youthereader

[youthereader]

Some Kind of Shelter part 3

pairing: emmett (a quiet place) x fem!reader

summary: 2.2k words. In this safe place, you sign up for the community’s newest effort: structured pairings; an attempt to re-populate. It’s not an arranged marriage exaclty, but it’s hope.

rating: E. age gap (15+ years), angst. touched-starved mutual pining. arranged marriage (of sorts). first time. fingering and piv sex.

a/n: you've been patient, thank you ❤️

You try to resist it.

You try curling tighter beneath the quilt, try burying your face in the pillow, try not thinking of Emmett—his rough voice, the calluses on his hands, the look he gave you at dinner that made your stomach twist into knots.

But your body’s already betraying you. You’re aching, burning.

It’s worse tonight because of everything you said, because of the way he didn’t flinch. The way he saw you and stayed soft, stayed kind.

You wait until the cabin’s gone still, until his breath evens out.

Then you slip your hand beneath the blanket. Slowly, carefully.

You’re already wet. You bite your lip to keep from gasping. Every nerve in your body feels too sharp. Every sound, too loud. The creak of the bedsprings. The rustle of the quilt as your legs shift. You keep your other hand over your mouth, just in case.

You think of him. The way he looked that first night by the water. The way his voice dropped when he called you bossy. The way his hand lingered on your shoulder. The way he sounded—God, the way he sounded—when he was touching himself.

You try to be quiet. Except when you come, it breaks out of you anyway—a soft, stuttering whimper, barely more than a breath.

The silence that follows is thick and immediate.

You freeze. Your hand goes still.

You lie there, motionless, flushed and wide-eyed in the dark, listening.

At first, nothing. Then, slowly… the sound of fabric shifting.

You don’t dare breathe. And then—

There. The soft rhythm. The quiet, unmistakable slide of skin against skin. A breath, caught low in his throat. Then another. And another.

He’s not trying to hide it this time.

Your chest aches. Your thighs clench.

Because he heard you and now he’s letting you hear him.

You don’t move. You don’t make a sound. You just lie there trembling, every cell in your body tuned to the sound of his hand, his breath, his pleasure.

You wonder what he’s imagining. If he’s picturing you the way you were—hips lifting into your own hand, mouth parted, eyes squeezed shut.

You want to ask. You want to touch him. But instead, you stay still.

When his breath stutters and he lets out a quiet, muffled groan, you bite your lip so hard it hurts.

And then silence again. Long. Charged. Heavy. Neither of you says a word.

-

He’s gone again when you wake.

No note. No sound. Just the warm dent in the quilt and the faint smell of him lingering in the room.

You lie in bed for a while, eyes open, staring at the beams above. Your thighs are sore. You can still feel it—last night, the ache of it, the thrill, the knowing. What you did. What he did.

You spend the day distracted. Clumsy with your hands. Your mind keeps drifting: to the sound of his breath, the heat of his body on the other side of the curtain, the way he hadn’t said a word but still answered you with his own hunger.

No one else knows. But it feels like you’re glowing from the inside out.

That night, there’s a communal dinner—something celebratory. A few more people joined the island this week, and the injured man from a few days ago is up and hobbling around, laughing with anyone who’ll listen. You and Emmett sit near the back of the long outdoor table, quiet as usual, side by side but not touching.

He nods when you arrive and gives you a plate. You thank him softly. That’s all.

The silence is easy this time, almost comfortable. You sit in it together like it’s a shared language.

Halfway through the meal, the injured man—Joe, you think his name is—makes his way over. He leans heavily on a walking stick and smiles big when he sees Emmett.

“Well if it isn’t the man who saved my goddamn life,” he booms, clapping a heavy hand on Emmett’s shoulder.

Emmett smiles, modest and tight. “Glad you’re on your feet.”

Joe nods. “You and me both.”

Then he turns to you, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“You must be the new girl they paired him with, huh?” He doesn’t wait for a response. Just winks, like he’s told a good joke. “You’re a lucky one. He’s a quiet bastard, but I’ll tell you—solid man. Good hands. Real steady.”

You go still. Emmett shifts beside you.

Joe grins wider, then leans in a little, conspiratorial. “He stayed calm the whole time, you know. I was bleedin’ all over the floor, screaming my ass off, and he just patched me up like it was a loose pipe. Didn’t even flinch. That’s the kind of man you want around, sweetheart. You hold on tight to this one.”

Then, with a wink and a pat on Emmett’s back: “Lucky sonofabitch.”

He limps off before either of you can speak.

You don’t turn to look at Emmett, but you feel his breath hitch beside you.

“…I’m sorry,” he mutters.

You blink. “What?”

“For him. For that. I didn’t know he’d—say something like that.”

You glance sideways. His ears are pink. His shoulders tense.

You manage a small smile. “I don’t mind. The guy nearly lost a toe.”

He huffs a quiet laugh—real, this time—and finally meets your gaze. There’s something warm in it. Something apologetic. Something else, too.

You don’t name it but it stays with you the whole walk home.

-

You should’ve paid more attention.

You were distracted—thinking about what that man said at dinner, about how Emmett had saved his life without flinching. Thinking about Emmett’s hands. Thinking about last night.

So when the boiling water sloshes up the side of the pot and licks across your hand, it takes you a second too long to react.

You curse under your breath, jerking back from the stovetop. The pot wobbles. The pain blooms sharp and fast across your skin.

“Shit,” you mutter, clutching your palm.

Emmett’s beside you in an instant.

“What happened?”

“Nothing, I just—” You try to hide it, but he’s already taken your wrist, gently turning your hand toward the light.

His touch is firm but careful. His thumb rests just above the burn, not pressing, just anchoring you.

“You need cold water.”

He guides you to the basin and runs the pump one-handed, keeping your hand steady beneath the spout. The water is icy, and it stings, but the pain dulls almost immediately under the shock.

You watch the water run over your fingers and down the drain. His hand is still around yours.

The silence stretches between you, but it’s not awkward. It’s something else. Something so gentle it nearly undoes you.

“I’m okay,” you whisper.

He glances up, brow furrowed, lips parted like he’s about to say something more.

You meet his eyes.

“I mean—now that you’re here,” you add, quieter.

His expression softens instantly. The crease in his forehead eases. He doesn’t look away.

The water keeps running.

He shifts, brushing a thumb over the back of your hand. It’s not part of the care. It’s not necessary but he does it anyway.

You want to cry, suddenly, from the tenderness of it. From how long it’s been since someone held you like this—not sexually, not urgently, just… held you.

You let the water run a moment longer.

Then he turns off the pump, finds a clean cloth, and pats your hand dry.

“You’ll be okay,” he says, soft. “It’s not too bad.”

You nod. Your throat’s too tight to say much else.

He pauses, still cradling your hand in his.

Then, quieter than before: “You scared me for a second.”

You look up, startled. “You?”

He gives you a faint, lopsided smile. “It’s stupid, I know. It’s just a little burn.”

You shake your head. “It’s not stupid.”

He watches you for another second. Then, slowly, reluctantly, lets your hand go.

You don’t want him to.

You’ve never been so aware of your own skin in your life.

-

After the burn is bandaged, Emmett leans back in his chair and runs a hand down his face.

“I think I’ll sleep,” he says softly.

You nod. “Yeah. Me too.”

He moves slowly, carefully. Like he always does. He leaves the curtain half-pulled between the beds, not quite a boundary, not quite a welcome. Just something in between.

You blow out the lantern and lie in the dark, staring at the ceiling. Every part of you feels flushed, warm and wired, skin too tight. You turn to your side. Then your back. Then your side again.

It’s hopeless.

You can hear him shifting too—sheets rustling, the frame creaking under his weight. A sigh. A stillness. Then another sigh.

The silence feels heavier than it should.

Then—barely above a whisper:

“Are you awake?”

You stop breathing.

“…Yeah.”

Another pause.

“Can I come over?”

His voice cracks slightly on the last word. Like he’s ashamed to ask.

Your stomach twists. You’re a bundle of nerves. Your fingers tremble where they clutch the edge of the quilt.

But you still say it.

“…Yes.”

The word barely leaves your lips before you hear the creak of his bedframe, then the soft thud of his feet on the floor. You expect him to walk around, to lift the curtain like it’s a door, to ease in beside you gently the way he’s done everything else.

But he doesn’t.

He kneels instead—crawls—up the end of your bed.

His hands move slowly along the mattress as he shifts closer, every movement deliberate and silent. He’s on all fours, his body a dark outline above you in the moonlight, knees between your legs, arms braced.

You’re spread open, barely breathing.

Your thighs are damp. Slippery with how much you want him. You know he can probably smell it, feel the heat rising off you in waves.

He doesn’t touch you.

He just hovers, his face inches from yours, gaze flicking across your features like he’s trying to memorize every tremble, every hesitation. His breath ghosts over your cheek.

He’s trying to read you, trying to see if you really meant yes.

You can barely swallow. Your mouth is dry. Your heart is thudding so loud you’re afraid he can hear it.

But still, you hold his gaze. Still, you nod.

When you finally whisper, “I want you,” you feel the moment he lets go.

His head dips, his mouth finds yours and nothing in the world is quiet anymore.

You don’t remember the first stroke of his hand, only the way your body melted under it, a soft, silent plea you couldn’t put words to.

Emmett kisses like he’s starved for it. Like he’s tried not to imagine this and failed.

You part your lips, and he groans into your mouth. It’s not loud, not reckless. It’s barely more than breath—but it’s raw, and it’s real. You feel it everywhere.

His hand skims your side, under your shirt, callused fingers brushing the soft curve of your waist. You twitch, instinctively trying to hide, but he follows. Strokes you gently. Reverently.

“You okay?” he whispers, voice frayed.

You nod.

“Say it.”

You swallow, shivering. “I’m okay.”

His hand dips lower. You suck in a breath when his fingers find the waistband of your sleep shorts. You half expect him to ask permission again.

He doesn’t. He just slips his fingers inside—and moans when he feels how wet you are.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he breathes. “Jesus.”

You hide your face in his neck.

He’s not letting you go anywhere. His hand moves slow and sure, two fingers gliding through your slick folds, teasing the edge of your cunt before circling up to your clit. He watches you come apart—eyelashes fluttering, lips parted, hips grinding helplessly against his hand.

You cling to him, whisper his name.

He kisses your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.

When you come, he doesn’t stop. He just keeps whispering, “That’s it, that’s it, I’ve got you,” while your whole body arches into him.

You expect him to stop after, but he doesn’t.

He lifts his hand, brings his fingers to his mouth, and tastes you.

Your breath catches. “Emmett—”

“I’ve thought about this,” he murmurs. “So many times.” His hand slides behind your knee and pushes your leg open wider. “Don’t think I’ll last long.”

You reach for him—shaky, eager, not shy anymore—and push his sweatpants down just enough.

When he presses the head of his cock against you, your mouth falls open. He’s thick. Hot. The pressure is steady, relentless.

He pushes in slowly.

Your body stretches around him, clutching tight, and he groans—this low, wrecked sound like he’s never felt anything like this before.

You both go still once he’s fully inside.

He buries his face in your neck. “Okay?”

You nod, dazed. “Yeah.”

“Need to move,” he rasps.

You wrap your legs around his waist. “Please.”

When he starts to thrust, it’s not rough. It’s deep. Purposeful, like he wants to fill every part of you.

You clutch at his back. Press your face into his shoulder. You try not to cry from how good it feels. How needed. How real.

“I’ve got you,” he says again. And he does.

You both fall apart in the dark, holding nothing back.

tagging @shittyprofilebutfuckit  @kittygirl6344  @kristinecharmm  @lau219  @meister95

[youthereader]

Oh shit there's suddenly like 700 of you here now 😳

Howdy guys and gals and non binary pals

[youthereader]

That old man actually has no effect on me any more

[youthereader]

PEDRO PASCAL at the gym in Los Angeles | August 05, 2025

[youthereader]

couldn't be me

[youthereader]

him before picking me up at the church altar

[youthereader]

HUSBAND

[youthereader]

Critical Mass

pairing: Reed Richards (Fantastic Four) x villian!Reader

summary: 4.4k words. You're a supervillain. Reed Richards is the bane of your existence—and also the only man you’ve ever met who can keep up with you, mentally and physically.

rating: E -- phew. there's a lot. PWP. Enemies with Benefits. Size Kink. Reed... stretches. Overstimulation. Anal & Vaginal Fingering. Facefucking. Mild degradation. Power play. More vibes than plot, honestly.

a/n: this is silly and filthy and idk what else to tell you. Enjoy! 💙

He showed up earlier than you predicted. You made it ten minutes, maybe twelve, before the sensors even spiked, and there he was: hair mussed from running his hands through it, gloves mismatched, eyes narrowed.

God, he was so easy.

You stood at the edge of the singularity chamber with your arms folded, a grin playing at the corner of your mouth. “Stretch,” you purred. “You made it. How… punctual.”

“Shut it down.”

“No ‘hello’? No ‘wow, look at this magnificent thing you’ve built using tech you definitely didn’t steal from me’?”

He stepped forward with tight shoulders and a clenched jaw, clearly trying not to stare at the way your suit hugged your thighs. It was red today—tight, high-collared, zippered only to mid-sternum—and you knew exactly how it played on every single one of his weaknesses.

“You’re going to destabilize the layer,” he said, voice sharp and low. “This configuration—”

“—is more stable than your original, actually,” you interrupted. “I patched your math. Don’t worry. I left a post-it.”

He blinked once. Twice. “What post-it.”

You waved toward the rim of the singularity. “You’ll find it. Eventually.”

He stared at the breach, then back at you. “You don’t get to just… alter quantum scaffolding and call it a gift.”

You tilted your head. “Why not? You do it all the time. Usually without lube.”

That earned you a twitch of the jaw. Maybe even a swallowed smile. But he didn’t let it surface.

“I should arrest you,” he muttered.

“But then you wouldn’t get to see the next surprise.”

He exhaled through his nose. A tell. You knew them all by now—what annoyed him, what thrilled him, what pulled that frown just a little deeper. You lived for it. Every expression he made was like music, a new data point on a chart you weren’t supposed to be tracking.

He turned to disable the breach. His fingers moved too quickly, a little desperate.

“You’re not gonna ask what it does?”

“I don’t need to.”

“Then why’d you come?”

He didn’t answer.

Behind you, a hiss echoed. Smooth. Familiar.

Reed stiffened again—not at the breach this time.

“Is that—?”

“Say hello to Reed,” you said, turning slightly as your pet—an elegant boa constrictor with glossy scales—coiled at your feet. “He likes you. I trained him to respond to stress hormones and brooding.”

“You named your snake after me?”

“No,” you said sweetly. “I named him after what you do when I wear red.”

You expected him to storm out. You expected fury.

Instead: a sharp exhale, the briefest flicker of something electric behind his eyes.

And then he said it—quiet, rough:

“…That suit’s new.”

Bingo.

“Shut it down,” he said again, stepping closer. Too close. You could see the faint scuff marks on his gloves, the fine stress lines in his brow. Reed Richards, king of composure, looked like he wanted to strangle you.

You smirked. “You always this bossy, Stretch, or is it just with me?”

“You’re destabilizing a cross-dimensional barrier.” His voice was taut, clipped — but his eyes? Oh, they were giving you everything. “One miscalculation and you could rip a hole straight into—”

“—into something terrifying and world-ending?” You gave a slow shrug, arching an eyebrow. “And yet here you are. Every time. Like you can’t resist watching me work.”

“Resist?” His jaw tightened. “You’re a criminal.”

You stepped forward, close enough to feel the warmth of his body through that pristine blue suit of his. “Maybe. Or maybe you just like chasing me too much to admit I’m smarter than you.”

That did it. His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist, stopping just short of the zipper of your suit. His grip wasn’t painful — it was controlled, trembling slightly with the tension he refused to name.

“Don’t,” he warned.

“Don’t what?” You tilted your head, the barest hint of a smile curving your lips. “Don’t keep making you look? Don’t make you wonder what I’d do if you—”

He let go of your wrist like it burned, but didn’t move back. “This… game of yours—”

“Oh, it’s a game?” You took a deliberate step into his space, eyes locking on his. “Because you look a little too worked up for someone who’s just here to scold me, Doctor.”

Reed swallowed hard. You could practically hear him trying to calculate the precise moment where his professionalism had failed. His eyes flicked over your face — your mouth — and you knew. You knew.

You leaned in just enough to let your breath brush his cheek. “Say it, Stretch.”

“Say what?”

“That you like it.” You smiled, wicked and sweet. “That you like me.”

His nostrils flared, his breath stuttered. “I don’t—”

“Oh, sure.” You reached up, trailing a single finger along the high collar of his uniform. “That’s why you’re shaking.”

He stepped back like you’d burned him, which was hilarious considering you were the one in the red suit.

“You’re reckless,” he said, and there it was—that brittle, lecturing tone he tried to use like a scalpel. “You think this is all just fun, don’t you? You breach dimensional membranes like you’re playing goddamn hopscotch.”

You grinned. “Oh no. You’re the one who plays god, remember? I’m just the heretic.”

He ignored that, jaw working as he looked past you to the still-humming containment field. “This kind of intellect—your understanding of spatial mechanics, the vector manipulation—you’re wasting it. You could be… better than this.”

You folded your arms. “Let me guess: better like you?”

He didn’t take the bait. Not directly. He exhaled slowly, like it pained him to even talk to you. Like it pained him not to.

“I read your Dyson Sphere schematics,” he said tightly. “You’re trying to brute-force a stellar collapse just to see if you can build a new kind of energy field. No testing. No safety margins. No checks.”

“I made my own sun, Stretch. You should be proud.”

He stepped forward again, eyes hard. “I’m not. I’m furious. Do you have any idea what you’re risking? What would happen if you got it wrong?”

“Not really,” you said breezily. “But I figured it might piss you off, and that’s always worth the gamble.”

He was so close again—so tense, so still. A live wire. He looked at you like you were both a miracle and a math error. His voice dropped low, almost guttural. “You are the most frustrating person I’ve ever met.”

“Oh no.” You gasped, mock-affronted. “Not even second place? What about Doom? What about Ben when he sings karaoke?”

“You’re not like them.”

That stopped you cold.

You blinked. “No?”

He looked away.

Bingo again.

“Say it,” you whispered. “Go on. Say what I am, then. A threat? A mistake?” You leaned in. “A fantasy you haven’t figured out how to solve?”

Reed’s silence was deafening. You could see the words stacked behind his teeth, all the ways he wanted to correct you—push you away—but none of them came.

You let the silence stretch (pun intended) until it felt like static. And then you laughed, soft and delighted.

“You want to arrest me, Reed? Then do it.” You held your arms out, wrists together, offering yourself up like a sacrifice. “Or maybe you just want to see how much tighter the suit gets when I breathe in.”

He looked like he was going to combust. Instead, he turned sharply on his heel and said, voice raw:

“You’re wasting everything you could be.”

And you said—gently, honestly, ruinously:

“No, Stretch. I am everything I could be. You just don’t like that it doesn’t look like you.”

You watched the line of Reed’s jaw twitch.

Not a single word came out of him. Not a rebuttal, not a command. Just breath held tight between clenched teeth, like he was performing actual calculations to keep himself from combusting.

Good. Let him burn.

You took a slow, deliberate step closer. He didn’t move. Another step, and you were well into his space—close enough to hear the subtle hum of his suit’s energy signature, close enough to smell ozone and soap and suppressed tension.

You smiled, soft and saccharine.

“So,” you murmured, tilting your head, “what’s next, Stretch? Another condescending lecture about how I’m wasting my potential? Or are you just mad that I figured out how to drive you crazy in a catsuit?”

He stayed rigid, but his eyes followed your every movement like a wolf tracking a pulse.

“If I didn’t know better,” you continued, barely a breath away now, “I’d think you wanted to touch me.”

Still nothing. His breathing was deeper now, slower, like he was trying not to snap.

Your hand rose and, with just a single finger, you dragged a line down the center of his chest, right over the insignia stretched across his sternum. His body didn’t move, but you felt the shift—like coiled wires thrumming just beneath his skin.

“You get so wound up,” you said, almost kindly. “All that genius and not a clue what to do with someone who doesn’t play by your rules.”

His eyes darkened.

You leaned in, lips close enough to brush against his if either of you tilted even slightly. Your voice was silk-wrapped venom.

“What would you do, Reed, if I kissed you right now?”

His mouth parted like he might answer.

But you reached up and touched his jaw instead, soft and slow and entirely without fear.

That was the moment he snapped.

It wasn’t tentative or hesitant or controlled. His hands were on you in a heartbeat, one gripping the back of your neck, the other curling around your waist as he yanked you into him like gravity had finally given up the lie. His mouth found yours in a hard, desperate kiss—ferocious and furious, like he was trying to devour every word you’d ever said that had driven him to madness.

You gasped into him, and he took it like a prize. You laughed against his mouth, and he growled low in his throat, kissing you harder.

You’d known it would be like this—inevitable, explosive, inevitable. Precision bleeding into chaos.

When he finally pulled back, your lips were swollen, your breath ragged, your hands fisted in the seams of his suit.

“Took you long enough,” you whispered, triumphant.

He stared at you like you’d undone the very fabric of his life, then kissed you again.

This time, it was worse.

And better. There was no going back.

His mouth crushed yours, rougher than you expected—hard, punishing, relentless. One hand twisted into your hair, not for show, but to hold you still as he kissed you like he hated that he’d waited this long.

You gasped, the sharp tug jerking your head back just enough for him to follow and bite down on your bottom lip. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t pause. He devoured.

You didn’t expect him to indulge so fast, so soon. It was thrilling. You’d thought you’d have to draw it out, push him to the brink. But apparently Reed Richards was already at the edge, and you’d just given him permission to fall.

You met him with teeth and tongue, clawing at the collar of his suit, your bodies smashing together like colliding particles. Groping turned competitive—he grabbed your ass, so you ground your hips against him; you pulled at his zipper, he shoved you into a console. You bit his lip, and he groaned into your mouth like it hurt and turned him on in equal measure.

He tasted like fury and precision and weeks of restraint breaking down.

When you laughed—breathless, smug, riding the high of your victory—he growled and hooked a leg behind yours, taking you down.

You hit the floor with a thud, elbows scraping against the cold metal. He followed, landing over you in a controlled sprawl, hips pinning yours, his hand pressing into your chest just hard enough to knock the air from your lungs.

You grinned up at him, even as your pulse pounded.

“Overwhelmed, Stretch?”

He grabbed your jaw in one hand, his thumb dragging your lip down.

“Shut up,” he said.

Then he tore open your suit like he’d been dreaming of doing it. The zipper went down in one violent motion, and your suit peeled away like silk. You didn’t even get a second to laugh again. His mouth was back on yours, and then lower, and then gone again as he pushed his own uniform out of the way with shaking hands.

No pretense. No buildup. He was done pretending.

He lined up and slammed into you in a single thrust that knocked every smug word out of your mouth. The noise you made was raw, involuntary, punched out of your lungs by the force of it.

You blinked up at him, stunned and delighted.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

He didn’t slow down.

You could feel the difference the second he bottomed out—thick, pulsing, deep enough to make your thighs tremble. But then he moved, and you realized he wasn’t just big.

He was stretching inside you.

Not metaphorically. Not just because you were full.

Actually stretching, growing thicker, longer with every thrust—experimental, deliberate, controlled even in his chaos. Your breath hitched. Your fingers scrabbled at the floor, searching for purchase on anything solid as your body adjusted and struggled to accommodate him.

He was watching your face like he expected you to tell him to stop. Like he was waiting for you to panic.

You didn’t.

Instead, you laughed—a high, breathless thing that tore through your throat. You wrapped your legs around him tighter and tipped your head back with a grin.

“C’mon, Stretch,” you gasped. “That all you’ve got?”

He slammed into you so hard your head knocked back against the floor. The rhythm was merciless after that—piston-slick and unforgiving, every stroke punching up into a spot so deep it made your vision blur.

He was quiet except for his breath, but his expression was murderous. Focused. Like he was dissecting you from the inside out and loving every second.

When you came the first time, it wasn’t graceful. It hit like a lightning strike—white heat exploding through your spine, your whole body jerking underneath him.

And that’s when he did it.

He stretched again. Thicker. Just enough to rip another cry out of you—louder this time, sharper. Your cunt spasmed around the sudden pressure, and your orgasm folded in on itself, surged again, dragged you up and over until you were sobbing into your own arm, legs shaking.

You didn’t even realize he’d slipped a hand down until his fingers circled your clit, rubbing fast and wet. The pleasure built too quick, too hot. You thrashed, hips jerking as another climax surged up—this one violent, wrung out of you by the obscene fullness and friction.

And then you squirted—a hard gush between your thighs, uncontrolled, humiliating in the most perfect way. You whimpered through it, legs kicking weakly against his sides as he slowed, finally, finally easing the pressure but not pulling out.

You were soaked. Messy. Gasping like you’d run a marathon.

He stayed inside you, hips locked, chest rising hard.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then his hand—gentle now—brushed your face, smoothing damp hair from your forehead. His breath still ragged, his voice scraped and soft.

“Are you okay?”

You blinked up at him, throat raw, cunt still fluttering around him with aftershocks. And you smiled.

“Do it again.”

His eyes darkened. He kissed your temple like it was reverent.

And then he moved.

You were still stretched around him, soaked and twitching, when he started to move again—slow at first, like he thought you might flinch, like he might regret it.

You didn’t.

You locked your ankles around his back and dug your nails into his biceps, pulling him back down, daring him to keep going.

“Don’t fucking stop,” you rasped, voice wrecked.

His expression shifted—control fracturing again, pupils blown wide as he rocked his hips forward. Not hard this time. Deep. He was watching your face with laser focus, like he wanted to memorize every twitch and breath and tremble.

“You want it like this?” he asked, rough and low, a challenge hidden in the reverence.

You nodded, but it wasn’t enough. He paused, buried inside you, and let his cock thicken again—stretching you wider, fuller, dangerously close to too much.

You cried out, hips jerking. It wasn’t pain. It was too good. Too much.

Your hands scrabbled at his back, fingers slipping against sweat and heat. You felt your cunt spasm again around him, so full you could barely breathe, and he started to move—slow and brutal, grinding in deep on every pass.

It hit different this time. Overstretched and slick, your body too raw to take it and too greedy to stop. The friction was obscene. Wet and messy, slapping skin and open gasps, and he was everywhere—inside you, over you, under your skin.

You came again too fast, sobbing through it, your thighs quivering uncontrollably as he fucked you through it, stretching every nerve to its snapping point.

Your body gave out first. You spasmed hard around him, then your legs dropped open, limp. You couldn’t close them if you tried.

He didn't slow. Didn’t give you time to recover.

He kissed you then—hot and deep and reverent—and pressed his palm flat between your hips and your ribs like he was holding the mess inside you. You whimpered into his mouth, brain static, body gone.

“More,” you whispered, even as you trembled. “God, just—more.”

His groan was so low it vibrated against your chest. He wrapped one arm behind your shoulders, the other under your knee, and shifted the angle until your spine arched up into him, legs flung open like a gift.

The next thrust made you scream.

You squirted again, hot and helpless, soaking the floor beneath you with a gush that made his breath catch. You sobbed through it, brain blank with sensation, body convulsing in waves that didn’t stop.

This time, he stilled.

His hands smoothed over your thighs, your waist, your sides—touches gone gentle now, reverent again. His mouth moved along your jaw, down your neck, whispering nothing, everything.

He was still hard inside you. Still thick, still pulsing. But he didn’t push anymore. Just stayed there, letting you twitch and gasp and cling to his suit with unsteady fingers.

When your breathing finally slowed, he looked down at you.

“You okay?” he murmured again, voice hoarse.

You blinked up at him, tear-streaked and grinning.

“Still not enough.”

He groaned, dropped his head to your shoulder, and laughed—deep and guttural and fucking wrecked.

“God help me,” he whispered. “You’re going to kill me.”

You kissed his temple.

“Only if I don’t come first.”

He slid out of you with a slick, obscene sound that made your whole body jolt. You grunted, already clenching around nothing, slick dripping down your thighs in thick strings that caught the light. His cock was wet and shining, twitching with the need to bury itself back where it belonged.

You could barely breathe, splayed out under him, cunt fluttering, nerves fried. But he didn’t move—not yet. He held you against his chest instead, both of you panting, his hands running slowly down your back like he was trying to memorize the shape of you through the fog of what he’d just done.

Your cheek pressed against his neck. You could feel his pulse, hot and pounding.

It should’ve been over. You were wrecked. Too full. Too sore.

But your hips twitched, searching for friction, for pressure, for more.

Your fingers clutched at him blindly, dragging yourself higher up on his chest until your mouth brushed his ear.

Again.

You keened the word into his skin like a plea, like a curse, like a command.

His body stiffened. His hands gripped your thighs.

You rolled against him, breath ragged, thighs slipping around his waist, your cunt still hot and soaked and ready.

“Stretch for me,” you whispered.

And he did.

His cock pressed back into you, thick and aching, stretching you open all over again. But this time, as you moaned into his neck, he moved differently—slow, precise, relentless. One arm braced under you to hold your limp, boneless weight steady.

Then came the fingers.

One slid lower, brushing your ass before easing in—not tentative, not timid. A thick finger pushing past resistance, slicked with your own wetness, curling inside you as you gasped.

And another… longer. Reaching.

You realized too late that it wasn’t from the same hand.

You lifted your head, eyes going wide as another stretch of him pressed against your lips—his third hand, fully extended, molding around your jaw, coaxing your mouth open.

You whimpered and opened for him, tongue slick and eager. The digit slid in, long and slow and perfect, pressing over your tongue, stroking the back of your throat.

He fucked you like that—body to body, one finger filling your ass, another stretching your throat, your cunt stuffed full and pulsing, draped over him like an offering.

Your eyes rolled back.

Your body seized.

And still, he gave you more.

You were already shaking when he started to move harder—slow at first, deliberate, like he was savoring every noise you made with that finger in your mouth and the other buried deep in your ass. His cock drove into you at a merciless rhythm, hitting every battered, overstimulated nerve inside you, dragging out sob after sob as your body twitched uselessly against him.

It built fast—too fast.

There was no edge to crawl toward this time. No warning.

Just your muscles locking, your spine arching, and then a scream that tore from your throat around the finger still lodged deep inside it. You came like you were being wrung out—loud, violent, everything clenching and fluttering and pulsing around every inch of him inside you. Slick gushed down your thighs. Your arms flailed and then went limp.

The scream dissolved into gasps, then into nothing.

And then—black.

You didn’t even know you’d passed out.

When you came to, you were lying flat on your back on something soft—some sort of blanket or coat spread across the floor, your thighs still parted, trembling. You blinked up at the ceiling, chest rising in small, shallow pants.

A warm cloth passed slowly between your legs.

You shuddered and tried to flinch away, but you didn’t have it in you. Your arms felt like lead. Your muscles were boneless, your cunt still pulsing gently with aftershocks.

Reed was kneeling between your thighs, naked to the waist, eyes soft behind his sweat-mussed curls. His expression was unreadable—somewhere between clinical focus and guilt. Not because of what he’d done. But because of how far he’d taken you.

His hands were steady as he cleaned the mess from your skin—gathering everything you’d spilled, gently wiping your thighs, your folds, the sore stretch of your entrance. He was careful with every stroke, working slowly, barely pressing down, like your whole body was made of glass.

You could feel how wet everything still was. How open you still were.

He didn’t say anything. Just worked in silence, breath slow, the occasional flick of his eyes checking your face for signs of pain.

When he finished, he set the cloth aside and shifted closer, gathering your limp body against his chest. One arm looped around your back. The other cupped the back of your head.

He stroked your spine.

Up. Down. Up. Down. Gentle. Reassuring.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t tease him. Couldn’t make some sly comment about how smug he usually was, how exhausting it was to fuck a hero with a god complex.

You just breathed.

He kept holding you. It was quiet.

He lifted you with care, cradling your body against his chest like something precious and ruined. You were too spent to speak, too limp to tease, but you didn’t need to. He laid you gently onto the bed, cool sheets beneath your back, your legs still parted from how thoroughly he’d used you.

You blinked up at him, dazed and wrecked, as he knelt between your thighs again. You thought he might finally be done.

He wasn’t.

His mouth found you again, tongue slow and deep, licking into your swollen cunt like you were the first real thing he’d ever tasted. You whimpered, trembling under the assault, overwhelmed and unable to stop him. You didn’t want to stop him.

“I can’t,” you whispered, half-gasp, half-laugh. “I can’t come again.”

He didn’t reply. He just groaned softly into you, fingers spreading your folds so he could lick deeper, slower, savoring your twitching moans like they were equations he’d solved by instinct. Your hips bucked once, uselessly. You gave up and let him have you.

When he finally pulled back, your skin was wet and flushed and trembling. His cock was still hard—still untouched, flushed an angry red, leaking at the tip.

He looked at you like he didn’t know what he wanted more: to touch you again, or come so hard he forgot his own name.

And that’s when you opened your mouth.

“Give it to me,” you rasped. “I want to taste it. Want your come in my mouth.”

He stared at you like you’d just handed him a nuclear core.

Then he crawled up the bed, hovering over you, one hand bracing beside your head, the other wrapped tight around the base of his cock.

You opened your mouth wider, let your tongue loll out just a little, still spread open and wrecked beneath him.

“Please,” you whispered, half-smiling. “Be a hero.”

His breath stuttered.

He jerked himself faster, watching your mouth like he couldn’t believe it. The moment he came, it was with a broken gasp and a low, trembling moan—hot spurts landing across your tongue, your lips, your waiting throat.

You swallowed around him, eyes fluttering closed, every nerve still buzzing.

When he finished, he cupped your jaw gently and bent down to kiss you—soft and grateful, tasting himself on your lips.

He pulled back, panting, and reached for something off the side table. A cool glass pressed to your lips—electrolytes. You drank, slow and obedient, your body too heavy to move.

As he stood to go, you watched him through slitted eyes, still breathless.

“Always have to save someone, huh, Stretch?”

He stopped at the door. You didn’t see his expression, but you heard him laugh—soft and shaken.

Then he was gone, and you were alone in the dark, dripping, full, and still smiling.

😚 ty for reading

[youthereader]

Critical Mass

pairing: Reed Richards (Fantastic Four) x villian!Reader

summary: 4.4k words. You're a supervillain. Reed Richards is the bane of your existence—and also the only man you’ve ever met who can keep up with you, mentally and physically.

rating: E -- phew. there's a lot. PWP. Enemies with Benefits. Size Kink. Reed... stretches. Overstimulation. Anal & Vaginal Fingering. Facefucking. Mild degradation. Power play. More vibes than plot, honestly.

a/n: this is silly and filthy and idk what else to tell you. Enjoy! 💙

He showed up earlier than you predicted. You made it ten minutes, maybe twelve, before the sensors even spiked, and there he was: hair mussed from running his hands through it, gloves mismatched, eyes narrowed.

God, he was so easy.

You stood at the edge of the singularity chamber with your arms folded, a grin playing at the corner of your mouth. “Stretch,” you purred. “You made it. How… punctual.”

“Shut it down.”

“No ‘hello’? No ‘wow, look at this magnificent thing you’ve built using tech you definitely didn’t steal from me’?”

He stepped forward with tight shoulders and a clenched jaw, clearly trying not to stare at the way your suit hugged your thighs. It was red today—tight, high-collared, zippered only to mid-sternum—and you knew exactly how it played on every single one of his weaknesses.

“You’re going to destabilize the layer,” he said, voice sharp and low. “This configuration—”

“—is more stable than your original, actually,” you interrupted. “I patched your math. Don’t worry. I left a post-it.”

He blinked once. Twice. “What post-it.”

You waved toward the rim of the singularity. “You’ll find it. Eventually.”

He stared at the breach, then back at you. “You don’t get to just… alter quantum scaffolding and call it a gift.”

You tilted your head. “Why not? You do it all the time. Usually without lube.”

That earned you a twitch of the jaw. Maybe even a swallowed smile. But he didn’t let it surface.

“I should arrest you,” he muttered.

“But then you wouldn’t get to see the next surprise.”

He exhaled through his nose. A tell. You knew them all by now—what annoyed him, what thrilled him, what pulled that frown just a little deeper. You lived for it. Every expression he made was like music, a new data point on a chart you weren’t supposed to be tracking.

He turned to disable the breach. His fingers moved too quickly, a little desperate.

“You’re not gonna ask what it does?”

“I don’t need to.”

“Then why’d you come?”

He didn’t answer.

Behind you, a hiss echoed. Smooth. Familiar.

Reed stiffened again—not at the breach this time.

“Is that—?”

“Say hello to Reed,” you said, turning slightly as your pet—an elegant boa constrictor with glossy scales—coiled at your feet. “He likes you. I trained him to respond to stress hormones and brooding.”

“You named your snake after me?”

“No,” you said sweetly. “I named him after what you do when I wear red.”

You expected him to storm out. You expected fury.

Instead: a sharp exhale, the briefest flicker of something electric behind his eyes.

And then he said it—quiet, rough:

“…That suit’s new.”

Bingo.

“Shut it down,” he said again, stepping closer. Too close. You could see the faint scuff marks on his gloves, the fine stress lines in his brow. Reed Richards, king of composure, looked like he wanted to strangle you.

You smirked. “You always this bossy, Stretch, or is it just with me?”

“You’re destabilizing a cross-dimensional barrier.” His voice was taut, clipped — but his eyes? Oh, they were giving you everything. “One miscalculation and you could rip a hole straight into—”

“—into something terrifying and world-ending?” You gave a slow shrug, arching an eyebrow. “And yet here you are. Every time. Like you can’t resist watching me work.”

“Resist?” His jaw tightened. “You’re a criminal.”

You stepped forward, close enough to feel the warmth of his body through that pristine blue suit of his. “Maybe. Or maybe you just like chasing me too much to admit I’m smarter than you.”

That did it. His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist, stopping just short of the zipper of your suit. His grip wasn’t painful — it was controlled, trembling slightly with the tension he refused to name.

“Don’t,” he warned.

“Don’t what?” You tilted your head, the barest hint of a smile curving your lips. “Don’t keep making you look? Don’t make you wonder what I’d do if you—”

He let go of your wrist like it burned, but didn’t move back. “This… game of yours—”

“Oh, it’s a game?” You took a deliberate step into his space, eyes locking on his. “Because you look a little too worked up for someone who’s just here to scold me, Doctor.”

Reed swallowed hard. You could practically hear him trying to calculate the precise moment where his professionalism had failed. His eyes flicked over your face — your mouth — and you knew. You knew.

You leaned in just enough to let your breath brush his cheek. “Say it, Stretch.”

“Say what?”

“That you like it.” You smiled, wicked and sweet. “That you like me.”

His nostrils flared, his breath stuttered. “I don’t—”

“Oh, sure.” You reached up, trailing a single finger along the high collar of his uniform. “That’s why you’re shaking.”

He stepped back like you’d burned him, which was hilarious considering you were the one in the red suit.

“You’re reckless,” he said, and there it was—that brittle, lecturing tone he tried to use like a scalpel. “You think this is all just fun, don’t you? You breach dimensional membranes like you’re playing goddamn hopscotch.”

You grinned. “Oh no. You’re the one who plays god, remember? I’m just the heretic.”

He ignored that, jaw working as he looked past you to the still-humming containment field. “This kind of intellect—your understanding of spatial mechanics, the vector manipulation—you’re wasting it. You could be… better than this.”

You folded your arms. “Let me guess: better like you?”

He didn’t take the bait. Not directly. He exhaled slowly, like it pained him to even talk to you. Like it pained him not to.

“I read your Dyson Sphere schematics,” he said tightly. “You’re trying to brute-force a stellar collapse just to see if you can build a new kind of energy field. No testing. No safety margins. No checks.”

“I made my own sun, Stretch. You should be proud.”

He stepped forward again, eyes hard. “I’m not. I’m furious. Do you have any idea what you’re risking? What would happen if you got it wrong?”

“Not really,” you said breezily. “But I figured it might piss you off, and that’s always worth the gamble.”

He was so close again—so tense, so still. A live wire. He looked at you like you were both a miracle and a math error. His voice dropped low, almost guttural. “You are the most frustrating person I’ve ever met.”

“Oh no.” You gasped, mock-affronted. “Not even second place? What about Doom? What about Ben when he sings karaoke?”

“You’re not like them.”

That stopped you cold.

You blinked. “No?”

He looked away.

Bingo again.

“Say it,” you whispered. “Go on. Say what I am, then. A threat? A mistake?” You leaned in. “A fantasy you haven’t figured out how to solve?”

Reed’s silence was deafening. You could see the words stacked behind his teeth, all the ways he wanted to correct you—push you away—but none of them came.

You let the silence stretch (pun intended) until it felt like static. And then you laughed, soft and delighted.

“You want to arrest me, Reed? Then do it.” You held your arms out, wrists together, offering yourself up like a sacrifice. “Or maybe you just want to see how much tighter the suit gets when I breathe in.”

He looked like he was going to combust. Instead, he turned sharply on his heel and said, voice raw:

“You’re wasting everything you could be.”

And you said—gently, honestly, ruinously:

“No, Stretch. I am everything I could be. You just don’t like that it doesn’t look like you.”

You watched the line of Reed’s jaw twitch.

Not a single word came out of him. Not a rebuttal, not a command. Just breath held tight between clenched teeth, like he was performing actual calculations to keep himself from combusting.

Good. Let him burn.

You took a slow, deliberate step closer. He didn’t move. Another step, and you were well into his space—close enough to hear the subtle hum of his suit’s energy signature, close enough to smell ozone and soap and suppressed tension.

You smiled, soft and saccharine.

“So,” you murmured, tilting your head, “what’s next, Stretch? Another condescending lecture about how I’m wasting my potential? Or are you just mad that I figured out how to drive you crazy in a catsuit?”

He stayed rigid, but his eyes followed your every movement like a wolf tracking a pulse.

“If I didn’t know better,” you continued, barely a breath away now, “I’d think you wanted to touch me.”

Still nothing. His breathing was deeper now, slower, like he was trying not to snap.

Your hand rose and, with just a single finger, you dragged a line down the center of his chest, right over the insignia stretched across his sternum. His body didn’t move, but you felt the shift—like coiled wires thrumming just beneath his skin.

“You get so wound up,” you said, almost kindly. “All that genius and not a clue what to do with someone who doesn’t play by your rules.”

His eyes darkened.

You leaned in, lips close enough to brush against his if either of you tilted even slightly. Your voice was silk-wrapped venom.

“What would you do, Reed, if I kissed you right now?”

His mouth parted like he might answer.

But you reached up and touched his jaw instead, soft and slow and entirely without fear.

That was the moment he snapped.

It wasn’t tentative or hesitant or controlled. His hands were on you in a heartbeat, one gripping the back of your neck, the other curling around your waist as he yanked you into him like gravity had finally given up the lie. His mouth found yours in a hard, desperate kiss—ferocious and furious, like he was trying to devour every word you’d ever said that had driven him to madness.

You gasped into him, and he took it like a prize. You laughed against his mouth, and he growled low in his throat, kissing you harder.

You’d known it would be like this—inevitable, explosive, inevitable. Precision bleeding into chaos.

When he finally pulled back, your lips were swollen, your breath ragged, your hands fisted in the seams of his suit.

“Took you long enough,” you whispered, triumphant.

He stared at you like you’d undone the very fabric of his life, then kissed you again.

This time, it was worse.

And better. There was no going back.

His mouth crushed yours, rougher than you expected—hard, punishing, relentless. One hand twisted into your hair, not for show, but to hold you still as he kissed you like he hated that he’d waited this long.

You gasped, the sharp tug jerking your head back just enough for him to follow and bite down on your bottom lip. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t pause. He devoured.

You didn’t expect him to indulge so fast, so soon. It was thrilling. You’d thought you’d have to draw it out, push him to the brink. But apparently Reed Richards was already at the edge, and you’d just given him permission to fall.

You met him with teeth and tongue, clawing at the collar of his suit, your bodies smashing together like colliding particles. Groping turned competitive—he grabbed your ass, so you ground your hips against him; you pulled at his zipper, he shoved you into a console. You bit his lip, and he groaned into your mouth like it hurt and turned him on in equal measure.

He tasted like fury and precision and weeks of restraint breaking down.

When you laughed—breathless, smug, riding the high of your victory—he growled and hooked a leg behind yours, taking you down.

You hit the floor with a thud, elbows scraping against the cold metal. He followed, landing over you in a controlled sprawl, hips pinning yours, his hand pressing into your chest just hard enough to knock the air from your lungs.

You grinned up at him, even as your pulse pounded.

“Overwhelmed, Stretch?”

He grabbed your jaw in one hand, his thumb dragging your lip down.

“Shut up,” he said.

Then he tore open your suit like he’d been dreaming of doing it. The zipper went down in one violent motion, and your suit peeled away like silk. You didn’t even get a second to laugh again. His mouth was back on yours, and then lower, and then gone again as he pushed his own uniform out of the way with shaking hands.

No pretense. No buildup. He was done pretending.

He lined up and slammed into you in a single thrust that knocked every smug word out of your mouth. The noise you made was raw, involuntary, punched out of your lungs by the force of it.

You blinked up at him, stunned and delighted.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

He didn’t slow down.

You could feel the difference the second he bottomed out—thick, pulsing, deep enough to make your thighs tremble. But then he moved, and you realized he wasn’t just big.

He was stretching inside you.

Not metaphorically. Not just because you were full.

Actually stretching, growing thicker, longer with every thrust—experimental, deliberate, controlled even in his chaos. Your breath hitched. Your fingers scrabbled at the floor, searching for purchase on anything solid as your body adjusted and struggled to accommodate him.

He was watching your face like he expected you to tell him to stop. Like he was waiting for you to panic.

You didn’t.

Instead, you laughed—a high, breathless thing that tore through your throat. You wrapped your legs around him tighter and tipped your head back with a grin.

“C’mon, Stretch,” you gasped. “That all you’ve got?”

He slammed into you so hard your head knocked back against the floor. The rhythm was merciless after that—piston-slick and unforgiving, every stroke punching up into a spot so deep it made your vision blur.

He was quiet except for his breath, but his expression was murderous. Focused. Like he was dissecting you from the inside out and loving every second.

When you came the first time, it wasn’t graceful. It hit like a lightning strike—white heat exploding through your spine, your whole body jerking underneath him.

And that’s when he did it.

He stretched again. Thicker. Just enough to rip another cry out of you—louder this time, sharper. Your cunt spasmed around the sudden pressure, and your orgasm folded in on itself, surged again, dragged you up and over until you were sobbing into your own arm, legs shaking.

You didn’t even realize he’d slipped a hand down until his fingers circled your clit, rubbing fast and wet. The pleasure built too quick, too hot. You thrashed, hips jerking as another climax surged up—this one violent, wrung out of you by the obscene fullness and friction.

And then you squirted—a hard gush between your thighs, uncontrolled, humiliating in the most perfect way. You whimpered through it, legs kicking weakly against his sides as he slowed, finally, finally easing the pressure but not pulling out.

You were soaked. Messy. Gasping like you’d run a marathon.

He stayed inside you, hips locked, chest rising hard.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then his hand—gentle now—brushed your face, smoothing damp hair from your forehead. His breath still ragged, his voice scraped and soft.

“Are you okay?”

You blinked up at him, throat raw, cunt still fluttering around him with aftershocks. And you smiled.

“Do it again.”

His eyes darkened. He kissed your temple like it was reverent.

And then he moved.

You were still stretched around him, soaked and twitching, when he started to move again—slow at first, like he thought you might flinch, like he might regret it.

You didn’t.

You locked your ankles around his back and dug your nails into his biceps, pulling him back down, daring him to keep going.

“Don’t fucking stop,” you rasped, voice wrecked.

His expression shifted—control fracturing again, pupils blown wide as he rocked his hips forward. Not hard this time. Deep. He was watching your face with laser focus, like he wanted to memorize every twitch and breath and tremble.

“You want it like this?” he asked, rough and low, a challenge hidden in the reverence.

You nodded, but it wasn’t enough. He paused, buried inside you, and let his cock thicken again—stretching you wider, fuller, dangerously close to too much.

You cried out, hips jerking. It wasn’t pain. It was too good. Too much.

Your hands scrabbled at his back, fingers slipping against sweat and heat. You felt your cunt spasm again around him, so full you could barely breathe, and he started to move—slow and brutal, grinding in deep on every pass.

It hit different this time. Overstretched and slick, your body too raw to take it and too greedy to stop. The friction was obscene. Wet and messy, slapping skin and open gasps, and he was everywhere—inside you, over you, under your skin.

You came again too fast, sobbing through it, your thighs quivering uncontrollably as he fucked you through it, stretching every nerve to its snapping point.

Your body gave out first. You spasmed hard around him, then your legs dropped open, limp. You couldn’t close them if you tried.

He didn't slow. Didn’t give you time to recover.

He kissed you then—hot and deep and reverent—and pressed his palm flat between your hips and your ribs like he was holding the mess inside you. You whimpered into his mouth, brain static, body gone.

“More,” you whispered, even as you trembled. “God, just—more.”

His groan was so low it vibrated against your chest. He wrapped one arm behind your shoulders, the other under your knee, and shifted the angle until your spine arched up into him, legs flung open like a gift.

The next thrust made you scream.

You squirted again, hot and helpless, soaking the floor beneath you with a gush that made his breath catch. You sobbed through it, brain blank with sensation, body convulsing in waves that didn’t stop.

This time, he stilled.

His hands smoothed over your thighs, your waist, your sides—touches gone gentle now, reverent again. His mouth moved along your jaw, down your neck, whispering nothing, everything.

He was still hard inside you. Still thick, still pulsing. But he didn’t push anymore. Just stayed there, letting you twitch and gasp and cling to his suit with unsteady fingers.

When your breathing finally slowed, he looked down at you.

“You okay?” he murmured again, voice hoarse.

You blinked up at him, tear-streaked and grinning.

“Still not enough.”

He groaned, dropped his head to your shoulder, and laughed—deep and guttural and fucking wrecked.

“God help me,” he whispered. “You’re going to kill me.”

You kissed his temple.

“Only if I don’t come first.”

He slid out of you with a slick, obscene sound that made your whole body jolt. You grunted, already clenching around nothing, slick dripping down your thighs in thick strings that caught the light. His cock was wet and shining, twitching with the need to bury itself back where it belonged.

You could barely breathe, splayed out under him, cunt fluttering, nerves fried. But he didn’t move—not yet. He held you against his chest instead, both of you panting, his hands running slowly down your back like he was trying to memorize the shape of you through the fog of what he’d just done.

Your cheek pressed against his neck. You could feel his pulse, hot and pounding.

It should’ve been over. You were wrecked. Too full. Too sore.

But your hips twitched, searching for friction, for pressure, for more.

Your fingers clutched at him blindly, dragging yourself higher up on his chest until your mouth brushed his ear.

Again.

You keened the word into his skin like a plea, like a curse, like a command.

His body stiffened. His hands gripped your thighs.

You rolled against him, breath ragged, thighs slipping around his waist, your cunt still hot and soaked and ready.

“Stretch for me,” you whispered.

And he did.

His cock pressed back into you, thick and aching, stretching you open all over again. But this time, as you moaned into his neck, he moved differently—slow, precise, relentless. One arm braced under you to hold your limp, boneless weight steady.

Then came the fingers.

One slid lower, brushing your ass before easing in—not tentative, not timid. A thick finger pushing past resistance, slicked with your own wetness, curling inside you as you gasped.

And another… longer. Reaching.

You realized too late that it wasn’t from the same hand.

You lifted your head, eyes going wide as another stretch of him pressed against your lips—his third hand, fully extended, molding around your jaw, coaxing your mouth open.

You whimpered and opened for him, tongue slick and eager. The digit slid in, long and slow and perfect, pressing over your tongue, stroking the back of your throat.

He fucked you like that—body to body, one finger filling your ass, another stretching your throat, your cunt stuffed full and pulsing, draped over him like an offering.

Your eyes rolled back.

Your body seized.

And still, he gave you more.

You were already shaking when he started to move harder—slow at first, deliberate, like he was savoring every noise you made with that finger in your mouth and the other buried deep in your ass. His cock drove into you at a merciless rhythm, hitting every battered, overstimulated nerve inside you, dragging out sob after sob as your body twitched uselessly against him.

It built fast—too fast.

There was no edge to crawl toward this time. No warning.

Just your muscles locking, your spine arching, and then a scream that tore from your throat around the finger still lodged deep inside it. You came like you were being wrung out—loud, violent, everything clenching and fluttering and pulsing around every inch of him inside you. Slick gushed down your thighs. Your arms flailed and then went limp.

The scream dissolved into gasps, then into nothing.

And then—black.

You didn’t even know you’d passed out.

When you came to, you were lying flat on your back on something soft—some sort of blanket or coat spread across the floor, your thighs still parted, trembling. You blinked up at the ceiling, chest rising in small, shallow pants.

A warm cloth passed slowly between your legs.

You shuddered and tried to flinch away, but you didn’t have it in you. Your arms felt like lead. Your muscles were boneless, your cunt still pulsing gently with aftershocks.

Reed was kneeling between your thighs, naked to the waist, eyes soft behind his sweat-mussed curls. His expression was unreadable—somewhere between clinical focus and guilt. Not because of what he’d done. But because of how far he’d taken you.

His hands were steady as he cleaned the mess from your skin—gathering everything you’d spilled, gently wiping your thighs, your folds, the sore stretch of your entrance. He was careful with every stroke, working slowly, barely pressing down, like your whole body was made of glass.

You could feel how wet everything still was. How open you still were.

He didn’t say anything. Just worked in silence, breath slow, the occasional flick of his eyes checking your face for signs of pain.

When he finished, he set the cloth aside and shifted closer, gathering your limp body against his chest. One arm looped around your back. The other cupped the back of your head.

He stroked your spine.

Up. Down. Up. Down. Gentle. Reassuring.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t tease him. Couldn’t make some sly comment about how smug he usually was, how exhausting it was to fuck a hero with a god complex.

You just breathed.

He kept holding you. It was quiet.

He lifted you with care, cradling your body against his chest like something precious and ruined. You were too spent to speak, too limp to tease, but you didn’t need to. He laid you gently onto the bed, cool sheets beneath your back, your legs still parted from how thoroughly he’d used you.

You blinked up at him, dazed and wrecked, as he knelt between your thighs again. You thought he might finally be done.

He wasn’t.

His mouth found you again, tongue slow and deep, licking into your swollen cunt like you were the first real thing he’d ever tasted. You whimpered, trembling under the assault, overwhelmed and unable to stop him. You didn’t want to stop him.

“I can’t,” you whispered, half-gasp, half-laugh. “I can’t come again.”

He didn’t reply. He just groaned softly into you, fingers spreading your folds so he could lick deeper, slower, savoring your twitching moans like they were equations he’d solved by instinct. Your hips bucked once, uselessly. You gave up and let him have you.

When he finally pulled back, your skin was wet and flushed and trembling. His cock was still hard—still untouched, flushed an angry red, leaking at the tip.

He looked at you like he didn’t know what he wanted more: to touch you again, or come so hard he forgot his own name.

And that’s when you opened your mouth.

“Give it to me,” you rasped. “I want to taste it. Want your come in my mouth.”

He stared at you like you’d just handed him a nuclear core.

Then he crawled up the bed, hovering over you, one hand bracing beside your head, the other wrapped tight around the base of his cock.

You opened your mouth wider, let your tongue loll out just a little, still spread open and wrecked beneath him.

“Please,” you whispered, half-smiling. “Be a hero.”

His breath stuttered.

He jerked himself faster, watching your mouth like he couldn’t believe it. The moment he came, it was with a broken gasp and a low, trembling moan—hot spurts landing across your tongue, your lips, your waiting throat.

You swallowed around him, eyes fluttering closed, every nerve still buzzing.

When he finished, he cupped your jaw gently and bent down to kiss you—soft and grateful, tasting himself on your lips.

He pulled back, panting, and reached for something off the side table. A cool glass pressed to your lips—electrolytes. You drank, slow and obedient, your body too heavy to move.

As he stood to go, you watched him through slitted eyes, still breathless.

“Always have to save someone, huh, Stretch?”

He stopped at the door. You didn’t see his expression, but you heard him laugh—soft and shaken.

Then he was gone, and you were alone in the dark, dripping, full, and still smiling.

😚 ty for reading

[youthereader]

please write more for jim (28 days later figured you'd know but just in case) we as society need more jim fics 🙏

thank you for the request bb! and you're absolutely right 🥰

The wind creeps in through the cracked upstairs window, but you're warm under the blankets, your skin sticking faintly to his. The farmhouse is quiet tonight. Still. Just the two of you and the creak of the old floorboards cooling down.

Jim kisses your shoulder. His skin is warm, his chest rising against your back with steady breaths. He’s clean now — you both are — but he hadn’t looked at you much in the bath. Still doesn’t. Not directly.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice barely there.

You turn toward him a little, peering over your shoulder. “You always say that like you’re waiting for me to argue.”

He huffs, barely a smile. “Just feels... unreal.”

His hand finds your hip under the blanket. His touch is gentle, fingers slow, like he’s making sure he doesn’t spook you. His thumb moves in slow circles on your bare skin.

“I keep thinking I’ll wake up back in that hospital,” he says. “Alone.”

“You’re not,” you tell him. “You’re here.”

He nods, then leans in and kisses you again — slower this time, deeper. He’s always careful at first, but it doesn’t take long for the tension to build. You shift closer and feel him hard against your thigh, his breath catching when you move your hand to his chest.

He kisses like he’s figuring it out as he goes. No bravado, no rush — just the kind of hunger that sneaks up on him. You let the blankets fall back as he shifts over you, his hand sliding up from your hip to your ribs.

“You feel so fucking good,” he whispers, almost like he doesn’t mean for you to hear it.

“Yeah?” you ask, coaxing. “Tell me what else.”

Jim blushes — that warm flush you love. But he doesn’t stop. He swallows, licks his lips, and keeps his hand moving over your stomach.

“I think about this. About you.” His voice is low, but steady. “All the time. You touching me. Saying my name. The way you look when you come.”

Your breath hitches, and you feel the heat pulse low in your belly.

“Keep going,” you murmur.

He groans softly, pressing his hips to yours. “I think about how proud you sound when I make you come. Like I did something right.”

You slide your leg over his, pulling him between your thighs. “You always do it right.”

Jim kisses your neck, then the spot just under your ear, his voice rough now. “Let me do it now.”

“You don’t have to ask,” you whisper, breathless. “Touch me.”

You shift beneath him, spreading your legs wider as his hand slides down your thigh. He kisses you again, slower this time, tongue brushing yours like he’s trying to memorize the taste. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark, focused, mouth slightly parted.

“You’re so wet already,” he says, like it surprises him. He drags his fingers through the slick heat between your thighs and exhales hard, forehead resting against yours. “Jesus.”

You rock into his hand, chasing the friction, but it’s not enough — not yet.

“Want your mouth,” you whisper. “Come on, Jim.”

He doesn’t hesitate. That shyness, that second-guessing, falls away when he’s between your legs. You feel him kiss the inside of your thigh first — once, twice — before he licks a stripe up your cunt, slow and reverent. You jerk, hips twitching, and his hands come up to hold your thighs open.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice rough. “You taste so fucking good.”

Your head falls back against the pillow. He’s not teasing — not even trying to build it up. Jim eats you out like it’s his whole job, like the end of the world means nothing as long as he can do this.

He groans into you, tongue flicking over your clit, slow and steady, then flat and broad. He pulls back just long enough to speak, voice wrecked: “You’re perfect like this. You know that? God, I love how you sound.”

Your thighs tremble in his grip. He doesn’t stop.

Every moan you give him makes him hungrier. He sucks your clit into his mouth and moans, tongue circling until your hands are in his hair, gripping tight.

“You like that?” he murmurs against you. “Like when I talk like this?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Fuck, Jim—don’t stop.”

He drags his tongue down again, dipping into your cunt with a quiet, desperate groan. “I think about this all the time,” he says. “When I’m trying to sleep. When you bend over to get water. I’d live between your legs if you let me.”

You laugh — a breathy, ruined sound — and he smiles into you, then gets serious again, licking you with slow, deep strokes, like he wants to taste everything you’ve got.

You’re shaking now, the edge sharp and fast. His tongue presses against your clit just right, over and over, and your breath starts to stutter.

“Come for me,” Jim pants, pulling back just far enough to speak clearly. “Please, baby. Come on, I need it. Want to feel you fall apart.”

You don’t stand a chance.

Your orgasm hits fast, tight and hot, your hips lifting off the bed as you cry out his name. Jim groans, eyes fluttering closed like it’s happening to him too. He holds you through it, tongue gentling as you tremble against his mouth.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice shaking. “You’re everything. You hear me?”

You’re still catching your breath when he kisses your inner thigh, then your hipbone, then rests his head against your stomach like he’s trying to steady himself. His hair is damp with sweat, and his breath comes in shaky bursts. You run your fingers through it, feeling the tremble in his shoulders.

“Jim,” you murmur, voice hoarse from moaning. “Get up here, pretty boy.”

His head lifts. There’s that stunned look again, like he doesn’t quite believe you want him — even after all this time.

You reach for his underwear, sliding your fingers under the waistband. “Off.”

He swallows hard and nods. Doesn’t say anything — just strips out of them, his cock flushed and leaking, bobbing slightly as he moves over you. You wrap your hand around him and he gasps, hips jerking into your palm.

“Fuck, you’re so hard,” you whisper, stroking him once, slow. “Did that do it for you?”

Jim shudders. “Are you kidding? I nearly came just from the way you said my name.”

You guide him between your legs, slick and ready, lining him up with your entrance. You wrap your legs around his hips, pulling him close. “Come on, baby. I want you inside.”

He pushes in slowly, burying his face in your neck as he does. The stretch makes you gasp, and he groans — a deep, raw sound in your ear — like he’s been waiting for this forever.

“Oh my god,” he pants. “You feel so fucking good.”

You grip his back, fingers digging into his skin, legs locked tight around him. “Don’t go slow,” you whisper. “Not unless you need to.”

He pulls out and thrusts in again, harder this time, and you both moan at once. It’s still careful — he always is at first — but that need is rising fast, swallowing him whole. His hips stutter. He’s trying to keep control. Failing.

You bite your lip, trying to keep your voice steady. “Fuck me, Jim. Like you mean it.”

That does it.

He starts moving with real rhythm now, deep and rough, his hands gripping the headboard for leverage as the bed creaks beneath you. You cry out as he slams into you again, all heat and sweat and pressure, no space between your bodies.

“Is this what you wanted?” he growls, voice gone. “You like it when I lose it for you?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Harder.”

He gives it to you. Fucks you like he’s coming apart — panting, swearing, whispering your name like it’s the only thing holding him together.

“I’m not gonna last,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel too good—I can’t—fuck—”

“Come inside,” you whisper. “I want to feel it.”

He chokes on a sound, hips jerking. “Fuck—fuck, I’m—”

And then he’s gone, falling apart above you, groaning through clenched teeth as he spills inside you, hips grinding through it, like he can’t bear to stop.

When it finally starts to ebb, he slumps, chest heaving, forehead pressed hard to yours. You’re both soaked in sweat, hearts racing in sync, breath tangling in the small space between you.

“Christ almighty,” he whispers, dazed and wrecked.

You laugh — a warm, broken sound — and his mouth twitches at the corner. His eyes are still closed, like he’s trying to recover, to process it all at once.

“You alright?” you ask, voice low and teasing as your hands roam his back.

“I think I died a little.”

“You’re still inside me, so don’t go too far.”

He lets out a soft groan, part laugh, part overwhelmed sigh. “Fuck. You’re gonna kill me.”

You grin and kiss him — not gently, not sweet — just kiss him hard, like you need to anchor him there with you. His lips move against yours with the same lazy intensity as his hips, still grinding faintly as you clench around him, unwilling to let him go just yet.

“Still hard?” you murmur between kisses.

“Don’t tempt me,” he breathes, voice rough, eyes fluttering open.

“You love it.”

He nods. Just a twitch of his head. “Yeah,” he says, voice honest and soft. “Yeah, I do.”

You kiss him again, slower now. It’s all tongue and breath and heat, and you feel him twitch inside you. Still sensitive. Still pulsing faintly.

You break the kiss and tuck your face into the crook of his neck, inhaling the salt of sweat and faint soap from the earlier bath. “I like when you talk like that,” you admit. “When you let yourself say what you want.”

He hums, wrapping his arms around you. “I’ll get better at it,” he promises, kissing the side of your head. “You make it easy.”

The room feels quiet now, even with your hearts still pounding. Outside, the wind rustles the trees, and the bed creaks faintly as you shift, still wrapped up together, still joined.

“I don’t want to move yet,” you say, hand splayed over the warm skin of his back.

“You don’t have to.” Jim kisses your jaw, then your cheek. “I could stay here all night.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “As long as you keep calling me pretty boy.”

You laugh again, soft and sleepy. “You are pretty.”

He groans into your skin, embarrassed and glowing.

“You’re a menace,” he mutters, but he doesn’t stop smiling.

[youthereader]

Some Kind of Shelter part 2

pairing: emmett (a quiet place) x fem!reader

summary: 1.7k words. In this safe place, you sign up for the community’s newest effort: structured pairings; an attempt to re-populate. It’s not an arranged marriage exaclty, but it’s hope.

rating: E (for eventual smut; none in this part). age gap (15+ years), angst. touched-starved mutual pining. arranged marriage (of sorts). so much yearning! voyeurism, masturbation.

a/n: thank you for your enthusiasm so far! ❤️

part 1.

You wake alone.

The bed is still warm beside you, the quilt rumpled where he must have been only minutes earlier. Emmett is gone, boots and jacket and all. The cabin feels too quiet, too still, without the sound of his breath or the occasional shuffle of his weight in sleep.

You stretch in the empty space, fingers brushing the dent where his body had been. The imprint is somehow more intimate than his actual presence. You close your eyes and breathe it in.

You spend the morning keeping busy—cleaning the windows, splitting kindling, helping a neighbor carry a broken chair back to her porch. Anything to stay out of your head. Anything to keep your hands full and your mouth from remembering how close his had been to yours. That kiss on the cheek still lives in your skin like a secret.

He returns around midday, the door swinging open with a soft creak.

You glance up from where you’re slicing root vegetables, trying to pretend your stomach hasn’t been fluttering all morning, waiting for that sound.

He looks tired. Not wounded, not broken—but worn around the edges. The way someone looks when they’ve been needed too much for too long.

You offer him a smile. “Hungry?”

“Always,” he says, voice scratchy.

You hand him a bowl. He doesn’t sit at the table—just leans against the counter beside you and eats in silence, like being close is enough. You try not to stare at the shape of his hands around the spoon, the way his eyes drift closed for a second between bites.

“You should rest,” you say gently. “Just for a bit. I’ll be quiet.”

He blinks slowly. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” you cut in. “But if you don’t lie down now, you’ll fall asleep standing up.”

He huffs a laugh, soft and warm. “You’re bossy.”

“Only when I’m right.”

He finishes the stew. He washes the bowl without being asked. Then he drags himself to the bed, boots kicked off in the corner. You pull the quilt over him, careful not to let it rustle too loud.

You leave but don't go far—just outside, where the sun warms the stones and the air smells faintly of earth. You sit on the porch steps, book in your lap, eyes drifting shut between pages.

You hear him before you see him.

The door creaks again, but this time slowly. You hear bare feet on wood. A long pause.

You look up—and there he is. Shirt wrinkled, hair a mess, eyes soft with the warmth of half-sleep. He blinks at you like he’s surprised you’re still there.

He sits beside you, thigh brushing yours, and says nothing.

His presence is a gravity you can’t resist.

You don’t lean into him but you long to.

-

The second night is harder.

He’s quiet as he gets ready for bed—quieter than usual. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask how your day was, but his shoulder brushes yours as he passes, and his hand lingers just a second too long when he passes you the water pitcher.

You feel it, the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not looking. The way his breath catches when you reach up to fix the curtain, your shirt lifting just enough to show the skin of your side. The tension between you isn’t sharp. It’s thick, almost unbearable.

You lie in bed beneath the quilt, the curtain drawn, your back to the room, trying to sleep.

Trying, but you feel him, and hear him.

It starts quiet. Just the creak of the bedframe, subtle and rhythmic. At first you think it might be shifting weight, a muscle twitch, nothing.

Then the sound changes. Soft, steady friction beneath his breath. The faintest hitch.

Your body goes still. You don’t move. Don’t breathe. You only listen.

He’s trying to be quiet. You can tell. The pace of it, the restraint. He’s careful. Controlled. But every few seconds you catch it: the tiniest gasp, the quiet grunt barely swallowed. His hand moving slow. Firm. Deliberate.

You go hot all over.

You should turn over. Cough. Do anything to let him know you’re awake. But you don’t.

You lie perfectly still, body prickling under the quilt, heart thudding like it wants to crawl up into your throat. Your thighs press together, aching. You press your lips closed to stop yourself from making a sound.

You don’t mean to listen. You just do.

You imagine his hand—those strong, careful fingers—wrapped around himself. His eyes closed. Maybe his other hand over his mouth. You imagine him thinking of something, someone. You imagine it’s you.

Your breath comes shallow, almost shaking. You ache to touch yourself, but you don’t dare.

You just listen, stunned and aroused and unbearably still.

Then—silence.

A sharp breath. A soft sigh. The bedsprings shift. A rustle of cloth. A long, slow exhale.

You don’t move. You can’t. Your skin feels too tight, your lungs too shallow. You lie there trembling, aching, wondering if he knows. If he suspects.

Wondering if he thought of you.

-

You avoid his eyes the next morning.

You can feel the heat rising in your face before he even speaks. And when he does—a simple “Morning”—it nearly undoes you.

You murmur something back, too soft to hear, and busy yourself pouring water into the basin like it’s the most urgent task in the world. You don’t dare glance at him. Not with the sound of last night still echoing in your head. The low, controlled breaths. The faint, desperate rhythm of it. The way your body had curled in on itself in answer, tense and hot and aching.

Now, with him moving behind you—setting the table, pouring tea—you can’t stop seeing it. His hands. His mouth. The way he must have looked, forehead damp with sweat, lips parted, throat bare.

Your stomach twists.

He’s quiet with you. Not cold, just… careful. Like he can sense something’s shifted, even if he doesn’t know why.

You’re careful too. Too careful.

When your hands brush at the table, you flinch like it burns.

He pulls back. Says nothing.

You spend the rest of the day working farther from the cabin than usual, helping in the gardens and organizing supply baskets near the ferry dock. Anything that keeps you busy. Anything that keeps you moving.

Anything that keeps you away from him.

But in the late afternoon, while carrying a crate of seed potatoes to the shed, you pass the old church steps—and see them.

Two of the newly paired from the same program. A couple weeks ahead of you. Laughing, hands all over each other. One of them—a young man, barely older than you—leans in to nuzzle his partner’s neck, murmuring something loud enough to carry:

“Four times last night.”

You stop mid-step, startled.

The woman with him blushes, but grins. “You’re lying.”

“Swear it. Ask anyone in the next cabin.”

She giggles, swatting his shoulder.

You force yourself to keep walking.

But the words stick.

Four times.

Whether or not it’s true doesn’t matter. What matters is that they look happy. Fulfilled. Like the whole point of this program—the pairing, the pressure, the proximity—is working for them.

Yet you can barely speak to Emmett without your face catching fire.

You feel behind. Broken. Like you’ve missed some unspoken checkpoint you were meant to reach by now.

By the time you reach the cabin again, the light has shifted. Shadows stretch long across the floor. You hesitate at the door, hand on the knob.

You dread going in but not because of him.

It's because of what you’re supposed to be doing with him. The thing neither of you has said out loud yet. If he looks at you too gently, you’re afraid you might cry.

-

The cabin is warm when you step inside. He’s already back—jacket slung over the chair, hands washed, sleeves rolled to the elbows as he stirs something in the pot over the fire.

You close the door quietly, unsure what to say. Unsure if he knows. If he felt it, the way you did. The silence stretches long as he serves two bowls and sets them on the table without a word.

You sit across from him, head bowed.

The spoon clinks against the bowl with each bite. You taste garlic and something earthy, maybe lentils, but you can’t focus. Not on food, not on anything but the way his forearms look against the wood table. The way his throat moves when he swallows.

You feel like your skin doesn’t fit right anymore.

And just when you think you might crack from the weight of it all—

“I’m not mad.”

You look up. His voice is quiet but steady.

“What?”

“I just…” He sits back in his chair, eyes on his bowl. “I know I’ve been quiet. But I’m not mad. At you.”

Your throat tightens. “I didn’t think you were.”

He nods slowly. “Good.”

Another pause. Then he shifts, looking up at you. His eyes are soft. Heavy with something you can’t name.

“You’ve been different today.”

Your stomach flips.

“I know,” you whisper.

“I thought maybe I scared you.”

Your heart twists.

“No,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “Not scared.”

He watches you carefully, like he’s turning something over in his mind.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he says. “I didn’t—I wouldn’t ever do anything to push this too fast. I know this situation… it’s weird. And new. And you didn’t ask for it.”

Neither did he, you think. But he’s still trying. Still here.

You open your mouth. Close it again. Then, quietly:

“I heard you last night.”

He goes very still.

You look down at your bowl, your cheeks burning. “I wasn’t trying to. I was already awake and I didn’t want to embarrass you. Or stop you. I just—”

He exhales slowly. A sound full of exhaustion and something like shame.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

Silence again. But not the heavy, painful kind. Not anymore.

You lift your eyes to meet his. He looks like he wants to say something else—something that might tip this whole fragile balance.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he nods, and says:

“Thank you for telling me.”

It’s a relief, his honesty. The way he doesn’t recoil. The way he sees you and doesn’t flinch.

You finish your meal in silence. But this time, it’s a good silence. A full one.

Wen he clears the dishes and glances over his shoulder, it’s with the barest, gentlest trace of a smile.

tagging: @shittyprofilebutfuckit @kittygirl6344 @kristinecharmm @lau219 @meister95

[youthereader]

"This person has a secret onlyfans!" "This artist does NSFW commissions!" "This author writes porn on the side!" I cannot begin to tell you how swag and awesome that is.

[youthereader]

please write more for jim (28 days later figured you'd know but just in case) we as society need more jim fics 🙏

thank you for the request bb! and you're absolutely right 🥰

The wind creeps in through the cracked upstairs window, but you're warm under the blankets, your skin sticking faintly to his. The farmhouse is quiet tonight. Still. Just the two of you and the creak of the old floorboards cooling down.

Jim kisses your shoulder. His skin is warm, his chest rising against your back with steady breaths. He’s clean now — you both are — but he hadn’t looked at you much in the bath. Still doesn’t. Not directly.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice barely there.

You turn toward him a little, peering over your shoulder. “You always say that like you’re waiting for me to argue.”

He huffs, barely a smile. “Just feels... unreal.”

His hand finds your hip under the blanket. His touch is gentle, fingers slow, like he’s making sure he doesn’t spook you. His thumb moves in slow circles on your bare skin.

“I keep thinking I’ll wake up back in that hospital,” he says. “Alone.”

“You’re not,” you tell him. “You’re here.”

He nods, then leans in and kisses you again — slower this time, deeper. He’s always careful at first, but it doesn’t take long for the tension to build. You shift closer and feel him hard against your thigh, his breath catching when you move your hand to his chest.

He kisses like he’s figuring it out as he goes. No bravado, no rush — just the kind of hunger that sneaks up on him. You let the blankets fall back as he shifts over you, his hand sliding up from your hip to your ribs.

“You feel so fucking good,” he whispers, almost like he doesn’t mean for you to hear it.

“Yeah?” you ask, coaxing. “Tell me what else.”

Jim blushes — that warm flush you love. But he doesn’t stop. He swallows, licks his lips, and keeps his hand moving over your stomach.

“I think about this. About you.” His voice is low, but steady. “All the time. You touching me. Saying my name. The way you look when you come.”

Your breath hitches, and you feel the heat pulse low in your belly.

“Keep going,” you murmur.

He groans softly, pressing his hips to yours. “I think about how proud you sound when I make you come. Like I did something right.”

You slide your leg over his, pulling him between your thighs. “You always do it right.”

Jim kisses your neck, then the spot just under your ear, his voice rough now. “Let me do it now.”

“You don’t have to ask,” you whisper, breathless. “Touch me.”

You shift beneath him, spreading your legs wider as his hand slides down your thigh. He kisses you again, slower this time, tongue brushing yours like he’s trying to memorize the taste. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark, focused, mouth slightly parted.

“You’re so wet already,” he says, like it surprises him. He drags his fingers through the slick heat between your thighs and exhales hard, forehead resting against yours. “Jesus.”

You rock into his hand, chasing the friction, but it’s not enough — not yet.

“Want your mouth,” you whisper. “Come on, Jim.”

He doesn’t hesitate. That shyness, that second-guessing, falls away when he’s between your legs. You feel him kiss the inside of your thigh first — once, twice — before he licks a stripe up your cunt, slow and reverent. You jerk, hips twitching, and his hands come up to hold your thighs open.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice rough. “You taste so fucking good.”

Your head falls back against the pillow. He’s not teasing — not even trying to build it up. Jim eats you out like it’s his whole job, like the end of the world means nothing as long as he can do this.

He groans into you, tongue flicking over your clit, slow and steady, then flat and broad. He pulls back just long enough to speak, voice wrecked: “You’re perfect like this. You know that? God, I love how you sound.”

Your thighs tremble in his grip. He doesn’t stop.

Every moan you give him makes him hungrier. He sucks your clit into his mouth and moans, tongue circling until your hands are in his hair, gripping tight.

“You like that?” he murmurs against you. “Like when I talk like this?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Fuck, Jim—don’t stop.”

He drags his tongue down again, dipping into your cunt with a quiet, desperate groan. “I think about this all the time,” he says. “When I’m trying to sleep. When you bend over to get water. I’d live between your legs if you let me.”

You laugh — a breathy, ruined sound — and he smiles into you, then gets serious again, licking you with slow, deep strokes, like he wants to taste everything you’ve got.

You’re shaking now, the edge sharp and fast. His tongue presses against your clit just right, over and over, and your breath starts to stutter.

“Come for me,” Jim pants, pulling back just far enough to speak clearly. “Please, baby. Come on, I need it. Want to feel you fall apart.”

You don’t stand a chance.

Your orgasm hits fast, tight and hot, your hips lifting off the bed as you cry out his name. Jim groans, eyes fluttering closed like it’s happening to him too. He holds you through it, tongue gentling as you tremble against his mouth.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice shaking. “You’re everything. You hear me?”

You’re still catching your breath when he kisses your inner thigh, then your hipbone, then rests his head against your stomach like he’s trying to steady himself. His hair is damp with sweat, and his breath comes in shaky bursts. You run your fingers through it, feeling the tremble in his shoulders.

“Jim,” you murmur, voice hoarse from moaning. “Get up here, pretty boy.”

His head lifts. There’s that stunned look again, like he doesn’t quite believe you want him — even after all this time.

You reach for his underwear, sliding your fingers under the waistband. “Off.”

He swallows hard and nods. Doesn’t say anything — just strips out of them, his cock flushed and leaking, bobbing slightly as he moves over you. You wrap your hand around him and he gasps, hips jerking into your palm.

“Fuck, you’re so hard,” you whisper, stroking him once, slow. “Did that do it for you?”

Jim shudders. “Are you kidding? I nearly came just from the way you said my name.”

You guide him between your legs, slick and ready, lining him up with your entrance. You wrap your legs around his hips, pulling him close. “Come on, baby. I want you inside.”

He pushes in slowly, burying his face in your neck as he does. The stretch makes you gasp, and he groans — a deep, raw sound in your ear — like he’s been waiting for this forever.

“Oh my god,” he pants. “You feel so fucking good.”

You grip his back, fingers digging into his skin, legs locked tight around him. “Don’t go slow,” you whisper. “Not unless you need to.”

He pulls out and thrusts in again, harder this time, and you both moan at once. It’s still careful — he always is at first — but that need is rising fast, swallowing him whole. His hips stutter. He’s trying to keep control. Failing.

You bite your lip, trying to keep your voice steady. “Fuck me, Jim. Like you mean it.”

That does it.

He starts moving with real rhythm now, deep and rough, his hands gripping the headboard for leverage as the bed creaks beneath you. You cry out as he slams into you again, all heat and sweat and pressure, no space between your bodies.

“Is this what you wanted?” he growls, voice gone. “You like it when I lose it for you?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Harder.”

He gives it to you. Fucks you like he’s coming apart — panting, swearing, whispering your name like it’s the only thing holding him together.

“I’m not gonna last,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel too good—I can’t—fuck—”

“Come inside,” you whisper. “I want to feel it.”

He chokes on a sound, hips jerking. “Fuck—fuck, I’m—”

And then he’s gone, falling apart above you, groaning through clenched teeth as he spills inside you, hips grinding through it, like he can’t bear to stop.

When it finally starts to ebb, he slumps, chest heaving, forehead pressed hard to yours. You’re both soaked in sweat, hearts racing in sync, breath tangling in the small space between you.

“Christ almighty,” he whispers, dazed and wrecked.

You laugh — a warm, broken sound — and his mouth twitches at the corner. His eyes are still closed, like he’s trying to recover, to process it all at once.

“You alright?” you ask, voice low and teasing as your hands roam his back.

“I think I died a little.”

“You’re still inside me, so don’t go too far.”

He lets out a soft groan, part laugh, part overwhelmed sigh. “Fuck. You’re gonna kill me.”

You grin and kiss him — not gently, not sweet — just kiss him hard, like you need to anchor him there with you. His lips move against yours with the same lazy intensity as his hips, still grinding faintly as you clench around him, unwilling to let him go just yet.

“Still hard?” you murmur between kisses.

“Don’t tempt me,” he breathes, voice rough, eyes fluttering open.

“You love it.”

He nods. Just a twitch of his head. “Yeah,” he says, voice honest and soft. “Yeah, I do.”

You kiss him again, slower now. It’s all tongue and breath and heat, and you feel him twitch inside you. Still sensitive. Still pulsing faintly.

You break the kiss and tuck your face into the crook of his neck, inhaling the salt of sweat and faint soap from the earlier bath. “I like when you talk like that,” you admit. “When you let yourself say what you want.”

He hums, wrapping his arms around you. “I’ll get better at it,” he promises, kissing the side of your head. “You make it easy.”

The room feels quiet now, even with your hearts still pounding. Outside, the wind rustles the trees, and the bed creaks faintly as you shift, still wrapped up together, still joined.

“I don’t want to move yet,” you say, hand splayed over the warm skin of his back.

“You don’t have to.” Jim kisses your jaw, then your cheek. “I could stay here all night.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “As long as you keep calling me pretty boy.”

You laugh again, soft and sleepy. “You are pretty.”

He groans into your skin, embarrassed and glowing.

“You’re a menace,” he mutters, but he doesn’t stop smiling.

[youthereader]

Some Kind of Shelter part 2

pairing: emmett (a quiet place) x fem!reader

summary: 1.7k words. In this safe place, you sign up for the community’s newest effort: structured pairings; an attempt to re-populate. It’s not an arranged marriage exaclty, but it’s hope.

rating: E (for eventual smut; none in this part). age gap (15+ years), angst. touched-starved mutual pining. arranged marriage (of sorts). so much yearning! voyeurism, masturbation.

a/n: thank you for your enthusiasm so far! ❤️

part 1.

You wake alone.

The bed is still warm beside you, the quilt rumpled where he must have been only minutes earlier. Emmett is gone, boots and jacket and all. The cabin feels too quiet, too still, without the sound of his breath or the occasional shuffle of his weight in sleep.

You stretch in the empty space, fingers brushing the dent where his body had been. The imprint is somehow more intimate than his actual presence. You close your eyes and breathe it in.

You spend the morning keeping busy—cleaning the windows, splitting kindling, helping a neighbor carry a broken chair back to her porch. Anything to stay out of your head. Anything to keep your hands full and your mouth from remembering how close his had been to yours. That kiss on the cheek still lives in your skin like a secret.

He returns around midday, the door swinging open with a soft creak.

You glance up from where you’re slicing root vegetables, trying to pretend your stomach hasn’t been fluttering all morning, waiting for that sound.

He looks tired. Not wounded, not broken—but worn around the edges. The way someone looks when they’ve been needed too much for too long.

You offer him a smile. “Hungry?”

“Always,” he says, voice scratchy.

You hand him a bowl. He doesn’t sit at the table—just leans against the counter beside you and eats in silence, like being close is enough. You try not to stare at the shape of his hands around the spoon, the way his eyes drift closed for a second between bites.

“You should rest,” you say gently. “Just for a bit. I’ll be quiet.”

He blinks slowly. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” you cut in. “But if you don’t lie down now, you’ll fall asleep standing up.”

He huffs a laugh, soft and warm. “You’re bossy.”

“Only when I’m right.”

He finishes the stew. He washes the bowl without being asked. Then he drags himself to the bed, boots kicked off in the corner. You pull the quilt over him, careful not to let it rustle too loud.

You leave but don't go far—just outside, where the sun warms the stones and the air smells faintly of earth. You sit on the porch steps, book in your lap, eyes drifting shut between pages.

You hear him before you see him.

The door creaks again, but this time slowly. You hear bare feet on wood. A long pause.

You look up—and there he is. Shirt wrinkled, hair a mess, eyes soft with the warmth of half-sleep. He blinks at you like he’s surprised you’re still there.

He sits beside you, thigh brushing yours, and says nothing.

His presence is a gravity you can’t resist.

You don’t lean into him but you long to.

-

The second night is harder.

He’s quiet as he gets ready for bed—quieter than usual. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask how your day was, but his shoulder brushes yours as he passes, and his hand lingers just a second too long when he passes you the water pitcher.

You feel it, the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not looking. The way his breath catches when you reach up to fix the curtain, your shirt lifting just enough to show the skin of your side. The tension between you isn’t sharp. It’s thick, almost unbearable.

You lie in bed beneath the quilt, the curtain drawn, your back to the room, trying to sleep.

Trying, but you feel him, and hear him.

It starts quiet. Just the creak of the bedframe, subtle and rhythmic. At first you think it might be shifting weight, a muscle twitch, nothing.

Then the sound changes. Soft, steady friction beneath his breath. The faintest hitch.

Your body goes still. You don’t move. Don’t breathe. You only listen.

He’s trying to be quiet. You can tell. The pace of it, the restraint. He’s careful. Controlled. But every few seconds you catch it: the tiniest gasp, the quiet grunt barely swallowed. His hand moving slow. Firm. Deliberate.

You go hot all over.

You should turn over. Cough. Do anything to let him know you’re awake. But you don’t.

You lie perfectly still, body prickling under the quilt, heart thudding like it wants to crawl up into your throat. Your thighs press together, aching. You press your lips closed to stop yourself from making a sound.

You don’t mean to listen. You just do.

You imagine his hand—those strong, careful fingers—wrapped around himself. His eyes closed. Maybe his other hand over his mouth. You imagine him thinking of something, someone. You imagine it’s you.

Your breath comes shallow, almost shaking. You ache to touch yourself, but you don’t dare.

You just listen, stunned and aroused and unbearably still.

Then—silence.

A sharp breath. A soft sigh. The bedsprings shift. A rustle of cloth. A long, slow exhale.

You don’t move. You can’t. Your skin feels too tight, your lungs too shallow. You lie there trembling, aching, wondering if he knows. If he suspects.

Wondering if he thought of you.

-

You avoid his eyes the next morning.

You can feel the heat rising in your face before he even speaks. And when he does—a simple “Morning”—it nearly undoes you.

You murmur something back, too soft to hear, and busy yourself pouring water into the basin like it’s the most urgent task in the world. You don’t dare glance at him. Not with the sound of last night still echoing in your head. The low, controlled breaths. The faint, desperate rhythm of it. The way your body had curled in on itself in answer, tense and hot and aching.

Now, with him moving behind you—setting the table, pouring tea—you can’t stop seeing it. His hands. His mouth. The way he must have looked, forehead damp with sweat, lips parted, throat bare.

Your stomach twists.

He’s quiet with you. Not cold, just… careful. Like he can sense something’s shifted, even if he doesn’t know why.

You’re careful too. Too careful.

When your hands brush at the table, you flinch like it burns.

He pulls back. Says nothing.

You spend the rest of the day working farther from the cabin than usual, helping in the gardens and organizing supply baskets near the ferry dock. Anything that keeps you busy. Anything that keeps you moving.

Anything that keeps you away from him.

But in the late afternoon, while carrying a crate of seed potatoes to the shed, you pass the old church steps—and see them.

Two of the newly paired from the same program. A couple weeks ahead of you. Laughing, hands all over each other. One of them—a young man, barely older than you—leans in to nuzzle his partner’s neck, murmuring something loud enough to carry:

“Four times last night.”

You stop mid-step, startled.

The woman with him blushes, but grins. “You’re lying.”

“Swear it. Ask anyone in the next cabin.”

She giggles, swatting his shoulder.

You force yourself to keep walking.

But the words stick.

Four times.

Whether or not it’s true doesn’t matter. What matters is that they look happy. Fulfilled. Like the whole point of this program—the pairing, the pressure, the proximity—is working for them.

Yet you can barely speak to Emmett without your face catching fire.

You feel behind. Broken. Like you’ve missed some unspoken checkpoint you were meant to reach by now.

By the time you reach the cabin again, the light has shifted. Shadows stretch long across the floor. You hesitate at the door, hand on the knob.

You dread going in but not because of him.

It's because of what you’re supposed to be doing with him. The thing neither of you has said out loud yet. If he looks at you too gently, you’re afraid you might cry.

-

The cabin is warm when you step inside. He’s already back—jacket slung over the chair, hands washed, sleeves rolled to the elbows as he stirs something in the pot over the fire.

You close the door quietly, unsure what to say. Unsure if he knows. If he felt it, the way you did. The silence stretches long as he serves two bowls and sets them on the table without a word.

You sit across from him, head bowed.

The spoon clinks against the bowl with each bite. You taste garlic and something earthy, maybe lentils, but you can’t focus. Not on food, not on anything but the way his forearms look against the wood table. The way his throat moves when he swallows.

You feel like your skin doesn’t fit right anymore.

And just when you think you might crack from the weight of it all—

“I’m not mad.”

You look up. His voice is quiet but steady.

“What?”

“I just…” He sits back in his chair, eyes on his bowl. “I know I’ve been quiet. But I’m not mad. At you.”

Your throat tightens. “I didn’t think you were.”

He nods slowly. “Good.”

Another pause. Then he shifts, looking up at you. His eyes are soft. Heavy with something you can’t name.

“You’ve been different today.”

Your stomach flips.

“I know,” you whisper.

“I thought maybe I scared you.”

Your heart twists.

“No,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “Not scared.”

He watches you carefully, like he’s turning something over in his mind.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he says. “I didn’t—I wouldn’t ever do anything to push this too fast. I know this situation… it’s weird. And new. And you didn’t ask for it.”

Neither did he, you think. But he’s still trying. Still here.

You open your mouth. Close it again. Then, quietly:

“I heard you last night.”

He goes very still.

You look down at your bowl, your cheeks burning. “I wasn’t trying to. I was already awake and I didn’t want to embarrass you. Or stop you. I just—”

He exhales slowly. A sound full of exhaustion and something like shame.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

Silence again. But not the heavy, painful kind. Not anymore.

You lift your eyes to meet his. He looks like he wants to say something else—something that might tip this whole fragile balance.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he nods, and says:

“Thank you for telling me.”

It’s a relief, his honesty. The way he doesn’t recoil. The way he sees you and doesn’t flinch.

You finish your meal in silence. But this time, it’s a good silence. A full one.

Wen he clears the dishes and glances over his shoulder, it’s with the barest, gentlest trace of a smile.

tagging: @shittyprofilebutfuckit @kittygirl6344 @kristinecharmm @lau219 @meister95

[youthereader]

Cillian Murphy for Versace (2024)

[youthereader]

Control Group

pairing: Reed Richards x wife!Reader

summary: 5.8k words You and Reed Richards have been together for years. You run the labs, balance the mission schedules, and occasionally have kitchen-floor sex when the mood strikes. Everyone thinks you’re the one in control. And you are—until Reed asks if he can experiment on your body.

rating & tags: E,whoo boy. Soft Dom!Reed Richards, Established Relationship, Slice of Life, Science Kink, Orgasm Denial, Facefucking, Cunnilingus, Light Bondage, Blindfolds, Praise Kink, Power Dynamics, Sensory Play, Edge Play, Slow Sex, Rough Sex, Aftercare

a/n: I wanted to write something lighter and a little silly! No angst, just porn and domestic bliss! I deserve it. WE deserve it. Right???

By the time you got home, your hair smelled like burnt silicone, you were missing an earring, and your entire body felt like one long muscle cramp. The day had included: one failed coolant system, three anxiety attacks (none of them yours, miraculously), and a moment in Lab 3B where Reed muttered, “This shouldn’t be glowing,” before everyone evacuated.

He hadn’t looked away from the console in four hours. His tie was tucked into his shirt like he forgot how clothing worked. You didn’t even comment on it. Not today.

The apartment was dim and silent when you both entered. You kicked off your shoes and beelined for the kitchen. Reed trailed after you a few minutes later like a sad, genius ghost, still mumbling to himself.

You poured a glass of water and sat on the counter. You let your head fall back against the cabinet with a soft thud.

Behind you, Reed paced. “I still think it was the vibrational resonance interacting with the EM shield. If I had recalibrated the field generator—”

“Reed.”

“—or adjusted the amplitude manually before the cascade—”

You reached up blindly and waved a hand at him. He paused when you made contact with his stomach.

“Honey, stop. We’re home.”

He stood still, the warmth of his body radiating through the worn cotton of his shirt. His voice dropped. “Sorry. You’re right.”

You cracked one eye open to look at him. Hair everywhere. Sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Tension etched into every line of his face.

You softened. “You want me to make you a sandwich or sit on your face?”

He blinked. “Are those my only options?”

“Tonight, yeah.”

He stared at you. Then stepped closer. You dropped your hand from his stomach, and he filled the space between your knees. His hands landed on either side of your thighs on the counter, caging you in. You could feel the shift—subtle but there.

“I want to try something,” he said.

“That better not be a euphemism for another experiment.”

“It is an experiment,” he said. “But not a theoretical one.”

Your brows lifted. “Oh?”

He tilted his head, eyes raking down your body like he was recalibrating you too. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while now. I’d like to see how far I can push you. Sexually.”

You stared at him.

Reed Richards, Mr. Emotionally Repressed, had just calmly proposed exploring your physical limits like he was planning a blood test.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “Is this a seduction or your next grant proposal?”

He leaned in. “Can it be both?”

You snorted. “God, you’re lucky you’re hot.”

That made him smile. Not his usual distracted little half-twitch, but a real one—hungry and sharp at the edges. You shivered.

“I’m serious,” he said. “I’ve been working through some ideas. Different types of stimulation, how your body responds under pressure, whether vocal praise enhances arousal—”

You slid down from the counter and pulled your sweatshirt off in one smooth motion.

Reed’s voice faltered.

You stepped out of your joggers and stood in your underwear, barefoot on the tile. “So go on then, Professor. Experiment.”

He looked like you’d short-circuited his brain.

You stepped forward and hooked your fingers in his belt. “Do you want me on my knees, or do you want to guide me down?”

His breath hitched. Just once. He recovered quickly.

“I’ll guide you,” he said softly. “If that’s alright.”

You nodded. “Yes, Reed.”

He kissed you—firm and focused, a rare kind of kiss from him, the kind that meant he was truly present. You barely had time to savor it before he turned you around and walked you backward to the couch. He didn’t rush. Every touch was deliberate. Like he was cataloging you again from scratch.

When your knees hit the couch cushion, he paused. “You’re okay?”

“I’m excellent.”

Reed brushed your hair off your shoulder. Then he kissed you again—lighter this time, but with that same precision. Like he was lining something up inside his own head. You dropped to your knees.

You looked up at him, and he looked down at you like he wanted to bottle the image for future analysis.

“Open your mouth,” he said.

You did.

He unzipped his pants and drew himself out, already half-hard. Your lips parted further as he stroked himself once, twice, and then pressed the head against your tongue.

“Let me know if it’s too much,” he murmured, cupping your jaw. “Or if you want more.”

The first push was slow—testing your depth. He watched you like he was tracking data points, his other hand sliding into your hair to cradle the back of your head. He pulled out, let you breathe, then pushed back in a little deeper.

“Good,” he said, voice low. “You’re doing so well for me.”

You moaned around him. His hips stuttered.

The thrusts became firmer. Deeper. He gripped your hair tighter, using it for leverage. You relaxed your throat and let him use you, hands resting on his thighs for balance.

It was filthy. Intimate. Reverent.

Reed murmured every observation like a prayer. “You take me so well. You’re warmer than I expected. Softer. Fuck, that’s perfect—look at you.”

He started to fuck into your mouth in earnest then, slow but intent, his breathing heavy and ragged.

“I didn’t know it would feel like this,” he whispered. “I thought about it. I planned it. But this—this is better.”

You hummed in response, and his hips jerked.

When he finally pulled out, your throat was sore, your jaw aching, saliva on your chin. He dropped to his knees in front of you, cupped your face, and kissed your wet lips like they were sacred.

You laughed a little, breathless. “So… your experiment a success?”

Reed smiled. “I’d like to run it again. With variations.”

“You gonna write a paper about it?”

“No,” he said, guiding you onto the couch and between his thighs. “But I might make a chart.”

Later that night, once you'd brushed your teeth, guzzled water, and reapplied your mouth balm like a devout convert, you found Reed in bed with a tablet in his lap and the most unbothered look on his face.

You were wearing one of his undershirts and nothing else. When he looked up, he didn’t react at first. Just blinked, looked back at the screen, and said, “You really are very flexible.”

You climbed into bed, straddling his thighs, and snatched the tablet out of his hands.

On the screen was a spreadsheet.

"You're joking," you said.

He blinked again. “I’m not.”

“You made a data log.”

“I color-coded it.”

You stared at him. “You sick, brilliant bastard.”

Reed smiled. Not smug—fond. “I told you I was serious about the experiment.”

You tossed the tablet to the foot of the bed and settled more comfortably in his lap. He was already hard again beneath you. Of course he was.

“I didn’t know you liked that,” you said, voice quieter now.

He tilted his head. “Did you not notice how difficult it was for me to remain standing?”

“You usually act like sex is a pleasant side effect of affection.”

He hummed. “It is. But it’s also… fascinating. Especially with you.”

You snorted, leaning forward. “Why? Because I make so many noises you could analyze them like whale song?”

“I’d call it more of a siren call.”

You blinked.

Reed was smiling again. And blushing. Smirking and blushing at the same time. You didn’t think that was legal.

“That’s the filthiest thing you’ve ever said,” you murmured, breath ghosting over his mouth.

“I’m trying,” he whispered. “Let me try more.”

You froze.

Reed took advantage of the pause to flip you, smooth as a magician with a hidden trapdoor. One second you were on top of him; the next, your back was flat against the mattress and he was between your thighs, fully in control, not even breathing hard.

Your mouth fell open.

“I’ve also been reviewing… certain media,” he said, like he hadn’t just flipped you like a pancake. “Research.”

You raised your brows. “Porn?”

He nodded solemnly. “Yes.”

You burst out laughing.

Reed let you—just watched you laugh, eyes drinking it in. Then his hands drifted under your shirt, palms spreading over your ribs.

“I’d like to try something tonight,” he said.

You sobered slightly. “Okay.”

“I want to see what it feels like… if you let me control everything.”

You tilted your head. “You want to dom me.”

“Yes. But you can stop me at any time. I want that clear.”

Your chest ached in the best way. This was new for him. And you. But something in your gut had already said yes.

You nodded. “I trust you.”

That lit him up more than any filthy fantasy. He kissed you deeply—long, thorough, tongue slick against yours—and when he pulled back, his voice dropped.

“Keep your hands above your head. Don’t move unless I say.”

You swallowed. “Yes, Reed.”

He exhaled shakily and sat up on his knees between your legs.

You kept your hands where he told you, elbows bent, wrists crossed. It wasn’t binding—but it felt like something. A line. A line you were daring him to cross.

He pulled your shirt up and off, then sat back to look at you fully. Not rushed. Just observant.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured. “You always are. But like this…”

He bent down and licked over one nipple, slow and wet. You gasped. He sucked it into his mouth and toyed with it, tongue circling in a rhythm you couldn’t predict.

He alternated between your breasts until they were swollen and tingling. Then he kissed a path down your stomach, over the dip of your navel, down to the inside of your thigh.

He didn’t touch your cunt. Not yet. Just exhaled against it.

You writhed.

He looked up at you. “Hands.”

You froze, panting.

“Keep them there,” he said. “Or I’ll stop.”

You whimpered. “That’s evil.”

“That’s control,” he said. “Now hold still.”

Then he licked you.

Long, slow, torturous. His tongue was hot and clever and merciless. He sucked your clit until your legs shook, then slid two fingers inside you without warning, crooking them just right. Your hands fisted in the sheets but stayed above your head.

You couldn’t look at him. It was too much—his mouth, his fingers, his voice.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “You’re doing so well. Don’t come yet.”

You keened.

“I mean it,” he said. “Wait for me.”

You sobbed a laugh. “You’re—god, you’re cruel.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” he said, mouth glistening. “Let me watch you fall apart.”

Then he went back to work, tongue and fingers moving in tandem until your entire body buzzed. And when he finally said “Now,” you shattered.

It was obscene. Full-body, sobbing release. You were still coming when he crawled up your body and kissed you again.

“You okay?” he asked, still breathless.

You nodded, still high. “Better than okay.”

“I think I want to fuck you now.”

You smiled, dazed. “For science?”

He lined himself up and slid in with one smooth thrust.

“For fun,” he said.

-

It started with you elbow-deep in soapy water scrubbing burnt curry off the bottom of a pan, when you felt his hands on your hips.

You didn’t look back. “You’re not getting out of cleanup just by groping me.”

“I’m not trying to get out of it.”

He pressed against you, slow and deliberate. You could feel the hard line of his cock through his pants.

You sighed. “Reed. Not now.”

“I disagree.”

You arched a brow over your shoulder. “Yeah?”

“I think this is exactly the time to see how responsive you are under domestic conditions.”

“You’re trying to fuck me over the sink.”

“I’m trying to test a variable,” he said, voice low. “Specifically: how long I can keep you upright while fucking you from behind.”

Your breath caught.

“Reed—”

“Hands on the counter,” he said. “Don’t move.”

You dropped the sponge like it had personally offended you.

Reed flipped up your dress—some faded T-shirt thing you’d thrown on after dinner—and found you bare underneath. You heard the exhale he didn’t try to hide.

He knelt.

“Holy shit,” you gasped. “Are you—”

“Testing oral stamina while you’re otherwise occupied,” he said, then spread you open and licked up the length of your cunt.

You grabbed the counter and nearly cracked a plate.

He devoured you—truly, like a man obsessed. And it wasn’t just filthy. It was funny. You were trying to keep your knees locked, trying not to slip on the tile, trying to keep track of what he was muttering down there between licks.

“Height differential… angle of access… tensile stability of thighs…”

“Are you narrating this like it’s a goddamn peer-reviewed paper?” you rasped.

“Yes,” he said. “Now be quiet and let me finish my research.”

You came in less than a minute. Loudly. On tiptoes. With soap bubbles clinging to your elbow and a dishrag on the floor.

Afterward, Reed stood up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand like a total menace, and said, “You’re a very promising subject.”

You stared at him, still panting. “I hope you know this is going in my notes.”

-

By the end of the week, he was impossible.

He scheduled you into your own shared calendar under names like:

“Penetrative endurance trial” “Edgeplay (verbal cues only)” “Light restraint under chemical fatigue”

You changed them to:

“Makeout and fuckfest (bring electrolytes)” “Make Reed whimper” “If I don’t get to come tonight, I’m starting a fire in the lab.”

The sex got rougher. Smarter. More desperate. One night, he tied your wrists with his tie and said, “Let me take care of you.” You didn’t come down from the high for an hour.

Another time, you got so bratty during foreplay he bent you over the dining room table and spanked you with an open palm until you were wet enough to soak through your underwear.

And then there was the evening where he edged you four times before letting you come once—and told you, in the same tone he used to discuss atmospheric modeling, “You should consider doing your own laundry if you’re going to ruin your underwear this often.”

-

But nothing—nothing—prepared you for the chair.

He built it.

You weren’t sure what else to call it. It looked like a standard lab stool. But it had a shallow dip in the seat, slightly elevated foot rests, and a curved back that looked suspiciously designed for your spine.

“What is this,” you said flatly. “And should I be afraid?”

“It’s for straddling,” he said. “I wanted to see how long you could sit on my cock without moving.”

You blinked. “Just sit there?”

“Well. Not just that.”

You crossed your arms. “Define ‘not just.’”

“Pelvic pressure. Sensory overload. Possibly a vibration mechanism.”

You laughed. “You’re building furniture now?”

“I’m optimizing the environment.”

You stared at him.

He stared back, completely serious.

“Okay,” you said, dropping your pants. “Fuck it. Let’s see what happens.”

He sat first, cock already hard in his lap, and pulled you down onto him, skin to skin. The stretch hit instantly—deep and perfect. You moaned.

“Don’t move,” he said. “I want to see if you can stay still while I talk to you.”

You blinked. “Talk?”

“Yes.”

He slid his hands up your thighs, and began describing your last mission briefing in excruciating detail.

You dug your nails into his shoulders. “You’re a monster.”

He smirked. “I want to see if I can make you come from focus alone.”

He didn’t move. Neither did you. But your body betrayed you—clenching around him involuntarily as he spoke.

“You’re twitching,” he murmured. “That’s fascinating.”

“Reed—”

“Can you come just from being full of me?”

You whimpered.

“I’ll add that to the variables.”

And then—then—he kissed your neck and whispered, “Let go.”

You shattered in his lap, pulsing around him, held together only by the grip of his hands.

When you slumped against his chest, he stroked your back and said, “Next time, I’ll add stimulus. For comparison.”

You groaned. “I’m going to die here.”

He kissed your shoulder. “Then I’ll bury you with honors.”

-

“You’re squirming,” Reed said, deadpan.

“I’m freezing,” you replied. “You made me lie down naked while you tied a Boy Scout knot around my wrist for twelve minutes.”

Reed sat beside you on the bed, half-dressed, furrow in his brow. The overhead light was off. A soft glow from the hallway cast him in warm gold, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie draped across one shoulder like he’d forgotten where it was meant to go.

“I had to check the tension. If it’s too tight, it impairs circulation. Too loose, and you’ll escape.”

“I’m not trying to escape,” you said. “I’m trying not to get rope burn from the third iteration of your sailor’s hitch.”

He looked down at your bound wrists—loosely tied to the headboard with one of his lab coats, because you'd vetoed the nylon prototype.

“I could use silk next time,” he offered. “Or maybe Kevlar—”

“Reed.”

He cleared his throat. “Silk.”

You smiled and let your head fall back against the pillow. You were warm again now, and slowly starting to settle. Trust came easily with him. Excitement, too. Even with the experimental vibe he brought into the bedroom—especially with it.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s proceed.”

“Proceed,” you mocked, just to be annoying.

He leaned in and nipped your collarbone.

You hissed. “Okay, Professor.”

He retrieved the blindfold from the nightstand. Technically, it was a black sleep mask—one of the fancy ones he swore helped reduce REM disruption, though you suspected he wore it just to look dramatic. He slipped it over your eyes with reverence.

The world went dark.

And still.

You could hear his breath. Feel the mattress shift as he moved. But nothing touched you. Not yet.

“Reed?”

“Shh.”

You bit your lip.

He started with his fingertips—lightly dragging them down your arms, across your ribs, then lower, barely grazing. You gasped when he finally brushed your nipple. The lack of sight made everything sharper. Hotter. He circled the bud with a wet flick of his tongue, then blew cool air across it until your whole body tensed.

He didn’t speak.

No data logs. No breathy monologues.

Just sensation.

You flinched when his mouth closed around the other nipple, moaning when he sucked. Your thighs pressed together instinctively.

Reed noticed.

He shifted between them, kissed down your stomach, and paused. You could hear your own pulse now. You could feel his gaze.

“I’m not touching you,” he said at last, voice low and quiet, “until you beg.”

Your mouth fell open.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes,” he said. “I want to hear how badly you want it.”

You exhaled. “I’m going to murder you in your sleep.”

“You can try,” he whispered, and pressed a single kiss to the inside of your knee.

Then another. Higher. Then a lick up your thigh so slow you nearly sobbed.

“Reed—”

“I said beg.”

You clenched your hands into fists above your head.

“Please,” you whispered.

“Louder.”

“Please.”

“What do you want?”

You nearly growled. “I want your fucking mouth on me, Reed, now.”

A beat of silence.

Then he gave it to you.

His tongue slid through your folds, hot and slow, and you bucked upward. The blindfold made everything surreal—each sound and pulse amplified. You whimpered when he licked your clit just once, then backed off.

“Sensitive?” he murmured.

“Desperate,” you choked.

He moaned like he felt it too and licked you again—more insistent now, circling your clit with his tongue while two fingers pressed inside. He crooked them exactly right, finding your soft spot like he’d mapped it.

“Oh my god—”

“Don’t come yet,” he said against your skin.

You wailed.

“Wait for me,” he added, sucking your clit hard enough to make your whole body tremble.

You were seeing stars behind the mask. Moaning without shame. Your arms strained against the restraints—not from fear, not from pain, but from need. He edged you three times. Three. Each one worse than the last.

And then—when you were shaking, begging, begging—he let go.

“Now,” he said.

You came like the floor dropped out from under you.

It ripped through you. A whole-body, tear-stinging, leg-trembling orgasm that left you whimpering in aftershocks. You collapsed back, breath catching in your throat. You felt the blindfold slide off a moment later.

Reed looked wrecked.

Hair everywhere. Lips swollen. Eyes glazed with awe and want.

You licked your lips. “That was…”

He crawled up your body and kissed your throat.

“I want to build a machine that does that,” he whispered.

You laughed, hoarse. “Your cock?”

“Specifically your reaction to it.”

“You can’t build that, Reed.”

He kissed you softly, gently untying your wrists.

“Then I’ll just keep trying the old-fashioned way.”

-

You found the ice cubes in a beaker.

A fucking beaker.

In the bedroom.

You held it up like it was Exhibit A in a courtroom drama. “Do I want to know?”

Reed didn’t even look up from the drawer he was rummaging through. “Thermal response calibration.”

“Mm-hmm. And the popsicle stick?”

“Control variable.”

You blinked. “Please tell me you don’t mean that literally.”

He turned toward you with the most innocent expression you’d ever seen. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because I value my cervix, that’s why.”

He blinked. “It’s rounded at the end.”

You pointed the popsicle stick at him. “So is your dick, and I don’t see you freezing that before putting it inside me.”

He paused. Then, very slowly, reached for the beaker and set it aside.

“…Good call,” he said.

-

You lay on the bed, already half naked, legs spread, watching Reed test an ice cube against the inside of his own wrist. He looked utterly serious. Scientific. His brows were furrowed, and he made a low hum of satisfaction as it began to melt.

You rolled your eyes. “I’ve had threesomes that felt less clinical.”

“I’m building a thermal map,” he muttered.

“Of my pussy?”

“Of your skin. But yes, eventually.”

You let your head fall back to the pillow. “If I get hypothermia, I’m haunting you.”

He crawled between your legs and pressed a kiss to your inner thigh. “I’ll leave the lights on for you.”

You meant to respond. Instead, you gasped.

Because the ice cube had touched your clit.

Just barely. Just a flick. But you felt it in your spine.

“Okay,” you breathed. “Okay, wow. That’s cold. That’s—fuck, do that again.”

Reed smiled like a man vindicated by his hypothesis.

He did it again. Slower this time, the edge of the cube tracing your folds with quiet precision. Then his mouth followed—warm tongue lapping where the cold had been, the contrast so intense it made you twitch.

“Oh my god,” you moaned. “You are so lucky I love you.”

“You say that like I haven’t just improved your quality of life.”

You let out a hysterical laugh. “Are you seriously taking credit for—oh fuck—”

Because the ice cube was inside you now. Not far. Just at the entrance. Melting fast.

You clamped down around it. “Holy shit.”

Reed looked transfixed. “Your pelvic floor response is remarkable.”

“You’re gonna see a response in a second—”

But then his mouth was back on your clit, hot and focused, sucking in time with the melt. And that shut you up.

You came embarrassingly fast. Messily. Loudly. Your thighs tried to close around his head but Reed just growled and held them apart, dragging it out until your voice went hoarse.

He kissed your inner thigh, gentle again. “One more?”

You barely managed a nod.

He disappeared into the bathroom, and when he came back, it wasn’t with another ice cube.

It was a warm cloth.

You eyed it warily. “Now what?”

“Heat differential,” he said, and pressed it—hot and wet—against your lower stomach. You arched instinctively.

“Oh. Oh fuck.”

He held it there as he kissed your breasts, your neck, your collarbone. Then he used it again—lower this time, just above your clit.

It made you jolt.

He smiled against your skin. “Your sensitivity increases after orgasm.”

“Everything’s sensitive after an orgasm, genius.”

He slid two fingers into you. Slow, knuckle-deep. You cried out.

“But your response curve is fascinating.”

You whimpered.

Reed didn’t tease you long. He lined up and slid inside, still slow, still careful—until you clenched and pulled him deeper with a moan that bordered on a sob.

His rhythm was relentless. Smooth. Confident. The kind of precision that only came from weeks of memorizing your every reaction.

But he was also falling apart. You could feel it in the tension of his thighs, the quiet curses under his breath, the way his hands gripped your hips like he needed you to anchor him.

“You’re so—tight—after you come,” he rasped. “You’re going to break me.”

You laughed, delirious. “Better men have tried.”

He leaned down, bracing on his elbows. His chest rubbed against yours, sweat slick between you. He was so deep it almost hurt.

“Come again,” he said. “Do it with me still inside you.”

“I can’t—”

“You can.”

He kissed you hard. Thrust once. Twice.

You broke.

It crashed over you, hot and brutal. You screamed—his name, a curse, something incoherent—and felt him go with you. He swore against your neck, hips jerking erratically as he spilled inside you, still pulsing around him.

You lay tangled, ruined, sweat-slick and twitching.

Reed groaned softly. “I think that concludes the trial.”

You blinked up at the ceiling. “Put that on my gravestone.”

He kissed your forehead and mumbled into your hair. “We’ll call it a success.”

You wrapped your arms around him and whispered, “Your dick deserves a Nobel.”

-

“You’re smug.”

Reed didn’t look up from his tablet. “Am I?”

You narrowed your eyes from the doorway, crossing your arms.

“You’ve spent the last two weeks tying me up, fucking me breathless, and taking meticulous notes afterward like I’m your favorite petri dish.”

He nodded. “Correct.”

“I think it’s time for some balance.”

He set the laptop aside. Slowly. Deliberately.

“Balance,” he repeated.

You walked toward the bed, tossed your sweatshirt off, and straddled his thighs.

“You remember what it’s like when I’m in charge?”

Reed’s hands landed lightly on your hips. “I remember you trying to ride me into cardiac arrest.”

You grinned. “You came so hard your toes curled.”

“I had a full-body cramp.”

You dragged your nails down his chest. “Let me ride you again. Let me see if I can get you to lose that clinical detachment. Just once.”

His pupils dilated. “You want to break me.”

You leaned forward and whispered, “I want to see what it takes.”

Reed exhaled through his nose like it was a challenge.

“Fine,” he said. “But don’t start something you can’t finish.”

You started slow.

You got him naked, cock hard in your hand, and kissed your way down his body like a woman on a mission. He didn’t speak. Just watched you through half-lidded eyes.

You sucked him deep.

No warning. No teasing. Just lips around the head and then all the way down, until your nose touched his stomach.

That got him.

He moaned—just a whisper—but it was a start.

You bobbed slowly, using your hand at the base, tongue curling along the underside. He was flushed by the time you pulled off, spit trailing from your bottom lip.

He looked wrecked already.

“You’re beautiful like this,” you murmured.

Reed laughed, breathless. “You’re insatiable.”

You climbed into his lap and slid down onto him in one long, slow stroke. He groaned.

But you didn’t move. You just sat there, full, letting him feel the heat of you. Letting it build.

“I could stay like this forever,” you said.

He swallowed hard. “Please don’t.”

You grinned. “You want me to move?”

“Yes.”

“Beg.”

He blinked. “You’re cruel.”

“Say please, Reed.”

“…Please.”

You clenched around him.

“Say it again.”

“Please,” he said, eyes dark now. Voice wrecked. “Please ride me.”

You did.

Hard. Slow at first, then bouncing in his lap, hands on his chest, sweat trickling down your spine. He grabbed your hips without permission, trying to guide you.

“No touching,” you warned.

He groaned but obeyed, fists clenched in the sheets.

And when you reached back, rubbed your clit, and whispered his name in that perfect, broken tone—he lost it.

You felt it when it happened.

The moment Reed Richards broke.

His hands shot out, gripped your thighs, and flipped you—back against the mattress, his cock still buried deep, his body flush against yours.

He kissed you like he wanted to devour you.

“You wanted to see me lose control,” he rasped.

You nodded, wide-eyed.

“Now you will.”

He fucked you like he was punishing the mattress.

No rhythm. Just raw need. You clawed at his back, moaning, screaming, overwhelmed.

He grabbed your wrists, pinned them above your head.

“I warned you,” he said.

You couldn’t respond. Couldn’t breathe.

He growled into your neck. “You think you can break me? I’ll make you come so many times you forget your name.”

“Reed—”

His hand slid between your bodies. Rubbed you mercilessly. You came with a gasp and he didn’t stop.

You came again. Again.

You begged, pleaded, shook under him.

He kissed the corner of your mouth and whispered, “Now we’re even.”

Then he pulled out, jerked himself twice, and came all over your stomach—hot and thick and messy.

He collapsed beside you, panting.

You stared at the ceiling, boneless.

“Well,” you said. “That escalated.”

Reed laughed, hoarse and stunned. “That was… effective.”

You rolled onto his chest. “I win.”

He stroked your hair. “I think we win.”

-

You were already panting and fully naked by the time he gave the command:

“Don’t come.”

Your laugh was choked. “You’re kidding.”

Reed didn’t smile. He knelt between your legs with maddening calm, shirt still on, tie loose around his neck like he didn’t intend to use it for anything wicked. Liar.

“I’m not,” he said. “I want to see how long your body can resist climax under repeated stimulus.”

“Stimulus,” you repeated flatly.

His fingers dragged through your slick folds. “Correct.”

You groaned. “You’re such a goddamn menace.”

He leaned in and kissed your thigh. “And you agreed to this.”

You had. Like an idiot.

Now your wrists were loosely bound with one of his belts—not tight, but enough to keep you grounded—and your thighs were trembling just from his slow, steady touch.

“Breathe for me,” he said. “Focus on what you’re feeling.”

“I feel like I’m going to combust.”

“Not yet.”

Then his mouth was on your clit.

Not gentle. Not teasing. Just wet and confident and devastating. He licked in slow circles, then flattened his tongue and sucked hard. Your hips bucked and he held you down, strong fingers bruising your thighs.

“Reed—”

“Don’t.”

You moaned in protest, every muscle tight.

He stopped.

“Reaction time is shortening,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “You’re responding faster.”

“No shit,” you gasped.

“Fascinating.”

You would have murdered him if you weren’t so close to sobbing from arousal.

He reached for the vibrator on the nightstand. A sleek, quiet thing he claimed was “ergonomically perfect” for your anatomy. You’d made fun of him when he brought it home. Now you nearly cried at the sight of it.

He turned it on and held it just above your clit—not touching.

You whimpered.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “So needy. So close. Just from being denied.”

“Reed, please.”

“You want to come?”

You nodded desperately.

“Not yet.”

Then he touched you with it.

You screamed. Bucked. The stimulation was too much.

But he didn’t stop.

“You’ll wait for me,” he said. “You’ll ask.”

You were trembling now. Vision blurred.

“I c-can’t—”

“You can.”

He removed the toy and replaced it with his fingers—two, deep, curling just right. You clenched, slick and spasming, right on the brink.

“Ask,” he whispered.

You sobbed. “Please, Reed. Please let me come. I’ll do anything, just—please.”

His voice was reverent. “Now.”

You shattered.

Full-body. Mind-blowing. Writhing, keening, almost blacking out. You barely registered him kissing you through it, hands cupping your face.

You weren’t sure how long you lay there, twitching.

Eventually, you found your voice.

“That was evil.”

Reed smiled against your shoulder. “That was science.”

-

You woke to his hand stroking your thigh.

Not demanding. Not teasing. Just there—a warm, steady presence. He was curled behind you in bed, breath soft at the back of your neck, fingers tracing lazy shapes along your skin.

You made a small sound. Not a word. Just a hum to let him know you were awake.

“Hi,” he whispered.

“Hi.”

You stretched a little, wincing as your hips protested. “I think you broke me last night.”

“I brought water. And ibuprofen.”

You blinked. “You’re perfect.”

“I also canceled our morning lab window. I figured you’d be… recalibrating.”

You snorted, throat dry. “You say that like it wasn’t your fault.”

“I didn’t hear you objecting.”

You rolled over, facing him. He looked different this morning—bare, sleep-warm, less scientist and more man. Hair mussed. Eyes soft.

“I liked it,” you said, voice hoarse.

“I know.”

“No, I mean… the denial. The begging. You taking control like that.”

Reed watched you carefully. “I worried it would feel imbalanced.”

“It didn’t.”

“You always keep me grounded. I didn’t want to… unmoor you.”

Your heart cracked open.

“You didn’t,” you said. “You made me feel… known. Seen. Even when I was blindfolded and drooling.”

That got a smile. A real one.

You reached for him. Pulled him close.

His mouth met yours like he’d been waiting all night. Slow. Deep. He kissed you with reverence—no rush, no pressure. Just connection.

You tugged his hand between your legs and guided his fingers where you needed them.

“You want more?” he murmured.

“Always.”

He slid over you, naked and warm and familiar. When he entered you, it wasn’t rough. It wasn’t scientific.

It was home.

Your hands framed his face. You moaned into his mouth. He moved slowly, rolling his hips, eyes locked to yours like he couldn’t look away.

“I don’t want to study this,” he whispered. “I want to live it.”

You cupped his jaw. “Then live it, Reed.”

You came first—soft, warm, tear-prickling release that made your whole body loosen. He followed soon after, gasping into your neck as he spilled inside you, his whole body shaking.

You stayed tangled.

After, he brushed your hair behind your ear and said, “I’m in love with you.”

You blinked. “You think?”

“I know. But I wanted to be methodical about saying it.”

You kissed his stupid, brilliant mouth. “I love you too, you absolute nerd.”

He smiled.

“Can I still blindfold you later?” he asked.

You grinned. “Only if I get to tie you up first.”

thank you for reading 💙💙💙

[youthereader]

Control Group

pairing: Reed Richards x wife!Reader

summary: 5.8k words You and Reed Richards have been together for years. You run the labs, balance the mission schedules, and occasionally have kitchen-floor sex when the mood strikes. Everyone thinks you’re the one in control. And you are—until Reed asks if he can experiment on your body.

rating & tags: E,whoo boy. Soft Dom!Reed Richards, Established Relationship, Slice of Life, Science Kink, Orgasm Denial, Facefucking, Cunnilingus, Light Bondage, Blindfolds, Praise Kink, Power Dynamics, Sensory Play, Edge Play, Slow Sex, Rough Sex, Aftercare

a/n: I wanted to write something lighter and a little silly! No angst, just porn and domestic bliss! I deserve it. WE deserve it. Right???

By the time you got home, your hair smelled like burnt silicone, you were missing an earring, and your entire body felt like one long muscle cramp. The day had included: one failed coolant system, three anxiety attacks (none of them yours, miraculously), and a moment in Lab 3B where Reed muttered, “This shouldn’t be glowing,” before everyone evacuated.

He hadn’t looked away from the console in four hours. His tie was tucked into his shirt like he forgot how clothing worked. You didn’t even comment on it. Not today.

The apartment was dim and silent when you both entered. You kicked off your shoes and beelined for the kitchen. Reed trailed after you a few minutes later like a sad, genius ghost, still mumbling to himself.

You poured a glass of water and sat on the counter. You let your head fall back against the cabinet with a soft thud.

Behind you, Reed paced. “I still think it was the vibrational resonance interacting with the EM shield. If I had recalibrated the field generator—”

“Reed.”

“—or adjusted the amplitude manually before the cascade—”

You reached up blindly and waved a hand at him. He paused when you made contact with his stomach.

“Honey, stop. We’re home.”

He stood still, the warmth of his body radiating through the worn cotton of his shirt. His voice dropped. “Sorry. You’re right.”

You cracked one eye open to look at him. Hair everywhere. Sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Tension etched into every line of his face.

You softened. “You want me to make you a sandwich or sit on your face?”

He blinked. “Are those my only options?”

“Tonight, yeah.”

He stared at you. Then stepped closer. You dropped your hand from his stomach, and he filled the space between your knees. His hands landed on either side of your thighs on the counter, caging you in. You could feel the shift—subtle but there.

“I want to try something,” he said.

“That better not be a euphemism for another experiment.”

“It is an experiment,” he said. “But not a theoretical one.”

Your brows lifted. “Oh?”

He tilted his head, eyes raking down your body like he was recalibrating you too. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while now. I’d like to see how far I can push you. Sexually.”

You stared at him.

Reed Richards, Mr. Emotionally Repressed, had just calmly proposed exploring your physical limits like he was planning a blood test.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “Is this a seduction or your next grant proposal?”

He leaned in. “Can it be both?”

You snorted. “God, you’re lucky you’re hot.”

That made him smile. Not his usual distracted little half-twitch, but a real one—hungry and sharp at the edges. You shivered.

“I’m serious,” he said. “I’ve been working through some ideas. Different types of stimulation, how your body responds under pressure, whether vocal praise enhances arousal—”

You slid down from the counter and pulled your sweatshirt off in one smooth motion.

Reed’s voice faltered.

You stepped out of your joggers and stood in your underwear, barefoot on the tile. “So go on then, Professor. Experiment.”

He looked like you’d short-circuited his brain.

You stepped forward and hooked your fingers in his belt. “Do you want me on my knees, or do you want to guide me down?”

His breath hitched. Just once. He recovered quickly.

“I’ll guide you,” he said softly. “If that’s alright.”

You nodded. “Yes, Reed.”

He kissed you—firm and focused, a rare kind of kiss from him, the kind that meant he was truly present. You barely had time to savor it before he turned you around and walked you backward to the couch. He didn’t rush. Every touch was deliberate. Like he was cataloging you again from scratch.

When your knees hit the couch cushion, he paused. “You’re okay?”

“I’m excellent.”

Reed brushed your hair off your shoulder. Then he kissed you again—lighter this time, but with that same precision. Like he was lining something up inside his own head. You dropped to your knees.

You looked up at him, and he looked down at you like he wanted to bottle the image for future analysis.

“Open your mouth,” he said.

You did.

He unzipped his pants and drew himself out, already half-hard. Your lips parted further as he stroked himself once, twice, and then pressed the head against your tongue.

“Let me know if it’s too much,” he murmured, cupping your jaw. “Or if you want more.”

The first push was slow—testing your depth. He watched you like he was tracking data points, his other hand sliding into your hair to cradle the back of your head. He pulled out, let you breathe, then pushed back in a little deeper.

“Good,” he said, voice low. “You’re doing so well for me.”

You moaned around him. His hips stuttered.

The thrusts became firmer. Deeper. He gripped your hair tighter, using it for leverage. You relaxed your throat and let him use you, hands resting on his thighs for balance.

It was filthy. Intimate. Reverent.

Reed murmured every observation like a prayer. “You take me so well. You’re warmer than I expected. Softer. Fuck, that’s perfect—look at you.”

He started to fuck into your mouth in earnest then, slow but intent, his breathing heavy and ragged.

“I didn’t know it would feel like this,” he whispered. “I thought about it. I planned it. But this—this is better.”

You hummed in response, and his hips jerked.

When he finally pulled out, your throat was sore, your jaw aching, saliva on your chin. He dropped to his knees in front of you, cupped your face, and kissed your wet lips like they were sacred.

You laughed a little, breathless. “So… your experiment a success?”

Reed smiled. “I’d like to run it again. With variations.”

“You gonna write a paper about it?”

“No,” he said, guiding you onto the couch and between his thighs. “But I might make a chart.”

Later that night, once you'd brushed your teeth, guzzled water, and reapplied your mouth balm like a devout convert, you found Reed in bed with a tablet in his lap and the most unbothered look on his face.

You were wearing one of his undershirts and nothing else. When he looked up, he didn’t react at first. Just blinked, looked back at the screen, and said, “You really are very flexible.”

You climbed into bed, straddling his thighs, and snatched the tablet out of his hands.

On the screen was a spreadsheet.

"You're joking," you said.

He blinked again. “I’m not.”

“You made a data log.”

“I color-coded it.”

You stared at him. “You sick, brilliant bastard.”

Reed smiled. Not smug—fond. “I told you I was serious about the experiment.”

You tossed the tablet to the foot of the bed and settled more comfortably in his lap. He was already hard again beneath you. Of course he was.

“I didn’t know you liked that,” you said, voice quieter now.

He tilted his head. “Did you not notice how difficult it was for me to remain standing?”

“You usually act like sex is a pleasant side effect of affection.”

He hummed. “It is. But it’s also… fascinating. Especially with you.”

You snorted, leaning forward. “Why? Because I make so many noises you could analyze them like whale song?”

“I’d call it more of a siren call.”

You blinked.

Reed was smiling again. And blushing. Smirking and blushing at the same time. You didn’t think that was legal.

“That’s the filthiest thing you’ve ever said,” you murmured, breath ghosting over his mouth.

“I’m trying,” he whispered. “Let me try more.”

You froze.

Reed took advantage of the pause to flip you, smooth as a magician with a hidden trapdoor. One second you were on top of him; the next, your back was flat against the mattress and he was between your thighs, fully in control, not even breathing hard.

Your mouth fell open.

“I’ve also been reviewing… certain media,” he said, like he hadn’t just flipped you like a pancake. “Research.”

You raised your brows. “Porn?”

He nodded solemnly. “Yes.”

You burst out laughing.

Reed let you—just watched you laugh, eyes drinking it in. Then his hands drifted under your shirt, palms spreading over your ribs.

“I’d like to try something tonight,” he said.

You sobered slightly. “Okay.”

“I want to see what it feels like… if you let me control everything.”

You tilted your head. “You want to dom me.”

“Yes. But you can stop me at any time. I want that clear.”

Your chest ached in the best way. This was new for him. And you. But something in your gut had already said yes.

You nodded. “I trust you.”

That lit him up more than any filthy fantasy. He kissed you deeply—long, thorough, tongue slick against yours—and when he pulled back, his voice dropped.

“Keep your hands above your head. Don’t move unless I say.”

You swallowed. “Yes, Reed.”

He exhaled shakily and sat up on his knees between your legs.

You kept your hands where he told you, elbows bent, wrists crossed. It wasn’t binding—but it felt like something. A line. A line you were daring him to cross.

He pulled your shirt up and off, then sat back to look at you fully. Not rushed. Just observant.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured. “You always are. But like this…”

He bent down and licked over one nipple, slow and wet. You gasped. He sucked it into his mouth and toyed with it, tongue circling in a rhythm you couldn’t predict.

He alternated between your breasts until they were swollen and tingling. Then he kissed a path down your stomach, over the dip of your navel, down to the inside of your thigh.

He didn’t touch your cunt. Not yet. Just exhaled against it.

You writhed.

He looked up at you. “Hands.”

You froze, panting.

“Keep them there,” he said. “Or I’ll stop.”

You whimpered. “That’s evil.”

“That’s control,” he said. “Now hold still.”

Then he licked you.

Long, slow, torturous. His tongue was hot and clever and merciless. He sucked your clit until your legs shook, then slid two fingers inside you without warning, crooking them just right. Your hands fisted in the sheets but stayed above your head.

You couldn’t look at him. It was too much—his mouth, his fingers, his voice.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “You’re doing so well. Don’t come yet.”

You keened.

“I mean it,” he said. “Wait for me.”

You sobbed a laugh. “You’re—god, you’re cruel.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” he said, mouth glistening. “Let me watch you fall apart.”

Then he went back to work, tongue and fingers moving in tandem until your entire body buzzed. And when he finally said “Now,” you shattered.

It was obscene. Full-body, sobbing release. You were still coming when he crawled up your body and kissed you again.

“You okay?” he asked, still breathless.

You nodded, still high. “Better than okay.”

“I think I want to fuck you now.”

You smiled, dazed. “For science?”

He lined himself up and slid in with one smooth thrust.

“For fun,” he said.

-

It started with you elbow-deep in soapy water scrubbing burnt curry off the bottom of a pan, when you felt his hands on your hips.

You didn’t look back. “You’re not getting out of cleanup just by groping me.”

“I’m not trying to get out of it.”

He pressed against you, slow and deliberate. You could feel the hard line of his cock through his pants.

You sighed. “Reed. Not now.”

“I disagree.”

You arched a brow over your shoulder. “Yeah?”

“I think this is exactly the time to see how responsive you are under domestic conditions.”

“You’re trying to fuck me over the sink.”

“I’m trying to test a variable,” he said, voice low. “Specifically: how long I can keep you upright while fucking you from behind.”

Your breath caught.

“Reed—”

“Hands on the counter,” he said. “Don’t move.”

You dropped the sponge like it had personally offended you.

Reed flipped up your dress—some faded T-shirt thing you’d thrown on after dinner—and found you bare underneath. You heard the exhale he didn’t try to hide.

He knelt.

“Holy shit,” you gasped. “Are you—”

“Testing oral stamina while you’re otherwise occupied,” he said, then spread you open and licked up the length of your cunt.

You grabbed the counter and nearly cracked a plate.

He devoured you—truly, like a man obsessed. And it wasn’t just filthy. It was funny. You were trying to keep your knees locked, trying not to slip on the tile, trying to keep track of what he was muttering down there between licks.

“Height differential… angle of access… tensile stability of thighs…”

“Are you narrating this like it’s a goddamn peer-reviewed paper?” you rasped.

“Yes,” he said. “Now be quiet and let me finish my research.”

You came in less than a minute. Loudly. On tiptoes. With soap bubbles clinging to your elbow and a dishrag on the floor.

Afterward, Reed stood up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand like a total menace, and said, “You’re a very promising subject.”

You stared at him, still panting. “I hope you know this is going in my notes.”

-

By the end of the week, he was impossible.

He scheduled you into your own shared calendar under names like:

“Penetrative endurance trial” “Edgeplay (verbal cues only)” “Light restraint under chemical fatigue”

You changed them to:

“Makeout and fuckfest (bring electrolytes)” “Make Reed whimper” “If I don’t get to come tonight, I’m starting a fire in the lab.”

The sex got rougher. Smarter. More desperate. One night, he tied your wrists with his tie and said, “Let me take care of you.” You didn’t come down from the high for an hour.

Another time, you got so bratty during foreplay he bent you over the dining room table and spanked you with an open palm until you were wet enough to soak through your underwear.

And then there was the evening where he edged you four times before letting you come once—and told you, in the same tone he used to discuss atmospheric modeling, “You should consider doing your own laundry if you’re going to ruin your underwear this often.”

-

But nothing—nothing—prepared you for the chair.

He built it.

You weren’t sure what else to call it. It looked like a standard lab stool. But it had a shallow dip in the seat, slightly elevated foot rests, and a curved back that looked suspiciously designed for your spine.

“What is this,” you said flatly. “And should I be afraid?”

“It’s for straddling,” he said. “I wanted to see how long you could sit on my cock without moving.”

You blinked. “Just sit there?”

“Well. Not just that.”

You crossed your arms. “Define ‘not just.’”

“Pelvic pressure. Sensory overload. Possibly a vibration mechanism.”

You laughed. “You’re building furniture now?”

“I’m optimizing the environment.”

You stared at him.

He stared back, completely serious.

“Okay,” you said, dropping your pants. “Fuck it. Let’s see what happens.”

He sat first, cock already hard in his lap, and pulled you down onto him, skin to skin. The stretch hit instantly—deep and perfect. You moaned.

“Don’t move,” he said. “I want to see if you can stay still while I talk to you.”

You blinked. “Talk?”

“Yes.”

He slid his hands up your thighs, and began describing your last mission briefing in excruciating detail.

You dug your nails into his shoulders. “You’re a monster.”

He smirked. “I want to see if I can make you come from focus alone.”

He didn’t move. Neither did you. But your body betrayed you—clenching around him involuntarily as he spoke.

“You’re twitching,” he murmured. “That’s fascinating.”

“Reed—”

“Can you come just from being full of me?”

You whimpered.

“I’ll add that to the variables.”

And then—then—he kissed your neck and whispered, “Let go.”

You shattered in his lap, pulsing around him, held together only by the grip of his hands.

When you slumped against his chest, he stroked your back and said, “Next time, I’ll add stimulus. For comparison.”

You groaned. “I’m going to die here.”

He kissed your shoulder. “Then I’ll bury you with honors.”

-

“You’re squirming,” Reed said, deadpan.

“I’m freezing,” you replied. “You made me lie down naked while you tied a Boy Scout knot around my wrist for twelve minutes.”

Reed sat beside you on the bed, half-dressed, furrow in his brow. The overhead light was off. A soft glow from the hallway cast him in warm gold, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie draped across one shoulder like he’d forgotten where it was meant to go.

“I had to check the tension. If it’s too tight, it impairs circulation. Too loose, and you’ll escape.”

“I’m not trying to escape,” you said. “I’m trying not to get rope burn from the third iteration of your sailor’s hitch.”

He looked down at your bound wrists—loosely tied to the headboard with one of his lab coats, because you'd vetoed the nylon prototype.

“I could use silk next time,” he offered. “Or maybe Kevlar—”

“Reed.”

He cleared his throat. “Silk.”

You smiled and let your head fall back against the pillow. You were warm again now, and slowly starting to settle. Trust came easily with him. Excitement, too. Even with the experimental vibe he brought into the bedroom—especially with it.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s proceed.”

“Proceed,” you mocked, just to be annoying.

He leaned in and nipped your collarbone.

You hissed. “Okay, Professor.”

He retrieved the blindfold from the nightstand. Technically, it was a black sleep mask—one of the fancy ones he swore helped reduce REM disruption, though you suspected he wore it just to look dramatic. He slipped it over your eyes with reverence.

The world went dark.

And still.

You could hear his breath. Feel the mattress shift as he moved. But nothing touched you. Not yet.

“Reed?”

“Shh.”

You bit your lip.

He started with his fingertips—lightly dragging them down your arms, across your ribs, then lower, barely grazing. You gasped when he finally brushed your nipple. The lack of sight made everything sharper. Hotter. He circled the bud with a wet flick of his tongue, then blew cool air across it until your whole body tensed.

He didn’t speak.

No data logs. No breathy monologues.

Just sensation.

You flinched when his mouth closed around the other nipple, moaning when he sucked. Your thighs pressed together instinctively.

Reed noticed.

He shifted between them, kissed down your stomach, and paused. You could hear your own pulse now. You could feel his gaze.

“I’m not touching you,” he said at last, voice low and quiet, “until you beg.”

Your mouth fell open.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes,” he said. “I want to hear how badly you want it.”

You exhaled. “I’m going to murder you in your sleep.”

“You can try,” he whispered, and pressed a single kiss to the inside of your knee.

Then another. Higher. Then a lick up your thigh so slow you nearly sobbed.

“Reed—”

“I said beg.”

You clenched your hands into fists above your head.

“Please,” you whispered.

“Louder.”

“Please.”

“What do you want?”

You nearly growled. “I want your fucking mouth on me, Reed, now.”

A beat of silence.

Then he gave it to you.

His tongue slid through your folds, hot and slow, and you bucked upward. The blindfold made everything surreal—each sound and pulse amplified. You whimpered when he licked your clit just once, then backed off.

“Sensitive?” he murmured.

“Desperate,” you choked.

He moaned like he felt it too and licked you again—more insistent now, circling your clit with his tongue while two fingers pressed inside. He crooked them exactly right, finding your soft spot like he’d mapped it.

“Oh my god—”

“Don’t come yet,” he said against your skin.

You wailed.

“Wait for me,” he added, sucking your clit hard enough to make your whole body tremble.

You were seeing stars behind the mask. Moaning without shame. Your arms strained against the restraints—not from fear, not from pain, but from need. He edged you three times. Three. Each one worse than the last.

And then—when you were shaking, begging, begging—he let go.

“Now,” he said.

You came like the floor dropped out from under you.

It ripped through you. A whole-body, tear-stinging, leg-trembling orgasm that left you whimpering in aftershocks. You collapsed back, breath catching in your throat. You felt the blindfold slide off a moment later.

Reed looked wrecked.

Hair everywhere. Lips swollen. Eyes glazed with awe and want.

You licked your lips. “That was…”

He crawled up your body and kissed your throat.

“I want to build a machine that does that,” he whispered.

You laughed, hoarse. “Your cock?”

“Specifically your reaction to it.”

“You can’t build that, Reed.”

He kissed you softly, gently untying your wrists.

“Then I’ll just keep trying the old-fashioned way.”

-

You found the ice cubes in a beaker.

A fucking beaker.

In the bedroom.

You held it up like it was Exhibit A in a courtroom drama. “Do I want to know?”

Reed didn’t even look up from the drawer he was rummaging through. “Thermal response calibration.”

“Mm-hmm. And the popsicle stick?”

“Control variable.”

You blinked. “Please tell me you don’t mean that literally.”

He turned toward you with the most innocent expression you’d ever seen. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because I value my cervix, that’s why.”

He blinked. “It’s rounded at the end.”

You pointed the popsicle stick at him. “So is your dick, and I don’t see you freezing that before putting it inside me.”

He paused. Then, very slowly, reached for the beaker and set it aside.

“…Good call,” he said.

-

You lay on the bed, already half naked, legs spread, watching Reed test an ice cube against the inside of his own wrist. He looked utterly serious. Scientific. His brows were furrowed, and he made a low hum of satisfaction as it began to melt.

You rolled your eyes. “I’ve had threesomes that felt less clinical.”

“I’m building a thermal map,” he muttered.

“Of my pussy?”

“Of your skin. But yes, eventually.”

You let your head fall back to the pillow. “If I get hypothermia, I’m haunting you.”

He crawled between your legs and pressed a kiss to your inner thigh. “I’ll leave the lights on for you.”

You meant to respond. Instead, you gasped.

Because the ice cube had touched your clit.

Just barely. Just a flick. But you felt it in your spine.

“Okay,” you breathed. “Okay, wow. That’s cold. That’s—fuck, do that again.”

Reed smiled like a man vindicated by his hypothesis.

He did it again. Slower this time, the edge of the cube tracing your folds with quiet precision. Then his mouth followed—warm tongue lapping where the cold had been, the contrast so intense it made you twitch.

“Oh my god,” you moaned. “You are so lucky I love you.”

“You say that like I haven’t just improved your quality of life.”

You let out a hysterical laugh. “Are you seriously taking credit for—oh fuck—”

Because the ice cube was inside you now. Not far. Just at the entrance. Melting fast.

You clamped down around it. “Holy shit.”

Reed looked transfixed. “Your pelvic floor response is remarkable.”

“You’re gonna see a response in a second—”

But then his mouth was back on your clit, hot and focused, sucking in time with the melt. And that shut you up.

You came embarrassingly fast. Messily. Loudly. Your thighs tried to close around his head but Reed just growled and held them apart, dragging it out until your voice went hoarse.

He kissed your inner thigh, gentle again. “One more?”

You barely managed a nod.

He disappeared into the bathroom, and when he came back, it wasn’t with another ice cube.

It was a warm cloth.

You eyed it warily. “Now what?”

“Heat differential,” he said, and pressed it—hot and wet—against your lower stomach. You arched instinctively.

“Oh. Oh fuck.”

He held it there as he kissed your breasts, your neck, your collarbone. Then he used it again—lower this time, just above your clit.

It made you jolt.

He smiled against your skin. “Your sensitivity increases after orgasm.”

“Everything’s sensitive after an orgasm, genius.”

He slid two fingers into you. Slow, knuckle-deep. You cried out.

“But your response curve is fascinating.”

You whimpered.

Reed didn’t tease you long. He lined up and slid inside, still slow, still careful—until you clenched and pulled him deeper with a moan that bordered on a sob.

His rhythm was relentless. Smooth. Confident. The kind of precision that only came from weeks of memorizing your every reaction.

But he was also falling apart. You could feel it in the tension of his thighs, the quiet curses under his breath, the way his hands gripped your hips like he needed you to anchor him.

“You’re so—tight—after you come,” he rasped. “You’re going to break me.”

You laughed, delirious. “Better men have tried.”

He leaned down, bracing on his elbows. His chest rubbed against yours, sweat slick between you. He was so deep it almost hurt.

“Come again,” he said. “Do it with me still inside you.”

“I can’t—”

“You can.”

He kissed you hard. Thrust once. Twice.

You broke.

It crashed over you, hot and brutal. You screamed—his name, a curse, something incoherent—and felt him go with you. He swore against your neck, hips jerking erratically as he spilled inside you, still pulsing around him.

You lay tangled, ruined, sweat-slick and twitching.

Reed groaned softly. “I think that concludes the trial.”

You blinked up at the ceiling. “Put that on my gravestone.”

He kissed your forehead and mumbled into your hair. “We’ll call it a success.”

You wrapped your arms around him and whispered, “Your dick deserves a Nobel.”

-

“You’re smug.”

Reed didn’t look up from his tablet. “Am I?”

You narrowed your eyes from the doorway, crossing your arms.

“You’ve spent the last two weeks tying me up, fucking me breathless, and taking meticulous notes afterward like I’m your favorite petri dish.”

He nodded. “Correct.”

“I think it’s time for some balance.”

He set the laptop aside. Slowly. Deliberately.

“Balance,” he repeated.

You walked toward the bed, tossed your sweatshirt off, and straddled his thighs.

“You remember what it’s like when I’m in charge?”

Reed’s hands landed lightly on your hips. “I remember you trying to ride me into cardiac arrest.”

You grinned. “You came so hard your toes curled.”

“I had a full-body cramp.”

You dragged your nails down his chest. “Let me ride you again. Let me see if I can get you to lose that clinical detachment. Just once.”

His pupils dilated. “You want to break me.”

You leaned forward and whispered, “I want to see what it takes.”

Reed exhaled through his nose like it was a challenge.

“Fine,” he said. “But don’t start something you can’t finish.”

You started slow.

You got him naked, cock hard in your hand, and kissed your way down his body like a woman on a mission. He didn’t speak. Just watched you through half-lidded eyes.

You sucked him deep.

No warning. No teasing. Just lips around the head and then all the way down, until your nose touched his stomach.

That got him.

He moaned—just a whisper—but it was a start.

You bobbed slowly, using your hand at the base, tongue curling along the underside. He was flushed by the time you pulled off, spit trailing from your bottom lip.

He looked wrecked already.

“You’re beautiful like this,” you murmured.

Reed laughed, breathless. “You’re insatiable.”

You climbed into his lap and slid down onto him in one long, slow stroke. He groaned.

But you didn’t move. You just sat there, full, letting him feel the heat of you. Letting it build.

“I could stay like this forever,” you said.

He swallowed hard. “Please don’t.”

You grinned. “You want me to move?”

“Yes.”

“Beg.”

He blinked. “You’re cruel.”

“Say please, Reed.”

“…Please.”

You clenched around him.

“Say it again.”

“Please,” he said, eyes dark now. Voice wrecked. “Please ride me.”

You did.

Hard. Slow at first, then bouncing in his lap, hands on his chest, sweat trickling down your spine. He grabbed your hips without permission, trying to guide you.

“No touching,” you warned.

He groaned but obeyed, fists clenched in the sheets.

And when you reached back, rubbed your clit, and whispered his name in that perfect, broken tone—he lost it.

You felt it when it happened.

The moment Reed Richards broke.

His hands shot out, gripped your thighs, and flipped you—back against the mattress, his cock still buried deep, his body flush against yours.

He kissed you like he wanted to devour you.

“You wanted to see me lose control,” he rasped.

You nodded, wide-eyed.

“Now you will.”

He fucked you like he was punishing the mattress.

No rhythm. Just raw need. You clawed at his back, moaning, screaming, overwhelmed.

He grabbed your wrists, pinned them above your head.

“I warned you,” he said.

You couldn’t respond. Couldn’t breathe.

He growled into your neck. “You think you can break me? I’ll make you come so many times you forget your name.”

“Reed—”

His hand slid between your bodies. Rubbed you mercilessly. You came with a gasp and he didn’t stop.

You came again. Again.

You begged, pleaded, shook under him.

He kissed the corner of your mouth and whispered, “Now we’re even.”

Then he pulled out, jerked himself twice, and came all over your stomach—hot and thick and messy.

He collapsed beside you, panting.

You stared at the ceiling, boneless.

“Well,” you said. “That escalated.”

Reed laughed, hoarse and stunned. “That was… effective.”

You rolled onto his chest. “I win.”

He stroked your hair. “I think we win.”

-

You were already panting and fully naked by the time he gave the command:

“Don’t come.”

Your laugh was choked. “You’re kidding.”

Reed didn’t smile. He knelt between your legs with maddening calm, shirt still on, tie loose around his neck like he didn’t intend to use it for anything wicked. Liar.

“I’m not,” he said. “I want to see how long your body can resist climax under repeated stimulus.”

“Stimulus,” you repeated flatly.

His fingers dragged through your slick folds. “Correct.”

You groaned. “You’re such a goddamn menace.”

He leaned in and kissed your thigh. “And you agreed to this.”

You had. Like an idiot.

Now your wrists were loosely bound with one of his belts—not tight, but enough to keep you grounded—and your thighs were trembling just from his slow, steady touch.

“Breathe for me,” he said. “Focus on what you’re feeling.”

“I feel like I’m going to combust.”

“Not yet.”

Then his mouth was on your clit.

Not gentle. Not teasing. Just wet and confident and devastating. He licked in slow circles, then flattened his tongue and sucked hard. Your hips bucked and he held you down, strong fingers bruising your thighs.

“Reed—”

“Don’t.”

You moaned in protest, every muscle tight.

He stopped.

“Reaction time is shortening,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “You’re responding faster.”

“No shit,” you gasped.

“Fascinating.”

You would have murdered him if you weren’t so close to sobbing from arousal.

He reached for the vibrator on the nightstand. A sleek, quiet thing he claimed was “ergonomically perfect” for your anatomy. You’d made fun of him when he brought it home. Now you nearly cried at the sight of it.

He turned it on and held it just above your clit—not touching.

You whimpered.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “So needy. So close. Just from being denied.”

“Reed, please.”

“You want to come?”

You nodded desperately.

“Not yet.”

Then he touched you with it.

You screamed. Bucked. The stimulation was too much.

But he didn’t stop.

“You’ll wait for me,” he said. “You’ll ask.”

You were trembling now. Vision blurred.

“I c-can’t—”

“You can.”

He removed the toy and replaced it with his fingers—two, deep, curling just right. You clenched, slick and spasming, right on the brink.

“Ask,” he whispered.

You sobbed. “Please, Reed. Please let me come. I’ll do anything, just—please.”

His voice was reverent. “Now.”

You shattered.

Full-body. Mind-blowing. Writhing, keening, almost blacking out. You barely registered him kissing you through it, hands cupping your face.

You weren’t sure how long you lay there, twitching.

Eventually, you found your voice.

“That was evil.”

Reed smiled against your shoulder. “That was science.”

-

You woke to his hand stroking your thigh.

Not demanding. Not teasing. Just there—a warm, steady presence. He was curled behind you in bed, breath soft at the back of your neck, fingers tracing lazy shapes along your skin.

You made a small sound. Not a word. Just a hum to let him know you were awake.

“Hi,” he whispered.

“Hi.”

You stretched a little, wincing as your hips protested. “I think you broke me last night.”

“I brought water. And ibuprofen.”

You blinked. “You’re perfect.”

“I also canceled our morning lab window. I figured you’d be… recalibrating.”

You snorted, throat dry. “You say that like it wasn’t your fault.”

“I didn’t hear you objecting.”

You rolled over, facing him. He looked different this morning—bare, sleep-warm, less scientist and more man. Hair mussed. Eyes soft.

“I liked it,” you said, voice hoarse.

“I know.”

“No, I mean… the denial. The begging. You taking control like that.”

Reed watched you carefully. “I worried it would feel imbalanced.”

“It didn’t.”

“You always keep me grounded. I didn’t want to… unmoor you.”

Your heart cracked open.

“You didn’t,” you said. “You made me feel… known. Seen. Even when I was blindfolded and drooling.”

That got a smile. A real one.

You reached for him. Pulled him close.

His mouth met yours like he’d been waiting all night. Slow. Deep. He kissed you with reverence—no rush, no pressure. Just connection.

You tugged his hand between your legs and guided his fingers where you needed them.

“You want more?” he murmured.

“Always.”

He slid over you, naked and warm and familiar. When he entered you, it wasn’t rough. It wasn’t scientific.

It was home.

Your hands framed his face. You moaned into his mouth. He moved slowly, rolling his hips, eyes locked to yours like he couldn’t look away.

“I don’t want to study this,” he whispered. “I want to live it.”

You cupped his jaw. “Then live it, Reed.”

You came first—soft, warm, tear-prickling release that made your whole body loosen. He followed soon after, gasping into your neck as he spilled inside you, his whole body shaking.

You stayed tangled.

After, he brushed your hair behind your ear and said, “I’m in love with you.”

You blinked. “You think?”

“I know. But I wanted to be methodical about saying it.”

You kissed his stupid, brilliant mouth. “I love you too, you absolute nerd.”

He smiled.

“Can I still blindfold you later?” he asked.

You grinned. “Only if I get to tie you up first.”

thank you for reading 💙💙💙