cloverlilies

[cloverlilies]

𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐢𝐱𝐢𝐧𝐠

You and Clark discover that a new relationship comes with some sexual novelties (and he loves you a lot for all of them). fem, 2k

cw dorky messy sex, slight rough/overwhelm, slight fem ejaculation, pet names

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

Sex with Clark is still new enough to wish he’d turn the lights off. Laying between your thighs, Clark pulls at the waistband of your panties almost unthinkingly, a big hand spread over your stomach drawing heat, his face properly angled so as to have you setting the pace —you can’t escape his gaze. You could shake with nerves beneath him. You probably are a bit trembly, needy the longer he touches without touching, nudging at his nose to try and force the lead. 

Clark sighs a kiss into your mouth, teeth clicking your own before he’s murmuring apologies against your neck. He kisses warm into the skin beneath your ear, says, “Up, up,” in the shell of it.

You acquiesce, lifting your hips. 

Clark gets his fingers into your panties and pulls them down. Makes a little punched out breath when he sees your cunt nestled into that soft apex of your thighs, far worse than the way he’d smiled when he’d stripped you out of your shirt between kisses and found your bralette. Purely for his benefit, silky and light pink. He doesn’t seem to realise his pink bias; he goes half-insane when presented with softer colours. He’s the same with lavender. 

“Fuck, oh, fuck,” he mumbles, slipping your panties off of an ankle. His hands are strong, grabbing at your thighs to nudge them apart, spreading you open and vulnerable in the middle of the bed like it isn’t your entire cunt on display. 

You pull your thighs together some and sigh when he coos. 

“Sooo pretty,” he says, nudging your legs apart again, unworried. He shouldn’t be worried. The last time you’d been like this, he’d pulled your legs over his shoulders and made you cum so hard you cried. He acts like you’re too pretty to waste. “Hey, you’re…” 

You squirm as his thumb glances up your cunt, wet petal folds slick to the touch. 

“Please, Clark.”

He doesn’t mind that you can’t bring yourself to talk beyond a whisper. “What do you want?” he asks, already climbing onto his knees to pull down his boxers. 

You squirm again as he unveils his cock, weepy head red and rigid where he grasps at it with his hand. He’s so rough with himself it startles you, that tugging grasp and the subsequent squeeze of his own fist. 

“Fuck me, please.”

“With enthusiasm?” he asks, and there’s his gentleness cropping through. 

“Please, please.” You grab at his chest, tug at his hips. “Do you want me to– I can suck you off–”

He goes pink as a proper gentleman, leaning down to kiss you again. “Maybe later,” he says into your mouth. 

Things are slick and easy for a bit. Clark touches kindly, easing his cock into you like he’s worried you can’t take it, like you don’t take it, murmuring little praises to you with just a hint of smugness under the surface. He loves watching your eyes flutter, listens closely for every shaky breath. You beg for him to change the angle, mumbling, “Ah, that’s– that way– that– yep, yeah, yes,” and he dedicates himself to finding the worst too-much part of you to fuck against as he drapes himself over your whole body. He lets his weight rest on you as he finds your mouth. It’s a heartache of a kiss with his tongue skirting wet against yours, his hand drifting under your thigh to fix you into place. 

It feels amazing until it’s too close. Clark sets a slow pace but you ask him to go deeper, deadset on hearing him whimper, so he climbs off of you and pulls the backs of your thighs over the broad fronts of his own. His rutting falters as you lift your hips to meet it, clenching your cunt around him —he groans, pained, and takes your back into his hands, fingers spreading under your weight, if he feels any weight at all. “Fuck, just like that. Squeeze my cock, honey. There you go, fuck–”

He sounds like he could cry. Your hand creeps to your clit, finding it sensitive and aching through wetness. 

“You wanna cum?” he asks. You love how he asks, no play on salaciousness, but pure loving guarantee. If you say yeah, he’s gonna get you there, and quickly. 

“No, no, draw it out–”

“Sure, honey.” 

You spread your thighs over his and he gets the hint to come down and kiss you again. Which turns to you mumbling, “Harder,” into his mouth, which turns to you keening on every exhale as he listens. He doesn’t have to get rough for it to feel–

It doesn’t hurt, but it doesn’t feel exactly as it usually does. You’re so wet and pliant that he’s fucking into little resistance, and he’s so big that it’s shocking a pleased moan from you every time he bottoms out. 

“Ah– ah, wait,” you say, startled. 

“Real?” he asks. Does he genuinely have to wait?

Clark is used to you getting overwhelmed, your hand shoved between two bodies when the last thing you actually want is for him to stop, so he slows down and he asks. 

“Feels weird–”

“Bad weird?”

“No, no, just– touch me?” 

You don’t cum, but something happens as he ruts into you, then, heat like you’ve cum under your own touching. He pulls out and a wet trickle follows.

You gasp in half-pleasure and squirm up away from his cock as Clark shoves his shirt under your ass. 

“Oh, fuck,” he mumbles. 

“I’m sorry!” You have the sense to know he doesn’t care even as your body flushes top to toe, “Fuck, I didn’t mean to–”

“Can I keep going?” he asks. 

“What if I–”

“I don’t mind, are you still close?” 

You nod hazily as he slips his cock back into you. The noise is palpable now. Soaked as he starts a slow grind. 

“Clark,” you whisper, not sure what you want from him. 

“I know. Let me touch you.”

“You liked it.”

He grins down at you, both your eyes still open as he takes a kiss. “Yep,” he says into your teeth. 

You wrap him in a hug and submit to your fate: if Clark keeps fucking you like this you’re gonna cum, but you’re probably gonna make a worse mess, too, and you try to warn him, can’t think of the word, whining in a panic that isn’t truly panic as he fucks into your soft spot. It doesn’t hurt, Clark never does, but it yanks all the air out of you and leaves you desperate for something, but you don’t wanna cum, catching his hand where it falls to your cunt to stop him from pushing you over the edge too soon. 

“Okay?” he asks. 

“Yeah.”

You sound teary and pleased. 

“Yeah? Come on, honey, you can finish,” he says, like you’re hurting and he’s gonna fix it. 

You sit up on your elbows before you can sweat to death, meeting Clark for a slower kiss. He slows his pace to match. His cock butts up inside you and stays a shade too deep. “Don’t worry about the mess,” he mumbles, thumb flicking without thinking over the bud of one of your nipples. 

“Ah–”

He dips down to kiss it. Pulls it into his mouth and licks wetly in a circle. His spit strings from his lip. 

You wipe it off. 

“You’re gonna have to–” You shake your head. “Need it fast. And–”

“I know what to do,” he says, wrapping a lithe arm behind you. “I can do it, sweet girl, just– you stay right here,” he says, pushing your face into his neck. “Got you.”

He does need to get rough to get you there. You’re surprised he doesn’t cramp up or flag, then remember what you’re thinking and end up sniffling into his skin with a laugh. Clark gets all breathless and you know he’s gonna cum if you’re not ready. You cling to his upper arms and let him smack against you, shuffling you ever so slightly up the bed, thump-thump and pleasure and the coil curling tighter and the ache when you can’t get there.

“Fuck,” Clark says, moaning like he knows the sound makes you dizzy behind the eyes, “oh, fuck,” —he hardly ever swears like this when he’s not buried to the hilt in your cunt, wet in his pubes and sticky on your thighs— “there you are, that’s my girl, that’s–”

He shudders but doesn’t cum, his hand slipping suddenly between your bodies to touch you again. Three finger-pads to your clit to rub admittedly clumsy circles with enough vigour to lock your hips up, and then he fucks you like a whip snap and your climax finally hits. 

You press your face so hard into his shoulder a normal man would likely bruise, breathless and gasping as he moans your name and cums between little clenches of your cunt, like he tripped into it. Didn’t mean to finish. 

“Did I pee everywhere?” you ask, giggly and shame-faced as he rubs your chest. 

“Nah. You’re just wet.” 

“Promise?” 

He pulls his cock from you to give it a few wince-inducing tugs, stripping the wet and cum from it in a white mess that collects in the curve between his thumb and pointer finger. He wipes it on the shirt under your ass and thighs. “Fucked you too hard in the wrong place.” 

“It felt nice.”

“It did,” he says, pulling your legs down flat to rub at the tops of them. “You’re so beautiful.” 

“Thank you.”

He bends over you for a kiss. “So beautiful.” 

“Can we go again?” 

He nods into the kiss, turning his head to give you a softer one from the opposite angle. “Yeah, just– give me a minute. I think you took everything I had.” 

You rub his shoulders in that quick up and down he seems to love, watching him relax with the pressure. 

“Handsome,” you say under your breath. “Hey, you sound good. I love you.” 

Clark could take a bite out of you, you think, when he looks at you like that, but he’s the last man on earth who’d ever dig his teeth in for more than a hickey. “Don’t start that,” he says, grinning, palming at his cock. He’s half hard already. 

“Love you,” you say. 

His cock twitches. 

He doesn’t seem to notice what you noticed, just takes a deep breath as he wipes precum from the tip of his cock and rubs it down his length. 

“I love you, too,” he says. “What do you wanna do, honey? Wanna be on top?” 

“If you fuck up into me.” 

“Well, yeah,” he says, his voice weak and needy and pleased, “you can just sit in my lap, take it, okay? But let’s make sure I didn’t hurt you first.” 

You laugh as he crawls back and drops onto his elbows. “Clark, you don’t have to.” 

“She’s hurting, look,” he mumbles, a little shy and a lot teasing, “let me kiss it better.” 

He’s the biggest, sweetest dork they ever made. 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

[cloverlilies]

pairing: satoru gojo x f!reader

content: inspired by this tweet, fluff, pregnancy, father-to-be satoru, soft!satoru agenda.

he’s been checking the clock every hour.

every hour.

because for the last nine months, ever since the second ultrasound revealed she was on the way—ever since he looked at the estimated due date and saw how close it fell to his, satoru gojo has been praying to every star in the sky that his daughter would be born on december seventh.

his birthday. his favorite day. the day the universe decided it couldn’t live without him.

“imagine,” he told you back in september, spooning behind you with his hands on your belly, “two chaotic, brilliant, beautiful gojos born on the same day? that’s either a blessing or a threat to national security.”

you had rolled your eyes then. but you knew somewhere under the joke, the grin, the loudness—it meant something real to him. satoru doesn’t have a lot of family left. but he has you. and her. and if she came into the world on the same day he did, maybe it would feel like some cosmic promise. like he wasn’t alone in it anymore.

so yeah, he’s been checking the clock.

even when you’re asleep, even when you’re groaning and shifting your weight between the couch cushions and the yoga ball and back again, even when you’ve had exactly two grapes and cried because you “miss chewing,” satoru is still glancing at the glowing red digits on the microwave like they hold divine answers.

“she’s not even late,” you mutter one afternoon, ankles swollen, hair a mess, his hoodie stretching over your belly. “she’s just not early.”

he pouts from across the living room floor, where he’s been fiddling with a onesie that says daddy’s girl on it. the letters are glittery. the fabric is lilac. it was a gag gift from shoko, but he folded it like it was woven from gold thread.

“she’s being difficult on purpose,” he says, face scrunched. “she gets that from you.”

you throw a sock at him. he dodges, grinning, and it hits the wall with a sad, damp thwump.

“you’re the one who told her december seventh is the most important day in the world,” you say, resting your chin on your palm. “what if she’s just doing it to spite you?”

“she would,” he says dramatically, falling back against the carpet. “she’s my daughter after all. born with taste. born with flair. born… on literally any day but mine.”

you don’t answer, you just sigh and close your eyes. you’re too busy trying to get comfortable on the couch again, which is basically like trying to fold a balloon animal into a filing cabinet.

he watches you for a moment, then softens.

“i just think it’d be cute,” he says eventually, quieter. “if we shared something like that.”

you open one eye.

he’s sprawled on the floor, hair a mess, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. one hand rests on his chest, the other still clutches the onesie. for once, he looks small. almost young.

and she’s not even here yet, but he already loves her like she is.

…

december 6th, 11:58 p.m.

the house is dark except for the hallway nightlight and the low blue glow from the stove clock. your hand tightens around his wrist where he’s been rubbing slow circles into your hip.

you’re sweating. you’ve been contracting all day, irregularly. not enough for the hospital. just enough to make you want to scream. or sob. or both.

“baby,” he whispers, leaning close to your ear. “you’ve got two minutes. think you can push her out real quick?”

“satoru—” your voice is a dangerous mix of cracked and crazed.

he grins. “okay, okay. just asking.”

he leans down and kisses the swell of your belly, forehead pressing into the curve of it.

“still love you even if you don’t make it,” he murmurs, pretending to address your daughter, though his thumb is still smoothing sweat off your cheek.

..

december 7th, 12:41 a.m.

your water breaks. violently.

satoru is thrilled.

“she’s trying, baby. she’s really trying. i mean, forty minutes in? she’s a gojo through and through.”

“satoru if you don’t grab the fucking hospital bag right now—”

“yes ma’am!”

…

december 8th, 12:01 a.m.

“she missed it,” he says softly, voice hoarse.

your daughter is asleep in your arms, her tiny body curled like a comma, all warmth and wrinkled cotton. satoru is crouched beside the hospital bed, long legs folded awkwardly, one hand resting gently on your thigh, and the other hand cradles the soft weight of her foot, no bigger than his palm, wrapped in a sock so small it looks like it belongs to a doll.

“she missed it by a minute,” he murmurs again, but there’s no resentment in it. just wonder.

you nod, eyes barely open, body a ruin of aches and relief. sleep weighs heavy behind your eyes, but you’re still holding her like the most precious thing you've ever touched. your fingers stroke absently along her back, skin against cotton, memorizing every inch.

“she’s stubborn,” he says, watching her chest rise and fall.

“mmhm.”

“and dramatic.”

you hum, lips parting in a slow, tired smile as he leans forward and presses a kiss to your temple, soft and still. his nose brushes your hairline. you feel him breathe in.

his hand leaves your thigh and finds your shoulder, warm and grounding before continuing. “but i’m still gonna tell everyone she was my birthday gift,” he murmurs. “even if she showed up late.”

you turn your head and find his eyes glassy in the dark. he’s staring at her like he already knows her. like he’s been waiting forever.

“she’s perfect,” he adds, just above a whisper.

you tilt your head into him. you feel the dampness at the corner of his eye before he blinks it away.

“happy birthday satoru,” you murmur.

he lets out a shaky little laugh and kisses your temple again. “best one yet.”

[cloverlilies]

part i — “a fracture between stars”

from the series: in the quiet of your storm

in a forgotten corner of the dreaming, a ripple shatters the stillness. something is wrong—something even dream cannot fix. lucienne urges him to seek the one being who once walked beside him: the goddess of equilibrium. dream resists, but when she arrives unbidden, drawn by the same disturbance, he cannot deny the gravity of her presence—or the rage that still coils between them.

they work together, coldly, formally. the tension is unbearable. old memories creep in. bitter words are exchanged. nothing is forgiven yet.

cw: past emotional betrayal, cosmic imbalance, emotional repression

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the dreaming was unquiet.

not loud. not chaotic. not stormed with monsters or shattered glass. it was… off. like a string on a harp that had been tuned too tightly, straining for a note it could no longer hold.

lucienne stood at the far end of the great library, her gloved hand resting gently on a ladder that hadn’t moved in decades. she wasn’t looking at the books. not this time. they whispered, yes, as they always did—sighing with forgotten endings, with half-finished dreams, with echoes of voices that never woke up. but tonight… they whimpered.

the tomes shivered in their bindings.

the shelves ached.

something ancient was unraveling. she could feel it in the marrow of her spine.

“you should go to him,” the gryphon rasped from the rafters, his golden eyes reflecting starlight even in the shadowed high ceilings.

lucienne gave a small, humorless smile. “he already knows.”

he stood in the garden of weeping stone trees.

dream of the endless. lord of stories. the onyx sentinel of every sleeping soul.

his cloak dragged like ink across the frostbitten ground, each step silent, measured, heavy with some thought he would never speak aloud. his hands were folded behind his back. his posture carved from pride and iron. but his eyes…

his eyes had not moved from the sky.

not even when lucienne appeared behind him.

“there’s been another shift,” she said quietly, not wanting to break the hush around him too violently. “three more realms crumbled before the morning bells rang. the oldest paths are fraying at the seams.”

his voice, when it came, was slow and hoarse as ancient wind: “i felt it.”

he finally blinked, eyes lowering. the stars above him refused to twinkle. the sky had become too still. dream turned slowly, the heavy tension of his presence folding over lucienne like mist off a black lake.

“as though something older than even us is… faltering.”

lucienne adjusted her glasses. “there’s only one being who understands this kind of balance.”

silence.

then, pointedly: “her.”

his expression did not change.

but the dreaming shivered.

“no,” he said, cool and final.

“the cosmos doesn’t care if it’s difficult,” lucienne replied. “she was born of equilibrium. she is balance, personified. you once trusted her with your realm.”

he did not answer. not with words.

his shadow stretched long and sharp behind him, slicing the garden into unnatural geometry. the air trembled. his hands tightened slightly at his back.

lucienne took a small breath. “we cannot keep the dreaming intact if all else collapses. if she appears—”

“she will not,” he cut in.

but even as the words left him, the dreaming shifted beneath his feet.

the trees stilled. the air held its breath. somewhere in the distance, a child’s dream flickered out before it could bloom.

she was here.

you stepped through the fabric of the dreaming as though it were silk torn from the night sky itself. one moment, nothing. the next, gravity hummed differently. colors deepened. the very weight of the place changed.

you weren’t a goddess of light. nor darkness. not war or love. you were something much quieter, much more dangerous.

you were balance.

and the realms had cried out for you.

your realm had already begun to decay—fractures forming in the seams of reality, dreamers bleeding into waking life, the veil between existing and ceasing-to-be pulled thin and gasping. too many gods had died lately. too many laws unmade. too many stories left untold.

and always, the pull had drawn you here. to him.

to morpheus.

you found him in the garden, just as you’d hoped and feared.

he turned toward you with a slowness that should’ve burned the world to cinders. for a long, heavy moment, neither of you spoke. the silence was not empty. it was dense. ancient. sacred.

you remembered how he had once looked at you, like the only truth worth speaking aloud.

now he looked at you like a memory he’d tried to drown.

and failed.

“still brooding, i see,” you said at last, your tone a silk-gloved blade.

his jaw ticked. “you are not welcome in the dreaming.”

“i didn’t come for welcome,” you said, stepping closer. “i came because the realms are bleeding. yours and mine.”

he was taller than you remembered. not in body, perhaps, but in presence. the grief had deepened him. carved the angles of his face into something more brutal, more brittle. and his eyes… they were galaxies rimmed in frost.

“this realm is not yours,” he said again.

you offered a quiet, tired smile. “no. but neither is the fracture that’s ripping through it. and yet… here we both are.”

he said nothing.

you saw the pain he tried to hide behind the silence. saw the wall he’d rebuilt stone by stone. once, you’d lived behind that wall. once, he had let you in. and once… you’d left.

you’d had to.

if you had stayed, you would have destroyed both your realms.

but gods were never good at forgiveness.

lucienne found you both beneath the crystal canopy of twilight, locked in stillness. she cleared her throat gently.

“quarters have been prepared,” she told you with a polite nod.

“thank you,” you said, without looking away from him.

her gaze shifted to dream. “you’ll work together, my lord?”

his lips barely moved. “she will not disrupt the dreaming.”

you gave a low, soft laugh. “don’t worry, dream. i only disrupt what’s already broken.”

his eyes darkened. you felt the press of storms in your blood.

lucienne blinked. “very well. i’ll… leave you to it.”

your quarters were too still.

nothing moved inside them. no flicker of candlelight. no humming walls. only silence and cool stone and books with blank spines. you sat on the edge of the long, obsidian bed and stared at the floor.

your skin itched with magic. with memory.

you hadn’t seen him in centuries. hadn’t heard his voice outside your dreams. you’d imagined this reunion so many times, had played it out with fury, with grief, with longing. and yet now, the only thing you felt was ache.

not sorrow.

just ache.

that slow, tight coil of something unfinished.

he didn’t sleep. not that night.

dream stood in the throne room, unmoving, a statue in a sea of myth. the palace was quiet around him. even the walls held their breath.

his thoughts tangled like vines:

her voice.

her presence.

her leaving.

he remembered the moment she vanished from his realm all those years ago, no war, no goodbye. only a decision. she had chosen her realm. her people. her purpose. and not him.

and yet…

he had never stopped dreaming of her.

in another wing of the dreaming, you stood at your balcony, the wind teasing at your hair. the stars above shimmered—dimmed—and pulsed again.

you closed your eyes and tried to pretend he hadn’t looked at you like that.

tried to pretend your heart didn’t still beat in time with his name.

in the dreaming, two immortals slept without sleeping.

two gods burned without flame.

and the threads of the cosmos twisted tighter.

waiting.

eekkk im so excited to be writing this fic!! i hope it turns out well and that it's enjoyable. thank yewww for reading!

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[cloverlilies]

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[cloverlilies]

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ fated to feel you ft. enjin

a request fulfilled by emi ♡ it’s your first time with enjin — you’re nervous, flustered, but ready. and he takes care of you like you’re everything. | smut; first time sex (fem! reader) ◞ unprotected vaginal sex ◞ fingering ◞ creampie ◞ nipple play ◞ tummy bulge ◞ overstimulation ◞ proofread? prolly not ◞ minors do not interact

You weren’t sure when it started — the tremble in your fingers whenever the touched you, even causally. A hand nod your shoulder. A grin tossed over it. A nickname said too close to your ear. Enjin had always been warmth to you, but lately it felt like fire.

He never rushed you.

He never pushed.

That made it worse somehow, the way he waited. The way he looked at you like you were someone worth waiting for. Like the sight of your flustered face and bitten lip was sweeter than anything he could touch.

Tonight, though, something was different.

Maybe it was the way the night fell — soft and violet through the windows of the dim room you shared after long missions. Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the way Enjin leaned against the wall, watching you with that half-lidded stare, a crooked smile barely playing at his mouth.

He knew.

You had told him; fumbling and flushed, words nearly swallowed out of embarrassment.

“It’s my first time.”

He hadn’t teased. Hadn’t laughed. He’d simply tilted his head, all gentle understanding.

“I’m honored,” he said.

Now, standing beside the bed with your fingers nervously twisting the hem of your oversized shirt (that was actually his), you could hardly meet his gaze.

“Hey.” His voice came soft. Low. “You okay, sweetheart?”

You nodded, just barely.

He pushed off the wall, walked to you slow — all calm energy and quiet gravity. The kind of presence that could stop storms.

His hands found your waist gently, thumbs brushing over your hips. “You sure you wanna do this?”

Your heart thudded. But still, you nodded again.

Enjin smiled.

“You can say no at any point. You know that, right?”

“I know,” you whispered.

“Good.” He leaned in, brushing his lips over your temple. “Now let me make you feel good.”

He kissed you with that same steady calm — not tentative, but not greedy either. Like he already knew he had you and didn’t need to prove a thing.

His lips tasted faintly of cigarettes and the remnants of some soda, and he kissed you until your knees wobbled and your breath came out in little whines you couldn’t hide.

“You always make those cute sounds?” he teased against your lips.

“I—shut up—”

“No way,” he said with a soft laugh. “I’m collecting every single one.”

He kissed down your jawline, hands sliding up beneath your shirt, palms hot and callused against your skin. He pushed the fabric higher, slowly, eyes roaming over your bare chest like he was memorizing a sacred map.

“Fuck,” he whispered, “You’re so beautiful.”

You turned your head, cheeks burning. “Enjin..”

He dipped his head, tongue flicking over your nipple, and you yelped.

He grinned. “Sensitive?”

You covered your face.

“Oh, you are fun,” he purred.

He sucked your nipple into his mouth, warm and slow, one hand fondling the other breast while his knee slid between your thighs. You were trembling already, squirming against him without realizing it, your hips rocking into nothing.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “Grind on me. Just like that.”

“En-Enjin—!”

His fingers slid down, brushing your panties. You gasped when he felt how wet you already were.

He looked up, eyes glowing with something wicked.

“Shit,” he murmured. “You’re soaked, baby. All this for me?”

You buried your face in his shoulder.

He kissed your cheek, hand rubbing gentle circles over the damp fabric. “It’s okay to want it,” he whispered. “It’s okay to be needy.”

You whined.

“Open up for me, sweet girl.”

You did — slowly, legs parting with shy obedience.

With slow movement, Enjin pulled your panties down and dropped them to the floor.

He stroked your folds, slow and soft, teasing your clit with lazy circles. You gasped, legs shaking, hands grasping at his shoulders.

“So sensitive,” he praised, kissing your collarbone. “My pretty girl’s gonna fall apart from just my fingers huh?”

“F-Feels weird…”

“It’s supposed to,” he murmured. “It’s supposed to feel good. You’re doing perfect.”

One finger slipped inside you, and you cried out — startled at the stretch.

“Breathe,” he soothed, holding you close. “I got you.”

He kissed your neck while he worked you open, gently curling his finger until your legs went soft. Then added another, thrusting slow, letting you feel the shape of him — the way he filled you, not just your body but the aching parts of your chest too.

“I love watching you like this,” he whispered. “So open. So messy.”

His fingers thrust into you slow and deliberate, each movement coaxing out the most helpless, broken sounds from your lips. You couldn’t stop moaning — soft, open little cries that made Enjin’s cock twitch in his pants.

“Fuck,” he murmured, watching your face, the way your chest rose and fell. “You gonna cum on my fingers, baby?”

You nod, nearly sobbing.

“I-I can’t—please, Enjin, I—!”

“You sound pretty when you beg,” he whispered, curling his fingers just right. “You gonna cum for me, sweet girl? Gonna fall apart just like that?”

You gasped, thighs quivering as you clenched around his fingers, right on the edge.

But just before you tipped over—

He pulled them out.

You whimpered — a strangled, desperate sound that barely made it out of your throat.

“N-No!.. Why?”

Enjin pressed a kiss to your temple, breath warm and steady.

“I know, baby,” he soothed, his voice a balm even as your whole body ached. “But I want you to cum when I’m inside you.”

He brought his slick fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean, eyes fixed on yours.

“Taste so fucking good,” he murmured.

You squirmed, face burning, thighs wet and trembling from the loss of pressure. You needed him. Now. More than anything.

He stood and undressed slowly, watching your face the entire time. When his pants dropped and his boxers slid down, your eyes widened.

He was big. Veins curled around his shaft, flushed pink at the tip, already leaking.

You squeezed your thighs together involuntarily.

Enjin caught the movement and smirked.

“What’s wrong?” he teased gently. “Looking a little nervous now.”

You swallowed hard. “You’re.. gonna break me.”

He laughed — but his voice was low, hot with affection.

“I’m not gonna break you,” he said, crawling over your body again. “I’m gonna open you up, nice and slow. Gonna fill you until you forget what it felt like to not have me inside you.”

You gasped, legs already parting for him without meaning to.

He lined himself up, cock nudging your entrance, sliding his tip through your folds — teasing, running himself against your clit just enough to make your hips jerk.

“You ready?” he asked, holding your jaw in one hand.

You nodded. “Yes. Yes, I want it—”

He kissed you, soft and deep — and slowly pushed in.

You gasped, mouth falling open as he stretched you inch by inch.

“Shhh,” he whispered, forehead pressing to yours. “I know. You’re tight. You’re doing so.. so good.”

It burned a little — but it wasn’t bad. It was deep, intense, and full. You felt like you could barely breathe, like your body was being carved open in the most overwhelming way.

Enjin didn’t move at first. Just kissed your face, your shoulders, your chest — murmuring praises into your skin.

“You’re taking me so well,” he said, voice rough with restraint. “You’re fucking perfect.”

You were whimpering beneath him, hips twitching, arms wrapped tight around his shoulders.

“More,” you whispered. “Move. Please.”

He groaned — guttural and low — and pulled back, then pushed in again.

Your body jolted.

“Oh—! Enjin—”

“That’s it,” he whispered. “That’s it, sweetheart. Lemme hear you.”

He moved slow, deep, rolling his hips so you could feel all of him. His cock filled you so fully it hurt in the sweetest way. You could feel every throb. He grinded against your clit with each thrust, and your legs started shaking again.

“You’re already close again, huh?” he chuckled breathlessly. “She’s so desperate for me.”

She meaning your pussy. That bastard.

You whined, your hands grasping at his back.

“God, you’re so tight. Like you were made for me,” he murmured. “You are made for me, aren’t you?”

You nodded frantically. “Yes! Yes, I’m yours—!”

He fucked you a little harder then, thrusts deeper now, faster. The bed creaked. Your moans got louder, desperate, ragged.

“That’s right, baby. Let me ruin you.”

His mouth latched onto your nipple again, sucking hard, tongue flicking it as he fucked into you — fast now, rougher — but never cruel. Always careful. Always yours.

You felt it building again — hot and tight, spreading through your belly like fire licking up your spine.

“Enjin—I—! I’m gonna—!”

“Do it,” he growled. “Cum on my cock. I want to feel you squeeze me.”

And you did.

You came with a scream, clenching so hard that he groaned, hips stuttering.

He didn’t stop.

He kept fucking you through it, milking every twitch of your orgasm until you were sobbing into his neck, limp and wrecked beneath him.

“I—… I can’t!…”

“You can,” he whispered, kissing your tears. “One more. Let me cum with you, baby. Please.”

You were soaked. Panting. Fucked stupid — and he was still going.

Enjin’s thrusts were deeper now. His pace was a slow, devastating grind that forced breathy little gasps out of you with every roll of his hips. The sound of your needy pussy filled the room with every slap of skin against skin.

“Still with me?” he murmured, voice rasping in your ear.

You whimpered, nodding weakly.

He smiled against your cheek, then pulled back just enough to look between your bodies. His cock, slick and glistening, was disappearing inside you again and again — and something about the sight made him moan, deep and feral.

“Look at this.” He brought a hand to your lower belly, right where you felt full to the brim, tight and aching, and he pressed down gently.

Your mouth dropped open. A ragged moan tore from your throat.

“There,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the bulge his cock made inside you. “You feel that, baby? That’s me. That’s how deep I am.”

You nodded, tears springing in your eyes.

“I’m right here,” he whispered, pushing a little firmer on your belly. “Filling you up so good, huh? You’re stuffed, sweetheart.”

Your whole body trembled. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

He fucked into you harder now, just enough to jolt the mattress. His hand stayed pressed on your stomach, watching how his cock bulged inside you. You felt your orgasm building again — overwhelming and too soon, heat coiling tight in your core.

“Too much—!” you cried.

“You can take it,” he said, almost tenderly. “You’re doing so fucking well. Just one more for me, yeah?”

His thumb moved to your clit, rubbing tight circles as he pounded into you.

Your orgasm slammed into you like a train, your vision blurring with white as you screamed his name, body writhing beneath him.

“That’s it,” he growled, not stopping, fucking you through it. “Cum for me, baby. Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight—”

You sobbed, overstimulated and unable to speak. You were trembling. Every thrust now dragged sparks from your spine, your pussy spasming as you begged for mercy with broken gasps.

“Enjin…p—please..too much..”

He leaned over you, kissing your tears, his thrusts slowing at last. You felt his cock pulse inside you, and then he groaned your name as he came, burying himself in you to the hilt.

“Fuck, fuck—baby—”

You both shook with it.

His hand trembled against your stomach, still pressed there, as if trying to keep himself anchored inside you just a second longer.

Then, silence.

Only breath. The slow rhythm of your chest rising against his.

He stayed inside you for a long moment, forehead against your shoulder, one hand stroking your side in slow, calming circles.

You were floating. Drenched in sweat, thighs slick with both of your messes, head pounding.

He kissed your neck.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded, still teary, still breathless.

Enjin slowly pulled out, murmuring an apology when you whimpered from the sensitivity.

He kissed your inner thigh. Then your stomach. Then your chest.

“Be right back,” he whispered.

He came back with a warm cloth and a glass of water, crouching beside the bed. He cleaned you with slow, gentle hands, whispering praise as he did.

“You did so good for me.”

“My perfect girl.”

“So brave. So beautiful.”

You sniffled as he kissed your forehead.

Then he crawled back into bed, pulled you into his chest, and wrapped the blanket over the both of you. His arms came around your waist. One hand slid into your hair, the other stayed on your stomach like he couldn’t bear to stop touching you.

You curled into him, blinking drowsily.

“…You’re staring,” you mumbled.

He chuckled softly. “Can’t help it.”

You smiled sleepily, asking quietly. “Was I okay?”

Enjin tilted your chin up and kissed you slowly.

“You were everything,” he said.

And with his breath in your hair and his heartbeat steady against your cheek, you fell asleep full of him, of love, of the peace only he could bring.

[cloverlilies]

Lullaby of The Ancients

Summary: Morpheus journeys to the waking world for The Corinthian, but when Roderick Burgess traps with a spell, it's up the the lady of The Dreaming to try and save her people. A soft song of a king and a queen. A dream and a star. Warnings/ Tags: Established Relationship [Series Masterlist] [Next Chapter]

✦Chapter 1 - A Star's Fall ✦

It’s cold in The Dreaming.

The bolts on Dream’s helm chill your fingers. You trace the lines, following an intricate pattern of leather and bone and metal. The spine that protrudes from the snout curls around your lap. What an odd shape. It reminds you of a mosquito – the stuff of nightmares, indeed.

The steps to the thrones aren’t any better. The cold stone is freezing, with the edges digging into your legs. Yet, you stay seated, dressed in simple clothing. Such clothes aren’t suitable for a queen, but Dream isn’t exactly in ceremonial clothing either.

Dream places the ruby necklace around his neck. “You seem displeased with me.”

“Do I?” You tilt your head, smiling.

“Yes,” he says, and there’s a smile on his face that can barely be called one. At least he sounds amused. “Have I done something to gain your ire?”

“It is not me who seems . . . displeased,” you say, lightly. “The Dreaming can feel it, my dear. Every resident can feel The Corinthian’s absence.”

Dream stretches his hand out for you, close enough for you to see it as it is – An offering. You take it, and slip your cold fingers into his own. His hands are warm. It’s so strikingly different from the mood of The Dreaming.

He guides you up the steps to the throne, your hand gently resting against his own. The helm is secure around your arms, and you hold it tight as you climb the winding staircase.

His hold continues, even as you reach the platform of the thrones. Dream guides you to sit on his throne, pulling you away from your own, only releasing his hold when he’s seated you onto his seat. You hold on just a little longer, and tug his hand closer, pressing one, single, kiss around his fingers.

There’s a rare, but proper smile on his lips now.

Lucienne clears her throat, reminding you of her presence.

Right.

The concerns Lucienne voices hold no lies, but a king settled deeply into his way cannot see other paths. Still . . . it doesn’t hurt to try.

“Lucienne is correct,” you tell him, still tracing the lines on his helm. The stars above the throne room shine below you. So different from the ones you’ve painted across the sky. “The night is high in the Waking World. I can easily bring The Corinthian back. I am due for a visit soon — The stars . . . They . . . they call my name.”

“The Corinthian is my responsibility.” Dream stands tall, speaking to you with a voice that demands no arguments. “My duty.”

You sit tall on his throne, and do not dignify him with a response.

Dream leans forward, almost bowing before you.

The helm in your hold somehow becomes colder. Still, you bring the helm to his head, and place it on him until you could no longer see his eyes. There’s a small part of you that begs, yelling at you to rip it off his head.

Dream looks at you through the lenses on his helm. The weight of an Endless’ gaze is heavy, and this one never seems to look away. “Will you continue to be displeased with me?”

“You can rectify my displeasure when you return.” You press your lips on the helm, offering a bit of your powers to him. “The stars will guide your travels. I cannot do anything once you have arrived — You will be unprotected.”

You press your head against the helmet, letting your eyes flutter to a close.

“I will return,” he says, voice muffled through the helm.

“Let me come with you.”

Dream presses you back into his throne. “There is none I trust more with The Dreaming than you.”

Sand is thrown into the air. It grows and swirls, and it takes the king in its whirlwind.

The queen slumps around his throne, staring at the myriad of stars painted above by the king. “Be back soon.”

There are no stars in The Dreaming. The above, the blow, and the in-between — All are creations of Dream. That means so are the very stars above you. The Dreaming is a vast land; an infinite bubble separated from the universe that birthed you into existence.

The stars above the throne room glitter, each shining and flaring like an actual constellation . . . but you cannot feel the connection of the universe through them. The stars in The Dreaming are silent, a symbolic piece placed into the sky for those who built their life in its warmth, but you know better.

You lean your head on the armrest of the throne, allowing the growing strain on your neck to settle as you stare at these silent stars. The particular patter above the throne mimics the exact position the night you wed an Endless.

C . . .Cr . . .

It starts off small, impossibly small.

A single crack appears through the very fabric of this reality.

 . . . Cr . . .

Crack!

The damage to the stars mimic shattering glass. The cracks spread through its very reality and onto the marble beams. The colors . . . they start to fade, growing dimmer with every passing second. The heart of The Dreaming stands proud, even as the edges of the land begin to crumble.

Yet, you do not move.

You stay on his throne, curling deeper into the seat. The weight of it barrels deep into your shoulders.

Footsteps sound echo around the chamber. It’s precise. It’s quick. It’s efficient. You do not need to turn to know who it is.

“My lady . . . ?” Lucienne calls out for you. She explains everything you already know. The Dreaming is dying – Fast. The land is turning grey with each tree dying, its leaves returning to dust. The stars . . . they’re dimming. “I’ve gotten reports all over the area. The residents are in a state of panic, and with lord Morpheus gone—”

“A moment, Lucienne.” Your voice is soft as you lie listlessly on his throne, but it still carries the weight of it. “It seems . . . something has happened to my husband. A few moments, that’s all.”

Lucienne lowers her gaze. “Yes, my lady.”

A moment, that’s all you really need. Just . . . a short . . . moment.

The Dreaming is impossibly cold now, and the chill settles into your bones as you descend the steps to the throne. You stare ahead; gaze locked to the impossibly long hallway. You don’t think your heart could take seeing it decay any further.

Lucienne follows when you walk past her.

“The residents are ordered to the palace immediately,” you say, keeping your back towards her. This isn’t the time to break, not when The Dreaming and its people rely on you. “This is the heart of The Dreaming – it will be the last to decay. Once it is safe, they are free to return to their homes.”

“What will you do?”

You continue walking, even as Lucienne stops following. “Change.”

The hallways of the castle open up to you. The stones are not as vibrant anymore nor are the painting on the wall. The Dreaming is decaying. Its truth settles deep into your bones. You walk across the winding halls until you reach the private quarters. It’s a single door etched into the wall of an infinite hallway.

It recognizes your touch, and it opens to you with a single push.

There’s a book tossed into the little nook by the window. It’s where you were lounging this morning as Dream read its contents to you.

Who will read to you now?

A mug stands on the table, forgotten. You told Dream you would have it removed the night before. There’s no one left to remind you.

You run your hands across the table, glancing at all the items – some yours, some his, some you do not know who it belongs to.

“Where are you?” You whisper into the room, hoping for a response.

It never comes.

Lucienne makes a tally of all the residents in The Dreaming, sighing with relief when every resident is accounted for. They settle into the great hall with a low murmur, asking questions she doesn’t know the answer to.

Merv tries his best to repair any cracks he sees, but it returns the moment he turns his back. Taramis offers a drink to everyone who comes in, and Lucienne knows it’s her way of reassuring the residents.

The decay has yet to destroy the castle, but the colors have already faded. Her once vibrant home is losing its warmth.  

Lucienne is scared, and she does not know what to do. There are very few things that make her scared, and even less things she doesn’t know what to do about. She’s done something about the residents. She’s done something about their unease. She’s done something about their worries. But she cannot do anything about her dying home, or the state of her master.

The murmur dies down into complete silence.

Lucienne turns as the door to the grand hallway opens. She watches, as all of them do, as the lady of The Dreaming appears on the top of the steps, looking down at all of them. Dread hits her with the gentleness of a tidal wave, crashing against her over and over and over and over again – For the lady of The Dreaming is wearing her symbols of office.

You remove the hood from your head. It’s difficult to tell where you were looking, not with the blindfold wrapped around your eyes. There’s a moment, a small moment, that worry gnaws on Lucienne – You could trip with your eyes bound by a blindfold.  It’s a foolish concern, of course, for the vision of a Celestial is not limited by something as trivial as eyes.

The residents of The Dreaming all stare at their lady . . . their queen. All look to her for guidance as their homes continue to decay.

You do not speak a single word.

You do not need to.

For Lucienne knows that stars do not speak when they guide – They shine like a beacon across the dark night.

You descend the steps in silence, and Lucienne swears she sees stardust trail behind you. All heads bow as you walk past. They do not rise, not until the doors to the castle close. Only Lucienne rises her head and follows after you.

It’s difficult . . . more than difficult if you were being honest, downright impossible if you were really being honest . . . to see The Dreaming in this state. You do not let your home’s decay stop you.

Lucienne follows you across the bridge, and through the decay, and out the ivory gates. The sound of crashing waves is a small comfort. It temps you to enjoy its shore, but you walk past the sand and head through the pier.

You reach the end of the pier, watching the deep waters swirl with the dreams of mortals. Only then do you turn. “My loyal librarian,” you say, smiling. “Have you come to see me off?”

Lucienne glances at the waters below. It’s getting wilder. “Will you be getting lord Morpheus?”

“There isn’t time.” You do not know why you were stalling. Maybe . . . just maybe . . . it’s time to accept that you were frightened.

“How about his siblings?” she says. “Or, even yours.”

“When we were wed, Destiny left me a gift.” You pull the hood over your head. “It was just a couple words strung together . . . I didn’t understand what he meant until now.”

“I don’t understand.”

“A Celestial holds great power,” you tell her, playing with the ring around your finger. “It’s nothing in the face of an Endless, but it should be enough.”

Lucienne stares at you, searching for eyes she cannot see. “Did Destiny foresee this?”

“It doesn’t matter now.” You stare ahead, looking at where your home decays. “Dream is out there, cut off from The Dreaming. That is why it is dying, but he is The Dreaming, and The Dreaming is him. If something happens to our home, I fear it might . . . ”

You cannot finish your sentence.

“Those waters were not meant for you.” Lucienne takes a step towards you. “My lady, it could kill you if you throw yourself into it.”

“I cannot let my home be destroyed, nor can I allow the waking world to suffer any longer” you say. “I can hear it, Lucienne. The universe is crying.”

“I am begging you to think about this for a moment,” Lucienne says. “You have been away from the waking world for some time now.”

“I am a Celestial.” You stand proud, staring her down. “I am every star in the universe – every single one that has ever been made, and every single one that will ever be made.”

“But you are not in the universe, you are in The Dreaming, cut-off from the cosmos.” Lucienne takes another step closer. “If we lose you –”

“I will not repeat myself.”

“Very well, my lady.” Lucienne bows. “I apologize for speaking out of turn.”

You pull her into a hug, wrapping her deeply into your body. “You have nothing to apologize for,” you say. “This is not your fault.”

Lucienne takes a moment to answer, and you do not mention the tears you see pricking her eyes. “Is there any way I could help?”

“A small favor is all I need.” You slip your ring off your finger, and wrap it around her hand. “He will return . . . I’m not sure if I will.”

There’s a pleading look on Lucienne’s face. It almost makes you turn back.

“Go back to the castle.” You turn your back towards her, facing the water. “I leave The Dreaming to you until its master returns.”

You wait until Lucienne is barely a spec of dust, and then some more. Only then do you reach for the waters, watching its ripples flow across the surface. There really is no point in delaying the inevitable, not when your home is decaying.

“You are my home, and you are hurting.” You whisper into the water. “Your master left me his authority. Heed to my command – Let me help you.”

The water ripples once . . . twice . . . thrice. In the water, a projection of Dream appears on the reflection. You dip your hands into the water. A shadow of a grasp brushes your fingers. It clamps down on your wrist, and pulls you into its waters.

The trees bloom.

The colors brighten.

The cracks mend.

Lucienne tries to enjoy the sight around her. She digs deep into her to find the joy, but . . .

It seems . . . It seems all she can find is nothing.

[cloverlilies]

I just watched the penultimate episode of The Sandman and I am not well, I loved Morpheus as the anthropomorphic representation of dreaming, I loved how he was learning more about humanity and growing along with his adventures. It totally destroyed me to see him succumb to the Furies out of his guilt for killing Orpheus. He will always be Dream of the Endless to me.

[cloverlilies]

Enjin — Gachiakuta 1.03

[cloverlilies]

inertia (1)

reed richards x reader

star sailor series | ao3 link

notes: hi. so i’ve been writing this fic over the last three weeks (yes, three entire weeks, i know) and honestly it would not exist in its current form without my best friend, who is a literal physics major and walked me through so many of the equations and techy parts so reed didn’t sound like a fraud. i love her for that.

also, fun fact: reader is neurodivergent (i borrowed some of my own neurodivergent tendencies to shape her), so if you pick up on that... you’re right. thanks for being here!

word count: 12k

─────

You’ve always preferred rooms with humming machines to those filled with people.

It wasn’t shyness, not really.

Just an overwhelming awareness of your own rhythm, too far removed from the world’s noisy metronome. You knew early on you understood things differently—less about feeling out what someone meant, more about isolating the structure beneath their words, the pattern in their tone, the physics of an interaction.

Most people called it brilliance. You called it survival.

The Baxter Foundation didn’t feel like survival at first.

It felt like exile.

A postdoctoral placement handed to you like a sealed fate—"promising," "potential," "gifted." Euphemisms for "difficult," "obsessive," "odd."

They said Reed Richards might know what to do with you.

You assumed they'd meant “handle.”

But he didn’t handle you. He saw you.

Reed Richards wasn’t what you expected.

The name carried weight: prodigy, theorist, treasured in the scientific community. You imagined arrogance, an aging wunderkind with a room full of accolades and a voice like static.

But the man who stood waiting for you at the base of the Baxter Building's elevator looked almost misplaced—rumpled in a navy button up, absent-mindedly smearing graphite on the sleeve as he scribbled into the margin of a battered notepad.

He had those lines around his mouth—the kind that softened a face rather than hardened it. A sharp nose, brown eyes, and that unmistakable streak of grey curling through otherwise dark hair.

At first, you assumed it was dyed—it looked too perfect. But it was real. Of course it was.

You hadn’t realized you were staring until he tilted his head.

“You're early,” he’d said, voice warm and textured. Then, a smile that lit up his whole face—eyes first. “I like that.”

That was two years ago.

You’ve since learned Reed keeps a second toothbrush for you in his private quarters upstairs, though he’s never pointed it out.

You discovered it one night after a double shift, when he gently steered you towards the bed in his guest room instead of letting you fall asleep under your desk again. He didn’t say, “Stay with me.” He just adjusted the pillow, handed you a glass of water, and made sure the bathroom light stayed on.

It’s quiet love. A sustained frequency. A knowing.

On Tuesdays, you both eat lunch in the server room because it's the only place in the Baxter Building that maintains the kind of white noise you can disappear into.

Reed brings you a sandwich without tomato—he learned after the first week that you can’t stand the texture—and sets it beside your research without interrupting your thought process. You don’t thank him out loud. You just leave the crusts in the pattern he finds funny, concentric squares, always precise.

Sometimes, he laughs at that. Sometimes, he files it away like data.

Today, the two of you are working on a stabilization algorithm for experimental gravitational anchors—Reed's theory, your math. The simulation keeps failing, and Reed mutters something under his breath about quantum decay before turning to you.

“Show me again how you’re quantizing the drift interval,” he says, pushing his chair slightly closer to yours.

You don’t flinch. He always asks to see your work like this—not to correct, but to understand. He thinks your brain is a mystery worth mapping. And maybe it is.

You pull up your calculations, annotated with your usual shorthand that no one else in the lab pretends to follow. Reed doesn’t blink. He reads your annotations like they're a shared language.

“You inverted the modulus,” he says quietly, quite in awe. “God, that’s...elegant.”

You look down. Compliments still stick to you like static. You’ve never known what to do with them.

“It was obvious,” you murmur, tapping the screen once to clear the render.

“Not to me.”

His voice carries something like reverence. Not the kind people fake when they’re talking to someone younger, or different. His is heavier. Sincere. Measured.

You chew the inside of your cheek.

“Can I show you something?” you ask.

That’s how you always start, even though Reed never says no.

The observatory lab is empty when you both arrive.

He unlocks it with his palmprint, but you go in first, navigating in the dark by memory. You’ve had an idea simmering for days—a tweak in boundary calibration using harmonic frequency overlap, something even Reed dismissed initially as too unstable.

But last night, at 2:43 a.m., your model ran clean for the first time. No drift. No bleed. Pure coherence.

You bring it up on the projection wall, fingers moving fast. Words tumble when you’re excited—sharp, fast, too much for most people. Reed doesn’t interrupt. He never has.

When the model stabilizes on the fourth run, you glance over your shoulder.

Reed is watching you.

Not the simulation. Not the math. You.

You freeze.

He steps forward slowly, like if he moves too fast you might vanish.

“You didn’t sleep last night, did you?”

You look back to the projection. “No. But it was worth it.”

He exhales a soft breath, close enough now that you can feel the warmth of it on your temple.

“You can’t burn like this all the time,” he murmurs, but his voice doesn’t hold judgment—only concern.

“I can,” you reply simply. “And I do.”

He lets out a low laugh, almost involuntarily. Then, more gently, “Let me take care of you. A little.”

He says it like a hypothesis. Something untested.

You don’t answer. Not out loud. But you lean into his shoulder—not quite a nod, not quite an invitation—and he stays there. Long enough that the simulation cycles again, quiet and steady in the background.

Later, you’ll find that he’s updated the cafeteria schedule in your calendar to make sure no one disturbs you between 12 and 2 p.m. on Tuesdays. You’ll notice that he’s ordered extra noise-cancelling panels for the lab, without ever saying why. That the lights outside your lab space dim slightly when you stay past midnight.

All Reed’s doing.

He never says it out loud.

But this is how he shows you.

In recalibrated thermostats. In cups of tea left cooling on your desk. In letting you be silent when silence is the only thing that fits.

The world outside moves too fast. New York never sleeps, never softens. There’s always construction in the distance, always an ambulance shrieking down Fifth, always people spilling from cafés and rooftop bars like they’re late for something invisible.

But in the Baxter Building—six floors above the ghost of the old Avengers Tower—the hum of your controlled environment remains undisturbed.

For now.

It’s the kind of phrase that hangs in the air longer than it should, like steam after the kettle's been lifted, like the echo of a chord when your fingers already left the strings.

You don’t hear it, of course. Not consciously. But the sensation trails you anyway, ghost-like, as the day folds open and the building shifts around you.

You return to Lab B-3, where a data stream from the gravitational anchor prototype pulses in pale blue on the screen. You prefer this room to the others—less foot traffic, colder air, fewer variables. The walls are lined with the modular panels you installed yourself, after three months of fighting sensory burnout from the old fluorescents. The air purifier in the corner hums at a frequency you can tolerate.

It smells faintly of dust and ozone, like a server farm on a rainy day.

You’re cataloging the last ten hours of micro-interference logs when the door hisses open behind you.

“Hey.”

You don’t turn. It’s a mistake, maybe, but you assume whoever it is has entered the wrong lab.

You’ve put the sign up: DO NOT DISTURB — QUANTUM MODELING IN PROGRESS. A laminated shield between you and the rest of the building’s noise.

The voice cuts through again, sharper. Louder.

“Hey—don’t ignore me.”

You blink at the screen. Your heart doesn’t race. It clenches, tightens like your ribcage is shrinking inward. You turn slowly.

It’s Dr. Ian Delmont. One of the senior engineers. Jacket unzipped, badge swinging loose around his neck like a noose that can’t make up its mind. His face is already red, already pulled taut around the mouth.

You recognize the body language...shoulders set forward, hands ready to gesture. Angry people always move in patterns. You learned this years ago, the way some people learn fire drills.

“Why the hell did you rewrite my core schematic without logging the revision?”

You stare at him.

“I didn’t rewrite anything. I optimized the redundancy logic. It was bottlenecking the chain reaction model.”

“That’s rewriting.”

Your voice stays steady, your mouth forming the words in the exact order they should go. “No, it's not. It’s a correction. The existing code couldn’t handle parallel iteration under dual-load conditions.”

“You didn’t clear it with me.”

“It was a bottleneck,” you repeat.

Ian’s voice raises. “I don’t care if it was a goddamn chokehold, you don’t get to touch my work without authorization.”

He says it loud enough that it ricochets off the walls. Too loud.

Your neck goes hot. You feel it in your jaw, down your arms. Your hands twitch just enough to knock your stylus from the table and you bend down to retrieve it—too fast. You bump the corner of the desk, hard. The pain doesn’t register, but the sound does.

Too loud. Too loud.

Ian takes a step forward.

“Every time I turn around, you’re sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong—”

“I was fixing it.”

“You were showing off.”

That does it. You freeze.

This isn’t about the code.

You blink. You don’t blink. You can’t remember. You try to open your mouth, but your tongue sits wrong in it. The sound you try to make stalls halfway up your throat. Your hands curl into themselves like you could fold out of sight.

The lights feel wrong. The texture of your sleeves is wrong. The hum of the purifier is gone, replaced by the jagged, ugly timbre of yelling.

“I don’t care what Richards says about you,” Ian mutters. “You don’t run this place.”

“Hey.”

The sound comes from the door. Not a shout. Not sharp. But it cuts through everything like glass through butter.

You both turn.

Reed Richards steps into the room like he’s always belonged there, like his presence is not new or sudden or charged with a heat you’ve only ever felt in gamma pulses and untested energy chambers.

His mouth is tight, drawn. There’s nothing soft about his expression now.

“I suggest,” he says slowly, like each word has been smoothed against the edge of a scalpel, “you take your tone down. Immediately.”

Ian hesitates. Then his jaw sets. “With all due respect, Dr. Richards—”

“No,” Reed interrupts, walking further into the room, voice calm and sharp all at once. “Don’t. Don’t try to play seniority. This isn’t about protocol. This is about how you just cornered one of my lead researchers and yelled at her while she was running live code on a multivariable anchor model.”

“I was confronting—”

“You were posturing,” Reed cuts in. “And you were wrong.”

Ian blinks. Reed’s voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to.

“She didn’t rewrite your schematic. She corrected a critical flaw that should have been caught weeks ago.” He stops beside you. Not in front of you, not shielding—beside. “The only reason that anchor hasn’t destabilized is because she stepped in.”

Reed turns his head slightly, glancing down at you. His eyes soften, fractionally. He doesn’t touch you, but he lets the silence hang, as if waiting for you to reclaim your voice if you want to.

You don’t. Not yet.

“Ian,” he says without looking away, “I want you out of this lab. Now.”

Ian’s mouth opens, then shuts again.

Then he leaves.

You’re still breathing too fast. You know you are. You can feel the microtremors in your fingers, the irregular skip of your pulse. But the room feels real again. Your body is slowly remembering where it ends.

Reed waits until the door hisses shut.

Then, “Can I sit?”

You nod, once. He pulls a chair close—closer than he usually would in a shared lab space—and sits beside you with the kind of silence that doesn’t ask anything from you. His knees are angled toward yours. His forearms rest loosely on his thighs. His whole posture is a quiet question you don’t have to answer.

You stare at the screen. 

“I wasn’t showing off.”

Reed lets out a sound between a sigh and a laugh. Not at you. With you. “I know,” he says gently.

“I just…saw the error. It was obvious.”

“I know.”

He pauses.

“You don’t need to explain yourself to anyone in this building. Least of all him.”

You press your thumbnail into the meat of your palm, grounding.

“I’m not good at…tone.”

“That’s not a flaw.”

“I always think I can just fix it quietly and not deal with the…other part. The confrontation.”

He nods once, his eyes still fixed on you. “The way the world expects communication isn’t the only valid way to exist in it.”

Something in your chest cracks open at that. Quietly. Invisibly.

You lean back against the chair, your breath finally settling into a rhythm.

Reed stays where he is. His presence doesn’t press against you—it anchors. He’s always been like that. Dense and still, like a planet with just enough gravity to make sense of things.

You glance over at him.

“Thank you,” you say finally.

He shrugs. “I don’t like mean people.”

You look down at the table. You trace a line in the condensation ring your tea left behind earlier.

“Are you going to fire him?”

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “But I’m going to make it very, very clear who’s indispensable here.”

You don’t ask who he means.

You already know.

Later that night, you’re still in the lab, long after the rest of the building has gone dim.

Reed comes back with a takeout container—your favorite, though you don’t remember ever saying it aloud. He doesn’t mention the incident again. Just passes you the food, leans back in the corner chair, and starts updating his lab journal aloud, knowing you like to listen to the way he thinks.

Outside, New York glitters like a malfunctioning galaxy. Inside, the lights are low, the air quiet, the world small and manageable.

Just you, your notes, and the man with the grey streak in his hair who watches you like you built the constellations from scratch.

A quiet love, not yet named.

But it’s there.

Always has been.

It’s late now, nearly eleven, but the labs on the upper floors of the Baxter Building don’t abide by clocks. Here, time stretches. Pools. Slows down when the work is good. Speeds up when the math gets too beautiful to let go of.

You and Reed are the only ones left.

Everyone else has long since clocked out, their departure announced by the usual symphony of zipping backpacks and elevator chimes. The security team downstairs knows better than to check on you. You’re a known variable—an equation that balances best in silence, after dark, with only the man beside you and a cooling takeout container between you and the void.

Reed is sketching something in his notebook—a systems flowchart annotated with arrows that curve and overlap like a child’s drawing of a galaxy.

He’s humming, under his breath. Just a few bars of something he’s probably not even aware of. It’s familiar, not because you recognize the tune, but because you’ve heard him do it before, under the same kind of fluorescent moonlight and the same clean, ticking quiet.

You finish logging the day’s simulation data, close the terminal, and pull up your schedule for the upcoming weeks. The glowing display casts faint shadows over your face, which you don't notice but Reed glances at, once, over the edge of his notebook.

Monday. Field trip.

You hadn’t forgotten. Not exactly. It had just sat at the bottom of the week like a pebble in your shoe—felt but not seen.

You stare at the words for a beat too long.

VISITOR OUTREACH: 9:30–11:15 — RICHARDS / YOU

Group: PS 22 — Grade 2

Your fingers twitch at your side, a muscle memory of anxiety without the adrenaline to match. You don’t say anything, but your mind is already running the old loop, quiet and tight, like rewinding a tape you didn’t want to play in the first place.

You’d been paired with high school seniors last time.

They came in loud, late, and bored. One of them had a vape pen tucked into their hoodie drawstring.

You remember the boy in the back who asked if you “did anything real” or if you just “sat in rooms with graphs all day.” Another mimed falling asleep when you began explaining atmospheric coding inputs for small-scale gravitational fields.

You hadn’t raised your voice. You hadn’t snapped. You just shut down the projection early and handed the rest of the presentation off to the intern whose voice sounded like she smiled even when she didn’t mean it.

Afterward, you’d sat on the roof of the Baxter Building and stared at the clouds. Told yourself they were just kids. Told yourself they didn’t know.

But it stuck. The way they laughed when you said you worked on electromagnetic resonance feedback models. The way one of the girls whispered “so basically nothing” to the boy next to her like you weren’t even there.

They didn’t know.

That your work stabilized quantum harmonics in the kinds of silicon they tap on all day, every day.

That your programming makes the screen light up when their crush texts them back.

That the interface delay they complain about in video games used to be twenty seconds instead of two, and you helped design the equation that closed that gap.

They didn’t know you once pulled Reed out of a theoretical blind alley and into a breakthrough he’d later call elegant, a word he doesn’t use lightly.

They didn’t know how much you cared. That the caring was the point.

So after that, you asked to be reassigned.

“Elementary school kids,” you’d told Reed in his office one morning, already chewing at the inside of your cheek. “They’re too small to be cruel yet.”

He didn’t laugh, but you remember his eyes. How they softened. How he nodded and said simply, “Okay.”

And now here it was. Monday. Second graders. A classroom full of kids with juice boxes and velcro shoes and hands that still shoot up when they’re curious.

You can handle that. Probably.

You close the schedule tab. The screen goes dark.

Reed looks up from his notebook. “Everything okay?”

You nod once.

He doesn’t press. But he waits.

You speak without looking at him. “Monday's outreach.”

He leans back in his chair, notebook on his lap. “Right. You’re with me.”

You nod again.

“I asked for the younger group this time,” you add quietly, almost like you’re confessing something. “The older ones were…”

You trail off.

You don’t finish the sentence, but Reed catches the thread anyway. Of course he does.

He doesn’t say they were cruel. He doesn’t say you didn’t deserve that. He doesn’t fill the silence with anything easy.

Instead, he says, “You’ll be good with them.”

“Because they’re not old enough to be bored yet?”

“Because you care,” he says, looking directly at you. “And kids remember that. Even if they can’t say it.”

You pick at the corner of your sleeve. You’re still thinking about Monday. About the fear that your voice will tremble again. That the wrong word will come out. That your quiet will make them fidget and giggle and whisper.

But then you think about the last time a kid visited the Baxter—seven years old, wandered away from the main tour. Found his way into your lab by accident. You showed him how magnets repel in zero gravity fields and he tried to high five you with both hands at once.

You’d smiled for hours after that.

Maybe Reed is right.

Maybe caring is enough.

By the time you both shut down your stations and gather your coats, it’s nearly midnight. Reed holds the elevator for you without asking. It’s just the two of you, the soft gold of the lights reflecting off the brushed metal doors as they slide shut behind you.

You watch the numbers tick down.

Reed stands beside you, shoulder not quite brushing yours. Quiet, like always. Present, like always.

“Do you want me there?” he asks suddenly, softly, as the elevator hums downward. “Monday. With the kids.”

You blink. “You’re already scheduled for it.”

“I know,” he says. “But do you want me there?”

It feels like a trick question. But it’s not. It’s just Reed, offering steadiness in the places you don’t always know you need it.

You nod.

He nods too.

Outside, the city glows like it’s forgotten how to sleep. Yellow cabs streak past in lazy arcs. Rain clings to the pavement like it’s not ready to let go.

You stand under the awning of the Baxter Building, both of you half-heartedly pretending to check your phones, neither of you quite moving to go. It’s a ritual now—this lingering. Like the day doesn’t want to end, so you don’t let it.

Reed finally speaks, his voice low and near your ear.

“You know…you do more than keep this place running. You are this place.”

You glance at him. He’s looking at the sky like it might answer back.

“And if some bored teenager can’t see that, it’s only because they’re too young to understand the shape of things.”

You swallow. The city smells like damp concrete and neon and early summer.

You don’t reply. But the words lodge somewhere behind your ribs.

And they stay.

In the space between you and Reed, that sentence hums like background radiation—silent, but measurable.

He doesn’t look at you, not directly, but the softness in his posture says enough. The kind of softness he reserves only for you. For late nights and unsaid things. For quiet field trip fears and tired bones after thirty-seven straight hours in the lab.

You shift your weight from foot to foot under the awning, fingers fidgeting at the edge of your sleeve. The city is wet and warm and humming in that uniquely New York way—trash trucks groaning down Sixth Avenue, a taxi horn blaring three blocks over, the subway beneath your feet thrumming like some subterranean heartbeat.

Reed checks the time on his phone, but it’s performative. He’s not really looking at it.

“You can stay upstairs if you want,” he offers. Voice neutral, like he’s suggesting you borrow a pencil.

You know what he means.

His quarters above the Baxter labs—spare and quiet and clean, like an extension of his brain. You've stayed there before. Once after a storm knocked out the subway, once when you got a migraine so bad you couldn’t walk home without throwing up. The guest room is always ready, with a weighted blanket you know he ordered just for you. The lights dim at 30% automatically, and the fridge always has tea.

Still, you shake your head.

“I don’t want to bother you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

You shrug one shoulder.

“But I’d feel like I was bothering you.”

There’s no irritation in your voice. It’s just a fact. A line drawn lightly in pencil, not ink.

He doesn’t argue. Reed knows better than anyone that pushing you when you’re already overstimulated only drives you deeper into the quiet.

“I’ll walk you,” he says.

You almost tell him it’s not necessary.

That you’ve done the walk a hundred times alone. That it’s late and he must be exhausted too. But something in the way he says it—low, certain, without any edge—stills your protest before it can take shape.

You nod once.

The streets are emptier than usual, rain thinning to a mist that catches in your hair and softens the world around the edges. You button your coat up to your chin. Reed tucks his hands into his pockets, his long strides slowing instinctively to match yours.

You don’t speak for the first few blocks. You don’t need to. It’s not awkward—it’s companionable. Your silences have always been functional. Built like scaffolding. Structural.

You pass a late-night falafel cart and the warm, oily scent of fried chickpeas folds around you. Someone’s playing Miles Davis through a cracked open window above a bodega. A cab splashes through a puddle without slowing down.

You glance at Reed. His hair is slightly damp from the rain, curling a little at the edges. The grey streak catches in the streetlamp glow and glints like metal. He looks tired, but the good kind—brain-tired. Soul-deep contentment worn like a worn-in coat.

There’s something in the way he carries himself now that feels looser than it used to. Since you.

You think about that sometimes. The before of him.

You’ve seen the photos.

You’ve read the papers.

The man with ideas too big for gravity, with headlines like The Modern Da Vinci and Richards' Law stapled to his name before he was even out of his twenties.

You used to resent those profiles.

How they smoothed over the things that mattered.

How they all insisted on brilliance and ignored what he really was...careful. Constant. Gentle in ways that science rarely rewards.

He wasn’t always like this. He told you, once, in a rare moment of openness, that he used to believe love would only slow him down. That affection dulled the edge of genius.

He doesn’t say things like that anymore.

But he doesn’t say the other thing either.

You know what you are to him—friend, confidant, collaborator.

His mind matches yours, nearly. But not quite.

You run faster. Not always more elegantly. But faster.

You see the equations before he does.

You make intuitive leaps he can only reconstruct in hindsight.

He admires that. You see it in the way he watches you work, the way he lets you lead without hesitation.

And still, he hasn’t said the thing.

Because once it’s said, it can’t be unsaid. And Reed Richards has never risked a variable he couldn’t account for.

“You know,” he says softly as you cross Park, “when you rewrote that module today… I think that was the first time I felt—” He pauses. “Old.”

You glance at him. “You’re not old.”

He chuckles. “My knees would disagree.”

“That’s not science.”

He smiles. “No. But it is gravity.”

You snort.

He watches you carefully. Then says, “You don’t realize how good you are, do you?”

You look down at the sidewalk. The rain has turned the concrete slick and mottled.

“I do. I just don’t know how to be proud of it.”

He nods like he understands. “Because pride implies…audience.”

You don’t answer. But your silence agrees with him.

A block later, you say, “You’ve taught me how to be better without making me feel small.”

It slips out before you realize it. The kind of truth that rarely finds a voice.

Reed stops walking.

You look back at him. He’s staring at you like he’s memorizing the moment.

“You’ve done that for me too,” he says quietly.

It should be more than that.

But it isn’t. Not yet.

Your building is a brick structure tucked on a quieter side street. Sixth floor, walk-up. Rent-high, because New York is cruel and physics has been paying you back a lot recently.

Reed’s been here before—once when you locked yourself out, once when you were sick with a stomach bug and couldn’t get out of bed to pick up your prescription.

He always waits at the foot of the stairs.

Tonight is no different.

You fish out your keys and glance back at him.

“I’m okay,” you say.

He nods. “Text me when you’re in.”

You hesitate. Then, a beat later, “Thank you for walking with me.”

“Always.”

You step inside. The door swings shut behind you with a soft click.

Reed watches the rectangle of light shrink until it’s gone.

Only then does he turn.

He walks back slowly, hands deep in his coat pockets, rain heavier now. The city is hushed, its noise folded in on itself. His shoes splash through puddles he doesn’t try to avoid.

He thinks about you.

The way your voice tightens when you talk about the things you care about.

The way you never apologize for being brilliant, just for being visible.

The way you notice every small thing—every decimal, every gesture, every change in temperature—and store it away like evidence that the world can be read if only you learn its language.

Reed Richards has spent his life searching for patterns. For the math behind miracles. He’s found some. Lost others.

But you?

You remain his favorite unsolved equation.

He doesn’t say the thing. Not yet.

But it lives just under his tongue, waiting.

The next morning you wake up earlier than you meant to.

Not by choice. Not by discipline.

But because your upstairs neighbors, despite living in an apartment complex with allegedly soundproof walls, have spent the last six and a half hours making the most expressive use of their vocal cords.

Moans.

Laughter.

Something you’re fairly certain was a vase being knocked over around 3:12 a.m.

You’d counted.

You’d logged the minute it started—12:49 p.m.—and the moment it finally slowed to quiet again, or at least to something muffled enough that you could hear yourself think.

There was nothing logical about it, and therefore nothing you could fix. No formula to solve thin drywall. No algorithm to isolate human behavior into something quiet, contained, reasonable.

So you’d stared at the ceiling. Then at your wall. Then at your ceiling again.

And now it’s 5:47 a.m., and your alarm hasn’t even gone off yet.

You sit up.

The air in your apartment is slightly too warm—residual heat from the radiator you can’t adjust. Your mouth is dry. The muscles in your back ache in the specific way they do when your sleep’s been interrupted just enough to confuse your circadian rhythm but not enough to explain it to anyone else.

You don’t bother lying back down.

Your morning routine is exact. Not out of compulsion, but out of necessity. A lattice structure of steps that keep the rest of the day from collapsing.

Boil water. Black tea, no milk.

Brush teeth—no mint toothpaste, only the kind with baking soda, because you hate the artificial sweetness.

Shower. Warm, not hot. You step out and wrap the towel tightly around you like armor.

Dressing is harder. The shirt you wanted to wear feels off today—too scratchy, too bright. You change into the navy knit Reed once said brought out your eyes.

That memory shouldn’t matter, but it does. You feel steadier when you put it on.

Bag. Notebook. ID. Keycard. Noise-canceling headphones, just in case.

You skip breakfast.

You always do when you’ve been overstimulated. It makes your stomach feel like wires have been crossed.

The subway is half-empty this early. The kind of silence particular to Friday mornings—the city not quite buzzing yet, just flickering. You stand near the doors and stare at your reflection in the opposite window, your face hovering over the tunnel blur outside like a ghost.

You think about the model you left open in Lab B-3. About the field trip on Monday. About whether or not you remembered to reroute the final data loop in the harmonic anchor sequence.

You think about Reed, and then try not to.

By the time you arrive at the Baxter Building, it’s just before seven.

You enter through the side entrance, swiping your badge through the sensor and waiting for the familiar mechanical click. The lobby is dark except for the ambient lighting that glows along the baseboards. The city hasn’t reached in yet.

And then you see him.

Reed.

Sitting on the bench just inside the front hallway like someone who forgot what time it is—or didn’t care.

He’s wearing the same navy coat from the night before, his hair still slightly damp from whatever morning shower he took before stepping into the day. His notepad is on his lap, open, but untouched.

He looks up at the sound of the door.

“Hey.”

You blink.

“You’re early,” you say.

“So are you.”

“I didn’t sleep.”

He stands slowly. “Your neighbors again?”

You nod, already tugging your bag strap higher on your shoulder.

“I’m thinking of writing them a formal request to conduct their mating rituals at a lower decibel range.”

That makes you snort, despite yourself.

“They’d probably just find that hot.”

Reed’s laugh is soft. “You’re probably right.”

He falls into step beside you without needing to be asked. You head toward the elevators together.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” you say as you press the button. “You're never this early unless there’s a test run.”

“I was hoping you’d show up early,” he admits, sheepish but not apologetic. “You didn’t text last night.”

You look down. “I forgot.”

“Neighbors really did a run on you, huh?”

You ket out a breathy laugh meeting his eyes.

Soon the elevator arrives. You both step in.

He doesn’t say anything else, but the quiet settles around you like a blanket. You don’t have the words for it, but you know he does this often—positions himself near you, close but not invasive, like a planet finding the right orbit. Something about it always makes you feel tethered.

The elevator stops on your floor.

As you exit, he doesn’t turn toward his own lab. He follows you.

“I figured I’d sit with you for a bit,” he says simply, “if that’s okay.”

You nod. You don’t say thank you, but your body does—shoulders uncoiling, pace slowing, your breath evening out.

Your lab still smells faintly of ozone and the synthetic lemon Reed always insists on using in the electronics-safe cleaning spray. You flick on the under-lighting instead of the fluorescents. It’s quieter that way.

He watches you unpack, the same way he always does when he’s not pretending to be distracted by his own work. You can feel his gaze—clinical, affectionate, reverent.

You settle at your station and glance over.

“Did you get any sleep?”

“Some.”

He sits across from you at the small corner table, flipping open his notebook. “I kept thinking about the field trip Monday.”

You groan softly.

Reed smiles. “You’ll be fine.”

“They’re going to ask me if I built Fortnite.”

“Just say yes.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s unethical.”

He shrugs. “You do kind of power their world.”

You chew the inside of your cheek.

“I know you’re dreading it,” he adds, more gently. “But you’re going to surprise yourself. I’ve seen you explain quantum turbulence to a twelve year old. You used two chairs, a glass of water, and a slinky. It was borderline performance art.”

You allow yourself the smallest smile.

He studies you for a beat.

“I waited this morning,” he says, voice lower now. “Because I wanted to see you before the day started. I figured if you didn’t sleep, you’d need a buffer.”

You look up at him.

“A buffer?”

“For the noise. The world. Everything.”

You don’t answer for a long moment.

Then, “You’re good at buffering.”

Reed closes his notebook. His eyes don’t leave yours.

“Only for you.”

You look away too quickly. Your stomach flips, your thoughts scatter like dropped dice.

This happens sometimes.

The intimacy of Reed. The nearness of what he doesn’t say.

The feeling that he’s handing you something fragile and invisible, and asking you to decide whether to name it or leave it untouched.

You pull up your simulation model and begin reviewing last night’s logs.

He watches you for another minute, then opens his notebook again and starts annotating something beside you, close enough that your knees brush once, and neither of you moves.

The morning settles.

Quiet.

Unspoken.

Waiting.

The building wakes slowly, like a body stretching into motion. The light outside the lab windows tilts, warmer now, brushing across your workstation and catching on the rim of your teacup. You don’t drink it, but it’s there—heat fading, a symbol of routine more than comfort.

One by one, the others begin to arrive.

Keycards beep. Footsteps echo off tile. The rhythmic click of heels and the soft, buzzing shuffle of rubber soles on linoleum fill the air in the way only a scientific institution ever sounds. Conversations start up in clipped, caffeinated tones. Someone’s talking about a failed simulation in Lab A-2. Someone else is complaining about the elevator skipping floors again.

You don’t look up.

You’ve already built a wall of focus, exact and methodical—three simulations running in parallel, an error log cycling in your periphery, two graphs comparing harmonic distortion levels under varying environmental noise inputs.

Reed hasn’t moved far from you since you sat down.

Every now and then, he leans slightly over to ask a question—never invasive, always curious. He taps the edge of your screen to point out something and waits for you to explain it in full before speaking again. His voice stays low. His body language remains small.

He is very, very careful with your space.

At some point, you adjust the variables in one of the testing loops. Reed notices before you explain why.

“You brought down the feedback tolerance?”

You nod. “I think it’s overcompensating for impulse drift. If we calibrate to a slightly lower resilience threshold, we might expose the weak nodes in the structural harmonics.”

He lets out a low hum of appreciation.

“I wouldn’t have caught that.”

You glance at him.

“That’s because you were trained to trust the tolerances.”

Reed raises an eyebrow, amused. “And you weren’t?”

“I was trained to notice what doesn’t belong. Even if it doesn’t make sense yet.”

He leans back in his chair, studying you with something just shy of awe.

That’s when the others start to notice.

There’s no whispering. No gossip. That’s not the culture here. Baxter doesn’t reward spectacle.

But still, people look.

It’s subtle—an extra second of eye contact, a glance exchanged between postdocs in the corridor. Even in a building dedicated to research and theoretical physics, attention has a shape. You feel it.

You’re used to being watched when you speak, but this is different. They’re watching him.

They’re watching how Reed stays near.

How he lowers his voice when he speaks to you.

How he doesn’t interrupt when you’re mid-thought.

How he laughs at things you don’t mean to be funny.

How he tracks your gestures with the full, unguarded focus of a man trying to memorize not just the content of what you’re saying, but the rhythm of it, too.

You register the attention. You don’t engage with it. You would get too flustered.

Instead, you pull up a different dataset.

Across the room, someone’s looking at you over their glasses. You minimize the screen and adjust your chair slightly so your back is to the rest of the lab.

Ben Grimm arrives around 9:15, coffee in hand, hoodie pulled up like armor against the morning.

You like Ben.

You liked him even before you knew him—when all you had was a list of his mechanical engineering contributions and the curious note in his file that simply read “Reed’s oldest friend. Trustworthy. Not academically inclined. Smarter than he lets on.”

He sees you before you see him.

“Hey, Doc,” he calls out, his voice gravelly but warm.

You glance up and, for the first time since the building really began to fill, smile openly.

“Hi, Ben.”

He walks over slowly, avoiding the edge of the test rig you have set up. His eyes sweep the table, reading the mess of wires and calibration notes without actually processing them, which is part of his charm—he doesn’t pretend to understand your work. He respects it anyway.

“You eat today?”

You blink. “Not yet.”

“You want half my bagel?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“It’s everything seasoning.”

He grins. “You’re too sharp for your own good.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I’m just observant.”

Reed, still beside you, chimes in dryly, “She’s also allergic to sesame.”

Ben winces. “Oh, right. My bad.”

You wave it off. “It’s not lethal.”

Ben hands you a sealed granola bar from his pocket instead. “From Alicia. She said you looked pale last week and told me to keep snacks on me in case I ran into you.”

Your mouth twitches.

“Tell her I said thank you.”

“Tell her yourself. She’s coming by Monday.”

You nod, then return to your screen, not rudely, just efficiently. Ben doesn’t take offense. He pats the table lightly and leaves you to your work.

Once he’s gone, Reed glances at you sidelong.

“You like Ben.”

“He doesn’t talk to hear himself speak,” you reply.

Reed smirks, folding his arms across his chest. “So I guess I should be worried.”

You don’t answer. But something in your cheek lifts. A small, unspoken response. Reed ntoices it. Files it away like he does everything about you.

By late morning, you’re too deep in the math to notice anything else.

Three out of five anchor simulations fail—but not catastrophically. The new feedback threshold is revealing the pattern you hoped it would. Reed asks if he can run his own version of the loop. You nod without turning, already exporting the baseline parameters to his terminal.

You hear someone outside the glass wall whisper, “Is Richards still in Lab B-3?”

And then, “I think he’s shadowing her today.”

“He shadows her every damn day.”

You pretend not to hear. You shrink slightly into your collar. Not from shame. Just to stay small.

Reed doesn’t respond to the comment. But you notice that he reaches over and very quietly pushes the door shut.

Not to hide.

But to give you quiet.

The rest of the morning passes like this—like a film spooling out in perfect rhythm. Reed occasionally types beside you. Sometimes you work in parallel, other times in sync. You don’t speak unless necessary, but the air between you is charged in a way you can’t name. Not love, not yet. But a proximity to it.

And even though others look—at him, at you, at the space between—you don’t notice anymore.

You’re too busy trying to catch the shape of something hidden in the data. Something just out of reach.

Like truth.

Or a confession.

Or gravity.

Fridays at the Baxter Building settle into their own kind of orbit.

Every lab has its rhythm—Lab A-2 always wraps their protein sequencing early, because Dr. Lyman likes to jog at 1:15 on the dot. Tech Ops syncs their systems for overnight updates before noon. Environmental Engineering runs its daily dehumidifier diagnostic with exaggerated ritual, a kind of inside joke no one explains to the interns.

It’s been that way since you arrived. It wasn’t written anywhere, but you learned it all the same.

And the unspoken tradition...Reed Richards forgets about time.

By now, everyone has made peace with it.

On Fridays, he’ll get caught chasing some quantum trajectory through a dozen notepads and open tabs, muttering to himself about temporal flux interactions or pattern resonance mismatches. If someone reminds him what time it is, he’ll blink, check his watch as though it’s betraying him, and then wave his hand vaguely in the air—“Take two hours, go. Ben, order something greasy.”

And everyone will. With relief. With a kind of reverent affection for their slightly scattered, brilliant leader.

Except you.

You stay.

Always.

It’s nearing 12:45 when the lab thins out. Ben claps his hands once, loudly, to announce, “Twenty-four-inch from Mario’s. I got half with olives, don’t fight me about it.” Someone cheers from the hallway.

You don’t look up.

The simulation in front of you is finally stabilizing under increased pressure loads, and Reed’s scribbling new hypotheses across his tablet at a manic pace—“If we compensate for decay acceleration by adjusting the sequence resolution window down to 10 seconds, the cross-bridging might resolve on its own—”

You hum without meaning to, fingers typing out the updated code.

“I’m serious,” he says, pushing his chair closer to yours, legs brushing under the desk. “We’re so close. This could finally solve the vibration decay issues in the dynamic anchor builds.”

“It won’t,” you reply calmly, running the next set. “Not unless you account for the spectral density shift around the 170 Hz mark. It’s going to collapse again.”

Reed pauses.

“You already ran this model.”

You nod.

“When?”

“Last weekend.”

He looks at you like you’ve handed him a paradox.

You let the silence stretch, then: “Try adjusting the constraint to reflect a Gaussian distribution, not linear. The peaks are too soft, and the algorithm’s compensating for noise that isn’t actually noise.”

Reed exhales slowly, reverent. “How does your brain do that?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have the words for how you see things. You just do.

He smiles like he’s in the presence of something sacred.

He leans in again, close enough that his shoulder presses lightly into yours. You shift slightly to give him access to your terminal, and he doesn’t pull away.

He’s always been tactile like this—with you, at least.

Hands brushing yours when you pass equipment.

A palm steadying your wrist when you’re assembling small, sensitive components.

Once, you found yourself gripping his forearm without realizing it during a particularly volatile magnetic resonance test. He didn’t mention it. Just let you hold.

But today, it’s different.

Today, something lingers.

You're both staring at the screen. The simulation is stabilizing now, running longer than it has all week. Your throat tightens with something like triumph, or relief, or maybe just fatigue disguised as euphoria.

Then, softly—soft enough that it catches you off guard—Reed reaches up and brushes his thumb across your cheek.

You freeze.

Out of disbelief. Out of awe.

His hand is warm. The pad of his thumb gentle.

The touch isn’t performative. It’s not even decisive.

It’s hesitant. Like he needed to check that you’re real.

That this moment isn’t just one of his half-formed ideas scrawled into the margins of a late-night notebook.

Your eyes flick toward him.

He’s already looking at you.

Something unspoken and heavy passes between you. It hums underneath the fluorescent buzz of the lab lights, underneath the whirring fans of the machinery, underneath the working theory you’ve spent days fine-tuning.

You don’t lean in.

But you don’t lean away.

He doesn’t move his hand.

You don’t say a word.

Ben opens the door a few feet down the hall, holding a pizza box in one hand, a Coke in the other.

He sees you.

Sees Reed.

The hand. The closeness. The moment.

And just as quietly as he entered, he steps back. Sets the pizza down on the nearest desk. Walks away without a word.

You and Reed don’t notice.

The simulation pings complete. For the first time in eleven models, it doesn’t fail.

You blink.

Then breathe.

Reed drops his hand, slowly, like it doesn’t want to leave but knows it has to.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

But something has shifted.

In the lab’s stale, climate-controlled air. In the simulation still pulsing faintly on your screen. In the trajectory of two minds moving dangerously close to each other’s center of gravity.

You get up first, walking to the sink in the corner to splash water on your face. The cold helps. Reed stays in his chair, scribbling, though you can tell his mind isn’t entirely on the notes.

You find the pizza box. It’s already cold. You bring two slices back to the workstation.

You don’t mention the moment. Neither does he.

But all through the second hour of your “break,” you work with that electric tension still threaded between you.

You pass him a slice. He accepts it.

He says your name, once, softly, like an answer to a question you haven’t asked yet.

And you don’t look up. Not yet.

You’re afraid that if you do, everything will change.

Or maybe—it already has.

“Hey,” Reed says again, this time your name folded into it, spoken low and careful, like he’s afraid of breaking it. Like he’s afraid of breaking you.

You don’t answer right away.

Because you know what he’s asking without asking.

And you know that if you answer—if you meet his gaze now, if you name the thing humming between you—it won’t go back in the box. It will take shape. It will have mass. It will alter the gravitational field between you forever.

You chew the edge of your lip and keep your eyes on the simulation results, blinking too fast.

He doesn’t push. Reed Richards never pushes.

But he stays there, watching you like a question he’s been trying to answer for years. Like a proof that’s always been just outside the edge of comprehension.

He wants you.

You can feel it in the heat of his gaze, in the way his hands twitch with unspent energy, in the way he shifts closer every time he speaks. He wants you the way he wants knowledge, reverently. With hunger and hesitation in equal parts.

But more than that—he respects you. And that respect builds a boundary he’s too careful to cross without your invitation.

So he doesn’t speak again. Not yet.

Instead, he clears his throat gently and leans back into the moment he knows how to inhabit best—the work.

“You were right about the Gaussian window,” he murmurs, eyes returning to the data on your screen. “The mean deviation narrowed just enough to stabilize the micro-vibrational bleed. Look.”

He tilts his tablet toward you.

You peer at it, grateful for the anchor. “The variance dropped below 0.0003. That’s lower than the threshold for secondary echo.”

Reed nods. “It’s still not perfect. But it’s holding. For now.”

You echo it before you can stop yourself. “For now.”

He smiles at that—soft, and only for you.

The tension doesn’t break. But it shifts. Warms.

You pull up the residual energy pattern charts and begin comparing them to your older models. Reed swivels his chair to face you fully, chin resting lightly on his knuckles as he watches you work.

Your voice steadies.

“I think we can reduce the decay rate even more by using a layered harmonic buffer. Not just a single envelope. Something like... like a tri-modal stabilization frame.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Using phase-offset looping?”

“Yes,” you say, eyes lighting up. “But slightly desynchronized. So each frequency compensates for the loss in another—like an algorithmic relay. Less like a barrier, more like... a conversation.”

You feel him watching you, not the charts.

There’s a kind of electricity in your blood now, not from caffeine or adrenaline but from being understood, seen at the level you need to be.

And for once, the way you talk—fast, disorganized, precise, too much—feels like the exact shape of something he’s been waiting to hear.

You meet his gaze finally.

He’s smiling.

That soft, quiet, wrecked smile of his. The one he only wears around you.

“You know,” he murmurs, “you say I taught you how to be better without making you feel small. But you make me feel like I don’t have to be better all the time. Like just being...with you is enough.”

You don’t know what to do with that sentence.

It sits too heavy in your chest. It rearranges your molecules.

Reed notices your hands twitch—how your fingers twitch at your sleeves when the air gets too loud inside you. He leans forward just slightly.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t,” you say too quickly. “You didn’t.”

Then, after a breath, “It’s just... I don’t know what to do when people say things like that.”

“Okay,” he says. “Then we don’t have to do anything. We can just stay here. With the work.”

But there’s softness in the offer. No withdrawal. No hurt.

Just the way he always gives you room.

It’s quiet again.

The others are still gone. Outside the lab, Friday spills forward in lazy arcs—someone arguing about where to eat next week, a song playing faintly from someone’s portable speaker. You can hear Ben laugh somewhere near the stairwell.

Inside, Reed starts sketching again. You realize, after a while, that it’s not a schematic. He’s drawing the harmonic layering you suggested, but not in code—in lines and waves, almost like music. It’s abstract and a little chaotic and not how he normally works.

It’s your method. Translated.

You watch him for a moment. Then you reach over and pick up a stylus of your own.

You add to it without asking. Adjust one arc. Shade one line.

He doesn’t flinch.

This is your intimacy. Shared language in waveform. A courtship of the mind.

The pizza gets cold. No one bothers you. Not even Ben, who peeks through the glass once more and then nods to himself like he's witnessing a rare solar event—better not to interfere.

And Reed…

Reed reaches over again at one point, softly, thumb brushing your cheek once more. This time he doesn’t look away when he does it. And you don’t freeze.

He doesn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

But you both feel it coming.

Not like a crash.

Like a calculation converging.

Like an inevitable, elegant solution.

Friday settles into its soft descent.

Outside, the city shifts into its end-of-week hum. That specific kind of tonal change—less frantic, more languid. Like the buildings are exhaling.

But in the lab, the world is still quiet, contained in the steady blinking of data streams and the near-inaudible whir of cooled processors.

You sit on the floor now, legs crossed beneath you, a cluster of components spread around you like offerings. The modeling station sits nearby, quietly compiling your last run.

Reed is at the console, sleeves rolled up, hair curling faintly at the temples from the humidity that’s crept in through the vents. He’s biting the corner of his thumbnail absently—thinking.

You watch him.

And then you remember.

“Did you finish the sensory-feedback demo for the field trip?” you ask, voice soft but cutting clean through the air between you.

He blinks up from the console, eyes going immediately bright.

“I did. Mostly. I was going to test it tonight.”

You tilt your head. “Can I see it?”

He smiles—a real one, unguarded and boyish. The kind he only wears with you.

“You can help me run it.”

He gets up, walking to the supply cabinet in the corner, pulling down a heavy black case the size of a carry-on. You follow, standing now, hands folding in the sleeves of your sweater as you watch him unlock the case with the smooth familiarity of a man who designs entire universes and still finds joy in the click of good mechanics.

Inside, a scatter of wires, motion sensors, a series of spherical objects that look like oversized ping pong balls, each one patterned with conductive filament and dotted with touch points. You recognize the layout—a modular, reprogrammable interface system with haptic feedback, originally built for mobility therapy.

“You modified the base algorithm,” you say, eyes narrowing with appreciation.

“For kids,” he replies. “It runs a simplified tactile-reward loop. Kind of like a visual puzzle—kinetic memory reinforcement. Color-coded neural feedback.”

“Accessible interface?”

He nods. “Built for neurodivergent learners. Adaptive texture mapping. It reacts to the user’s input in real time. No static pathways. No performance grading.”

Your chest tightens a little. Not painfully. Just precisely.

“You built a toy.”

Reed shrugs. “It teaches basic physics concepts. Friction, acceleration, force vectors. Just…disguised as fun.”

“That’s not just a toy,” you murmur.

He watches you closely.

“No,” he says. “It’s not.”

You set it up together on the floor of Lab B-3, moving the tables back, laying the tiles out in careful rows. The modular touch-nodes blink softly as they come to life—first red, then green, then a low, pulsing blue.

The algorithm kicks in after calibration. Reed holds the interface tablet, flipping through the menus. You hover close behind him, watching how he reprograms the environmental variables on the fly.

“Want to try it?” he asks.

You nod.

He sets it to manual mode. The first node lights up in your periphery. You move toward it, tap it lightly with your finger. It flashes yellow, then blue, and vibrates beneath your touch.

You laugh, just once—quick, surprised.

“Positive reinforcement,” Reed says softly. “Each node has a different tactile response depending on approach angle, velocity, and touch pressure.”

“So they learn physics by playing.”

He nods. “Exactly.”

You test the next one. And then another. As the nodes light up, the floor becomes a low-lit constellation, flickering gently around your movements. It’s beautiful. You crouch down near one, tracing your fingers across the filaments, letting the haptic buzz hum beneath your fingertips.

“Reed,” you say quietly. “This is... really, really good.”

He kneels down beside you.

“I just wanted to build something that made them feel like science was listening back.”

You look over at him.

That sentence hangs there, too delicate to touch.

Your hand moves before your brain registers the decision—slowly, instinctively—and you reach for him.

You had reached for his hand but landed on his thumb.

Just his thumb.

You wrap your small hand around it gently, like it’s the only part of him you can hold without consequence.

Reed freezes.

Not from discomfort. From something else.

He turns his head toward you, slowly, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too quickly. His smile is soft, stunned. As if he can’t believe you’re doing this. As if he’s afraid that if he acknowledges it too directly, it might stop.

You don’t look at him. You just hold his thumb in both your hands, watching the floor blink beneath you.

It’s a strange gesture, almost childlike in its simplicity. But to you, it’s everything. It’s grounding. Permission. Trust.

Reed lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for years.

He doesn’t move his hand away.

Instead, he uses the other to reach forward and adjust a setting on the control interface without looking. The lights shift. The nodes pulse in a new pattern. You follow them without letting go of his thumb.

He’s smiling now, wide and quiet.

Completely and utterly gone for you.

You test every mode together—gravity simulation, frictionless slide, kinetic echo. Reed talks softly through each setting, explaining how he rewrote the original code to simulate Newton’s Laws in modular intervals, adjusting for sensor latency so kids could trigger reactions with slower or less precise movement.

You ask questions. Not because you don’t understand. But because you do. You want to understand it his way.

He answers everything.

By the time you’re done, the lights in the lab have dimmed into their evening cycle. Reed packs up the demo system slowly, like he’s folding something sacred.

You’re still holding his thumb.

Finally, gently, he uses it to tap the back of your hand.

“You know,” he says quietly, “you don’t have to hold back around me.”

You look at him, expression unreadable. You squeeze his thumb once, then let go.

“I’m not,” you say.

And you aren’t.

Not anymore.

The lab is dark when you both leave.

Outside, the city has begun to cool. You walk beside him in silence, shoulders brushing once, then again. Not by accident.

You don’t talk about the moment on the lab floor.

You don’t have to.

It happened.

It exists.

Like an inevitable, elegant solution.

The sky has turned the color of television static. Not black, not gray, just faded. Soft enough to feel unreal. Streetlights flicker on in stuttering intervals. A breeze curls up the avenue and catches at the hem of your coat.

You and Reed stand just outside the Baxter Building entrance, neither of you moving to leave, as if there’s some invisible membrane between the lab and the world you’re not quite ready to pierce.

You should go home.

That’s the next step, isn’t it?

That’s what people do when the day ends. They go back to the place with their name on the lease and try to remember who they are when no one’s asking them questions.

Except your place has neighbors.

And thin walls.

And you're too tired to pretend your own exhaustion doesn’t vibrate at the same frequency as their pleasure.

You shift your weight from foot to foot, knuckles tucked deep into your sleeves. You can feel the buzz of the day behind your eyes—not anxiety, not anymore. Just too many thoughts stacking on top of each other like tetris blocks, and you don’t have the energy to make them fit.

Reed stands beside you, hands in his coat pockets, quiet as ever. The edge of his sleeve brushes yours every so often, an unspoken rhythm that makes you feel here.

Not tolerated. Not managed.

Just here.

Ben soon exits the building. Hoodie zipped to his throat, a half-eaten brownie in one hand. He slows when he sees you both.

“Well, well,” Ben says, raising an eyebrow. “You two finally gonna leave the building or should we start paying you rent inside the lab?”

You glance at Reed.

He shrugs, noncommittal.

Ben smirks. “Alright. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Then he gives Reed a look. “Which ain’t much.”

Reed doesn’t respond, but his smile is quiet. Affectionate.

“Goodnight, Ben,” you say softly.

“Night, genius.”

He walks off into the dark.

You stay.

Reed doesn’t ask if you’re going home.

You don’t say anything for a while. You just look at the sidewalk. The cracks in it. The faint smudge of oil near the curb. The headlights of a cab bending light across Reed’s cheekbone, catching on the streak of gray in his hair.

Finally, you say, “Can I stay?”

You don’t explain. You don’t need to.

He doesn’t ask why.

He just turns to you, and for a split second, something in his expression softens so completely it’s almost painful. His eyes widen like he’s been caught off guard, but then his entire face warms, lips parting slightly, like you’ve just handed him something fragile and beautiful and unexpected.

“Yes,” he says immediately. “Yes, of course.”

You nod once, eyes down, and he opens the glass doors for you with his keycard.

Reed’s private quarters are located on the top floor, built into the architecture like a quiet secret.

The space is sparse but intentional. One long wall is lined with windows that overlook the city—lights shimmering like data points, static and alive at once.

You’ve been here before. The air smells like him. The surfaces are all smooth, clean, designed for function rather than comfort—except the guest bed, which he quietly upgraded after the second time you stayed, replacing the stiff mattress with something memory foam, orthopedic, weighted blankets in navy and grey.

He never mentioned it. But you noticed.

Now, you step out of your shoes and move instinctively toward the small kitchen alcove, placing your bag on the counter where you always do. You hear Reed behind you, taking off his coat, the soft clink of keys being set in the ceramic dish by the door.

“I didn’t want to go home,” you say, very quietly.

“I know,” he replies.

He fills the kettle without asking. He doesn’t ask if you want tea. He just knows that the ritual helps.

You settle on his couch while he prepares everything. There’s something deeply intimate about watching him move in this space—not as a scientist, but as a man who’s built a life designed for quiet. For stillness. For you.

“Did you finish that secondary circuit loop in the interface?” you ask, voice small.

“I did,” he says, turning toward you with two mugs. “Replaced the original buffer with a superconductive braid. Reduced the thermal variance by thirty percent.”

You take the mug with both hands.

“That’s going to make it more stable in hands-on mode.”

He nods. “Exactly.”

You sip the tea. It’s perfect. Rooibos, no caffeine. Subtle and warm.

You look down at your knees.

He sits beside you, not too close, not too far. Just right.

“I’m still thinking about that tri-modal stabilization relay you suggested,” he says. “It could actually be used in more than just the interface model. If we layer it into the resonance prototype, it could compensate for secondary harmonic bleed without adding mechanical dampeners.”

You glance at him. “It wouldn’t even need a power supply. It would just borrow from the existing vibrational field.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

You smile faintly. “We should test it this weekend.”

“We should,” he agrees.

But neither of you move.

You sit there in the dark, the city lights flickering behind the glass, the tea cooling slowly between your palms.

And then, Reed shifts slightly closer.

His fingers brush the side of your hand where it rests on the couch cushion.

You don’t pull away.

“I’m glad you asked to stay,” he says, quietly.

“I don’t always know what I need,” you admit.

“You don’t have to,” he says. “Not with me.”

You turn your hand palm-up.

He hesitates—barely a second—and then sets his own hand into yours. Warm. Long fingers. Calloused thumb.

You wrap your hand around his thumb again.

It’s small. Stupidly small. But it feels like precision.

Like the alignment of orbitals in a new chemical bond—unexpected, improbable, but somehow inevitable.

He stares at your hands like they’re a proof he’s just solved.

And you can feel it now, radiating off him.

That Reed Richards is completely, irrevocably in love with you.

It sits in his stillness.

In the way he lets you hold him without needing to be held back.

In the careful cadence of his breath next to yours.

In every half-finished sentence he doesn’t speak because he’s still calibrating the right moment to say it.

You close your eyes.

The lab can wait.

The world can wait.

Because here, in this quiet room on the top floor of the Baxter Building, the noise of the city fades into static, and two brilliant minds sit side by side, slowly, carefully falling into something that even physics doesn’t have language for.

Yet.

You’re still holding his thumb.

The weight of it feels small and ordinary and terrifying, in the way intimacy always is when it sneaks in sideways—quiet, soft, patient.

The tea between you has gone slightly cold, but neither of you moves.

Reed glances at your hand in his again like he’s not sure it’s real. Like he’s afraid any shift in air pressure might break whatever this is.

He doesn’t want to lose it. You can feel that. It lives in the quiet of his body. In the way he breathes more carefully now, like your closeness has changed the atmospheric composition of the room.

You can’t explain it.

Not exactly.

But you know the moment has arrived—like a threshold has been crossed without either of you noticing when.

You lift your eyes.

Reed is already watching you.

And then you kiss him.

There’s no warning. No lead-in. No poetic pause.

You just lurch forward and kiss him like your brain caught fire.

You cup his face with both hands—awkward, determined, imprecise. You feel the stubble on his jaw beneath your palms. You feel the soft surprised puff of his breath as you press your mouth against his with more force than you intended.

Reed makes a startled noise.

You pull back slightly, embarrassed, but he surges forward like a current finding its charge.

His hands find your waist, anchoring—not possessive, not demanding, just present. And then his mouth is on yours, properly this time. He kisses you with a slowness that makes your skin buzz, then deeper, until you forget how to think.

You chase it.

You chase it harder than you meant to.

You end up half in his lap, straddling his thigh on the couch. He grunts softly in surprise as you pull him closer by the collar of his shirt. Your hands roam. One settles in his hair, the other at the base of his neck, grounding yourself in the shape of him. His body is warm and solid and older than yours in a way that feels deeply comforting—experienced, steady.

“Wait—” he whispers into your mouth, breathless but laughing.

You pause.

“I—God, I didn’t think—” he tries to say, and then you kiss him again.

It’s clumsy and desperate and real. Your teeth bump once. Your nose is probably smushed too hard against his.

But Reed groans quietly like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

Because it is.

Because it’s you.

Eventually, you slow. Not because you want to. Just because you run out of breath. You ease back a little, your forehead resting against his, both of you flushed and dazed.

His fingers trace up your spine, slow, careful, reverent.

You say nothing for a while.

Then, softly, eyes still closed, you murmur, “I need to take a shower.”

He blinks, dazed.

“Oh,” he says, voice rough. “Yeah. Sure. Of course.”

You make no move to get up.

He doesn’t push.

Then, without looking at him, you say, “Will you come with me?”

Reed stills.

It’s not a seductive invitation. Your voice is too quiet. Too vulnerable.

You mean with you. Not to see you.

There’s a difference.

A difference he understands immediately.

He exhales once, very slowly.

“Yes,” he says.

The bathroom in Reed’s quarters is clean and understated. No clutter. Neutral tones. A single towel folded perfectly on the heated rack. The kind of space made by someone who needs things to stay quiet, even in private.

You peel off your clothes with your back to him. You don’t ask him to turn away. You just move, deliberately, like someone trying to stay present in their own body. You don’t rush.

He undresses behind you.

You don’t look.

Not because you’re afraid.

Just because this isn’t about looking.

When you step under the water, he follows. The spray is warm. Steam begins to rise immediately, curling around your shoulders, softening the edges of the room.

You don’t speak for a long time.

He helps you rinse shampoo from your hair.

He rubs a towel gently across your upper back, washing you between passes of the water.

You stand in the quiet, eyes closed, while he reaches for the soap, his hands careful and broad. You’ve never felt so heldin a room without touch. Even when he does touch you, it’s so measured. Like he’s calibrating pressure in real time.

He never touches more than he needs to.

He never looks longer than you let him.

You begin to wash him in return—his arms, his back. Your fingers map the ridges of his shoulders. The plane of his chest. 

He smiles at you when you look up at him.

You smile back.

Afterward, you towel off side by side. You slip into the oversized sleep shirt he keeps in the guest drawers—the one you claimed without asking the second time you stayed over. Reed pulls on a soft cotton shirt and gray sweatpants, hair still damp, curls a little unruly.

You both brush your teeth in silence. The kind of silence built on trust, not absence.

You spit and rinse and then, leaning over the sink, you say, “You’re not what I expected.”

Reed glances at you in the mirror.

“I’m not?” he asks, toothbrush in hand.

You shake your head. “You’re a better equation.”

He stares at you for a moment, then leans over, presses a kiss to your temple, and whispers, “So are you.”

You fall asleep in his bed, facing each other.

You don’t touch—not at first. But at some point, your foot slides across the sheet and brushes his calf.

He doesn’t bother to move.

You drift off like that.

And he stays awake for a while longer, just watching you breathe, memorizing the sound of it, calculating the half-life of the moment in real time.

He doesn't think there's a formula for this.

But if there were, he’d already be solving for you.

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[cloverlilies]

I hope one day I piss Satoru off so much he suddenly stands up and his huge hand pushes me down on my knees then he cold-bloodedly grabs his blindfold and ties it around my eyes then instantly sticks his cock down my throat and pull me by the hair till my nose hits his thick snowy pubes and my drool soaks his heavy balls and I feel all my senses going numb cause his spongy tip is hammering the back of my throat and his big ass fingers are caging my jaw and all I can feel other than the darkness of his blindfold on my face is the sound of him chuckling and mimicking me and cruelly laughing at how my snotty nose is struggling to inhale and my stuffed mouth can't even moan right.

[cloverlilies]

𝐓𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞

Zayne

Pairing: Zayne x f!Reader

Summary: Your husband just wants a taste...

Warnings: Minors do not interact! Smut, Lactation Kink, Nipple Play, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Creampie

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi - Bluesky

“Be careful, it’s hot.” Zayne warns you as he puts the soup in front of you. He grabs your son from your arms, giving you a chance to eat in peace. You smile at him, watching as Zayne bounces your baby boy in his arms. 

When you found out about your pregnancy, you didn’t expect Zayne to be the perfect husband and father, but he’s proved you wrong. You couldn’t be happier by the results, and you truly wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. He’s there for whatever you need. You want to say that it started since you found out you were expecting, but that’s the furthest thing from the truth. Zayne has always been exceptional.

“He’s teething.” Zayne comments, noting the swollen red gums of his baby boy. That does explain the drool all over the house. Zayne kisses the top of the baby’s head before he begins to search for a remedy that will help with the discomfort. 

“Poor little thing, he’s been so fussy lately.” You respond, watching as Zayne opens every cabinet to find something to help his son with the discomfort. “I heard that if you rub–”

“No whiskey, no scotch.” He quickly cuts you off, practically reading your mind. You can’t help but chuckle.

“What’s in the soup, by the way?” You ask as Zayne finally finds something that will help the baby with his ailments. Zayne has a hint of a smirk on his face before he answers,

“I can’t reveal my special ingredient.”

“Is it something I hate?” Your eyebrows come together, trying to figure out your husband’s trick. Zayne walks over to you, pressing a kiss on the top of your head.

“It helps with your milk supply.” He shares. “It’s also tasty.”

“I’m assuming there’s something in here that I don’t like since you refuse to tell me.” You comment, bringing the spoon up to your lips. It’s for the best, what you don’t know won’t hurt you. “Don’t tell me.”

“I won’t.” He answers as his baby drops what’s in his hand, making a loud thud as it hits the ground. The baby whines as Zayne leans down to pick it up. Zayne tries to give it back to him, but crying ensues. “Seems like it’s time for a nap.”

“I can–” You hurriedly stand up, wiping your mouth before walking over to Zayne. Zayne shakes his head. 

“Finish your meal, I can handle our son.” He reassures you, as he shushes the baby. You take a seat, watching as Zayne walks away with the baby. He’s got it under control. 

Your day is a bit intense. Your baby boy is not only fussy, but you can’t figure him out. Zayne got him something to help with his gums, but the baby tossed it the moment it was in his hands. He cried yet he didn't want food, warmth nor sleep. He only calmed down during his bath but the moment he was out of the water, the cries continued.

But finally, he gave out. Zayne successfully put him to sleep, giving you the rest of the night off. You’re able to do nothing for the rest of the night– Or until your baby boy decides that he needs something.

“Do you wanna watch a movie?” You ask as you walk out of the bathroom, securing your towel before going to the dresser. Zayne lays down in your bed, comfortably reading his book, until his attention is drawn elsewhere.

“Your towel is slipping.” Zayne points out as you lean down to get some pajamas. You laugh. As if it mattered. In a matter of seconds you’ll get naked to put on your pajamas.

“Thank you, my love. I know.” You answer as you put down your clothes on the edge of the bed. He can’t take his eyes off you, staring at the bit of skin you show. He stares like a starved man. “Is that a no to the movie?”

“I’m in the mood for something else.” He reveals, a smirk forming on your lips. You can tell that he is, it’s written all over his face. You sway over to him, trying to act all innocent as your hand goes under his chin.

“Can you show me what it is?” You ask before your lips go down to peck his own. Zayne feels his chest get heavy with an unexpected rise in temperature. The room is suddenly hot. 

“Aren’t you tired?” He responds, not wanting to push you over the edge. He looks at you with hopeful eyes, a look that’s hard for you to reject. It’s a good thing that you still have energy for this; you always do.

“If I was, would I be here?” You take a seat on the edge of the bed, one tug away from letting your towel fall. Zayne still takes a moment to read your expression, a meek attempt to figure out what you’re really feeling. Before he can do anything, you bring your lips to his ear and whisper, “We really don’t know the next time we’ll be able to–”

Before you can even finish your sentence, Zayne pulls your head back and kisses you. His tongue enters your mouth, pressing against yours as his hand goes to your back. You’re overpowering, simply with one kiss you’re able to dull all of his senses. 

Your back is pressed against the mattress as Zayne gets on top of you. He pulls away, looking down at you with lustful eyes before his hand tugs the towel. His breath hitches before his lips land on yours again.

“Right there–” You whimper as he sucks on your sweet spot. Zayne doesn’t spend too much time on your neck though, he’s set his eyes on something else. He leaves a trail of wet kisses down your neck until he finally reaches your breasts. 

He kisses your breasts, clearly restrained. He’s kissing you subtly, touches that you barely feel. It’s been like this lately, he barely touches your boobs when he’s obsessed with them.

“Zayne.” You call out to him, making him stop. He patiently words for you to speak, to give him the green light again. “You can touch them.”

“Huh?” He furrows his eyebrows as you grab one of his hands and move it down to your boob. It squeezes it as a reflex. He bites down his lip before ensuring, “You’ll be okay with this?”

“Yeah.” You reassure him, nodding in response. Zayne doesn’t waste a second before dipping his head, tongue circling around your nipple before his lips wrap around it. He actually sucks, getting some of your milk in his mouth. He keeps sucking while one hand goes down to your pussy, two fingers running through your slick folds. 

He pushes two fingers into your cunt as he continues to drink your milk. You shut your eyes as pleasure slowly consumes you. It feels better than what you could’ve imagined– And it seems that Zayne is enjoying himself. Zayne finally unlatches from your tit, but he doesn’t waste too much time before wrapping his mouth around your other boob. 

He’s flicking his tongue on your nipple before he sucks. He’s been starved for too long, he’ll stop when he’s satisfied. He likes it enough to keep his mouth on your tit and continue drinking. The feeling of pleasure quickly becomes overwhelming as he keeps pumping his fingers in and out of your cunt. 

“Zayne–” You moan, your back arching as he gets the best of you. “You’re doing so good, baby.”

He moans against your tit, telling you just how much he’s enjoying this. He’s curving his fingers, hitting just the right spot. Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, hips bucking while he treats your body so right. 

“It’s too much!” Your voice is loud and clear. Your orgasm builds up and quickly washes over you. Zayne would usually praise you for coming all over his fingers, but his mouth is too preoccupied to say anything. 

He continues sucking until he’s satisfied. He lifts his head up, a fulfilled look in his eye. But he’s going to be greedy. He’ll try to get more, until he can’t handle it. 

Zayne pulls down his pants, pumping his cock before running the tip through your folds. His breath gets caught up in his chest as he slowly pushes himself inside of you. You shut your eyes and bite down on your lip as his cock stretches you out. He gives you a second when he bottoms out.

Zayne begins to move his hips, moving slowly but steadily picking up speed. You look perfect while you’re under him. He’s already so worked up from doing nothing, he doubts he’ll last too long. There’s nothing that he likes more than the feeling of your pussy wrapped around him.

“Zayne…” You moan, your back arches as you take it all. He’s hitting all the right spots, making you weak. After your first orgasm it’s hard for you to contain yourself. You’re still sensitive and he’ll use that to his advantage. Your hands grip the bed sheets as Zayne’s thrusts get faster and faster. 

“You’re so perfect.” His nose buries in the crook of your neck as one hand goes down to play your clit. You’re squeezing around him, already too much for you to handle.

Zayne’s lips land on your nipple again, sucking on your tit. His thrusts lose momentum, unable to focus on two things at once– It’s no issue with you, you’re already in a state of euphoria. You’re cursing under your breath, feeling yourself get so close already.

“Zayne!” You reach your climax again, making a mess all over his cock. Zayne finally unlatches, licking up some of the milk that drips out, ensuring it doesn’t go to waste.

His movements get sloppy, knowing this fight wouldn’t last long since the beginning. Zayne groans as he empties himself inside of you, thrusts stopping when he knows every last drop is inside of you. When he finally pulls out, he falls down right beside you, completely out of breath.

You’re a mess again, and you just got out of the shower. You chuckle at the realization, and your husband can’t help but ask, “What is it?”

“I have to shower again.” You answer, and he laughs with you.

“Sorry.” He can’t help but apologize, making you click your tongue.

“I started it.” You say, something which he can’t argue against.

You lay down in silence for a moment before you narrow your eyes and stare at him. You’re trying to figure it out, and he has no idea what you’re trying to do. 

“What?” He asks, furrowing his eyebrows.

“Did you like it?” You hide back a smirk as you watch his face turn redder than it already is. That’s your answer. 

Needless to say it won’t be the last time it happens.

[cloverlilies]

writing prompt. sfw! fluff.

“if you go, i go.”

choso kamo doesn’t know why he even agreed to this whole thing.

“… okay?”

but it seems he has a habit of just agreeing to things without really thinking much about it.

especially whenever it concerns you.

he peers over the edge of the pier. the harbor stretches out over a deep blue sea that looks borderline bruised. the wind curls over choso’s ears, ruffling his hair into a bushy mess. yuji, megumi, and nobara’s heads are bobbing about in the water like little ducks, and they’re not even looking up at the two of you anymore. it was them who had decided in the first place that you all needed a well-deserved trip, and that the irish coast was the best place for just that. they’d dreamed of cozy little cottages with a giant fireplace and wholesome stews for dinner every night.

so choso had to come along.

to watch over yuji, of course.

there’s plenty of other people on the pier too, both locals and tourists. kids in wetsuits and teenagers pushing each other into the depths, and brave adults whooping and squealing as they jumped into the freezing sea, because apparently this was summertime. and even though choso knows that the jump isn’t that steep, he still watches every person disappear beneath the surface, and it sure looks like a very long, long way down.

choso gulps.

he’s not afraid. well, maybe a little bit. choso never was a big fan of the cold. to him, it was something he endured, not jumped willingly into. and that sea, with its waves breaking against the rocks, made the hairs on his neck stand straight up.

“you don’t have to, you know?”

but you’re already barefoot. your puffer jacket already peeled off and neatly tucked away beneath your backpack. he can see the goosebumps across your bare arms, the way your hands are rubbing your forearms for warmth. you’ve got a determined glint in your eyes, and choso already knows you’d be going in without him.

there was no way that was happening without him.

choso immediately pulls his shirt over his head.

“no, i said i would.”

the wind slaps him meanly for his bravery. it cuts right through him, sharp like an ice shard. he feels your gaze flicking towards him, and then away again, like perhaps you hadn’t expected him to actually come through.

“on three?” you ask, an excited tremble in your voice.

he nods, puffing out his chest.

you count.

“one… two…”

choso’s fingers twitch towards yours.

“three!”

you both jump.

the sea devours you both. it’s freezing, cruel and instantaneous. he feels like the air in his lungs have been punched out of him through his stomach. when choso surfaces, he’s sputtering salt and water, gasping for breath as his eyes are stinging from the seawater. he searches desperately for you.

“holy shit!”

choso blinks rapidly. you’re kicking your legs furiously beside him, your mouth twisted in a grimace, and he thinks you might be in pain.

but then you’re laughing.

“what the– it’s so cold!”

choso spits water out from his mouth, his voice croaky as he chokes out, “you think?”

your teeth are chattering as you splash and paddle your way towards the ladder to climb back out, but you’re still laughing. you’re soaking wet, and there’s that beautiful, wild twinkle in your eyes that choso fell in love with before he even knew what it was he was feeling. and in a split-second he feels it all over again at once.

this was worth it.

you’re already halfway back up the ladder by the time he decides to swim after you, scrambling up like a slippery eel. the wind drags itself like razor blades on his wet skin when he emerges, his blood pumping hard and fast through his veins to fight the cold. you’ve wrapped yourself in a fluffy pink towel by the time choso gets back to you, the wood beneath your feet darkening the more it gets soaked.

“we’re idiots,” you giggle breathlessly, your teeth clattering together.

choso shrugs, trembling. “you said if i go, you go.”

you beam at him.

and then you’re opening your towel wider and pulling him in.

it isn’t big enough for the both of you, but you try anyway. your hands finds choso’s bare shoulders, your forehead clumsily bumping into his chest, and he instinctively wraps his arms around you, clinging to you and the marshmallow pink fluff around you. you’re both shivering like crazy, but all choso can think of is how sweet you smell, like summer, and how this whole situation is just so comically ridiculous.

but you don’t let go.

and neither does he.

“thank you,” you whisper into him.

choso doesn’t really know what it is you’re thanking him for, but he doesn’t need to. he just thinks about you and your eyes, the feeling of your arms around him, and what he would do if you asked him to jump in with you again.

he would.

obviously.

you can buy me a chai latte or commission me here -> kofi page.

©storiesoflilies 2025, all rights reserved. please do not plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work on other sites! i only post on ao3 and tumblr.

[cloverlilies]

Clark with a virgin reader 👀

contains : soft dom!clark · f!reader · fingering · loss of virginity · (un)protected sex · not proofread | 18+ MDNI note. clark definitely talks u thru it.

you hadn’t expected clark to take it this seriously.

not that carelessness ever seemed likely—but a small, cynical fragment of your mind half-expected eagerness to precipitate haste. the assumption proved erroneous. clark’s gaze remains unwavering, brows faintly furrowed, scrutinizing your expression for the merest trace of doubt. even the slightest flinch would compel him to halt—this much you are certain. his hands never idle. one settles at your waist, the other coasts up your inner thigh, delineating tentative arcs across vulnerable terrain. as though touch is a silent inquiry, promptly followed by verbal reassurance:

“this alright?”

“can i touch you here?”

“we can stop whenever you want. there’s no rush.”

frustratingly tender, the way he fingers you open. two languorous strokes teasing through your folds, then one knuckle probing, then two. awareness sharpens painfully, your dampness unmistakable and embarrassingly pronounced—yet his fingers continue, curling inside with resolute softness.

he watches throughout.

each twitch of your thighs elicits one at the corner of his mouth. the attempt to conceal his smile fails—though it isn’t arrogance you sense. masculine gratification, difficult to resent when it stems from the desire to satisfy you. that same expression surfaces again when he sits back on his haunches, fist curling around his length. a languid stroke from base to tip follows. it catches your gaze before you’re mentally braced.

you’ve seen him like this before.

felt it—on your tongue, beneath your palm, the engorged tip prodding the back of your throat when you’d worked up the courage to try taking him deeper. clark had guided you through that too: talked you through it, coaxed soft noises from you even when your jaw ached. more importantly, he never asked for more than what you could give, yet never restrained his praise either: honey, sweet girl, he’d called you. so good for him. voice thick with awe at how eagerly you tried to please.

at the time, you’d believed that would be the most vulnerable he’d ever render you. oh, how you’d underestimated him.

no barrier remains between you now. no underwear, no suggestive obstruction. only him, cock in hand, angled downward. flushed pink at the tip, slicked and glistening. so familiar, yet wholly foreign when aligned so precisely at the seam of your body. clark leans in again. nuzzles your cheek before his mouth finds the corner of yours.

“won’t go all the way yet. you tell me how much,” he murmurs, guiding himself through the wetness with excruciating patience.

“say something if it hurts. i’ll stop.”

your legs fall open of their own volition. pressure builds immediately when the tip breaches your entrance with a concentrated push. you bite back a whimper, silently counting through the seconds between each gradual advancement. your grip tightens on his arm. thighs tremble, though you make no effort to retreat. another inch sinks in. he stops again.

“still with me?”

the words meant to reassure him catch in your throat. emotion rises unbidden, stinging hot in the corners of your eyes.

“hey.” clark breathes, forehead rests gently against yours. “you’re doing so good, honey. we don’t need to rush.”

he’s halfway in before your mind catches up to the sensation. the discomfort recedes slower than you’d hoped; easing into a reluctant ebb. still, your body begins to accommodate him, muscles gradually uncoiling. something else inside you yields—not only flesh, but trust.

it’s clark. yours, unequivocally—the same man whose hands once steadied a collapsing bridge, yet still cradle a paper bag of groceries as if holding an infant. who halts traffic to guide a mother duck and her ducklings across. who presses a kiss to your forehead every time he leaves, even if you’re only half-awake. who texts you corny memes with captions too earnest to be ironic, and hearts every single one of your replies like he’s afraid you’ll forget how adored you are.

the same man currently sheathed inside you—immense, yes, the fullness is staggering, but his presence registers as protective rather than intrusive. he remains motionless, awaiting for your cue, unwilling to proceed without.

your muscles constrict, hips jolting in a spasm of instinct before you can temper it. clark’s palm finds your knee again, thumb stroking in reassurance.

“there she is,” clark murmurs, grinning with all the warmth in the world. dimples in full display, starry-eyed with unshakable affection.

“you just tell me when.”

you’re not sure the words will come. but your body speaks quite plainly. fingers creep along his arm, seeking out the firm line of his bicep. your hips tilt forward, tentative yet urging in intent.

he understands immediately.

[cloverlilies]

Ovulating around Clark Kent? Good Luck, Babe!

It started the second you woke up in his bed—his shirt hanging loose on your frame, soft and worn from years use. You padded into the kitchen barefoot, wearing only his worn Metropolis U shirt from the night before. It barely hit the tops of your thighs, the faded cotton soft against your skin and clinging where your body was flushed and hot. Your nipples were hard, embarrassingly so, the peaks clearly visible through the thin fabric.

Clark glanced over his shoulder, and that fucking smile—soft, sweet, and knowing—spread across his face. “Morning, baby.” His voice was warm and low, like honey dripped over gravel. His eyes dipped to your chest for just a second before he turned back to the stove. “You slept okay?”

“I… yeah,” you said, though your voice was breathier than intended. You didn’t even try to hide the way your gaze raked over his broad shoulders, the flex of muscle as he worked. God, you wanted him to touch you. Everywhere. Right now. Every damn time you ovulated, it was like Clark became your personal gravitational pull. You couldn’t stop touching him—holding his hand, pressing against his chest when he passed you, trailing after him like some love-drunk groupie. Even now, you were already moving before you realized it, crossing the kitchen to press against his warm, broad back, arms wrapping tight around his waist.

“You’re clingy this morning,” he teased gently, resting his big hands over yours. “Not that I mind. You wanna sit down and eat, sweetheart?” But you shook your head, burying your face between his shoulder blades, inhaling him like he was oxygen. Your thighs rubbed together as you tried to ignore the slick heat gathering between them.

“No… I just… wanna stay here for a minute,” you mumbled.

Clark’s chuckle rumbled through his chest. “Mhm.” He turned in your hold so easily, big hands landing on your hips to tug you closer. “You’ve been following me around all morning.”

“I haven’t,” you lied breathlessly, fingers curling into the waistband of his sweatpants.

“Mm.” He didn’t sound convinced. Setting his mug down, he turned toward you slowly, eyes dragging over your body until your skin felt hot all over. “You’ve been quiet today.”

Your stomach flipped as he stopped in front of you. His huge hand cupped your chin, tilting your face up toward him. “Not mad at me, are you?” he teased, thumb stroking over your lip.

“N-no,” you breathed. You swallowed hard, heat pooling between your legs in a way that was impossible to ignore. Your fingers tightened on his sweatpants as his hands slid down your waist, settling firmly on your hips. The worn fabric of his shirt rode up, exposing the smooth curve of your belly, the dampness between your thighs growing impossible to hide. He smiled, slow and knowing, and bent his head, lips grazing your neck just below your ear. “Been a long day already, huh?”

You whimpered softly, tilting your head back to give him better access. “I’m… I’m trying,” you confessed, voice shaky but desperate. “You were… last night…” Your cheeks burned, but your hips betrayed you, rolling forward against the hard line of him.

Clark pulled back just enough to grin down at you, amused as hell. “You’ve been trying to keep it together all morning, huh? That’s pretty impressive.”

“Not really,” you whispered, voice rough, trembling. “I’m so fucking wet.”

He laughed softly, like it was the best confession he’d ever heard. Then, without breaking eye contact, his hands moved lower, cupping your ass and lifting you effortlessly against him. “Come on, baby,” he said, voice thick with promise. “Let me take care of that.”

“Please,” you whispered. “I can’t—fuck, Clark—I need you.”

“I know, baby,” he soothed, lifting you like you weighed nothing and setting you on the counter. “You’ve been squirming all morning, poor thing. Should’ve said something sooner.” And then his mouth was on yours, deep and possessive, swallowing every broken sound as his fingers slipped under the hem of his own shirt—your only layer—and found you already wet and throbbing for him.

“God, you’re soaked,” he groaned against your lips. “You were trying to hide this from me? Baby, you know I’ll give you whatever you need.”

You whimpered as he pushed two thick fingers inside you, curling them perfectly, already making your back arch against the cabinets. “I fucked you so good last night I thought you’d be satisfied for a while,” he teased, his free hand sliding up to squeeze your breast. “Guess I’ll just have to fuck you even harder this time, hm? And God, with the way he was manhandling you already, you knew he meant it.

[cloverlilies]

mr. bedtime - CK. ── .✦

You're curled under the covers, screen glowing in your face, finger mid-scroll. Clark shifts beside you, already in his usual sleeping position: one arm tucked under his head, the other reaching for you blindly like a sleepy sea creature.

"Baby," he mumbles, voice low and warm from sleep. "Put the phone down."

"In a sec," you murmur. "Just one more thing."

“Mhm.” He doesn’t believe you. He never does.

Instead of arguing, he does what he always does — rolls over slowly and wraps himself around you like a human weighted blanket. Big chest pressed to your back. One leg thrown over yours. A soft kiss behind your ear.

“Five more minutes,” you promise.

Clark lets out the smallest dramatic sigh. “That’s what you said twelve scrolls ago.”

You snort. “Are you counting now?”

“Yes,” he says. “Because I’m being ignored. Neglected. Replaced by a tiny glowing rectangle.”

He nuzzles into your neck like a needy puppy. “I’m cold. And alone. And possibly dying.”

“You’re 6'4" and 200 pounds of cuddle,” you giggle, leaning into him.

“Exactly,” he says, smug now. “You’re lucky I haven’t suffocated you with affection yet.”

With that, he gently but firmly grabs your phone and sets it on the nightstand. The room dims immediately, leaving only the soft yellow hue of your bedside lamp.

“Hey!” you whine.

“No more blue light, sweetheart. It’s time for cuddles.”

And then he tucks you into him. Tight. Chin over your shoulder, arms around your belly, one hand petting slow, sleepy circles into your hip.

“See?” he whispers. “Way better than doomscrolling.”

You huff, but you’re already melting. The warmth of him, the rhythm of his breath, the safety of his arms — it’s your favorite place on Earth.

“You’re annoying,” you mumble, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

“I’m Mr. Bedtime,” he corrects, smiling against your skin.

You roll your eyes. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is now.”

And before you can argue, he whispers:

“Sleep, baby. I’ve got you.”

You fall asleep five minutes later. Phone forgotten. Heart full. Clark already snoring softly into your hair like the big bedtime menace he is.

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

[cloverlilies]

ೀ • TWO PLUS ONE. | you’re swollen, you’re cranky, you’re craving that weird combination of mashed potatoes and pickles again, and now you’re ‘ugly’ because you have snot and tears rolling down your face — but ENJIN thinks you’re the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen.

TAGS + WARNINGS. | 0.7k words, fem/afab!reader, established relationship, pregnant!reader, husband!enjin, language, enjin being down bad, mood swings, some graphic symptoms of pregnancy, cravings, fluff, raaaah i need this man so bad. help.

A/N. | soft!enjin will always have my heart. always.

it still takes enjin’s breath away.

at first, it felt a little unreal — yes, he knew you were pregnant. that strange little stick and a visit to the doctor confirmed it. but you still looked the same; nothing had really changed. nothing had changed enough for it to truly feel real.

but over time, you started to grow. your arms and cheeks filled out first. and then your belly followed, morphing from a barely-there bump to one that absolutely couldn’t — and wouldn’t — be ignored.

now, instead of walking with only the occasional sway, you waddled — and constantly reprimanded enjin for ‘walking too fast with his freakishly long legs.’

now, you cursed when your belly pressed against the edge of the counter sooner than it used to. you groaned about your inability to properly attain depth perception due to your growing uterus.

now, you muttered and mumbled when you had to ask enjin to reach something from a shelf that you used to be able to get to just fine.

now, it felt real. you were pregnant. you were carrying enjin’s baby. visibly.

and it took enjin’s breath away.

because you were so, so fucking beautiful.

so beautiful that he couldn’t help but stare. couldn’t help but trace his eyes over your glowing skin, your shoulders, over the hand resting atop your swollen stomach, or the other hand guiding chips to your beautiful, full lips, your fluttering eyelashes, your mesmerizing eyes—

enjin couldn’t help but simply adore you, even when you noticed and your face scrunched in subtle displeasure. damn, that was so cute.

“you’re staring.” you stated, adjusting yourself within that slightly raggedy, floral, and near-ancient armchair you loved for some reason.

“i am.” enjin confirmed, slow blinking whilst resting his chin in his palm. “and you’re beautiful.”

at that, you snorted, popping another chip into your mouth and dissolving it with a series of crunches. after you swallowed, you muttered, “i look like a goddamn whale.”

enjin chuckled and shook his head. “nah,” he murmured, eyes falling down to your stomach. your beautiful, swollen stomach, blanketed by one of his shirts because ‘they’re a lot more comfortable, okay?’

such a gorgeous sight. a sight that enjin wants to simply burn into his memory forever. and he’d be content to do just that — admire you until the picture was seared — but you froze and your nose scrunched up.

you cast a look down to the chip in your hand and groaned. enjin couldn’t help but split into a crooked smile.

“what’s wrong, my love? did the chip offend you?”

you huffed and twisted to meet his gaze. your eyebrows were drawn together and there was a small, kissable pout on your lips. you looked so cute, but enjin had a sinking feeling you were about to ask him to go somewhere, or do something.

“i… don’t want to eat these anymore.” you mumbled, toes wiggling beneath your thighs. enjin tilted his head just slightly.

“what do you want to eat, baby?” enjin inquired. he had a small idea of what you might want, but he wasn’t going to jump to any conclusions until you confirmed them.

“i… want your mashed potatoes and pickles…” you trailed off, eyes falling downward as if you felt bad for even suggesting it. like enjin would find it troublesome.

as. fucking. if.

enjin stood from the chair and dusted imaginary dust off of his pajama bottoms. “drowned in gravy?” he confirmed, smile in place and feet already leading him to the kitchen.

and shit, you looked up at him as if he’d hung the moon just for you — your eyes were even sparkling and everything. you nodded eagerly, and enjin laughed lightly and shook his head in fondness.

god, he loved you so much. counted every lucky star above him that you were brought into his life.

he loved you as he brought you a huge bowl full of mashed potatoes and pickles, only to find you curled up on the couch crying over something on tv.

he loved you even as you snotted into his shirt between bites.

and he loved you as he stroked your cheek — now swollen with mouth fulls of that weird combination you loved — and reminded you how beautiful you were. and, yes, you were still beautiful even though you had snot bubbles in your nose.

and yes, enjin would still kiss you even though your lips were soaked in salt from your tears.

and no — enjin would never not think you’re beautiful; no matter what.

[cloverlilies]

THE SANDMAN 2.02