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youthereader · 3 days ago

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Critical Mass

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

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

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

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

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

God, he was so easy.

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

“Shut it down.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I should arrest you,” he muttered.

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

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

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

“You’re not gonna ask what it does?”

“I don’t need to.”

“Then why’d you come?”

He didn’t answer.

Behind you, a hiss echoed. Smooth. Familiar.

Reed stiffened again—not at the breach this time.

“Is that—?”

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

“You named your snake after me?”

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

You expected him to storm out. You expected fury.

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

And then he said it—quiet, rough:

“…That suit’s new.”

Bingo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t,” he warned.

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

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

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

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

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

“Say what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not like them.”

That stopped you cold.

You blinked. “No?”

He looked away.

Bingo again.

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re wasting everything you could be.”

And you said—gently, honestly, ruinously:

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

You watched the line of Reed’s jaw twitch.

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

Good. Let him burn.

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

You smiled, soft and saccharine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes darkened.

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

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

His mouth parted like he might answer.

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

That was the moment he snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This time, it was worse.

And better. There was no going back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Overwhelmed, Stretch?”

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

“Shut up,” he said.

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

No pretense. No buildup. He was done pretending.

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

You blinked up at him, stunned and delighted.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

He didn’t slow down.

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

He was stretching inside you.

Not metaphorically. Not just because you were full.

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

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

You didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s when he did it.

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

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

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

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

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

For a second, neither of you moved.

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

“Are you okay?”

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

“Do it again.”

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

And then he moved.

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

You didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next thrust made you scream.

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

This time, he stilled.

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

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

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

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

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

“Still not enough.”

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

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

You kissed his temple.

“Only if I don’t come first.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again.

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

His body stiffened. His hands gripped your thighs.

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

“Stretch for me,” you whispered.

And he did.

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

Then came the fingers.

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

And another… longer. Reaching.

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

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

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

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

Your eyes rolled back.

Your body seized.

And still, he gave you more.

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

It built fast—too fast.

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

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

The scream dissolved into gasps, then into nothing.

And then—black.

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

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

A warm cloth passed slowly between your legs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stroked your spine.

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

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

You just breathed.

He kept holding you. It was quiet.

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

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

He wasn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s when you opened your mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

His breath stuttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

😚 ty for reading

#in case you missed it

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youthereader · 3 days ago

Text

Critical Mass

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

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

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

God, he was so easy.

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

“Shut it down.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I should arrest you,” he muttered.

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

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

“You’re not gonna ask what it does?”

“I don’t need to.”

“Then why’d you come?”

He didn’t answer.

Behind you, a hiss echoed. Smooth. Familiar.

Reed stiffened again—not at the breach this time.

“Is that—?”

“You named your snake after me?”

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

You expected him to storm out. You expected fury.

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

And then he said it—quiet, rough:

“…That suit’s new.”

Bingo.

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

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

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

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

“Don’t,” he warned.

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

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

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

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

“Say what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not like them.”

That stopped you cold.

You blinked. “No?”

He looked away.

Bingo again.

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

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

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

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

“You’re wasting everything you could be.”

And you said—gently, honestly, ruinously:

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

You watched the line of Reed’s jaw twitch.

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

Good. Let him burn.

You smiled, soft and saccharine.

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

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

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

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

His eyes darkened.

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

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

His mouth parted like he might answer.

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

That was the moment he snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

This time, it was worse.

And better. There was no going back.

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

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

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

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

“Overwhelmed, Stretch?”

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

“Shut up,” he said.

No pretense. No buildup. He was done pretending.

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

You blinked up at him, stunned and delighted.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

He didn’t slow down.

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

He was stretching inside you.

Not metaphorically. Not just because you were full.

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

You didn’t.

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

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

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

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

And that’s when he did it.

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

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

For a second, neither of you moved.

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

“Are you okay?”

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

“Do it again.”

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

And then he moved.

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

You didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next thrust made you scream.

This time, he stilled.

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

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

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

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

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

“Still not enough.”

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

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

You kissed his temple.

“Only if I don’t come first.”

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

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

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

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

Again.

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

His body stiffened. His hands gripped your thighs.

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

“Stretch for me,” you whispered.

And he did.

Then came the fingers.

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

And another… longer. Reaching.

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

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

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

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

Your eyes rolled back.

Your body seized.

And still, he gave you more.

It built fast—too fast.

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

The scream dissolved into gasps, then into nothing.

And then—black.

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

A warm cloth passed slowly between your legs.

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

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

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

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

He stroked your spine.

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

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

You just breathed.

He kept holding you. It was quiet.

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

He wasn’t.

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

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

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

And that’s when you opened your mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

His breath stuttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

😚 ty for reading

#reed richards x you #reed richards smut #reed richards x reader #reed richards #reed richards x y/n #fantastic four smut #fem reader #pedro pascal fanfiction

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youthereader · 4 days ago

Note

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Keep going,” you murmur.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t stand a chance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That does it.

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

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

“Yes,” you gasp. “Harder.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think I died a little.”

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

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

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

“Still hard?” you murmur between kisses.

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

“You love it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

He groans into your skin, embarrassed and glowing.

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

#in case you missed it

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youthereader · 4 days ago

Text

Some Kind of Shelter part 2

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

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

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

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

part 1.

You wake alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You offer him a smile. “Hungry?”

“Always,” he says, voice scratchy.

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

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

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

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

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

“Only when I’m right.”

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

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

You hear him before you see him.

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

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

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

His presence is a gravity you can’t resist.

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

The second night is harder.

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

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

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

Trying, but you feel him, and hear him.

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

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

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

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

You go hot all over.

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

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

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

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

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

You just listen, stunned and aroused and unbearably still.

Then—silence.

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

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

Wondering if he thought of you.

You avoid his eyes the next morning.

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

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

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

Your stomach twists.

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

You’re careful too. Too careful.

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

He pulls back. Says nothing.

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

Anything that keeps you away from him.

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

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

“Four times last night.”

You stop mid-step, startled.

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

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

She giggles, swatting his shoulder.

You force yourself to keep walking.

But the words stick.

Four times.

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

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

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

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

You dread going in but not because of him.

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

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

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

You sit across from him, head bowed.

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

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

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

“I’m not mad.”

You look up. His voice is quiet but steady.

“What?”

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

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

He nods slowly. “Good.”

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

“You’ve been different today.”

Your stomach flips.

“I know,” you whisper.

“I thought maybe I scared you.”

Your heart twists.

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

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

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

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

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

“I heard you last night.”

He goes very still.

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

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

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

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

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

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he nods, and says:

“Thank you for telling me.”

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

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

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

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youthereader · 4 days ago

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