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[clubsoft]

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⠀ ⠀ OVER THE MOON ⠀ ⠀ PROLOUGE ⠀ ⠀ REED RICHARDS A . K . A MR . FANTASTIC / F ! READER⠀⠀

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SUMMARY ⋆ reed richards has caught feelings for his student , making their casual , sexual relationship all the more difficult for himself . WARNINGS ⋆ no powers au / professor ! reed richards / he's divorced :3 / age gap ( reader is early to mid 20s ; reed is in his 40s ) / visualized size difference ; little to none character description aside from this / no smut in this one but it's implied so MDNI ty / lovesick , pining reed richards / just an introduction so more context will come l8r / 3rd person POV ; no use of Y/N WORD COUNT ⋆ 1 . 35 k NOTES ⋆ contributing to the drought of reed richards fics !! enjoy !!

In Reed Richards’ world, the sun rises twice. 

First, at 6 in the morning, when his alarm clock buzzes on the nightstand and years of routine allow the blind reach of one long arm to silence it. Weighing down his other arm is the figure of his dream come true, slumbering, a cherubic delight amongst the cushions and furs encompassing her bare shape. In that moment, he lingers, soothing his hand over the silken expanse of her back, lower, lower, and lower still, alongside her hip, curling his digits to press their tips ever so gently into the plush of her ass, fondling the flesh with care, as to not wake her. The sensation of her under his palm marks her as real, as more than a sick — amatory fantasy of an old man like himself. His fingers travel once more, inwards, dimpling her thigh, so close to heaven itself — she stirs, he retracts his hand, and sighs. A solitary ray of light sneaks in, licks at the curve of her spine just as Reed finds the hem of the blanket and slips it up to her shoulders. 

Winter months don’t mesh with floor to ceiling windows, curtains of thick velvet can only retain so much heat, and a previously excruciating battle is made all the more difficult; it’s impossible enough to withdraw his warm embrace from the object of his yearning, but to do just that, and then press the soles of his feet against ice cold marble floors felt like punishment. Yawning, he heaves himself off the mattress, searches with lazy hands for his pajama bottoms, and after pulling them up his legs, pushing his feet into his slippers, making sure the girl is tucked in — snug, he yanks his knit sweater off the foot of his bed. The lights in the modern, minimalist home click to life, brightening his journey down the stairs and into the kitchen. Everything is on a sensor, finely tuned to his every need. He doesn’t even press a button, yet the coffee begins to brew in its pot; a perfect serving, one mug full. His guest doesn’t drink coffee, but she tries a sip when he asks, adamant on finding a ratio of sugar and creamer that she’d enjoy. In turn, Reed drinks a different flavor on most mornings he shares with her. He’s given up, truth be told, but he occasionally feigns continued effort, all to have her lips grace his mug so he can kiss her with each sip he takes. 

Tea is more her taste. Hot water, a paper tea bag, a pinch of sugar, a splash of milk. Instead of adding a setting to his coffee machine, he makes it by hand, stands above the steaming water and pokes impatiently at the tea bag with a spoon. The goal is to return to his bedroom with a mug in each hand, the brush of his stubble, the tip of his nose tracing the length of her neck, causing her to awaken with soft groans, the sound of giggles once the ticklish feeling truly registers. He doesn’t make it in time to wake her up himself, yet he’s content, beholding the sun as it rises a second time. 

The rustle of blankets, a delicate set of fingers wrinkling his half of the bed, searching for him. There’s a tug at his chest, a call to make everything right, fill his side of the sheets with his frame so that little hand finds just what it seeks, but he waits, watches, and his patience is rewarded by a soft smile as sleepy eyes finally find him, twinkling, taking in his tousled visage with a tenderness that mirrors his own. 

“Tea?” He lifts her mug. It’s the first word he’s spoken, low and thick with sleep, though the smoothness of his charming old school enunciation is permanent no matter how early it is. His slippers carry him across the distance between them as she sits up against the headboard, using a gray fur to modestly cover her chest. Reed doesn’t quite understand why. He’s seen, touched, kissed, licked — tasted every divine inch of flesh, left nothing to the imagination, memorized her very being within all five senses to where seeking her out has become a sixth … and yet, she divides them still. 

“Yes, thank you,” her wobbly morning voice calls him out of his thoughts, her fingers wrap around the mug, and draw it closer to herself. Reed’s large hand shoots out, takes hold of her wrist, pausing her movements altogether. Those big, youthful eyes stare at him expectantly, then shut for a heartbeat and a half when he tilts into her space to press a kiss to her lips. 

“Good morning,” he murmurs, hovering inches away until she repeats it back to him.

“Morning, Reed.” 

He watches her over the rim of his mug through the symphony of sips and sighs, hers rushed, his anything but, slowing down time as best as he could. The first ever morning after, months ago, he’d woken up alone, left with nothing but her scent on his pillow. With each night spent together following that fateful encounter, she granted him more and more time in the mornings; his second sunrise, making him the luckiest man in the cloudy city of Manhattan. 

“Busy day today?” He inquires after his final sip of coffee. His mug is empty, and he plucks hers off the bedside table to finish what remains of her tea, getting in his kisses while she dresses herself on the opposite side of the room. Answering him with an absent nod, she trudges closer, the hem of her navy blue sweater, embroidered with the Columbia University lion, brushing her thighs. His sweater, stolen so long ago that she’s forgotten its origin. 

“Do you see my panties anywhere?” she mumbles the query with utmost bashfulness, as though he wasn’t the one dragging that small strip of cotton down her thighs at sunset. Hooking both mug handles onto his fingers, Reed uses his unoccupied hand to toss the covers around. His search is uninspired, clumsy, but fruitful. Soon enough, that little white piece of fabric dangles from his fingers, a smug grin on his lips. So cute, he thinks to himself as she snatches it away, whispering, “Thank you.” 

Her departure never feels real until she’s near the door, sliding small, socked feet into those damned, convenient, comfy shoes. Gators, or something silly, she calls them, not even allowing Reed the extra couple seconds that it takes to tie a pair of sneakers. 

“ —  you later, then, Reed,” she’s saying, squeezing all two of the large fingers she can easily fit in her hold. He frowns, just ever so slightly, returning the gesture, his hand engulfing hers. With a tug, he leans down, and she rises to her tiptoes to peck the corner of his lips. 

“Later? Are you coming by again tonight?” He asks, sounding embarrassingly hopeful, still holding her hand near his chest, gaze stuck on those soft, plump lips as they part to answer. Her words strike him like a dagger through his heart, the confusion in her voice twisting the god forsaken knife until his ribs are left hollow. A dramatic internal reaction to such a simple sentence. 

“Like, in class.” 

“Oh… of course, sorry. Looks like I’m still waking up. Anyway, are you sure I can't give you a ride? It’s like the dead of winter outside.” How pathetic he must sound, how visible the longing in his brown eyes must be, for she places her palm over his heart, and smiles in a manner that draws the air from his lungs, easing the tenseness of his broad shoulders. 

“Yes, I’m sure. I’ll catch the bus.” Fixing the strap of her bag on her shoulder, she steps backwards past his front door, turning halfway, pausing, then saying: “I’ll call you, and we’ll see about tonight.” 

He nods, the door shuts behind her, and if the world was watching, they’d see the genius Reed Richards break out into a joyfully lovesick dance in his drawing room.

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⠀⠀ ⠀ © CLUBSOFT⠀⠀ ⠀

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TAGLIST ⋆ @days1 / @luvrsluxe if u would like 2 be added 2 my tag list 4 my fics , pls click this link && fill out the form !! u will be added immediately && get a notif for my next fic !!

[clubsoft]

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⠀ ⠀ GOT MUSCLE? ⠀ ⠀ CLINT FLOOD / F ! READER⠀⠀

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summary · clint looks good in his old t - shirt , too good . tags · 3rd person POV ; no use of Y/N / chokehold , chokehold , chokehold / fingering / slight overstimulation / clint loves her / gestures to a size gap but not rly / if there's spelling errors no there's not !! ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⓘ poc friendly . word count · 2 . 08 k notes · immm a lil rusty w linear smut so if this sucks , keep it to urself !! </3 ( jk pls tell me what u think ) ty to @almostempty for feeding this idea more && @stellamarielu for proofreading cuz i almost cried while finishing this .

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Friday night is movie night. 

One year ago, Clint and his girlfriend moved house. Three bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, grimly unfurnished and requiring more than just love to mold it into a home. New wallpapers, new flooring, new fixtures, all which he took upon himself to install, too headstrong to accept help. One evening, as he crashed atop the newly assembled couch, his girlfriend flitted through the door, plastic bag at her hip, eyes bright as the streetlights outside.

“Look what I got! The video store down the block just opened, and they had so many new things. Can you believe it?” 

He could. It didn’t carry disbelief, not in the slightest. A new store with new things, who would’ve thought? Yet, Clint never denied her a single thing, not even a second of excitement. The honest route was left untaken because a shake of his head earned him kisses, brought the silkiness of her thighs within his grasp while he chased her lips. Hours later, with her weight on his chest, voices shrunken to a murmur with frame after frame flicking away on TV, Clint unearthed true bliss. 

He would make it a ritual. Thursdays, he dropped a pretty penny on VHS tapes. Friday evenings, he scribbled the titles of his selections on slips of paper, shuffled them into a ceramic bowl. It was on clearance — white trim, botanical embellishments, an olive green inner base with an off-center heart. They can’t sell it full price ‘cause the heart ain’t in the middle, he said, grinning, gleaming, presenting his purchase pridefully. Just like that, the most extravagant item in the kitchen became a prop for their film selection fishbowl. 

“I got one extra, since it’s our Friday movie anniversary and all,” Clint mumbles, lips to her jaw, kissing up from her cheek to her temple, remaining there as she sifts through the stack. The Untouchables, The Goonies, Fatal Attraction, and Heathers. His girlfriend lingers on Heathers, the corners of her mouth twitching up, feeling his nose crinkle against her hair. The glimmer in her eyes is distinct, unmistakable. Clint treasures their decompression period — her affinity for horror, mayhem disrupts that often. They couldn’t be more different. Her, an agent of chaos, one to smother her giggles when the scenes got bloody, or a character took a fall. In stark contrast, Clint is the sort to startle, shrink toward the sofa, casting judgement only once the gore runs its course. All in vain, the luminescence of her smile abates him as milk does to a pastry, yielding a sugary, gooey mess. 

Heathers wins the draw. 

Jiffy pop, caramel sodas — whipped cream, moschino cherry — on the coffee table, the couple tangles themselves atop suede cushions, twenty minutes trek by quietly. Veronica has yet to become an accomplice to Jason’s evil antics when Clint unfurls his arm from his girlfriend’s shoulder, tilting away to grab a sip of his drink. His eyes stay plastered to the screen. Behind him, her gaze wanders. Clint replaced his flannel with a t-shirt hours ago. His favorite one, plain black aside from the small, chipping logo at the center of his chest. Subdued by time, the cotton was delightfully soft, the sleeves wrinkled against his biceps, struggling to encircle the brawn one can only acquire from ages of hard work. She had always liked it — loved it, found it mouthwatering.

The dim light is the culprit, the humming glow of the TV accentuating the contours of his flesh — like the gloss of lotion under the sun. When he drags his fingertips over his sweatpants to wipe condensation away, every muscle in his arm ripples, visibly. An array of urges arises; to bite, lick, imprint her teeth on the skin — wrap the limb around her throat, press until she’s woozy. Clint’s spine meshes with the backrest. She seizes the opportunity. As his arm returns to encircle her, she twists, just enough for her to tilt her head and shape her cheek to the curve of his bicep. True to form, he draws her closer, his large hand winding down her chest to her rib, thumb dimpling the underside of her breast. His palm is heavy, warm, and if he notices the hitch in her breath, he doesn't bare it. 

Minutes flow by, her cheek squished against muscle, his hand stroking absently at her side. His scent clouds her senses, heat enveloping her, disarming — leaving her malleable, putty in his palm. The worst part? He couldn’t be more oblivious, fascinated by the onscreen havoc. For her, it serves as white noise, a backtrack for her aberrant thoughts. She readjusts his arm, her chin resting within the crook of his elbow. If he wouldn’t tease her halfway to hell, she would ask him to squeeze, indulge that tiny fantasy and keep it from decaying her mind further. Her restlessness is evident, for Clint’s lips come to settle against the crown of her head, “You okay?” The flutter of her body is his answer, she feels his mouth bend into a grin above her head. “Not okay?” 

“No, I’m okay—” 

He flexes — tugs scantily, forcing her chin to recline, delicate neck lengthening to accommodate the breadth of his arm, her eyes twirling back to meet his. Espresso brown, glinting with mischief. His lips are bent in a sneer, and she draws her brows together, her hands on his forearm — small, voluntarily powerless. He knows. Of course, he does. Years spent enlightening himself to the patterns of her desires, he’s learned a thing or two. 

“Yeah? Enjoying the movie?” He rasps, his breath fanning the shell of her ear. Another shiver rattles her frame. No, but I’m glad you are, her lips part to quip. His arm constricts, locking the words in her throat, heaving the wind from her lungs. A whine threads past the force of his arm, coupling with the soles of her feet driving into the cushion below her. Her thighs rub together. “Fuck, baby, look at you.” He contracts more, reducing the residue of her thoughts to a pile of a mush, her brain airy, wispy. “Why didn’t you just ask, honey? What am I here for if not to keep this sweet little body satisfied?” His answer is a shift of her hips, one set of fingers fumbling for his unoccupied wrist, until his hand rests upon her belly. “Somethin’ else you want?” 

The first of his questions that wasn’t rhetorical, for his hold slackens just enough for her to gasp, and choke out, “Make — me cum…” 

So pitiable, so desperate — a sight he can’t resist. He wastes no time refastening his arm. His other slinks around her waist, raising her body, rotating his own, placing her between his legs. The bulge in his sweatpants sits comfortable below the curve of her spine. His thumb plunges under her waistband, remaining digits grappling below her hip. He tilts back, hikes up her figure by her throat — her back to his chest so he doesn't outright break her — and glides her shorts down her legs. To Clint’s amusement, the gusset is soaked through. The girl in his clutch knocks the fabric from his hand, ruffled, pouting for he doesn’t mask it. He chuckles, urges her thighs apart, one leg dangling over his off the edge of the couch, hooking his fingers under her opposite knee, exposing the sweetness at her center. When he peers down at the glistening, pulpy flesh of her folds, he moans into her hair. 

“This pussy’s so pretty, baby… Never gets old.” The warmth of her cheeks, the faint grunts spur him on, dotting each of his movements. He scatters sloppy kisses along the side of her face, his fingertips brushing over her pelvis, descending between her thighs. He doesn’t delve into her, not at once, using his pointer and ring finger to spread her instead, divulging the precious bundle of nerves, deliberately catching it with the pad of his middle. The last of her air is used up in a delirious whine. Her hips stir up, a pathetic attempt at placing herself into his hand, and he chuckles, low, amused against her ear. “Okay… Okay, fine.” 

Clint seeks to savor — toy with her until she begs, cries for him to indulge her. This time, the poor angel couldn't come close, hardly able to fill her lungs, much less speak. Generously, he obliges, doing so while nipping at her cheek, his thick center digits coming together to slip inside her, pausing at the first knuckle, letting her squirm eagerly, then sinking in until he’s nearly buried to the third joint. The fullness is sudden. She warbles a honeyed noise, her back arching. With a simper, he mumbles against her ear. “Ready, baby?” 

Her thighs jolt, and he groans, dragging his fingers out, driving them in harder, burrowing his nose in the hinge of her jaw. His pace builds gradually, little by little, mirrored by the volume of her sap-like noises, lashes fluttering above her cheekbones as her eyes roll back, perfect, manicured nails scoring crescent marks into his forearm. The sounds her pussy makes are obscene, overshadowing the movie even as utter mayhem ensues amongst the characters.Too far removed, lost to the pleasure, modesty has become foreign, each mewl, each cry echoing in the living room. Clint, captivated, wishes nothing more than to brand his brain with the image of her. He’s let go, relinquished his hold, finding space within the lust to worry that his darling girl might truly faint. Though, in her euphoric state, he’s disposed to believe she wouldn’t mind. Her gummy walls pulse around his digits. She bucks her hips up, pursuing her high faster than he’s willing to give it.

“Easy, sweetheart, I got you.” Conflicting his words, he eases his movements to a lazy crawl, and she all but sobs, one hand blundering to capture his wrist, tugging, as though she would take charge of her own ecstasy. Clint laughs, much to her lovable irritation, earning him a huff. Cruel as it was, her tears were precious, and it simply wouldn’t have been characteristic of him to not impel them. He sucks a mark behind her ear, brings his thumb to her clit in slow, firm circles, in apology for his oh so horrible taunting. Soothed, pacified, her figure softens, head tips back against his shoulder. As she calms, he pauses for a heartbeat, then two, abruptly curling his fingers up to massage the starry spot that would bring her ruin. His palm beats against her clit with unrelenting swiftness.

“C’mon, baby,” he rumbles. Panting, she grips his arm again, scrapes her nails over his skin. Clint reads that as a sign, tightens his arm around her throat, intense, steady. Her breath jerks, silky insides clench his digits, signaling her oncoming climax. He slows the drag of his fingers to lower his thumb over her clit, no movement, just pressure. The knot snaps, harsh and wet, a buzz lighting up every nerve in her being, her frame going rigid as she cums, thighs twitching. Her moans jolt from her mouth, strangled by struggle. “There you go… There you go, sweet girl.” One hand still nestled between her legs, the other snakes her waist, lips showering her neck and jaw with kisses. He continues to slowly circle her sensitive clit, subduing her high. “Look so pretty when you cum, could spend my Friday nights doing this instead.” He noses at her cheek, and she cants her head sideways to meet his gaze, reaching to wrap her fingers around his thumb. He sighs out, molding his lips to hers while withdrawing his fingers from her syrupy wetness, swallowing the sound she makes when his fingertips graze that perfect spot one last time.

Fucked out is an understatement. Clint would use the word sinful. Her eyes are droopy, a dewyness to her lashes, justified by the onslaught of sensation. Clint dips his head down to flatten the tip of his nose against hers. “Good?” He murmurs, delicately pivoting her legs to hang over his thigh, his palm leisurely stroking her back. A part of their usual journey in coming back to earth. Well pleased, she gazes moonily at him. Clint hardly notices, raises his digits to his mouth, his tongue curling out to lick her essence off his flesh. Her chest lifts with a puff of air, tilting towards him, tongue darting out to sweep over the back of his fingers. 

“Good.” 

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taglist · @babynueva / @hopelessromantic727 / @zelena89 / @ithinkimokeei / @choania / @qtmoonies / @illyrianbrat / @lovetoloveyoubaby / @dontlookatme121 / @gothcsz / @mandaloriankait / @almostempty / @lilacspider / @akotafi / @itwasntimethatdidit40 / @newsfl6sh / @letsgobarbs / @salingers if u would like 2 be added 2 my tag list 4 my fics , pls click this link && fill out the form !! u will be added immediately && get a notif for my next fic !!

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[itwasntimethatdidit40]

I loved this 😍

OMG the way it’s written is fireeeee and I’m so hooked!

He’s given up, truth be told, but he occasionally feigns continued effort, all to have her lips grace his mug so he can kiss her with each sip he takes. 

My poor old heart, this is so beautiful 🥹

—  you later, then, Reed,” she’s saying, squeezing all two of the large fingers she can easily fit in her hold. He frowns, just ever so slightly, returning the gesture, his hand engulfing hers. With a tug, he leans down, and she rises to her tiptoes to peck the corner of his lips. 

I’m melting on the spot 🫠♥️

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⠀ ⠀ OVER THE MOON ⠀ ⠀ PROLOUGE ⠀ ⠀ REED RICHARDS A . K . A MR . FANTASTIC / F ! READER⠀⠀

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SUMMARY ⋆ reed richards has caught feelings for his student , making their casual , sexual relationship all the more difficult for himself . WARNINGS ⋆ no powers au / professor ! reed richards / he's divorced :3 / age gap ( reader is early to mid 20s ; reed is in his 40s ) / visualized size difference ; little to none character description aside from this / no smut in this one but it's implied so MDNI ty / lovesick , pining reed richards / just an introduction so more context will come l8r / 3rd person POV ; no use of Y/N WORD COUNT ⋆ 1 . 35 k NOTES ⋆ contributing to the drought of reed richards fics !! enjoy !!

In Reed Richards’ world, the sun rises twice. 

First, at 6 in the morning, when his alarm clock buzzes on the nightstand and years of routine allow the blind reach of one long arm to silence it. Weighing down his other arm is the figure of his dream come true, slumbering, a cherubic delight amongst the cushions and furs encompassing her bare shape. In that moment, he lingers, soothing his hand over the silken expanse of her back, lower, lower, and lower still, alongside her hip, curling his digits to press their tips ever so gently into the plush of her ass, fondling the flesh with care, as to not wake her. The sensation of her under his palm marks her as real, as more than a sick — amatory fantasy of an old man like himself. His fingers travel once more, inwards, dimpling her thigh, so close to heaven itself — she stirs, he retracts his hand, and sighs. A solitary ray of light sneaks in, licks at the curve of her spine just as Reed finds the hem of the blanket and slips it up to her shoulders. 

Winter months don’t mesh with floor to ceiling windows, curtains of thick velvet can only retain so much heat, and a previously excruciating battle is made all the more difficult; it’s impossible enough to withdraw his warm embrace from the object of his yearning, but to do just that, and then press the soles of his feet against ice cold marble floors felt like punishment. Yawning, he heaves himself off the mattress, searches with lazy hands for his pajama bottoms, and after pulling them up his legs, pushing his feet into his slippers, making sure the girl is tucked in — snug, he yanks his knit sweater off the foot of his bed. The lights in the modern, minimalist home click to life, brightening his journey down the stairs and into the kitchen. Everything is on a sensor, finely tuned to his every need. He doesn’t even press a button, yet the coffee begins to brew in its pot; a perfect serving, one mug full. His guest doesn’t drink coffee, but she tries a sip when he asks, adamant on finding a ratio of sugar and creamer that she’d enjoy. In turn, Reed drinks a different flavor on most mornings he shares with her. He’s given up, truth be told, but he occasionally feigns continued effort, all to have her lips grace his mug so he can kiss her with each sip he takes. 

Tea is more her taste. Hot water, a paper tea bag, a pinch of sugar, a splash of milk. Instead of adding a setting to his coffee machine, he makes it by hand, stands above the steaming water and pokes impatiently at the tea bag with a spoon. The goal is to return to his bedroom with a mug in each hand, the brush of his stubble, the tip of his nose tracing the length of her neck, causing her to awaken with soft groans, the sound of giggles once the ticklish feeling truly registers. He doesn’t make it in time to wake her up himself, yet he’s content, beholding the sun as it rises a second time. 

The rustle of blankets, a delicate set of fingers wrinkling his half of the bed, searching for him. There’s a tug at his chest, a call to make everything right, fill his side of the sheets with his frame so that little hand finds just what it seeks, but he waits, watches, and his patience is rewarded by a soft smile as sleepy eyes finally find him, twinkling, taking in his tousled visage with a tenderness that mirrors his own. 

“Tea?” He lifts her mug. It’s the first word he’s spoken, low and thick with sleep, though the smoothness of his charming old school enunciation is permanent no matter how early it is. His slippers carry him across the distance between them as she sits up against the headboard, using a gray fur to modestly cover her chest. Reed doesn’t quite understand why. He’s seen, touched, kissed, licked — tasted every divine inch of flesh, left nothing to the imagination, memorized her very being within all five senses to where seeking her out has become a sixth … and yet, she divides them still. 

“Yes, thank you,” her wobbly morning voice calls him out of his thoughts, her fingers wrap around the mug, and draw it closer to herself. Reed’s large hand shoots out, takes hold of her wrist, pausing her movements altogether. Those big, youthful eyes stare at him expectantly, then shut for a heartbeat and a half when he tilts into her space to press a kiss to her lips. 

“Good morning,” he murmurs, hovering inches away until she repeats it back to him.

“Morning, Reed.” 

He watches her over the rim of his mug through the symphony of sips and sighs, hers rushed, his anything but, slowing down time as best as he could. The first ever morning after, months ago, he’d woken up alone, left with nothing but her scent on his pillow. With each night spent together following that fateful encounter, she granted him more and more time in the mornings; his second sunrise, making him the luckiest man in the cloudy city of Manhattan. 

“Busy day today?” He inquires after his final sip of coffee. His mug is empty, and he plucks hers off the bedside table to finish what remains of her tea, getting in his kisses while she dresses herself on the opposite side of the room. Answering him with an absent nod, she trudges closer, the hem of her navy blue sweater, embroidered with the Columbia University lion, brushing her thighs. His sweater, stolen so long ago that she’s forgotten its origin. 

“Do you see my panties anywhere?” she mumbles the query with utmost bashfulness, as though he wasn’t the one dragging that small strip of cotton down her thighs at sunset. Hooking both mug handles onto his fingers, Reed uses his unoccupied hand to toss the covers around. His search is uninspired, clumsy, but fruitful. Soon enough, that little white piece of fabric dangles from his fingers, a smug grin on his lips. So cute, he thinks to himself as she snatches it away, whispering, “Thank you.” 

Her departure never feels real until she’s near the door, sliding small, socked feet into those damned, convenient, comfy shoes. Gators, or something silly, she calls them, not even allowing Reed the extra couple seconds that it takes to tie a pair of sneakers. 

“ —  you later, then, Reed,” she’s saying, squeezing all two of the large fingers she can easily fit in her hold. He frowns, just ever so slightly, returning the gesture, his hand engulfing hers. With a tug, he leans down, and she rises to her tiptoes to peck the corner of his lips. 

“Later? Are you coming by again tonight?” He asks, sounding embarrassingly hopeful, still holding her hand near his chest, gaze stuck on those soft, plump lips as they part to answer. Her words strike him like a dagger through his heart, the confusion in her voice twisting the god forsaken knife until his ribs are left hollow. A dramatic internal reaction to such a simple sentence. 

“Like, in class.” 

“Oh… of course, sorry. Looks like I’m still waking up. Anyway, are you sure I can't give you a ride? It’s like the dead of winter outside.” How pathetic he must sound, how visible the longing in his brown eyes must be, for she places her palm over his heart, and smiles in a manner that draws the air from his lungs, easing the tenseness of his broad shoulders. 

“Yes, I’m sure. I’ll catch the bus.” Fixing the strap of her bag on her shoulder, she steps backwards past his front door, turning halfway, pausing, then saying: “I’ll call you, and we’ll see about tonight.” 

He nods, the door shuts behind her, and if the world was watching, they’d see the genius Reed Richards break out into a joyfully lovesick dance in his drawing room.

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⠀⠀ ⠀ © CLUBSOFT⠀⠀ ⠀

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TAGLIST ⋆ @days1 / @luvrsluxe if u would like 2 be added 2 my tag list 4 my fics , pls click this link && fill out the form !! u will be added immediately && get a notif for my next fic !!