease?”

He hums in affirmative—that, too, sounding expectant and unsurprised— unfolding the block of tofu from the plastic wrap which he discards, and placing it on the cutting board. “Bodies aren’t miracles, they’re machines. Machines need to be treated well if we want them to last.”

“Nice rendition on the much simpler ‘you should eat healthy because it’s good for you’,” you say, through something that you are deciding to call a snicker instead of a giggle, for– reasons. “You are so not beating the Patrick Bateman allegations.”

Beck finally looks up at that, and his face does the same thing it did in the car– the mask, or whatever annoyingly impenetrable facade he maintains, it slips, for second, his face relaxes and his mouth twitches up and his eyebrow raises a little, maybe unintentionally, the sum of his features far more expressive than you’re accustomed to, surprise and amusement and something else you don’t recognize flickering across them in quick succession. “Allegations,” he repeats, nonplussed, almost a question, and then, with an undercurrent of humor, “You’ve seen American Psycho ? That movie is almost as old as you are.”

“Not beating the allegations- it’s just a saying. It means, like, you’re living up to a stereotype.” You register what might have been a jab at your age a few moments too late to even really react to it, and you think that it should probably make you feel uncomfortable or uneasy or anything, really, but it doesn’t– which does make you uncomfortable. Because you should care. Presumably. “And, yeah, I had a computer. I think I pirated it when I was like, fifteen.”

“I had it on VHS, for a while, when I was in high school; I was too young to see it in theaters when it came out.” Beck has already turned back to the task at hand, moved to another set of cabinets under the counters further from you to pull out a large, high-walled pan. You can see, though, from the light in the kitchen, the way that his mouth tugs up at the corners still, like he can’t quite suppress it completely. “You think I could be a serial killer, and you still willingly came to my house?”

“Do I need to explain the concept of a joke to you?” you reply, intending for it to be sardonic and scathing but finding that it really just sounds like you’re teasing him. The way a friend might. And god, that’s–

(Weird. Bad. Maybe neither— is that worse?)

(You’re not going to think about it.)

He doesn’t say anything back, just hums under his breath, low and amused and barely audible, and takes out a set of bowls from a cabinet above his head that he places on the counter.

“Go in the pantry and grab me the soy sauce and sesame oil,” he says after a moment, fixing you with a look in the seconds before it registers, “I’m not your personal chef, you’re going to help.”

It still takes a moment, after that, for the request to click. Even when you do get up to do as he’d asked, you take a moment to stretch out, first, before moving anywhere, reaching your arms up to the ceiling– he looks sidelong at you and you think his eyes might linger on the revealed expanse of your stomach where your sweater had risen up, and something low and warm inside of you is fucking satisfied by that.

“You say that like you wouldn’t still be doing this if I weren’t here,” you say when he looks away.

“I would,” he acknowledges as you approach him, and tips his head towards the closed door to his right. “But since you went and lost your keys and are now intruding on my weekend, the least you can do is make yourself useful.”

The remark is so at odds with the series of events that had brought you here in the first place and in such direct contrast with his own behavior that the slight doesn’t even really register; rolls right off, like water. “Right, because this is such an inconvenience to you.”

A smile twitches at the corners of his mouth, and there’s that new strange feeling again, like somebody’s filled your whole body with buzzing TV static.

You find the pantry at his earlier direction, open the door and scan the rows of shelves, as spotless and impeccably organized as everything else in his apartment. The sesame oil and soy sauce are just below eye height and next to each other among a neat line of various other ingredients– cooking wine and white vinegar and molasses and more that you don’t take notice of in the time it takes to grab what he’d asked for and close the door again.

“Fridge,” he says when you place the bottles on the counter beside him, having finished cutting the tofu into neat squares that he sweeps off the cutting board and into a bowl with the flat of his knife. “Broccoli and green peppers, they’ll be in the bottom drawer on the left.”

His fridge is one of those massive gleaming silver ones with the double-doors and built-in water and ice dispenser, and it, like everything else, is pristine and neatly kept; you find both items where he’d directed you, still wrapped in those paper-thin plastic bags from the grocery store.

“There’s beer in the door, by the way, if you want any.”

True to word there are bottles lined in the trays on the left inside shelf— wheat and fruit varieties, mostly, light and tolerable and kind of surprising; you’d have pegged him as a snobby IPA type— though you decide that, despite his often incomprehensible devotion to being an asshole at all times, you still can’t abandon the weird sort of obligations that come with being a guest in someone else’s home. Namely, the feeling that it was somehow improper to accept an offer not also indulged in by the host. “Do you?”

He considers it for a second. “Yeah, I’ll take one.”

“Anything specific?”

“No,” There’s that edge, again, more teasing than anything else, and you ignore that, too— the difference, the lack of overt malice— with an ease that should probably be concerning, “I like all of them, that’s why they’re there. Pick one and come here, you’re making this more difficult than it needs to be.”

The words come here, because you’re pathetic, they drag that winding coil of tension in the pit of your stomach back to the surface, but then the fridge begins to beep at you–you’ve kept it open for too long, presumably– and so you push the thoughts back down and blindly pick two from the bottom rack, allowing the doors to fall closed again.

At the counter he’s already portioned out snap peas he must have pulled from the freezer earlier, and mixed what you assume to be a sauce together in another bowl.

“Start cutting them up,” he says as he takes one of the bottles from your outstretched hands, nodding towards the vegetables you’d grabbed from the fridge, and then the cutting board, moved further down the counter to a spot where you’d have the space to stand alongside him. Beck doesn’t wait for your response; he turns and flicks on the stove and pours sesame oil down the sides of the pan, not bothering with measurements, just eyeing it with a practiced and familiar ease. He’s rolled the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, cuffs neatly folded and edges creased, probably while you were in the fridge, and the tanned and solid expanse of his forearms— you’re not staring, not exactly, but you’re aware of it as you rinse the peppers and the head of broccoli in the sink, the sight of him in your periphery. The oil crackles in the pan, browns and aromatizes, fills the kitchen with the smell, fragrant and rich like salt and nuts and caramel; your eyes keep getting drawn back to him, the muscles and the tendons flexing in his hands as he moves to add the already-prepared ingredients, sprinkles salt and red pepper, lifts and shakes the pan to toss the contents of it—

“If you want to be of any use to me, that needs to be done before this is,” he says, tone deceptively mild. You’re barely halfway through cutting the broccoli up into approximately bite-sized pieces, and at his comment your eyes flicker away from where they’d drifted to him again.

You don’t say anything in response, just try to focus more intently on the task, slower and more clumsy and comparatively unskilled as you are at it; it’s not like it’s difficult, really, it’s just one of those things that’s borne out of practice, of which you had little, considering your circumstances. Begrudgingly, you acknowledge to yourself that he’d been right, before, about the challenge being less the actual cooking than the learning of it, something you had next to no energy for– much less the desire to do– as a seemingly perpetually-busy grad student.

Some time during your finishing dividing up the broccoli and setting a pepper on the wooden surface of the cutting board he must have turned the stove down, set the pan aside; you feel him behind you before you really even know that he’s there, the air changing, growing warmer with his presence.

“You’re going too slow.”

You hum, in response, before you try to speak, making sure your voice isn’t going to betray you and crumble the second you say anything in return, “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says, unconcerned, and for whatever reason that, too, feels like– something. Something weird. “You’re learning.”

When he moves closer, his head above your shoulder, his arms bracketing yours and his hands lingering somewhere near your wrists, your breathing catches and your pulse picks up and that thing inside of you— the thing that had never really gone away in the first place, hadn’t ever faded or lessened at all since you first got out of his car, that ever-widening chasm of your own want like a fucking fault in the earth that you’d just somehow been managing to ignore this whole time— it rears its head again, dizzying, requisitions the bulk of your attention span to the point where you nearly nick your fingers.

“Wow, actually, maybe you’re not learning,” he murmurs, gently mocking, low in your ear as his hands move down to overlay your own, steadying your grip on the knife. “So much for making yourself useful.”

“I’m not great at tuning out distractions,” you tell him, and in your head you imagine you say it with enough bite to imply that he’s being annoying, but in reality it just comes out soft, plaintive– a confession rather than an accusation.

“Oh, really? Couldn’t tell.” You can hear the smile, bleeding into the tone of his voice.

With him directing you, it goes much faster, turning with one hand and cutting with the other, the movements methodical and clean; rationally, you know it must have been no more than a minute or two, but it feels like so much longer and so much shorter, somehow, your perception defying all sense of logic, your entire body thrumming with the awareness of him, the broad span of his chest and the places it’s almost touching your shoulders, his hands, steady and warm and rough, his breathing, too, the rhythm of it against the shell of your ear, the goosebumps it sends prickling across your neck—

“There,” he says when it’s done, when he steps back and the air goes cold and that stupid thing inside of you twinges with an embarrassing amount of disappointment, “Not so hard.”

Beck returns to the stove, cranks the heat back up; you swallow and steady your breathing and reach for your beer on the counter, the top already having been cracked open for you; when he’d even had time to do that, you have no idea, but you murmur a quiet thanks as you reach for it and drain a long sip, if only to have something to do.

“Garbage is the drawer on the left by the wall,” he says over his shoulder, “Just throw out what’s left over and put the dishes in the sink. The bottles away, too,” he jerks his head towards the sesame oil and the soy sauce, “And then you’re good.”

“And then I’ll have made up for ‘ intruding on your weekend’ ?” you reply, still far softer than you’d intended it to be as you move through the tasks, tossing the seeded pepper cores and the stump of broccoli in the garbage alongside the scraps from the cutting board, placing that and a stack of bowls in the sink.

His answering chuckle is soft and low, the particulars of his expression blocked from view by the pantry door as you replace the items you’d pulled from there. “No, honey, then you’ll have helped with dinner. Making up for intruding on my weekend–” When he laughs again, the sound is a lot less kind than before; and maybe he’s amused by the reference, or maybe the circumstance, or maybe something else entirely, some other thing that only he knows about, a punchline to a joke that you’re not in on. “You will.”

It’s the way that he says it, probably, or the particulars of the words– the difference between you will and you can that seems impossibly large and unfathomably significant in this context– but it makes your breath catch and your pulse tremble and that warmth– the heat– it rages back before he’s even really finished speaking, searing and unavoidable like somebody had turned the gas on a stove up to the very top or just gone and broken the dial off completely. You could blame what happens next on the effect of all of a half a beer on an otherwise-empty stomach or the terrible realization of both being so far beyond outside of your depth and having lost control of whatever tenuous hold you ever really had on your own desire, but–

The last bottle– does not even matter which one it is and you don’t fucking care anyway– slips from your fingers a centimeter from the edge of the shelf, and though you catch it before it hits the ground and return it, more carefully, this time, to its’ place, you know— you just do, even though you can’t see him, even though he can’t see you, even though he’s ostensibly busy, preoccupied, not paying attention — that he still somehow notices it, too.

You don’t eat at the table, because he does not, strictly speaking, have one. What he has instead is just one of those chest-high dividing walls that acts to partially separate the kitchen from the currently unlit living room, outfitted with enough counter space to hold dishes for maybe a grand total of four guests. The food cools in the pan until the sound of crackling oil fades and then goes silent completely, leaving just the steam to rise from it and spiral up towards the ceiling in wavering lines; Beck brings it over to the bar, then, uses a fork to fill both plates, and sets the pan in the sink.

You mumble a thanks, to which he responds with a noncommittal, wordless hum; you eat mostly in silence, perched on the stool you’d sat in before, on the end of the bar outside the kitchen. He sits across from you and you try not to look at him too often, but you’re certain you don’t succeed, as much as you’re certain that he must know, somehow, must be keenly aware of each and every time that you glance up at him— at his forearms, his sleeves still rolled to his elbows, his chest, too, the first two buttons of his shirt undone, the heat of the stove having softened the crisp, pressed lines of it, his tie gone, discarded at some point. He looks more relaxed than you’ve ever seen him, more at ease, and you are affected by that, apparently.

He finishes eating before you, and you watch him then, too, as he moves around the kitchen, slotting his plate and the silverware and the used bowls into the dishwasher, scrubbing clean the cutting board, setting it to dry, washing the knife by hand with a sponge in the sink and returning it to the block on the counter.

“You’re so organized,” you blurt out, without meaning to, suddenly aware that your beer is less than half full, probably less than a quarter, and you’d drank most of it well before you’d eaten anything.

“I take it I’m still not beating the Patrick Bateman allegations, then,” he replies, with a grin you could only really describe as conspiratorial. For a second you don’t realize he’s actually made a joke that wasn’t at your expense– one that was, actually, weirdly, at his own– and when it registers you’ll blame being halfway drunk for the involuntary and genuine and utterly helpless burst of laughter that escapes you before you can even so much as think to stop it.

Whatever emotion passes briefly across his face in response to that seems almost pleased. But it’s late and you’re tipsy and unthinking and it’s easy to just not worry about it, any of it, to just let yourself react like you would in any other interaction with anyone else, for once unconcerned with the machinations of whatever game he’s always playing.

“I was actually– ” you start, the words stumbling to a halt when you find yourself laughing again, and when they start back up they come spilling from you faster than your brain can comprehend, a precarious situation that results in far more honesty than you intended. “That was— it was kind of a compliment.”

“A compliment,” he repeats, the tone of his voice mocking and sly; his expression has shifted to one of those pointed and intentional looks, the corners of his mouth curled up, not a smile and not even really a nice thing at all, but the rush of warmth that floods your face in response is still immediate and abjectly fucking damning. “And here I thought you would sooner drop dead than ever entertain so much as a positive thought about me.”

Part of the flush in your cheeks, you reason, is probably the alcohol, another part the way it’s gotten warmer in the kitchen with the stovetop on, but there’s still some that’s just due to whatever thing that’s been simmering inside of you this whole time– the way it’s buzzing, right now, nervous and flighty and alive as you watch him move back towards you. He’s grabbed two more beers from the fridge, with his empty, and yours nearly there; the thought occurs to you to decline, in the interest of preserving whatever remains of your ability for clear-headed and rational thought, but–

You realize, with far less shame than you figure you should be feeling, you don’t actually want to preserve that at all.

“I don’t have to like someone to recognize they can have good qualities,” you say, flippant, more relaxed than you feel, “Everyone does. You’re still a human being, even if you do get on my nerves.”

Beck goes quiet and still for a second, takes a long, slow sip from his beer, and then fixes you with this look that’s so intense it’s unsettling. “So, what, you don’t like me, then?”

Something in your subconscious prickles at the question or maybe just at the fact that he’d even asked it; he doesn’t sound offended, or upset, or even like he cares much at all either way, which doesn’t surprise you. But you can’t figure out exactly why he would be asking, otherwise. You take another sip of your beer, finishing the bottle; wordlessly, Beck reaches across the table for the second one, and cracks the top open on the edge of the counter; you murmur a quiet thanks as he sets it beside you.

“I mean– you definitely don't like me, so I don’t see how that would be unexpected,” you say after a while, not really answering outright, unsure you would even be able to. Not knowing for certain what the answer even is, anymore.

Beck blinks, expressionless for a second, before he breaks out into another smile, this one markedly unkind, suspended somewhere between derision and incredulity. “Of course I like you,” he says, in a tone like he’s talking to a particularly stubborn or particularly stupid child, and if he were saying anything else right then maybe you would have remembered to be irritated at him for that. “You’re— god, sometimes you’re so obtuse. I mean, you’re smart as a whip, really, but you’re just– clueless.”

And–

None of that makes sense to you, and you get the feeling that the alcohol isn’t to blame, that even stone-cold sober you would still be left parsing this same inexplicable and fundamentally contradictory amalgam of facts and secondary emotions– one, he thinks you’re smart, really smart, even, and there’s a part of you that does something awful and pathetic like fucking preens at that, and two, he also apparently and simultaneously thinks you’re stupid, which isn’t that much of a surprise, and three, perhaps most confusing of them all–

“What the fuck do you mean, you— you like me?”

Beck exhales, this long-suffering sound as if you’ve proved his point by even asking, and says, “Really, just– it’s not complicated. Exactly what it sounds like.” He drains probably a quarter of his second beer, leans forwards on his elbows, and shrugs. “You said that I dislike you, and I’m saying that you’re wrong.”

“Okay, I don’t–” you tear your eyes from him, stare hard at your plate, pushing a browned piece of broccoli around the mostly-empty edges of it with the tines of your fork, certain you can feel the actual cogs inside of your head as they turn, uselessly, stuck in place and uncomprehending. “That doesn’t make any sense. You– I mean, you’ve basically had a vendetta against me since I was in undergrad.”

“No,” he says, that patient, vaguely annoyed quality still lingering in the word, and when you look up again his eyes are fixed on you, dark and unreadable, “I had an interest in you.”

“An interest in, what– bothering me?”

“Something like that.” The barest traces of humor infiltrate his otherwise still indecipherable expression. “You’re easily bothered, honey.”

“So, what, you—“ you stop to take another sip of your beer, head spinning, “You bother me on purpose, for years, and then you’re confused that I actually might not have liked you very much? At all, even?”

“I knew full well you didn’t like me. It didn't matter and it still doesn’t,” he says, with a level of disregard that you know, objectively, should concern you, “I’m not asking about then. I’m asking about now.”

Whatever your immediate response to that dries up as soon as you open your mouth, like your thoughts are flying by so quickly you can’t hold onto them long enough to figure out how to say them. You know, somewhere, deep down, that you should be angrier than you are about this. That you should be a lot of other things, too, things that are stronger and more important than anger– you should feel victimized, probably, violated , even, uncomfortable and uneasy and unsafe , knowing that he’d had some sort of fixation with you and with garnering your frustration for what amounts to numerous actual years. A subconscious part of you, though, might have already known a lot of that�� or at the very least suspected it– since the very beginning of whatever the fuck this whole thing has even become, and there was that to contend with, too. But right now he’s admitting to it, all of it, explicitly; the intentional provocation and the unabashed harassment and the fact that he hadn’t cared at all about your feelings or your opinions or anything you thought that whole time– because it didn’t matter to him, not when what you felt had no direct impact on his ability to get what he wanted from you. He’s admitting that, presumably, the reason he feels some approximation of care– no, not even, just interest, cold and objective and impersonal– regarding those things now is because now it actually can impact things. What you feel about him now could absolutely stop him from getting whatever it is that he wants from you– sex, presumably, though he clearly still enjoys getting under your skin, too-- because now you have no contractual obligation to even so much as exchange pleasantries with him anymore, much less be here, in his house. You could leave, easily, never see him again if that’s what you wanted, if you really disliked him that much.

He doesn’t want that, you realize, with a dawning understanding. He does not want you to dislike him, at least not enough to drive you away. Not now, because now– now it runs counter to his own interests.

“I don’t know,” you say finally, looking up at him and feeling unsteady just in doing it, not sure whether your instincts should be telling you to do now– because they aren't telling you to do anything more than what they’ve pretty much always done every time you’ve so much as seen him in the last four months. You still want him, the maddening and terrible way that you feel like you always do just at the sight of him alone, that desire simmering right under your skin, and maybe in the moment you could blame the one-and-a-half beers or the time or the circumstance, but none of that would really even be true. Your survival instincts, what little of them you even possess to begin with, have always, always been next to nonexistent when it comes to this.

Him.

Whatever.

God, none of this would be an issue if the sex was worse. If it was even just average. Or even–

“So you don’t, then,” he replies, and as soon as he speaks it’s like your awareness snaps to him, narrows and refines like adjusting a microscope, everything falling outside the edges of the lens drifting out of focus. Your thoughts; your ability to reason, too, probably. This was a terrible, terrible idea, you had thought that in the hallway in the biology building what feels like actual lifetimes ago, and you’d been right, then; you should not be here.

It’s alarming, the way that you can’t even seem to summon up the will to care.

“I said I don’t know.” That horrible iniquitous thing in your belly coils itself tighter, twisting in on itself like a snake, hollow and starving, like it wants to sink teeth into him, and would do it, too, if he were closer.

“Right. And maybe you don’t,” Beck replies, as if to say, I do , a hard gleam of satisfaction in his eyes that betrays the otherwise light, conversational cadence of his voice.

You don’t respond to that. In your belly, that heat pulses and burns brighter.

There’s a silence, then, drawn out and excruciatingly unbearable, and during it you drain the rest of your beer, maybe just to do something with your hands, relieve that nervous itch in your fingers. Maybe to chase the feeling of being somewhere beyond your own control– because that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Because– well, presumably because there is something fucking wrong with you.

“Thank you,” you say, after a long while, “For dinner.”

Whatever you see in his expression then; it seems like enjoyment. Like he’s pleased. And while you could almost understand all the rest of the things you’d just seen from him–

You don’t understand that.

“It’s late,” he says, with a casual nonchalance, taking your plate from you to the dishwasher and waving a dismissive hand at your protests, you being an adult who is perfectly capable of putting your own dishes away, and all.

When he turns back, you rise from the bar stool and meet him halfway, in the middle of the kitchen. Like this, you have to tip your head back to look at him, just a little, and whatever shameless thing inside of you that you try so hard to repress when you’re not tipsy and unthinking is way too into that, but seeing as you are both of those things at the moment, you don’t care. That feeling, the climbing, steady warmth; it just spreads further, sweeps through your limbs and fills every part of you, until you think it must overtake every cell in your body. Until it’s all you can think about.

He looks at you, for a second, and one of those slow, sharp smiles curves across his face. When he moves past you and towards the living room,he steps into your space to do it– on purpose, you know it’s on purpose, if there’s ever anything you’re absolutely sure about when it comes to him it’s that everything is always on fucking purpose– and you can’t stop any of the things that you know must happen; the way your body must go tense and strung taut with anticipation or how your breathing must catch somewhere in your throat or how your pupils must dilate, the breadth of your irises reduced to just a tiny sliver of color–

“Come on,” he says, without looking back, voice unbearably even. “I’ll put something on the TV.”

And–

That feeling inside of you– it pulses and trembles and wants, and then it doesn’t really matter what you do or don’t understand or what little sense you could ever make of his behavior or motivations, because–

You understand this, at least.

#ties that bind #quentin beck x reader #mysterio x reader #ohhh this was a fun scene. this dynamic is deeply enjoyable to write he's such a weird fucked up guy

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