#mister write

[paslenka268]

quick doodles.

mr write is making me crazy lil obsessed girl.

[hollis-art]

kirk so :D

[waltricia]

3x02 — How Bright the Moon

[charliemwrites]

A Thought™️ that I had yesterday after watching those AITA videos and babbling in the discord:

(This is also babble to be clear. I’ve been writing this throughout the morning so it might be a bit incoherent)

The 141 is shopping for a new team member, someone to round out their four person squad into five. They have a dozen candidates, pick one that looks promising, and transfer him over under the military equivalent of “probationary” status.

Pretty quickly they decide his personality alone might not make him a good fit but whatever, if he’s good at his job, they’ll suck it up. The “alpha male” posturing bullshit is kind of amusing in the meantime at least.

Well, first mission comes and goes. The guy isn’t too bad, honestly — apart from almost picking a fight with Gaz. Skills-wise he’s as advertised, so he gets to stay a bit longer while the 141 decides if they can stand him.

Post successful mission, though, they go out for drinks at the guy’s insistence. He invites his girlfriend — who he dragged along with him — to the bar to meet his new squad. (Because he thinks there’s no way they’re not making him a permanent teammate.)

And the 141 may be barely tolerant of him, but they decide almost instantly that they adore his girlfriend. She’s incredibly charming and bubbly, doesn’t even blink at Ghost’s mask. One of the first things she does is thank them for the opportunity they’re giving her boyfriend and for keeping him alive.

Which is about the time the real issue starts.

The boyfriend says some rubbish about “an alpha doesn’t need protecting, he does the protecting. He looks out for his pack.”

And you smile a bit awkwardly, looking embarrassed, and try to usher the conversation along.

It doesn’t take long for him to quickly fall out of what little favor he accrued. You’re a bright spot in their group, laughing and chatting with them all like you’ve known them for years. Incredibly sensitive to asking any hard questions and sort of forcing the conversation through the weird patches where your boyfriend interjects with some inane comment.

Eventually, your boyfriend gets sick of your chattering and tells you to fetch them more drinks. Soap instantly sits up, saying you don’t have to do that, but you gently wave him off. Chirp that you don’t mind doing it as a thank you for their service, and weave into the crowd.

The table goes uncomfortable quiet — apart from your boyfriend, who makes some ghastly comment about how you have a pretty face but an annoying laugh. When you get back, drinks expertly balanced in your hands, Ghost goes out of his way to drop puns that get you giggling like mad.

As the night ticks later, and your boyfriend gets drunker, he reaches the point you always dread.

“Garrick, le’s arm wrestle.”

“Baby, I don’t think that’s…”

“This is between us men.”

You groan a bit and sit back. Gaz looks befuddled but shrugs and agrees. It’s not even a contest; your boyfriend’s arm is flat to the table in all of ten seconds. Flustered, your boyfriend demands a rematch. And when he loses again, scoffs and demands a go with Soap.

You practically sink deeper and deeper into your seat before the secondhand embarrassment starts to weigh and you have to excuse yourself to the restroom. When you get back, the impromptu arm wrestling seems to be over, though your boyfriend is sulking in his corner of the booth.

When you gingerly slide back in, Price nudges you with his calf.

“Would you like a go, luv?”

You grin and shake your head. “I don’t fancy a broken wrist, Captain.”

“C’mon luv, you might surprise yourself,” he teases and you can’t resist the playful glint in his eye.

So you lock your thumb around his, elbow on the table, and push. And his arm incrementally goes down… down… down…

“Well would you look at that,” he muses.

You burst into laughter, flattered and endeared by his indulgence.

“That tough, eh?” Soap muses, arching an eyebrow. “Let’s see it, then.”

So you roll your eyes, fully expecting to get trounced. But just like with Price, he starts to relent when you put up resistance, making a show of straining and panting as he “loses.” When you’ve won, you finally play into the joke.

“Serves you right,” you tease.

By your side, you hear your boyfriend huff derisively. “Oh, come on.”

Before your fun can be ruined, though, Ghost is offering you his hand, dark eyes sparkling. You bite your lip, but it doesn’t hide your grin as you accept the unspoken challenge. His hand is huge around yours, but shockingly gentle. He goes down easiest of all, whistling in amazement.

“Look’it that, you’re a pro,” he says, “think we should all be buying you a drink.”

“She doesn’t drink,” your boyfriend interjects.

You huff and settle back into the booth. “Maybe some other time, Lieutenant Riley?”

“Count on it.”

You get into an argument with your boyfriend that night. He thinks you were “challenging his dominance” and “stirring the pot,” trying to sew discord and strife amongst the men to get them fighting over you. He says something about being the alpha of the group and that he would win but it’s insulting to him as your “provider” that you would question his authority.

He’s tipsy as he says it though, working himself up. You just follow the usual routine of soothing, reassuring, simpering — and then considering leaving when he’s finally asleep. But you’re far from home, don’t have the means to leave, and besides, you won’t be finding any support from your family on this front so…

Well, it’s not so bad, you remind yourself. He can be an asshole, but so can you and it takes two to fight. Besides, he only gets really bad when he’s been drinking and that’s only once a week? 1 out of 7 isn’t a bad ratio.

—

The 141 pretty much collectively decide that they adore you though. You get regularly invited to team outings, wherein your boyfriend keeps challenging (and losing) arm wrestling, while the boys coax you into “winning.”

They’ve also become rather adamant that you don’t bring them drinks anymore.

“You’re not our personal beer wench, yeah? We’re able to get our own pints,” Gaz soothes.

Your boyfriend chuckles and shakes his head, imparts his “wisdom” that it’s a female’s job to serve her man and his friends. As a sign of respect or something. You know it’s not an argument worth having and just sip at your drink in silence.

But you love going out with them. Love knowing the men keeping your boyfriend alive and they’re a good bunch. Respectful and funny and disciplined — you’re kind of hoping they snap your boyfriend out of this weird “alpha male” phase he’s been going through. On the other hand, you’re thrilled to be making something like friends. Sure, your boyfriend has made it clear that the 141 are his friends, but they’re always so conscious of keeping you involved and comfortable.

Then one night your boyfriend mentions what a “good little cook” you are and that instantly has all the boys perking up. Smiling, you offer to host during the Saturday League matches. They gleefully accept over your boyfriend’s protests about other men in his territory or something like that.

But when they do come over they’re horrified by the unspoken expectations. You tell them to sit, that you’ll bring them all drinks, with snacks on the way. They’ll be having none of it.

Ghost helps you with drinks, Gaz chops the veggies for snacks (and dinner). Soap pops in to keep you company while you babysit simmering pots. Price helps to tidy as you go, despite you’re fussing that he really doesn’t need to, he should be enjoying the games!

They end up spending more time with you in the kitchen than out in the den with their own teammate. You barely notice, swept up in the busy currents of playing hostess. When your boyfriend shouts that he needs another beer, you come back to find Price getting plates and utensils for dinner. It’s so thoughtful you could cry.

Even worse is when they help you clean up afterwards. Each of them taking and clearing their own plates. Soap on washing big dishes, Gaz on drying. Ghost is packing up leftovers. Price is turning over the dishwasher, asking you where dishes go and tutting when you insist you should be helping.

All the while, your boyfriend stands in the doorway telling you all the ways you could improve the meal next time. And how you definitely ate too much for your body size, etc.

He only stops when Price makes a pointed comment about standing around looking pretty.

When they leave, they each sweep you up in a hug and drop a kiss on your cheek, praising your home and cooking and hosting. Soap promises that he’ll get you a little souvenir on their next mission as a thank you.

And sure enough, three weeks later, the boys are coming by. Except your boyfriend is nowhere to be found — out with some other guys from the base that he says he hit it off with. The 141 insist that he agreed to a football watch again, the empty headed muppet.

And of course you’re not going to turn them away! They’ve brought you flowers, a little matryoshka set from their last mission, chocolates and wine. Not one of them is empty handed.

“Do you even like the game?” Gaz asks as you put it on.

“My favorite team isn’t playing until tomorrow but I don’t mind watching,” you answer, shrugging.

But somehow no football is watched at all. Instead they convince you to tell them your top three favorite movies, then claim none of them have ever seen any of them and they have to watch all of them.

Which is how your boyfriend finds his whole team enjoying a little movie marathon with you. You’re on the ground with Johnny (it’s Johnny now, for you) doing his eyebrows. Gaz is braiding your hair. Ghost (Simon) is sharing a bowl of candies with you. You’re sat against Price’s shins, the captain sitting in your boyfriend’s chair, lounging like a king.

When you welcome him back, telling him the boys are staying the night, he tries to throw a fit about it. How dare you let four strange men stay alone with you?! You calmly remind him that he promised he’d be home by 11 and it’s already nearly 1. And besides, he trusts them with his life, you’re allowed to trust them to be polite in your own home.

With all four of his teammates watching, tense and nearly hostile, he mutters something about being tired and storms off to bed. You end up falling asleep on the couch with ghost despite yourself.

And your boyfriend becomes absolutely haunted by his team’s (is it even his team? It feels more like yours!) affection for you.

They always invite you out even if he doesn’t plan to invite you. (When did you get any of their numbers?! Never mind Ghost’s. He doesn’t even have Ghost’s number.)

They stop by the flat constantly, sometimes dropping in. Other times staying for hours. Soap tells him that they’re all one big family; that includes you. (“Alright then why don’t we go hang out with one of your girlfriends?!” He had an actual nightmare about the laughter that gets him.)

And the fucking gifts. It’s not just soap bringing you things anymore. It’s all of them. Magnets, mugs, sweets, pretty rocks. Just garbage to your boyfriend but you treat it all like treasure. They’ve even got you sending them on hunts for specific things. Something blue, something with nuts, something with the flag.

Then there’s the base.

They bring you on one day — Price picks you up, the boys greet you at the barracks with coffee and breakfast. You’re put into a big 141 hoodie that says “Riley” on the back and toured around. You’re supposed to be “surprising” your boyfriend, but he’s busy with recruits and generally seems uninterested in being around you.

Not to worry though, the 141 is happy to show you a good time around base! Gaz and Johnny walk you through one of the obstacle courses, Simon lets you sit on his back for pushups during the last of his workout. Price takes you to the range and shows you the basics of shooting, then lets you catnap through the adrenaline drop in his office.

Your boyfriend only bothers to find you when Johnny and Simon are teaching you basic self-defense. Your boyfriend scoffs that you’re plenty protected by him, but you point out that he’s away too often to be of any real help — at which point Johnny tags you and bolts before your boyfriend can get all up in arms.

You only recognize that this little hurdle in your relationship has become a chasm when something happens. A big argument with your parents over the phone — you barely even remember what about. But instead of calling your boyfriend afterwards, your first call is to Gaz. (Because you know he’s the most likely to be free and paying attention to his phone.) You’re almost shocked when he picks up on the second ring. Your boyfriend has never answered on the first call.

When you try to explain through poorly-restrained tears, he coos at you to find a warm coffee shop and that they’ll be right there. “They” ends up being him and Johnny, since Simon and Price are locked up in an important meeting. They buy you hot chocolate and pastries while you vent to them, and end up leaving feeling better for once.

But you can’t break up with your boyfriend. Because if you do, the 141 will surely stop hanging out with you, and you value their company enough to put up with it.

At least until you come home one day to find all your little gifts gone. When you ask through a tight throat where everything is, your boyfriend says he was just making space. That you’ve been complaining that you two need a bigger flat, but now he’s solved the problem without wasting money.

You actually raise your voice for once, throwing an entire fit because this. This is the last straw. You storm into your bedroom, slam and lock the door, and call the 141.

A small part of you expects they’ll take his side or something. But nope. Simon soothes you on the other end, that the whole squad will be there in fifteen and to pack your stuff.

You do so while Price takes over and keeps you level. Reminds you of essentials to pack and explains that you’ll be coming to stay at his place, since he’s got off-base housing. It’ll be quiet and cozy and safe while you recover.

Five minutes away, they promise to be right there and end the call.

You could absolutely scream when your boyfriend — ex boyfriend — starts banging on the door. Demanding that you open the door to him. That you’re being over dramatic and blowing everything out of proportion. Using the “your emotional and irrational” line that you’ve heard a thousand times and are just about sick of.

Your heart stutters with relief when you hear the knocking at the apartment door, confused silence as your ex goes to see who it is. You take that moment to slip out, packed suitcase in hand.

You startle a bit at some commotion, round the corner to see your ex’s shirt bunched up in Johnny’s fists, looking ready kill him. No one seems inclined to pull him away; neither are you.

“How are you holding up, luv?” Gaz asks gently as Simon takes your bag.

“Been better,” you admit, sniffling as Price wraps you up in a hug.

“It was just things, luv,” he soothes, “we’ll get you a million more, if you like.”

You pull back to give him a miserable look. “But they were my things and they didn’t have to go anywhere. He just threw them out.”

Johnny snarls something out, but Gaz is already ushering you out the door. You tell your family about the break up through text and then shut off your phone, bundled into the backseat of an SUV with Gaz in the backseat. Price is in the front, all of you waiting for Simon and Johnny to come down.

“What now?” you ask quietly.

“Well, about time we cut that knob loose,” Price muses. “But that’s not your problem anymore.”

“Oh…

“And you, luv.” He looks at you through the rear view. “You get whatever you want.”

[notjustjavierpena]

Applied Physics pt. i

Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: Long awaited smutty piece with a planned sequel. I hope you enjoy, ya filthy animal 💅🎀💖

Summary: It’s the 60s, you’re three weeks behind on a deadline, and your professor, Doctor Reed Richards, makes you face the consequences. 

Pairing: Reed Richards x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: College student/teacher relationship, science talk, Reed has powers, dub con, spanking, dom/sub dynamics, implied dacryphilia, dirty talking, sub drop, aftercare, stern Reed 🥵

Word count: 5.7k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62948440/chapters/161199763

Applied Physics

Dr. Reed N. Richards always wears a tweed jacket with elbow patches that show off his broad shoulders and give him an irresistible swagger. He teaches physics at your college part-time - when he is not out saving the world - and he is equally terrifying as he is warm, a combination of traits that you have learned can actually coexist but only after meeting him. 

You have been wanting him since he walked into the classroom that morning many months ago, carrying a black leather binder seemingly filled with little to nothing since everything appears to be stored in his brain. 

He has standards, you find, and traditional ways of doing things that somehow emphasize his love for the delicacy of science. For instance, he only grades papers with a fountain pen and therefore expects every assignment to be handwritten instead of done on a typewriter which is tedious and difficult for those who don’t possess a steady hand. The scary part of him comes out when he says he simply won’t grade the papers that aren’t turned in as he wants them to be. The warm part shows itself when he later makes a self-deprecating joke about knocking over whiskey during his grading. 

The idea of the paper smelling like his cologne or even, if you are lucky, has a stain of his favorite liquor, makes you hand in each assignment whilst the ink is still drying on the paper. Perhaps you will be the first one to receive notes and feedback from him if you turn in your work before its deadline.

You imagine him hunched over a desk, pen barely able to fit in his rough hand. He wears something casual, maybe even has taken off that jacket, scratching his beard and sipping his drink whilst smiling to himself as he reads words that come from your mind. Your mind makes him smile to himself, makes him single you out from the rest of your class because you are special and he knows this. It’s the image you imagine the first time you come whilst thinking about him, shower head between your thighs and legs against the tiled wall in the shared bathroom at the boarding house you reside in. 

When you do finally get your first essay back from him, you read all the comments in the margins during your lunch. You lick a drop of juice from an apple away from your lower lip as your eyes skim over a scribbled good or well done, trying to find an excuse to read more into the way he looks at you when you talk during class. You made him laugh once, that must mean something, right? He clearly has your sense of humor, the same ways of applying theory and reasoning. 

You know that it is hardly rational what you are doing, projecting all these things onto him when, in reality, you only know of him what you have seen during his lectures and office hours. Yet you have found yourself noticing the way he smiles faintly when you correct one of your fellow students during group work, and it has spurred you on to become even more insufferable to your classmates only to get his attention. His approval too, if you are lucky. 

Yet despite all this, here you are with an assignment running three weeks late, your procrastination having reached its limits and your excuses to your professor wearing thin. It’s a challenging state to be in when you’re so used to ranking your popularity with Dr. Richards higher than everyone else on this course. Sure, his attention is nice when it is rooted in praise but you don’t know if the kind that will follow this lecture, the deadline you’d agreed upon for your paper being yesterday, is the kind that will satisfy something in you like the small smiles have. 

You keep bouncing your leg beneath your desk as you wait for Dr. Richards to enter the lecture hall with that cool aura about him and let the fast-paced lecture begin. If anyone sees you, they will recognize it as an itching to suck up to him once more but in reality, it is the first time you’ve been in the room with a nervous tic. 

“Good afternoon, everyone,” he greets as he finally arrives and you find yourself jolting with nerves at the fact that he is finally here and inevitable doom is just around the corner. It doesn’t make it better that his brown eyes sweep over the crowd in a hurry until he spots you, his gaze full of concentration until he gains eye contact with you for less than a second. You sit up straighter at the way he measures you and the subconscious movement of your leg stills completely. Frustratingly, the man keeps talking as if nothing happened. 

After several attempts to regain your composure, you realize that you have completely missed his introduction to today’s lecture and while trying to ignore the thrill that is simmering beneath your anxiety, you scramble to start taking notes. It’s not to show him that you can go back to being his favorite student but rather a necessity to keep yourself from being three weeks further behind.

You power through the lecture even with your fuzzy mind, scribbling things down and making sure to appreciate the privilege it is to be taught by one of the greatest minds to ever live. This is even if he, multiple times, falls into the usual pattern of diving headfirst into multi-layered explanations of different phenomena and concepts, droning on as if none of you and the rest of your classmates exist to him anymore. 

You pretend to keep up when he does this but even you must admit that he loses you. However, you know for a fact that it is not out of disinterest that you stop listening but rather your mind focusing on something else when his words become too difficult to follow. Instead, you end up mapping out the length of his gorgeous neck, the beauty spot where his collar ends. It is enough to leave your mouth dry, but not enough to drag your mind off the scolding you’ll get soon.

When the lecture comes to an end, you have psyched yourself enough to stupidly get up and try to follow the rest of the students out. They trickle out hurriedly though and you find yourself at the back of the school of people heading for the door. 

“Hold it right there,” Reed’s voice travels through the room and hits you right in the back, making you falter in your step. Your last name rolls off his tongue with the same kind of confidence and composure that you’d tried to conjure up just an hour ago. 

“Sir, I was just—“ you rest your hand on the doorknob to signal that you are leaving but you know already that you have lost the fight to exit the room. 

You hear it before you see it; the faint and strange rustling of fabric as something wooshes closer. Suddenly, your teacher’s stretched-out arm moves past you like you have seen it do on television and then his hand attached to said arm splays flat on the door. He closes it with a soft click while you hold your breath. 

Slowly, it retracts back to normal and you follow it with your eyes by glancing over your shoulder. Time stands still for a moment at the sight because while Reed Richards has stretched his body multiple times in the past, without much thought behind it and much to his students' shock, he never puts anyone in the position to experience it firsthand. 

“Sir, I—“

“Come here,” he says quietly. 

You grab the strap of your bag tightly and make your way to the desk where he sits. You decide to beat him to his reprimand, talking even if your voice shakes at his disapproving stare, “I’m sorry I missed this week’s deadline.”

“This week? Try the last three,” he calmly corrects you, “You have done your research on force, impact, and energy transfer in non-elastic collisions, have you not?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And you’ve still not turned anything in? Why?”

“I've been overwhelmed with coursework and–” You trail off when he raises a brow. He is still sitting down but even so, you feel like you are shrinking underneath his authority. You find it hard to believe that anything out your mouth right now will be taken seriously when you have let him down three times already but you try to reassure him anyway, “It won’t happen again, I promise,”

“No, it won’t,” he agrees as he pushes himself to stand. He drags the chair away from the table as if he thinks it is in his way, “You’re brighter than most, so I don’t believe I need to remind you what happens if you keep slacking.”

“No, sir, I’m aware.”

“I mean, we’ve already moved way past force dynamics and energy exchange on this year’s curriculum, so you’re wasting my time,” he goes on with an annoyed sigh that tells you he has better things to do, “What am I supposed to do with you?”

“I don’t know, sir,” you stare at the flooring.

“Come closer,” he orders calmly. He lets his gaze flick down to your hand clutching your bag of books, “Take out your book on core concepts.”

You follow his eyes and pull out the right book before gently letting the strap of your bag slide off your shoulder until the bag hits the floor with a soft thud. Something tells you that you’re not leaving anytime soon.

“Place it on the desk and find the pages on Newton’s Laws,” he continues and your heart slams against your ribs at the thought of an impromptu pop quiz instead of a handed-in paper. Yes, you know these pages but in the presence of him, you’re not so sure. 

Behind you, Reed has shrugged off his jacket while you were flipping through the book. He folds it neatly and hangs it over the back of the chair he was displeased with a moment ago, making sure not to crease the fabric. Then he reaches for the sleeves of the white shirt that he is wearing and rolls them up to his elbows, revealing the slightly visible veins of his forearms. Your head swims and you subtly press your thighs together, images of what you’d like him to do to you flooding your mind.

“Bend over,” he says suddenly, murmuring it almost as if he knows he shouldn’t have said it. 

Your eyes widen and you glance in the door’s direction. There are so many people on the outside of this room right now but the chances of someone walking in are slim since lectures are rarely started at this hour of the afternoon, “I don’t understand?”

“You don’t have to understand anything. I want you to put your palms on either side of the book and bend over,” he elaborates and clearly notices your hesitation, the direction of your eyes. His arm stretches out in front of you again, snaking its way past the rows of chairs until it reaches the door once more. He locks it, the soft click of it mixing with your unsteady breathing, and then he pulls down the curtain in the window at the top. 

When the arm smoothly retracts once more, you naturally think it will stop at his side but instead, you feel his palm on the back of your neck. His other hand joins to lay on the small of your back and then he pushes down gently to maneuver you into the position that he wants. 

You exhale shakily as you place your hands on the desk, feeling the smooth wood underneath your fingertips as a way to ground yourself in a moment so electric. Your body is way ahead of you, reacting to the anticipation of his next move by making a dull ache settle right between your legs. Your clit throbs, your walls flutter. 

“Your paper was supposed to use Newton’s Laws as a foundation, let me make sure you know them properly,” Reed says simply while removing his hand from your lower back. His other hand, the one on the back of your neck, slips down your spine to take the previous one’s spot, leaving fire in its wake, “Recite them.”

You swallow thickly, “Newton’s First Law states that a body at rest—”

Smack. 

A loud gasp leaves you at the surprise of Reed’s free hand coming down on your backside, heat spreading out underneath the fabric of your skirt where it has struck you. Your head whips around to stare at him in disbelief at what he has just done, your mouth hanging open in shock.

“Eyes on the book,” he commands sternly, curling his fingers slightly into the hem of your shirt, “Go on. Newton’s First Law.”

You count three whole breaths before you will yourself to face forward again, looking down at the text in front of you and trying to regain your ability to read. You swallow the lump in your throat, the letters jumbled on the page, “Uhh…”

“Concentrate,” he adds and gives you another blow, one that makes you jolt forward on the desk and send the book almost over the edge. You frantically reach for it, noticing the way your heart leaps into your throat when you consider what would have happened if it had fallen off. 

You drag the book back down and try to act cool but your voice tells on you as you start to read out loud, “A-a body at rest stays at rest, and a body in motion stays in motion—”

He spanks you again and elicits another gasp but you seem to have expected it since you don’t go flying forward. This is even if his palm leaves behind a much more painful sting this time and makes your toes curl in your shoes. 

“Until…” He sounds impatient. 

You act immediately like a dog who is learning about action and consequences, “Until acted upon by an external force.”

“Good girl,” he praises and you don’t know why the softness of his voice makes you tear up. His broad palm traces over the spot that is warming up already and you make a show out of sighing with content. 

However, the soothing touch is short-lived and you start struggling just slightly as Reed’s hand descends until he can grab the hem of your pencil skirt and roughly tug it up. He settles it just above the plumpness of your ass, swatting you to make you focus and stop squirming. 

“I’m not going to fuck you so stop moving around,” he scolds and surprises you with yet another smack. It feels different now that each slap is skin-on-skin contact, sounds different too as the noise echoes through the empty lecture hall. You whine in slight disappointment, even if you have inappropriately imagined his cock in you during circumstances so different so many times. 

“Second Law,” he murmurs, occupied briefly by the bruise forming on your cheek and scraping his nails across it. 

“W-what?” You let out a whimper, your thighs pressing together to soothe your pulsing clit. In theory, you know what he has said but it just isn’t registering since your mind is occupied by you knowing exactly what you will be doing back home if he won’t touch you. In fact, a thrill goes through you at the thought of another blow to recall in your bed with your hand stuffed into your underwear.

“Newton’s Second Law,” he repeats with a smaller swat following. You suck in a breath to calm yourself. 

“Newton’s Second Law states that the net force on an object is equal to its mass times its acceleration,” you say somewhat confidently, a sense of calm settling over you as you finally feel like you are getting a handle on the situation. 

“Apply it to the situation you’re in right now,” he tests you. You feel your face grow hot and hesitation seizes you for a second. It takes a moment too long for him and a much sharper smack lands right on the jiggliest part of your ass, the sharpness of the pain making you moan for the first time and the noise of the blow bouncing off the walls. You almost even swear in your professor’s presence, and you would have if it weren’t for the way tears in your eyes take off the edge.

“You’ll get one more if you don’t open your mouth soon,” he adds. You’re just about to speak, about to follow orders, when he takes a step closer and presses his cock into your hip. You freeze at the size of him, a sound that can only be described as pathetic leaving you. Reed huffs out a chuckle and smacks you once more albeit slightly less maliciously.

“Y–you’re applying a force to me. Your hand is the mass and the acceleration is essentially the swing of your arm. The shorter the time and the greater the velocity of the impact, the bigger the force I feel,” you try not to hiccup through the whole explanation but the words take a longer time to come to you and your backside is hypersensitive, warm, and sore. Your pulse rings in your ears too, and you swear you can almost taste the adrenaline in your mouth from how it is coursing through your body. It might just be salt from your tears though which you realize will simply give you an excuse as to why you stayed behind after class. If you really try, you might be able to conjure up an act of a student who got some terrible feedback.

“Still with me?” You hear him ask, feel him soothe your burning flesh. You wonder if his palm is imprinted on your cheek.

“Yes, sir,” you mumble with a sniffle, your palms sticking to the desk from how clammy they have become. 

“Speak up,” he corrects you and his palm leaves you long enough for you to start anticipating another strike. No hands on your body makes it harder to abstain from feeling his hard cock resting against your hip, the heaviness of it making you even wetter and oh God, aching to be filled.

“Yes, sir,” you enunciate without coming off as bratty. The next strike doesn’t come and relief washes over you, allowing you to relish in the cool air brushing your tingling and bruised skin.

“Last but not least. Newton’s Third Law?” 

“F-for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction,” you say and rest your forehead on the book that has absorbed a few teardrops, He doesn't give you praise or a soothing touch. It bewilders you, makes you question if your scatterbrained state has accidentally made you say something that is wrong. You go quiet except for your rapid breathing as you go over your answer in your head but nothing comes to mi–

The sudden smack instantly makes you realize where you went wrong, landing across the exact spot that’s already stinging and causing you to hiss and whine through your teeth. Quickly, you scramble to relate Newton to what Reed is doing to you, “If… if you strike me, my body exerts a force back on your hand.”

“Mhm, good,” he hums while your head swims, “And I bet you’re feeling that force right now.”

“It hurts,” you whimper feebly and turn your head to the side. Yes, it’s the truth but your body can’t tell if it’s supposed to register this as pain or pleasure, the sensations overlapping intensely.

“That’s part of the lesson,” Reed’s hand returns in a gentle touch, his large palm settling carefully over the same spot he has just mercilessly spanked, “Why does it hurt?”

You wish he’d move his hand down between your legs and make you come when he realizes how soaked-through your panties are, “B-because when you spank me your hand transfers kinetic energy into my skin. The force and the friction cause heat to build. The tissues and blood vessels react, and it—”

“Gives you that glow. Precisely,” he finishes your sentence and curls his hand around your hip firmly. He sounds enthralled by his work, “And I respond with arousal, meaning it makes me so goddamn hard. Now, hold still. These last three are for the three missed deadlines.”

You know he means business when his finger slips underneath the waistband of your panties. He pulls them down just enough to settle them underneath the globes of your ass without exposing your needy cunt, the elastic of them digging slightly into sore skin. His other hand lifts and you brace yourself even if you know that any human can suffer through even uncontrollable pain if they know there’s an end to it. 

The first of three strikes lands right on the curve of your backside, harder than any of the several ones before it and making your entire body seize up. He isn’t playing around this time, your skin immediately blooming with newfound heat and fiery pain. It makes you moan out loud and squeeze your eyes shut until fireworks go off behind your eyelids.

“Count,” he says calmly. 

“O-one,” you manage to say in a voice that makes it sound like an apology instead. 

The second one makes it feel like there’s a clap of thunder going through your bones. You jolt forward on the desk enough to finally send the damn book flying off the edge to the floor. Reed tightens his grip on your hip to steady you, dragging you back to him again as if to remind you that despite everything he’s got you. 

“Two,” you say shakily, “I’m sorry, Professor Richards.”

He rubs the spot to soothe your burning flesh and by now, a part of you wants to crawl into his lap and be held. He coos softly at you and gently squeezes the roundness of your ass, making you bite down on your bottom lip and exhale a needy whine through your nose. 

“No need to bring me apologies,” he tells you, “We’ll see if you’ve learned your lesson. Last one.”

He lets you wait for the final smack, but when his hand lands on your skin, a sharp cry rips from your throat. Tears start flowing freely from your eyes now - even if you’re still not fully crying as emotions have not caught up with you yet - but it’s not solely from the pain, but also from the swirl of adrenaline and arousal that tightens below your belly button. You wonder if you should reach up to wipe your eyes but you can’t make yourself let go of the desk underneath you, clutching it in an iron grip because of how wobbly your legs are.

“Three,” you hiccup as Reed loosens his grip on you. You feel the ache of your behind with every heartbeat and want to sob now that it is over. You’re hyper-aware of what is happening in your body which is the adrenaline starting to crash, and the emotions, coming in like a wave, are just about to overwhelm you when—

“Sit up on the desk for me,” Reed says gently. 

“But the book,” you glance toward the textbook that you sent flying not long ago. It is a silly thing to cling onto but there’s an emotional wavering in your voice as you say it which Reed seems to catch onto. 

“Leave it,” he murmurs, an order but not like the previous ones, “Sit. I need to make sure you’re alright.”

The task seems impossible. You barely manage to push yourself fully upright, your shaking legs nearly not able to hold you up, and when you turn around to lift yourself onto the desk, you feel the edge dig into your sore behind in a way that forces a hiss out of you. A tear that you have no control over rolls slowly down your cheek.

“Easy,” Reed is beside you, catching onto your motive when you get ready to jump up onto the surface in a hurry due to his earlier lack of patience. He has previously had a hovering hand nearby but now, he grabs a hold of you to still you, “Do it carefully.”

When you’re finally perched on the desk, you’re not sure if the calming cool sensation of the wood beneath your thighs outweighs the pressure against your smarting skin. What you are sure of though is the storm of emotions inside your chest, a raging one made up of an overwhelming mix of new pain, embarrassment, and vulnerability, all of which makes your heart feel too big for your rib cage. 

“I’m okay,” you lie but you hear yourself and know it isn’t very convincing. He gives you a raised eyebrow. 

“Seems like you’re experiencing what is known as a drop. Come on, deep breaths,” he guides you gently when he spots the way your bottom lip wobbles, “If you have to cry, let it out. No one’s going to see you.”

From his words, you realize that your breathing has become unsteady and hitched in very little time. Your shoulders shake and your chest has a ball of unleashed feelings in it that nearly makes you feel sick. It unravels when the tears that you hoped would subside resurface at the permission to let them flow. You feel them brimming at the corners of your eyes. 

“I’m sorry, this is so embarrassing,” you say shakily when they finally spill over even if the tension in your torso slowly ebbs away as you let go. 

“You’re alright. Just breathe for me,” he says softly. He brings his hands to your thighs and rubs them in an attempt to soothe and ground you, “Slow and steady in through the nose and out the mouth. Right now, you don’t have to do anything but calm down, and then I can take a look at you.”

The room around you seems distant as you try to breathe more steadily but you’re lightheaded, feeling almost as if you’re wrapped in a woolen, fuzzy blanket that blocks everything out besides him. You aren’t sure if it is the adrenaline crash anymore or the way that your whole body is so tightly wound for pleasure that won’t come but you crave his touch, crave him taking care of you.

“You’re okay,” he says over and over, drowning out the static in your ears, “No more crying, sweet angel. I’d rather not see you leave here like this.”

The nickname makes you snap out of it. Angel? Did he just call you an angel? Your tears go on hold when you continuously blink up at him from your seat on the desk, pawing at his chest without knowing what to do with all your longing. He makes you feel all the things you have felt since you met him all at once now, a dizzying flurry of thoughts and feelings. 

“That’s better,” he smiles genuinely for the first time and you melt right then and there. He looks so damn handsome when he does it that you go ridiculously doe-eyed at the sight. 

“Thank you,” you mumble while playing with the buttons on his white shirt. The butterflies in your belly have nearly made the pulsing ache of your backside disappear. 

“Stand up,” he says and removes your hands from his chest which you probably make a much bigger deal out of than him, “I need to take a look at you.” 

You stand on wobbly legs. Slowly and carefully, he skims his fingers over the inflamed skin and notes out loud that it is warm. It’s not a soothing caress for the sake of tenderness, but rather a deliberate check-in to take note of how much damage he’s done. He works methodically, like a man who daily works with scientific research and experiments, going over each part of you while humming at his discoveries. 

“Right. Cool compress when you get home for the swelling, ten-fifteen minutes on and off. Frozen peas will do,” he instructs in the exact same tone as when he gives out science homework, “The skin is still intact but you’ll be sore if you don’t treat yourself with a little kindness. Lotion if it is too much to bear and loose clothing. Not a pencil skirt like this one, we clear?” 

You nod with the hint of a pout.

“And,” he adds and grabs lightly at your chin, his tone suddenly playful, “Try not to miss any more deadlines.”

It’s a joke, you realize, something to lighten the atmosphere in the lecture hall and you barely register it from the way his fingers hold your head in place. Despite your watery eyes and racing heartbeat, you huff out a little laugh.

“There we go,” he coos at the sound of your chuckle, “Not so gloomy anymore.”

With gentle hands, he reaches just below your hips to pull your underwear up over the curve of your ass again, careful not to let the waistband tug at the sensitive skin. He does the same with your skirt, tugging the hem down over your thighs until you look decent once more. 

Your lips part slightly as your eyes slide up to look at his face, feeling dumbstruck by his brown intelligent eyes and his aquiline nose straight out of the statues from Ancient Rome. You admire the column of his neck, the mentioned beauty mark just above his collar, and the dip that you want to kiss. 

After a moment, you realize that you have gone quiet and when you look back at his eyes, you are dizzyingly meeting his suddenly intense gaze. It is as if he has calculated that you are back with him, lingering with desire albeit still a little shaken by your tears. His eyes are burning into yours and you can feel the restraint behind them. It is as if you can sense the electricity in the air, the warmth that prickles in your cheeks, and the heat that radiates from him. 

Without a word, he reaches to tuck your shirt into your skirt until it hugs your figure tightly, a fashion choice different from how you had arrived in his classroom earlier. The dominance of styling your clothes as he prefers it makes you press your thighs together, the dull ache returning between your legs. 

“I’ve noticed, seen it all. That’s why I did it,” he says cryptically as he stuffs your shirt down at the back, fingertips brushing the dip of your spine until heat racks up it. 

“Noticed what?” You ask foolishly but had you stopped to think, you would have figured it out already. 

“All the energy you’ve put into getting me to notice you and getting my undivided attention. Congratulations, you’ve finally got it,” he clarifies and lets both his hands rest on the small of your back for the briefest of moments. When he lets go of you, you follow his touch by leaning in to close the distance with a kiss. 

He places a hand on your chest, holding you back just when you are pressing the ghost of a kiss to his lips. He has given you so much by now. Why not this? A ball of frustration settles in your chest and comes out as a little whine of impatience, “Why can’t we?”

He doesn’t pull away, simply speaks less than an inch from your face so you can feel his breath on your mouth, “Because you need to learn restraint, sweet angel. I can’t have you missing your deadlines three weeks in a row - or at all really - due to some little crush.”

You want to defend yourself, say that it has nothing to do with him but deep down, you know it would be a lie straight to his face. So instead, you swallow thickly, “I want you. I’ve wanted you since I saw you.”

“And you will have me,” he kisses you so softly that you want to sink to your knees, “Just not until I say so, and certainly not before you’ve been a good girl and turned in that paper.”

“Sir,” you try one last time.

“I’ll teach you to be patient, to have restraint,” he tells you and makes you realize your attempt was to no avail, “Whether you like it or not.”

You give in, buzzing with the need for more, “I can turn my paper in on Monday. Would that suffice?” 

“I’ll hold you to that, but no late nights and last-minute scrambling. If I find you’ve rushed through it…” he lets the sentence drift off, letting your imagination figure out the consequence, “And it best be your best work yet.”

“Yes, sir,” you reluctantly pull back when nothing seems to work, “Whatever you want.”

“Hand it to me during office hours before class,” he instructs to which you nod.

“But what now?” You ask with a tiny impatient noise, letting him know just how much you’ve got against his reluctance to touch you. 

His hand flexes by his side, “Now you go home. You lock your door and you touch that pretty thing between your thighs just how you like it most. I want you to come for me until you’re hoarse. Three times for three weeks but no more than that, not until we see each other again.”

It is Wednesday and you won’t see him until Monday. How on Earth are you going to survive on only three orgasms after this? Your mind races with protests but you don’t get to voice your concern about the limit he has set because he has already stepped back to pick up his jacket from his desk chair. 

You decide to circle the table to pick up your book and stuff it into your bag. Behind you, Reed’s eyes are definitely on you as you lean forward with a hand on the desk. He is fixing the cuffs of his sleeves and putting on his tweed jacket, trying to come off as if letting you have a private moment to compose yourself.

“Monday,” he reminds you when you stand upright again. His arm stretches out between the rows of chairs and tables once more so he can unlock the door for you. 

“Yes, sir,” you answer obediently. 

You swing your bag over your shoulder and then you leave.

.

.

If you would like to follow my writing then go follow @notjustjavierpena-fics and turn on notifications 💖❤️

[bebx]

had to make this. also we need more Victor von Doom and Reed Richards as meme formats.

[mysticalcats]

monochromatic siblings

[fallenbratfiction]

constants & variables ~ reed richards x f!reader

a/n: don't come for me, I had to google terms and concepts, I'm in another field of science FAR, FAR AWAY FROM THIS. That's all I gotta say.

mentions: fluff, stressed out reader, imposter syndrome, reed reassures you, sweet lil fanfic. if i missed any mentions let me know!

minors dni with my blog or works!

do not copy, translate or claim any of my work as your own.

⟡──────────────⟡

You’ve been at it for days. Every path leads to a dead end. Every new equation collapses in on itself. The whiteboard is a battlefield of half-erased solutions, and your notebook is filled with coffee stains and frustration.

“Fuck!” you mutter, scrubbing another attempt off the board with your sleeve.

Across the lab, Reed glances up from his tablet, his brow creasing as he watches you. He’s been buried in his side of the mission just as intensely, but somehow… he still finds room to worry about you.

The whiteboard squeaks under the force of your marker. You’ve been staring at the same theoretical loop for hours now. Your hands are covered in ink smudges and half-erased formulas. Your coffee’s gone cold. Your chest is tight. You want to scream or cry or run.

Reed's voice is quiet behind you, "Sweetheart"

"Don't," you shake your head.

He stands up, walks over, and offers his hand. “Come on. Let’s take a pause, okay?" he says softly. "Come lie down with me.”

“No,” you snap, sharper than you mean to. “I can’t rest. Not until I solve this. I’m stuck.”

“You’re hitting a wall, love." he moves a strand of hair behind your ear. “And the harder you push right now, the worse it’s going to feel. You’re not going to break through it tonight. You need distance—fresh eyes, another perspective.”

You exhale shakily, grip loosening on the marker. Reed gently eases it from your hand. “You're brilliant, but you're not a machine.”

He’s not trying to be Mr. Fantastic right now. He’s not lecturing you. He’s right, and you hate that he’s right. But admitting that feels like defeat.

You take his hand and let him lead you over to the couch in the corner of the lab, pulling you into his lap like it’s second nature. Your cheek finds his shoulder, and you close your eyes. His arms wrap around you like a quiet shelter.

“You’re so brilliant,” Reed murmurs against your hair. “And I admire you for it. I’m so lucky. But I hate seeing you like this, sweetheart. It’s no use burning yourself out. You don’t deserve to run yourself into the ground just to prove you can.”

“I just worry...a lot,” you whisper.

“I know you do.”

“What if there’s no solution? What if I can’t figure it out? What if we can’t fix this?”

“Hey.” He tilts your chin up gently with two fingers until your eyes meet his. His voice is low and steady. “We always figure it out. There’s always a solution. Like Feynman said—‘There’s a pleasure in finding things out.’ And we will. Just… not like this.”

You look him in the eyes. His gaze is steady, warm, full of quiet love.

And it makes it worse somehow—because all you can feel is the weight of not being enough. Not fast enough. Not brilliant enough. Not worthy enough.

“I feel like a fraud,” you whisper, voice barely audible. “To all of you… especially to you. When I can’t get it right.”

Reed doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t brush it off or tell you you’re being dramatic. He just cups your cheek with that steady, ink-stained hand, and his thumb brushes against your skin like he’s holding something precious.

“You’re not a fraud,” he says gently. “You’re exhausted. There’s a difference.”

You shake your head, but he leans in closer.

“I know that voice in your head. The one that tells you you’re not enough, even when you’re doing the impossible. But let me tell you something—you are not failing anyone. Not me. Not the team. And especially not yourself.”

You close your eyes, leaning into his touch.

He softens even further. “You’re allowed to be stuck. You’re allowed to not have all the answers right now. That’s not failure. That’s just… being human. Being brilliant and human.”

You let out a breath that trembles at the edges, and your shoulders fall.

“The problem will still be here tomorrow,” he says, brushing your knuckles with his. “But right now? I just want to hold the woman I admire most in the universe.”

You sink into his warmth, letting yourself be held. His arms wrap around you with a tenderness that makes your chest ache, grounding you in a way nothing else can. His heartbeat is steady beneath your cheek, his fingers slowly brushing through your hair. You're curled up in his lap, legs folded beside him, your cheek resting against his shoulder. The lab is quiet now. The whiteboard is blank.

Reed's fingers move gently through your hair, slow and rhythmic. His head leans back against the couch cushion, eyes closed but not fully asleep—just resting.

Silence feels like a pause, a much-needed one.

You’re staring at the empty whiteboard, and something shifts. A gap clicks into place. Not a solution, not yet—but the shape of one. You blink, your breath hitching. You sit up slightly.

“Reed.”

He hums, not opening his eyes. “Mmm?”

“I—wait.”

You freeze, staring, running over it again. It fits. The answer doesn’t lie where you thought—it’s beside it. A pivot. You scramble to untangle yourself from his lap, jolting up so fast he startles.

“Wait—hold on, what—?”

You’re already sprinting across the lab. You grab the marker and take the cap off with your mouth. You hit the whiteboard and write. Fast. Lines, symbols, a theory folding into itself with every pass. Your wrist aches, but your mind is flooded.

Reed sits up slowly, rubbing his eyes. Watches you in a daze as you scrawl.

“Baby,” he calls, voice still thick with exhaustion. “Enough for tonight. You need—”

“No, no, no, I got it—” You barely glance at him. “Reed, I got it! It’s the derivative link between phase decay and the fluctuation threshold—that’s what was throwing it off—oh my god, it was right in front of me—”

His brows lift as he watches, stunned, the fatigue melting off him. You’re in a frenzy, hair wild, marker racing. He sees the full scope of your idea unfold on the board. Elegant. Bold. Just Right.

Reed mutters something under his breath. He doesn’t interrupt. Just walks over quietly, standing behind you.

You’re halfway through the final line when he slides his hands onto your waist. “You did it,” he says, breathless with pride. “You fucking did it.”

You turn, eyes glassy, heart pounding. “I knew it was in there. I just needed—god, I just needed to stop thinking so loud.”

He leans in, forehead pressed against yours, grinning like he hasn’t slept in days and doesn’t care anymore. “You’re a genius,” he laughs. "Brilliant!" He lifts you slightly off the ground, arms tight around your waist, spinning you in one small, giddy circle before pulling you against him again.

“You solved it!” he says, half in disbelief, half in reverence. “You actually solved it.”

You’re breathless, laughing through the rush of adrenaline, still stunned by the clarity that hit like lightning.

“I did,” you say, dizzy. “I really did.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, hands still on your waist. “You realize this changes everything.”

You nod, beaming, heart still racing. “I know.”

“God, I’m so proud of you.” His voice cracks slightly—just enough to show how deeply he means it. “I love your mind.”

You blink back the emotion threatening to rise, overwhelmed not just by the breakthrough, but by him—his joy, his belief in you, the way he sees you even when you can't see yourself.

Your fingers slip into his hair, grounding yourself in him. The marker falls somewhere behind him and clatters quietly to the floor.

You lean in, eyes fluttering shut, and kiss him—deep, steady, grateful. You break the kiss to look at him. "Thank you," you whisper, a smile tugging at your lips.

He exhales against your lips like the weight of the universe just shifted, and he pulls you impossibly closer, his hand cradling the side of your face, the other still clutching your waist.

You break the kiss, forehead pressing against his, and breathe in the silence between you—the hum of the lab, the soft glow of the whiteboard behind you, still filled with your handwriting, your solution.

“Now we can rest,” you say, voice light, tired.

He chuckles, brushing his lips gently against your temple. “Yeah, baby. Let’s get to bed.”

And this time, when he leads you back to bed, it’s not with worry in your chest or doubts in your mind. Tomorrow, you're telling the team how you'll move forward with the mission. For tonight, the work is done.

⟡──────────────⟡

likes, reblogs & comments are appreciated always!!!

[cursedhaglette]

the epler/anaris bsky conversation is actually going to make me insane i think

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

🎊 twst 4th year anni ABEMA stream 🎉

***TWST JP news + anniversary spoilers below the cut!***

The stream starts with Ace, Deuce, Jack, Ruggie, and Sebek's VAs replying to a bunch of quiz questions. I think Ace or Deuce responds with "810" when asked how many items there are on the Heartslabyul lounge's coffee table. Sebek's VA also has a hilarious answer when asked how many Draconians (wakasama fans) there are, he pulls out some super absurdly high number with tons of zeros in it.

There is then a Master Chef/Culinary Crucibles-type section where the VAs decorate their own cake for TWST's anniversary. It’s a team effort! Ace and Deuce put on the cream, Sebek added cookies on top, and Jack and Ruggie did the final decorations. It ended up looking pretty cute ^^ (Ace's VA is the one that added all the whipped cream peaks; it was mostly thanks to Ruggie's VA that the cake still looked aesthetically pleasing at the end.)

Actual game-related news time!!! The SR Grim card for the 4th anniversary is... drumroll please...!! 🥁Apprentice Chef Grim!!! ABGKSKVUkvuDSQEVUOFDFIHAFVA HE'S SO CUTE, HE EVEN HAS A LIL TUNA CAN CAKE 😭

For anniversary, there will be a series of free items given out if you log in during the event period (11th to 25th), which includes THREE 10-pull keys (released on the 11th, 15th, and 18th, respectively). You can receive up to 12 days' worth of freebies. There will be an anniversary banner as per usual; you can earn tokens by pulling on this and then trade them in for a SR magical key (50 tokens) and/or past event-limited SSRs (150 tokens), including past years' birthday cards (100 tokens). There will be a new "Event Recollection" feature which allows you to experience events that you may have missed getting the initial chance to play through yourself.

Mr. S's Mystery Shop will sell items from past events such as limited Groovy materials and spell upgrade materials. This is called the "Memory Shop".

You will be able to mark (multiple) parts of the story as your "favorite". This will be indicated with a pink heart icon.

Battles will have a new feature which allows you to save team compositions for them. Up to 25 compositions may be saved at a time. You can also pin your supports, so you no longer have to scroll to find a specific friend's character to borrow.

There will be 3 new item gachas added to the "Item Lotto" of the shop (for Crewel, Vargas, and Trein). Previously, there was only Sam's. You use a new type of medal (obtained by taking classes) to roll on the teachers' lottos, and can pull items related to what you'd typically earn in each of their classes.

Crewel's gacha may provide an herbal tea which can be used to boost Buddy Levels, including those for characters that are otherwise unable to take Alchemy classes. That means Crowley, Rollo, etc. are fair game. (Yes, you can force feed them tea to obtain FRIENDSHIP✨) The tea may also drop during Special Lessons or Alchemy class.

We finally get magical key conversion! On the summoning screen, you can turn 10 single pull keys into one 10-pull key (which guarantees at least 1 SR; single keys do not have this benefit).

The Guest Room will receive a second floor to decorate. This will be unlocked once you reach a Guest Room rank of 31.

The Guest Room rank cap will be increased from 30 to 40. Additionally, all properties of floor 1 appears to carry over to floor 2. This means the same comfort level and attributes will be present across both.

New BGMs will be added to Mr. S's Mystery Shop. There will also be new voice lines added to Alchemy, Flying, and the outfit selection screen. The official TWST soundtrack will be released on the 29th of May, though preorders are tentatively open now. It is 140+ tracks (149, to be exact!) across 4 discs and goes for 4620 yen (inclusive of tax; without tax the soundtrack is 4200 yen). Japanese retailers are offering different dorms' A5 sized holographic sticker sheets as bonuses for preordering.

That's it for now, mostly quality of life changes! There will most likely be a 4th year anniversary PV/animated short on the actual anniversary day (the 18th)!

[kettlefire]

Mr. Mind is a brilliant villain who can face off against beings claimed Champion by Gods. Facing off doesn't always mean winning, in fact he doesn't win rarely at all.

But this time Mr. Mind has a new trick up his sleeve. A ghostly being he tracked down and hired to build him a suit similar to the ghost's own and to hunt down the mighty Shazam. Mr. Mind with Skulker at his side, prepare to defeat the Big Red Cheese once and for all.

Skulker wasn't used to being searched for his fame. Not following his death, not when he turned into a tiny, glowing green booger.

He knew exactly how he looked. It was one of the biggest things he had to deal with in his afterlife. Skulker had died like a hero and lived as the greatest hunter in his time. He died the same way he loved to live, and he had few regrets.

Skulker refused to let the world see him as this insignificant, annoying piece of trash. So he put all the effort he could into his suit. Created something that mirrors his image when he was living.

And no one had been the wiser. Not until that little whelp had destroyed his suit pulled him from the casing like nothing more than an insect.

It had been the catalyst for his need to get that pelt, to take down his foe because Skulker had never met a prey he couldn't best.

Yet, the little dipstick always seemed to one up him. Skulker found his fight waning as the days grew on. His want to take down the whelp ended up dying, and he found himself a little lost.

And then, he met Mister Mind.

Normally, Skulker wouldn't give his time of day to a worm. There was no need to. It was an insignificant thing, just like Skulker felt, no matter how large it was.

But Mr. Mind had searched for him, had put so much effort into finding him, and Skulker figured, why not hear the thing out? Why not see what the fuss was about?

It wasn't often these days that he was seeked out for his skills, his top-tier hunting that everyone seemed to forget, or his ability to craft wonderful tech. Despite being bested by a mere mortal child.

When Mr. Mind had given his proposal, had promised Skulker anything he wanted exchanged, it was a hard deal to pass up. He had been promised the power he needed, the unlimited access to whatever material he might need.

If he ordered a bit extra, put that towards his own pet projects, that didn't matter. Mr. Mind hired him on for a specific task. However long it took Skulker to complete it, it didn't seem to matter.

The sooner, the better, though, so Skulker put full attention into the creation of this suit. He worked hard in making sure everything worked well, and it fit perfecting to Mr. Mind. He totally didn't get Technus' help.

Mr. Mind had been overjoyed when Skulker showed him the final product. Immediately jumping in and going for a test run.

Skulker was equally proud of his creation. It was strange to create something for someone else, especially a worm. Yet, he felt prideful as he watched the suit in action.

All that was left was the showdown. The breaking moment between Mister Mind and this Big Red Cheese, the worm seemed to talk about often.

The Cheeseman seemed like a notorious foe compared to Skulker's little whelp he dealt with. The sight of the magical being was a sight for sore eyes.

A welcomed change.

Skulker was only there for mechanical support, though. He wasn't meant to join in on the fight, not unless Mr. Mind was losing. But even then, the worm had a handful of other tricks up his sleeve.

Skulker hadn't planned to jump, truly. But the magical whelp hand managed to escape him. When Mr. Mind told him to find the man, Skulker didn't refuse.

Managing to track down the magical being in an alleyway a good few blocks away from the initial fight.

At first, Skulker felt pride and joy at the sight of the beaten man. The way he was struggling to even stand straight. Skulker hadn't failed his task, and it was all he could ask for these days.

But when he saw the Big Red Cheese suddenly be struck by a flash of light, he had felt a moment of fear. Specifically, in losing this catch that he was meant to catch.

When the sight switched to a young boy, a child. Something barely the age of the whelp that plagued his thoughts, Skulker couldn't fight. Couldn't bring himself to want to hunt.

It was one thing for him to hunt down a child that did him wrong. It was a completely different thing to attack a child for something that had nothing to do with him.

It hurt Skulker to lower his weapon, where it was aimed at the boy. It was losing a bounty. A task, a mission, a hunt. But he couldn't do this, it struck something deep his core.

Even as he watched the child try and be brave, despite evidently cowering in Skulker's eyes. He let his gun settle by his side, extending his hand towards the boy.

This wasn't that infuriating whelp, and Skulker reminded himself of that as he felt a clammy hand begrudgingly accept his suited hand.

[nemaliwrites]

I keep thinking about how Adrien would be different if he were mister bug from the beginning rather than chat noir - here is an attempt to gather my Thoughts

You are Adrien Agreste.

You have never lived a life where you are free; you have never lived, period. People look at you, and they see what they want to see. They see the plastic smile on your face, one you have perfected over the years. They see your perfect hair, your perfect face. The clothes they dress you in have more personality than you do.

And then one day comes a man who sees you.

He hands you a box — earrings inside, but it’s more than that. What he hands you is responsibility. Trust. The ability to actually be someone.

There is a partner with you; a girl you don’t love. You could have, perhaps, if things were different.

(If there weren’t already another in your heart: someone who hates you, yes, but inspires you to be a better person every day. Who inspires you to put on those earrings, take up your yo-yo, and do the right thing)

She is wild, amazing, black cat through and through. But where she is wild, you are restrained. This is the biggest, the only responsibility you have ever been given. The last thing you want to do is give it up.

Your partner, she tells you, is the opposite. Her entire life has been nothing but responsibility. It’s different, she thinks, to let someone else take the lead for once. To listen instead of command.

Different, you repeat. Does that mean bad?

No, she tells you with a smile. Just different.

The akumas you fight are difficult, of course — but in a way, you’re used to it. In a way, your whole life is nothing but a series of akuma battles.

Wait. Listen. Find the simplest way out of things; the way that saves the most people. And now, you have your ladybugs to set things right in a way you have never been able to before.

Duty makes your shoulders heavier, your mouth set. But that’s not a bad thing. Just different.

Maybe this is who you were always meant to be.

[helaintoloki]

only gerard way, creator of the original umbrella academy comics, could stop steve blackman from ruining season four. but when the world needed him most, he vanished

[charliemwrites]

Part 5 of Mister(s) Steal Your Girl

Long awaited, but no Johnny smut just yet. Soon, I promise. (And Kyle will be back. It's been so long since he's gotten to smooch our dear reader.)

Also! A little reminder than you can check the queue to see what I plan to post for next. I try to update it often as the worms wiggle. Next I plan to do the final chapter of Greater Bad. (Unless I get my not-so-secret, no-longer-a-surprise oneshot out first)

Lastly! Please note that I wrote the "posts" from his perspective. So inconsistencies with the actual story and any grammar/spelling errors were purposeful or for "authenticity".

Content: Brandon.

r/CakeEater _OnBrand_ I asked my fiancé for an open relationship before marriage. It worked. A while ago I posted on r/adultery about the affairs (yes, multiple) I was having behind my then-gf’s back. We’d already been dating for ~4 years and I was seeing one of my coworkers (my “work wife”) regularly and one of her coworkers on and off. People on my other post were critical and called me all sorts of things like selfish and pig. I know it’s not traditional, but I genuinely don’t think I could ever be satisfied by one woman. My work wife (Rachel) and fiance’s coworker (Lucy) provide things my fiancé just can’t but I still love my fiancé. She’s the woman I’m going to spend the rest of my life with. When I posted on r/adultery I was trying to figure out how to propose without her finding out. I knew she’d expect me to help with stuff and possibly want to look at my phone more often. It would have been harder to sneak off to meet up with Lucy or Rachel with wedding planning and I was sick of being stressed she would find out. Some nicer people on the post suggested I ask for an open relationship. I took their advice and sat her down to sell the idea. It’s a good thing I’m so good at sales (top 3% in my company for 5 years in a row) because she agreed. Yes, actually agreed. At first she got kind of pale and her eyes got really big and blank. I thought for sure she was about to start crying and run off. Maybe even kick me out. She doesn’t really get angry but she gets upset and it freaks me out. After I explained everything about how good it would be for us though, she agreed. This is my official unlimited hallpass. I’ve been seeing Rachel on weekends and Lucy once or twice during the week for drinks. Tonight I’m going to sign up for every dating site I can. Tinder, Bumble, Hinge. If anyone has other suggestions, I’ll check those out too. Fiance has been kind of off but I think it’s just an adjustment period. Sometimes I can tell she’s been crying but she hasn’t come to me about it so she’s probably just being emotional about all the changes. At least she’s got our house to focus on while she gets used to things. I feel a little bad about running out every night but she’s just so mopey and sad all the time and it’s not enjoyable to be around. I know she probably feels like I’m abandoning her a little but once she starts getting back to normal I’ll spend time with her again. You really can have your cake (all the cakes heh) and eat them too. Edit: no, I never told her that I already had Lucy and Rachel and I’m not going to. What good would it do? She’s already agreed to an open relationship and telling her that I didn’t have permission first would just hurt her for no reason.

Kyle’s been gone for two (long, lonely) weeks when he finally gets a chance to call. So far, he’s only been able to send scattered texts at odd hours. Always something sweet – telling you he’s alright, or that he’s thinking of you. Sometimes you even catch him for a brief exchange before he apologizes and “goes dark” again.

Not that you begrudge it. This is part and parcel of dating him and you knew that going in. You’re not complaining when he’s putting his life on the line so that the public can live in blissful peace.

That doesn’t stop you from missing him though. His hugs, his smile. Getting his voice - even roughened by distance - is a nice compromise though.

“How have you been holding up, chickadee?” he asks after the initial reassurance that he’s whole and hale. 

“Easier this time!” you answer proudly. “I know what to expect with you gone and Johnny’s good company.”

“Yeah?” he asks, sounding pleased.

You can just imagine him now, leaning his hip against the nearest surface, arms crossed over his broad chest. He tends to duck his head when he smiles, and you unintentionally grin to yourself, thinking of him hiding into his phone. God, you miss him. 

“Mhmm! We found a board game bar that you’re going to love. Oh, and we’re going to the Hay Festival this weekend.”

He hums. “I’m sorry I can’t be there to take you, luv, but I knew Johnny would be good to you.”

More than good to you, really. There’s not been a day he doesn’t call to check up on you - if he doesn’t see you in person, that is. Dinner, movies, coffee. He’s somehow both a gentleman and an incorrigible flirt, but only with you. He’s nothing more than polite to anyone else, keeping his focus on you and whatever the two of you are doing.

You don’t know what to do with the undivided attention. If you didn’t know better…

“You two are getting close,” Kyle observes.

“I think so,” you admit, then hesitate. “Is… that okay?”

“‘Course, luv. I’m glad.”

You blink. “You are?”

“He’s my best mate and you’re my best girl.”

An odd pang of anxiety pierces your chest. Johnny calls you that too. His “best girl.” You love hearing it - but maybe you shouldn’t?

“It… doesn’t bother you? That we’re spending so much time together.”

He snorts softly, but it’s not derisive. It’s a noise he makes whenever he thinks you’re being silly, but his voice comes out soft and warm. Not an ounce of condescension.

“No, baby, I’m not fussed. You spend your time with whoever you want, however you want. Yeah?”

Your chest floods with warmth. “Okay.”

“There’s a love. I’ve got a brief, so I have to go. I’ll call soon as I can.”

“Be safe, Ky.”

“Do my best. Give Soap a smooch for us, aye?”

You blink as he hangs up. That’s a new one.

You ponder over it while packing on Thursday night. Was it just a joke? A tease at the little crush you’ve developed for Johnny?

Because it is a crush, you know it is. It’s impossible not to be attracted to him. Not with that smile, that laugh, the goofy humor and sweet mannerisms. He still sends you flowers every few weeks - just as the previous ones are about to die. It’s so thoughtful; you’ve started feeling a bit warm every time you look at them.

But you feel greedy, being even remotely interested in anyone else. You have Kyle and Brandon (even if you two are going through a… patch) and that should be enough for you. Shouldn’t it? You’ve never been with more than one person at a time before; it took you weeks to shake the compulsory guilt when you first met Kyle. It feels almost unforgivably audacious to want Johnny too, especially since he’s Kyle’s best mate.

Still… Kyle’s not a jealous or passive-aggressive guy. You’ve been with him long enough now that you know he’d just tell you outright if he was unhappy about something. And he’s been with you long enough that he can surely tell you’re more than a bit fond of Johnny.

Maybe that’s why he made the joke about “smooching” him.

Regardless, you want to talk to him about it. Things always make sense when you think out loud to him. His levelheaded and practical approach to difficult topics always straightens your panic spirals out into neat lines.

Plus, it’s not as comforting to hold your own hand. (God, when is he getting back?)

“Where are you going?”

You blink up at Brandon, folded pajamas in hand.

“The Hay Festival,” you answer.

Speaking of - you slip past him into the bathroom. He doesn’t follow, rooted to the spot spinning his phone around in his hands.

“Alone?”

You snort. “Of course not, I’m going with a friend.”

The allergy pills are at the bottom of the medicine basket beneath the sink. You really need to organize it the next time Johnny’s too busy to hang out. There’s no way you need three bottles of paracetamol. 

“I need that suitcase.”

You toss the bottle in and pivot for the dresser. “What for?”

He shifts, eyes sliding away. “An… overnight.”

Ah. That’s what he’s calling it now?

You snatch a few (too many) pairs of underwear from the dresser.

“Just bring them here,” you say over your shoulder.

There’s a long, tense beat of silence but you’re too busy rummaging for socks to break it first. Will it be too warm for thigh-highs? Eh, you’ll go with the sheer ones; the little lace roses match one of your dresses anyway.

“Bring who here?” Brandon asks slowly.

When you turn, he looks paler than usual. You shrug, trying to project casual comfort.

This is a totally normal and reasonable conversation to have. Just a couple in an open relationship, discussing a stranger coming to the house for a shag. Nothing to make a fuss over.

“Whoever you need the suitcase for? I know you’ve had people over before anyway, and I’ll be gone all weekend.”

He stutters, color returning to his face in bright pink blooms. “Why do you think I’ve had people over before?”

You arch an eyebrow. “I do the laundry, remember? And there was lipstick on one of the wine glasses.”

That had sent you into a tizzy at the time, disgusted that some stranger was in your bed, with your fiancé. You washed the sheets twice on the hottest setting and tossed in a bit of bleach for good measure. Hadn’t been able to look at him the whole week - not that he was there much to not look at.

Now, though, you seem to have adjusted to the idea, even if you’re still not thrilled. Brandon can have his… whoever over, and you’ll goof around with Johnny in Wales.

“Just toss the bedding in the wash afterwards,” you add.

“I thought you do the laundry,” he sniffs.

“I’m not traveling all day just to do chores when I get home,” you answer. He does a double take like you’ve started speaking a new language. “You’ll be here all weekend, I’m sure you’ll have time.”

He opens his mouth, and you can tell already that he’s about to argue - though you don’t really know what about. It’s not like he can’t do laundry or dishes, after all. He lived alone before you moved in together.

Thankfully, his phone distracts him before he can form the words. He spins away to tap at the screen and shuffles out of the room, shoulders till tense. You go back to packing and teasing Johnny about the amount of hair gel he’ll bring.

Friday afternoon can’t come fast enough. Even though you’ve taken a half day from work, the few hours seem to drag. You’re practically daydreaming about the food and drinks, music and activities. There’s a baker’s dozen art stalls you want to check out as well, and a gift to pick out for Kyle…

“Hope yer thinkin’ o’ me when ye make tha’ face.”

Your head snaps around so fast, you nearly give yourself whiplash. Johnny grins down at you in all his casually handsome glory – ripped jeans, green tee, and brown boots. Angels are singing somewhere, you think. Or maybe that’s just your nosy coworkers ogling from their own cubicles.

The reality of him sinks in a moment later and you leap up from your cushy chair – and right into his arms. He’s like a furnace compared to the cool, conditioned air of your office, a welcome source of warmth for your chilly fingers.

“What are you doing here?” you giggle. “Who let a rowdy guy like you in?”

He smells like bergamot and pine. It takes active thought to resist pressing your face into the crook of his neck. It looks cozy there.

As always, he squeezes you a bit tighter just before letting go.

“Hey now, Marcy’s a discerning lady. She knows a fine gentleman when she sees one.”

You snort, belied by the smile curling your lips. “She may need new glass then.”

“Och, don’t go talkin’ poor about my second-best gal now.”

“Is it that easy to get in your good graces?” you scoff, glancing at the time on your computer. It’s later than you expected; no wonder he came up to retrieve you. You spent so long daydreaming that you’ve lost track of time.

“Aw don’ be green, dove, you’re still my number one. Send ye flowers ‘n all.”

You roll your eyes at him. “Yeah, and now I’m wondering just how special that is.”

He stands close, proclaiming his case for how obviously special you are while you shut everything down for the weekend. You’re only half listening to the bit, admittedly. Mostly just basking in your excitement for the mini road trip and the weekend to come. You have no doubt that it’s going to be fun, even if it would be better with Kyle along too.

“Where are you headed off to?” Lucy asks.

“Hay Festival,” you answer shortly.

You’ve never been a big fan of Lucy, but lately she’s been insufferable. Talking over you during meetings, leaving you out of emails, throwing away papers at the printer. (Okay, you haven’t seen her do that last one, but you know.) Worst of all, she can help but make backhanded comments about every flower delivery.

“You’re not taking Brandon?” she simpers. “Something wrong?”

“He’s hanging out with a friend this weekend too,” you correct, “and he doesn’t like hay.”

“Shame that,” Johnny adds, sounding like it’s not a shame at all.

You haven’t told him much about Brandon – but you’re sure that Kyle has. From the face Johnny makes the rare times your fiancé comes up in conversation, he doesn’t think much of Brandon.

“Have fun you two!” your manager, Selene, calls.

You wave and shoot Lucy one last, unimpressed glance before stepping onto the elevator with Johnny.

r/CakeEater _OnBrand_ My fiancé is going on a weekend getaway with another man. I’ve posted in r/adultery and r/cakeeater before. I’m not looking for judgement or insults here. I really just want advice.

A little context: my fiancé and I are in an open relationship and it’s been like this for a few months now. I originally asked her to ope the relationship and for a while she was weird about it but lately she’s been getting sbetter. I thought she was finally getting used to me going out with other women and things were getting back to normal.

A few weeks ago, I noticed she was on her phone more. Like, all the time. Even at dinner when she used to be really picky about phones at the table. One day I came home from work and she was talking on the phone to someone. Giggling and laughing. When I turned the corner she was kind of blushing too. It kind of bothered me but I figured she was talking to a friend and just hot from cooking or something.

Lucy texted me pissed off one day, asking why I was sending my fiancé flowers but not her. I told her I hadn’t sent any flowers. I think they’re way too expensive for how long they realistically last and that they take up a lot of unnecessary space. But I thought it was weird that someone was sending my fiancé flowers and got kind of uncomfortable. That’s a pretty romantic gesture and her family isn’t the type to randomly send flowers either.

I tried taking her out on a date but she was all mopey again and turned her phone to ‘do not disturb’ so I wouldn’t even see if she was texting someone. We don’t have much to talk about now. I love her but she’s not a good storyteller or into very interesting things. All her ‘funny stories’ are just mundane things that happen during the day. We’ve run out of interesting topics about because we’ve been together so long. (That’s why I like having more than one partner.)

Yesterday she randomly started packing for a trip. I don’t even think she was planning to tell me until I asked her. She was packing a bunch of cute clothes too. Like dresses and tights and things like that. Stuff she only used to wear on our dates. I asked who she was going with and she just said ‘a friend’ which is weird because she would usually say the name of someone even if I don’t remember who they are.

Well today Lucy sent me a picture of my fiancé leaving her job with some guy. I couldn’t see his face because he was turned away, but I could see the side of my fiancé’s face and she was smiling at him. I got this awful sinking feeling in my chest like it was hard to breathe. It took me a few minutes to process that she’s going away for a weekend with a complete stranger.

Doesn’t she know how dangerous that is? Where did she even meet this guy? They’ll be gone all weekend so are they sharing a room? A bed? I nearly threw up thinking all these things as I called her.

I asked her to cancel her plans and come home. She seemed confused and reminded me that her plans were with someone else and it would be rude to ditch last minute. I told her I wanted to spend the weekend with her and that I’d been missing her. She seemed surprised and said that she’d see me on Sunday night, but she was looking forward to the festival with her ‘friend’ and wanted to go. As a last ditch effort I asked if her friend was more important than me, nearly begging at that point. She must have heard the desperation in my voice, but she just told me that she was already on the road and it was too late.

My fiancé doesn’t like lying but it’s hard to believe this guy was just a friend. Even if she sees him as a friend I know how men think and I doubt he sees her the same way.

She said some other weird stuff before she left about having someone over while she was gone. I don’t get it. How could she just casually invite someone else into our house like that? Has she had other people over? Is she dating now?

I’m not sure what to do. I don’t like that she put this trip over me. Should I talk to her about how bad this makes me feel? Should I call again and tell her to come home more forcefully? Am I blowing all of this out of proportion?

Edit: she doesn’t know that I’ve been seeing Lucy. I haven’t told my fiancé about any of the women I’ve been seeing. (mostly just Lucy and Rachel. I’ve done a lot of texting through apps and gone on a bunch of first place, but most women don’t put out right away and I usually can’t be bothered to get to know them better). Even then, I wouldn’t tell her about lucy. They don’t get along and never have. It would cause a lot of unnecessary drama.

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[notjustjavierpena]

Applied Physics pt. ii

Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: Long awaited… Hope you enjoy :)

Summary: Days later, you’re back but this time in Dr. Richards’ office with your assignment. It’s time to set up some ground rules.

Pairing: Reed Richards x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: College student/teacher relationship, female masturbation, description of bruising,  dom/sub dynamics and arrangements, rewards and punishments, Reed has powers, clit stim, fingering, edging, 60s views, praise kink, dirty talking, orgasm denial, orgasm control, humiliation, multiple limbs, aftercare, stern Reed giving homework 🥵

Word count: 8.8k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62948440/chapters/164546746

Applied Physics pt. ii

That Wednesday, you barely make it in through the front door to the shared housing before you excuse yourself to your housemates who look bewildered at the clear signs that you have been rushing home. 

“Hi! Goodbye! Lots of reading!” You grin with rapid breathing from practically running through the city. You stumble up the stairs to the second floor with your bag knocking into your hip as you bounce up the steps, cruelly reminding you of Reed’s work that is splayed all over your backside. You pass the bathroom, the three more rooms, and finally reach your destination. 

Your head is swimming with unreleased pressure between your thighs as you lock the door to your room, fingers shaking when you turn the key and the lock clicks. You almost frantically sling your school bag onto the floor by the door, wincing when your skirt tightens as the bag pulls on it. The textbook you have cried into earlier peeks out as the bag falls open when it hits the floor. 

Your shirt comes off first and then your skirt too until you stand in only your underwear with the blinds rolled down. You had planned to get straight to business and use the first of the three orgasms you have been allowed - after all, there’s no use in pretending you will get any studying done tonight - but to get to your bed, you must pass by the full body mirror. 

It is the color that catches your eye at first, a reddish-purple, deeper in some areas, taking up a large part of your behind. On your sore right cheek is an almost cartoonish mark of Reed’s hand, outlined enough for you to be able to count his fingers and you shiver at the sheer size of his palm. It isn’t that you haven’t noticed how big it is before, like when he has held a piece of chalk in his hand or corrected things on paper with a pen, but you have never been this close to the fantasy of feeling those thick digits inside of you coming true. 

With a clench of your cunt at the fantasy hitting you once more, you gush slightly and the wetness between your thighs becomes even greater along with the ache for release. It doesn’t help that you trail your fingertips over the sensitive skin and that you gasp at the pain that instantly comes at even the lightest of touches. It makes you wonder how Reed’s rougher and larger hands had made it hurt less. 

You twist your body slightly in the mirror to gain a better view of your bruising, and the thought hits you that Reed Richards, the sharpest mind in the world, has done this to mark you as his own. It is going to take at least a few good weeks before everything has healed and that is two weeks where you cannot give yourself to someone else. 

You hold in a pathetic whimper and exhale silently through your nose instead, your shameful horniness for someone you shouldn’t want passing the mark where it has become unbearable. You face your reflection again, trying to picture him standing behind you in the mirror with a knowing smile. 

Slowly, you reach up to smooth a hand - in your head, his hand - over your neck until you elicit a sigh. Then you let the same hand slide down the curve of your waist, keeping eye contact with yourself the whole time. Your fingertips dance over your bare skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake until they stop right above the waistband of your panties. Without thinking too much about it, you dip the hand into your underwear. 

Your cunt is soaked for him. You barely need to gather any slick to smear over your hard clit because you’re already so worked up from Reed’s attention today, and the thoughts they have left you with, that you’re damp and ready to imagine him getting you off. You bite your lip to keep quiet, rubbing your clit in taut circles and staring at the way your hand moves underneath the fabric of your panties. You touch yourself with little to no build-up because you need it now, and fuck, it feels so good that you can’t stand on your legs.

You sink to the floor, sitting with your back against the bed, and try to mask the hiss of pain from resting on the bruises with a cough due to the paper-thin walls. You want to cry out as the pain mixes with the pleasure you are giving yourself but you will yourself to stay near-silent. 

In your head, he is the one touching you. You may be home but your mind is still in the lecture hall, bent over Reed Richards’ desk who has his pupils blown wide by desire and his cock buried in you to the hilt this time. The mental image makes your cunt squeeze around nothing, and you spread your legs a little to chase your first high. You get so close so pathetically quickly. 

And you come so hard a moment later, fingertips moving erratically in your underwear and with a hand around your breast, squeezing harshly to match Reed’s roughness. It is so intense that you can’t stop the moan that rips from your throat, hoping you can brush it off later by saying you stubbed your toe. The way your cunt pulses and spasms with ecstasy seems never-ending, leaving you a twitching mess on the floor as you double over, hips thrusting and your trembling touch continuing throughout the whole thing. 

And it is still not enough. 

You lay your head back on the bed until you can stare up at the ceiling, panting in the aftermath. However, you are so wired that your pulse doesn’t stop racing in your chest. Apparently, there’s no relief from the spell he has you under.

You turn onto your hands and knees to crawl onto your bed, dragging your sensitive body up from the floor with a soft whine. On your unmade bed, you lay down on your back and close your eyes to try and let sleep overtake you. Yet what shouldn’t happen happens almost automatically; your hand slipping down into your, by-now, ruined underwear once more. You cannot stop the painful thought that you only have two more to go. 

—

It feels like weeks have passed instead of days when Monday finally comes around. You’d only lasted the night, had touched your swollen, needy clit to orgasm three times before midnight even if your body begged for more. Then you had used the whole weekend to throw yourself into working on your missing assignment as a way to steer clear of the burning desire he’d left behind in you.

The finished paper is in fact your best work yet, your need for distraction making you highly productive. It is meticulously researched - even if it was hard to stay disciplined while sitting with the textbook in your lap - and perfectly executed, every word carefully chosen, written in your neatest handwriting, the ink dried and pages stapled together, not a single smudge to be found. He will read it and you will be on his mind. 

You walk down the corridors of the main building with determination and in a look very different from the one that you had worn on the fate-changing Wednesday last week. The restrictive pencil skirt has been replaced by a checkered miniskirt, deliberately flirty and resembling something Twiggy would wear, the pleated fabric swishing loosely - as commanded by him - around your thighs. The cardigan is now a crisp white turtleneck that makes your neck appear longer, hopefully intriguing him to get to it now as it is hidden from view. 

If Reed knew your wardrobe as well as he does the mechanics of the universe, he’d know that it is you who is approaching his office because of the way your boots click on the marble flooring. The sound follows you as you pass other students, making a few of your male classmates turn their heads and successfully masking the nervous flutter that is taking up your whole body. 

To deal with your racing heartbeat as you approach the correct door, you busy yourself by adjusting your bag onto the front of your hip. You take out your paper as a way of beating him to asking for it, clutching it close to your chest with both hands. 

Reed Richards’ office is on the first floor of Columbia University. He has one of the largest ones on campus with the head of faculty being the only exception. The door is ajar to signal the beginning of office hours. With a steadying breath, you gently push it open with your shoulder before closing it behind you with the heel of your boot. 

You’ve been here before but as you enter his office, the things that are the same look brand new. The office sports the same wooden panels along the walls, the same orange upholstered chairs, the same bookshelves that carry binders with hurriedly scribbled labels on them and thick textbooks filled with theories you barely understand yet. They shouldn’t feel different, but they do, a symptom of how you have changed.

If you think about it, it makes sense to meet now; the rhythm of campus life is still slow so early in the morning with little to no one walking through the halls. Many professors do office hours now, so no one will think twice about you being here and everyone else is already busy talking about upcoming coursework projects in quiet, tired voices while getting coffee.

As you approach the desk, you notice that the window is open. Dr. Richards has decided to enjoy fresh air and natural light from the green areas just outside his window, and with how heightened your senses are in his presence, you can hear the faint rustling of the trees and a few distant murmurs. 

Reed sits in his chair behind the desk, its sleek design matching the ones on the opposite side of the table but with a higher back that radiates authority. His expression is unreadable, his fountain pen moving confidently even as he scrawls a hurried note across another student’s paper, but there’s something knowing in the way his posture shifts just a little the second you step into his office. He knows it is you.

He finally looks up and you can feel your heartbeat everywhere, his gaze spreading fire across your skin like his hand had last week. It feels like he is all-knowing, like he already knows how many times you came this weekend and the exact way you whined when you had to stop at three. 

“You have something for me,” he notes, his gaze dropping only briefly to the paper in your hands.

“Yes,” you step forward to stand with the edge of his desk just an inch from grazing your thighs. You hold out your work for him but he doesn’t take it immediately, deliberately toying with you. 

“Is it your best work yet, like I asked?” He questions with a small smile, smug as ever but hiding it well. 

“Yes, sir, of course,” you reply without hesitation in case he’ll reject the whole thing. It feels like something he would do. 

“Place it on my desk,” he orders neutrally and sets the other essay aside without knocking the papers into his ashtray. 

It feels shameful to do it when you have been offering it to him, the papers hanging in the air awkwardly. Your face is warm as you turn the pages in your hand so they are the right way to him, and then you place them neatly in the center of the desk. 

You swallow as you feel the wood underneath your fingers, a completely different material to the one he was sitting by last week. It makes you wonder how different it would feel to be bent over this table instead. 

He picks it up and flips through the pages for a moment, back and forth and with an occasional hum that you cannot decipher. You almost expect him to have immediate feedback from how easy it looks to him. Suddenly, unprovoked and without looking up, he talks again, “And you’ve been a good girl?”

Your stomach flips. Yes, and it has been torture, “Yes, sir.”

“All three?” His eyes scan the text in front of him. It could be all for show but knowing his reputation, and from what you have seen during his lectures, his mind is effortlessly multitasking. 

You forget how to breathe for just a second too long and he looks up at you with a raised brow. You quickly nod, head swimming with the heat pooling in your belly.

“And no more?” He interrogates, painfully in control of the room. 

You shake your head, “No more.”

“Attagirl,” the praise falls from his mouth so effortlessly that your inability to show restraint and stand still is embarrassing. He swivels his chair so it is slightly angled away from the table, “Come here.”

The command makes you shiver, your body remembering just as well as your head what happened the last time he said those words. Though this time, they’ve got a different ring to them; they are still an order but there’s a softness to them, like telling a nervous animal there’s nothing to be scared of. At least, you hope there’s nothing. 

You walk around the table to stand in front of him, heat thrumming through you with every heartbeat. He sits further back into the chair and spreads his thighs, acting so much calmer and more collected than you. You hesitate for only a second before you step closer until you have his knees on either side, relieved to not be scolded for it. 

“Turn around,” he says instead of praising your work over the weekend. 

You swallow thickly but do as you are told, hoping that you are hiding the panic on your face somewhat successfully. 

Reed’s hand starts tugging at the hem of your skirt, neatly pulling it up until your underwear is exposed. His hand settles on your hip to keep it from falling down again and then his other hand slips into the back of your underwear. He feels the pain he’d left behind last week, tracing over the remainder of a minor bruise and then the large one that you still wince at when sitting down. 

“Still tender? Sore?” He asks and you notice his breath is slightly ragged. He likes this. 

“Yes,” you answer. 

“Good. Very good,” the hand in your panties draws back. He gently smooths it over the worst of the bruises and then delivers a soft smack to it that makes you gasp audibly, “And you are wearing what I told you.”

He caresses your backside on top of your skirt when it tumbles down into place, his fingers absentmindedly moving between the pleats in the fabric, “I assume that means you’re eager to continue your lessons.”

“Y-yes, sir,” you try to recover from the tiny blow to your bottom, “Very eager.”

“Suppose I should reward you for following instructions then,” he muses. His hand snakes between your thighs until his fingers rest against your clit. He finds that your underwear is damp underneath his touch, and the discovery makes him exhale sharply through his nose, “Already?”

“Mhm, since I stepped foot on campus,” you bite your lip and push back against his hand, seeking more after five days of abstinence but it draws away, leaving you aching and him with a shine on his fingertips.

"You’re still impatient. Your generation lacks discipline, always just wants more," he tuts softly, disapprovingly, while you make a noise of frustration. You’re just about to beg when he interrupts you as if he has read your mind, “Saying please won’t get you anywhere.”

You swallow down the word and stand up a little straighter. At one point, the idea that you might be in over your head flashes in your mind but then he speaks softly behind you. 

“Come back to me, angel,” he says and you melt at the way the pet name rolls off his tongue. You pivot back to face him, at this point even affected by the way your thighs rub together as you move. 

He has leaned even further back into his chair and is currently rolling up his sleeve to his elbow. The shine of your slick on his fingers is gone but in your inexperience with this level of depravity, you can’t imagine how he has sucked his fingers clean while your back was turned. 

“I think we should start by laying down some ground rules,” he informs you when moving to roll up the other sleeve. He looks up at you when he has secured it above his elbow, “But before we begin, tell me, how many men have you been with, if any?”

Something about the invasive question makes your stomach do a somersault. You know he is asking for a number but your instincts tell you that there’s more to it than that. He is gathering data, putting you under scrutiny, and cataloging each detail in his meticulous mind so as to figure out how exactly to handle you. The number itself, yet also the way it falls from your lips, will determine something you aren’t sure you really understand or even know what is but you have never felt so eager to please, to get it right. 

What should your answer be? If you say none, you’re a lying prude. If you say too high a number, you’re reckless, careless, and suddenly uninteresting. Your mind races with a million thoughts per second. 

The correct and simple answer is three, maybe two and a half if you don’t really count the embarrassment that was your first time.

“Three,” you eventually say and hope it sounds somewhat confident. You’re thankful for the way your turtleneck hides your throbbing pulse, sure that he would be able to see it underneath your skin if it was exposed.

“Three,” he repeats, taking in the fact for a moment and making you think that he is satisfied. He taps the armrest of his chair, studying you like an equation he has already solved and you think that’s the end of it.

But then, “And were they any good?”

Your mouth goes dry and it feels uncomfortable to swallow around the lump in your throat. Were they? Your immediate thought is to say yes. 

You’ve done things that felt nice, sure. You’ve ultimately had sex that wasn’t a disaster but it was fine - after all, this is the sixties and times are changing, history reshaping the ideas of what a woman should or shouldn’t do - but looking into Reed’s eyes there’s something that tells you that whatever you think you know is good sex, he is about to completely turn upside down. 

Still, if you say no to his question, he might need you to elaborate on what they did wrong and then you’ll have to admit that you simply do not know, so instead, you smile a little and say, “They were fine. One of them was pretty good.”

The response elicits the first genuine surprise from him. He raises both eyebrows instead of one this time, and you regret your words because he looks curious to know more. 

“And what did this one boy do?” He scoffs as if humored by your reply. You hadn’t realized that he’d question you about what they did right too and your gut tells you that you are walking right into a trap.

You have no interest in talking about previous affairs, so Reed can analyze them under his microscope. You just want to fall to your knees and beg him to smother you with his attention. 

“He was confident and good-looking, sweet, not selfish and quick at all,” you say and try to look as if thinking back at him fondly in an attempt to make your answer appear safe. Unknowingly though, you are making a fool of yourself when your words reflect your inexperience, ”I felt really good when I was with him, like he was enjoying me and not… just getting to the finish line.”

After a beat of silence, he pulls the rug from underneath your feet. 

“Did he make you come?” The question slices right through you like he knows there’s only one possible answer. The intent behind the question stares you in the face and taunts you for thinking that a sweet, patient boy in bed is the best sex you will ever have. 

“No, but—“ you start to protest. 

“You think taking his time is what makes a man good in bed?” He continues his dissecting of you. 

“No, but he was nice,” you continue your protest, but when you want to say more, you find yourself opening your mouth with nothing coming out. 

“You’re too smart to settle for ‘nice,’ angel,” he smiles a little too devilishly, his gaze burning as he looks at you like he has figured you out. The worst part is that he probably has, “That’s not what you want.”

“What do I want then?” You swallow around nothing. It sounds like a challenge but it is tinged with something else; the realization of one thing only. None of the three men you have had inside of you have ever made you feel the way Reed Richards does by just looking at you.

He beckons you closer. You place your hands on the armrests of his chair, leaning down over him until your faces are mere inches apart. Out of the corner of your eye, you see his arm stretching out to lock the door to his office. The act doesn’t make your heart stutter like it did the first time. 

“Young people think they want fast and easy,” he talks quietly and still, his voice is so loud in your head, never has sounded more in charge despite the calm of it, “But I am here to tell you that I won’t be indulging you in this tedious narrative after you have been throwing yourself at me for months. You may categorize those months as torture but you have never been on the very edge of desperation and gotten told no. I will teach you how good it feels to be patient and earn what is given. That’s what you want.”

Your stomach flips but you refrain from asking when you can start. His eyes bore into yours until your skin prickles. You can barely stand on your legs, shaking like a leaf as you feel his breath on your face. A whimper escapes you. God, you want him. Slowly. Intimately. In every way that he thinks best.  

“Shh,” he coos, “First, there has to be rules.”

“Please,” you don’t know what you’re begging for - after all, you’ve never considered your experience lacking until now - but you don’t dare lean into a kiss. 

He ignores your near-sob completely, “First of all, I don’t want to see you nodding your pretty head as a reply to instructions. Use your words.”

Stupidly, you nod your head in your eagerness and he raises a brow. If he’s affected by the way your body trembles before him, he doesn’t show it. 

“Your words, angel,” he repeats calmly. 

“Yes, sir,” you answer quickly. 

“That’s it. Nicely done,” he praises to cause a thrill to run up your spine, “Second of all, you don’t touch me without permission.”

Thank God that your instincts told you not to take a chance and kiss him. He must have noticed the way you had wanted to, and you hope it’ll reward you later on. You nod. Stupidly. Again. 

“Words.”

“Sorry.”

“We’ll work on that,” he smiles softly and reaches up to run his knuckles over your burning cheek, overbearing and sweet, “Thirdly, I won’t have you pouting when you don’t get what you want. If I tell you no, you accept it.”

“Of course, sir,” you say, not forgetting, to show him that you can be a good student, hoping that he won’t send you out the door without an earned reward. 

“And lastly,” he starts but trails off, ghosting his fingertips down your shoulder and arm, leaving goosebumps underneath your blouse, until he can grab your hip. He pulls a little to signal for you to move, silently commanding you to turn around in your spot, so he can drag the zipper on your skirt down. The garment slips down your hips and pools around your feet on the ground. You step out of it without being told. He hums in approval and drags you to sit in his lap, “Lastly, you don’t come unless I say so.”

You gasp but not at the unfairness of his final rule even if your mind tells you to argue. 

Something else has caught your attention. 

So far Reed has been controlled, methodical, and in charge, might have been able to hide the arousal from his expression but as you sit on his thighs, the hardness of his cock is unmistakable and pressing into your still-sore backside. Left speechless, you say nothing for a moment, focused on the fact that his body wants you and contemplating, if only briefly, to grind down on his cock and hear him moan. You conclude that you do not dare.

“Your pleasure belongs to me now. Do you understand?” His hands come around your waist to rest in your lap, inching inwards to the insides of your thighs. The move pulls you from your thoughts of disobedience and temptation.

“Yes,” you blurt out when you don’t know how many seconds have passed. Your heart pounds in anticipation, dizzying you to the point where you need to relax against his broad chest and wait for him to have mercy on you. You swear that you can feel his heartbeat against your spine but you are so scatterbrained that it might be your own, so deeply in his grasp that you can’t tell where you end and he begins.

Once again, he hums in approval because you are learning to follow orders. He slowly spreads your thighs apart and guides them to hook over the armrests of his office chair, “You did well this weekend.”

“Thank you,” you say with your eyes fixed on his strong hands as they move on you and position you exactly how he wants. Your whole body trembles as his fingers tap your skin in deliberation of what to do with you. 

“You deserve a reward for showing me you’ve got discipline even without me present,” he states matter-of-factly. His breath tickles in your ear, his voice smooth and steady unlike yours. 

“Y-yes.”

“One orgasm.”

You swallow thickly, your cunt pulsing at the unfairness of it. You were definitely hoping for more than that after a mere three in the last five days. Your body is killing you with how turned on you are, burning with need and waiting desperately for him to chuckle and say it was a joke, that he’ll give you as many as you can take.

“And you won’t beg,” he adds instead and has you whining feebly, “If you even think about begging, you’ll tell me. Out loud.”

The humiliation is making your stomach do a million somersaults and shutting down your brain until only the fire of your loins remains. You manage to stutter out another simple yes. 

“If I hear even a tiny, little please slip from your mouth,” he starts, his index finger finding the front of your underwear, smoothing over the fabric before hooking into it, “You’ll wait another week.”

Your breath catches in your throat. A week. Time makes no sense anymore. Just days ago, you would never have thought that a man could be so cruel in the name of pleasure and days ago, you would never have imagined that you’d ache for that cruelty.

But you do and when he pulls your panties to the side, you watch with relief and clench around nothing, painfully in need of him, “I’ll be good for you, sir.”

“I suspect so,” he answers with a mix of a scoff and a chuckle that rumbles in his chest, “You know what happens if not.”

His fingers find your clit then and you respond by tensing up for a second, shocked to be so fully touched by him already, before letting out a soft moan. A memory of previous men fumbling with their hands underneath your skirt flashes in your mind, because it is like Reed Richards was put on this Earth just to make you feel good. 

Your eyes flutter closed in relief, “Ah.”

The pads of his fingers brush over the sensitive nub in slow, featherlight strokes until the first spark of pleasure makes you shiver. He moves them in circles, taking his time without uttering a single word because, you realize, he is studying you. He is treating you like an experiment, testing out his theories on how to pleasure you and deciding exactly how to touch you after categorizing your responses. 

When your moans become more frequent, he hums to himself and doesn’t change his method. He breathes a little harder behind you, his neglected cock twitching underneath you, but he doesn’t do anything rash or desperate. He doesn’t react. Doesn’t groan, doesn’t tense, doesn’t adjust his hips. He is showing you how to be the prime example of restraint, discipline, patience.

He works you all the way up to the brink of heaven, your cries that continuously climb in pitch telling on you so he can still the movement of his hand before removing it altogether from your cunt. You shake your head at the loss, brows furrowed and trying to lift your hips towards his hovering palm, your heartbeat throbbing painfully right behind your clit. 

“Sit still,” he orders immediately and uses the hand to force your hips down. He isn’t going to let you chase it. He’s going to make you take exactly what he gives you and nothing more.

“Sorry,” you whine, the plea for more right on the tip of your tongue. You swallow it down quickly, the muscles of your calves twitching, “I— I thought about begging.”

“Shh… Of course, you did,” he replies almost too sweetly and cups your whole mound to steady you when you sob, “And you told me like a good girl. So well behaved.”

The colorful interior of his office makes you dizzy at this point, causing you to keep your eyes shut as you breathe heavily through your mouth. You want him to touch you again, move those skilled fingers over the sensitive parts of your body, still aching from being pulled back from the edge, until you fall apart. 

However, while the clock ticks on the wall, nothing happens. You’ll swear to this day that you can hear the cogs turn inside of Reed’s brain, listening closely to when your breathing has settled down enough for him to add to his ministrations. 

You let your head bump against his shoulder, trying not to come off as impatient and tortured as you actually are but every fiber in your body is screaming for relief. 

It’s pathetic. 

You know this, and while you won’t say it out loud, you slowly come to terms with the fact that maybe your professor is right. You need to learn how to wait for things if this is how you act after being denied just once, gripped by the spirit of a feral animal, a wild youngster.

His hand smooths over your mound, back and forth in a slow motion that doesn’t really make any difference because of how light it is. He doesn’t rush, just speaks lowly in your ear, “You’re doing really well.”

You tremble at the praise, tightening your legs around the armrests of his chair. His fingers slide back to your swollen clit but his free hand joins the other. Your thighs twitch in nervous anticipation, hoping that he will use his unoccupied fingers to stretch your cunt open. However, something else entirely happens and it causes a tiny gasp to slip from your mouth. 

At first, it feels strange and your instincts tell you to stop him, to bat his hand away at once, but another part of you convinces you to trust him fully. His fingertips spread you open to a shameful degree and then they trace upwards, moving higher. It hits you; he is pulling something back, you realize, exposing something that you have never thought to touch before. Your heart stutters and the air in the room shifts because your body reacts as if it already knows what will happen. 

A calm chuckle rumbles in his chest against your back. He is amused at your confusion and nervous fidgeting, choosing to distract you with the sound of his voice, “Do you know what I’m doing?”

You shake your head before catching yourself in it. You quickly let out a breathless moan when the breeze from outside hits the much more intimate area that he has brought out in the open, “No, sir.”

Your thighs instinctively try to snap shut as soon as he thumbs at your very exposed clit, circling the finger around the very tip of it but you can’t seem to figure out how to unhook your legs from the chair, the connection to all logic severed. His gentle touch creates white, hot, searing pleasure. 

“You’ve never touched yourself like this before,” he notes but there’s something about his tone. He isn’t mocking your inexperience, no, instead he is teaching you. He sits up a little to nose along the shell of your ear, continuing his torture between your legs, “The most sensitive part of you is right here, but most women have never really touched it. The hood protects the sensitivity, but being so direct in stimulus can be—“

“It’s—“ you try to say something to tell him how you feel, to sound clever but all you can do is swallow down big gulps of air. 

“Too much?” Reed finishes your sentence but you shake your head quickly when he starts to ease off again. 

“No!” You protest a little too loudly and he tuts disapprovingly, giving you a few seconds to calm down again, but ultimately only causes you to try lifting your hips towards his controlled hand. You clench around nothing, screwing your eyes shut, “No. It’s good. Please don't stop, sir, I’d like more.”

“Asking. Not pleading. What a good girl I have on my hands,” he muses and you can hear the smile on his face, pride swelling in your chest. He teases your clit again and time is lost on you, whines becoming higher while you fight the urge to beg for your release. 

It’s hard but you quickly discover that your vision being gone due to your eyes staying closed distracts you from begging because it comes with the price of losing awareness of his next move. Without sight, there’s only touch. You are lost to only the sensation of the way his fingers stroke through your soaked folds, over your twitching clit until you whine again, and how he smooths a hand over your thigh, one over your stomach too. How he is doing this is beyond you because you swear that he is everywhere.

Suddenly, confusion starts to tease in the back of your mind and shortly after, it momentarily cuts through the haze of ecstasy. You brush it off with a giggle that transitions into another soft gasp. 

“Feels like you have more than two hands on me,” you huff a laugh, saying it through a moan too, like it is the most ridiculous thing in the world. 

“Do I?” He chuckles softly in your ear but for the first time, it is tinged with something darker. He is amused. 

His words don’t register at first. Not fully at least, not until you start counting his limbs in your head and they don’t add up. However, you have to stop because two thick fingers push into you and curl just right. Your eyes snap open as it dawns on you. 

Three arms. 

You were already aware of Reed’s abilities that make him Mister Fantastic - the stretching limbs and the almost absentminded use of them during lectures - but this is not something that he displays at random. It should be unsettling to see, should feel outrageous and even bordering on horrifying but as you watch the third limb that has unfurled touch you so skillfully, your cunt betrays all of that by forcing one thought only: This is a daring thing to experience because Reed Richards is actively ruining others for you, touching you in a manner that no other man could ever offer. Your cunt clenches around the fingers inside of you at the thought.

“I… I didn’t know you could do that,” you manage to say through a hitched breath. 

“Does it scare you?” He asks with a voice that has dropped an octave from how worked up he is.

“N-no. It feels so fucking good,” you whimper with a shuddering breath, too caught up in everything happening to your body at once that you are without care for the swear. His fingers are so deep inside of you, his fingers circle your still-exposed clit.

“Good. Let’s see how long you can handle my touch like this,” he answers, his labored breath hot against the nape of your neck. 

You don’t know how long he toys with you like this, dragging his thumb over the sensitive nub in agonizingly slow motions and fucking you open on his fingers. You thought only you would know where that sensitive spot inside you was, that it was something you had for yourself behind locked doors, but right now, it feels like it belongs to him. All three hands on you, working in unison, have you dancing on the brink fast, choking on air until— 

Reed stops altogether, the immediate halt of his touch making you feel like you have been thrown into an ice bath. Your vision is blurred, your breathing is ragged, and your whole body is trembling in his arms. Just a few more seconds of his touch and you would have experienced ecstasy like never before, you’re sure of it.

“I can’t stop thinking about coming. I’m thinking— I want to beg for it, sir,” you bravely confess. Please. You almost say it at the end of your sentence but catch it just in time. It takes every ounce of power within you to not let the word slip out.

“You can have it,” he whispers behind you, almost affectionately, bordering on paternal, and you want to sob in relief. He presses an open-mouthed kiss to your skin right above the turtleneck, “I’m not going to stop this time, and then you’re gonna come for me, angel.”

The pleasure mounts again when he continues where he left off but this time, the air of control to his touch that has kept you on the edge is gone. He wasn’t lying; he is giving you this. You think about those words again, hearing them as if they are a broken record in your mind. You’re gonna come for me, angel. It isn’t a maybe, isn’t a suggestion either. It is pure fact. An order.

“Are you ready?” He asks. 

You nod frantically, “Y-yes!”

Reed senses the way your body is winding even tighter. His cock twitches beneath you, probably aching by now but he still isn’t in this position for himself. He throbs against your sore backside, “Be a good girl and let go for me, angel. Thaaat’s it.”

When you finally come, you can’t even scream at first, totally seized up for a second before your legs start to shake violently. After a moment, noise finally leaves you and it is a handful of wrecked, gasping sobs. You feel like this is the devastating possession that Sunday church has taught you about, a thing that will ruin a person. 

Sure, you have felt so good in bed with a pillow between your thighs that you have let noises slip from your mouth by accident, small whines and whimpers that no one really heard or found necessary to comment on, but this.

This has you losing control of any restraint that you have previously been capable of, your nerves being licked by fire as you can do very little else but just take it. 

“I know, sweet angel. You are so good for me,” he soothes you as he deliberately presses the pads of his fingers against your g-spot, holding them there as you pulse around the digits, “You earned every bit. Take it.”

You’re about to say something back during the most intense moment but then you hear it. There are footsteps outside, a shadow passing by the window, and voices in close proximity. You panic, practically gurgling in your state by now because someone could hear, someone could see the way your pussy drools in his lap, hear you crying like a tortured animal. It would devastate you, would ruin his—

A quick fourth hand stretches out and suddenly, the latch on the window clicks shut and the blinds are effortlessly pulled down. His fingertips still sit against the perfect spot inside of your cunt but the hand that closed the window moves, determinedly like a snake closing in on prey, to clamp down over your mouth, shushing you because you’re apparently still loud enough to hear outside the room.

You writhe as he continues guiding you through the last few seconds of the best orgasm you have ever had and then through the beautiful aftershocks that you can feel in the very tips of your fingers and toes. 

When it is all over, your entire body, boneless and spent, slumps against him. Your turtleneck feels like a prison more than a garment, sticking uncomfortably to your body from how sweaty you are. Your heart is steadily finding a slower rhythm, no longer beating in your ears but leaving you slightly chilly and tired. 

Your breath is damp and warm against Reed’s palm. He still has it firmly clamped down over your mouth but only holds it there until you have gone quiet again. When he removes it, simultaneously retracting his extra limbs and leaving your cunt empty, you heave for the breaths you have been deprived of. It is suddenly nice to not be touched there anymore.

“You’re okay. Breathe. Deep through the nose and out your mouth,” he gently guides you until your gasping slowly turns into regular breaths and any impending anxiety vanishes. He hums in approval, “Better?”

“Mhm, yes,” you answer dazedly, “Thank you.”

“Good job,” he praises and helps you unhook your legs from the armrests. The tip of his nose presses into the sensitive spot behind your ear, his lips pressing an occasional kiss to your skin there, “I need you to stay still for a minute.”

You nod, feeling cherished even if your limbs feel like they belong to someone else. For the first time since you stepped into his office, your body relaxes completely against him. Reed lets you. 

Reed huffs a laugh, “Your words, angel.”

“Yes, sir, I’m sorry. My head’s… it’s fuzzy,” your first real sentence reveals that you are slightly hoarse, matching very well how clouded your mind is. You barely even register that his hands are already moving, basking in the warmth of his body as your own slowly comes back to you.

“That’s alright for now,” he reassures and pulls your panties back into place. You only just manage to think that you could stay here forever, curled up in his lap or even just on the couch along the wall, but then, “Let’s get you on your feet.”

“What?” You aren’t sure you have heard him right. Even so, and with your shoulders tensing at the thought of using your trembling legs, you start getting on your feet. 

“You heard me,” he states as if it is fact. He is right, of course. He steadies you briefly by holding your waist when your legs wobble. 

You remove yourself from his lap, hearing the softest of hisses escape his mouth and feeling the soreness in your thighs setting in immediately to join your bruised backside. You have to grab the edge of his desk to keep yourself upright but even if you want to sink to the floor right there, the infatuated part of you makes you turn around to face him. 

Briefly, you glance down with your lip between your teeth. He is still tenting in his slacks and you recall a time when your ex told you how cruel it was to leave a guy hanging. You move for his belt buckle before you think better of it, having little to no brain power left in you to recall that he specifically forbade you from touching him without permission. 

He catches your wrist just in time, tightening his grip when you try to twist your hand free of it, “That’s none of your concern. I know your body better than you do right now and you need no more right now. Stop being greedy. You’re going to crash again in a few hours. When you do, I want you to rest.”

Your breath hitches at the accusation, the veiled concern for your well-being lost on you. Your brows furrow in confusion because clearly, this is you offering something in return, “I’m not being greedy. I got to— You didn’t… That’s not fair.”

“You really think this is your brain telling you about fairness? This is greed. Impatience. You just came, angel. You should be floating, blissed out, grateful. Instead, you’re already reaching for more. I don’t like that.”

You don’t reply. Men don’t usually have this kind of self-control, you think to yourself as your gaze flickers to the way his cock strains against the front of his trousers. You ache to prove yourself worthy of his time.

"You think this is about me?” He continues and reaches for your discarded skirt on the floor with ease, “I don’t take what I want when I want it. That’s your problem, angel. Not mine."

But it is about him. You can feel it, read it between the lines. He likes the power, the control, the fact that you’re completely at his mercy and willing to submit even when he isn’t there. 

You like it too. You even like the shame of being reprimanded by him, like the burn of embarrassment in your cheeks. It seems that sweet, little, dutiful you love to get into trouble. 

He stands from his seat, towering over you, and doesn’t even show how affected he is from being hard, a large wet stain on his thigh, right next to his thick cock, from where you have been sitting. He doesn’t even need to tell you what to do. You already know, stepping into the skirt to which he nods.

“Don’t think offering your mouth or hands to me makes us even. That’s not how this works,” he goes on when you still haven’t dared utter a word. He slides the skirt back up over your hips, his hands grabbing the hem and adjusting it into place so the zipper is on the right side. He follows it up by brushing out the creases and fixing the pleats like it is a task of utmost importance. 

“Sorry,” you murmur. 

“You’re still learning,” he simply states after letting the apology sit between you for a moment, holding onto your hips. His thumbs press in where your hip bones are, “But you should go home and revise your new rules until we meet next Monday or you will be.”

Then he steps back, leaving only the scent of ink and paper and his aftershave. His self-control is maddening compared to yours which is still in its early stages, and it makes you seem even less composed than you actually are. 

You watch him sit down again, opening a drawer at the very bottom of his desk to reveal a stack of crispy white shirts with new slacks at the very bottom too. He takes out both. You wonder if he sometimes sleeps here. 

There’s tension in the air. You have the urge to turn and leave because of how charged the room feels but you know better than to do it before you have been excused, wouldn’t even do it if he had just held regular office hours with you. You wait. 

He looks at you after making room for his new change of clothes on the desk, contemplating for what is probably only seconds but feels longer.

“What I did to you today is called edging,” he says, watching your face to make sure that you’re taking it in, “It’s when you bring someone to the brink of orgasm and then stop. Over and over again.”

“Yes,” you nod, “I have heard of it.”

It is the truth but the way he says it is so far from the context you know it from. He uses the words of a scientist, uses it as a term, whereas you have only heard it in drunk conversations with other girls who giggle loudly and have never experienced what you just have. 

“Good,” he says but it isn’t meant as praise, “Then you know it is not done to delay gratification but to teach you that good things come to those who wait. When I say there’s no coming without my permission, I don’t just mean within these walls. I mean at all times, even at home in bed with your hands under the covers.”

“This means,” Reed starts rolling down his sleeves again, but he doesn’t button them. You wonder if he’ll change his clothes in front of you, “That you need to give up the idea that pleasure is something you can just take whenever you want just because I can’t see it. Trust me. I always know.”

You gulp. You know what is coming and he can’t be serious. 

“Therefore, I am giving you homework,” he continues, “You are not to come this week but you will edge yourself at least twenty minutes a day.”

“I—“ your pulse picks up. 

“I don’t care how busy you are. Find the time,” he interrupts you and holds up his hand to make you stop talking, “I want to know what you think about when you touch yourself. What part of me you imagine. What part of you aches most after. What words you’re thinking when you stop. If you cross the line, you’ll write down the time, date, and place. I want to know how long it took and how it felt. Bring the notes to me next Monday. Neatly written. Stapled. As always.”

Your mouth opens slightly, not to protest his wishes, but because your mind is already scrambling to understand how you’re going to survive till Monday morning.

“We’re done for today. You’re excused,” he finally says and reaches for your paper, flipping to the first page, already critiquing it. You wonder if he’ll think of you beyond it, have you on his mind while grading the next paper in his pile or while talking to another student. You will think about his hands, the way they felt between your thighs. If he’ll wash them right away or touch himself with your dried-up come on them.

“Monday,” he reminds you just as you reach for the doorknob. You want to say that you don’t need reminding of the day because you’re already counting the hours. 

“Yes, sir,” you answer obediently instead. You push the handle down but he interrupts you just as you start to swing the door open. It stays closed.

“Oh, before I forget,” he stops you. You turn your head slightly to glance at him over your shoulder. He is leaning comfortably back in his chair, your paper still in hand.

He smiles, looking over the page, “Wear a skirt again.”

Outside in the corridor, the bustling noise of students turning up for classes greets you harshly, shattering the intimate bubble you’ve just been in. You smooth down your skirt nervously, subtly shifting on sore legs and feeling the ghost of his touch on your aching body. Suddenly, your classmates' chatter feels unbearably loud, their laughter grating, their very presence uncomfortable. 

You feel alienated from them suddenly because Reed Richards has changed you, and none of them know it.

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[bebx]

Reed Richards and Victor von Doom ❦ Daylight, David Kushner