#ulsicsor

Peter  is  spread  out  on  the  couch,  a  chemistry  book  open  on  his  chest  and  dark  shadows  hanging  under  his  eyes.  When  the  door  opens,  he  stretches  slightly,  head  rolling  off  to  the  side,  lips  quirking  up  in  a  smile  when  he  catches  sight  of  Harry.      ❝  Hey,  if  I  fake  being  sick  to  get  outta  this  test,  you  can  cover  for  me,  yeah?    ❞

@ulsicsor​   |   continued from x

"quentin beck" was the most obnoxious man harry ever had the displeasure of dealing with. he was as brazen as any self-assured "a-type" with an ego the size of planet earth who always felt like his opinions demanded to be known as life-changing articles of declaration in which his "ingenious" schemes were the deciding factor of any long-standing war. however, it should be stressed that such kind of blatant disregard for anything else is what made him dangerous, and he needed dangerous, needed it like blood on his teeth.

that didn't mean he was going to let beck get away with everything, though. now and again, a sharp jab in the gut of his stupid conceit usually did the trick in snapping him out of whatever boldness he was displaying in the moment. increasingly, he had this ... habit(?) of pushing boundaries, trying to lure out different reactions from the younger. a daring game, frankly, for harry was anything but predictable these days, where his rage was as sudden as a whip. so when beck leans over the pristine desk — all smug — it begs the question as to whether beck was purposefully taunting fate, or proving a point that the green goblin wouldn't so easily get rid of his star player. that's the thing, though. it's not about getting rid of anything.

it's right then he grabs the elder's face, fingers pressing — yet not digging — into bearded cheeks and pulling inward to meet halfway, but only just half way, the kind that left about less than a percent of space between them to skirt the line of "exactly" half. the kind of half that agonizes. the hold becomes incredibly firm, hand a vice-grip and elbow locked, preventing beck from forwards or backwards — trapped where harry wants him to be.

" you think it's that easy, huh? that you can just take what you want? don't get caught up in your own illusions ... —" and in his most private cadence, between the sliver of space between, beck's true name slides out as a hidden dagger.

after forcing it to hang there for a brief moment, he lets go, and falls back into his seat.

when beck’s face is suddenly clutched between hands capable of snapping his neck with the slightest of force  —  a fact he’s all too aware of . . .    there’s a fleeting, frightening moment in which beck feels the closest to death he has in a while.   he’s pulled forward against his will, his own hands finding purchase atop the desk to keep himself steady on the tips of his fingers.   it’s scarce he finds himself at someone else’s mercy, yet here he is.   eyes of the green goblin boring into his own.   metaphorically blood-stained hands trapping him in a vice.   his real name is breathed into the air by the other like a reminder of how short this leash could be.

beck is certain harry could see the flash of fear in his eyes.

and it’s the realization that harry might be aware of this effect he has on beck that solidifies the elder’s resolve to RETALIATE.   long ago he promised himself he would never feel humiliated by another again.   and fear is humiliating.   there’s no denying how intimidating harry osborn can be, how powerful, how deadly.   but beck wants to be the same.   he wants others at his mercy, not the other way around.   there’s leverage at his disposal, too.   there’s a reason harry has only barked, never bitten.

when harry falls back into his seat, beck remains where he is, still leaning a good ways across the desk.   he doesn’t give harry long to breathe.   his own hand reaches out, quick as a viper strike, snatching harry’s tie just below the expertly tied knot, and he tugs once, aiming to yank harry a few inches back his way.

‘seems like a real banquet of horrors here, huh?’  ———  ( @ulsicsor​ )

BECK CAN’T HELP BUT GRIN  at harry’s comment, for that’s exactly the description he was aiming for when creating the fright night illusions that, in a sense, “guard” his shabby little theatre.   the projection light within the drone at beck’s side gently flickers off, ending the demonstration he’d just given of his  ( self-proclaimed remarkable )  talents.

normally beck doesn’t allow anyone to enter here, let alone see his carefully guarded work, but an encrypted message from an unknown sender he’d received earlier that week had piqued his interest greatly.   somehow, this person had not only discovered who the man behind mysterio was, but also WHERE he was, and on top of that, had contacted him with the potential for an offer.

imagine beck’s surprise when an osborn walked through his doors.   though he’s not deeply invested in the field of biological science, anyone with even a passing interest in revolutionary research knows the work of norman osborn.   and here is his son, just as prestigious, but seemingly with his own agenda.

that’s the confidence he likes, the kind only harry can bring to these operations.   he’s the one who helps beck feel invincible.   untouchable.   mysterio and the goblin—  THE MAGICIAN AND THE MONSTER.   what an odd pair they make, yet what they accomplish together seems no short of wonders.

horrific wonders, of course.

the plan had gone catastrophically wrong in almost every way.

and with as much as beck prides himself on taking every single precaution and preparing himself for every possibility  ( a man of endless contingencies through and through ) ,  this was beyond unacceptable.   the operation had been a solo endeavor  —  mysterio took on the web-slinging city savior on his own once again.   and it had ended with much of beck’s newly developed technology left in shambles, easily overcome by the spider, and beck himself had only barely escaped with humiliating insults still ringing in his ears.

after disposing of everything beyond salvage and dressing himself back in civvies, a rage that made him tremble and an embarrassment that left him hot beneath the collar brought him to a manhattan dive bar that evening, where he drank himself into a stupor.   a reckless decision he normally wouldn’t partake in but sounded like a pretty damn good option after what he’d just been through mere hours ago.   he downed glass after glass, until a text from harry prompted him for an update on how the battle had gone.   the sinister six leader liked to keep tabs on what his members were up to.   rather than text back or even ring him, beck decided to drop in on harry in person.

cue beck very angrily and very drunkenly ranting at harry in the middle of his oscorp office about just how wrong everything had gone for him.   not the smartest thing he’s ever done, and surely he’ll regret it later... in fact, he’s beginning to regret it NOW, and beck finds himself heading unsteadily back out into the hall, where he’s trying to remember exactly which way the elevator is in this damn place.

[  ❝  come  back ,  beck,  you  little  ass !  ❞  ———  @ulsicsor​  ]

his jaw strains painfully with how tightly his teeth are grit, and his vision swims.