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✧˖° Hi, I'm Onyxxx ! This is my one and only NSFW side blog where I place my fics, and any ideas here. This blog is strictly 18+ and anyone underage will be blocked immediately. My main blog where I post fandom and other stuff @thotclaws

[all-ura]

Let me just remind you guys that...

AI fanfiction is not fanfiction

[youthereader]

Observed Behavior

pairing: Reed Richards x Fem!Mutant Reader

summary: 6.5k words. Dr. Reed Richards doesn’t pay you much attention. You’re just another intern in the lab—quiet, efficient, always taking notes. But you’re also a telepath. And Reed has no idea you can hear every filthy, unspoken thought he has about you.

rating: E. dirty talk. no infidelity, I promise! rough piv sex. oral (fem receiving). mind reading. mutual pining. semi-public sex. come on face.

a/n: omggggggggggggg I loved writing this. I only saw Fantastic Four: First Steps yesterday but I feel like I've been obsessed for months already. I actually wrote this before seeing the movie, but held off until today to post. hope you like it!!!! 💙

You don’t like Reed Richards.

You tell yourself this the moment you meet him. He barely acknowledges your existence. He doesn’t shake your hand. Doesn’t even make eye contact.

You say something polite—something like, "Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Richards."

He says, without glancing up from the display in front of him, "The data’s unstable. Did you notice the gravitic skew in quadrant six?"

Oh.

Okay. That kind of guy.

Later, you categorize him like you’re filing a report: Brilliant. Socially stunted. One of those too-smart-to-be-nice types who treats human interaction like a necessary evil.

It makes your job easier. You’re not here to be liked.

You’re here to assist with the joint-mutant initiative. Quietly. Professionally. Keep your head down, do your work, keep the mental channel muted unless someone explicitly asks for help. Your mutation makes people nervous. Not everyone wants to know what they’re broadcasting.

But Reed Richards?

Reed Richards is broadcasting filth.

The first time it happens, you think you’ve misread. You’re across the lab, checking output from a cracked containment dome, and his thoughts slip past your mental wall like a hot breath on the back of your neck:

God, what those lips would look like around my cock.

How tight she’d be, wet and warm and surprised.

Bet she tastes sweet. Fuck, I’d drag it out. Make her beg.

She wouldn’t beg. She’s too proud. I’d make her anyway.

You jolt. Your pen jerks off the page. A shaky line across your log sheet. You don’t dare look up. You’ve never heard him speak like that. You’ve barely heard him speak at all. Reed is curt. Precise. Dismissive, even. But now you hear it in his head, like it’s on a loop, layered with vivid images — your thighs spread across his desk, his fingers prying you open while he murmurs clinical observations that make your cheeks burn.

She’d be wet already. I’d test her reaction time. Graph her pulse. Hypothesize what makes her shake.

You swallow, shift in your seat, force your hands to stay still. You should block him out. You usually do. No one wants to hear what people are really thinking. It’s invasive, and it’s dangerous, and it’s too much to carry.

But this? This is—

“Is something wrong?” His voice cuts across the room. Crisp. Flat. Like he doesn’t have his hand buried in your imaginary cunt.

You look up. Just once.

He’s watching you. Eyes sharp behind his glasses. No heat in his expression — none of the filth you just heard. He looks the same way he always does. Unreadable. Detached.

“No,” you say. Too quickly. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Reed nods once and returns to typing, but his thoughts don’t stop.

I wonder if she’d moan when I touch her or bite her lip to stay quiet.

Bet I could break her composure. Bet I could ruin her neat little posture.

You grip the edge of the counter until your knuckles ache.

You’ve made a huge mistake.

Because now that you’ve tuned in, you don’t think you can stop.

-

The worst part isn’t how filthy it is.

It’s the contrast.

Reed Richards — Dr. Richards, to everyone — never even swears in conversation. He refers to the human body like it’s a schematic. He’ll say “pleasure response” instead of orgasm, and you’ve heard him refer to Sue’s divorce attorney as “a challenging presence,” which you think is his version of calling someone a dick.

So the first time you hear him think the word cunt, your brain short-circuits.

Bet it’s tight. Warm. Slick around my fingers. Her cunt would grip me like it knows me.

You grip the edge of the lab table.

Reed hasn’t moved. He’s still typing, back straight, posture annoyingly perfect. A model scientist. The embodiment of control.

But in his head—

I’d stretch her out with my tongue first. Just to taste. Just to make her shiver.

Then I’d fuck her open with two fingers. Maybe three. Just to see how much she could take.

You feel your face flush hot.

His voice in your head is the same one he uses when he’s narrating quantum anomalies. Methodical. Fascinated. Detached.

Like your body is a phenomenon he wants to understand. Just for the data.

She’s got sensitive tits, I think. Would need a gentle mouth. Then a rough one.

I’d chart how many licks until she breaks.

You turn away before he can see the expression on your face. Not that he’d be looking.

Reed doesn’t look at you.

Not unless you speak first. Even then, his gaze usually lands near your shoulder or just past your head — like you’re a part of the room’s architecture. Necessary. Functional. Forgettable.

Which is why you can’t fathom the sudden, overwhelming specificity of his thoughts.

Would she come if I sucked on her nipples and slid my thumb over her clit?

Or would she need to be fucked?

Deep. Slow. Me inside her while she tries not to cry out.

You have to leave.

You mumble something — “back in ten” or “need a break” — and Reed doesn’t respond. He doesn’t glance your way. Just lifts a hand absently in acknowledgment, still facing the board, still immersed in whatever algorithm or image his mind is chewing on.

Except now you know that algorithm is you.

Your wet heat. Your thighs. Your pulse as he imagines pressing his mouth to it and whispering, “Come for me. Let me see.”

You flee to the hallway, breath stuttering in your throat, shame and heat and disbelief running a relay race in your chest.

You’ve heard dirty thoughts before. You’ve had them.

But never from someone so composed. So quiet. So far removed from the possibility of ever touching you.

And that’s what makes it dangerous.

He has no idea you can hear him.

And worse — he’s not trying to stop.

-

The rest of the day, you try to block him out.

You build mental walls. Steel-plated. Brick-layered. Reinforced with every ounce of discipline you’ve learned since puberty, when people’s thoughts started bleeding into your skull like background noise you couldn’t shut off.

But Reed’s thoughts don’t bleed. They pierce.

They stab through.

You’re elbow-deep in diagnostics when it happens again — no warning, no break in his typing cadence, no shift in posture.

Just a whisper inside your head like a hand between your thighs.

She’d come so pretty if I rubbed her clit just right. Not hard. Just enough to make her beg.

Your knees go weak.

You drop the calibration tool.

It clangs against the lab floor and rolls under a counter.

Reed doesn’t turn around. He never does.

But in your head:

Imagine her on my desk, shaking. Panting. Just a little ruined.

Would her thighs tremble when I pull out, or when I sink in?

Fuck. I’d edge her until she sobs.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Grip the counter. Count backward.

Ten. Nine. Eight.

It’s not enough.

I wouldn’t even fuck her the first time. I’d make her ride my face. Learn how she moves. What makes her lose rhythm.

You suck in a breath and drop to your knees, fumbling under the bench for the runaway tool. Your fingers shake as you grab it.

You’re burning from the inside out.

He’s just standing there — chalk in one hand, the other curled around the lip of the console, muttering numbers under his breath.

As if he doesn’t know what he’s doing to you, like he isn’t narrating how he’d make you come.

You crawl out from under the counter, wiping your palms on your lab coat. Try to focus. Try to breathe.

But the thoughts keep going.

She probably moans softly. Gasps, maybe. One hand on my wrist, the other gripping the sheets.

Would she let me come on her face? Or just in her mouth?

Your hand slips on the console. The system glitches — an alert flashes red on the screen.

“Everything okay?” Reed says, without turning.

His tone is bland. Neutral. The same one he uses when he’s asking about error margins or component failures.

You force your voice to steady. “Fine. Sorry. Just bumped the interface.”

“Run the sequence again,” he says.

You do.

But your fingers tremble the whole time. And every time you glance up, you see the line of his spine, the tension in his forearms, the methodical tap of chalk against board — like he’s not thinking about bending you over the lab bench and pressing his mouth between your thighs.

But he is.

And now you know.

-

It’s not supposed to be a social thing.

You’re huddled in the lab with Reed, Johnny, and a visiting biophysicist from MIT who talks with his hands and keeps spilling his coffee. It’s late afternoon. The conversation’s circling around particle harmonics and neural feedback delay — nothing you haven’t heard before.

Reed, as usual, is silent. Focused. His back to the room, one hand scrolling equations, the other holding a piece of chalk he hasn’t used in fifteen minutes.

You think maybe you’ll survive the day without hearing anything from him. You’ve built the walls again. Brick by brick. You’re not letting him in.

And then Johnny goes, “I still don’t get why you didn’t just read her.”

You blink. “What?”

Johnny laughs. “Come on, don’t play dumb. You could’ve. You always say that trick comes in handy when people lie.”

Your blood goes cold. You look up slowly. “Johnny…”

“Oh shit. Was that not public knowledge?” He raises both palms in mock defense. “Sorry. I mean, I thought everyone knew.”

They don’t. Not everyone. But Sue, Ben, Johnny — they do. Reed, you’d assumed… maybe. But not definitely.

Until now.

Because Reed goes still.

Not visibly. Not to the average eye. But you see it.

His hand halts mid-scroll. The chalk pauses just before touching the board.

He doesn’t turn around. Of course not. He never does.

But the entire current in the room changes.

The MIT guy, oblivious, whistles low. “Telepathy? That’s incredible.”

“Yeah,” Johnny says, grinning. “She’s like a human lie detector. Except it’s not like she goes digging, you know? She just picks stuff up.”

The scientist nods. “Is it active or passive?”

“Both,” you say, voice light, controlled. “Depends on the day. And the person.”

“Must be fun.”

You shrug. “Sometimes.”

Johnny leans on the console. “Sometimes not, huh?”

Your eyes flick briefly to Reed’s back. His hand is still frozen in midair, like he’s been caught in amber.

You look away.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Sometimes… not so much.”

The conversation moves on.

Someone cracks a joke about lab gossip being unsafe around you. The MIT guy asks a question about psi-shielding. Johnny starts talking about that one time you ruined a poker night by knowing someone’s cards.

But Reed doesn’t speak, doesn’t move.

For the first time in days, his thoughts are silent.

You feel the absence like a blow.

No whispers. No fantasies. No wondering what your cunt tastes like or how you sound when you come. Just—

Nothing.

A void. You should be relieved.  Instead, you feel like you’ve been locked out of something you didn’t know you needed.

Behind Reed’s still frame, you can sense it — the slow, dangerous coiling of tension.

Not shame, not guilt. Only awareness.

He knows, and now he’s thinking about what you’ve heard.

-

You don’t sleep that night.

You lie in bed with your mind reeling, blankets too heavy, your chest too tight. The silence in Reed’s head echoes louder than any of the filth that came before. You didn’t realize how much you’d come to expect his thoughts. Not want them — not exactly — but… count on them. Like a metronome. Like proof he was human under all that restraint.

Now?

Nothing.

No late-night fantasies. No secret hypotheses about your body. Just a wall — colder and more deliberate than anything you’ve ever put up yourself.

He knows.

And now you’re waiting for the fallout.

You think about packing.

You think about going to Sue and getting ahead of it — telling her you’re sorry, you didn’t mean to listen, you never asked for the thoughts to come in like that, you tried so fucking hard to block them out.

You think about how Sue would tilt her head, lips pressed together in that gentle, unreadable way of hers, and say, “I’ll talk to Reed.”

That thought alone makes you want to crawl out of your skin.

You don’t go to the lab the next morning.

You call in sick — stomach flu, maybe food poisoning.

You spend the day in your apartment, curled on your couch with a half-drunk mug of tea and the soft buzz of muted news. You try to distract yourself with papers, textbooks, even an old simulation of Mars terrain scans.

None of it sticks.

Because the only thought that plays on repeat is this:

You’ve ruined it.

You had one shot. One internship. One thread of hope that could’ve led to something real — something bigger than the lab, bigger than Earth.

You’ve wanted space since you were old enough to name constellations. You were supposed to be part of the next crew rotation. If you did well, if you impressed the right people, if Reed thought you were worth keeping—

But now all he sees is a liability. An intruder. A mind he can’t trust.

Maybe he’s already filed a report. Maybe by Monday you’ll be reassigned to inventory. Or security compliance. Some corner of the building where they can keep you out of people’s heads and off the launch manifest.

You curl tighter. You don’t cry but your throat aches like you might.

You’d rather he shouted. Rather he confronted you. Rather he called you invasive or perverse or unprofessional.

Instead, he just disappeared.

That silence — the absence of his voice in your head — feels like the worst kind of punishment.

-

You come in early the next day.

Earlier than usual. Earlier than anyone else should be there.

Except he’s already in the lab.

You hear the soft click of the console keys before you see him. The low whir of cooling fans. The faint scratch of chalk across board.

When you step inside, Reed doesn’t turn.

He’s where he always is — back straight, eyes forward, sleeves rolled, a shadow of stubble softening the sharp lines of his jaw. His body is still, but his mind—

His mind is deafening.

F=ma. ΔS = Qrev/T. Entropy is always increasing. Entropy is always increasing. Entropy is always increasing—

You press your hand to the doorframe.

It’s not that he’s shut you out.

It’s that he’s replaced the thoughts. Stuffed the filth back into its cage and barricaded the door with math. With precision. With the cold comfort of numbers.

But it’s loud. So loud.

Equations loop over and over, like static, like punishment, like he’s trying to drown himself in calculus and thermodynamics until there’s no room left for want.

You don’t say anything.

You just take your seat. Log into the console. Pretend the silence is normal. That the walls haven’t shifted. That this isn’t your fault.

But then, after twenty-eight minutes of stillness—

He turns.

Slowly.

His eyes meet yours for the first time in days.

And then, like the flip of a switch, the equations stop.

The noise cuts.

And what follows is even worse.

“I owe you an apology.”

The words land like glass.

You look up — stunned, unsure you heard him right.

Reed continues, voice stiff, almost formal. Like he’s reciting something practiced.

“I was unaware that my thoughts were… accessible. To you.”

He swallows. His gaze doesn’t waver. “If I caused any discomfort, or crossed any boundary—”

“You didn’t,” you say, too fast.

But he doesn’t stop.

“I understand if you wish to leave the internship. I will personally ensure a neutral letter of recommendation and full academic credit, if you—”

“No.” You shake your head, your throat tight. “I don’t want to leave.”

Silence.

Your breath trembles in your chest.

“I’m not upset,” you say, softer. “I never was.”

Reed stares at you.

You’ve never seen him look so unsure.

“I should not have allowed those thoughts to form,” he says, quieter now. “I certainly shouldn’t have repeated them.”

You offer a breath of laughter — too hollow to be real. “You didn’t say them.”

He blinks. “I thought them.”

You nod. “You did.”

A pause.

Then you add, “But I heard more than what you thought.”

His brows draw together. “Meaning?”

“I heard how hard you tried not to.”

“I’m truly so, so sorry,” he says.

The words sound foreign in his mouth — like he doesn’t quite know how to say them aloud. His voice drops as he says it, too, like he wants to bury the sentence somewhere low between you.

“It was unprofessional.”

You blink. It hits different when it’s said that plainly — not just the apology, but the weight of the word.

Unprofessional.

He means it. You can hear it in his thoughts now, the edge softening — shame curling in the quiet corners. He’s not just sorry you heard him. He’s sorry he thought it at all. Sorry he let himself want. Sorry his discipline failed.

“Reed,” you say, gently. “It’s alright.”

He doesn’t move, he doesn’t breathe, for a second.

It’s not the kind of apology that’s waiting for forgiveness. It’s the kind that assumes none is possible.

“I should have—” he begins, but the sentence crumbles.

You step closer before you can think better of it. Not too close. Just enough to catch the tiniest flicker in his eyes — a shift, like he’s bracing for something more than your words.

“I’ve heard worse,” you say, lips twitching in the ghost of a smile. “You just think very… graphically.”

His mouth parts — just slightly.  For the first time, you see something almost human flicker behind his usual impassivity.

Embarrassment.

He opens his mouth to speak again, but nothing comes.

You reach for the console behind you, just to give your hands something to do.

“If you’re wondering whether I was offended,” you say, “I wasn’t.”

His gaze lifts to yours slowly. “You weren’t.”

You shake your head. “I didn’t say it wasn’t… surprising.”

Something changes in the set of his shoulders. The faintest drop. Like a gear slipping in a machine.

You can hear it again, too — faint, fainter than before, but real: She’s not angry. She’s not leaving.

You lean back against the edge of the table, arms crossed loosely. “I’ve had these powers my whole life, you know. You hear people think things they’d never say. Half of them wouldn’t even admit it to themselves.”

Reed doesn’t respond. But you feel the shift. The stillness that isn't emptiness anymore — it’s presence. It’s him, fully here, not hiding behind data or circuits or chalk.

“It can be fun sometimes,” you admit. “Other times…” You trail off. “Not so much.”

His fingers flex slightly where they rest at his sides.

You almost expect him to end it there. To nod, turn away, retreat to the board, drown himself in equations again.

But instead, he says, quietly:

“I didn’t mean for you to feel like an object.”

Your chest tightens.

You meet his gaze.

“I didn’t.”

You watch him for a moment, unsure what to say next.

The lab is quiet. Still. The hum of the equipment blends into the background like white noise. Reed hasn’t moved since his last apology — hands loose at his sides, eyes lowered just enough that you can’t quite tell if he’s looking at you or through you.

You shift slightly on the edge of the table.

“Are you okay?” you ask, softly.

It’s the gentlest question in the world. You don’t expect much. A nod, maybe. Or the barest deflection.

Instead, he huffs a laugh.

Short. Quiet. Almost self-deprecating.

And so out of place coming from him that it draws your eyes back to his face immediately.

He still doesn’t smile. Of course he doesn’t. But there’s a flicker at the corner of his mouth, like he might have once, in another life, remembered how.

Your chest eases — just barely — and you smile at him. Tentative. Careful. The kind of smile you give a wounded animal when you’re holding out a hand.

Reed blinks, and this time his gaze meets yours without hesitation.

He doesn’t say yes, or no, or I will be.

But he doesn’t look away.

He doesn’t turn back to the board.

You take that as enough.

The air between you settles, not warm exactly, but less charged. Less sharp.

You glance down at your tablet, then back up. “Do you want to… work on the gamma dispersion scan?”

A pause. Then he nods.

It’s quiet again as you both fall into rhythm — screens blinking softly, files opening, measurements calibrating. For ten minutes, it almost feels normal. Like none of this happened. Like your body hasn’t been the subject of his private curiosity. Like you haven’t heard, in his own voice, the words tits and cunt wrapped in awe like he’s discovering a new element.

But every so often, you catch the stillness in him.

The way he doesn’t quite type as fluidly as before. The way his thoughts — no longer loud, no longer obscene — hover just out of reach. Reined in. Scrubbed clean.

Control, you hear him think, a little later. Keep control.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

Because now that you’ve forgiven him — now that you’ve stayed — he’s afraid he’ll slip again.

He’s afraid of wanting.

Of letting you hear it.

And maybe, more than anything, he’s afraid you won’t look at him the same if you do.

You wait until the next lull. After the data finishes compiling. After you both fall into quiet, careful work, pretending the air isn’t thick with everything unsaid.

Then, without looking up, you ask:

“What are you really thinking?”

The words slip out like a whisper. Not a demand. A coaxing.

You hear him stop breathing.

His fingers freeze on the console.

You look up.

He’s staring down at his hands like they belong to someone else. His brows twitch — the smallest knot of conflict pulling across his forehead.

You don’t press. You wait.

He swallows hard.

“I—” His voice is rougher than you’ve ever heard it. “I don’t think I should say.”

You nod slowly. “I know.”

There’s a pause. The kind that feels like a coin balanced on its edge — waiting to tip.

Then, finally, Reed lifts his gaze to meet yours.

It’s not a sharp glance. Not a command or a calculation. It’s vulnerable. Raw.

“Are you sure?”

You nod before your brain can stop you. “I’m sure.”

Your heart hammers against your ribs.

The silence that follows isn’t heavy. It’s charged.

And then—soft, almost reverent, like he’s saying it for himself more than for you—his thought brushes your mind.

She’s the most astonishing thing I’ve ever seen.

You don’t move.

She’s smart. Composed. And when she smiles at me like that, I want to get on my knees and put my mouth on her cunt until she forgets every name but mine.

Your breath catches.

Reed’s eyes are still on yours. Steady. Honest.

I want to see her fall apart. Hear her. Feel her thighs around my face. I want her to let go with me. Just once. Just to know what it’s like to make someone like her come.

You’re frozen.

Flushed.

His thoughts echo again, softer now, barely there:

I would be gentle. At first. I’d learn her rhythms. I’d listen.

You part your lips, but no sound comes out.

Reed doesn’t look away.

You see the tension in his jaw. The restraint. The ache he’s too careful to name aloud.

But this time, he’s not hiding.

He’s giving you the truth.

And your whole body sings with it.

The silence stretches, but it doesn’t break.

Reed watches you like he’s waiting for you to flinch. For you to run. For you to laugh it off or look away or say no.

You don’t.

Your breath is shallow. Your pulse pounds behind your ribs like a warning, like a promise. But you don’t move.

You stay.

Reed’s fingers flex slightly at his sides. A twitch. A tremor. And then—carefully, like he’s unsure the ground will hold—he takes one slow step forward.

Your heart leaps.

He pauses.

Then another step.

Still watching you.

You straighten, knees brushing the edge of the console. Your hands—useless at your sides—curl instinctively into the hem of your coat. You feel like a held breath. Like one word might shatter you.

And then he’s close enough that you can see it in his face—the nerves he’s trying to hide. The deep ache folded into his silence. The apology still lingering beneath his restraint.

But also the want.

So much want.

You reach out.

Just a little.

And that’s all it takes.

His hand lifts—slow, hesitant—and finds yours midair. The contact is gentle. Barely there. Your fingers brush his palm and his thumb curves awkwardly over your knuckles, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

But you link your fingers with his.

You squeeze.

His breath shudders.

You’re close now. Not quite touching chest to chest. Not yet. But his body radiates heat like a solar flare, and your joined hands hang between you like a thread you’re both afraid to tug.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

His thoughts are quiet, but open. Not graphic. Not filthy this time.

She’s here. She’s still here.

You lift your other hand—slowly, carefully—and touch the crook of his elbow. His arm tenses for half a second, then relaxes under your touch.

His hand in yours tightens. Just a little.

You smile at him. Tentative. Like before.

And this time, Reed exhales like it breaks something loose inside him.

You lean in slowly.

No rush. No sharp breath or whispered question. Just instinct. Trust. The press of his fingers wrapped in yours.

Your lips find his.

A soft, fleeting brush.

So light you could pretend it didn’t happen.

But it does.

He stills.

For a heartbeat, maybe two.

Then something inside him snaps.

Reed surges forward—still silent, but no longer hesitant. His free hand lifts to cup your jaw, fingers spanning your cheek with a trembling kind of reverence. His mouth crashes into yours again, firmer this time, open, hungry.

You gasp, and he takes it.

Takes you.

His lips drag over yours like he’s starved. His body leans into yours, chasing heat, chasing breath, chasing something he’s kept buried under equations and silence for too damn long.

You kiss him back, matching his pace, your fingers gripping the front of his shirt just to stay grounded.

It’s not perfect. It’s messy.

Teeth clash once. Your nose bumps his. He exhales sharply against your mouth, and you laugh, surprised and dizzy.

Reed groans low in his throat like it drives him wild.

His grip shifts—hand sliding to the back of your neck, the other pressing firm at your waist, tugging you closer. There’s no more distance now. You’re chest to chest, breath to breath, his mouth working yours like it’s a formula he’s been dying to solve.

You reach blindly for something—anything—to anchor yourself.

Your fingers find the edge of his belt.

Not teasing. Not intentional.

Just need.

A way to keep your feet on the ground while the rest of you unravels.

You clutch the leather and kiss him deeper.

And Reed—God, Reed—moans softly into your mouth like he’s the one overwhelmed.

His thoughts flood through you again, all barriers down now.

So soft. So warm. She kissed me first.

I want to lift her onto the desk. Get my hands under that coat.

I want to taste her. Right now. Right fucking now.

Your knees buckle slightly, and he catches you with both arms, tugging you flush against him, the hard press of his belt against your stomach making your skin spark.

You don’t speak.

Neither does he.

But you kiss like you’re telling secrets. Like you’re breaking rules. Like every second is borrowed time. 

Reed drops to his knees.

It happens fast. One second his mouth is pressed to yours, the next he’s sinking down like gravity’s claimed him — like he’s meant to be there. At your feet. Between your legs. Worshipful and wild.

His hands slide up your thighs, warm and unhurried. He lifts your skirt like he’s unfolding a secret he’s only ever dreamed of touching. You brace one hand against the console behind you, the other tangled in his hair, fingers trembling.

He doesn’t speak.

He stares.

Like your thighs are a formula. Like the space between them holds the answer to every question he’s never let himself ask.

Then his hands slide higher, thumbs brushing the crease of your hips, and he leans in.

He kisses the inside of your knee. Then higher.

Your breath catches as his mouth moves up your thigh—soft, open-mouthed kisses dragging heat across your skin. He hums low in his throat, like he’s cataloging every inch, and you feel it all the way to your core.

“Fuck,” you whisper, your head tipping back.

Reed doesn’t stop.

He kisses just beside the place you want him most. Once. Twice. Then his hands shift—firm on your hips—and he nuzzles against your panties, dragging his nose along the damp fabric like he needs to breathe you.

And then—his thoughts, finally, finally back:

She’s soaked. God, she’s so wet. All for me.

Your legs shake.

He pulls your panties aside and exhales softly at the sight.

Perfect.

And then his mouth is on you.

You cry out—sharp and helpless—the sound echoing off the walls of the lab. He licks a slow stripe through your folds, groaning like he’s tasted something he’ll never recover from.

You grip his hair harder.

Reed doesn’t stop. Doesn’t hesitate. He licks you like he needs it, tongue dragging up to circle your clit, then back down to press flat against your entrance. His thoughts are a blur—lust, wonder, obsession—louder now, less composed.

You whimper.

She’s so sweet. Want to keep her like this. Want her coming on my tongue.

He moans against you, the vibration shooting through your whole body. His mouth moves faster, more deliberate, like he’s testing responses, building a pattern. Every flick of his tongue is data. Every gasp from you is a new variable to study.

Your knees threaten to give, and he only grips your thighs tighter, pulling you closer, mouth never leaving you.

“Reed—fuck, I—”

You shatter.

Come for me, he thinks, right as his lips wrap around your clit and suck.

Your cry rips through the air, your body spasming against his mouth. He doesn’t let up. He holds you through it—tongue coaxing, soothing, tasting every twitch and shake as you come undone.

And when it’s over, when your chest is heaving and your thighs are trembling, he looks up at you.

Mouth wet. Eyes dark.

Ravenous.

He stands, slow and steady, hands dragging up your thighs as he rises. When he’s eye level again, you see it—his mouth slick with you, his chest rising hard like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Just pulls you in and wraps both arms around your waist, pressing his face into your neck. He inhales deeply.

And fucking hell, he smells like you.

“Are you alright?” he murmurs, voice low and gritty in your ear.

You let out a breathless laugh, your chest still fluttering. “You’re seriously asking me that?”

He lets out a sound — not quite a laugh, not quite a groan — and you feel it more than hear it, vibrating against your throat. His hips are right against you now, belt biting into your lower stomach. He’s hard. So fucking hard.

You push against him, mouth near his jaw. “Reed.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. And when he does, your hands come up to frame his face.

Not tender. Hungry.

You drag your thumb across his bottom lip. His eyes flick down to your mouth like he’s about to lose it.

“What are you thinking?” you ask.

A pause.

Then his gaze darkens, and the answer bleeds out of him—wordless but clear.

I want to fuck her right here. I want to bend her over this table and hear what she sounds like when she’s cock-drunk.

Your knees go weak.

And he sees it.

You don’t say a word.

You just drop your hand from his face, trail it down between your bodies, and reach for his belt.

Reed doesn’t stop you.

Doesn’t even blink.

He watches, jaw tight, as you tug the leather loose, then work open the button and drag the zipper down. The metal teeth part with a low rasp, and he exhales sharply when your hand slips inside.

You wrap your fingers around him.

Hot. Heavy. Hard as hell.

“Jesus,” you murmur under your breath, stroking him once, slow and deliberate.

Reed’s head tips back.

His hips jerk forward slightly, chasing the friction, but he still doesn’t touch you. Just lets you have him, your hand moving over his cock like you’ve been thinking about it for weeks.

(You have.)

His thoughts are a mess—fractals of want, raw and unfiltered.

You squeeze a little tighter.

She’s touching me. She’s—fuck—she’s got her hand on my cock. I’m not going to last.

His breath catches.

“You’ve been thinking about this?” you ask, voice low, thumb swiping the head.

“Every goddamn day,” he grits out.

You jerk him faster.

He growls.

And then—too fast to brace for—he grabs your hips and spins you around.

Your palms slam against the console. You gasp, but you don’t stop him—not when you feel him crowding up behind you, not when his hands drag your skirt back up to your waist, not when he rips your panties down your thighs in one fluid motion.

One hand slides up your spine, pushing between your shoulder blades until your chest is flush to the table.

The other guides his cock to your entrance.

“Say you want this,” he breathes out, the head of him nudging against your slick folds.

You push back into him.

“Reed,” you pant, “just fuck me already.”

He groans like it’s ripped out of his throat and then he slams into you hard.

Your gasp turns into a choked moan as your body jolts forward from the force of it. One of his hands clamps tight around your hip, the other braced beside your head on the console. His cock drives into you again, again, again—deep, punishing thrusts that make your breath stutter with each slap of skin on skin.

The sounds echo off the lab walls—your gasps, his ragged breath, the obscene wet suck of your cunt taking him over and over.

“Fuck,” Reed growls, hips snapping, “you feel even better than I thought.”

Your eyes flutter shut.

His mouth is right at your ear now, breath hot and filthy.

“I’ve been thinking about this since the day you walked in,” he pants. “That face. Those sweet thighs. Wanted to bend you over this table and fuck you stupid.”

You cry out—high, breathless—when he grinds into you just right, cock dragging over every swollen nerve inside you.

“I knew you’d be wet for me,” he growls. “But this?”

His fingers slip down, find your clit, and rub fast, hard, cruel.

“You’re soaked. So fucking messy.”

You brace yourself on trembling arms, the pressure building fast—too fast. He’s everywhere, filling you, touching you, whispering things he should never say out loud.

“You gonna come for me, pretty girl?” he grits out, voice tight and close.

You whimper, legs shaking. “I—fuck, I think I—”

“You’re close,” he hisses. “I can feel it.”

His pace goes brutal. He fucks into you like he wants to break you, the slap of his hips against your ass echoing over every surface, every panel and beaker forgotten. Your cunt clamps down, fluttering, and your voice breaks into a cry as your climax rips through you.

You don’t just come. You gush.

A warm burst sprays out of you, splashing down your thighs, hitting the tile with a wet splatter. You cry out, humiliated and wrecked and still twitching, your walls milking his cock in desperate aftershocks.

Reed groans like he’s dying.

“God damn,” he breathes.

You can’t speak. Your cheek is pressed to the console, mouth open, panting, whole body slick and trembling.

He doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, harder now, more ragged. You feel the way your slick coats his cock, dripping down onto the lab floor with every brutal thrust.

You feel ruined. Your legs give out.

There’s no warning. No graceful slide. Just the quivering collapse of overstimulated muscles, your knees hitting the tile with a soft thud, skirt bunched around your waist, panties still tangled around your thighs.

You don’t care, you don't think you could.

Not with your cunt still twitching from the last orgasm, your thighs sticky, the lab floor glistening with the evidence of just how hard he made you come.

Reed groans above you and you glance up.

He’s flushed and wrecked, shirt untucked, cock still slick with your arousal as he strokes himself, fast and frantic, hand gliding over the mess you left behind.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You look—Jesus.”

You open your mouth, just slightly.

Not coy nor innocent, but ready.

You brace yourself on one arm and tilt your chin up, eyes locked on him. The unspoken invitation hits him like a punch.

His grip falters. He bites down a moan. You see his whole body jerk with restraint.

“Please,” you whisper, voice hoarse and aching. “I want it.”

That does it.

He grunts, cock twitching in his hand. “Fuck—fuck—”

He steps forward, the tip of him flushed and slick and angry-looking, and you hold steady even as your thighs tremble. His breath goes wild, chest heaving as he pumps himself harder, faster, your name breaking on his tongue like a prayer.

“Gonna come,” he pants. “Fuck, I’m gonna—”

Thick, hot ropes paint your cheek, your lips, your chin. One lands across your chest, the rest splashing across your flushed skin. You close your eyes as the first drops hit, lips parted as you gasp at the heat of it.

He moans—deep, guttural, undone.

You feel it drip down your neck, cooling already.

When you blink up at him again, his hand is still wrapped around his cock, his chest still rising like he’s run a mile. His eyes meet yours—dark, dazed, hungry—and the raw possessiveness isn’t there.

There's only you. 

His gaze drops to the mess he’s made of your face, and then to your mouth.

You swipe your thumb across your bottom lip, tasting him.

His breath stutters again.

“Holy shit,” he whispers.

You smile, slow and blissful. 

[sceletaflores]

STIMULI AND RESPONSE: A STUDY IN CHEMISTRY…

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｡𖦹°‧➵ PAIR: Reed Richards x fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧➵ WC: 6k

｡𖦹°‧➵ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, spoiler free, age gap (unspecified), intern reader, divorced reed (sorry sue), swearing, sexy science, first kiss, lots of data talk but it’s just filth, sex pollen, fingering, p in v, dr. reed ‘any size you want’ richards, finger sucking, nipple play, creampie, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧➵ NAT’S NOTE: well this was extremely inevitable…we all knew this was coming. i loved fantastic four and i love marvel’s first family, the avengers don’t have SHIT on them. i can’t believe this is my very first (1st) sex pollen fic, like i’ve really been dropping the ball but that ends right now. hope y’all love it, mwah!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics & reed pic by angel @iamasaddie!

dr. richards asks a favor of you…

The Baxter Building laboratory always smells faintly of motor oil and hot circuitry, like the very air itself has been charged.

You've long since gotten used to the smell after all these months spent hard at work in your internship.

You're used to the low hum of oscilloscopes, the spotless glimmer of all the different chrome instruments strewn about the room, the tick of Dr. Richards' watch when he's hunched over his workbench with the kind of single minded focus that never fails to make your chest ache.

It’s well past midnight, another day of you staying far beyond the allotted time, but it’s hardly out of the ordinary by now. Dr. Richards research—and mind quite frankly—has no regard for any kind of normal office hours. It’s almost as if he exists in a different realm, tethered only loosely to the rest of humanity by his work.

That’s another thing you’ve become accustomed to. The clipped speech, the crisp white lab coats always just a bit rumpled from long days, and the air of a man who thinks faster than anyone could follow.

You were supposed to be here for observation, honing in on the delicate skills needed to work in a lab as complex as this one. It started off as just another internship credit. Two semesters of assistance. What it’s slowly morphed into is something more like a full time job, if not a full on fixation with your boss. 

You’ve become the one person Dr. Richards doesn’t mind in his peripheral vision. Always quiet, always ready, always watching him with eyes a little too attentive, voice a little too eager each time he speaks to you.

It’s something you never let yourself think about too closely. The one thing you’d never stick under the dozens of highly advanced microscopes just beneath your fingertips.

It’s not plausible.

You’re halfway through labeling a series of glass slides when the door softly hisses open behind you.

“Ah, there you are. Wonderful.”

You swivel around on your stool, standing almost automatically—like Dr. Richards' mere presence demands it. At this point, you’re sure that it does.

He’s standing at the threshold of the lab—tall, thoughtful, thin glasses balanced on the bridge of his nose. In the bright, sterile fluorescent lights, Reed Richards looks less like a man and more an idea given form. All poised intellect, sharp eyes, and a mind clearly three steps ahead.

“Dr. Richards,” you greet, smoothing your skirt out of habit, because no matter how hard you try, you always feel like a nervous schoolgirl around him. “I was just logging the slides from the blood pressure data–”

“Excellent.” He cuts in gently, like he always does when your words are just a little slower than his. “However, I have a far more pressing matter at hand.”

Dr. Richards strides past you to his desk, flipping open one of the many notepads cluttering the space. It was quiet for a few beats, only the sounds of pages turning and muted mumbling as he read over the flurry of sporadically scrawled notes and equations.

You stay in your spot a few feet away, hands clasped in front of you as you wait patiently for him to speak again. He isn’t the kind of man you dare to interrupt when he gets lost in his work.

He picks up a stray pencil to scribble one final note in the margin, then straightens and turns his sharp gaze on you. “I need your assistance with a controlled trail,” he says simply, like he’s requesting something as routine as a full body scan.

“A trial?” You blink, taken aback. Your eyes cut to the clock hanging on the opposite wall, noting the time before returning your gaze to his passive expression. “Tonight?”

“Yes,” he says without hesitation, waving you over and turning back to his work. The quiet clinking of glass rings out as he cards his fingers through a test tube rack full to bursting with a different array of brightly colored chemicals. “It’s Compound 83. A strain I synthesized last week from the pollen of a Peruvian orchid."

You cross the short distance obediently, perching yourself on the spare stool next to him just as he plucks out a tube filled with a viscous pink liquid.

Dr. Richards swirls the tube gently, brow furrowed as he watches it splash up against the sides. “Genus Cattleya venusta. Extremely rare. Hyper stimulating. A short half life. I’ve…refined it recently.”

You nod, still confused but refusing to let it show. You pick up your own notebook from the pile, the one with a small atom sticker he placed in the top right corner to mark as yours. “What does it do?”

He hesitates, just long enough for you to notice. But the moment is gone just as fast as it came, giving you no time to think on it.

“It’s a neurological accelerator targeting oxytocin, dopamine, and a few obscure hypothalamic pathways we’ve only begun mapping. Thus, when administered in a controlled environment, should trigger an amplified parasympathetic response.”

Dr. Richards’ voice is calm, measured, full of the kind of certainty that makes people believe anything he says. He adjusts his glasses with his free hand as though to punctuate the statement.

You slip the pencil resting behind your ear out and begin dutifully recording his dictations on a fresh page. “Amplified parasympathetic response,” you repeat, as though saying it out loud will cement the idea in your mind. “Meaning…relaxation?”

“Relaxation, certainly. But more specifically…” He trailed off as his long fingers drum along the glass tube. “...heightened sensitivity, increased blood flow to erogenous zones, accelerated dopamine release, and a…well, a state of arousal far surpassing the body’s baseline capacity. Think of it as a neurological catalyst. A kind of–hm–sexual amplifier, for lack of a better term.”

You blink. Your pencil abruptly stills against the paper. “Dr. Richards…” you begin carefully, dreading the answer you were sure to receive. “Are you saying this is…an aphrodisiac?"

“Yes,” he says, dryly. “But I’d prefer we didn’t reduce it to that.”

Your pulse quickens before you can stop it. You try to disguise the sudden dryness of your mouth with a stunted laugh void of all humor. You’re unsure if this is a joke, some elaborate scientific prank to weed out the weak interns—or if Dr. Richards is really asking what you think he is.

He takes a step closer, peering at you over the frame of his glasses. “I need data on its physical, behavioral, and cognitive effects. In vivo. A live trial. Unfortunately, none of the team are suitable candidates due to immunogenic complications. Johnny had a reaction. Ben refused.”

You don’t bring up the obvious member missing from his apparent previous failed trails. The divorce was none of your business, it never will be. You’ve seen Sue and Reed interact less than a handful of times since the news broke to the press and then to the general public. They seem to be working together quite well despite what one might think, still cordial and professional with each other in every facet within the team.

Your grip on your pencil tightens, lips parting. “And you want me to…test it?”

“Yes.” Dr. Richards nods once, deliberate. “Your physiology is well suited to controlled observation. You’re young, in excellent health, no known endocrine disorders. Statistically ideal.”

Your stomach sinks, a flush of warmth creeping up the back of your neck. It’s hardly a compliment, practically the furthest thing from one. It still has arousal sparking deep in your belly, the idea that he’s looked at you. He’s cataloged you. He’s thought about this moment carefully, crunched the numbers and deemed you the best candidate for this experiment.

You don’t realize that you’ve gone quiet, the silence stretching out in the spotless lab as your brain tries to process all the input you’ve received in the last five minutes.

“I wouldn’t ask,” he says quickly, taking your silence as a negative. “if I didn’t think you capable. You’ve shown remarkable composure under pressure. And I assure you—if at any point you wish to stop, you only need to say so. Consent, of course, is paramount.” His gaze finally softens, just enough for you to see the man behind the scientist. “I’d never want to harm you.”

You swallow stiffly, your throat dry. “What about you?”

Dr. Richards brows furrow slightly, like you asked him an extremely stupid question. “It would be irresponsible to not include myself. The biochemical pathways are interactive, and I must assess the shared impact.” He raises the test tube to the light, the liquid shimmers under the bright white rays. He glances at you again, eyes unreadable. “To be perfectly clear, the study would involve direct physical contact.”

It’s the most clinical way anyone has ever told you we’d be having sex.

Heat flares under your skin, like thousands of tiny pinpricks breaking out all along your body. “So, what you’re really asking me is to–”

“Copulate,” he supplies matter of factly, as if he’s describing the weather. “Us, under the influence of the compound.”

He says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like the simple word us doesn’t rearrange your entire nervous system. Like you haven't spent months wondering if Reed Richards—brilliant, remote, obsessively precise—even thinks about you at all when he’s not assigning you lab reports.

You try to find the words, but they all tangle in your throat. “Um, what–what exactly would the study entail?” you finally manage.

“Simple,” he replies, turning fully toward you now. His deep brown eyes pin you to your seat with clinical intensity. “Oral intake of the compound, both subjects will report on their individual symptoms as they manifest. I’ll monitor physiological changes as it begins to take effect—heart rate, body temperature, pupil dilation. Eventually, I’ll…well.” His voice trails off, as if only now realizing the inevitable conclusion. “We’ll engage in various sexual activities to evaluate its full efficacy, at which point I’d assess how, if at all, the effects might be mitigated or resolved.”

“Resolved,” you echo, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” he says softly. “Achieving climax would, in theory, alleviate the overstimulation.”

Your breath catches, sharp and shallow. Once again, he says it like it’s nothing—like sex with him is just another variable on a spreadsheet.

Your heart pounds hard against your ribcage, your palms sweaty. The logic is sound, of course it is. The delivery is methodical, careful. You hear the question Dr. Richards isn’t voicing beneath it all clearly despite all that.

Would you let him touch you?

You should say no.

You really should.

This could complicate everything, in a myriad of different ways. Dr. Richards is your boss, your mentor. The possible legal ramifications alone should be enough to scare you out of the lab and all the way back to the safety of your apartment.

Instead, you hear yourself whisper, “I’ll do it.”

The relief on Dr. Richards face was subtle but unmistakable. His shoulders relax, dropping a beat of tension you didn't realize was there. You have the inexplicable urge to laugh, at how ridiculous this all is. Or maybe, it was because he thought you'd ever be able to say no to him.

"Very good." He nodded once, his face already set with determination. He swept the notebook from his desk, the test tube still secure in his other hand. "Follow me."

You have no choice but to obey.

The isolation room is a sea of crisp white.

White walls. White floors. A single chair is bolted to ground right in the center, padded with spotless white leather.

It's sterile in nature, it was designed that way. Silent except for the low electrical hum of the halogen lights shining overhead. There’s a faint antiseptic tang in the air, like bleach diluted with something floral. Faint enough to almost be pleasant.

You know for a fact there's a camera somewhere, disguised in the ceiling tiles. It's for safety purposes, to monitor subjects from afar when they're deemed to dangerous for an in person encounter.

You wonder idly if Dr. Richards disabled the camera, or if he's kept it on.

The latter seems extremely likely. If you know him at all, he'll want the footage to be available for later use. To review the trial as more of a fly on the wall when all is said and done.

The idea of him re-watching this encounter has your chest tightening, something like embarrassment and arousal churning together sickly somewhere deep in your stomach.

Dr. Richards enters behind you, his footsteps soft against the tile as he passes you and stops next to the chair. "If you'll sit, we can begin."

You lower yourself down into the chair, it was made to cradle the spine and ensure maximum muscular relaxation. You've cleaned it before, wiped it down countless times. Logged its maintenance just as much. You never thought you'd be perched on it like this, legs pressed together nervously, arms resting primly at your sides.

"I'll begin with a baseline assessment." He clicks his pen, flipping his notebook open with brisk precision. "Pulse, temperate, pupil reactivity." His voice is calm, steady. As though he isn't about to feed you something that will make you ache for him.

He doesn't look nervous—he never does—but the faint tightening at the corners of his mouth betrays just how carefully he's bracing himself for what's about to happen.

Dr. Richards leans in closer, and for a moment the clinical facade fades. His scent—clean linen, aftershave, the acrid note of lab alcohol—floods your senses. He takes your wrist gently, sliding his fingers over the delicate skin of your wrist until the press against the throb of your pulse.

"Eighty beats per minute," he murmurs to himself, eyes narrowing as he counts under his breath. "Slightly elevated. Presumably caused by anticipation."

"You think?" You speak before you can think better of it, tone laced with the barest hint of sarcasm.

"I know," he replies matter of factly, jotting the number down. His fingertips linger on your skin for a bit longer than necessary before falling away. "Measuring pupil dilation now."

He plucks a small penlight from the breast pocket of his lab coat. Without warning, he reaches forward and takes your chin between gentle fingers, steadying you. His thumb brushes your check as he shines the small light back and forth over your eyes.

You hope he can't feel the warmth rising beneath your skin. The beam stings, but you hold still, because he expects you to.

"Pupils responsive," he notes, close enough that you feel the fan of his breath. He clicks the pen light off, slipping it back in his pocket before his hand moves up and presses against your forehead.

It takes every bit of will in your mortal body not to lean into his touch.

"Temperature is normal." He nods, dropping his hand to scribble more information into his notebook. "Ninety eight point four."

You fight the urge to laugh. You feel like your skin's blistering.

"All right." Dr. Richards takes a step back, placing his notebook on the tray. "We can proceed."

Your heart skip three times over in your chest as you watch him retrieve the test tube. He unscrews the cap, and a sweet, heady scent drifts through the air between you. It hits your nose like perfume. Your mouth waters against your will.

"Compound 83 has been calibrated to a micro-dose." He picks a pipette off the metal tray resting on the table beside you, sliding the dull tip inside of the test tube and carefully measuring a few milliliters of the liquid. It shimmers rosy pink in the light, filmy and iridescent like the surface of a bubble. "Oral administration. It should take approximately three minutes to cross the blood-brain barrier."

You nod once, jerky and tense. You don't trust your voice enough to speak.

"Tongue out," he instructs softly, taking a step closer.

The command makes your stomach twist.

You part your lips, tipping your head back slightly. The first drop lands on your tongue, and the taste is shockingly sweet—like sugared fruit with bitter, chemical bite beneath. Dr. Richards tilts the pipette, letting the measured dose coat your taste buds.

"Swallow." His tone leave to room for hesitation.

You obey, throat working as you take it down. His eyes track it the movement with the subtle air of fascination. For your apparent bravery? For your insistent need to please? You're not entirely sure.

"Good," he whispers, reeling back to take his own dose. He sets the tube and the pipette down, checking his watch. "Note the taste."

You roll the few drops left around in your mouth, absentmindedly chasing the flavor. "Sweet. Slightly bitter."

Dr. Richards nods in agreement. "Any tingling? Metallic aftertaste? Olfactory shifts?"

You shake your head, wringing your hands nervously. "No. Not yet."

"Good," he repeats, eyes sharp as he keeps his gaze trained on his watch, recording the time down to the second. "Now, describe the sensation. Do you feel warm?"

You do, now that he's brought it up. A pleasant heat thrumming just beneath your skin, like the hot spray of a shower head beating down on overworked muscle. Nothing you can't handle.

You nod, tongue coming out to sweep along your bottom lip. "Yes. If baseline temperature was determined as normal, I'd estimate it's climbed approximately six degrees."

"Fascinating," Dr. Richards mumbles, reaching out yet again. Long fingers catch your wrist, gently circling it to find your radial pulse point. "Pulse is elevated, one hundred and thirteen beats per minute."

Your thighs shift slightly, the hem of your skirt creeping up with the movement. His eyes track it, his gaze feels like a physically caress on the newly exposed skin.

He drags his eyes back up slowly, really looking at you, studying your face. "Pupillary dilation at…remarkable. Nearly thirty percent increase already."

Your hands fall to the armrest on either side of you. "Dr. Richards-"

He cuts you off. "Subject B experiencing similar symptoms to Subject A. Internal temperate is rising steadily."

He sheds his lab coat then, draping it over the back of the chair. He unbuttons the cuffs of his sleeve with deft fingers, rolling them up to expose the corded muscle of his tan forearms. The collar of his shirt is askew, just enough to show off the hairy skin of his chest. His undershirt is thin enough that you can see the slight clench of his abdomen.

He looks more inviting this way, more approachable. Devastatingly handsome.

You try not to notice the way his suspenders hang loosely around his hips. You fail.

White hot heat unfurls low in your belly, sharp and sudden, like the spark of a match catching dry paper. Your skin prickles, sweat beading at your hair line. Every inch of you is hyper aware of Dr. Richards nearness radiating the same warmth.

Your breath hitches, hands squeezing the chair's armrests. "Dr. Richards, I-"

"Reed," he interrupts, his tone tighter than before—strained. "Please, call me Reed."

Your chest heaves, lips slick and parted as you suck in greedy lungfuls of air. Your thighs clench, pressing together tightly. There's an unmistakable dampness spreading over the thin cotton fabric of your panties.

“Breathe normally,” he instructs, eyes glued to your chest, to the hard peaks of your nipples straining against your shirt. “The compound should take effect within-”

You don't hear the rest.

The compound spreads faster now, thrumming in a way that's inescapable. The room feels like someone cranked up the heat as high as it goes, your skin sings under every brush of air. You shift again, and a needy sound escapes before you can catch it.

Blood rushes through your ears, a mess of white noise. Your heart pounds in your chest, adrenaline coursing through your veins to light them up from the inside like you took an injection of kerosene.

"Reed…" You breathe, voice gone airy and taut. "It's-it's getting stronger."

"Wonderful." It's almost as if the word is pulled from him before he can think better of how lewd it sounds. "Describe the sensation in your lower abdomen."

He means your pussy—your brain supplies unhelpfully. The thought alone has another humiliating sound falling from your lips.

"Pressure," you admit softly, eyes never straying from his. "Heat. A kind of almost…pulling sensation."

Reed's eyes darken, it's unmistakable. "Touch sensitivity?"

You blink. "I-I don't know."

"Then let's determine."

Before you can respond, he steps forward. Your thighs part instinctively, giving him the room he needs to loom over you.

You can hardly sit still beneath the intensity of his gaze. Your thighs part further, and he notices—of course he notices. His sharp brown eyes flick down, linger, then return to your face.

Reed reaches up slowly, being sure to let you see the path his hand takes through the air. Gently, so gently, he cups the side of your face.

The touch is featherlight. Measured. His skin is warm, calloused. Your eyes flutter shut, a soft moan falling from your lips. His skin feels scorching, burning a plane of heat along the side of your face.

“You’re—extremely sensitive,” he observes. “Marked increase in reactivity. Pupils dilation increased to 100%. Body language—shifting. Seeking friction.” His fingers trace down your neck, just barely ghosting over your pulse.

You suck in a sharp breath.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, his own hand shaking. “Very responsive to light contact.”

You want to deny it, but the data is undeniable. Your breathing is quick, thighs pressing tight together, nipples showing through the thin fabric of your blouse.

Another wave hits you hard. Your hips shift against the chair involuntarily, and Reed watches. “Pelvic tension. Motor restlessness. Onset confirmed at three minutes, thirty seconds.”

Your back arches off the chair, sweat dripping down the length of your spine. You finally let yourself lean into his touch, panting at the contact.

“I can feel it as well,” he says quietly, breath hot against your ear. “My palms are sweating. Heart rate elevated. There’s a persistent ache behind my eyes. Blood flow redistribution—predictable.”

You glance down.

There's a very pronounced tent straining behind the fly of his slacks. A patch of wetness darkens the khaki fabric, spreading and so inviting.

You moan at the sight, your hands twitching with the need to touch.

"This will be for data," he says, like he's convincing himself the words are true.

You nod, dragging your eyes back up to his own. Your gaze is dazed like you've been spun in circles.

Reed kisses you.

Your hands fly to the lapels of his lab coat, dragging him down as he leans into the chair with you.

It's not romantic. Not soft. Not scientific. It's hungry, searching. A filthy mess of spit and something delicate and layered shattering like sugar glass between the two of you.

He's trying to map you, to gauge your reaction. His tongue slides past your parted lips and you whimper, aching. Reed swallows the sound, returning one of his own. A deep, low groan that wracks through your body like thunder.

When he pulls back, you chase him.

"Extraordinary," he breathes against your mouth, more to himself than to you. "The compound is creating extreme dopaminergic reinforcement."

"Touch me," you gasp, past the point of desperation. "Please, Reed. Touch me. I need-"

Reed's mouth crashes against yours, hard enough to clack your teeth together roughly. He's more gone than you thought, the careful man who handles each and every lab instrument like they're made of blown glass nowhere to be seen as he claims your mouth. His hands slide up your body—along your waist, up over your ribs, until they cup your breasts.

You cry out into his mouth when his thumbs brush over your nipples. The stimulation is immediate, electric. Explosive.

He pinches them between long, nimble fingers—caution lost in the whirlwind of arousal.

You keen.

“Heightened sensitivity confirmed,” he murmurs against your jaw, now completely wrecked. His voice is hoarse. “God—you're responding faster than anticipated. It's remarkable.”

You gasp when he yanks your blouse open with a sharp tug. Buttons scatter across the floor, clinking against the tile. His hands are on your bare skin now, mouth following. You arch as he sucks a nipple into his mouth, his fingers teasing the other.

Reed groans like he's in pain, panting against your breast. “Where are you experiencing the most acute sensation?”

Your tongue is too thick in your mouth. You try to swallow, try to answer, but it comes out wrong.

He leans closer, resting his forehead against yours. “You’ll need to verbalize, please.”

“Between my legs,” you manage, barely audible. “It—it’s extremely sensitive.”

A low sound rings out in the minuscule space between your lips. It takes your molasses drenched thoughts a few beats to realize it's coming from Reed. From somewhere deep in his chest, clawing its way out.

“Understood.” His touch travels, skating down lower until his fingers are trailing up the inside of your trembling thigh. “Do I have your permission to proceed with physical contact?”

"Yes," you whisper, and it comes out far too fast. Too eager. You can't find it in you to care. "Yes, Reed."

Reed slips his hand under your skirt, seeking out the damp plane of your pussy.

You jolt at the contact, hips twitching forward before you can help it.

Through the cotton, he traces the outline of your cunt, every shift of pressure measured, every reaction recorded in the keen flick of his eyes. He presses just slightly against your clit and watches the way you squirm, the way your breath stutters.

“Fascinating,” he repeats, eyes fixed on you as you start to writhe beneath him. “Clitoral response is heightened. You’re…exquisite. Perfect. Responding exactly as hypothesized—no, better—God, better.”

Two fingers spread you wide, and the slick sound is nothing but downright obscene. Your hand flies to his forearm, gripping it tightly as his index finger teases along your entrance.

You whimper, taking your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Remove your underwear,” Reed instructs, not unkindly—but without pause. “I’d like to confirm those measurements manually.”

You scramble to do exactly as he says. You lift your hips, fingers fumbling with the hem of your skirt and dragging the soaked panties down your thighs. You can’t bring yourself to look at him as you set them aside on the tray. The air hits your bare cunt like a slap—wet and exposed and throbbing.

Reed sinks to his knees.

It’s the first truly shocking thing he’s done all night.

He doesn’t say anything about it, not at first. He just positions himself between your legs, face level with your cunt, and exhales once. A long, slow breath. It's ragged at the edges, tormented.

It makes you shiver.

“Excellent visibility,” he mutters, seemingly unbothered by the fact that your folds are glistening and swollen inches away from the front of his face. You can still hear the slight termor of his voice all the same. “Subject appears to be fully engorged. Labia minora are visibly distended. Vulvar tissue is flushed.”

His first finger enters you with barely any resistance. You’re so wet, the stretch is effortless, obscene. He watches the way you swallow him in, his jaw flexing once as if trying not to react.

“Incredible,” he says, voice low. “Increased elasticity. Temperature is elevated. Constriction around the first phalanx…tight. Responsive.”

He curls his finger experimentally.

You choke on a gasp.

He adds another.

The stretch has your thighs clenching automatically around his wrist. You’re wet enough to hear it—the slick, filthy sound of your cunt sucking him in. Reed doesn’t blink.

“Two digits…full insertion.” He speaks as if he’s trying to distance himself from it. But his breath is shallower now. His cheeks are flushed. “Subject is—remarkably reactive.”

Reed scissors his fingers gently, eyes trained on the place where they disappear into you. “You’re pulsing around me,” he murmurs, full of awe. “That’s…beautiful.”

You’re past the point of embarrassment now. Your hips rock helplessly into the rhythm he sets—slow, firm pumps, angled just slightly until—

“Oh my god—”

“There,” he breathes, and there’s an almost feral edge in his voice. Not clinical. Not detached. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

You nod desperately, your free hand flying to your mouth to muffle the pathetic noises spilling out.

“Dampness-Jesus Christ,” he rasps, voice barely intelligible now. “Lubrication ratio also surpasses hypothesized maximum. You’re absolutely soaked. I—God, I need—I have to be inside you. Now.”

He slips his hand from between your legs and frees himself from his trousers with the same kind of focus you’ve seen him use to construct a fusion coil. Efficient, but trembling at the edges. His cock is flushed a deep red, thick, the tip shiny with precome as it presses against the heat of your cunt.

You moan at the sight. Your mouth waters as your cunt throbs with the raw, visceral need to be filled.

Reed stands, cock sways in the air, hard and heavy, pressing insistently against the slick seam of your cunt. Your body jerks at the contact, thighs twitching open wider, a helpless invitation.

The heat of him is almost unbearable, the swollen head nudging against your entrance like he’s testing the resistance.

His eyes are wild now, pupils blown wide, but his voice is still that low, steady baritone, though it trembles with restraint. “Lubrication is more than sufficient,” he says, breath ghosting over your lips as his hand fists at the base of his shaft. “Your body is prepared to accommodate penetration.”

Prepared—like you’re a lab experiment instead of a dripping mess beneath him. The words shouldn’t make you whimper, but they do.

Reed drags the head through your folds, coating himself in your wetness, collecting every drop. You keen, desperate for him to breach you, hips canting forward as if your body could take him in by force.

And then, without warning, he presses inside you.

The stretch punches the air from your lungs. Reed’s cock slides in slow, thick, impossibly deep, the sweet burn of it making your spine arch off the chair.

It's everything you've imagined it and more. All the guilty nights spent after lab hours with your fingers stuffed inside yourself as you let yourself indulge in the plethora of dirty thoughts floating around your brain couldn't have prepared you.

Nothing in the universe, this one and all the others, could have prepared you for the feeling of Reed Richards cock craving your cunt open like it belongs there.

You cry out his name, hands flying to his shoulders so your nails can dig crescent moons into the muscle there.

His head tips back, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. “Ah—constriction exceeds expectation. Warmth is—” He cuts himself off with a shudder. “You’re perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

There's no easing into it, no letting you get used to stretch. Your whole pelvis burns. The perfect mix of pain and pleasure intertwined together as one.

Reed fucks you with a single minded intensity, the same focus he gives to his equations, except now it's your body under his meticulous study, your cries the data points, your rapidly approaching orgasm the undeniable proof.

Your body arches off the chair, legs wrapped tight around his waist. He sets a brutal rhythm, each thrust deeper than the last, his hands braced on either side of your head.

“God,” you cry, nails clawing at his shoulders. “It’s—it’s too much—”

“It’s the compound,” he pants, his hair damp and curling against his forehead. “It’s magnifying everything. Every nerve. I can feel your heartbeat around me—Jesus—” Reed watches you through half lidded eyes, his expression wrecked, fevered. “Your walls are…milking me,” he mutters, reverent. Worshipful. “Constriction’s incredible. God, you feel—unreal.”

You moan louder when he adjusts his angle, the thick head of his cock rubbing against the sweet spot inside you. Your hand flies to your mouth, trying to muffle the noise.

“Don’t,” Reed growls, catching your wrist. He guides your fingers away from your lips and replaces them with his own. “Open and suck. Need to test oral fixation. S-salivary response.”

You suck greedily, tongue swirling over his fingers. The broken sound he makes only spurs you on. He moans when you suck harder, when you glide your tongue along the pads of his fingers like you want to devour him whole.

“You’re—fuck—you’re responding to every variable,” he says, voice cracked wide open, losing composure fast. “You’re better than anything I could’ve projected.”

You gag softly around his knuckles when his pace picks up, each thrust deep and punishing. Your nipples rub against his shirt, swollen and desperate for friction.

“Good girl,” he breathes, hips slamming harder into you. “God, you look so beautiful—sucking my fingers while I fuck you.”

Reed pauses, trembling, as if his own body is trying to calibrate to yours. “Is the stretch too much?” he manages, voice frayed with strain.

Your answer is a desperate whine, your hips bucking as his fingers slip out of your mouth so his hands can grip your hips tightly. “More. Please, Reed—”

His lips press hard to your ear, and you feel the words rumble out of him. “I can make it better. Adjust dimensions.”

It takes a second for your brain to process. And then he shifts.

You feel him thicken inside you, the stretch intensifying deliciously as his cock grows, swelling to fill you more completely. Your cry is broken and raw, your cunt clenching around him like a vice.

You’re dizzy, trembling, barely holding on. The friction is unbearable, the way his cock drags against your walls like he was designed for you. Reed leans back just enough to watch your face, his own expression wrecked. His cheeks are flush, curls plastered to his sweaty forehead.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your skin. “Your body’s pulsing, clenching—I can feel it, how bad you need it. You’re going to—God, you’re going to come so beautifully.”

Your hands scramble to sink into his salt and pepper hair, holding him against you, desperate. He growls low in his throat, hips picking up speed, driving into you harder, faster. The lewd slap of skin on skin echoes off the pristine white walls, obscene and unrelenting.

When his free hand slides down to rub your clit, your vision whites out.

“Reed—!”

Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave, ripping through you so violently you sob. Your cunt spasms around him, sucking him deeper, milking him. You’re shaking uncontrollably, tears sliding down your temples as Reed groans against your breast.

His thrusts turn erratic, his composure breaking. “Constriction—fuck, so tight—I can’t—” He slams in deep, burying himself to the hilt.

With one last broken groan of your name, he’s coming inside you—flooding you—his cock stretching slightly, growing thicker as if his body wants to stay buried in you. You feel the warmth of it spread, thick and hot and unstoppable, deep inside where no one else has ever reached.

His forehead drops to yours, sweat slick, breath ragged. “Perfect,” he whispers, almost delirious. “Absolutely…perfect data set.”

Reed places a sweet kiss over your slack lips, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles along the skin of your hips.

You’re still trembling when he pulls back enough to watch the way his come leaks out of you around the base of his cock to drip down onto the leather, eyes dark with awe. His thumb swipes gently along your clit again, just to watch you jolt.

“Reaction remains heightened post-climax,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “I’ll need…further confirmation.”

The look in his eyes tells you he isn’t nearly finished.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: this man is autistic and literally no one can convince me otherwise. i was sitting in that theater like, he’s my people…anyway i need that. those little slutty grey patches? yeah. that’s some good goddamn fucking food.

also, who knew all the hate i spewed on my chem lecture last semester would come back to bite me hard in the ass writing this. i mean i'm really in my chemistry bag with this one. that and a&p. can you tell i’m a stem major? i know all my professors would be proud.

thank you so much for reading, love you!

[and-fishing-equipment]

in 2026 DO NOT ask yourself whether your art is GOOD

instead ask:

is it SINCERE

was it CATHARTIC

was it FUN TO MAKE

is it MADE BY ME

and don't forget to stay silly

[sassycurse]

one of the best feelings tbh

[bebx]

And may your pets always stay healthy ♡

[justslightlyconfused]

That ‘comment on your a03 work’ email hits like a line of cocaine every time. unmatched dopamine increase. shoutout to everyone who leaves a comment on fics. you deserve the world

[write-on-world]

[creativepromptsforwriting]

I do not write to be the greatest writer out there. I write because...

I LIKE it

someone else might LIKE it

it is FUN to do

I get those THOUGHTS out of my head

it's fun to look BACK on

have I mentioned it's FUN?

it's CATHARTIC

it's nice to see what I CAN DO

And also because I just like it.

[bebx]

[misericordiia]

wound dressings and bandages are lingerie for the enlightened pervert

[death-420]

does anyone have that gif of a penis growth ad thats a guinea pig that stretches out rly long and a girl says “hot!” and the guinea pig spins around pls i need it

[raeuberkotzenrotz]

I gotchu

[death-420]

YES!!! YES!! YES!!!!!

[doomstar]

You literally cannot find this type of community interaction on twitter or instagram or any other app. Look at the support, the gratitude, the absolutely incomprehensible shared knowledge of this most cursed, most rare gif. 

Truly this is beauty.

[themakeupbrush]

Robert Wun Couture 2025

[weepylucifer]

dry humping in its specificity as a term implies the existence of wet humping

[weepylucifer]

not my best work

[saradika-graphics]

Hey! I'm a new fan and I loveeeee all of your stuff, especially your heart dividers and your cottegecore/dark academia headers on the third row. The ones with the book pages and flowers on them. So, I was wondering if it would be OK...for me to ask you to make more pages in that style?? I just need these pages:

Guidelines

About Me

Art

Arting (bc I can't decide which I like better...)

Writing

Thanks a lot if you manage to do this!!! But you're a lifesaver even if you don't <3

ahh hello! thank you so much - the cottagecore-y ones are one of my fave themes to make! 💖 I still have the files for those, so I was able to update them for you - here you go! thank you for this request!

[Free] Masterlist Headers & Dividers!

Please consider liking or reblogging if you use 💕

[pixopix]

Delicate Grey Lines

Send asks for recolors.

Please credit @pixopix, likes and reblogs are appreciated!

[pixopix]

love LOVE your dividers—can I get some aesthetic lacey or smokey black dividers with a mix of some browns and tan? crosses and lighters would be so cool too. much love!!

Smoke and Lace

I'll admit I wasn't sure what smokey black dividers meant so please enjoy some dark smoke dividers.

Please credit @pixopix, likes and reblogs are appreciated!

[pixopix]

hii! if possible could you do black and/or red angel and/or lace themed dividers? i will credit u :)

Dark Angels & Lace

Please credit @pixopix, likes and reblogs are appreciated!