#the reverse-flash is a bastard

[zemkzone]

When Lightning Hits Ice: Ch32 (on AO3)

FULL FIC LINK HERE

The hidden room was not what Barry had expected. It had white walls with dots in patterns that bore only a passing resemblance to braille, a shiny black floor, some kind of podium, and a display area on the wall that looked suspiciously like one he’d seen before. They’d found it halfway down the hall from the Cortex to the elevator, and all he’d needed to do was vibrate his palm over part of the wall to get the door to slide open.

The team had guessed that the Reverse-Flash could travel back in time, but now Barry was starting to suspect the yellow speedster could have come from the future.

“That’s my original design for the suit displays!” Cisco exclaimed, stepping around him. “There’re these energy generators on either side of it that we’d never have needed in the Cortex, but the case looks like it came right out of my blueprints!”

“You wanted to put the Flash and Captain Cold suits in a room where anyone and everyone who comes into STAR Labs could see them?” Hartley asked incredulously.

“They would have looked cool there!” Cisco protested.

“Guys, can we focus on the important thing here?” Barry snapped, stepping between them and pulling back his cowl. He frowned when the door slid closed behind them. “The display case is empty. Which means Not-Wells is running around in his suit. We need a way to find out where he went. Or where he hid Len. And Eddie.”

“I still think we should call him Unwells,” Cisco said, squatting and peering at the podium’s plinth. “At least until we can figure out his real name. And I really want to know how he managed to fit his suit into that ring. I was thinking compressed micro—or nano—tech.”

“Tacky as your naming conventions are,” Hartley huffed, joining him and brushing the smooth white metal top, “maybe we can take his ring apart when we catch him.”

Barry turned from the empty case to tell them to hurry up, but a spark of movement at the far end of the room sent him zipping forward to shield them. He whisked them away from the podium as a large, bald hologram head materialized in front of it.

“Would you like me to pull up the schematics of the latest modifications to the Reverse-Flash ring, Mister Rathaway?” the talking head asked in a polite, feminine voice. As she spoke, a 3D diagram of said ring appeared beside her.

“Whoa, it knows your name?” Cisco exclaimed as Hartley stepped around Barry to examine the diagram more closely.

“Of course, Mister Ramon. My facial and voice recognition software can identify you and Mister Rathaway in any decade,” the head said. “My name is Gideon. How else may I assist you?”

“Do you know where the other secret rooms are in this building?” Barry asked impatiently. But Gideon didn’t respond. He waved a hand in front of her face. “Hello? Hey!”

“Do you think it’s a glitch?” Cisco mused. “Since she’s from the future?”

“My programming is flawless,” the AI spoke up.“My creators were very meticulous.”

READ THE REST OF THE CHAPTER HERE

[nopes-and-dreams-and-nightmares]

Here take this.

[tacagen]

WHY IS NOBODY TALKING ABOUT HOW THIS SUCKER NOT ONLY GOT A NEW DESIGN BUT FUCKING DIED AGAIN EXACTLY 3 PAGES LATERRR

[notdeezy]

"A hairline means nothing to white people" I say to myself out loud while doodling Eobard

[qutibahalfarouqitheclonetrooper]

Magnificent Bastard in Dimension Crisis:

Eobard Thawne/Reverse-Flash/Professor Zoom,

[emin-folly]

Oh yeah~

💜: Which character is way hotter than everyone else seems to think?

I am going to have to say Eobard because christ alive the amount of people who say that he's ugly is insane.

He's been drawn ugly in the Silver Age a couple of times (mostly because of the ridiculous haircut), but beside that he's either ugly because the artist has Ugly Face Syndrome and draws everyone looking like roadkill, or he's VERY handsome.

Like yall. Hello.

He's hot!

ask game here

[call-me-strega]

Dc x Dp Prompt #20: Wishes of a Secret Romantic

Jason doesn’t really advertise it but he’s a romantic at heart. He craves having his own cliche romance with someone who will actually care about him. Sometimes he indulges in his fantasies by reading romance novels or setting up at-home dinner dates that he takes himself on. He often finds himself sighing and wishing he had someone to relate to, that would give him unconditional care and enjoy going on romantic dates with him.

~~~

Desiree doesn’t quite know how she ended up supervising this beautiful mess but she’s not complaining. If anything she has some sweet gossip to share at girls night and a story for Ghost Writer to obsess over.

~~~ It starts like this:

Ever since Frostbite had taken to teaching the young ghost boy lessons on the Realms Culture and Ghost Biology he’d made great strides in his diplomatic and medical skills. His fighting skills were already impressive but were refined under the tutelage of the warriors of Far Frozen. Personally, she thinks he is grooming the Boy to join the Council of Ancients which have taken a more active role in governance now that Pariah has been defeated for a second time.

The boy has been going around and creating treaties with his enemies in which he finds them another outlet for their obsessions. He has already worked out deals with the likes of Technus, Amorpho, and oddly enough a joint deal between Penelope Spectra and Walker.

Technus was allowed to indulge in his technological creation so long as he was supervised by the Pharoah boy or doing on of the preapproved tasks of mischief, such as causing mild inconvenience to the bastards in white.

He had set up Amorpho with a “Cosplay TikTok” on which he was able to show off his different forms and get recognition for them. He’d amassed a large following thespians and costume artists who greatly admired him.

Due to his position on the Council, the Boy managed to get Spectra and Walker to agree to take part in the new justice system the Council had been setting up. Walker could run his prison so long as he abided by the rules and scentence lengths set by the Council. And Spectra was free to torment those whom the council deemed the worthy of the worst punishments. Many ghosts had grievances against living and non-living menaces, last she heard, there was a whole list for Spectra to go down. Currently, she was in another universe tormenting a man named Eobard Thawne, who went by a ridiculous name called the Reverse Flash. Once she had her fill of torment, they would be taken to Walker’s prison.

The Ghostling continued to do this with many of his former adversaries until he came knocking at the door to her lair. She was well aware of what the GhostBoy would want, and was curious as to what he could offer her.

She granted him the grace of her presence and was charmed by his earnest nature. He genuinely wanted to know her story and obsessions so that he could find the best way to help her. She revealed to him it was not Desire as many people assumed but Fulfillment. She wanted to people to attain their desires in place of how she had been unable too. But there are consequences to wish granting so there’s only so much the Boy could do.

The ghostling had been unbelievable smug when he wished that her wishes wouldn’t have catastrophically negative outcomes. When she granted and skeptically tested this wish she found it had worked. The boy grew even more smug.

Of course balance had to be maintained so her power became not weaker per say, just more indirect. During their trial run, Desiree was granting the wish young boy had wished for a large cookie. Instead of instantly summoning a 50 foot tall cookie as she would have previously done, she simply caused his mother to have the desire to bake cookies and then had two of them fuse together in the oven creating one larger cookie.

A bit more round about than she prefers but it got the job done.

The two brokered a deal that would allow Desiree to travel into the mortal realm and grant the wishes she desired to, so long as the wouldn’t cause catastrophically negative outcomes in the future. Young Phantom had even gone as far as to direct her to the so-called Make-A-Wish foundation in which she could find many deserving children to fulfill the wishes of.

~~~

One night Desiree had been flying through the mortal realm to visit a friend, a city spirit she hadn’t seen in ages. As she flew over the city a strong sense of longing and desire resonated with her core. Where there was desire there was someone with a wish. Invisible, she flew down to the source of these feelings to investigate.

She ended up out side the window of a building that held longer traces of death and her friend’s magic. She peered through to see a young man putting the finishing touches on a lavish dinner. She observed as he created a beautiful meal with an air of melancholy before pouring himself a glass of wine and turning on his television to watch mediocre romantic comedies. Intrigued by this young man, Desiree decided to lurk and observe for a while, perhaps he would soon reveal the wish his heart yearned for?

-

Jason sighed into his Osso Bucco as another romantic comedy began to play. Man he really was bumming himself out wasn’t he. He shook his head and took a sip of his wine. He winced slightly as some cringey kids’ movie called How to Build A Better Boy appeared on screen. How had that even gotten in his queue? However, his laziness won out and he made no move to change it, resigning himself to a hour and a half or so of second-hand embarrassment and semi-decent acting.

As he watched the best friend girl make a virtual boyfriend based on her friend, the main girl’s, preferences and huffed to himself. Oh if only things could be that easy. He hummed to himself adding on his own thoughts to the teen girl’s rambling list.

“ If only, sister. I’d wish for a sensitive and sweet guy too. Someone who wouldn’t mind death jokes, or my odd hours. Someone who I could just relax and nerd out with. Someone who’d go on romantic dates with me so I wouldn’t have to sit here eating this nice dinner on my own. Yeah, I’d wish for my perfect guy too.”

Suddenly, a chill washed over Jason and his hair stood on edge. He whipped his head around in search for an intruder only to see nothing there. He scanned the apartment suspiciously before his eyes landed on an open window. He sighed, reassured it was just a draft and turned back to the movie.

~

Desiree was touched by the earnest desires of the young man who was touched by both death and her friend’s magic. It almost reminded her of her own desires for romance while she was still living. Perhaps she would stick around to see how this wish played out for the young man~?

~

Miles away, something sparked in Danny Fenton, helping him make his final decision on which of the colleges that accepted him he should attend.

[azrielwingspan]

RED SERPENT (Mob!Bucky x f!reader)

Chapter 2- Bastards and Pawns

Chapter 1

Summary: King and Queen of New York. The one who knows how to play the game, survives.

Warnings: Violence, mature content, sexual themes, foul language.

Disclaimer: I do not condone any of the actions written in this story.

"Came back at 3am and went to his office." the maid whispered as you cut into your omelette with a silver knife.

"Hmm....pour me a glass of orange juice, will you Betty?"

"Yes, Mrs. Barnes." Your thoughts rang through the silence as you chewed on your omelette, your hunger long gone.

"Oh...and Mr.Barnes hasn't had his breakfast yet." Betty whispered again, her urge to please beyond satisfaction.

Nodding in understanding, you quickly wiped your mouth with a napkin and stood up.

"Thankyou, Betty. You've done well...as always." Giving her a small smile, you grabbed the glass of orange juice and made a beeline towards Bucky's office, a plan forming in your head.

Something had happened last night. Something crucial. You'd stayed up most of the night trying to figure out what could have gone wrong. The security was on high alert and Bucky hadn't returned to the room at all.

Damping down the irritation rearing its head once again, you walked into his office. Sitting there, his lip busted open and stains of blood on his white shirt was your beloved husband.

"Good morning." Walking leisurely, you placed the glass of orange juice on the table. His eyes stalked your every movement as you took a second to scan him all over. He still had his jacket on, the first few buttons on his shirt unbuttoned giving a view of his blood smeared chest. Only James Bucky Buchanan Barnes could look sexy half beaten up.

"I hope the other guy is dead."

A smirk crawled onto Buckys face as he gave a slight nod.

"Good." You redirected your gaze to the documents spread across the table, taking a quick glance at the titles in bold. "When were you going to tell me?" you ask, voice deceptively calm and composed.

The only response from the man was a heavy sigh as he leaned back in his chair.

"I asked you a question, James." your sharp edged voice cut through the silence left behind by your husband.

"I know." his eyes had never left your face, a certain coldness in his gaze.

So this is how he was going to play. Bastard. Over the year, he had come to trust you with his business operations but it was never a hundred percent. Some days, like this, you could see the mistrust and the hesitancy in his eyes. To be fair, if the positions were reversed, you wouldn't have trusted him either. However, you had the innate need to know everything.

Every. Single. Thing.

As they say, knowledge is power.

Letting out a breath and loosening up the tension in your body, you walked around the desk to Bucky's side not breaking eye contact with him. Once you were in front of him, you gave him a small smile and sat down on his lap.

"James darling..my dear husband." Running a knuckle down his face you leaned closer to him, a pulse of satisfaction shooting through you as you saw his eyes darken. His hands were still placed upon the arm rests but you knew he was struggling to hold back. Good.

"I am your wife. Your partner. Your biggest ally." Running a thumb across his split lip, your gaze momentarily dropping and his hands slowly making their way to your hips, you dropped your voice to a whisper.

"So when someone tries to fuck with OUR business, I need to know." His hands gripped onto your hips as you pushed yourself down onto him, the growing tightness beneath his pants making you smug.

"Now tell me.." you continued. "Why did Tony Stark send a hitman after you ?"

His hands loosened immediately, surprise flashing across his features. It was your turn to watch him silently as the cogs in his brain worked. The lust filled haze had disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

"It doesn't involve you, Y/N." he said sternly. "It goes way back. Old rivalries."

"Hmm." Placing your hands on either side of his face, you made him meet your eyes. "Being a widow doesn't suit me, James. It's...detrimental to my image and capabilities."

Scoffing in amusement, he took his bottom lip between his teeth. You decided to stay silent and let him spill the beans soon.

One...

Two...

Three...

Four...

Five...

A deep breath and...BINGO.

"I blocked one of the more important deals of his life. He would have been unstoppable if it had gone through. But now...he'll never get the opportunity again."

"So you've been trying to kill each ever since?" you asked sarcastically.

Men and their stupid fragile egos.

Bucky held back a laugh as he said "No..I must admit this attack was quite out of the blue."

Your thoughts were going so fast that you barely keep up.

This changes things. This changes everything.

"Well...go take a shower. You need it." You got off of his lap abruptly only to be yanked back.

"Ja—"

“Now doll..I do admire your incessant need to know the ins and outs of my life but I do not appreciate your maid snooping around.” His hands slid down to your ass and grabbed it. “I think she’s done enough. Don’t you think?”

You tried your best to maintain a poker face. Of course he knew. He was the white wolf. He could sniff out bullshit from a mile away.

He must have been satisfied with the look in your eyes because he said “Good. I’ll see you at lunch.” And that was that.

Shooting a cold look at him, you left the room grabbing the glass of orange juice on the way.

The headlights of your car cut through the foggy night barely illuminating the surroundings.

He was late. Idiot.

This was such a delicate game. One wrong move and you could end up dead. That was the thrill of it. So as you waited in the car drumming your fingers against the steering wheel, adrenaline rushing through your veins, you went through the possible outcomes of your actions. All of them equally deadly. Perfect.

A break in the fog ahead of you cut through your thoughts.

Finally. 10 minutes late.

You got out of your car grabbing the envelope of cash with you. Heels clacked against the pavement as you reached one of your pawns.

"Took you long enough." you said sharply, handing over the envelope. "Twenty in cash. The rest in cheque."

A brisk nod followed by "It's always a pleasure doing business with you...Mrs.Barnes." The mocking tone used to address you did not escape your notice.

You smirked at him and his impudence. "I wish I could say the same."

That was that.

Getting back into your car, you watched as Alexander Pierce disappeared once again.

Chapter 3

[the1entirecircus]

Violent Apprentices

MEANWHILE in the bat cave, our heroes talk about their periling issues...

Flash (Barry Allen): ...and now he's back from the dead, and while he isn't killing as many people as before, he is still hurting people to extreme!

Batman: And did August have this level of violence before he became Godspeed?

Flash: No, August was like any other officer in the CCPD. Which is saying something, we have one of the nicer police forces in the country. (That's just a headcanon. Yes ACAB, but these bastards are nice)

Batman: The way you're describing him reminds me of one my old protege. Jason Todd.

Flash: The Red Hood?

Batman: Yes. Except, Jason learned the hard way of why he shouldn't kill. Although he did return to using guns.

Flash: Really? That's seems very...reductive.

Batman: Yeah, I was surprised too.

Flash: Heh, imagine if they met. Wouldn't that be terrific.

Batman: Don't make me laugh, Barry. It would be the end of the world if that happened.

Flash: Yeah it would...

*Meanwhile in a more crime-orientated area of Central City, danger was afoot as the Red Hood monitored Penguin and Captain Cold and The Rogues.*

Penguin: As you can see here, we have the latest equipment in subzero freezing based weaponry. Perfect for handling those pesky speedsters! Wank!

Captain Cold: How much for the freeze grenades?

Red Hood: Snart, they're free if you really wanted them.

*All weapon were aimed at the anti-hero, ready to fire.*

Penguin: RED HOOD?! You followed me all the way here!

Red Hood, with both of his guns brought out: Yeah, because you're not supposed to be here. Now pack things up, and waddle your ass back to Blackgate before I make.

Captain Cold: I don't think you're the one to talk here. Me, my buds and sis take on the Flash every day. A guy who looks like he came from Mortal Kombat and carries guns doesn't scare us.

Red Hood: Really? Well, I've fought Mr. Freeze before. You're just a watered down copy.

Captain Cold: Oh you are so...*a look of fear strikes Cold's face*...MIRROR MASTER NOW!

*Mirror Master rapidly fired his mirror gun at the equipment the Penguin had presented. Penguin squaked both from fury and surprise. He cursed at Captain Cold as he and the Rogues teleported away in a flash of light. But then came a brighter light. A white blinding light. Screams from Penguin's men followed as the light zoomed around the area. Red Hood reached for something in his utility belt but stopped when the white blur caught and picked up Penguin.*

Penguin: What are you??

*The man in the white and gold costume resembling the Flash's uniform pulled the crime lord closer.*

"I am Godspeed"

Red Hood: Put the crime lord down!

*Godspeed glared at Red Hood and the guns he pointed at him with. The masked vigilante tossed Penguin aside and approached the Gothamite. Red Hood pointed at Penguin.*

Red Hood: Go anywhere, and I will make you a legless bird, got it?

Godspeed: I can stop a pullet the second it leaves a gun, who do you think you are?

Red Hood: I'm Red Hood, I usually work in Gotham City.

Godspeed: Red Hood...the crime lord?

Red Hood: For a time, now I just do vigilante work against Gotham's elites. Basically what batman did before the crazies arrived.

*Red Hood walked over and cuffed Penguin.*

Red Hood: I'm starved, wanna grab some Big Belly Burger?

Godspeed: ...why not?

---

*our Anti-heroes munched and chewed on their burgers as they discussed their various adventures as masked vigilantes while sitting in a big belly burger.*

Red Hood: Are you sure you didn't hear of me? Because I had similar reasoning when I fought Batman. Although it was focused on just killing the Joker.

Godspeed: That was 100% my idea, I had no intentions of copying your actions. I also fully intended on killing everyone in the Flash's rogues gallery. But I did emphasize Reverse Flash because he killed Flash's mom. I honestly thought Flash would agree with me. I feel dumb for thinking that now, and for wanting to kill those people.

Red Hood: Mutual feelings, except I'll never feel bad for trying to kill Joker. That fucker has it coming.

Godspeed: How is he still alive? I know the Gotham justice system is bad, but I didn't think it was that terrible?

Red Hood: It is shit, but he just keeps coming back. Rumor has it, he's immortal. I don't believe it though. I think he was just a guy who wanted attention.

Godspeed: That makes more sense to me. He does seem like an attention whore. Reverse Flash is similar in my opinion. Except he specifically wants the attention from Flash. I mean he did kill my brother just to help motivate me into being Godspeed so that I would be enemies with the Flash.

Red Hood: He killed your brother? Joker killed my mom the same day he killed me! Well, he used a bomb, but still.

Godspeed: Joker killed you? Reverse Flash killed me!

Red Hood: That is so coincidentally strange!

Godspeed: I know!

"Oh you have got to be kidding me..."

*Both vigilantes look and see Barry Allen in his civilian clothing*

Red Hood: (Whispering) Is that...?

Godspeed: (whispers back) Yup. (speaks normally) What? Never seen two vigilantes eating at Big Belly Burger?

Red Hood: They do it all the time in Bat Burger over in Gotham.

Barry: ...I'm tired.

---

Flash: (while running through Central City) And so they're just talking about how similar they are. I think they're friends now.

Batman: (in the bat cave listening to the communication link) I'm not surprised, Red Hood was following a lead that Penguin was going to give new weapons to the Rogues.

Flash: Oh...wait what?!

[ftl-faster-than-life]

The Flash Age by Joshua Williamson

[zemkzone]

That’s your game, sparing me so I can die another day? Didn’t peg you for the altruistic type.

Leonard Snart to Eobard Thawne, When Lightning Hits Ice Chapter 31

[wxnheart]

𝐅*𝐜𝐤 𝐀𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐎𝐮𝐭, 𝐄𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐄𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Morgott - This is really the gist of your dynamic. You've fucked around so many times that Morgott was bound to snap. And snap he did. Time to find out, Tarnished. Next thing you know, you found yourself on the ground, looking up at the Omen's enraged face. And his angry, leaking dick. Oh. Oh. Need a little help there, Morgott? Guess he did, what with the way you're practically loving on it.

Mohg - You thought you were cute trying to fuck around but Mohg showed you he was cuter by making you find out. Too bad it comes with a side of orgasm denial and making you ride him ceaselessly as he reclines on his throne. Hah. Thought you did something there, didn't you?

Godrick - Fuck you, Godrick, okay? Just... fuck you. You don't know who's worse, you or him, but what you do know is that you tried him one too many times to the point that his multiple arms and hands practically rip your clothes off you and make you scream and beg for more. Bonus points for Godrick making you suck on two of his fingers to 'shut you up'. Not for long, you spineless bastard.

Godfrey - Um... lmao. Why would you even try him, love? He's a grappler at his core and you don't even try to wrestle yourself out of his grip. Your entire being goes slack when feel the telltale signs of his arousal press against you and by the Erdtree. No wonder Marika liked him so much...

Radahn - Well, you don't even finish fucking around before he has you suspended in the air, his tongue and fingers doing stuff to your body that you never thought possible. He told you he'd have you screaming his name. Don't know why you didn't believe him.

Radagon - He's soft-spoken as always. But there's an edge to his voice that makes you shudder, doubly so as he thrusts into you brutally. Ferally. The walls of your bedchamber reverberate with the sounds of his name. And all who has ears to hear knows Radagon has claimed his prize.

Varré - Varré is an ass so why not bother him? And so you do. And his response is to... not fuck you. Because that's what you weren't expecting. And so it turns into a game of cat-and-mouse and you're more than 1000% sure you two are going to hatefuck in the near near NEAR future.

Patches - In this scenario, it's the reverse. He fucks around because he wants to find out. He wants YOU to fuck HIM. He's glad you got the hint (finally) but did your epiphany have to happen while you're fucking him silly?

Godwyn - He's an adorable golden retriever that you never really took seriously until he fucking snapped. You didn't think the man was capable of fucking you senseless, did you? You were very pleased. And very satisfied. You also reveled in the love bites he blessed you with. And poor Godwyn is so flustered but you can't help but love the way his blush deepens when you flash him a lecherous grin. You'll have to do this often.

[nopes-and-dreams-and-nightmares]

vampire!Eobard as a gift to a friend

[tacagen]

look there is something So special in the way thawne smiles in his non-flash-centered arcs

[astxrwar]

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.

[yorutsuki]

「 ✦ Finale Showdown ✦ 」

↳ What if All-Might ran out of time during his battle against All for One? Well, guess you’re substituting. With your pent up anger for the man who tormented you, this could be considered payment for what he’s done, no?

Acheron!Reader

Tags:

──────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────

All-Might laid still against a broken wall, his breath rigged and unsteady, blood pouring from every wound

“I’m assuming you didn’t expect an outcome such as this.” “The symbol of peace, at the mercy of a villain.”

All for One tsked, a victorious yet nasty grin etching his scarred face from under his mask.

All-Might only coughed metallic red in response, his vocal cords damaged from the fight.

“Tomura, my child, you did well.” He spoke to the winds,

“Now that I’ve rid the only hope, my reign will shadow this world.”

AFO brought his hand up for the finishing blow, “I guess I’ve overestimated my project, created her for now, no use.”

All-Might weakly looked up just as the finishing blow came crashing down.

Smoke filled the area from the sudden impact. People behind the screens cried aloud, mourned, held their breaths with a sliver of hope.

It was only a few seconds though eternity seemed to pass as the smoke died down yet the only destruction present were the dents and broken concrete.

“I’m sorry, were you talking about me.”

AFO, hummed, the familiar voice—hushed yet loud, seemed to ring throughout the area.

“hell…is that..”

“what is she doing there..?”

“She’s going to get herself killed..!”

murmurs rose at the new challenger as the screen paneled in closer.

“My child.” his voice rung out as he turned to face his ‘predecessor’.

There stood a h/c haired girl, her expression void of any emotion but her stance stood menacingly. Her sheathed katana gripped beside her.

The girl wasted no time—a flashed beeline towards the man closed the distance between them quickly as she strikes instantly.

The man blocked the relentless attacks after attacks, slowly his left foot shifted behind him.

“How shameful, using every attack against the one who raised you.” He taunted, his voice lingering with fake disappointment.

“You didn’t raise shit, old bastard.” You hissed before multiple neon cracked-tendrils aimed and rushed towards you like a tidal wave yet they were blocked with ease.

the onlookers watched the scene unfold—the intense battle between a teenage girl and number one villain—your friends and classmates held a unbeknown breathe as their eyes trained on every move made, as any could lead to a devastating fall or new dawn.

they knew your strengths, hell, you were on par with Bakugo—possibly even a pro hero, but going against the number one villain? They were scared, terrified for what would and will happen to you.

As the battle progressed, you slowly reversed roles, having to go defense—blocking multiple attacks. Though luckily, through them, you caught a glimpse of a small orifice.

with a final block you swept around, and quickly raised your scabbard before hitting his side with immense power, causing him to shoot into a concrete wall.

“She did it!” the crowd cheered at the impact, though some were wary, waiting with trepidation. You were still on alert however, scanning the dust filled crash,

“I’ve trained you well.”

Your block was too slow as sudden pain erupted from your abdomen,

“…but not enough to beat me.”

A choked gasp left you as you felt every one of your limbs being pierced sharply before being tossed violently through concrete walls.

Your classmates screamed your name in horror unbeknownst to you, some sobbing into each others arms.

your teachers and other pro heroes could only stare speechless at the scene played before them.

“No more playing games, child.”

AFO floated towards your beaten and bloody body, but what he failed to notice were red and neon white buds blooming.

"Your skills and will are admirable though caused a pointless fight."

...bloom

"—I created everything you are today."

Another bloom.

"My skill and will are much stronger than yours."

Bloom

"I have no purpose to keep you alive, so, any final meaningful words you like to share?"

You take a sharp breathe as you shakily stand up with a slight wobble before regaining composure, letting out the breath.

AFO hovered the ground and watched in amusement, his eyes then setting onto the crimson flowers that bloomed onto your arm.

"You're right, you didn't create me to end you,

Your hair turned a silky white, your armor shedded, revealing crimson marks that cracked along your skin as you reached for the hilt of your katana.

You walked forward as time seemed to stop before bringing forth your scabbard, one end in each hand as you gazed down at it.

A crimson tear ran down your cheek—almost as if weeping.

The viewers watched in anticipating yet slow silence, confused, shocked, even hopeful.

You raised the your blade above you, feeling the energy surge and grow with it's barrier slowly being pulled away—your surroundings darkening in gray.

You glared at the monster before you.

you created me to end everything and all."

Pulling the katana from its sheath, with one quick motion a wave of dancing crimson—black and white energy was released, an invisible force of immense energy instantly following it, creating a dome.

Any and all structures collapsed at the force.

Meanwhile, the world around turned into one of nihility, gray waters endlessly surrounding only the two of you. The lit moon shone as echoes of small ripples danced in the air.

"What's this?"

Frustration was solemnly evident in his tone, and to you, a speck of fear.

Time slowed down for the man as you unleashed powerful waves of crimson energy, changing positions in a surrounding manner with meticulous slashes.

All for One tried to block and counter attack though the thick waves of pure energy easily broke through his tendrils.

His suit was torn in places, inflictions turned into bloody—bleeding gashes as he grunted in pain. Small remnants of energy danced acrossed his open wounds.

Hoisting yourself into the air, you raised your sword next to you, before landing just behind him, you sword still raised. A broken piece of metal fell beside you.

All for one took a sharp gasp in agony—though there was no physical damage, his torso felt as if it were being lit on fire, as if being slowly eaten away with specs of flame and electrocuting zaps.

Before the man could even move, blood splattered from his mouth.

You had given a final slash, not caring to look back as you inserted your katana back to its sheath. Closing your eyes, you heard the familiar song of shards echoing before the bass drop—a scream of agony following, filling the plain.

The gray world around you dissolved. The new scene before you laid only destruction and dust, the rain pouring down to quell it.

You turned to find the man on the ground, his wounds bleeding profusely. Fortunately for you, they weren't enough to kill him.

You grunted as you felt your injuries starting taking a toll on you.

Closing your eyes for a brief moment, you then looked towards the camera, aiming this towards a certain group of people.

"Dusk's rain...it too shall fall.

But now, it's your time."

.........................

A/N: Uhhh yippee?? My next post will probably be delayed for a few weeks possibly. Depending on what i'm feeling it will either be a continuation of Xiao's series or Hogwarts headcannons. :P