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of tunnel walls and bruised cheeks

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There isn't much time – but he doesn't need much, anyway. 

The charade has taken up most of his recent days, most of his mind – sometimes you think he thinks, breathes, eats, fucks revenge. It's hard not to. 

You watch him now, costume glittering and shimmering gold in the dull light of whatever dank ruins the team has set up shop in. His eyes are completely and utterly focused on the masterpiece before him, the cinematic excellence being crafted before his very eyes. His vision, brought to life in a whirl of metal and coding and magic. 

And it's never good enough. You see it in the clenching of his fists, the little twitch of his right eyebrow, how he shuts his eyes for a calming ten seconds before reopening them. It's been hours and hours of practicing this combat sequence, making sure the pillars exploded with just enough drama to drive the reporters and media insane. All the while, his other costume is being pressed and polished halfway across Venice, and that is perhaps the only thing he's satisfied with today. 

"Alright, that's enough," he snaps, waving a hand sharply upwards. "Cut – cut–

The giant, billowing creature of ash and ember disappears in a glitch of green, revealing a small army of those little drones everyone here was so proud of. 

Quentin groans loudly, running a hand over his face. "What – what is that?" 

It's silent for a few seconds. You look over at the rest of the crew who had been lounging around with drinks and talking amongst themselves. Even they look nervous, and you have a suspicion that it has something to do with the handy-dandy new glasses tucked away in his pocket. Or, rather, one of many pockets. 

Quentin taps his foot impatiently, inhaling deeply. He looks up to the tall podium where Riva has set up his station, screens upon screens set out in a U shape around him. William Riva has every bit of the cliché cartoon villain down – the monitors and the revenge plan and the damp, dark catacombs – so it's quite amusing to see how scared he actually is in comparison to his trope. The balding man is wide-eyed and confused, looking between Quentin and the advisory director beside him. 

"Um," he calls, coughing. "W-what is what?" 

"That fucking sequence , Riva!" Beck yells, fists clenching at his sides. He takes a few steps forward and you see Riva visibly shrink away from him, like if he slouched his back enough the ground would swallow him whole. "I need it to be perfect – what are you not understanding about that? Perfect, Riva, not half-done – that – that is not perfect!" 

Riva licks his dry, cracking lips, gulping. "W-what would you like us to change then, boss?" 

And Quentin freezes. He truly can't comprehend how the others can't see the faults and mistakes – how they can't see that their vision is corrupted and imperfect. 

You can practically see the tension gathering on his shoulders, like he's Atlas and he has to hold up the weight of the world – and for a second, you're convinced he's finally going to do it. He's going to take the EDITH glasses from his pocket and order a mini drone strike on Riva because his show hasn't been manufactured the way he envisioned it. The room waits with bated breath. 

Instead, his eyes flicker over to you. 

(And it's instinctive, the way you automatically straighten up. You like having his attention. Sometimes you think you need it – the way you need air and water and food. Like you'll crumple if he doesn't pay you any mind.)

Quentin inhales deeply, fingers against the bridge of his nose. Then, he snaps to attention. He's already storming towards you when he calls out from behind gritted teeth: "5 minute break."

You're well past yelping when he grabs your wrist and tugs you up. You're too used to being manhandled by him to react to it anymore – and you also know well enough to not ask him where you're going as he leads you out of the main area and into one of many tunnels that broke off from it. Relieved chatter follows you out. 

It's dark and gloomy, water dripping through permeable rock and down from the rounded ceilings. He strides through the maze like he was born in it, like he knows every twist and turn and dead end. He's still angry, that much is obvious from the tight grip on your wrist and the hard offset of his jaw. He's pissed. You know what he needs. 

(There isn't much time – but he doesn't need much, anyway.) 

Your back stings in the most delicious way when he pushes you against the nearest wall. It's wet and dirty and most definitely not the place you want to be fucked right now – your mind flies to the California King bed back home, how he had spent hours beneath the sheets with you before he had set out to seek retribution–

"Look at me," he growls, gripping your chin in his hand – hard . His chest is heaving, shoulders shuddering with every angry pant and huff he takes… And he's warned you to be patient before, but it's been forever since he's kissed you and he's this close–

Seems like he's been missing you too. He surges forward and it's a clashing of teeth and lips and his hands in your hair and down your back and everywhere. It hurts but it's what you want, what you need and crave, and you know he aches for it just as deeply as you do. He's not restrained in his satisfied grunts and groans, doesn't care that anyone could potentially walk down this tunnel and stumble upon you fucking like rabbits. 

He's got too many buttons and buckles and ribbons on his costume. One of many downsides, but you suppose you don't mind too much when he tugs your shirt upwards and the skin of your stomach comes into contact with high quality cotton and silk. 

You feel like you're burning up from the inside out. So many feelings and temperatures and textures rubbing against you – cold air, hard, wet stone, the softness of fabric and the heat of his skin against yours. The brush of his stubble scratching against your cheek as he kisses you sloppily. 

Before you can fully comprehend it, you're being spun around. A hand on the back of your head grasps your hair and presses your cheek into the cold brick – and fuck , it's painful, but there's something about it that makes your cheeks heat up and your pussy clench around nothing. You know there'll be patterns imprinted into your skin when he's done with you. 

(You shiver. You want to be marked.)

"Like this," he murmurs gruffly, one hand rendered clumsy in his lust as he attempts to pull down your trousers. "I'm gonna have you like this, honey."

(You outright whimper .)

He snarls angrily suddenly, the hand on the back of your head leaving to fight with the waistline of your bottoms – you don't dare move your head, though. 

"Just – fucking–" There's an awfully loud tearing sound that echoes ominously throughout the tunnel and a sudden veil of cold that descends on your bottom – and then he's laughing darkly, the way he does when he's too caught up in this and that and drones and emerald smoke, and his fingers are pressing against your slit roughly. "There we go."

You're panting against the wall like some pathetic, wriggling mess, nails scraping against stone as tugs your panties to the side and rubs the length of your pussy – slit to clit, and with absolutely no hint of gentleness or care. 

No, you could almost cry from the careless, rough way that he handles you – pain, pleasure, pleasure, pain. It's all one and the same in this moment, lines blurred as his fury travels through his fingers and into your flesh. You don't care. It all ends in one thing, anyway. 

There's a rustle of clothing from behind you. He's muttering under his breath, angry little snippets and comments that only serve to rile him up more. Maybe that's what he wants – to be consumed by senseless rage. It sure as hell would help him stop caring about whether the fire elemental hit column A or column B–

You feel a brush of hot, hard skin against you, and your mouth waters like you're one of Pavlov's fucking dogs. He's really got you wrapped around his little finger – and as much as you pretend to hate it, you can't. You like being underneath him. You like being pressed against the wall like a toy so he could have his way with you. Did that make you stupid or messed up or both? 

"I was gonna warm you up for me," he murmurs, and you hiss as his nails dig into the flesh of your ass. Such a stark contrast to the cool, collected fury with which he speaks. "But I think you can manage just fine." 

You feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against your slit. A while ago you would've balked at the idea of taking him without having gotten very wet – but it only took a few months of fooling around with Quentin Beck to realise that there was some things you really, truly liked. Pain was one of them. 

There's the tiniest bit of wetness in your pussy that allows him to slide in – and he does so with a relieved groan and a hearty huff, pushing inside you until his hips are snug with your ass. It stings, burns in a dull sort of way that makes you squeeze around him. God, you really could stay like this forever. 

But a 5 minute break is a 5 minute break, and an angry Quentin Beck has no patience in him. 

Immediately he begins to snap his hips back and forth, grunting in your ear as he essentially fucks his anger out. Each thrust shoves you farther up the wall, scraping your skin and bruising your stomach. You can feel your scalp aching from the tight grip he has on it, your cheek becoming numb – and, more powerful still, you can feel that building in your abdomen. Rising and rising, tightening and tightening, growing more intense with every dirty word growled into your ear and every fingernail dug into your skin. 

You wish you could see him. Wish you could turn around and see him in the throes of pleasure, brow furrowed and mouth agape. Eyes practically glowing with anger and frustration. You squeeze around him at the thought, eyes fluttering shut with a whine that makes him chuckle breathlessly. 

"You like this," he pants. It's not a question. "Getting fucked – up against – a dirty wall, huh? Like a fucking whore."

And you can't deny it. Anyone with two eyes could see that you're very clearly enjoying yourself. All you can do is give another helpless moan and push yourself back on his cock – somewhere in the back of your mind you're reminded that you're not alone in these catacombs… Would the sound of slapping skin and grunting carry very far? 

How long could you last like this? You're becoming weak at the knees, and your arms aren't doing much better on the support front. You can feel your pussy clenching desperately, chasing that sweet release that you knew you could have if you truly wanted it – but you know that in this mood he won't care about overstimulating you. He'll fuck you until you're a sobbing mess and that's not what you need if you have to go back and sit for another few hours–

You gasp, floundering as a hand comes up and grasps you by the throat, pulling you unceremoniously until you were only relying on him to keep you upright – his other hand binding your wrists together behind your back. 

"I can feel you squeezing me," he grunts, lips spreading in a smile. His nose nudges you just under your ear, and you shiver despite yourself. "I know you wanna cum, princess. You have my permission."

God . God above, you know you have his permission, but you don't want to, not yet–

The hand on your throat tightens, and in a flash the hand restraining your own is jammed down the front of your pants, pressing and rubbing frantically at your clit. 

"I don't think you understood me," he says breathlessly, voice dangerously low. "That was a fucking order ."

The rough pads of his fingers swipe once more over the sensitive bundle of nerves, and you're gone – your eyes flash white (or black, maybe, you're not sure), and your legs go weak like jelly. You're shaking and shuddering and those sweet, sweet contractions are drawing noises from you that you didn't know you could make. 

"God–"

He's more wound up than you thought he was – because not even a minute later he curses, digging his nails so deeply into your hips that you're sure he breaks skin. Hips bucking and abs tensing, he spills into you with all the vigor of a man possessed. 

You lean your head against the wall, breathing heavily. You feel like you've just run a marathon. You may as well have – you've probably lost more weight in the past fifteen minutes than you have in the past year. 

Quentin bows his head to the back of your neck, breath warm and erratic as he comes down from his high. His anger seems to have mellowed out, because he's running his hands up and down your wounded hips gently, like he's trying to mend the little abrasions he's made there. 

"You took it so well, princess," he says after a moment, kissing the back of your neck. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," you croak – whimpering in discomfort when he steps away from you, cock slipping out easier than it had slipped in. "God, everywhere hurts."

He hums as you turn to face him. "I'll bet."

When he kisses you then, it's soft and sweet, full of praise and thanks. He cups your red, raw cheeks between his hands, pecking your lips, nose, forehead, lips, nose–

"Thank you, princess," he says again. "I really needed that."

You pull back to give him a toothy, dazed smile, still high with endorphins.

He really shouldn't look as put together as he does – apart from the slight flush on his cheeks and his significantly better mood, nobody would be able to tell that he just railed you against a dirty wall. You, on the other hand… 

"My trousers!" You exclaim. "I'm a mess – how am I supposed to–" 

"You go home," he says, kissing you again. He unclips his cape from around his shoulders and places it on yours. It flows all the way to the ground, successfully preserving your modesty – though you don't think it matters much after you essentially lost it when you decided to fuck while on the job. "Go home, clean up, run a bath, okay?" 

You know by home he means the hotel room booked under your name just a few minutes away by car – not the California King bed back in New York. You hadn't even considered leaving early. 

"You sure?" 

He hums in affirmation, watching you fondly. "I'm sure. Take one of the cars, okay? You look like you're gonna collapse, princess."

"That's your fault, Beck," you say. You begin to make an attempt to fix your hair and adjust your clothes so it doesn't look like you just had the best fuck of your life. 

"Yeah, I know it is." And he draws you in for one last kiss, thumb smoothing over your waist affectionately. "Now get going, kid."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm off."

He watches you disappear around the corner, grinning when he sees how your legs tremble and shake with each step you take. Then, he takes a breath, face darkening. 

Time to go deal with the idiots.