Mysterio Fucker

“Let me go, Beck,” Y/N growled, pulling at her restraints. Her hands were pinned above her and her ankles pinned to the wall with magnetized cuffs, holding her against the cold steel. 

“You know, I don’t think I will,” Beck responded. He stood in front of her with his arms crossed, watching her with a smug smirk. “I’ve waited years for this.”

“What do you want?” She glared at him, cursing herself for being so naive, of course he had tricked her again. He walked up to her, his chest barely brushing against hers.

“I think you know,” he responded, resting a hand on her hip. 

“What? Beck, stop playing with me,” she responded angrily. She sank further into the wall to attempt to evade his grasp, but it only served to make him tighten it.

Suddenly, he leaned in and smashed his lips against hers.

Y/N jolted in shock and tried to pull away, but his hand wrapping tightly around her throat stopped her. 

“Even better than I imagined,” he moaned as he pulled away with eyes hooded in bliss. 

“W-what the hell are you doing?” Y/N demanded. Little puzzle pieces in her mind began to connect; the tight grip and intense look he gave her when they first met; the accidental brush of skin on skin as he passed her; the intimate way he had trailed his hand along her back as they talked on the roof and in the bar…

“You’re a little young for me, no thanks to the blip,” Beck laughed, “But I suppose that doesn’t really matter anymore.” He smiled and began to rub his thumb in circles on the side of her neck, not removing his hand from her throat but loosening his grip. 

“I’ve fantasized about fucking you for so long, and now I finally have you.”

“You’re crazy,” she cried, eyes darting around the room, looking for an escape. “Beck, stop, you don’t want to do this!”

“Oh, but honey, I do,” he replied. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small knife, holding it up to the light as if inspecting its sharpness. 

“Beck— Quentin, stop—“

“Shh. Hold still or I might cut you,” he murmured, before bringing the knife point to rest on her shoulder. Y/N held her breath nervously as he trailed the blade along the black fabric of her suit, expecting pain to blossom at any moment…

But instead of cutting her, he made a tiny slit in the neckline of her shirt. 

“Don’t worry, baby. I won’t hurt you yet.” He ripped her shirt straight down the middle, exposing her black bra and battered torso, making her flinch.

“No!” She screamed. He trailed a hand slowly from her left hip, up her side, stopping to cup her breast gently.

“Beautiful,” Beck whispered, and then stabbed something sharp into her arm. 

“Ah! W-what was that?” She demanded. He held a now-empty syringe in his hand. 

“Just a little something to take care of your strength. It’s not permanent though, don’t worry.”

No sooner had he said it than Y/N felt the change; her super strength was fading. 

“Beck— please, just stop—“ The cuffs pinning her to the wall suddenly fell away and she nearly collapsed, catching herself at the very last second. 

Beck suddenly slammed his body into hers, holding her hips tightly and locking their lips. She attempted to struggle, but her strength was nearly gone, and Beck chuckled against her lips. 

“You’re so cute when you’re weak,” he said. He towered over her in a way she had never noticed and Y/N had never felt quite this small before.

The road to Y/N’s recovery was going to be a long one, and they were barely even starting. In fact, they hadn’t even left the gas station to start the journey, literally.

It had been two weeks since Y/N had been found, beaten and battered, locked in a cell in Hydra’s last remaining secret base. Two weeks since he had fallen to his knees and picked up her limp body, shaking with rage. 

The gas pump clicked, snapping Quentin out of his memory, so he removed the nozzle and closed the gas cap. He glanced over at Y/N as he got in the car. She was in the same state she’d been in all day; blank, staring longingly out the window. 

Quentin bit his lip in worry and started the ignition, startling Y/N out of her catatonic state. She quickly composed herself when she realized where she was, and let out a soft sigh.

“You okay?” Quentin asked softly. He reached over and pressed his palm to the top of her hand, a gesture that used to comfort her, and mentally sighed in relief when it seemed to work. She hesitantly smiled, the act pulling at the stitches across her cheekbone.

“I’m fine,” she said, hesitantly intertwining their fingers, like she was afraid they’d get tangled. No you’re not. The faded rope burn around her wrists was hardly noticeable anymore, but Quentin couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever made her feel trapped.