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It’s April, the school year finishes in three weeks, and Professor Quentin Beck has already covered the core content for his Intro to Neurorobotics class for the semester. He finally has the freedom to lecture on his own personal research, he’s almost made it to vacation, and he can now start to teach on subjects he actually has some interest in, not showing college sophomores how to teach a computer to play tic-tac-toe.
This year has tried his patience, but he was in a pleasant mood today.
Quentin flicks to his slide on artificial neurons, and his students’ stunned silence makes it clear the subject matter is flying completely over their heads.
He pauses at the sound of the door slamming shut behind him, and turns to see Peter Parker take a seat. He squeezes past students in the second row to get between his roommate Ned Leeds, who just about scraped a C this year despite tutoring from his friend, and Michelle Jones, who Quentin still has no idea why she is taking this class, being a Fine Art major. Quentin checks; Parker is thirty two minutes late. He takes a moment to watch him take out a notepad and pen agonisingly slow, then resumes his class, his good mood already beginning to sour.
Quentin presses the button on the remote to change the slide. He finally reached the part of his lecture focused on AR neural link engineering, the research that had earned him tenure. He notices a few students visibly deflate as he began to speak, but Parker sits up with his hand raised, right on cue.
“Yes, Mr. Parker?”
“Do the projectors act autonomously, or are they static?”
Quentin glares at him. His holograms had been covered at the start of the class.
“They act autonomously to an extent, but they mostly revolve around pre-programmed sequences. But you would have known this had you been punctual today.”
This keeps him quiet for all of ten minutes before his hand shot up again. He didn’t wait for Quentin to call on him before he spoke.
“Why would you link the tech to the hippocampus instead of the prefrontal cortex? Then you wouldn’t be held back by the limit of your own memories.” Quentin would be reluctant to admit it, but Parker did remind him of himself when he was younger.
“Because that isn’t the aim of my research," Quentin says, probably more stern than needed.
“That’s stupid.” Leeds elbows him in the side, eyes wide with panic, then Peter tacks on a belated, “Sir.”
Quentin moves on before he loses his temper. He doesn’t get far before Parker raises his hand again.
He pretends to glance at his watch, then says, “At the risk of eating into everyone’s lunch hour, mine included, no more questions, please.” Parker’s mouth snaps closed. “Mr. Parker, if you wish to discuss this further, please see me during my office hours.”
Quentin gathers his laptop and notes and heads back to his office after class, leaving the auditorium before most of his students. He slumps back in his desk chair and massages his temples. The Parker kid had been giving him grief since the start of the semester. He didn’t know what he did to deserve such a petulant brat in his lectures.
He shuts the blinds, puts on a pot of coffee, and sits back down to work, but there is almost no point; Quentin’s thoughts are too distracted thinking about what he’d like to do to put Parker in his place. Teaching wasn’t what he wanted to do with his life. He came to this job for the use of some of the best robotics facilities in the country and for the very generous funding he received for his own research, not to babysit overgrown children. Parker made his life harder than it had to be.
It was already dark before the school day was over, and within a few hours Quentin’s office was dim, only lit by a single desk light. After an unproductive day, he planned on leaving early, picking up a bottle of single malt and spending his Friday night in his home lab. Quentin groans when he hears soft knocking at his door, and barks, “Come in.”
“Mr. Beck?”
Peter Parker stands just on the edge of his doorway; there really was no rest for the wicked. But to his relief, Peter didn’t actually look ready to continue debating him, he actually looked a little guilty.
“I wanted to ask you, if you have the time, to check over my answers to this weeks’ assignment.”
“Your answer sheet might as well be the rubric, Parker, pull the other one.” His patience had already ran dry. Peter Parker was incredibly bright, and he might have actually enjoyed teaching him if he didn’t spend every waking moment seemingly vying for some validation.
“No, really, sir, I’m struggling with the content this semester.”
Quentin resists the urge to roll his eyes. The kid is a terrible liar.
“Sure, and the sky is green.”
Quentin pretends to get back his work and tapped away on his PC, acting like he was doing some coding or something more worthwhile of his time. Parker craves his attention for some reason, and he doesn’t plan on giving him what he wants.
“Okay, okay, I wanted to come and see you, to apologise for before. I shouldn’t have argued back like that.” Peter smooths his hair back out of his face.
Quentin’s eyebrows arch, but he keeps focused on his computer screen.
“So you’re admitting you were wrong then? And you don’t actually know more than your professor who wrote his thesis on neural pathways and artificial intelligence? Gee, what a surprise.”
“Well, not exactly. If you modified the AI so that it functioned as more than just a glorified VR, it could have so many more applications. Just imagine it used for infrastructure, or teaching, or art. It’s genius, but like, it could be so much better. If you linked it to the-“
Quentin has heard the exact same criticisms from Stark, his head of department, as he did the kid. It made him seethe with rage.
“That was rhetorical. Even if you were right, which I’m not saying you are,” Quentin cut him off. “My boss is selling it on, anyway. Some guy from the feds’ office came and bought the rights to it last week. Any more of my research you feel like shitting on today?” Quentin was losing patience for Parker’s incessant pestering, and his head was banging.
“Well, for a start-”
“You’ve got a mouth on you, Parker. It might get you in trouble some day.”
Peter lets out a nervous laugh, but at least has the decency to avert his gaze.
“I know. Sir. I was actually hoping you might… um.” Peter trails off, finally closing the door behind him and perching on the edge of Quentin’s desk. He really hopes this isn’t a heart-to-heart. He doesn’t think that's in his employment contract.
“I’ve never heard you lost for words, spit it out. Unless it’s to ask for an extension on tonight’s deadline, because you already know the answer.”
Peter’s cheeks turn red and he looks down at the floor.
“Could you teach me... How to… behave better?”
A sick part of Quentin was delighted. He didn’t anticipate the little brat coming to see the error of his ways until at least his junior year, so this was the last thing he might have expected him to come out with. He was a sophomore, and not the most mature, but he was better academically than a majority, if not all of his peers which gave him a cocksure kind of confidence. The kind that led him to try and correct his teachers in front of three hundred other students.
Well, not all of his teachers. As far as Quentin heard, he was a model student in his econ, statistics, and organic chem classes. He’d heard other professors talk about him like his ass was a newly discovered light source, and it sounded like even Stark fancied him his little protege. It felt like it was just Quentin he acted up for.
“Why should I?” Quentin treads lightly. He was entering dangerous ground.
“Because I like you, sir, and I look up to you. But…” Peter audibly gulps. “I can’t stop myself thinking inappropriate things and acting like a child when I’m around you, because I’m pissed you don’t like me too.”
Quentin couldn’t say he didn't notice how the kid always hung behind to discuss something from his lessons, regardless that he normally took up most of the session asking questions and interjecting anyway. He emailed him over the most trivial of matters, came at least once a week to his office for help when he was more than capable himself, and sometimes he looked at him like he was speaking a language only the two of them understood.
“Well,” Quentin begins, taking a moment to choose his words. The ball is in his court. Parker has no idea that he has been thinking about him too, long after class was over. Or that he acted like an asshole to him every time he showed up to his office because of how much it irritated him. “You can start by showing me just how sorry you are.” Peter’s eyes light up, and his mouth opens slightly in surprise. His lips are pink like he’s been chewing on them. “Get on your knees.”
To his utter surprise, Peter obeys without a word. His knees hit the varnished wooden floor with a dull thud, and then Peter looks up at him with wide brown eyes.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Beck.”
“For what, exactly?” Quentin asks, feigning boredom.
“For… um, talking back to you in class. For turning up late, and for being disruptive.”
“Anything else?” Quentin picks at his fingernails, barely even looking at him.
“I’m sorry that I had to improve on your research,” Peter says with a slight grin threatening to break at the corner of his mouth.
“You’re a little shit, you know-”
“You should teach me some manners, sir,” Peter interrupts.
“Don’t presume to tell me what I should do,” Quentin says in his finest teacher voice, standing up to loom over Peter and show him the full extent of his authority. “You’re going to put that smart mouth to use.” Quentin reaches to unbutton his slacks and steps towards the boy kneeling by his desk. At the boy’s hesitation, like he isn’t sure if this is a joke, Quentin says, “Go on.” Peter puts up no fight. He reaches out for Quentin’s zipper, hastily shoves down his pants and his boxers to above his knees, then takes his cock into his shaking hands.
Peter leans forward, closes his eyes, and presses the flat of his tongue against the head of Quentin’s dick. Quentin bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from groaning out loud. He has his student on the floor of his office with his prick in his mouth. The thought makes his cock throb to full hardness in his mouth, and he closes his eyes.
This wasn’t the worst thing he had ever done as an employee of this university, but it wasn’t far off.
Getting bolder, Peter sucks on him harder and strokes his hand down the length of him. He’s good at this. Quentin imagines he’s not the first professor Peter had tried his little act with. Maybe Stark had a go first.
“You want to learn manners do you? You need to learn to follow simple instructions, Parker. Take it in all the way, I know you can.”
To his credit, Peter slides his mouth down the length of his cock and takes him in all at once. The head hits the back of his throat, and Quentin can’t stop himself from tangling his fingers into his brown curls and pushing in just a little bit further, enough to make him gag. Peter pulls back with tears in his eyes and saliva around his mouth. He already looks a state.
Unphased, Peter places his lips back around his dick again and swirls his tongue this time as he slides down. He looks up at him as he sucks him off faster, like he needs Quentin to tell him he’s doing a good job. Quentin makes him gag again then yanks him off by his hair, getting close already.
“If I fucked you, would it help drive this lesson home?”
“Yes, oh god, please.”
“Please, what?” Quentin chastises, despite how much Parker’s desperation sends arousal jolting to the pit of his stomach.
“Please, sir.”
“Bend over my desk then, take off your jeans, and wait.”
Quentin sits back in his chair and watches Peter as he nearly trips over himself in his haste. He has the patience of a gnat. His jeans and belt hit the floor with a thud and he steps out of them and sprawls on his front on the desk.
Barely a minute passes before Peter is squirming with his ass up in the air. Another and Quentin has to slap his hand away from his own cock.
“Please, Mr. Beck.”
“If you don’t lie there and be silent I will walk out and leave you here. Hands out in front of you.”
Quentin was never really a believer in a higher power, but he was starting to believe in divine retribution. Peter was getting what had been coming to him for nearly an entire year of backchat and showing off and raising his hand every other minute disrupting his lectures. He lets him lie there for a few more minutes and leans back, admiring the curve of his skinny ass and the tight muscles of his thighs. Peter’s breath comes in harsh and fast, and his fingers cling onto the edge of the desk like his life depends on it. He could let him stew all day; Quentin wasn’t the forgiving type.
When Quentin finally stands and reaches out to touch him, Peter lets out a hard breath through his mouth. He runs his fingers around Peter’s neck and down his back, making the fine hairs on his body stand on end. Realising his student is completely at his mercy, he starts digging in harder into his flesh, gripping onto slim hips and kneading at his ass.
Quentin reaches around and pushes Peter’s sweater up, and Peter takes the hint and pulls it off the rest of the way. He runs his hand over the ridges of his stomach and Peter shudders at the touch and keens up towards him, wanting more. He spits in his hand and rubs it into him, circling his asshole with his thumb then pressing it in. Peter bites down on his own arm to try and hide a squeak. Quentin spits again into his palm and rubs it into his cock, pushes the kid’s face back flat into the hardwood, then pushes inside him.
Peter takes him in greedily, and when he’s all the way inside he even tries to push himself back further, like he wasn’t sated and needed even more of him. He groans when Quentin pulls all the way out then slams back in again, so Quentin shoves his fingers into his wet, open mouth to shut him up.
“You little slut,” Quentin says when Peter sucks on them and licks between them with his tongue.
When Peter tries rutting against the top of his desk, Quentin pulls him up so his back is flush with Quentin’s chest, taking away any touch to his cock. His body is small pressed up against his and he barely weighs anything; he could overpower him easily if he wanted to. Quentin fucks him faster just imagining it.
Peter whines pathetically, and Quentin thinks it’s a sound he could happily listen to all day. He fucks him slower, taking his time to pull out completely and let him think for a second he might stop and leave him here.
He’s already embarrassingly close to coming, but he can’t bring himself to care when Peter is so tight around him and mewling at every stutter of his hips. He can’t bring himself to care that the school day is barely over, his boss could be in the next room down, and he has a college sophomore spread out like a whore in front of him.
Quentin pulls out and Peter gasps.
“Come here,” Quentin demands, drunk on power. Peter scrambles up on shaky arms and turns to face him. “Open your mouth.”
Peter does as he’s told, and Quentin jerks himself off into his open, waiting mouth. Peter laps it up willingly, licking remnants from around his lips and licking at the tip of his cock to take all of it. He stands up looking at Quentin expectantly, like he’s just turned in an exam paper he’s particularly pleased with, and not that he just let Quentin come on his face.
He only waits a moment, then Peter starts to step back into his jeans and Quentin just stands there, still in the fuzzy, fucked-out bliss before he tumbles into deep, dark, regret. He notices Peter tucking his hard-on into his jeans then zip himself up, wincing with discomfort.
“You want me to, uh,” Quentin says belatedly, still catching his breath.
“I’m good, sir,” Peter beams, his cheeks flushed and smooth chest gleaming with sweat, looking every bit nineteen, and, oh there’s the simmering regret he anticipated. “I don’t think I’ll be able to make the deadline tonight, I’ve been pretty busy,” he says with a smirk. “Can I swing by your office Monday to turn it in?”
Quentin mustn’t have a self-preserving bone in his body, because he says, “You know the rules, there’s a 10% grade penalty per day.” Peter’s smirk drops. “I’m here grading all day tomorrow though. If you turn it in by then, I might be willing to let it slide.”
“Great! Well, uh, it’s a date, I mean...” Peter stammers, his cheeks flushing red again.
“Get out before I change my mind.”
“Okay, cool! See you tomorrow. Sir.”