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mill3rd · 1 month ago

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LIGHT OF THE LORD

synopsis. a woman of divine beauty, grace and fairness has plagued remmick’s mind and being. no matter where he goes, what time he’s in—you’ve been around every corner. he cannot escape your watchful eye. he knows you aren’t human but you are no vampire like him. and while he finds everything about his situation frustrating, he finds you quite intriguing.

tags and warnings. remmicks pov, hes pining unknowingly, mythical ambiguity for the most part, temporal ambiguity so lots of time skips, readers race isnt specified or specific to the story, know-it-all gf vs quickly humbled bf, fluffy, bit angsty, some discriptions of feeding

wc. 10k

1,385 years. one thousand, three hundred and eighty-five long, excruciating years in which remmick had no choice but to endure your presence—your seraphic presence. seraphic, not in beauty, but in that maddening way you carried righteousness like armor, wisdom like a curse. your face, ageless and untouched by time, only deepened his resentment. the more he was forced to see it—those eternal, untarnished features—the more unbearable you became. there was nothing soft or lovely about it anymore. your immortality was a wound that never healed, and he bled quietly beside you for centuries.

you came to him first in the rawness of your glory—nude, your flesh supple and unnervingly perfect, like something carved from the dreams of old gods. it was only weeks after the catholics had spilled into ireland, clinging to their bibles and breathing scripture like smoke. remmick, newly turned and still trembling in the dark, didn’t yet understand what he was. he thought he had died from the wounds carved into him by war and man, and he sobbed like a child beneath the stars when he saw you approaching—not through the river, but on it. your bare feet pressed the water’s skin as if it were solid, each step leaving behind a shimmer like fireflies or some underwater bloom. the stream itself was dull, lifeless. it had never glowed before. it never glowed again. only when you walked toward him like it was the most ordinary thing in the world did it come alive with light.

“the lord does not encourage such violence,” was all you said. or perhaps not to him at all—your voice was distant, almost drifting, as if carried on mist. it felt less like a warning and more like a half-forgotten thought, spoken aloud without meaning to. weightless, airy, like you were reminding yourself of some rule you no longer believed in, repeating it out of habit more than conviction. the words hung in the air, delicate and hollow, and remmick wasn’t sure if they were meant for him or the sky above.

your words unsettled him. the lord. even hearing the name turned his stomach. after everything he’d suffered—everything he’d lost—invoking the man upstairs felt like a cruel joke. it was tone-deaf, sanctimonious. so when you opened your arms, all light and grace, offering some divine comfort, he recoiled like you were poison.

“stay away from me!” he snapped, stumbling backward. “i ain't interested in walking with god’s so-called vessel.”

his voice cracked, thick with fury and something raw beneath it—betrayal, maybe. or grief.

you merely frown and watch as he scrambles off deeper into the trees.

remmick wandered deep into the woodlands, far enough that the moon vanished behind the thick weave of branches overhead. the air grew colder there, denser, and the only light came in faint silver slivers where the canopy broke. he let the owls guide him, their low, rhythmic hoots echoing like warnings through the underbrush. every step tangled him deeper in roots and bramble, the trees growing close and ancient around him, as if they were watching.

then—a sound. sharp, low, guttural. a growl, too deliberate to be the wind. it came from ahead, thick in the dark. his eyes adjusted, and he saw them: teeth gleaming like shards of polished bone, bared in a snarl that pulsed with threat. a wolf. broad-shouldered, fur rippling like smoke in the moonless dark. remmick froze.

good, he thought. maybe now, finally, it would all end.

but something inside him stirred—deep, primal, and hungry. not fear. not relief. hunger. sharp and sudden, like a spike to the gut. his throat burned. his limbs ached to move. and before he understood what he was doing, he stepped forward, slow and silent, toward the wolf.

it blinked, muscles tense, and backed away—eyes locked on him, more confused than afraid. it knew something was wrong. it sensed something unnatural.

remmick kept moving, drawn not by instinct to survive, but by something darker, something ancient coiled now inside him.

before he could even think to lunge, a light broke open behind him—blinding, radiant, pure white. it wasn’t overwhelming. no, it was no different to the faint light of a flame. it was just unnatural underneath the shade of the canopy. the wolf didn’t wait. it bolted, tail low and body vanishing into the underbrush with a panicked rustle.

remmick turned, breath sharp, pupils blown wide as his eyes locked onto the source.

you.

you, this insufferable, god-touched creature, glowing as if the stars themselves bent to your will. no flame, no torch—just you, radiating light as effortlessly as a flower bleeds scent. it was unnatural. it was maddening.

remmick let out a low, guttural growl. his body trembled with hunger, pain pulsing in his torn flesh like a second heartbeat. he was wounded, starving, half-mad—and there you stood, pristine, untouched, a walking symbol of everything he’d come to loathe.

he squinted at you through the harsh light, eyes narrowed, seething with anger and exhaustion. “wha’dyou want?” he snapped, voice rough like gravel. “i thought i told you to stay away.”

you didn’t answer. instead, your gaze drifted lazily to his face, head tilting slightly, eyes calm—almost amused.

“you are drooling,” you said, voice soft and unbothered.

remmick wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, scowling as he turned away. “can’t blame a man for being hungry,” he muttered, bitterness coating each word like tar.

you only smiled, a slow, knowing curve of your lips, and without a word, followed him—silent, steady, undeterred by his resentment. his anger rolled off you like water on stone.

“you will have to learn how to control that hunger,” you said, voice light, almost distant, like the words weren’t really meant for him alone, “you are not the man you used to be. not anymore.”

there was a quiet finality to it, as if the truth had already settled in the soil around you, waiting for him to catch up.

“what am i then?” remmick asked, voice rough and brittle, like dried bark about to snap. there was a weight behind it, something choked and bruised, the kind of heaviness that clung to a man who’d wept alone through too many sunless nights—because the sun, once warm and welcoming, had turned its back on him completely.

your expression didn’t shift. your voice was steady, almost cold.

“inhuman.”

“an’ what about you?” remmick’s voice cut through the air, a mix of frustration and suspicion. “you look human, but you ain’t one.”

you nodded slowly, your gaze steady, almost serene, as if every word you spoke was steeped in something far beyond him.

“a keen observation, remmick,” you replied, your voice soft yet filled with an ancient grace. “i am not human, nor have i ever been. i merely wear this face, this form, for as long as my time among mortals endures.”

remmick jumped at the sound of his name, the echo of it like a whisper from a past he hadn't invited. he never told you his name. never gave you the right to know it. yet, there it was, hanging between you like a thread woven from the air itself.

the world around him swayed, and it wasn’t from too many drinks of ale or beer. it was something far heavier.

“how did ya know my name?” he demanded, voice tight with disbelief, as his hand shot out, gripping your shoulder with an urgency that bordered on panic. “what even are ya? there’s something... unorthodox about you. nobody radiates light like that! and absolutely nobody galavants around naked, óinseach!”

you regarded him with an almost sorrowful expression, lips pressing together in a faint frown.

“i apologize,” you murmured, your tone gentle but laced with something ancient. “i can tone down my appearance if it frightens you.”

remmick froze, his pulse stuttering in his chest. then, before his very eyes, you shifted—your form bending, stretching, warping, as if reality itself could no longer hold the weight of your true essence. a blur of faces spun before him—his younger sister, laughing beneath the sun; his mother, her tired eyes soft with love; his wife, her smile warm, full of memories that felt like a dream; his older brothers, strong and brash, voices echoing through the corridors of his past; and his daughter, her innocent eyes full of questions, a life he’d lost forever.

each face flickered in and out of your shifting form, leaving a trail of aching familiarity in their wake, and remmick’s breath caught as the weight of it all settled over him.

a terrified yell ripped through remmick’s throat, his body jolting with a surge of panic as he stumbled backward, scrambling away from you. his legs carried him without thought, driven by instinct, his heart pounding in his chest like a drum of war.

he didn’t dare to look back. the images—the faces—clung to him like a curse, and the sight of them twisted something deep inside him.

this time, you didn’t follow.

you stood still, an immovable figure in the shifting darkness, watching him retreat with quiet understanding. your gaze lingered on the space where he had been, serene yet filled with a sorrow that was not yours to bear.

that was his first encounter with you and now he wears you like a burden. you didn’t show up for days after that and remmick began to believe you were a fever dream. something he made up due to delirium.

but then, just as suddenly, you appeared—the sound of waves washing softly on the shore marking your arrival. your natural glow was the only light beside the pale moon, soft and unearthly, illuminating the world around you in quiet brilliance.

remmick groaned in frustration upon seeing you, his shoulders sagging in resignation. “i thought ya’d have written me off by now. labelled me a lost cause.”

you shook your head, the motion slow and graceful, your presence like a steadying breath in the chaos of his mind.

“no,” was all you said, the simplicity of it carrying a weight beyond words.

without waiting for him to respond, you sat down beside him, where the sand darkened with the lingering traces of water’s touch. the cool salt air swept over you, and the ocean’s rhythm seemed to pulse in time with your being. the salty water kissed your skin, as though it had been waiting for you to arrive.

“i found some clothes so i would not stand out,” you chirped, your voice light and carefree as though nothing had transpired between you. remmick didn’t want any part of this conversation, but you were relentless.

he nodded, barely looking at you, pulling his head closer to his knee. “good on ya.”

“i wanted to give you space after our last conversation,” you continued, tone softening. “i realize i was... insensitive. and for that, i want to apologize.”

remmick raised an eyebrow, the bitterness in his voice sharper now. “if i accept it, will ya leave me alone?”

you laughed—a sound so unexpected and pure that it caught him off guard. the first time he’d heard it, and it was like a breath of wind through still air. “not forever, no. but for now, will that suffice?”

he sighed, letting go of the tension in his shoulders for a moment. “i forgive ya then.”

and just like that, you were gone. not with a quiet fade or a dramatic burst of smoke, but simply—gone. one second, remmick could hear the steady beat of your pulse, the rush of blood flowing beneath your skin, and the next, the world was empty, save for the sound of waves and the distant echo of his own heartbeat.

he waited in silence, the stillness of it pressing in on him, until his hunger clawed at him again, and he turned his focus to the water, waiting for a fish’s heartbeat to break the quiet.

it took remmick a long time to understand what he had become: a vampire. it wasn’t until he encountered others like himself that the true weight of his transformation hit him. in their eyes, he saw only the reflection of something monstrous—unnatural, evil. but remmick wasn’t evil. his life had been stolen from him, ripped away in a moment of violence, and now he was left to survive on instinct, just like any creature would.

that wasn’t evil. it was simply the harsh truth of nature’s cold hand. survival, stripped down to its most primal form. natural selection.

they taught him what it truly meant to feed, the raw satisfaction that came with fully indulging his hunger. feeding on humans—it felt strange, yes, but it also felt right, as if his body had been designed for this purpose and nothing else. there was no one to tell him there were other ways, no gentle voice reminding him of the choices he still had.

in truth, he hadn’t seen you in a long while. he hadn’t felt the comforting warmth of your light, nor the unsettling pull of your golden blood since that brief encounter at the beach. he had told you to leave him be, and you had listened—something he hadn’t expected but couldn’t help but feel grateful for.

still, as time passed, something gnawed at him. it was subtle, like a missing note in a melody, a strange emptiness in the quiet that followed your departure. part of him was glad you were gone, but there was another part—a part he couldn't ignore—that felt... unsettled.

when you finally appeared, remmick was nestled at the edge of an ancient castle ruin, tucked into the jagged rocks and rubble. the moonlight filtered through a gaping hole in the stone wall, casting silver beams across his form, and he lay there, eyes closed in quiet stillness. moonbathing, he called it. though, when you approached, he shot you a disgruntled look, clearly annoyed by the interruption.

“moonbathing?” you asked, your head tilting in quiet curiosity, “i understand that the sun darkens the skin, but why would you try to tan in the moonlight?”

remmick shrugged, not bothering to lift his gaze. “ha'fta keep my pale complexion up to date," he muttered with a dry smirk, clearly unbothered by your confusion.

“so you have no intention of tanning?” you ask, still standing in the frame of the hole in the wall. remmick shakes his head, “if i tried to tan, i’d get a little more than sunburn.”

you nodded slowly, a thoughtful motion, but before you could speak, remmick waved a hand and grunted, “move outta the way. you’re blocking the moon.”

he hadn’t exactly told you to leave, so you quietly stepped over the rubble, your movements as fluid as mist, and settled down beside him, folding your body against the cool stone as if it belonged there.

“do you know about constellations?” you asked after a pause, turning your head to face him, your voice gentle, like a breeze trying not to wake the earth.

remmick kept his eyes closed, but he could feel your gaze on him, steady and curious.

“no,” he muttered, “ya gonna give me a random fact o’ the day?”

you smiled faintly and nodded, undeterred by his sarcasm.

“many constellations are tied to the zodiacs,” you began, your voice slipping into that melodic cadence you often carried when speaking of old things. “twelve of them form a path the sun appears to follow throughout the year. the ancients charted them to navigate the seas, tell time, even predict their fates. and if you look just there—” you lifted a hand, pointing skyward “—you can see libra, the scales. it is faint, but present. balance, even in darkness.”

your words trailed off into the night, soft and steady, like starlight dripping into silence.

remmick grunted, finally cracking one eye open to glance at you. “fascinating,” he muttered dryly, “write a book about all that and they’ll string you up as a witch.”

“no one knows i exist,” you replied, calm and matter-of-fact, as if discussing the weather.

remmick sighed and let his head fall back against the stone. “iontach. so i’m the lunatic talking to the ghost nobody else can see.”

“i am not a ghost either,” you said with a soft smile, the kind that barely touched your lips but somehow warmed the space between you. “i am sure you have figured out what i am by now.”

remmick let out a dry chuckle, the sound low and a little hollow. “my best guess?” he said, eyes fixed on the sky. “i’m seein’ things. you’re not real—just something my mind cooked up to keep me company when the silence gets too loud.”

“if that is what you believe,” you replied, your tone quiet, unreadable—neither confirming nor denying, as steady as still water.

then, without another word, you rose, movements fluid and precise. you stepped lightly across the scattered bricks, your figure momentarily silhouetted in the moonlight as you reached the jagged hole in the wall.

“until next time, remmick,” you said over your shoulder, voice echoing just slightly, like it belonged to the night itself.

remmick watches as you disappear but he swears your hand lingers on the brick for a second longer. he’s left in silence now until your words echo, until next time. he groans, what about never?

he does see you. again and again and again. your visits get more frequent until you’re both caught unexpectedly in war. the eleventh century. remmick thought he had escaped your watchful eye and found himself hitching rides with strangers in their carts, hiding under thick velvet rugs until nightfall where he bid his goodbyes and wandered off. he should’ve known you’d find him.

remmick stood at the edge of the treeline, deliberately keeping himself in the shadows, avoiding the last vestiges of sunlight that hung stubbornly in the sky. his eyes scanned the valley below, where the battle raged fiercely, men clashing in a frenzy of steel and blood. the air was thick with the sounds of war—shouting, the clang of weapons, the stampede of hooves. it was chaos, but he was content to watch from afar, detached from the madness.

and then, as if summoned by some unseen force, you appeared. he didn’t need to see you fully to know—it was the light that gave you away. a soft, golden glow that seemed to push back against the fading daylight. it clung to you, hovering just at the edges of your presence, and for a brief moment, it felt like the world itself dimmed just to make room for you.

“ain’t bored o’ me yet?” remmick muttered, his voice laced with annoyance and something else—something he refused to acknowledge.

you didn’t answer immediately. instead, there was a slight rustle in the air, a shift in the atmosphere as you moved closer. when you did speak, your voice was serene, effortless. “not at all.”

he couldn’t see it, but he could feel the subtle shake of your head, the shift in the air that told him you were amused. you always were, always so certain and unbothered by his disdain.

he huffed, rolling his eyes and returning his focus to the battle below. you were like a persistent, unavoidable breeze—always there, no matter how much he tried to ignore you.

its silent between you two as you both experience the rage of the battle of hastings below, the cries of men filling the air as blood stains the earth beneath. the dying light of the sun casts long shadows across the field, and the sky is a mixture of fading reds and purples. you stand at the edge of the treeline, your presence almost otherworldly, that strange divine glow surrounding you like a halo. it's the kind of light that would make anyone believe you're something holy, untouchable, perfect. but remmick doesn't care about any of that.

he stands next to you, his arms crossed, eyes bored as they track the chaos below. his face is hard, indifferent—he's seen enough of human suffering to not bat an eye at it. to him, they're all just ants. he turns his attention to you, though, the faintest hint of annoyance crossing his features. it’s the same thing every time. you show up, radiating light, acting like you’ve got a hand in this world’s fate. he’s sick of it.

you speak, your voice a soft, almost ethereal whisper. “do you ever wonder if they know what they are fighting for?”

remmick scoffs, the sarcasm dripping from his words. “i’m sure they’re all very aware of their ‘noble causes,’” he mutters. “but it don’t matter, do it? they’ll die anyway.”

you give him a sidelong glance, those piercing eyes of yours studying him like you always do. “do you think death is all they’re meant for?”

“i think most of them wan’ it,” he responds flippantly, his gaze flicking over to the chaos below. “or maybe they're just too stupid to know when to stop fighting.”

you shake your head, a quiet sigh escaping your lips, your tone almost sad. “you’re so jaded, remmick.”

he looks at you then, an eyebrow raised. “and you’re so holy.” he leans against a tree, crossing his arms tighter. “if you think they’re all so deserving of your pity, why don’t ya help ‘em out?”

you ignore his question, your gaze fixed on the battle once more. it’s almost as if you can’t help yourself—you have to watch, to be present. but then something catches his attention. the flicker of an arrow in the last rays of sunlight. it's a fleeting thing, but remmick notices it.

before he can react, the arrow strikes you.

it’s quick. too quick for him to fully process. he hears you gasp, and then you stumble slightly, your hand clutching at your side. the arrow, so perfectly aimed, has found its mark in the divine part of you, piercing through the space where your beauty and immortality should be untouched.

he doesn’t react immediately. instead, his gaze lingers on you, observing the way your breath hitches as the golden blood begins to seep through your fingers. his mouth curls into something that might have been a smile, but there’s no warmth in it. there’s nothing but quiet satisfaction in the knowledge that he’s right.

you’re not as untouchable as you think.

“oh, look at that,” he murmurs, the words coated in a kind of cruel humor, “a little scratch. guess you ain’t as perfect as everyone thinks.”

he watches for a moment longer as you stand there, your form still glowing faintly even as blood drips from you. you’re not the same now. you’re broken. you’ve been touched by the same death that touches everyone, and for some reason, that gives him a sense of relief.

you look at him, and there’s a flicker of something in your eyes—concern, maybe. or maybe just a question. but remmick isn’t interested. he’s never been interested in your divine presence. he’s only been stuck with you because you follow him, despite the fact that he wants nothing to do with you.

he takes a step back, turning his gaze away from you. “well, i’ve seen enough,” he says flatly, his voice devoid of any emotion, “you’ll be fine. immortals like you don’t just die from an arrow.”

he called you immortal because he didn’t know what else you were.

and with that, he turns, disappearing into the trees, leaving you there. blood staining the ground, your divine light flickering weakly.

he doesn’t care if you survive. in fact, a part of him hopes you don’t.

he leaves you there, under the dying light of the sunset, and walks away without a second thought. the darkness of night soon envelops him, and for the first time, he feels a strange sense of relief. maybe this is what he wanted all along—an escape from your presence, from your light, from the divine pressure of your existence.

he doesn’t look back. he doesn’t even think about it. he’s long gone, disappearing into the night.

remmick hadn’t seen you in over five hundred years. for a while, he thought the peace would last. the solitude had been... bearable. a century of living on his own terms, without your relentless light or your judgmental eyes, was a relief. he wandered through europe, a ghost in the shadows of history. he watched the rise of new dynasties, the endless wars of vikings, the decline of the roman empire, and the brutal reign of genghis khan. centuries passed, each one feeling like a whisper in time, and he thought he had finally outrun you.

but the renaissance? that was the point where it all fell apart. it was the 16th century in france, and somehow, against all logic, he had managed to convince the royal family that he, too, was royalty—a lost prince from some forgotten kingdom. he was skilled in deception, after all, and no one really questioned an enigmatic figure like him. they believed his stories, and the royal family, desperate to flaunt their connection to ancient lineages, eagerly threw a ball in his honor.

“to celebrate the visit of prince remmick i,” they announced, and the court was abuzz. everyone was charmed by the mysterious foreigner, the one whose origins were as hazy as the fog that rolled across the french countryside.

as the night stretched on, lit by shimmering chandeliers and the glittering eyes of aristocrats, remmick found himself drifting through the crowd, always watching, always smiling with that knowing smirk.

he should have known. he should have known that your light would pierce through the shadows of his false life. and yet, he didn’t hear your footsteps, didn’t see your radiance until you were already standing before him, like a vision from another time, another world.

"ain’t bored o’ me yet?" remmick asked, half-amused, half-resigned. he starts the greeting the same way he started the last one you had.

you smiled softly, as if you'd never left, "not at all," you replied, your voice soft as always, yet carrying a weight he could never ignore. you seem to remember too how he greeted you.

remmick’s fingers curled into his palm, nails digging into the flesh. how long had he really been free? how long could he ever escape your watchful eyes?

the music swirled through the air, soft and alluring, as the orchestra in the corner of the ballroom played their delicate tune. the sound of strings filled the grand hall, echoing off the gold-trimmed walls. remmick held you close, his hand firm on your waist as he led you in the dance, effortlessly twirling you through the sea of guests. each step felt like a rhythm he had known forever, like he'd danced this dance with you a thousand times, even though it was only now that he realized you were real—more than just a haunting image from his mind.

you moved with an ethereal grace, laughter bubbling from your lips like a song he couldn’t help but chase. when he spun you, the light caught in your hair, and for a brief moment, it almost felt like the entire room faded away—just the two of you, floating through time. his chest tightened as you laughed, that soft, knowing sound, and he couldn’t help but notice how your presence filled the space around him. he’d never let himself feel this before, not for someone like you.

but before he could think on it too long, the dance shifted. your hand slipped from his and suddenly, you were in the arms of another man—an older figure, no doubt a noble, with a grasp on your waist that was far too close, intimate. you laughed again, a bright, airy sound that made remmick's stomach twist and churn.

this is the moment remmick realises you have a physical manifestation and you truly weren’t apart of his imagination.

he stood still for a moment, watching as you moved away, the warmth of your hand no longer in his, replaced by the weight of something heavy that clawed at his insides. his eyes narrowed instinctively as you, effortlessly, slipped into another’s embrace. the man held you close, spinning you with a tenderness that made remmick’s skin prickle.

it shouldn’t matter, but it did.

he swallowed down the odd bitterness that had risen in his throat. it was absurd. he wasn’t allowed to feel this way—this possessive ache. but still, he couldn’t help himself, watching the way you laughed in his arms, the way your eyes shone so brightly for someone else.

remmick shook his head, forcing himself back into the present. the princess he had been dancing with swirled into his arms, but his gaze never wavered from you. he couldn’t look away. it was as if the room had ceased to exist around him—there were no voices, just the sound of your laughter and the light that shimmered around you.

he knew it was futile to hold on to any of it, but for as long as he could, he would keep you in his line of sight, hoping you wouldn’t slip away again, like you always did.

as the music reached its final notes, remmick's gaze never left you. he watched as you slipped gracefully from the arms of your partner, your presence like a flicker of light lost among the throngs of well-dressed nobles. the man—his face now blurred by the growing distance between them—seemed unaware of the way you had subtly detached yourself, drifting into the crowd of silks and velvets, where the shadows danced just as intricately as the guests.

remmick felt an inexplicable urgency seize him. his fingers grazed the princess’s hand, and with a smooth smile, he pressed his lips to her delicate knuckles in a gesture that seemed far more rehearsed than genuine. “my apologies, princess,” he murmured, the words slow and languid, “but i’ve promised myself a moment alone. something about cutting the cake, you know? a royal tradition, i suppose.”

she blinked, clearly satisfied by the excuse, her smile warm and unsuspecting. “of course, prince remmick. go enjoy your cake.”

and with that, she was lost to the crowd of swirling dancers, her attention already diverted. remmick didn’t waste a second more. he gave her a lazy bow and watched her retreat into the gilded glamour of the ballroom. then, with a fluid, practiced motion, he slipped into the labyrinth of bodies around him, the rich fabric of coats and gowns folding into a soft blur of color.

he didn’t care about the cake. he didn’t care about any of it. all that mattered was finding you again before you vanished into the shadows once more. his heart pounded as his feet carried him swiftly through the crowd, his eyes darting over the sea of faces, seeking that unmistakable glow that had haunted him for centuries.

there. between the columns of the balcony, under the flickering candlelight. your silhouette, radiant even in the midst of so many others, a beacon amidst the chaos. remmick’s pulse quickened, a feeling—half desire, half something darker—stirring deep in his chest.

“long time, no see…” you breathe, your voice soft as you stand at the edge of the courtyard, staring out into the cool night. the moonlight catches the edge of your dress, making it shimmer in a way that feels almost too ethereal. “remmick.”

he swallows, his throat dry, and his eyes track the curve of your silhouette in the dim light. there’s something about the way the dress clings to you tonight—it suits you better than anything he’s seen you wear before. he can’t help but notice, even in the midst of everything else, how striking you are, even when you're so distant.

“yeah…” he hums, his voice rougher than he intends. “how long’s it been?”

you don’t turn to face him, but he knows you’re listening. “ah, five hundred years. it was quite the break from your presence,” he adds, with a hint of bitterness that slips from his lips before he can stop it.

you give a small nod, the movement subtle, but it feels like you’re acknowledging something deeper, something unsaid. your gaze doesn’t waver from the distant horizon, the city lights far below barely flickering. “it was quite the goodbye. if i remember correctly, you left me to die.”

remmick laughs, a hollow, cold sound that doesn’t reach his eyes. “you remember correct. i’m quite fond of that memory, actually.” the words fall out like a joke, but the edge to his tone betrays him. there’s something about it that feels unfinished, unsaid.

you remain silent for a moment, your eyes still lost in the night. then, slowly, your head falls into your hand, your fingers pressing lightly against your temple as if to hold back something that could break through. remmick watches you, his smile fading, the silence stretching between them.

he doesn’t say anything more, because he knows—no words would make this any less complicated.

so, he let’s you speak first.

“why did you leave me like that?” your voice is quiet, but it cuts clean through the space between you. you still don’t turn to face him, your figure leaning into the cold stone railing like it might offer some kind of answer he won’t give. the moonlight brushes your skin like a veil, softening the tension in your shoulders, but remmick can still see it—the weight you carry.

“i got quite the scolding after that,” you add, almost like an afterthought. “that was your… one hundred and fifty-sixth second chance.”

the number hangs heavy in the air. remmick shifts behind you, a half-sigh caught in his throat. he wasn’t keeping count—but of course you were. of course you would remember every time he failed to live up to whatever cosmic expectation you held over him.

you don’t sound angry. not really. just… tired. like the years haven’t worn you down, but his choices have.

“glad to know someone’s keeping count,” remmick mutters, easing in beside you. the stone railing presses into his spine as he leans back, angling his body just enough to catch a glimpse of your face in the moonlight.

your eyes drift to his—slow, reluctant—and for a moment, something catches in his chest. if he still breathed, it would’ve hitched, tight and sharp. you weren’t supposed to look like this.

he’d seen your face in every imaginable light: serene, righteous, unreadable. you always wore that same celestial calm like armor. but now… now you just look exhausted. not weary in the way mortals age and sag with time—but a deeper sadness, old and quiet, like the fading echo of a hymn long forgotten.

remmick isn’t sure what unsettles him more: the silence between you, or the way you won’t quite meet his gaze.

he swallows when you don’t respond, the silence stretching longer than he expects. so he tries again, voice lower this time, almost unsure, “if i’m on my one hundred and fifty-seventh chance… why didn’t you give up ages ago?”

you still don’t answer, and that unsettles him more than any sharp retort would have.

he shifts beside you, the corner of his mouth twitching in a crooked attempt at a smile. “seriously. you should probably reevaluate your standards after that.”

it’s meant to be a joke, light enough to pull you from whatever place your mind’s wandered to—but it lands heavy, as if even he knows it doesn’t quite cover the question he’s really asking.

after a long, deathly silence, you finally lift your head and meet his eyes. there’s no lightness in your expression—just that same quiet, ancient sorrow that’s lingered beneath your skin for centuries.

“do you want to know what i am?” you ask, voice soft but unwavering. “i am sure you have been wondering for a while.”

remmick lets out a dry chuckle, one corner of his mouth curling up. “you’re right about that,” he says, eyes scanning your face like he’s searching for the answer there.

“i am an angel of the lord,” you say, finally standing upright, your voice calm, absolute. “i was sent down to watch you—because god knew you would be trouble. that you would walk on both sides of the line between chaos and order.”

remmick stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. his eyes narrow, brows knit in disbelief, but somewhere beneath the confusion, it starts to make a horrible sort of sense.

“an angel?” he mutters, almost to himself. “an actual angel’s been breathing down my neck this whole time?”

he lets out a bitter laugh, scrubbing a hand down his face. “no wonder i couldn’t stand you.”

“you say that in past tense,” you note, stepping toward him, “it could not be that you havee grown fond of me, could it?”

remmick smirks, “it could be.”

“you are angry. i have seen it,” you say quietly, stepping down from the balcony into the courtyard, your voice almost drowned by the hush of the wind through the hedges. you gesture for him to follow, and after a beat, he does—reluctantly, hands in his coat pockets, expression unreadable.

you walk side by side beneath the open sky, your glow washing over the stone path, brighter than the moonlight itself.

“when everything first happened—when the celts came, preaching christianity,” you begin, eyes forward, “it was not meant to be violent. but vikings... they are unpredictable, as you know. they brought fire to what should have been light.”

remmick stays quiet, glancing sidelong at you.

“god wanted someone to keep a close eye on you,” you continue. “he saw your heart. the way you could bend the world. not out of malice—but defiance. if left to your own instincts, you would unravel the threads of his design.”

you look at him then, calm, steady. “so, he sent me.”

remmick stops in his tracks, brow furrowed. “i’m sensing a but,” he mutters, voice dry. “there’s always a but.”

“but,” you say, and the word hangs in the air like judgment, “after a while, he realized you could not be saved. not in the way he intended. salvation was never going to come easy for you.”

remmick stiffens under your gaze, caught in the weight of your eyes—ancient, unwavering. he doesn’t need you to say it. he knows exactly when that shift happened. the moment everything inside him twisted beyond repair.

you step closer, your voice softer now, though no less resolute. “it took me five hundred years to convince him to let me walk the earth again… to stay in your shadow. because even if you could not be redeemed, you still needed watching. without guidance, you would leave only wreckage behind.”

remmick clenches his jaw, but doesn’t look away.

“i thought,” you add, quieter, more human somehow, “if i told you the truth this time… maybe you would finally be open. maybe you would stop running long enough to let something reach you.”

the silence that follows is thick with everything unsaid.

“you seriously believe i can change?” remmick asks, his voice low, edged with disbelief.

you don’t nod. instead, you shake your head slowly and keep walking, the gravel beneath your feet crunching softly beneath your light steps.

“no,” you say. “you cannot change what you are. that isn’t the point.”

your voice is calm, measured, not cruel—just certain.

“what drives you is not redemption,” you continue, “it is motive. it has always been motive. family… yes? connection. people who see you. who understand you. who can stand to be near you without fear.”

you glance at him, eyes catching the dim moonlight. “that is what keeps you from falling completely.”

your voice fades as you round the edge of a hedge, soft as mist, leaving remmick behind for a moment in the quiet. he blinks, then stumbles forward, hurrying to catch up, boots crunching against the earth. there’s something in the way you move—slow, graceful, unbothered—that makes him wonder if you see him more clearly than he’s ever let on.

he walks beside you in silence for a beat, eyes narrowed in thought. then, low and uncertain, he asks,

“why’ve i been given another chance?”

the words feel foreign in his mouth, like they don’t quite belong to him.

“partly because i begged for it,” you admit, “but also because the fates favour you.”

remmick raises a brow, “favour me?”

you nod, slow and deliberate.

“they do,” you say, voice like distant thunder softened by the night. “you have been offered two paths. one carved from selfishness, where every step takes you closer to your own undoing. and the other…”

your eyes lift to the stars, catching their faint shimmer.

“the other is compassion. it asks more of you, but it gives something in return—quiet, contentment, maybe even joy. and one day, if you choose it, you might find yourself watching the sunrise not with dread, but with purpose.”

“so you know how i go out?” remmick asks and you nod, confirming his assumption. he wants to bombard you with questions but you hold your hand up, “we should head back.”

he listens without a protest.

before you part with him at the balcony entrance, you offer him some words of advice, “do not take my words lightly, think about your actions and do not rely on me to tell you what to do.”

remmick watches you as you glide through the crowd, mingling effortlessly with the nobility, your light drawing them in like moths to a flame. it’s a scene so far removed from him—so foreign—that the ache he had felt earlier surges back, tight and gnawing at his insides. it pulls at him, twisting his stomach in ways that leave him feeling hollow, desperate.

he tries to shake it off, but the hunger claws at him, demanding attention. he stumbles away from his place, moving quickly through the high, echoing halls of the palace. the walls, steeped in rich history, stretch endlessly before him, their reflection of his shadow twisted and distorted as he moves through them, a ghost within his own skin.

the overwhelming scent of life all around him hits like a wave, drowning his senses. the guests, oblivious, stand in clusters, their warmth and the steady pulse of their blood flooding his senses. it's all he can focus on now. the desire to feed is primal, insistent. there’s no escaping it, no distraction from it. not when the banquet is brimming with potential prey.

at the end of the hall, a figure catches his eye. the princess, the one he danced with earlier, stands alone for a moment, separated from the throngs. the hunger takes over before he can stop himself, and he jogs toward her, the rhythm of his steps faster than he intends.

“your highness,” he greets, bowing low, his voice smooth, almost too smooth. she smiles, a demure expression. she asks him about the cake, her voice light and innocent. he tells her, with a playful tone, how divine it was—how it tasted like nothing he had ever known.

she seems to believe him, her eyes sparkling with curiosity, but her guard is down, naive to the danger she’s unwittingly stepped into. with the fluid ease of someone accustomed to getting what he wants, remmick guides her away from the crowd, leading her into a quiet, dimly lit chamber.

the door closes softly behind them.

he doesn’t waste time. with a practiced movement, he presses her against the cold wall, his fangs sinking deep into her neck. the warmth of her blood fills his senses, and the ache, that terrible, gnawing ache, begins to fade with each drawn breath. he feeds greedily, thirstily, until there’s nothing left to take.

when it’s over, the room is silent, save for the faint echo of his own breath. her body slumps in his arms, lifeless, pale. he lets her fall to the floor, her blood staining the carpet beneath her.

remmick stands over her for a moment, his chest rising and falling as he surveys the damage. a small flicker of something—guilt, maybe? regret?—crosses his mind, but it’s fleeting.

he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his hunger sated, but the emptiness inside remains. the cycle repeats. it always does.

he’s not going to change.

not long after that night, remmick fled paris—your footsteps trailing his despite his growing resentment. he never lingered anywhere for long, slipping through cities like smoke through fingers. yet, somehow, you always followed. unwillingly bound or stubbornly tethered, you were there.

he dragged you through the winding streets of spain, the frostbitten stretches of russia, the misty peaks of the balkans. he even wandered through the dense, humming cities of asia for a time, lost in a sea of languages and lanternlight.

but no matter how far he roamed, his footsteps always led him back to ireland. something about the damp green hills, the crash of waves against the cliffs, the ache of memory in the stone—his heart answered to it like a song half-remembered. it was the one place that still felt like his. or at least, where the ghosts felt familiar.

you’d washed up on the english channel in 1888, clothes heavy with salt and divinity, and drifted through london’s smoke-stained streets before finally making your way toward ireland. but your journey was delayed—four months, to be exact—by a detour you hadn’t planned.

a pitstop, as remmick called it.

he confessed with a twisted grin that he’d developed a taste for the blood of london’s street women. easy prey, he said. no one missed them, and no one looked too hard when they vanished. they came willingly, and their fear made their blood taste as sweet as it was tangy, he added, and left quietly.

you spoke to him as you always did—with the calm patience of eternity. you reminded him of light, of the path laid by the divine, of mercy, and restraint. you quoted scripture, invoked parables, and offered him alternatives. but he only scoffed, sharp-eyed and smirking.

“nothing beats an easy target,” he muttered once, licking the blood from his fingers as if it were honey.

and that was when you realized: some pitstops aren’t delays. they’re tests.

remmick came home that final night drenched in blood, the crimson soaking through his shirt and shining beneath your glow like oil on water. you didn’t ask where he’d been. you already knew. he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and flung the bloodied fabric into a dark corner of the hostel you’d both occupied for months. you didn’t meet his eyes. instead, you recited, quiet and firm,

“violence shall no more be heard in your land, devastation or destruction within your borders; you shall call your walls salvation, and your gates praise.”

remmick snarled at the sound of scripture, his lip curling as if the words burned him, “i told you to quit spewing that holy bullshit around me, angel.”

he said your title like a curse, like something he’d spit into the dirt.

still, you smiled—an expression that almost reached your eyes, though it never truly did.

“you live in a world built from devastation and oppression,” you said gently, stepping closer, “but the real prison, vampire, is the one in your own mind.”

remmick, in a sudden fury, swept a plate of fine china off the rickety wooden table. it sailed past you and shattered against the headboard of your borrowed bed, shards of porcelain raining down like splinters of his frustration.

“ain’t nothin’ wrong with my mind,” he barked, chest heaving. “i’m livin’ off what i know. what i am!”

your frown deepened. the glow around you dimmed, like a flame shying from wind.

“rough night?” you asked softly.

he groaned, dragging a hand down his face, smearing blood across his jaw.

“nearly got caught,” he muttered. “some fella interrupted my meal.”

you nodded slowly, walking toward the mess he’d made, stepping carefully over broken china.

“you have built quite the reputation for yourself,” you said. “jack the ripper, they are calling you now.”

remmick scoffed, holding up a hand as if to physically reject the accusation.

“that ain’t me,” he said. “there’s a difference. he—he guts ‘em. rips ‘em open like game. i just puncture the neck, nice and neat. drain ’em sideways, clean as i can. i got some standards.”

your eyes narrowed. “do you?”

“for my kind, i do,” remmick mutters, casting you a sidelong glance as he sinks onto the edge of the bed. the frame creaks beneath his weight.

he feels it again—that phantom pump, the ghost of a heartbeat that only stirs when you’re near. if blood still moved through his veins, it might’ve rushed to his face, warmed his skin. instead, he remains pale, a static figure carved in cold ash and shadow.

you don’t move. you stand there, still as a monument, graceful and ethereal. divine. everything about you—your poise, your silence, even the way the light bends to wrap around you—makes his chest ache with something unfamiliar. something like longing.

your glow brushes his skin like the edge of sunlight, and in that moment, he swears he can feel your heart. or maybe it’s his own, trying to remember how to beat. he shakes his head, breaking the moment like glass.

“i’m leaving tonight,” he says, voice flat. final.

you just watch him—silent, as always—as he picks up his old acoustic guitar. it fits in his hands like it was always meant to be there, an extension of him. he’s always had a gift for music. even in the earliest years, before he knew what he was, he’d whistle back at the birds when they sang at sunrise, tap rhythms into the bones of tables, the sides of carriages, the hollow of his own chest. it was instinct. but once he found the guitar, it all came together.

remmick doesn’t look at you as he starts to play, but you can see his shoulders ease. his fingers move fluidly over the strings, coaxing out a tune that feels older than this life. you pull out a chair and sit, the wood creaking softly beneath you. no words pass between you. for once, there’s no biting sarcasm or divine reprimands. just the melody, soft and unhurried.

he plays like it’s the only honest language he’s fluent in. and you listen, like it’s the only time you truly hear him. it's brief, but in that moment, there’s peace.

remmick knows it, you know it. you’ll follow him wherever he goes.

remmick stayed in ireland for three decades, tucked away in green hills and rain-soaked stone villages. of course, you were there—always there. disappearing for weeks, months even, only to reappear when he least expected it, glowing like a bad omen he couldn’t shake.

then came 1921. something called to him—a sound, delicate and haunting. a woman playing an instrument so beautiful it made his dead heart ache. he boarded a ship of irish immigrants bound for boston, chasing the echo of her melody. he claimed he wanted to reconnect with his roots, to find the family he’d left behind. the truth was more selfish.

the voyage was a disaster.

desperate to reclaim what he thought he’d lost—music, love, belonging—remmick tried to turn them all. everyone on board: children, parents, the elderly. but vampirism is no gift, and none of them survived the transformation. blood ran like wine below deck, and the woman with the gifted hands? lost to the chaos. he never even learned her name.

when the ship docked three days later, reeking of death and silence, he slipped off unnoticed. another new instrument slung over his shoulder like a trophy. the only thing he managed to save.

but you? you were gone.

no glow in the shadows.

no soft footsteps trailing behind him.

for once, he was truly alone.

the last time he saw you—really saw you—was at a juke joint deep in the mississippi delta, about twenty years later.

he’d been lingering just outside the shack, half-shrouded in trees and night, the thrum of blues rolling out of the open door like the sweet aroma of pie out a window. his mouth was wet, glistening—thick ropes of blood and spit clung to his lips, soaked into the collar of his shirt, cooling on his skin.

he was a mess. a predator fresh from the hunt.

but even in that haze, he felt it. that pull. that warmth.

you.

your light slipped through the trees before you did, soft and steady, brighter than the porch lamps and louder than the music.

he didn’t need to feel warmth anymore to know it was you.

he’d always know.

"i should be more surprised that you’re here," remmick groaned, not bothering to turn around. he didn’t need to see your face to know what expression you wore—he could picture it perfectly: the sharp furrow of your brow, the disappointment etched into every line.

he leaned against a tree, dragging a bloodied sleeve across his mouth.

"why now?" he muttered. "gonna try and talk me down again? throw a bible verse at me like it’s some kind of holy water? think i’m gonna suddenly grow a conscience 'cause you showed up glowing?"

his voice was tired, bitter.

"you always show up when i’m at my worst. like clockwork."

“you are straying from your righteous path,” you say, your face unreadable but your voice heavy with sorrow. “are you sure you want to do this?”

remmick waves a dismissive hand, “i’m sure.”

you shake your head slowly. “you did not heed my warning.”

he arches a brow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “you warn me all the time. how’m i s’pposed to know which one?”

he knows exactly which warning you mean. but remmick aims not just for the best—he strives for something beyond that. his selfish path feels carved into stone, unchangeable. you’ve spoken of another way, a second path meant to offer hope. but he never entertained that hope. not once.

“i know what you think i do not know,” you begin, your voice steady, eyes fixed on the back of his head, “there is more for you, if only you listen to my age-old warning.”

remmick clicks his tongue in frustration, something sharp and bitter rising in his chest.

you continue, voice gentle but firm,

“life is beautiful, remmick—whether you see it or not. and i know you are unable to, not anymore. you have grown bitter, i have watched it happen, piece by piece. but it does not have to stay that way.”

your eyes focus on his form, steady and unwavering.

“you still have time. you can make peace with them, with yourself. you can reclaim what you have lost. not everything is beyond reach.”

you pause, searching for something in his body language—anything.

“do not do this. do not spill the blood of good people just because you have forgotten what goodness looks like.”

your calmness feels like mockery. he snaps—like a wire pulled too tight—spinning around so fast it startles you.

“you can’t seriously expect me to listen to anything you have to say,” he growls, eyes burning, “not after you vanished for twenty damn years just because you finally saw what i was capable of! how are you supposed to be my guardian angel when you’re so unbelievably shit at your job?”

you think your heart breaks—and remmick thinks he hears it. not a dramatic crack, but something quieter, crueler. like dry glass splintering under pressure.

his eyes flash a deep, dangerous red. for a moment, it looks like he’s considering it—really considering tearing into something holy.

he’d been cruel before, callous beyond belief. but something about tonight lands differently.

you don��t shout, you don’t plead, you don’t fall apart.

instead, just a few tears slide down your cheeks, slow and soundless.

and that’s what gets him.

he never thought he’d see the day an angel would cry. from what he knew, you were carved from calm, built to endure without cracking.

but now, standing under the weak light of a crooked moon, he sees it. sees you.

not a symbol, not a mission. just someone deeply, utterly tired.

you don’t let him linger in your sorrow. as soon as you feel the tears, you turn away—too proud to let him see what he’s done. too divine to shatter completely in front of him.

your wings unfurl—slow, deliberate, and unlike anything he’s ever seen. vast and radiant, feathers pure as untouched snow, glowing faintly with a divinity that makes the dark around him feel smaller, weaker. they catch the breeze like sails on a departing ship.

remmick freezes. not because he’s scared, but because he understands.

this is it.

you’re leaving.

and this time, you won’t come back.

a part of him, the part still clinging to something human, wants to call out. wants to say don’t.

but he doesn’t.

he stays silent, hands clenched at his sides, jaw tight as he watches with empty eyes.

you offer him one last verse—your final tether, a hope you quietly beg he'll remember.

“judge not, that ye be not judged. for with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.”

your voice echoes long after your wings do.

with a single, mighty flap, the earth stirs beneath you. dust kicks up, grass bends, and then—

you’re gone.

all that remains is the soft imprint of your departure, a shallow crater in the earth where heaven once touched down.

his heart no longer beats in faux rhythm.

and when the sun finally rises, catching him where the shadows fail, remmick doesn’t flinch. doesn’t snarl or thrash or claw at the light like some cornered beast. he doesn’t beg, doesn’t run.

he just stares.

the light crawls across his skin, golden and relentless, and for the first time in one thousand, three hundred and eighty-five years, he lets it. he watches the sunrise not with fear or hatred, but with something else—something closer to awe.

his inhuman eyes brim with tears, not from pain, but from peace.

he knows you’re near. he can feel it. after all this time, he can still sense the pull of your presence like gravity. maybe you’re watching the same sunrise from some rooftop or ruin, silently praying for what’s left of him.

and maybe—just maybe—he’s praying too.

he imagines his ancestors waiting for him, the ones he lost to time and blood and tragedy, their arms open and music playing. but more than anything, he hopes you're there too.

and as the fire takes him, a slow, searing bloom that begins at his chest and spreads outward like a star going nova, he closes his eyes.

not in fear.

but in surrender.

in peace.

and he smiles.

you stand over the scorch-marked earth where remmick had burned. there’s no trace left of him—no body, no ash, just the faint smell of smoke clinging to the morning air and a body of water that moved indifferently as if remmick was never there.

you do not cry.

you knew this ending. had seen it coming centuries ago.

but still, your chest aches in a way that feels foreign. not divine. not righteous. just… human.

quietly, you kneel by the edge of a shallow stream, its waters catching the soft gold of the rising sun. your hand, steady and sacred, slips beneath the surface. it doesn’t take long. the chain finds you, just like he always did.

you pull it from the water—his gold chain, warm despite the cold stream, still whole.

your fingers trace its pattern, each link familiar, worn from centuries of wear.

you smile. not wide. not bright. but soft. pained. knowing.

“goodbye, old friend,” you whisper.

the wind stirs the trees behind you, and the morning continues.

you would not see his soul in the holy place.

not because he was born into darkness—he wasn’t. not because he was forced to live as he did—though that part was true.

but because remmick’s choices stretched far beyond instinct, beyond what was natural. he had time. he had chances. and every time, he chose wrong. knowingly, willfully.

and heaven does not make room for those who choose to burn.

#remmick x reader #sinners 2025 #remmick sinners #althea writes #remmick #jack o'connell #mill3rd

1K notes · View notes

joelsrose · 2 months ago

Text

Dark Matter

i haven't written reed before but here we go! i hope yall enjoy xx

warnings: fingering, age gap? (reader is mid 20's), cheating (sorry sue), power-dynamic, semi-public

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

You walked into the lab the same way you always did—quietly, carefully, your notebook hugged to your chest like a shield, pages dog-eared and smudged with graphite, filled with half-solved equations, theoretical scribbles, and tiny margin doodles of molecules and stars.

The click of your heeled boots echoed off the cold, polished floor, a sound that somehow felt too loud in the stillness of the room. The air inside was always a little too cold, like the whole space was suspended in a vacuum—untouched by the warmth of human hands—but you liked it that way. It made you feel sharp, focused. Like anything could happen here. Like everything already had.

It had been exactly seven days since you started your internship under Mr. Richards—or Reed, as he’d insisted you call him on the very first day, his tone polite but firm, eyes flickering to yours with something unreadable when you stammered out “Dr. Richards” instead. The man was brilliant. Obviously. He was also deeply intimidating in the way only truly intelligent people could be—effortlessly so, like he didn’t notice the way the rest of the world bent around his mind.

He wasn’t cruel, not at all, but there was something about him that made your pulse skip whenever he turned to you with a question, something about the way he spoke in low, thoughtful tones, his hands always busy with some piece of machinery or scribbling formulas on the glass board like his thoughts couldn’t be contained by paper.

You’d been selected from a pool of thousands—won the LUMINA International Science Initiative, a fellowship that granted a single spot, once a year, to shadow one of the world’s leading innovators.

You never expected to get it. You’d submitted your proposal last-minute, half-convinced it was too ambitious, too naive. But something about it must’ve caught their attention—maybe your hypothesis on temporal field distortions, maybe the way you phrased it like a love letter to curiosity itself. Either way, it landed you here, standing just inside the threshold of the Baxter Building’s most secured lab, wearing your best skirt and your favorite boots, heart thudding in your chest like a metronome gone mad.

You adjusted your grip on your notebook and cleared your throat softly, the sound swallowed by the lab’s cavernous quiet. “Morning,” you offered, voice smaller than you meant, eyes sweeping the room for him—half-hoping he wasn’t here yet, half-hoping he was.

From behind one of the massive monitors, you heard the gentle clink of metal, followed by a low voice.

“You’re early.”

You turned and there he was, sleeves rolled to his forearms, collarbone peeking where his lab coat had come undone. His hair was tousled, like he’d been up for hours already, running his hands through it between equations. There was graphite smudged on his wrist, and a faint streak of oil down one thumb, and somehow that made him look even more untouchable. He glanced over his shoulder at you, then down at your notebook.

“More scribbles?” he asked, one corner of his mouth lifting—not quite a smile, but close enough to make your chest flutter.

You nodded, holding it out. “A few questions from last night. I kept thinking about the energy dispersion curve in the 5-D field model, and—well. It didn’t make sense that it plateaued. Not at those values.”

He took the notebook, flipping through the pages like he was reading a novel written in his own handwriting, then looked up at you with a sliver of something warmer in his gaze.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I think you might be the first person to ever challenge that curve. Everyone else just accepted it.”

You blinked. “Oh. I—didn’t mean to be... disrespectful or anything.”

“You weren’t.” He looked back at the page, his brow furrowing like he was genuinely considering your notes. “You’re just... asking the right questions.”

And the way he said that—asking the right questions—it made your cheeks heat, made your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag like you were suddenly fifteen again, flustered and awkward and unsure of what to say next, even though you were here because you belonged here, even though you were brilliant in your own quiet way.

He glanced at you again, slower this time, eyes scanning your face like he was watching a theory unfold in real time, and said, “Let’s run it. See if you’re right.” Just like that, like it was nothing, like it didn’t mean the world.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

Hours passed, though you barely noticed them. What started as a single equation quickly unraveled into an entire evening of hypotheses and recalibrations, the two of you moving around each other in this strange, quiet rhythm—typing, adjusting, scribbling, calculating, retrying, failing, fixing, retrying again.

The room had fallen into that kind of sacred stillness where every noise felt sharper—the whir of machines, the scratch of pencils, the occasional creak of the stool beneath you. Every time a result came back wrong, you’d lean in beside him and try again. Every time it came back right, your shoulders would touch, just barely, and you’d both say nothing.

And then it happened again—casual, effortless—Reed stretched.

This time, to grab his phone from across the room without moving from his chair, his arm extending impossibly far and elegant, fingers curling around the device with that same practiced ease, like it was just another part of his body responding to his mind. You watched it happen with that same quiet awe you always did, eyes following the length of his arm as it retracted, as he settled back into himself like it hadn’t been strange at all, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It wasn’t even the stretch itself, not really—it was the nonchalance, the way he didn’t even think about it. But you did. You thought about it too much.

You were still thinking about it when he glanced at his screen, a quiet frown flickering across his face.

“It’s eight already,” he murmured, thumbing through a text. “We’ve been here all day.”

You blinked, surprised by the time, and then watched as his expression shifted—something soft and faintly guilty tugging at the edge of his mouth as he read whatever had been sent to him.

“Sue made dinner,” he said after a beat, sighing, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand like he hadn’t sat down for a proper meal in days. “Guess I should…”

He trailed off as he stood, the chair sliding back with a scrape, and something in your chest twisted—tight and unexpected. Not sharp enough to hurt, but deep enough to notice.

You weren’t sure if it was jealousy, exactly, but there was something inside you that ached a little at the thought of him leaving. At the thought of him sitting across from someone else, in a warm apartment somewhere above the city, eating food someone else had made for him, laughing over things that had nothing to do with lab results or radiation curves or the way your hands always trembled just slightly when he got too close.

You didn’t realize you were staring until he glanced back at you with one brow arched, curious, amused, his coat slung half over his arm and a faint smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“Something wrong?” he asked, voice low and too steady, like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear you say it.

“No,” you said quickly, too quickly, the word tripping over itself on your tongue. “No, nothing.”

He looked at you for a long second, long enough that your skin prickled under the weight of it, his eyes steady and a little too knowing, like he could see past your flustered expression and straight into the chaos of your thoughts. Then—he chuckled, soft and brief, like the sound had slipped out before he could stop it, low and warm and close enough to make your pulse stutter.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly, not in disapproval, but something more bemused—like he found you endlessly curious and had all the time in the world to figure you out.

You ducked your head, the heat rising in your cheeks again, blooming in a flush that you tried to suppress with a tight little smile, your fingers worrying the corner of your notebook as though it could ground you, steady you, hide the fact that your heart was now pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears.

Then his voice came again, low and coaxing, that soft velvet drawl of someone deeply used to being the smartest man in the room—“Come on,” he said, “what’s going on in that brilliant mind?”

And you should’ve lied. You should’ve laughed it off, said something safe, something neutral, something clever and unassuming and appropriately scientific. But your brain had been wandering all week—had been drifting there over and over again, uninvited, unwelcome, inappropriate, gnawing at the edges of your curiosity in the quiet moments between experiments.

You’d tried not to think about it, tried not to let your gaze linger when he stretched, tried not to imagine what else could stretch, how far, how much, how deeply.

And somehow—somehow—it slipped out of your mouth before your brain had a chance to intercept it, just a whisper of a thought spoken aloud, soft and breathless and too curious to be innocent.

“Does everything stretch?”

The silence that followed was instant and absolute.

You heard it in the way the machines kept humming but your breath caught.

You felt it in the way Reed’s eyes snapped to yours, too quickly, like he wasn’t expecting that.

And you saw it—oh, you saw it—in the way he froze, the way the lines at the corners of his mouth shifted, lips parting slightly like he was about to speak but couldn’t quite remember how.

Your eyes widened almost immediately, your whole body locking in mortified horror, hands flying up to your face as if that could undo what you’d just said, as if that could pull the words back into your throat and shove them into the void where they belonged.

“Oh my God—I didn’t—I didn’t mean it like that, I swear—I swear, it was just—I was talking about your arm, I mean your body—not your—oh God, not your body body, I meant your abilities, like biologically—scientifically—I’m so sorry—”

You were rambling now, barely breathing between the words, voice growing higher and faster with every sentence, and he was still just looking at you, still absolutely silent, like you’d short-circuited him and he was trying not to let it show. His expression hadn’t changed much—but his eyes were different now, darker maybe, or maybe just sharper, like a wire had pulled taut somewhere beneath his usually-calm exterior.

Then—finally—he blinked.

And his mouth twitched.

Not a smirk. Not quite. But close. Very, very close.

“Everything?” he echoed softly, voice rough around the edges like it had dropped an octave without permission.

You wanted to melt through the floor.

“Forget I said anything,” you mumbled, practically squeaked, your hands halfway up your face now, notebook clutched uselessly against your chest like a shield made of paper and shame.

But he didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. He just looked at you for another long moment, like he was tucking the question away in some private drawer of his mind, like he was considering it—you—carefully.

And then he said, his voice quiet and unreadable. “Some things stretch more than others.”

He said it with the same offhand ease he might’ve used to mention the weather or the results of an equation, as if the words weren’t heavy with meaning, as if they didn’t land like a struck tuning fork in the center of your chest and hum there, low and electric. And then—just like that—he glanced at the time again, slipped his phone into the inside pocket of his coat, his fingers moving with quiet efficiency, and looked toward the door without even a flicker of hesitation in his expression.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, voice smooth and calm, like it had all been nothing—your question, his answer, the unbearable silence that followed—like he hadn’t just reduced you to a trembling, wide-eyed mess with five words and a look you couldn’t quite decipher.

And then he turned and walked out, his footsteps steady and unhurried, as though the entire moment hadn’t happened, as though he hadn’t noticed the way your breath had caught or your lips had parted slightly or the way your fingers had curled around your notebook like you were holding onto it for dear life. The door eased shut behind him with a soft, final click, and the silence that followed felt far too loud, as if the air itself had been holding its breath and now didn’t know what to do with the tension left behind.

You stood there for a moment, completely still, eyes fixed on the door like he might come back—might say something, might clarify or laugh or admit that yes, that had been what you thought it was, that you weren’t imagining the way his gaze had sharpened, the subtle shift in his voice, the pause before he’d answered like he was trying to decide how honest he wanted to be.

But the door stayed shut. The lab was quiet. And your face was burning.

��︎₊˚⊹☆

The next morning, you thought about quitting.

No—worse—you thought about being removed, escorted out of the lab with quiet, professional shame, the faculty committee shaking their heads at the girl who couldn’t keep her thoughts scientific. You’d spent the entire night twisted in sheets and mortification, staring at the ceiling of your tiny dorm room with cheeks that wouldn’t stop burning and hands that kept curling into fists against your pillow, your mind looping the same sentence over and over like a taunt.

Does everything stretch?

It had sounded so much worse in hindsight. In your head, it was a purely biological question—curiosity, theoretical, relevant. But the moment it left your lips, soft and shy and tilted with unintended suggestion, you’d felt the way it landed. The way his eyes had flickered. The way his voice had dropped just a hair lower. The way he’d looked at you after.

And then he walked out like it was nothing.

Which somehow made it worse.

So when you walked into the lab that morning, notebook clutched to your chest like a shield, heart crawling up the back of your throat with every step, you were fully prepared for disaster—for tension, awkwardness, maybe even polite dismissal. But he was already there, of course he was—leaning over one of the central consoles with his sleeves rolled, hair still rumpled from sleep, lips pursed slightly in thought as he ran through some new readout, a mug half-full of black coffee resting near his elbow.

And when he glanced up at you?

Everything was... fine.

He offered you a brief, familiar nod, the same one he always did, and then gestured to a screen without so much as a hint of discomfort, as if the night before had been a dream, as if you hadn’t asked the most humiliating question of your life and then spiraled into a dimension of shame he probably discovered himself.

You blinked, stunned by the ease of it, by the way he moved through the morning without even a trace of tension, without a single flinch. It was—professional. Cordial. Kind.

And strangely, that grounded you.

The day unfolded slowly, then steadily—small victories, clarified hypotheses, new data sets—and your body slowly began to relax into the rhythm you’d started to love, the silent teamwork of minds that trusted each other. And even though he hadn’t said anything beyond the work, even though the stretch of time passed with nothing but research and updates, you caught yourself looking again—watching the way his hands moved, the way he’d lean into the screen, the way he thought so deeply with his whole body, and the way you were beginning to understand him in ways that had nothing to do with science.

It wasn’t until late afternoon, when the sun outside had dipped low enough to cast long gold shadows across the lab floor, that he finally spoke without referencing an equation.

“Sue was asking about you,” he said casually, eyes still on his screen, voice calm as if he didn’t know he’d just sent your stomach tumbling.

You blinked, startled. “Oh?”

He nodded once, the motion subtle. “Think I’ve been talking too much about how smart you are.”

Your breath caught in your throat and then returned all at once in a rush of heat to your face. You looked away, your lips parting slightly as your blush bloomed across your cheeks, creeping down your neck, the words lingering like sunlight on your skin.

“She wants to meet you,” he continued, finally glancing over at you with that steady, unreadable gaze that always made you feel a little exposed, a little unsteady.

“Really?” you asked, blinking up at him, your voice too soft, too unsure. “I—I mean, I’d be honored.”

He chuckled, quiet and amused, and God, it made your heart stutter.

“Tonight?” he asked, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Your lips parted again. “Tonight?” you echoed, because your brain was clearly still catching up.

He tilted his head, expression flickering with something close to amusement. “Unless you’re busy,” he said smoothly. “Or unless you were planning on camping out here all night again, trying to crack the wavefield inversion curve without sleeping or eating—because that does sound like you.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, the sound escaping like a sigh, soft and a little breathless, and he smiled—genuine and rare, the kind that made your knees feel unsteady and your chest warm.

You shook your head, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, suddenly too shy to meet his eyes. “No,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not busy.”

“Good,” he said, his smile deepening just slightly. “I’ll see you for dinner then.”

And with that, he turned back to his screen, the moment slipping away like mist, but the warmth of it stayed, curling low and steady in your chest.

You were going to dinner. With Reed Richards. And Sue Storm.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

The Baxter Building stood tall and impossible in the heart of the city, its sleek, glinting frame catching the last of the golden evening light like it had been plucked from some distant future and set gently down in Manhattan.

The security in the lobby had let you through without question, as if they’d been expecting you, as if your name already belonged in the same breath as Reed Richards and Sue Storm, and that thought alone made your stomach twist with something between awe and panic as you stepped into the elevator.

It was silent inside—sterile and smooth, the walls a brushed metal that reflected the softest version of your silhouette back at you, almost dreamlike. You stared at your reflection for a moment, adjusting the bottle of wine you held with both hands, the paper bag crinkling slightly beneath your fingertips.

You’d picked it up on the way here after spending a full thirty minutes in the wine shop pretending to know what pairs with intellectual dinner parties hosted by superheroes. You smoothed the front of your dress—a soft, modest thing that you’d chosen carefully, something that felt like you, but maybe a little prettier, a little more delicate than usual, your lips painted just faintly, enough to make you feel like you were trying without looking like you were trying.

You exhaled slowly, barely noticing the way the elevator glided up without a sound, your heartbeat louder than anything around you. Your thoughts raced, of course they did—what if it was too much? What if you shouldn’t have come? What if he hadn’t meant it the way it sounded, that subtle curve of his voice when he said see you at dinner, the glint in his eye, the way his attention had lingered for just a moment too long?

The elevator chimed softly.

The doors opened.

And then— There he was.

Reed stood just inside the threshold, one hand braced casually on the edge of the doorway, the other slipping his phone into his back pocket like he’d only just finished checking something, his sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, collarbone peeking slightly where his top button had been left undone, no tie, no lab coat—just a simple, perfectly tailored shirt that made your brain stutter for half a beat.

His hair was slightly tousled, like he’d run his fingers through it absentmindedly more than once, and there was a tiny streak of ink or maybe graphite on his knuckle that hadn’t been washed off completely.

It was Reed, but not the version of him you’d grown used to seeing in the lab, not the hyper-focused, brilliant blur of intellect you worked beside every day—this Reed looked like he’d been waiting. For you.

His eyes moved over you slowly—once, all the way down and back up again, not rushed, not obvious, but deliberate enough that you felt it everywhere, like heat pressing into the skin of your chest and the backs of your knees, your fingers tightening instinctively around the bottle you were holding.

He didn’t say anything at first, just quirked the corner of his mouth into something halfway between a smirk and a smile, soft but amused, his gaze still lingering just a little too long.

“You clean up well,” he said finally, voice lower than usual, not teasing exactly—more like he was confessing something he hadn’t meant to say aloud.

Your mouth parted slightly, but your voice caught, and when you finally managed to speak, it came out soft and a little breathless. “I—brought wine.”

He glanced down at the bottle, then back at you, his smile deepening just enough to make your heart skip. “Dangerously overqualified,” he murmured, stepping back to let you in. “Smart and thoughtful. Sue’s going to love you.”

You stepped past him into the apartment, the warmth of the space wrapping around you instantly, the scent of dinner and city lights and him curling at the edge of your senses, and even as you tried to focus on your breathing, on your posture, on not tripping in your kitten heels, you could still feel the echo of his eyes on your skin, like he hadn’t really stopped looking.

The apartment unfolded around you like a page in some impossibly curated design magazine, only softer, warmer, more lived-in than anything artificial—clean, modern lines met rich textures, brushed steel softened by warm walnut floors and deep navy accents that glowed golden under the cascade of low, amber-hued lighting.

One entire wall was glass, and beyond it, the Manhattan skyline burned softly against the horizon, city lights just starting to glitter like distant stars, and even the air inside smelled expensive and comforting—like slow-cooked herbs and something faintly sweet.

You were still catching your breath, still clutching the wine like a lifeline, when you heard a voice float in from down the hall—clear, warm, and unmistakably female.

“There she is.”

Sue Storm walked into view like she had been sculpted from light itself—tall and impossibly graceful, wrapped in soft neutral fabrics that draped just right, her golden hair falling in loose waves that framed her face perfectly, her eyes a crystalline blue that held a kind of sharpness you immediately respected.

She was breathtaking, in that way women are when they know who they are, and the moment she looked at you, her whole expression softened with something kind and curious and real.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said with a small smile, her voice smooth like honey stirred into tea, her gaze never once breaking from yours.

“Hi,” you breathed, the word escaping before you could shape it into anything more eloquent. “It’s such an honor to meet you.”

She waved you off with a flick of her manicured fingers, as if the formality embarrassed her. “Please,” she said with a light laugh, stepping closer. “The way my husband talks about you? I’m the one who’s honored.”

And you blushed so hard you felt it in your ears, your whole body warming beneath the soft light, fingers tightening just slightly around the neck of the bottle as you dipped your head in modest disbelief, not quite sure if you should laugh or hide.

Reed, who had stepped away to adjust the music or maybe just give you a moment, said nothing, but you felt the weight of his glance again—the quiet satisfaction in the corners of his mouth like this was exactly what he wanted: you here, now, nervous but luminous, admired and welcomed.

“Come in,” Sue insisted gently, her hand brushing your arm in a way that grounded you immediately. “Dinner’s almost ready. I made way too much food—he said you don’t eat much, but I never trust him when he says that. He’s never once finished a plate himself.”

You smiled, heart still beating a little too fast, and followed her deeper into the space, the sound of your shoes soft against the hardwood, the city glowing quietly beyond the windows as if watching you take your first steps into something bigger than an internship—something warmer, more dangerous, and far more personal.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

Dinner was lovely—elegant but warm, the kind of meal that felt intimate without trying, served at a long polished table that glowed honey-gold under the overhead lights, the city sparkling just beyond the glass like a living mural.

You sat across from them, Reed to your left, Sue across from you, and despite the tight coil of nerves you’d carried into the evening, it was… comfortable.

Sue had a way of making you feel like you belonged, like you weren’t just a guest in the home of two of the most brilliant minds on the planet, but someone worth sitting at their table, someone they genuinely wanted to know.

You found yourself watching them more than you meant to—Sue leaning toward him with quiet laughter, Reed murmuring something back without looking up from his wine glass, the two of them moving in the kind of rhythm that only came from years of intimacy and quiet understanding. And still, as you watched them, something bloomed low and warm in your stomach—not jealousy, exactly, but a kind of quiet ache, a fascination that hummed beneath your skin, a longing that had less to do with their relationship and more to do with him.

You were still chasing the thread of that thought when Sue turned to you again, eyes bright with interest.

“So,” she said, “how did you get interested in all of this?”

You blinked, startled out of your reverie, and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear with a shy smile. “Well,” you began softly, glancing down at your plate before meeting her gaze again, “ever since I was a kid, I just… I always wanted to understand how the world worked. The math, the movement, the rules. I remember watching the stars and thinking—that’s what I want to learn. That’s what I want to be part of.”

Sue offered you a warm smile, nodding in that gentle, encouraging way that made you feel like your words mattered, like they weren’t small or naïve or too eager. “Well,” she said, “it’s always nice seeing young people interested in this kind of work—especially a fellow…” she paused, grinning as she reached for her glass, “…girl genius.”

You laughed softly, cheeks warm, about to reply with something awkward and grateful and probably too modest—when it happened.

You felt it.

Unmistakable.

A hand. Large, warm, and undeniably real, sliding gently across your thigh under the table.

Your heart stopped. Your breath caught somewhere high in your chest, your eyes flickering toward Reed so quickly you barely caught Sue sipping her wine across from you. But he didn’t look at you—not exactly. His gaze remained calm and forward, his profile composed and entirely unreadable as he took a slow sip of his wine and then glanced up at Sue, his hand still resting firmly on your leg.

“She’s brilliant,” he said casually, his voice smooth and even, like he was commenting on the weather, like he wasn’t currently touching you from across the table while sitting next to his wife.

You sat frozen, pulse thundering in your ears, body rigid but electrified, your fingers tightening ever so slightly around the stem of your glass as you tried to focus, to breathe, to not move.

“She corrected me the other day about a flux equation I wrote in ’04,” he continued, eyes finally drifting to meet yours—and holding there, steady and direct, a silent dare written behind his calm expression. “She was right, too.”

Sue laughed, clearly delighted. “Good. God knows someone needs to keep you in check.”

You could barely hear her. Could barely focus on anything except the heat of Reed’s hand, the way it pressed gently into the top of your thigh, just enough to let you know it was real, just enough to make your stomach twist with something hot and shivery and shamefully thrilling.

And then—his hand moved.

Not in that subtle, polite way you might’ve been able to ignore or convince yourself had been some kind of misunderstanding, not a graze or a twitch or something incidental—but deliberate, slow, intentional, his palm sliding higher, slipping beneath the hem of your dress in a single fluid motion that felt so impossibly confident it made your entire body lock up at once.

The heat of his skin against your thigh stole the breath from your lungs, and when his fingers skimmed the delicate edge of your underwear, just barely brushing the fabric, you felt your heart climb straight into your throat and stay there.

You almost choked on your wine.

The glass halted halfway to your lips, your hands trembling just enough for the crystal to click against your teeth, and you let out a strange, stifled sound—half gasp, half cough—your eyes wide, your posture going ramrod straight as you struggled to swallow the panic and arousal crawling up your spine in tandem.

“You alright?” Sue asked gently, glancing up from her plate with concern etched between her brows, the picture of warmth and kindness and everything undeserving of what was happening beneath her dinner table.

“Yes,” you stammered, too quickly, the syllable snapping out of your mouth like it had been fired from a slingshot, your cheeks flushed a deep, telltale red as you nodded a little too hard. “I’m fine. Just—went down the wrong way.”

Across from you, Reed glanced up from his glass at the sound of your voice, his expression calm—no, worse than calm—amused, like he was enjoying watching you fall apart in real time, like he was studying the way you squirmed and flushed and fidgeted with quiet, academic satisfaction. His fingers moved—barely a shift, just enough to press the pad of his thumb along the inside of your thigh, skimming the thin lace of your panties with a featherlight drag that made your vision blur for a moment, your teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek to stop a sound from escaping.

Sue kept talking, mercifully, unaware of the silent war happening beneath the table, and you tried to nod along, tried to pretend you were still following the story she was telling about something at the foundation gala last week, but Reed’s hand was still moving—so slowly, so wickedly gentle, fingers drifting along the edge of the fabric like he was memorizing it, teasing it, learning every soft line of you with nothing more than a ghost of touch and that insufferable, unreadable look in his eyes.

You were blushing so fiercely now you were sure it had reached your chest, heat blooming down your neck like a fever, your knees squeezing together reflexively beneath the table as your breathing turned shallow, chest rising and falling in a way that did not feel casual anymore.

“Are you hot, honey?” Sue asked suddenly, concern returning to her voice, her eyes flickering to your cheeks. “A house full of so-called geniuses and we still haven’t figured out how to fix the aircon properly. I’ll be back—I’ll check the thermostat.”

And before you could answer—before you could find any response at all—she stood, placing her napkin neatly beside her plate and disappearing down the hall with a rustle of fabric and the click of her heels.

The door hadn’t even shut all the way before Reed finally spoke, low and calm and just for you, his fingers still resting against the soft, soaked curve of you beneath your panties.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, voice a dark, honey-dipped whisper that sent shivers straight through your bones. “Don’t stop now.”

“Reed—” you stammered, your voice cracking under the strain of your own name trembling on your lips, barely more than a whisper, a breath caught halfway between panic and disbelief, your thighs squeezing together out of instinct, out of desperation, out of need you didn’t yet know how to name. “What are you—”

He didn’t lean in.

He didn’t move closer.

He didn’t even blink.

He simply sat there, on the opposite side of the table, one elbow resting near his wine glass, the other arm subtly stretched beneath the surface like a quiet secret unraveling in the dark, and his voice, when it came, was soft and low and steady.

“Tell me to stop.”

And as he said it—calm, impossible, infuriatingly composed—you felt it: the cool air against your skin, your panties slipping down your thighs with a slow, torturous grace, peeled away by a hand that wasn’t even near you, stretched from across the table, precise and gentle and unspeakably brazen. The fabric caught just slightly at your knees before his fingers nudged it past, and you sat there frozen, wide-eyed, red-faced, with your dress pooled neatly over your lap and nothing beneath it now but heat and humiliation and the thundering pulse between your legs.

“Reed—” you breathed again, barely able to shape the word, and his gaze met yours in that maddening, quiet way—no urgency, no shame, only that still, measured calm that made your insides tremble, as if he was watching a reaction unfold under glass.

And then—

Sue's heels clicked softly on the polished floor as she entered the room again, moving with that effortless, elegant grace as she crossed behind you and returned to her seat.

“That should fix it,” she said lightly as she sat, her smile warm and unbothered, her tone casual as if nothing had changed in the few moments she’d been gone.

You turned toward her, your face flaming, your smile shaky and paper-thin as you tried to find your voice again, tried to stitch together whatever pieces of yourself hadn’t yet dissolved under Reed’s hand, which now rested high on your bare thigh like it belonged there.

“Thank you,” you managed softly, the words nearly catching on the breath that refused to sit still in your chest, and somehow, impossibly, you held her gaze.

And across from you, Reed Richards—calm, brilliant, monstrous in his control—simply took another sip of wine.

You tried to focus, truly you did—on Sue, on her words, on the soft clinking of silverware and the gentle thrum of jazz somewhere in the background—but all of it became nothing more than a blur of light and noise the moment his fingers moved again, slow and purposeful, the stretch of his arm impossibly seamless beneath the table, as if he could command every tendon, every muscle, with surgical precision.

He didn’t even shift in his seat, didn’t look down, didn’t so much as twitch, and yet—you felt him, truly felt him now, his fingers slipping between your thighs with exquisite control, brushing over your bare, trembling core with a deliberate slowness that made you forget how to hold your breath steady.

And then—he pushed.

Just one finger at first, and it was too much, because it was him, because it was stretched impossibly long and thick, curling up with inhuman ease, reaching deeper than anyone had ever dared, pressing into you like he already knew exactly where to go, what you needed, like he’d studied your anatomy and had all the answers memorized.

Your thighs tightened automatically, knees trembling under the weight of holding in a sound you very nearly let out, and your hands clenched into your lap, the wine glass beside you forgotten, your whole body alight with the unbearable tension of being touched like this—open, pulsing, absolutely undone—and doing nothing about it.

And then—

“Why don’t you explain to Sue what we went over the other day,” Reed said smoothly, as if he hadn’t just buried his finger inside you under the dinner table, as if he wasn’t slowly crooking it up to find that sweet, aching spot that made your stomach twist and your eyes nearly flutter shut.

You froze.

“What?” you whispered, blinking at him.

He offered a slight tilt of his head, his eyes resting on yours with a look of calm expectation—amusement, even—and then shifted his gaze to Sue, who was looking at you with the kindest, most open smile, entirely oblivious.

“The resonance collapse formula,” Reed said helpfully, voice steady. “She corrected one of my assumptions about it earlier this week. She’s sharper than she lets on.”

He curled his finger again.

And it took everything in you not to cry out.

You blinked rapidly, your lips parting around a breath that wasn’t quite a word, trying to remember the theory, the math, the basic principles of language, but all you could feel was the stretch inside you, the thick, gentle press of him moving in slow, unrelenting circles, coaxing you open without haste, without apology, without shame.

“I—” you started, your voice embarrassingly thin, “we—uh, we talked about—about the resonance curve failing at the threshold of—”

He added a second finger.

Your breath caught so hard you coughed, the burn of it tight in your chest, and you reached for your water like it might ground you, like the coolness of the glass could balance out the unbearable heat pulsing between your legs.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” Sue asked again, concerned.

You forced a smile, shaking your head quickly, eyes wet with the effort to look normal, to act normal, when Reed’s fingers were pushing deeper now, stretching you in a way that was obscene, careful, perfect, and somehow managing to keep the rhythm slow and steady, barely moving, just enough to make you drip helplessly onto his knuckles under the table while you tried to describe a physics principle with your body unraveling second by second.

“I’m okay,” you managed to whisper, voice too soft, too high.

Reed’s thumb brushed upward. You jolted. He smiled—just slightly.

“You were saying?” he asked gently.

You wanted to cry. Or scream. Or crawl under the table and never come out.

Instead, you looked up, cheeks flushed, throat tight, and murmured, “We adjusted the decay rate curve based on the harmonic threshold failing beyond point-six-three, and—and recalibrated the control conditions to reflect a more dynamic waveform—”

His fingers pressed up, deep, and you gasped—but you made it sound like awe, like wonder.

Sue beamed at you. “That’s amazing.”

You blinked, barely nodding, and Reed—still untouched himself, still seated like a man entirely at ease—just gave you the faintest smile across the table, like he was proud of you. Like you had passed some unspeakable test.

You weren’t sure when it changed—when Reed’s fingers, once so slow and exploratory, shifted their rhythm, no longer teasing but deliberate, their movement suddenly quickening beneath the tablecloth, each stroke firmer, deeper, more precise, curling up into that one devastating place inside you with the kind of methodical expertise that only a man like him could possess.

His thumb pressed again and again against your swollen clit in quiet, unrelenting circles, and it was obscene, unbelievably obscene, because he was still sitting across from you, back straight, shoulders calm, expression thoughtful and polite as Sue continued her story—talking about an ambassador, or a charity gala, or maybe a speech she gave—and you couldn’t hear a single word of it.

Because you were about to come.

Right there. At their dinner table.

Your thighs were trembling beneath the fabric of your dress, your body pulled taut like a string about to snap, nerves alight and burning in every limb, and you could feel it rising, fast and hot, building in your belly like a storm, spreading up through your spine with every practiced motion of his hand—stretched from across the table, long and dexterous and hidden beneath the soft, quiet clink of silverware.

You were soaked, dripping, pulsing around his fingers, and he knew. Of course he knew. He could feel every flutter, every desperate little squeeze your body gave him, and when he looked at you—really looked at you—his eyes burned with a satisfaction so soft it felt like praise.

You tried to hold it back. God, you tried. Your nails dug into the fabric of your skirt, your breathing shallow and uneven, your lashes fluttering as you ducked your head and bit into the back of your hand, trying to hide the sound, trying to bury the moan that threatened to rip itself from your throat. You were right on the edge, hovering there, helpless, when—

DING!

The sound of the oven’s timer rang out sharply through the kitchen, perfectly, cruelly timed—at the exact second you broke apart, your body shuddering around his fingers as the climax hit you so hard and fast you saw stars behind your eyes. You muffled the moan with your hand, trembling violently in your chair as you faked a cough so sharp it made Sue look up, concerned, just as she was standing to go check the dessert.

“Poor thing,” she said sweetly, already halfway out of the room, completely unaware of what had just happened right beneath her nose. “Let me go grab the cobbler—Reed, didn’t I tell you to turn on the vent fan for the oven? It smells like caramelized sugar in here.”

You barely managed to nod, your breath still stuttering in your chest, the taste of your own bitten-down moan lingering in your mouth like smoke, your vision wet and dizzy as you tried to collect yourself—but it was impossible, completely impossible, because Reed was still watching you, still calm, still composed, still seated like nothing had happened at all, as though his fingers hadn’t just coaxed your orgasm from you with the kind of precision that only a man with endless patience and supernatural reach could possess.

And then—he moved.

His hand, the one he had just pulled back from beneath your dress, rose slowly from beneath the table, casual, unhurried, and with the sort of smooth detachment that made your blood run hot all over again. You watched—helpless, horrified, entranced—as he brought his fingers to his mouth, his expression unreadable but his gaze never leaving yours, and then—

He licked them.

Just the tips. Just a quiet, deliberate motion—his tongue flicking out to drag across the pads of his fingers with unbearable slowness, like a man tasting something rare and sacred, like someone who savored knowledge, savored reactions, savored you—and your breath caught so hard it made your throat ache, your hands clenched in your lap, body still trembling beneath the table.

And that was the exact moment Sue walked back in.

The tray in her hands held a golden, bubbling dish still steaming at the edges, a pitcher of vanilla sauce tucked beside it, and she moved with the same easy grace she always had, placing the dish gently in the center of the table as the scent of caramelized fruit and butter filled the space.

“Was the sauce that good?” she asked with a light laugh, glancing over just in time to see her husband finishing his little motion, his fingers slipping from his mouth like it was nothing at all. “You just licked your fingers like you hadn’t eaten in days.”

Your entire body tensed.

Reed—calm, collected, horrifyingly composed—didn’t blink. He didn’t flinch. He simply tilted his head toward her, then turned back to you, his eyes locking with yours across the table, his gaze heavy with meaning, with memory, with the weight of what he’d just done to you, and said, without a flicker of shame—

“Delicious.”

Your stomach dropped. Your cheeks flamed. You looked away instantly, your eyes darting toward your lap, toward your empty plate, toward anywhere that wasn’t him, your skin hot and crawling with mortification, your thighs pressed tight together under the table, still slick and tender and sensitive as hell, and now—now you had to eat dessert.

With him. With her. With the taste of your orgasm still on his mouth.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

You said your goodbyes to Sue as sweetly and shakily as you could manage, your voice still thin and breathless from the quiet ruin Reed had left you in, the remnants of your orgasm still echoing in your body like a pulse you couldn’t calm, and still—still—you smiled, you nodded, you played the part of the polite, well-mannered girl who had not just come in silence at the dinner table. Sue hugged you lightly at the door, warm and soft and lovely, thanking you for coming and saying how nice it was to meet you, her words kind and sincere, her smile so genuine it made you ache.

“We’ll have to do this again,” she said gently, her voice carrying no suspicion, no awareness, only the comfort of a woman who’d welcomed you into her home and truly meant it.

“It was an honor,” you murmured, your voice barely more than a whisper, eyes lowered, fingers nervously wrapped around the strap of your bag, heart pounding loud and unrelenting in your chest.

Reed appeared behind you then, as if summoned by the rhythm of your exit, and without saying anything, without asking, he moved to walk you out, his hand resting lightly at the small of your back—a simple gesture, one that should’ve been harmless, innocent, but that felt anything but, especially after what those fingers had just done to you beneath a tablecloth in the dim golden light of a family dining room.

The door clicked shut behind the two of you, and the hallway beyond was quiet, cool, and still, a soft hum from the city beyond the glass, but the silence between you buzzed with something thicker, darker, more intimate than you could bear. He said nothing at first, only walked beside you with slow, unhurried steps, like the moment hadn’t already been branded into both your bodies, like he hadn’t watched you fall apart with your hand over your mouth while his wife got dessert.

At the door to the elevator, he stopped, and you turned toward him, still too flustered to meet his eyes, still trying to hold yourself together with trembling fingers and shallow breaths, your lashes lowered as you whispered, “Thank you for… dinner.”

His response came after a pause, his voice smooth, impossibly steady. “You were perfect.”

You froze—eyes flicking up, breath catching—and found him watching you with that same calm, unreadable expression, but there was something beneath it now, something warmer and darker and dangerous, the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth that made your knees weaken all over again.

“Good girl,” he added softly, low enough that only you could hear it, and the elevator doors opened behind you with a soft ding, cool air spilling out into the hallway like a breeze that didn’t belong.

You stepped inside on trembling legs, unsure if you remembered how to breathe, and as the doors began to close, you looked back—just once—and there he was, standing exactly as he had before, his hands in his pockets, head tilted ever so slightly, still watching you, like you were a puzzle he couldn’t wait to take apart again.

And when the doors shut fully, sealing you into silence, your hand finally flew to your chest.

Because you had just survived dinner. Barely. And you weren’t sure you’d ever be the same again.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

let me know your thoughtssss

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ashthesalamipiece · 1 month ago

Note

Can you pls do reader accidentally going back in time (because of an artifact she found on a mission) to where bakugo and the rest of the class are still in the ua and bakugo completly falls in love with reader because she is like super hot and a badass (since she is still in her gear) and she stays a while till she finds out how to go back and before heading back to the future she says something that reveals she and kats are married. Then if you can make a little skip thru time to where kats first meets reader and is super nervous and blurts out I love you.

Enjoy!♡

---

"Backdraft"

The ruins were quiet, too quiet.

You adjusted your gear, brushing a smudge of ash off your cheek. The mission had seemed straightforward: investigate a temporal anomaly outside Musutafu. But the second you touched that glowing relic in the center of the chamber, everything flipped.

A blinding pulse.

And then—

Sunlight. Voices. Heat.

You stumbled forward, blinking at the massive U.A. campus... fully intact.

"Hey! Who the hell—"

You turned instinctively, eyes locking with a very familiar pair of crimson ones. Katsuki Bakugo stood in full uniform, arms tense, his eyes narrowing—until he really saw you.

Your tactical gear clung to your form, smoke trailing from your last battle. Confident. Poised. Dangerous.

"Holy shit," he muttered under his breath, momentarily stunned.

"Language," you smirked, before realizing—oh, you were definitely in the past.

---

Days passed.

No one could figure out who you were or how you got through U.A.'s security. Nezu let you stay, partially intrigued, partially suspicious. You trained with the class, claiming amnesia. It was safer than the truth.

Bakugo, though? He was obsessed.

At first, he masked it with his usual temper—snarky remarks, glares, challenges. But you saw the way his eyes lingered. How he'd subtly step between you and danger during drills. How he listened, really listened, when you spoke.

You let it happen. Against your better judgment, you liked seeing this side of him again—unguarded, unaware.

---

Then came the day you found a way back.

The artifact reacted to your touch again, humming with familiarity. Your window home was seconds away.

Bakugo stormed into the training hall, catching you just as the light returned.

"Wait—you're leaving? Just like that?!" His voice cracked, raw with frustration.

You gave a soft smile, brushing a hand along his cheek—his younger, stunned expression making your heart ache.

"Don't worry, Kats. We still end up married."

And you vanished.

---

Years Later…

Bakugo stood backstage at a Pro Hero gala, heart pounding.

He’d never forgotten you. The mystery woman who vanished into time. But the day had finally come.

Someone was walking toward him in that same gear. Same confident walk. Same smirk.

You.

He opened his mouth—totally intending to say something cool. Collected.

Instead, what came out was:

"I love you."

You blinked. Then laughed softly.

"Took you long enough."

#my hero academia #reader #mha x reader #bhna #fluff #bakugou katsuki #bakugo #bakugo katsuki x reader #bakugo x reader

154 notes · View notes

buldakcorn · 3 months ago

Text

[IMYJ-1111] Heroine in Grave Danger! The Fall of Sailor Pluto

LOONA/LOOSSEMBLE Yeojin x Monsters

Genre : (TW) Dubcon, JAV-inspired, Superheroine, Electrocution, Mindbreak, Sweaty Sex, Gangbang, Monster Cock, Overstimulation, Triple Penetration,

9141 words

As dawn broke over the bustling metropolis, the usual hum of activity began to resonate through the concrete jungle. The neon lights that had once cast a vibrant glow over the city streets gradually dimmed, making way for the early morning sun. In a modest apartment nestled between towering skyscrapers, Im Yeojin stirred from her sleep. Her night had been anything but ordinary—as Sailor Pluto, she had single-handedly thwarted a heinous plan to steal the city's time itself.

The criminals, a mysterious group known only as the Time Snatchers, had sought to plunge the world into an eternal nightmare of stagnation and chaos. With her trusty Garnet Rod and her unyielding sense of duty, she had sent them reeling into the depths of oblivion, restoring the flow of time and granting the city's inhabitants another chance at a brighter future.

But as Yeojin stretched and rubbed the sleep from her eyes, she was keenly aware that she had to juggle two very different lives. In just a few hours, she would transform from the guardian of the underworld to a mild-mannered office worker. She had to keep her secret identity under wraps, ensuring that her colleagues never suspected that their punctual and diligent coworker was the very heroine who had saved them from the clutches of temporal despair.

The delicate balance between her two worlds was a constant challenge, one she faced with the same determination she brought to her battles as Sailor Pluto. With a deep breath, she donned her business attire and set off to conquer the day ahead, her secret identity nestled safely beneath her square glasses and the surface of her mundane existence. Little did the city know that their salvation was just a coffee break away.

The office buzzed to life as the clock struck 9, and Yeojin, still half in her Sailor Pluto mindset, found herself lost in the sea of paperwork on her desk.

Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted when her coworker, flicked on the small TV mounted in the corner of their shared office space. The news blared to life, displaying scenes of panic and chaos at the city square.

Her heart skipped a beat as the newscaster reported a brazen attack by a monstrous creature and its goon squad, leaving a wake of destruction in their path. The mood in the room grew tense as the images of terrified citizens flashed across the screen. Yeojin's eyes widened with recognition—this was no ordinary street brawl.

She knew all too well the eerie aura that clung to the monsters she battled as Sailor Pluto. The Time Snatchers had returned, and it was clear they had not abandoned their nefarious goals. With a silent vow to protect her city once again, Yeojin felt the transformation stirring within her.

Yeojin's pulse quickened as she excused herself from her colleagues, her mind racing with the gravity of the situation. She swiftly made her way to the rooftop of the office building, the solace of the early morning air offering a brief reprieve from the tension building within her. Gripping her Garnet Rod tightly, she recited the sacred incantation that would empower her transformation. A burst of light enveloped her, and as it faded, she stood tall in her Sailor Pluto uniform—a stark contrast to the dull office attire she had worn just moments before.

The blue crop top and skirt fluttered in the gentle breeze, her knee-high socks adorned with the symbol of Pluto's power, and her brunette hair now adorned with a fiery red bow. She took a deep breath, feeling the weight of her duty press upon her once more. With a graceful leap, she cast aside her glasses, and as they tumbled to the rooftop, so too did the last vestiges of her civilian identity. Her eyes, now a piercing shade of blue, surveyed the chaotic scene unfolding below.

Time had once again been disrupted, and she was the only one who could set it right. With a powerful beat of her heart, she launched herself into the sky, her transformation complete. Sailor Pluto was on her way to face the Time Snatchers.

Sailor Pluto descended upon the city square with the force of a meteor, her arrival shaking the very foundation of the concrete playground the Time Snatchers had claimed as their battleground. As she hit the pavement, her fist connected with a tremendous thud, sending a shockwave that toppled the nearby goons like bowling pins. The monstrous creature and its minions, caught off guard by her sudden appearance, paused in their destruction to gaze upon the new threat.

Yeojin felt the power of Pluto surge through her veins, her eyes narrowing with the unyielding determination to protect her city. Rising to her full height, she called upon the ancient guardian within, her voice echoing through the square as she announced her intentions,

"I am Sailor Pluto, protector of the underworld and the keeper of time! I shall not let you desecrate the flow of time any further!" The creature snarled, its eyes flashing with malice, as the battle for the city's future was about to commence anew.

The monstrous leader of the Time Snatchers, a creature that stood a towering ten feet tall with a grotesque grin, sneered at Sailor Pluto's declaration. "A mere mortal dares to stand before us?" it bellowed, its deep, echoing voice laced with amusement. It gestured to its minions, who cackled in agreement, pointing at her diminutive form.

Yeojin, despite her smaller stature, remained unfazed. She knew all too well that true power did not stem from size but from the unyielding spirit that resided within her. With a grace that belied her compact frame, she raised her Garnet Rod high, its gem pulsing with an eerie light that seemed to resonate with the very fabric of time itself. Her eyes gleamed with a fierce resolve that sent a shiver down the creature's spine, hinting at the formidable force she was about to unleash.

The monster's overconfidence was about to be its undoing, as Sailor Pluto, the guardian of the temporal realm, was more than prepared to teach it a lesson it would never forget.

"My goons, attack!"

The goons, emboldened by their leader's command, charged at Sailor Pluto like a horde of maddened bulls. She deftly dodged their clumsy advances, her movements swift and precise. Each evasion was a dance with fate, every step calculated to bring her closer to the monstrous leader. The creature watched with growing irritation as its minions were sent flying with a graceful twirl of her Garnet Rod. The air around her grew thick with anticipation as she gathered her power, the very essence of time bending to her will.

In a flash of bluish-white light, she unleashed a powerful blast, "Chronos Typhoon!" The goons were sent spiraling into the sky, their shrieks piercing the air as they were dispersed like leaves in a tornado. The creature, caught off guard by her sudden display of strength, took a step back. Its smug grin had vanished, replaced by a snarl of fury. It knew then that it had underestimated her. The battle was far from over, but the Time Snatchers had just caught a glimpse of the true power of Sailor Pluto—a power that would not be so easily dismissed.

The creature grew in size, its eyes burning with a dark, malevolent energy. The ground trembled as it raised its arms, ready to unleash an attack of its own. Sailor Pluto's grip on her Garnet Rod tightened, her stance unyielding. She was ready to face whatever horrors this being had in store, her eyes never leaving the monstrous visage that now loomed over her. The fate of the city hung in the balance, and she was the only one standing between the Time Snatchers and their ultimate goal.

The creature's attack came swiftly, a black tendril of shadowy energy that threatened to swallow her whole. But Sailor Pluto was not one to back down. With a swift pivot, she sliced through the tendril with her Garnet Rod, the energy dissipating into a shower of sparks. The creature roared in anger, its true form momentarily revealed—a twisted amalgamation of time and darkness.

Yeojin felt a surge of adrenaline as she recognized the true enemy she faced—Chronos, the god of time itself, an enemy she once fought, corrupted by an unknown force. This was no ordinary fight; she was battling the very fabric of time that she was sworn to protect. The gravity of the situation weighed heavily on her shoulders, but she pushed aside her fear. This was her duty, and she would not fail.

With renewed vigor, Sailor Pluto leaped into the fray, her crimson bow fluttering like a banner of defiance. Her eyes never left Chronos's, a silent promise that she would not rest until time itself was restored to order. The battle raged on, a spectacle of light and shadow playing out in the heart of the city as the fate of everyone she knew and loved hung precariously in the balance.

Chronos, the corrupted god of time, took a malicious delight in the moment, its dark eyes glinting with victory as it shot forth a beam of condensed temporal energy. Sailor Pluto, ever the agile warrior, attempted to dodge the attack with a graceful leap.

But the beam, as if it had a mind of its own, curved and struck her squarely in the crotch. The Chronos's sadistic laughter filled the square as Sailor Pluto crumpled to the ground, the searing pain in her crotch causing stars to dance before her eyes.

A defeated goon, witnessing her momentary vulnerability, took the opportunity to scuttle away, his mission a failure but his survival instincts sharp as ever.

Her breaths came in ragged gasps, and for a moment, Yeojin felt the weight of her dual lives threaten to crush her. But she knew she could not let this be the end. Drawing upon the deep reservoir of strength that had carried her through countless battles, she pushed herself back to her feet, gritting her teeth against the pain. Her uniform clung to her body, slightly singed from the attack, but she was not broken—not yet.

Summoning the last of her strength, Sailor Pluto stood tall, her eyes blazing with the indomitable spirit of Pluto. With a battle cry that seemed to shake the very air, she raised her Garnet Rod and pointed it at the monstrous Chronos, the gem at its tip pulsing with a fiery light. The creature, surprised by her resilience, took a step back, its grin faltering. Yeojin knew this was her moment—her chance to reclaim the city's future. She whispered the words of her ultimate technique, "Dead Scream!"

The power of the attack was palpable, a sonic boom that sent shockwaves through the city. The beam of light shot forth from her Garnet Rod, a scream that seemed to rip through the fabric of time itself. Chronos bellowed in agony as the light engulfed it, the corruption writhing within it struggling to resist the purifying force of Pluto's power. The creature's body began to break apart, its form disintegrating into a maelstrom of shadow and time. With a final, desperate roar, Chronos was vanquished, the stolen moments of the city's time released in a burst of dazzling light that showered down like confetti upon the relieved citizens below.

As the dust settled and the square returned to a semblance of order, Sailor Pluto's form began to flicker. The strain of the battle had taken its toll, and she knew she had to retreat to the shadows once more. With a final glance at the scene of victory, she transformed back into Yeojin, her office attire reappearing as if by magic. She gathered her things and slipped away, her heart pounding with a mix of exhaustion and triumph. Her secret remained safe, her mission accomplished—for now.

///

In the bowels of the Time Snatchers' hidden lair, the shadowy figure known only as the Grand Maestro of Temporal Chaos seethed with rage. His screens flickered with the images of his monstrous creations being decimated by the pint-sized yet mighty Sailor Pluto.

"How could this be?" he roared, slamming his fist onto the control panel before him. His perfectly manicured nails left dents in the cold metal as he watched his meticulously laid plans crumble to dust. He had underestimated the girl with the crimson bow, and now his dream of controlling the flow of time lay in tatters. He vowed, his voice a sinister whisper, that he would not rest until he had uncovered the source of her power and claimed it for his own. The game was far from over, and Sailor Pluto had just earned herself an even more dangerous enemy.

The goon that had escaped the battlefield, nursing its bruised ego and a newfound respect for the pint-sized heroine, managed to limp its way back to the Time Snatchers' lair. It stumbled into the Grand Maestro's chamber, its breath ragged and eyes gleaming with excitement.

"Maestro," it rasped, "I have observed a weakness in our adversary, Sailor Pluto. She is not invincible!"

The Grand Maestro's eyes lit up with interest, his rage momentarily abating.

"Tell me," he hissed, his tone a mix of anticipation and malice.

The goon, eager to regain its master's favor, revealed what it had witnessed during the battle.

"Her crotch, my lord. It seems to be a... a... sensitive spot. When struck, she is momentarily incapacitated!"

The Grand Maestro's smile grew cold and calculating.

"Ah, so the keeper of time has a temporal Achilles' heel," he mused, stroking his chin.

"Very well, this knowledge shall not go to waste. Prepare my newest creation, one that will exploit this weakness and bring Sailor Pluto to her knees!"

With a renewed sense of purpose, the goon scurried away, eager to be part of the plot that would spell the heroine's downfall. The Grand Maestro's mind raced, already crafting the perfect monster to dethrone the guardian of time.

///

As Yeojin returned to her office, blending into the sea of cubicles, she remained blissfully unaware of the new peril lurking in the shadows, waiting to strike when she least expected it.

///

In the coming days, Sailor Pluto threw herself into the fray with unyielding determination. Each new monstrosity spawned by the Grand Maestro of Temporal Chaos was met with swift and decisive retribution. Yeojin's nights grew longer as she tirelessly patrolled the city, her Garnet Rod a constant reminder of the power she wielded and the responsibility it entailed. Despite the relentless onslaught, she emerged victorious time and time again, her spirit never faltering. Each battle was a testament to her unwavering dedication to her duty, a dance of light and shadow that she performed with the grace of a warrior and the heart of a guardian.

As Yeojin settled into her office chair, sipping on the lukewarm coffee that had become the lifeblood of her mundane workday, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss. The air in the city felt charged with an energy she hadn't sensed before—a sinister presence that seemed to coil around the very fabric of time itself. Her intuition, sharpened by countless battles, told her that the Time Snatchers had cooked up a new, more terrifying plot. That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, she felt the now-familiar transformation stir within her. Sailor Pluto's iconic outfit materialized around her, and she set off to face whatever horrors awaited.

The city streets grew darker as she approached the designated battleground, the Grand Maestro's latest monstrosity already causing havoc. This creature was unlike any she had faced before—its body a writhing mass of wet, eel-like tentacles that crackled with electricity, leaving trails of sizzling asphalt in its wake. The creature's eyes gleamed with a sickening intelligence as it surveyed the chaos, searching for the one who would dare to challenge it. Sailor Pluto's heart raced as she stepped forward, her Garnet Rod at the ready.

The creature's sly grin grew wider as it issued a guttural command to its minions, the goons eagerly rushing towards Sailor Pluto.

But instead of the usual barrage of fists and kicks, they aimed for her limbs, their cold, clammy hands reaching out to seize her. Yeojin's eyes widened in surprise, realizing that the Time Snatchers had indeed learned from her past battles. She danced away from their grasp, her movements swift and precise, her heart racing with the realization that she was in for a far more tactical battle this time.

Her back now to the monster, Sailor Pluto's instincts were on high alert. The creature's tentacles shot out like lightning, aiming for her limbs with a precision that spoke of the their newfound strategy. She spun and twirled, the crimson bow fluttering around her, as she narrowly avoided each electric embrace.

The monster's tentacles grew longer and more agile with each failed attempt, stretching out like the twisted arms of a giant octopus. Yeojin's eyes darted back and forth, searching for an opening, a weakness she could exploit.

The creature's grin grew wider, enjoying the cat-and-mouse game it had orchestrated. But she was Sailor Pluto, the guardian of the underworld, and she had faced down the jaws of defeat before. With a swift pivot, she ducked under a tentacle and rolled away, creating enough distance to regain her composure.

Before Sailor Pluto could fully recover her bearings, she found herself ensnared by the goons' tight grasp, their grip like iron around her arms and legs. Sailor Pluto knows she can escape their hold with her super strangth.

With a wicked chuckle, the creature took its shot, a tentacle lashing out with the speed of lightning to wrap around her most sensitive area. The tip of tentacle rubbing on her crotch.

Electricity surged through her, a white-hot agony that seemed to freeze time itself as she arched her back in pain. The goons' laughter grew louder, echoing through the square as they tightened their hold, eager to watch their foe suffer.

The electric tentacle's grip loosened, and with a gasp, Sailor Pluto collapsed face down onto the scorched pavement, her body trembling with the aftershocks of pain. The goons, cackling in triumph, released their ironclad hold, watching as she fought to push herself back up. Her limbs quivered, her usually steadfast resolve momentarily shaken.

The goons closed in, their twisted grins widening as they sensed her weakness. Sailor Pluto mustered every ounce of her will and swung a punch at the nearest goon, only to have her blow land with the strength of a feather's touch.

Her shock was palpable—the crotch attack had sapped her of her usual formidable might. She gritted her teeth, her eyes flashing with determination as she realized she would have to outsmart them if she was to survive.

As she tries to kick the approaching goon, her leg is caught in the vice-like grip of another, leaving her open to the creature's vile intentions. The monster's tentacle, still crackling with electricity, rears back for another strike at her crotch. Yeojin's eyes widen with horror as she feels the electricity surge through her once more, a pain so intense that it seems to pierce her very soul. The world around her begins to dim, the laughter of the goons and the chaos of the battle fading into a distant cacophony. Her body convulses, and she can feel the last of her strength draining away. The monster's grin widens in anticipation of her defeat, as the electricity courses through her veins, stealing her consciousness.

And just as the world goes dark, she feels herself being hoisted into the air by the tentacles, her body limp and powerless. The goons retreat, their victory assured. The Grand Maestro's laughter echoes through the square as Yeojin's unconscious form is carried away into the night, leaving behind only the fading whispers of a battle that had tested the very limits of her power.

///

Yeojin's eyes snapped open, the remnants of electric pain still crackling through her body as she took in her new surroundings. The air was thick with the scent of ozone, and she found herself hanging by her wrists, body standing above a cold, metallic floor. The goons from the battle swarmed around her, their twisted forms cackling and jeering. The Grand Maestro of Temporal Chaos loomed over her, a smug smile playing on his lips as he observed his captive prize. The room was dimly lit, with screens and control panels flickering with images of the city's distorted timeline—a twisted reflection of the chaos he had sown.

"I see you are awake now, little menace."

"Stop this right now you ugly creature! Release me before I end the lives of everyone in this room."

The Grand Maestro of Temporal Chaos chuckled at Sailor Pluto's defiant words, his eyes gleaming with a sadistic glee.

"Ah, so the mighty guardian of time is not as invincible as she believes. I have studied your battles, and I know where to strike to bring you to your knees."

He gestured to his goons, who approached Yeojin with gleeful anticipation, their twisted grins revealing their excitement at the prospect of causing her pain. One of them produced a device, a twisted mix of technology and dark magic that hummed with an unsettling energy.

"You will learn to fear me, Sailor Pluto," he sneered, "and when you do, when you are broken and begging for mercy, I will take your power and reshape the fabric of time to suit my whims!"

The device was brought closer, the air around it crackling with a dangerous electricity.

The goon lifted Sailor Pluto's skirt with a sneer, exposing her most sensitive area to the Grand Maestro's twisted invention. The device buzzed with malicious intent, its vibrations sending a wave of nauseating fear through Yeojin's body.

The device's vibrating shaft reached the edge of her panties, and Sailor Pluto could feel the electricity building up, ready to be unleashed upon her once more.

"AHHHHHHH"

Her scream pierced the air as the Grand Maestro's invention made contact with her most sensitive area, the pain beyond anything she had ever endured. Her body went rigid as the current surged through her, the very essence of her power being drawn out in a torrent of agony. The goons jeered, their eyes alight with sadistic pleasure at her suffering, and the Grand Maestro leaned in close, whispering sweet nothings about the fate of the city she had sworn to protect.

"All you have to do is to give me your source of power and you will be as free as a bird," the Grand Maestro tells her with his hand grabbing her chin.

Through gritted teeth, Sailor Pluto refused, "Never! I will never surrender the power that protects this city!"

"Very well"

The vibration intensity on the device increased rapidly, and Yeojin could do nothing but look up to the ceiling and let out a soul-wrenching scream.

Her eyes squeezed shut, she could feel the power of Sailor Pluto being ripped from her core with every pulse of electricity, leaving her weaker by the second. The Grand Maestro's laughter grew louder, feeding on her agony.

As the device's intensity grew, Yeojin could feel her body begin to convulse, the pain from the relentless crotch attacks growing unbearable. With a final, desperate cry, she felt her transformation slip away, leaving her in nothing but her underwear.

Her uniform lay in tatters around her, revealing her bra-covered, erect nipples and the damp, glistening fabric of her panties that clung to her exposed pussy lips. Her body was a canvas of sweat, a testament to her struggle and the sheer force of the Grand Maestro's power.

Her body trembled, and her breaths grew shallow, but she would not give in to his demands. The very essence of Sailor Pluto's power was being siphoned away, but her spirit remained unbroken, a beacon of hope in the face of overwhelming darkness.

The Grand Maestro's eyes gleamed with a newfound idea as he took in the sight of the weakened Yeojin. His smile grew broader, a twisted reflection of his sadistic intentions.

He knew that brute force had failed to break her, so he would have to employ a different tactic—one that would play upon her most primal fears and desires. The Grand Maestro had deduced that if pain alone could not make her submit, perhaps a more... intimate approach would be more effective.

The Grand Maestro stepped back, his eyes raking over Yeojin's exposed body with a hunger that was palpable. He leaned in close to her ear, his breath hot against her neck, and whispered,

"You are quite the captivating creature, aren't you, Sailor Pluto?" His tone had changed, the malice replaced with a syrupy sweetness that made her skin crawl.

"I can offer you a deal. If you pledge yourself to me, as my personal plaything, giving me all of your powers, I will not only spare your life but grant you unparalleled pleasure beyond your wildest dreams. You will be adored and pampered, your every need met, as long as you cooperate." His hand trailed down her spine, pausing at the small of her back before sliding around to cup her covered crotch.

The goons' laughter grew more frenzied, their eyes alight with the depraved joy of witnessing their leader's twisted seduction. Yeojin's heart raced, fear and anger warring within her as she felt his grip tighten around her. She knew she had to keep her wits about her if she was to survive this new form of attack.

Her voice trembled slightly, but she found the strength to spit out a vehement refusal.

"I will never betray my duty to protect this city. Release me now, or face my wrath!" The Grand Maestro chuckled, his grip loosening just enough to let her know that she was still in his power.

"We shall see," he said, his voice a dark promise that sent a shiver down her spine. "We shall see just how long you can resist the allure of the darkness before you embrace it willingly."

The Grand Maestro's goons, eager to please their leader, rushed forward to do his bidding. Two sets of rough hands reached up to cup Yeojin's bra-covered breasts, playing with her erect nipples through the fabric, eliciting gasps of pain and disgust from her.

Meanwhile, more hands grabbed and smacked her exposed asscheeks, the sound of flesh meeting flesh echoing through the chamber like a perverse symphony.

Another hand, cold and slimy, traced the outline of her pussy, the fabric of her underwear providing little barrier to the unwanted touch. Yeojin's eyes burned with a mix of anger and fear, her mind racing for a way to escape this degrading torment.

The Grand Maestro stepped back, watching the scene unfold with a twisted smile. He knew that the physical pain was just the beginning—his true weapon was the psychological warfare he was about to unleash upon her.

"Look at her," he taunted, "the great Sailor Pluto, reduced to a mere plaything for the amusement of the Time Snatchers."

Yeojin gritted her teeth, her body on fire with humiliation. She knew she had to find a way out of this nightmare before it was too late. As the goons continued their lewd assault, she searched for an opening, any weakness she could exploit. But with every touch, every smack, she felt herself slipping further into despair.

"Please, stop this!" she begged, her body squirming against the relentless assault of the goons.

The Grand Maestro's grin grew wider, his eyes gleaming with victory as a goon's hand slipped into her underwear, the cold, wet digits brushing against her sensitive flesh. Despite her pleas, she couldn't help the involuntary moan that escaped her lips as the creature's touch grew bolder.

"Look at her," he gloated, "she's already beginning to crave it. Soon, she'll be begging for more."

"Get....out.....Mmfffgh.....No.....Don't!"

The goon's fingers delved deeper into Yeojin's pussy, eliciting a whimper of mixed pain and embarrassment from her lips. The Grand Maestro's eyes gleamed with triumph as he watched her body react to the unwanted intrusion, her wetness growing despite her protests.

Her panties clung to her now, the fabric darkening as she grew wetter with each invasive stroke. The goons' laughter grew more raucous, their excitement palpable as they reveled in her degradation.

With a Herculean effort fueled by her unyielding will, Yeojin managed to break free from the entanglement around her wrists and the goons' clutches. She pushed them away with a strength born of desperation, sending them sprawling across the metallic floor.

Gasping for breath and clutching at her bruised body, she sprinted towards a nearby door, her bare feet slapping against the cold surface. The goons scrambled to their feet, their leers twisted into snarls of frustration, but she was too fast.

Slamming the door shut behind her, she stumbled into a small, dimly lit chamber, her chest heaving as she searched for a means of escape. The room was sparse, with only a single chair and a control panel that pulsed with a sinister glow.

Before Yeojin could even consider her next move, a sudden sensation of cold and slimy grip encircled her wrists and ankles.

Her eyes widened in horror as she found herself ensnared by the tentacled monster that she fought before had emerged from the shadows, its elongated limbs wrapping around her with alarming strength. The creature's beady eyes bore into hers, a twisted grin stretching across its grotesque face.

She struggled and squirmed, her heart racing as she realized the Grand Maestro had been toying with her all along. The tentacles grew tighter, the pressure on her wrists and ankles increasing, forcing her to her knees.

The tentacled monster took advantage of her vulnerable position, sending another jolt of electricity directly into her body, centering on her pussy. Yeojin's body spasmed, her eyes rolling back as the agonizing current surged through her.

Despite her pleas for mercy, the creature's grin only widened, the sadistic glee in its eyes growing more intense with each jolt. Her body writhed in pain, her cries for help echoing through the cold, metallic chamber.

"Please.....Ah....No more....."

With a final, agonizing pulse of electricity, Yeojin felt the last vestiges of her Sailor Pluto transformation leave her.

Her underwear disintegrated, leaving her fully exposed and vulnerable in the tentacled creature's grasp. Her body spasmed one final time before going limp, the pain too much for her to bear.

The goons' eyes bulged with excitement as they took in the sight of her naked form, the Grand Maestro's plans having stripped away her last shred of dignity along with her powers.

She laid down after being released, panting and trembling, her breasts heaving with each desperate gasp for air. The cold, metallic floor was a stark contrast to the warm, sticky wetness between her legs, a testament to the monster's relentless assault.

The Grand Maestro leaned over her, his twisted smile never leaving his face as he offered one last ultimatum. "Your choice, Sailor Pluto—surrender your power, or suffer an eternity of torment at the hands of my minions."

Yeojin's chest heaved with exertion, her eyes brimming with determination despite the agony etched into her features.

"No.....you cannot.....bring me....down."

She weakly yet firmly shook her head, her sweat-drenched hair sticking to her face. The beads of perspiration trickled down her neck, carving a path between her breasts, pooling in her cleavage.

"You leave me with no choice, Sailor Pluto."

The Grand Maestro's smile grew wider, his eyes gleaming with victory as two of his goons grabbed Yeojin's arms, hoisting her weakened body into a kneeling position. Her legs trembled, her knees shake from the relentless assault but she managed to keep herself upright.

The Grand Maestro reached into the folds of his cloak and revealed his monstrous, pulsating cock, the size of which was incomparable to any human's.

Yeojin's eyes bulged with fear, unable to comprehend the sheer magnitude of the horror before her. It was a weapon of nightmares, a tool of violation and submission that seemed to beckon to the very core of her being.

The goons' held her in place, their grip tightening around her arms, ensuring she had no escape from the Grand Maestro's depraved intentions.

The creature's cock grew larger still, a grotesque display of power that seemed to feed on her terror. Yeojin gulped, her heart racing as she stared at the obscene appendage, her mind racing for any way to resist the fate that seemed to await her.

The Grand Maestro leaned in closer, his monstrous cock a mere inch from her face.

"Open your mouth," he demanded, his voice thick with desire.

"No!" Yeojin's eyes widened with horror, and she turned her face away, her jaw clenched shut.

Without warning, the two goons holding her arms leaned in, prying open her mouth with their fingers. Yeojin's eyes snapped open, her scream of protest muffled as the Grand Maestro's cock was shoved deep into her throat.

She gagged and choked, her eyes watering as she struggled against the intrusion. The creature's grip on her face was unyielding, his hips bucking forward with each thrust, pushing her to her limits.

"Aughhh...Mmmff.....Gleurghh!"

It took several painstaking moments for the Grand Maestro's massive, pulsing cock to be fully sheathed within Yeojin's delicate throat. Her eyes watered and bulged with the effort of taking in the monstrous girth, her cheeks hollowed as she struggled for air around the intrusion.

Her throat muscles convulsed around the shaft, a silent protest against the violation, as the creature's head tilted back in ecstasy at the feeling of her tight warmth surrounding him.

Each thrust brought forth a muffled gagging sound that only served to spur him on, the obscene outline of his cock clearly visible as it vanished into her throat. Yeojin's body trembled with each deep penetration, her legs threatening to give way beneath her as she fought to keep herself upright.

"Yes, take it all in, little slut."

Her eyes rolled back, the whites showing as she struggled to maintain her consciousness amidst the relentless onslaught of the Grand Maestro's monstrous cock. Saliva cascaded down her chin, leaving a wet trail that pooled at her neckline before trickling down to her heaving breasts.

When he finally withdrew from her throat, she gasped for air, her chest heaving with the desperate need to breathe. Her vision swam, and she felt a tear escape the corner of her eye, trailing down her cheek to mingle with the saliva and sweat that coated her face.

The Grand Maestro's eyes gleamed with a twisted mix of pleasure and triumph, his cock glistening with her saliva. He leaned in closer, his hot breath against her ear.

"You see, you do crave the darkness. Embrace it, Sailor Pluto, and perhaps I'll make your existence pleasurable."

Yeojin's resolve shone through her tear-stained eyes as she choked out a firm, "N-Never!"

Despite her weakened state, she gathered every ounce of her will and shoved back at the Grand Maestro's chest, her voice a testament to her unbreakable spirit. However, her resistance only served to fuel his anger.

With a snarl, he pushed her back onto the cold, hard floor, his tentacled creature holding her legs in place as he positioned himself between her trembling legs. The goons watched with rapt attention, their own malicious desires reflected in their twisted expressions. Yeojin's legs were forced apart, the Grand Maestro's massive cock poised at her entrance, ready to claim victory over her body and soul.

"W-wait, don't!"

With a snarl of fury, the Grand Maestro ignored Yeojin's desperate pleas and thrust his monstrous cock into her tight, unyielding pussy. Yeojin's eyes widened in agony as she was stretched to her limits, the pain unlike anything she had ever experienced. Her nails dug into the palms of her hands as she clenched her fists, trying to find any purchase in the cold, unforgiving floor beneath her. The creature's tentacles tightened around her ankles, holding her in place as the Grand Maestro claimed her, inch by agonizing inch.

"Ah!..Ah!..geugh...ah...n-no stop i-it!"

Her screams of pain and defiance filled the chamber, echoing off the metallic walls, a stark contrast to the gleeful cheers of the goons that watched on. The Grand Maestro's hips moved with a brutal rhythm, each thrust driving home the reality of her newfound captivity.

"Let see if you can handle all of this, Sailor Pluto!"

Yeojin's head fell back with a mix of pain and a surprising, unwanted pleasure as the Grand Maestro's monstrous cock invaded her with each punishing thrust. Her eyes rolled upwards, the ceiling spinning as the intense sensations overwhelmed her.

"Ohh...fuck! Pull t-that monster o-out!"

Despite her fierce will to resist, she couldn't help the low, guttural moan that slipped from her throat with every brutal penetration.

His palms found her breasts, squeezing and kneading them without mercy, the harsh bounce only serving to heighten his pleasure. The room was filled with the obscene sounds of wet flesh slapping against wet flesh, a symphony of violation.

Her body, usually a bastion of strength and grace, now trembled and convulsed beneath his, her Sailor Pluto uniform discarded and forgotten.

Her thoughts swirled in a maelstrom of agony and degradation, the once stoic guardian of time now reduced to a writhing, moaning plaything for her enemy's sick desires.

The tentacles held her tight, their grip unyielding as he pounded into her with a ferocity that seemed to defy the very laws of the universe she was sworn to protect.

The Grand Maestro's eyes gleamed with perverse triumph as he noticed Yeojin's eyes crossing and her pussy clenching around his monstrous cock, a clear sign she was approaching climax. His thrusts grew more frenzied, driving into her with a speed that seemed to defy the very fabric of time itself.

Yeojin's cries grew louder, echoing through the chamber like a siren's call, her body a canvas of pain and unwanted pleasure. Each powerful thrust sent waves of agony and ecstasy crashing through her, her mind struggling to reconcile the two as she felt herself inexorably drawn closer to the brink.

Despite her desperate attempts to maintain control, her body began to betray her, her moans growing more wanton, her hips bucking up to meet the Grand Maestro's punishing rhythm. Her cheeks flushed a deep shade of red, and her eyes squeezed shut as she tried to hold back the tide of pleasure threatening to overwhelm her.

Yeojin's mind was a tumult of conflicting emotions.

"Why...why does it feel so...good?" she thought to herself, her body involuntarily responding to the brutal invasion with a betrayal of pleasure. The thought of enjoying this violation sent a fresh wave of despair crashing through her.

She was Sailor Pluto, a guardian of justice and purity—how could she find any solace in such depravity? Her mind screamed for it to stop, yet her body seemed to crave the very thing she detested. Her thoughts grew hazy, the line between agony and ecstasy blurring until it was almost indistinguishable.

"No...no, this can't be right," she whispered to herself, her voice lost in the cacophony of her own moans.

The Grand Maestro's grin grew wider with each passing second, his eyes gleaming with victory as he watched Yeojin's resolve crumble. He knew that he had found her weakness—the dark, carnally base desires that lay dormant within even the purest of hearts.

"Surrender to the pleasure, Sailor Pluto," he taunted, his voice a seductive purr that seemed to resonate through her very soul.

Yeojin bit her lower lip, her eyes squeezed shut as she tried to fight the inescapable truth. The pleasure was overwhelming, a crescendo building within her that she knew would soon shatter her. Her body trembled and arched off the floor with every deep, powerful thrust, her breasts bouncing with the rhythm of his depravity.

"I...I can't...I won't!" she protested through gritted teeth, her voice strained with the effort to maintain her sanity.

But the crisis within her grew more intense with each passing moment, the pleasure threatening to consume her entirely. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, her body moving in time with the Grand Maestro's vile dance.

"Oh...god...no!" she screamed internally, her thoughts a chaotic jumble of resistance and capitulation.

With a final, guttural scream, Yeojin's body betrayed her, succumbing to the Grand Maestro's twisted seduction. Her pussy clamped down on his cock, her orgasm ripping through her like a tempest. Her eyes squeezed shut, and she threw her head back, her long hair a wild mess around her. Her entire body quivered and writhed in the throes of ecstasy, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. The Grand Maestro, grinning triumphantly, withdrew from her, allowing her to ride the waves of pleasure that crashed through her.

The tentacles released their hold, and Yeojin's limbs fell limp to the floor, her body shaking uncontrollably as she succumbed to the intense climax that had been wrung from her. Her sweat-soaked skin glistened in the harsh, cold light of the chamber, each tremor sending droplets flying in every direction. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes, though still not open fully, bore the marks of her defeat.

"Get up you pathetic whore."

The Grand Maestro's triumphant laughter echoed through the chamber as he lifted Yeojin's limp form off the ground and placed her onto his broad, muscular chest as he laid down. She felt the coldness of the floor leave her body as she was positioned atop the creature, his monstrous cock still erect and demanding. Her legs were spread wide, and she could feel the sticky warmth of her own juices mingling with the creature's precum, creating a slick mess that made her stomach turn. Her mind racing as she tried to find the will to resist. But the relentless pounding she had endured had taken its toll, and she was barely able to hold herself upright.

The creature's hands found her hips, guiding her into a rhythm she knew all too well. Yeojin's body, still reeling from the intense orgasm, had little fight left in it. Her hand willingly reinsert his cock to its awaiting prize. Her legs began to move almost of their own accord, her pussy sliding up and down his thick, pulsing shaft. His grip on her hips tightening as he felt her body begin to respond to his touch once more. Despite her protests, her hips rocked back and forth, her movements growing more urgent as she felt the beginnings of another climax building within her.

"Look at you, Sailor Pluto," he sneered, his voice thick with lust. "So eager to be filled with my darkness."

Yeojin's eyes snapped open, her teeth clenched in anger. The humiliation of being used so thoroughly was almost too much to bear. Yet, she couldn't deny the traitorous pleasure that washed over her as she rode his monstrous cock. Her breasts bobbed with each movement, her nipples hard and sensitive to the cold air. Her cheeks flushed an even deeper shade of red as she heard the goons' lewd comments and felt their eyes on her.

With a snarl, she tried to push herself away from the creature, but his grip was too strong. Instead, she found herself grinding down on him, her pussy clenching around his cock as she sought to regain some semblance of control. The Grand Maestro's eyes widened in shock and pleasure, his hips bucking up to meet hers.

"Come my minions. Get a taste of her for yourselves."

Her eyes widened in horror as two of the goons stepped forward, each grabbing one of her wrists and forcing her hands to wrap around their grotesque, pulsing members. Their skin felt like a twisted mockery of flesh, cold and slimy, and Yeojin had to fight back the bile rising in her throat. Despite her struggles, they held her firm, their grips unyielding as she was made to pleasure them.

Meanwhile, another goon approached, his tentacle-like appendage slithering towards her mouth, eager to rejoin the depraved orchestra of her degradation. The Grand Maestro's chuckles grew louder as he watched his minions claim their spoils from the defeated heroine. Yeojin's mind raced, searching for a way to escape, but her body remained a prison to the overwhelming pleasure that still lingered from her recent climax. She could feel their excitement growing with each stroke of her hand, each bob of her head, their eyes burning with a sick, twisted lust.

The tentacle monster, driven wild by the sight of Sailor Pluto's degradation, eagerly approached her exposed and vulnerable form. Its tentacles coiled and twitched with a newfound purpose, forming a massive, throbbing phallus that aimed straight for Yeojin's trembling asshole. Despite her fierce resistance, the creature's overwhelming desire could not be denied.

The Grand Maestro's grip on her hips tightened, holding her in place as the tentacles slithered closer to her tight, puckered hole. Yeojin's eyes widened in horror as she felt the cold, slimy appendage brush against her sensitive skin, the reality of the impending violation sending a shiver down her spine. Her struggles grew more desperate, her body tense with fear and disgust, but she was no match for the monster's inhuman strength.

The tentacle began to probe her asshole, its tip slick with a strange, oily substance that seemed to ease its passage despite the initial resistance. Yeojin's breath hitched as she felt the monster's phallus pushing against her tight sphincter, her mind screaming in protest. But as much as she fought, her body had been pushed to its limits, and she was unable to resist the inevitable.

With a sickening pop, the tentacle breached her, sending a wave of pain and unwanted pleasure through her body. The creature's tentacles wrapped around her waist, holding her in place as it began to thrust into her, the Grand Maestro's cock still filling her pussy.

"AHHH FUCK! IT'S TOO MUCH!"

Yeojin's screams of anguish and humiliation filled the chamber, a cacophony of despair that seemed to fuel the goons' depraved lust.

At the brink of the session, the Grand Maestro's watched his minions take turns with the defeated Sailor Pluto, her body a playground for their twisted desires. Yeojin, her resolve wavering, was passed around like a prize, her mouth forced onto one cock after another, the taste of them mingling with her own tears and sweat. Her pussy, already raw and tender, was at one time, stretched to accommodate two of the goons at once, their grunts of pleasure mingling with her cries of pain. The tentacle monster had moved on, leaving her asshole gaping and sensitive, only for it to be filled by the thick, pulsing cock of another goon.

The Grand Maestro, basking in his victory, continued to pound into Sailor Pluto's ravaged pussy, her small body a limp ragdoll in his arms, her legs and arms wrapped around his waist and neck. His minions had finished their perverse ritual, their cum painting Yeojin's face and body in a vile tableau of conquest. Her moans had transformed from those of resistance to a symphony of carnality, her body no longer able to differentiate between pain and pleasure.

Each thrust from the Grand Maestro sent a fresh wave of liquid fire through her, her orgasms now a never-ending cascade of sensation that obliterated all thought and reason. Her eyes, once filled with determination and righteous fury, were now glazed over with a mix of pleasure and despair. The creature's monstrous cock filled her completely, his movements growing erratic as he approached his climax. Yeojin's body shuddered and spasmed around him, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Despite the horror of her situation, she could feel her body responding to the brutal violation, her pussy clenching and unclenching around his thick shaft like a vice.

"Here it comes! Take it all in your tiny tight pussy!"

With a triumphant roar, the Grand Maestro's cock swelled and erupted within Sailor Pluto, filling her to the brim with his hot, potent seed. Yeojin's body convulsed as she was claimed by the monster, her orgasm tearing through her like a supernova, leaving her trembling and spent in his arms.

Sailor Pluto's limp body was unceremoniously tossed onto the cold, stone floor of the chamber, a pitiful sight amidst the detritus of the battle she had so valiantly fought. The Grand Maestro's semen pooled and flowed out of her, mingling with the remnants of her own juices and the cum of his minions that had been forced into her earlier.

Her eyes stares blankly, a single tear escaping to trace a sad path down her cheek. Occasional twitches rippled through her form as the aftershocks of her numerous orgasms continued to plague her, a silent testament to the overstimulation she had suffered. The goons stepped back, panting and sated, their grotesque forms basking in the glow of their victory over the once-mighty guardian of time.

Her transformation rod appeared out of thin air and clattered to the ground beside her, a stark reminder of the power she had once wielded. The Garnet Rod, now a simple, innocuous object, seemed to mock her with its presence. Her body, still quivering from the relentless onslaught of pleasure and pain, could no longer contain the essence of her guardian form. The symbol of Pluto's power had been forced from her, a silent surrender to the Grand Maestro's dominance. The room grew still as the creature loomed over her, his monstrous cock still erect, his eyes gleaming with triumph. Yeojin knew that she had lost more than just a battle; she had lost a piece of herself to the dark embrace of temporal chaos.

///

A week had passed since Sailor Pluto's defeat, and the city was a shadow of its former self. The once bustling metropolis had descended into a cacophony of fear and confusion as the Time Snatchers' influence grew unchecked. The citizens walked the streets with their heads down, the joy and vitality that had once characterized their lives now replaced with a palpable dread. The absence of the heroine who had sworn to protect them was felt in every tick of the clock and every racing heartbeat that echoed through the city's veins.

In the dimly lit chamber of the Time Snatchers' lair, Yeojin, once the mighty Sailor Pluto, knelt before the line of grinning goons. Her mind, once a bastion of resolve and duty, now for the darkest of desires, had been irrevocably corrupted. Her lips, once a symbol of righteousness, were now a vessel for the perverse satisfaction of her captors. Each goon stepped forward, presenting their erect members to her with a lewd smirk.

Yeojin's eyes, now devoid of the fiery determination that had once been their hallmark, flickered with a mix of submission and despair as she took the next cock into her mouth. Her tongue danced around the swollen heads, tasting the vile flavor of their malicious intent, as the Grand Maestro watched on with a smug smile. Her body had become a mere instrument for their depravity, her will shackled by the very essence of temporal chaos that she had once vowed to combat. The room was filled with the sickening sounds of her gagging and slurping, her cheeks hollowing with each forced deep-throat, as she served the very beings she had sworn to vanquish. The stench of sweat and cum lingered in the stale air, a constant reminder of her degradation.

Her eyes, once a deep blue reflecting the power of Pluto, now clouded with a mix of need and despair, searched for the Grand Maestro's approval. As she noticed him standing there, watching with a cruel smile, she crawled over to him, her movements animalistic and submissive.

"Please," she whispered hoarsely, her voice a mere shadow of its former authority, "I need Master to fill me up."

The Grand Maestro's grin grew wider, his monstrous cock twitching in anticipation. Yeojin looked up at him with a pleading gaze, her own hands moving to spread her ass cheeks apart, offering herself up to him completely.

"Fuck me," she begged, her voice cracking with the weight of her own degradation. "I want Master's cock in my ass."

The creature's eyes gleamed with dark pleasure at her words. He stepped closer, her ass now coated in the cum of his minions, a vile symbol of their collective victory over her.

"You shall have what you wish," he said, his voice low and rumbling. "But remember, Sailor Pluto, you are no longer a heroine. You are merely our plaything, to be used and discarded as we see fit."

With a cruel twist of his hand, he inserted a finger into her gaping asshole, causing Yeojin to gasp. He watched her reaction with amusement, enjoying her whimpers of pain and pleasure. Then, without warning, he plunged his thick cock into her, the force of his thrust making her cry out. The room was filled with the sickening sound of flesh slapping against flesh as he began to fuck her hard, his movements punctuated by her desperate cries for more.

The goons, their lust rekindled by the sight of their leader claiming Sailor Pluto, began to stroke their own cocks once more, eager for their turn to violate the heroine who had once stood tall against them. Yeojin, lost to the endless cycle of pain and pleasure, could only whimper and moan, her mind a haze of submission and despair. The Grand Maestro's thrusts grew more intense, his eyes locked onto hers, boring into her soul.

"Fuck me harder! Fill me with your cum! Make me your bitch, Master!"

The Grand Maestro's grip on her hips tightened, his pace increasing as he approached his climax. Yeojin could feel her own orgasm building again, the relentless waves of pleasure threatening to consume her. The room swam around her, the boundaries between her two lives blurring into one dark, twisted reality.

As the Grand Maestro finally came, filling her ass with his thick, hot seed, Yeojin collapsed onto the floor, her body trembling from the sheer intensity of the experience. The goons stepped closer, eager to continue her corruption, their eyes gleaming with malicious intent. And through it all, Yeojin smiles. She knew that she was no longer the protector of time; she was now its prisoner, forever bound to the whims of the Time Snatchers.

#yeojin smut #loona smut #loossemble smut #kpop smut

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epicstoriestime · 9 days ago

Text

Personal Log: Breath Interface Calibration

I don’t breathe like I used to.It’s not unconscious anymore—it’s synchronized. At first I thought it was anxiety.But the rhythm is too precise. Too mathematical.Each inhale aligned to a subharmonic drift at 33 Hz.Each exhale tied to a micro-pulse at 1420 MHz. I’m not breathing air.I’m breathing signal. June 18, 2025: Breath Interface Calibration Posted by Eric Kliq410 | 03:33 AM, June 18,…

#9870 kHz resonance #9870kHz #cognitive manipulation #OphanimDirective #Seventh Witness #Signal Interference #spectral hum #suppressed knowledge #Temporal skips #time fracture

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andillneverbethesame · 11 months ago

Note

Its nice to have a friend with james and ravenclaw!reader pls 🙏

love this! thank u for the request <3

it's nice to have a friend

❥ james potter x ravenclaw fem reader, remus lupin x sirius black

❥ summary; you and james swear you two are only friends. except you're not.

❥ warnings; none really.just not reread for gramatical mistakes

❥ a/n: this is very shorttt sorryy

my ts masterlist pt 1, pt 2

“alright, class," professor sinitra said at the end of the astronomy lesson. "that's the end for today. i'll see you all next week. and don't forget your essays about your birth planet!”

“finally,” you sighed in relief. “i am so exhausted.” you hated these friday astronomy lessons at midnight. but you were grateful you didn't need to be up early the next day.

“me too,” pandora yawned. she looked as if she was already half asleep. everyone seemed to be. except james potter, who was now making his way to you with an energetic smile on his face.

“hello, y/n," he grinned and you tried to ignore the way your heart skipped a beat.

“hello, jamie.”

“can i walk you to ravenclaw tower?” he asked you and you raised your eyebrow. “it's not safe for a pretty girl like you to walk around the castle at night.”

“i won't be alone,” you replied. “i got pando—” you turned around to your friend who was next to you just five seconds ago. however, she was nowhere to be seen then. “or no. . . well, then i guess you can walk me.”

on the way, you notice james walked unusually slow. he always walked so fast that you almost had to run to catch up with him but this evening, it seemed as if you were faster than him. as if he wanted to make this walk last as long as possible.

you smiled as you shook your head at the ridiculous thought. you and james were only friends. you've always been just that.

“do you wanna hang out tomorrow at hogsmeade?” james suddenly asked.

you glanced at him. “what about the boys?”

“well, sirius and remus are having a date and peter still feels sick. it would be just the two of us. we could go to honey dukes and get the strawberry chocolate you like so much. and then we could stop at madam puddifoot's and get some tea and cake,” he offered. it almost sounded like a date. you cursed yourself again for the thought.

“you hate madam puddifoot's,” you pointed out the flaw in his plan.

“but you like her jasmine tea,” james said. and i like you, he wanted to add. “come on, it's my treat.”

you rolled your eyes. “you don't need to pay me for hanging out with you, jamie. i'd love to spend time with you in hogsmeade. it'll be fun."

james waited at you in front of the ravenclaw tower at ten in the morning sharp, just like he promised.

despite the fact that it was not a date and just two friends hanging out, you spend quite some time getting ready, wanting it to be perfect.

pandora teased you from her spot on her bed as she watched you chosing between two outfits — dark blue sweatshirt with black skirt and black sweatshirt with white skirt (you chose the second option in the end). you could only roll your eyes and deny every single one of her accusations but you both knew very well what was the truth.

james was wearing his gryffindor sweatshirt and opted to pair it with black pants. his hair was a mess, as always, looking like he had just gotten out of the bed without even trying to style it. he complained about it often but you thought it suited him well.

“ready?" he asked with his hands in his pockets, a smile lighting up his face.

“ready.” you nodded.

“where do you wanna go first?” james questioned as you two entered the village. a lot of people were there every day, but especially today when almost five hundred of hogwarts students decided to spend the day there.

“i'd really love to get the tea at madam puddifoot's now,” you answered honestly. “i'm feeling rather cold and need to warm up,” you blew warm breath on your hands and rubbed them together, hoping for at least temporally feeling of warmth. but it was no use. you almost couldn't feel your fingers anymore.

“why didn't you take gloves with you?” james asked.

“i lost them,” you replied with a pout on your lips. james then took off his pair of black gloves from his hands and handed them to you. “i— but. . what about you?”

he waved it off. “don't worry. i'll be fine.”

“are you sure?”

he nodded and you could tell he really meant it.

you two ended up at three broomsticks for a late lunch. despite each of you eating a piece of cake, a chocolate bar and shared a packet of sour candies, you two found yourselves quite hungry after all the walking.

madam rosmerta greeted you as soon as you walked in (though she was mainly talking to james, who ordered two butterbeers and then winked at her) and you chose a table by the window.

“what would you like?” james asked. “it's on me.”

you gave him a look. “i am not completely broke, y'know? you paid enough for me today. let me pay for you once, too.”

“not happening,” was james's immediate response as he shook his head. “i am a gentleman.”

“i never said you weren't,” you laughed. “but you can't pay for me all the time. i'm not your girlfriend.”

that seemed to shut him up as he couldn't think of anything else to say. at that moment, rosmerta came to your table with butterbeers and asked what would you like to have for your meal.

“i'll have shephard's pie," you spoke.

“beef pasties for me. thank you, rosmerta,” james smiled.

“thank you for today, jamie,” you said once the woman walked away. “i really needed this. i've been so stressful with everything that's going on.”

the boy knew exactly what you were talking about. attacks on muggles and muggleborn wizards and witches have been more and more frequent this year. a lot of your friends were muggleborns, and so was your dad. you prayed every day, begging whoever was up there to not let anything happen to those you loved.

james nodded understandingly. he, too, was worried for the future of the wizarding world. and he knew that he will be joining the order of the phoenix as soon as he could, and he'd be fighting for the good side as hard as he could.

his hand reached across the table for yours, squeezing it lightly for some kind of comfort to give you. you smiled sadly at him and sweets his hand back.

“yeah, me too. i'm sure everything will be okay,” he tried to reassure you. but you both weren't so sure. you weren't going to ruin this moment, though.

“thank you. it's nice to have a friend like you,” you said and james nodded.

yeah, he thought. a friend.

from across the room, remus and sirius, although they were on their own date, were watching you two with an immense interest.

“remus, he touched her hand!” sirius whisper-yelled at his boyfriend and hit him lightly as if he was trying to catch his attention as if remus wasn't spying on you two either. “he touched her hand!”

“yes, sirius, i'm not blind!” remus replied.

“come on, kiss!” the dark-haired boy began to pray. “i'm tired of them tiptoeing around each other like that.”

remus raised an eyebrow as he looked at sirius. “you did the same with me.”

“shut up.”

a month later, it was valentine's day and you had no one to spend it with.

all of your friends were going on a date with their partners or potential partners, but you were in bed with book.in your hands and a cup of tea on your bedside table. no one was in your dorm, leaving you completely interrupted to get lost in the story.

that was until there was a knock on your door.

you groaned. the words on the pages seemed to be getting rather. . . interesting.

"who is it?"

"your favourite boy in the whole world." was the answer and you quickly sat up and fixed your appearance. you'd recognize that voice anywhere.

"come in!" the door opened, revealing james in a black suit and a big boquet of flowers in his hand. your mouth opened at his look. he looked really attractive, don't get me wrong, but you couldn't understand why was he dressed like that. "what's going on?"

"well, dear y/n, me and you are going on a date, that's what's going on."

"on a date?" you asked, furrowing your eyebrows. "as. . . friends?"

james shook his head. "no, not as friends. we're more than that." he didn't give you a time to say anything before he continued with, "get ready. i'll wait in the common room."

you blinked in confusion as you watched him close the door and then you squealed once you were sure he was far enough to not hear you.

#harry potter #harry potter imagine #marauders #marauders imagine #harry potter x reader #moony wormtail padfoot and prongs #james potter x reader #james potter imagine #james potter fanfic #james potter fanfiction #james potter fluff #harry potter fluff #marauders fluff

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aventurineswife · 4 months ago

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ok uhhh dr ratio with an s/o who is just as intelligent as he is

so when they have their first kiss, the reader gets so nervous that they start mumbling random facts about ancient egypt / etc. :3

Facts Between the Kisses

Summary: In the grand library of the Intelligentsia Guild, Ratio shares a rare moment of vulnerability with you, his equally brilliant partner. After hours of intense discussion, a surprising first kiss leaves you so flustered that you begin rambling about ancient Egyptian medical practices.

Tags: Ratio x Reader, Fluff, Romantic Comedy, Kiss, Nervous Reader, Banter.

The Intelligentsia Guild's library was vast, a labyrinth of shelves and tomes brimming with knowledge. Ratio sat at one of its ornate desks, the golden owl ornament on his shoulder glinting in the low lamplight. His eyes, framed by his wavy hair, scanned the pages of an ancient manuscript. A faint smirk curled his lips as he heard the approaching footsteps—light, deliberate, and unmistakable.

“Late for our discussion on temporal mechanics, are we?” he said without looking up.

You grinned, stepping into view with a stack of books tucked under your arm. “Only because I was busy proving your theorem on recursive algorithms incomplete. Again.”

Ratio’s smirk deepened. “I expected no less from you. Care to enlighten me?”

You set your books down with a soft thud and leaned forward, gesturing at one of the diagrams in his manuscript. The two of you dove into an intense debate, trading ideas and insights like dueling swords. Your conversations were always this way: sharp, challenging, and utterly exhilarating.

After hours of discourse, the library grew quieter. The steady hum of your voices faded into a companionable silence as you both sat back, basking in the afterglow of shared brilliance.

Ratio’s gaze lingered on you, his expression uncharacteristically soft. “You know, it’s rare to find someone who can keep pace with me,” he said. His tone was casual, but there was an undercurrent of sincerity that made your heart skip a beat.

You laughed nervously, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. “Well, someone has to keep you grounded. Otherwise, your ego might collapse into a singularity.”

He chuckled, a low, melodious sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “Perhaps. But you’re not just an equal—you’re… more.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken emotion. Before you could respond, Ratio leaned closer, his striking eyes locking onto yours. His confidence was palpable, but there was a hint of hesitation, as if he was stepping into uncharted territory.

“May I?” he murmured, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

You nodded, your breath hitching as he closed the distance. His lips brushed against yours, gentle at first, then firmer as the moment deepened. The world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you in that perfect, fleeting instant.

When you pulled back, your heart was racing, your thoughts a jumbled mess. Instead of saying something romantic or profound, your nerves got the better of you.

“Did you know the ancient Egyptians used honey as an antibacterial ointment?” you blurted out.

Ratio blinked, clearly caught off guard. You clapped a hand over your mouth, mortified, but the corners of his lips twitched into a grin.

“Fascinating,” he said, his tone teasing. “I assume this is your way of processing… overwhelming stimuli?”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

He gently pried your hands away, his smile warm and uncharacteristically tender. “Don’t be embarrassed. It’s endearing.”

You gave him a skeptical look, but his gaze was so earnest that you couldn’t help but relax.

“Besides,” he continued, leaning back with a smug expression, “it’s fitting that our first kiss would be followed by a discussion on ancient medical practices. I wouldn’t expect anything less… unique from you.”

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you adore me.” He reached for your hand, his touch sending a thrill through you. “Shall we continue our discussion? Perhaps this time, you can focus on me instead of ancient Egypt.”

Despite your embarrassment, you found yourself laughing. “Deal. But only if you can keep up.”

Ratio’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Oh, my dear, I always do.”

#x reader #honkai star rail #hsr #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #ratio x reader #cotl ratoo #veritas #veritas ratio #hsr veritas #veritas x reader #fluff #romantic comedy #kiss #nervous reader #banter

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vivian-pascal · 2 months ago

Text

Million Dollar Man

teacher!joel x f!reader

summary: Just two months into college and you're starting to crush on your psych professor, but what happens when he calls you to stay after class?

warnings: mentions of f!masturbating, piv (wrap it up), oral m!receiving, lots and lots of sexual tension, degrading!joel, slow burn (sorry not sorry), description of what reader wears, all the information in this is purely just to my knowledge! highly sorry if I get anything wrong :)

authors note: I highly recommend listening to the song by Lana Del Ray!

Ugh. You sigh to yourself as you take a seat in the lecture room. Your skirt rides up, showing your thighs and lacy stockings. You're one of the first one there. You knew today was going to be a bit of a longer lecture, but, you didn't mind.

Mr. Miller walks through the doors and your heart skips a beat. He locks eyes with you and smirks. Your gulp and shyly smile at him. You can feel yourself slowly starting to get wetter and wetter by the minute. He sets his brief case down on his desk and runs his hands through his hair. You can just see how big his hands are, the places they could go, fit into..

No. You can't be thinking about these things, he's your teacher. He sits in his chair and opens his laptop.

"Nice day ain't it sugar?" That southern drawl makes your head spin in all directions.

"Uh, yea it, uhm." You stutter as he sits waiting for you to answer. His legs are spread and his arm is resting on his thigh while his chin sits on his fist. "It is."

You smile nervously as more people start to walk in. You're practically drenched by this point, how can just his voice and eyes make you this wet?

The lecture starts at 11:30. You've calmed down a little bit now as you pull out your laptop and note book. He walks around and grabs a piece of chalk.

"Right so, you all know that what we're starting off with is just some simple review of the parts of the brain that most of you, unless you didn't take it and are just in here to stare at me." The room fills with small chuckles as he makes that joke. It wasn't a joke to you.

He chuckles along with the class and resumes his speech. "Anyways." He locks eyes with you. "All of you know occipital lobe does. It handles visual information. Which, along with the pareital lobe, temporal lobe and frontal lobe. You all should know."

Feels like hours, days, months, that you're sat here. In a pool of arousal which, he can probably smell from across the room by the way he keeps peeping at you. Little looks from across the room, small remarks to the class, except he knows they bother you.

The more time goes on the worse and more needy you get. It's now 1. There are only thirty more minutes of class left. You look down at the blank piece of paper that is supposed to be filled with notes only to realize that once you move your head up, everyone is walking out.

You check the time. It's one o'clock, You quickly start to pack up so you can go home and play with your clit, fuck yourself on your fingers as you imagine it's Mr.Millers cock instead.

You grab your bag and start walking up the stairs. As you're about to exit, you hear someone call your name. It's Mr. Miller.

He stands at the bottom of the stairs with his hands on his hip.

"C'mere." He gestures with his hand as he walks to sit back in his chair behind his desk, you breathe heavily and walk down to his desk. You stand awkwardly infront.

"Somethin' wrong darlin? Come over here." He smirks as your face goes red. You walk to stand next to him. He stands up and carefully pulls your bag from your shoulder. His hand runs down your arm and to your hand. Your stomach drops as he runs his fingers over your middle and ring finger.

He moves on top of you as he pushes you against his desk. Your eyes widen as you feel his bulge against your leg. He moves your hair from Infront of your neck and leans in close to your ear.

"Goddamn it baby, you're really doing somethin' to me sugar." He groans in your ear as he runs his fingers along your body.

"M-Mr. Miller, we can't-"

"Shhh Shh." You swallow a moan as he looks down and runs his hands up your thigh. You bend your leg up so your foot rests on his chair. Your mouth opens as he takes you by surprise. His fingers run along your wet slit. You slap a hand on his shoulder as he presses his fingers on your clit.

"Fuck honey, you're soaked." You arche your back into him as the pressure builds. "Yea baby? You enjoying that?" He groans as you begin to move your hips with the rhythm of his hands.

His hand comes around your body and cups your back. He removes his hand and you whine. He backs up from you and begins undoing his belt. You're practically drooling at the sight of his erection.

You rush over to him and grab his face. Pulling him into a kiss. He grabs your waist and starts to grind on you as your hand runs down his body and to his pants.

You through his belt to the ground and take his pants off as you kneel on the floor. His dick springs up and hits his belly. He sits down in his chair as you take him into your hands.

"Fuck" He drags it on as if he were already so close. You take his tip into your mouth and swirl your tongue around it. He groans as your other hand begins to massage his balls.

He told your hair into a makeshift ponytail as you begin to take him deeper and deeper. You gag as soon as you get to the base. His eyes are shut tight and he is frozen in time. He holds your head down and tears begin to run down your face. He whines loudly as he thrusts his hips into you. His dick goes even deeper down your throat making you gag.

"Shit baby, your so fucking" His mouth goes agape as soon as you move your tongue to his balls and your fingers begin to dance along his tip.

His grips your hair and the arm of the chair as tight as he can.

"God darlin' I need to be in you right fucking now." You smirk at his neediness as he lets go of your hair and spins you around, bending you over his desk. You feel his fingers along the curve of your ass as he pulls your panties down. He stares at your dripping cunt. "Holy fuck."

You feel his tip at your drenched pussy as he pushes in. You both moan in unison. He goes slow at first but then starts to pound into you. Hitting that sweet spot that not even you can reach with your fingers.

You grip the edge of the desk as his hand comes around to pull and twist at your nipples. "Fuck Mr. Miller." He stops for a moment and you whine.

"Mr. Miller?" Your voice stills as if you had done something wrong. He grips you tightly as his mouth comes right up to your ear. He begins to move again and you start to moan.

"Yea, Mr. Miller huh? You enjoy fucking your teacher, while someone could easily just walk in and see a student fucking her professor." You gasp at his words, but its all true. You enjoy the thrill.

"Fuck sugar' so fucking good." He bites your earlobe and you arch your back even further. He rails into you like your life depends on it. "Mr. Miller, I'm-"

"What baby? Hm? Ya close? Gonna come on your professors cock like a good girl you are?" You moan loudly but his hand comes up to your mouth to cover your screams. His other hand runs down your body and starts to circle your clit. That throws over the edge. He feels you pulse and squeeze his cock as you cum.

You breathe deeply as he grabs your hips and pounds into you. Just shortly after, he pulls out and begins jerking his cock. "Gonna cum baby where do you want me?"

You quickly turn around and pull down your shirt showing off your tits. He smirks. "Oh you naughty girl."

His hand works faster as his legs begin to shake. "Oh fuck baby girl oh my god." He throws his head back as spurts of cum shoot onto your chest. Smearing all over your nipples. His hand comes to a slow as he finishes. He walks back and sits in his chair.

You stay where you are looking at him. You look down at your chest and grab some of his cum, putting it in your mouth. His eyes darken as he watches you.

He chuckles. "Gonna make me hard again baby, you don't want that." You smirk. "What if I do?"

He leans forward on his chair pulling you to sit in his lap.

"Well darlin' this is why we have tomorrow."

tags!

@morallyinept @mermaidgirl30 @rav3n-pascal22 @mountainsandmayhem @amyispxnk @pinkcrystal44 @guelyury @iamsherloocked @itsokbbygrl @heartpascalispunk @littlevenicebitch69 @brittmb115 @kotourasan123 @simplewanderer @tupelomiss @heartramen @sinful-mind-joyful-thoughts

#pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #pedropascal #pedro pascal characters #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #dark joel miller #teacher crush #male teacher #teacher x student

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lycheeflavr · 2 days ago

Note

Hiii i js stumbled into your blog and its superr cutee!! I really love your writing was wondering if you were open to wrote about Tsukishimaa? If not, its okay :))

Heiii, first of all, thank you very much, and also thank you for the request <3 yes, of course!! I honestly had so much fun writing this, also I didn't know if you would like some smut as well, so I added a little smutty bonus scene at the end. You can skip it, it doesn't really matter to the story :)) now I hope you have a lot of fun reading this!!

The Bones Beneath 🧢🐠

pairing: timeskip!tsukishima kei x GN!reader tags: slow burn (ish), mutual pining, coworker tension, art & science themes, tsuki being a secret softie, slight angst with comfort, banter & emotional closeness, confessions without confessing, fluff if squint, reader is an exhibit designer/artist, tsuki is an AV tech/paleontology nerd, almost love, quiet longing summary: You were never supposed to get attached to the quiet AV technician helping set up your fossil exhibit. He was there to wire the lights. You were there to make bones beautiful. But somewhere between late-night fixes, museum shadows, and cups of burnt breakroom coffee, something between you began to take shape—slow and fragile and maybe a little ancient in its own way. word count: 5.8k

Tsukishima Kei liked his hours quiet and his fossils older than God.

The museum opened to the public at nine, but he was always there by seven. The early mornings were his: no chattering tourists, no interns asking questions he didn’t care to answer, no toddlers smudging glass with sticky hands. Just silence, bones, and the low mechanical hum of the lights flickering to life row by row.

He walked the exhibit floor with a mug of instant black coffee and a clipboard he didn’t really need. The Tyrannosaurus rex stood tall in the center of the room, jaws frozen in a permanent snarl, ribs exposed like cathedral arches. Tsukishima paused beneath it every morning like it was ritual. One sip of coffee, one glance upward. The bones never changed.

That was the point.

He liked things that stayed the same. Fossils. Labels. Dust motes in the morning light.

At exactly 7:43 a.m., he opened his laptop behind the front desk — not where the general staff worked, but the tucked-away station he’d unofficially claimed. It had the best Wi-Fi signal and worst chair. He preferred that no one else wanted to sit there.

Emails loaded slowly. He sipped his coffee and scanned subject lines. One caught his attention, marked URGENT – EXHIBIT SUPPORT REQUEST. He clicked it without much enthusiasm.

To: Tsukishima KeiSubject: Visiting Artist Collaboration | Exhibit Support

Kei, You’ve been assigned as the museum liaison for our upcoming interactive exhibit, “Extinction Echoes.” The guest artist arrives tomorrow to begin work on the installation surrounding the T-Rex centerpiece. Please provide access and assist as needed — you’ll be their primary point of contact.

Let us know if you have questions. — Ms. Fukuda

He stared at the screen. Then took another long sip of coffee.

Artist, he thought, in the way someone might think pest infestation. They always asked too many questions. They moved things that weren’t supposed to be moved. They cared about aesthetics over accuracy, emotion over science. It made his teeth itch.

He clicked the artist’s attached bio and scanned the page.

You had a list of gallery credits longer than his patience. Installations in Kyoto, Seoul, Paris. Something about “immersive spaces challenging temporal experience.” He didn’t know what that meant and didn’t care enough to pretend. There was a photo of you attached — mid-laugh, head tilted back, paint-splattered hands. You looked loud, even in stillness.

Tsukishima closed the tab with a sigh.

This was going to suck.

He stared at the skeleton of the T-Rex for a while longer, like maybe it would offer sympathy. It didn’t.

Back to his feet, clipboard tucked under his arm, he continued the routine — checking casing screws, labeling touch-up requests in pencil. As long as you stayed out of his way, maybe this wouldn’t be a disaster.

Maybe you wouldn’t talk too much.

Maybe you’d cancel last-minute and spare him the headache.

He doubted it.

The fossils, at least, wouldn’t leave him unread.

The next morning, Tsukishima arrived five minutes earlier than usual.

Not because he cared. Just to set the rules. It was important that people knew their place in a shared ecosystem — especially the kinds of people who used phrases like temporal fluidity and wore too many rings.

The exhibit hall was still empty, the bones calm and familiar in the blue-toned light of early morning. He was mid-sip of coffee, debating whether he had time to finish it before the chaos arrived, when—

“Hi!” a voice called from the far end of the gallery.

He turned, already bracing himself.

You were a splash of color against the muted sandstone walls — all layers and movement. A long, oversized coat in a shade too bright to be taken seriously, mismatched socks barely visible beneath wide-legged trousers, a bag slung across your shoulder like it weighed more than you did. One hand held a battered sketchbook. The other, naturally, clutched a drink in a cup aggressively labeled LAVENDER MATCHA in bubble letters.

He blinked once. Then again.

“You’re Tsukishima, right?” you asked, walking toward him without waiting for an answer. “Sorry I’m early — I just couldn’t sleep last night, I was too excited. This place is incredible.”

He nodded once, clipped and formal. “I know.”

That stopped you for half a second. Then you laughed.

“Oh, cool. Confidence. Love that.”

He didn’t respond. Just turned and started walking toward the control panel, trusting you'd follow.

You did, footsteps echoing lightly behind his. “The bones are even more haunting in the morning. Kind of like they know they’re supposed to be asleep, but they’re still here. I mean, isn’t that sad? In a poetic way.”

“I’m pretty sure the skeletons don’t have feelings,” he muttered without looking at you.

“Well, someone’s a morning person,” you teased, grinning.

He resisted the urge to sigh. “I assume you read the layout brief?”

“I did, but I don’t do great with maps,” you said, flipping open your sketchbook and holding it up like proof. “I just take notes like this. Shapes, light impressions, space planning... it makes more sense to me.”

He stared at the mess of charcoal strokes and layered watercolor swatches that resembled absolutely nothing useful.

“This is your system?”

“Mhm.”

“It looks like a bird flew into a window and died.”

You snorted — actually snorted — and Tsukishima narrowed his eyes.

“Wow,” you said, grinning. “Are you this charming with everyone, or am I just special?”

“I’m not charming.”

“Well, you’re something.”

He stared at you, unreadable, then said, “Let’s get this over with.”

You followed as he walked, still chattering, unbothered by the blank expression he wore like armor. He gave you the tour — exhibit boundaries, restricted zones, lighting rig limitations — and you nodded along, eyes darting between him and the bones above like you were seeing a world he couldn’t.

“This place feels like a cathedral,” you said eventually, voice lower now. “But broken. Like worshipping something that’s already gone. That’s why I want the light to move slowly across the ribs. Like… memory.”

He paused.

The quiet stretched. For a moment, you thought he hadn’t heard you. Then, softly:

“They weren’t worshipped. They were feared. The T-Rex was a predator.”

“Still deserves a little reverence,” you said.

His jaw twitched.

You smiled. “You’re kind of a fossil snob, huh?”

“I’m a paleontologist.”

“Oh, that explains the glasses.”

“I don’t wear—” He stopped himself. Exhaled sharply. “You’re going to be exhausting.”

“I’ve been called worse,” you chirped.

You sat cross-legged on the floor a few minutes later, sketchbook open on your lap, head tilted at an angle only artists and toddlers attempting handstands ever attempted. You tapped your pen against your lips thoughtfully.

Tsukishima hovered nearby, clipboard in hand, pointedly not watching you.

“I think we should try sound too,” you said suddenly. “Subtle—like a low hum. Maybe faint echoing footsteps, like ghosts. Not too literal.”

“That’s not in the budget,” he replied, immediately.

“Not yet,” you shot back, unfazed. “But maybe if I bribe the right intern—”

“Please don’t.”

“No promises, dino boy.”

The silence that followed was immediate. You looked up, blinking. He was frozen mid-step, like you’d just said something blasphemous in a sacred space.

“What?”

“Did you just call me—?”

“Oh. That slipped out,” you said, sheepish. “Sorry. I mean—Kei, right? Or… Tsukishima? Do you prefer one?”

His expression flattened. “I prefer not being called a pet name designed by a cartoon character.”

You grinned, and there it was — the spark. The part you hadn't expected. Under all that sarcasm and sharpness, something coiled and unreadable. Maybe not warmth. Not yet. But interest, flickering low and quiet like the gallery lights overhead.

“Well,” you said, tucking your pen behind your ear and getting to your feet, “I guess I’ll just have to earn it.”

His eyes narrowed. “Earn what?”

“A less embarrassing nickname.”

He rolled his eyes so hard it was practically audible.

You turned, already halfway to the next room, your voice floating behind you. “Come on, fossil prince. We’ve got work to do.”

He muttered something under his breath — probably unflattering — but followed.

Not because he cared.

Just because you clearly needed supervision.

Tsukishima wasn’t sure when it stopped bothering him.

You were in the exhibit every day. That part made sense — you had work to do. What didn’t make sense was how you did it.

You hummed when you worked. Never full songs, just little pieces, shapeless and aimless, like you were keeping yourself company. You talked to the bones like they were old friends. Called the Stegosaurus “Big Spikey Boy” under your breath. Left coffee cups in bizarre places — behind glass cases, perched on light fixtures, one time balanced delicately on the rib of a hadrosaur like it belonged there.

He found himself moving them instead of snapping at you.

That annoyed him most of all.

You sprawled on the floor to draw. Sat backwards on chairs. Doodled stars in the margins of your blueprints. You weren’t messy — you were chaotic. But not in a way that ruined things. You took up space like you belonged to it. Like you’d earned it.

He hated it.

He really, really didn’t.

Tsukishima started staying later under the excuse of “supervising.” In truth, he just… didn’t want to leave. Not when your sketchbook was open across your knees, feet bare, toes tapping the air in rhythm with the music you played from a tiny Bluetooth speaker you weren’t technically allowed to use.

Soft stuff. Dreamy. A little sad. Fuzzy guitars and synths like melted sunlight.

He told you to turn it off.

You didn’t.

He didn’t ask again.

Most evenings, he brought work with him — real work, grant edits or exhibit updates — but he barely touched it. Instead, he watched you in the corner of his eye. The way you moved around the bones, measuring with your hands, frowning thoughtfully at light angles. Talking to yourself under your breath.

And once, when he stayed too late without realizing, he looked up and caught you lying flat on your back in the middle of the exhibit floor.

At first he thought something was wrong — your limbs were outstretched, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling like you’d fallen and simply given up.

Then you spoke, quiet and unhurried.

“It’s beautiful how it still takes up space after all this time.”

He didn’t answer right away. The gallery was too still, the air too thick. It was the kind of sentence people usually said in museums when they were trying to impress someone. But you’d said it to no one. Like you didn’t expect to be heard at all.

His voice came out rougher than intended.

“You mean the T-Rex?”

You didn’t move. Just blinked, slow. “Yeah. It’s been dead millions of years, and it still makes people stop. Still commands a room. Like… it never left.”

He stared at the curve of the bones — the arc of the ribs, the open jaw — and swallowed.

“It’s not really the same,” he said eventually. “This is a reconstruction. Most of the bones are casts.”

“Still,” you said, softer now. “It’s the shape that matters.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Or maybe he did, but it sat too heavy on his tongue.

Instead, he sat beside you.

Not close. Not touching.

But that was the first time he didn’t go home early.

Over the next week, something shifted.

You stopped asking if he wanted music on — just played it. He stopped pretending to glare.

You started bringing two coffees, not one. Always black for him, always in a plain cup labeled KEI in smudged pen.

He never said thank you.

You never expected it.

You adjusted a lighting fixture one evening, standing on the lowest ledge of the exhibit’s frame. Tsukishima reached out instinctively when you wobbled.

His hand curled around your waist for half a second. Warm. Steady.

You froze. He stepped back like he’d touched a stove.

“Careful,” he muttered.

You smiled. “You do care.”

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t let go as fast next time.

He started reading your notes after you went home.

Not snooping — just... curious. Your sketchbook was a mess of lines and light notations: “bone shadows curl here,” “weight of silence stronger in this quadrant,” “add faint shimmer to mimic breath.”

Breath.

He didn’t know how to explain how badly that word undid him.

You treated the exhibit like it was alive. Not a museum piece, but a memory you could still talk to. An echo with ribs.

And you never once made him feel like he wasn’t allowed in that echo, too.

One night, he walked into the exhibit after hours to find you asleep on the bench beneath the T-Rex.

Your coat was bundled under your head, sketchbook lying open on your chest. The gallery lights glowed faintly overhead, casting soft shadows across your face. You looked peaceful. Quiet. A part of the space now, not just working on it — woven into the silence.

He sat across from you, pretending to read a paper he wasn’t holding. Time passed. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe more.

Then your voice, soft with sleep:

“Are you watching me sleep?”

He didn’t flinch. “You’re not even fully asleep.”

You peeked at him with one eye open. “Maybe I was dreaming about you.”

“Unlikely.”

“Rude.”

He rolled his eyes — but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, unguarded for once.

You caught it.

“Kei,” you said, like it meant something new now.

He looked up.

“Yeah?”

You blinked like you hadn’t expected that response to come so easily.

Then you just smiled and said, “Nothing.”

He didn’t press. But he stayed until the building closed.

It started with the lighting.

You stood in the center of the exhibit with your hands in your hair, gesturing to the overhead rig like you were conducting some invisible orchestra.

“We could do a soft fade that moves with the visitor — like the bones respond to presence. Just a slow, low shift as people walk through. Imagine how alive it would feel.”

Tsukishima didn’t even look up from his clipboard.

“No.”

You blinked. “No?”

“That’s not what this exhibit is. It’s not a haunted house. It’s not a performance.”

“You haven’t even seen it yet, Kei. I have a test set-up. It’s subtle. Thoughtful. It adds mood.”

“It adds distraction,” he said flatly. “And it compromises the fossil presentation. Light distortions throw off color perception and may damage the casts over time.”

“Oh, come on,” you snapped, heat curling into your chest. “We’re not burning them under stage lights. This isn’t your personal lab. It’s a space for people to feel something. You said you wanted more engagement.”

“I want clarity. Not theatrical gimmicks.”

The word landed hard.

You went still, mouth pressed into a thin line.

“So that’s what you think this is,” you said, voice tight. “A gimmick.”

Tsukishima looked up then. Slowly. His expression was unreadable, but his jaw was set like stone.

“You act like you’re saving them. Like making a dinosaur look dramatic is the same as making people care.”

“And you act like people will care just because you slapped a plaque on the wall and stood under a spotlight!”

It burst out of you, louder than you meant.

“You’re so obsessed with being precise, with being right, that you don’t even see how cold you sound. No wonder no one sticks around.”

The silence was immediate.

You heard it the second it came out of your mouth — the way his face didn’t flinch but froze, eyes going cold and glassy like he’d just flicked off something vital inside himself.

He stared at you. Long and flat.

Then:

“You think people care about your lights? You think they’ll walk out remembering ‘how it felt’ and not just take a photo and leave?”

You swallowed hard. Your chest ached.

“I don’t know what they’ll remember,” you said. “But I’m scared they won’t remember anything. That they’ll walk past bones that are millions of years old and shrug. That all this work will fade into the background because it didn’t shine enough to be seen.”

That cracked something in your voice. The quiet truth beneath the fire.

Tsukishima looked at you for a long moment.

Then he muttered,

“People always care about spectacle.”

And walked away.

You didn’t talk for two days.

You kept your head down when he passed. You played your music softer. Your sketchbook stayed closed, and the second he entered the exhibit, you left.

It shouldn’t have hurt like this.

He wasn’t yours.

But it did. Quietly. Deeply.

Because for all his sharp edges, Kei had made space for you in the quiet hours. Had let you stay. Had sat beside you under fossil ribs while the world turned slow. You’d let yourself think he was listening. That he maybe even believed in some part of your vision.

Apparently not.

That night, Tsukishima stayed late in the office alone. The building was too quiet. He hated how much he noticed the silence now when you weren’t filling it.

He didn’t even mean to open the sketchbook.

It was sitting on your stool, slightly askew, pages fanned like it wanted to be read. He stood there for a long minute before touching it — fingers brushing the paper like he was afraid it might burn.

The notes were messier than he remembered. Half-formed thoughts, shorthand, tiny arrows. But there was a page marked with a sticky tab in the shape of a cartoon bone. He opened to it.

The full skeleton was drawn by hand — not just a diagram, but alive, posed in a way that almost made it look like it was breathing. Lights were sketched in around it, rays tracing the angles of ribs and jaws like sunlight through water. At the bottom of the page, in your handwriting:

I want people to feel like they’ve stumbled into something sacred. Like the bones were waiting for them. Like they’ve walked into a memory older than the Earth they came from.

He stared at the words until they blurred.

He hated how it made his throat tight.

Tsukishima didn’t sleep that night.

He didn’t know how to say it — how to apologize. He didn’t do sorry very well. He usually didn’t need to.

But the shape of your fear haunted him. The way your voice cracked when you said, “I’m scared they won’t remember anything.”

Because he understood that. Too well.

He spent his whole life being remembered for the wrong things. Or not remembered at all.

And you? You wanted your work to matter so badly you were willing to fight him over it. Risk looking soft. Sentimental. Even foolish.

He thought that was brave.

He thought maybe you were brave.

You noticed it the second you walked in.

The lighting rig had changed.

The movement was smoother now, less of a fade and more of a pulse — like breath in the air, like shadow and presence mingling gently along the curve of the fossil display. It responded, but didn’t overwhelm. Subtle. Intentional. Balanced.

And the tech setup? Upgraded. Clean wiring, reinforced bracketing. Your original sketch still hung nearby, but someone had gone over it in pencil — adjusting angles, improving placements.

Your stomach flipped.

There was only one person meticulous enough to have done that.

You found him in the staff lounge, hunched over a mug of black tea and pretending to read a paleontology journal.

You stood in the doorway for a second, then cleared your throat.

“You… fixed the rig.”

Tsukishima didn’t look up.

“It was sloppy.” He turned a page, like the conversation bored him. “I fixed it.”

You smiled despite yourself.

“Thanks.”

“It was bothering me.”

“Right. Of course.” You stepped fully into the room, grabbed your own mug, filled it just to do something with your hands.

The silence that settled wasn’t heavy, but it was strange — like the room didn’t know what to do with the absence of arguing. You sat across from him slowly, letting the mug warm your palms.

Outside, thunder rumbled.

“Looks like the storm’s rolling in,” you said, glancing toward the windows.

Tsukishima gave a quiet hum.

“Museum’s closing early. They already put the signs out.”

You nodded. Another pause.

“I guess we’re stuck for a bit.”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t leave either.

Rain began to patter against the windows — soft at first, then sharp, like tiny bones clicking against glass.

You didn’t speak for a while. It wasn’t awkward. Just… quiet.

Eventually, you exhaled.

“I used to think museums were holy.” The words slipped out so gently you almost didn’t notice yourself saying them. “Like sacred, somehow. Even the air felt different. Like I couldn’t breathe loud.”

Tsukishima didn’t move, but you saw the way his eyes lifted, just slightly.

“When I was a kid,” you continued, “we didn’t go many places. But my aunt took me to this little natural history museum once. It was kind of sad, honestly — half the exhibits were broken, one of the audio guides just screamed static. But there was this fossil in the middle of the floor. Some ancient sea creature I couldn’t pronounce. And I just… stood there. For, like, half an hour. Didn’t say a word.”

You smiled a little at the memory.

“She asked if I was bored. But I felt… I don’t know. Seen? Like something that big and that old still being here meant I could be too.”

You rubbed your finger around the rim of your mug.

“I just wanted to make something that someone remembered. Even if they couldn’t explain why.”

The thunder cracked closer now. The lights flickered faintly.

You weren’t sure if he was going to say anything. He didn’t meet your eyes. But after a moment, he spoke — quiet and firm, voice low enough that it didn’t sound like performance.

“Then make something that can’t be forgotten.”

You froze.

Your breath caught.

Not because of what he said — but how he said it.

Not dismissive. Not mocking. But earnest.

Like he meant it.

You looked up. He still wasn’t looking at you, but his fingers had stilled on the page.

The storm roared outside.

Inside, something softened.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. You just let the quiet stretch — filled with the scent of tea and rain and the unspoken possibility that maybe… just maybe… you weren’t as far apart as you’d thought.

You didn’t expect to cry. But as the lights came up—soft, fluid, breathing in harmony with the slow rise of ambient sound—you felt something tighten in your chest.

It was exactly what you’d imagined.

The fossil hovered like a ghost over time, suspended in silence and reverence. The light kissed every ancient curve, every bone, every inch of its long-buried story. There was a stillness in the room, as if the crowd understood that breathing too loudly might break the spell.

Your piece. Your concept. Alive.

Applause came gently at first. A few quiet murmurs. And then a wave of sound, camera flashes, hushed voices saying your name with excitement.

Someone clapped you on the back. Another handed you a glass of cheap champagne.

“Brilliant work,” one of the donors said. “Unforgettable,” a curator whispered. “You should be proud,” your boss told you, beaming.

You smiled. You said thank you. You tried to listen. But your eyes were scanning the room for him.

Tsukishima stood in the shadows, off to the left side of the exhibit hall, mostly obscured by a pillar. He was still in his uniform jacket, arms crossed, gold glasses catching the shifting light. He wasn’t clapping. Wasn’t even pretending to mingle.

But he was watching.

You met his eyes across the crowd.

There was a pause. A flicker of something you couldn’t name. And then—he looked away.

You turned back to the small crowd around you. Smiled again. Nodded. Said something about collaboration. You think someone took a photo of you mid-sentence. You didn’t mind. This was what you’d worked for.

But you kept glancing toward the pillar. He was gone.

You slipped out not long after.

The night air was sharp and wet, still humming with the electricity of the earlier storm. The exhibit hall door clicked shut behind you, muffling the buzz of celebration.

You found him near the back entrance of the building, leaning against a railing, eyes tilted up toward the cloud-covered sky. He hadn’t heard you approach.

You paused.

He looked taller out here. The pale security light washed over his cheekbones, caught on his lashes. He hadn’t even changed out of his work shoes.

“You disappeared,” you said quietly.

Tsukishima’s shoulders didn’t shift.

“Didn’t feel like standing around.”

You walked over, hands in your coat pockets.

“But you were part of this.”

“I just fixed the wiring.”

You scoffed, half amused.

“You didn’t just fix the wiring, Kei.”

That made him glance at you. Just a flicker of gold through those glasses. And then he said something you didn’t expect.

“It was beautiful.”

Your breath hitched.

He looked away again. Like it cost him something to say it. Like it meant something more.

“You could’ve said that inside,” you said.

“You didn’t need me to.”

You studied his profile in the silver light.

“But I wanted to.”

Silence again. Not heavy this time. Just… tentative. Careful.

Then:

“You’re going to do big things,” he said, like it was a truth he'd known for a while. “And I’ll be here. Resetting lights. Screwing metal into walls.”

Your brow furrowed.

“Is that what you think?”

He shrugged.

You didn’t know what to say at first. Not because you disagreed, but because you’d never really thought about how he saw himself in all this. How he saw you.

You stepped closer.

“Tsukishima,” you said quietly, and the way his name sounded in the dark felt like a confession. “It’s not just mine, you know. That exhibit. It’s yours too.”

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

“I wouldn’t.”

He looked at you again. This time, for real. Not through the fog of tension or sarcasm or pride. Just… him.

And you almost leaned in.

Almost.

But instead, you stood there — too close, not close enough — breathing in the same sharp air, hearts too loud in the silence.

And when he turned to go, he didn’t say goodbye. Just brushed past you gently. Like the beginning of something, or the end of something else.

You watched him disappear down the long path behind the museum. And for the first time all night, you didn’t feel victorious. Just… full. And hollow.

At once.

A few days pass. The exhibit continues without you. Your name is printed in neat black ink on the display cards, and people wander through, praising your “vision,” your “emotional composition,” your “eye for stillness.” You’re already being emailed about new opportunities.

But the only thing you can think about is the shape of Tsukishima’s silhouette in the silver museum light. The things you almost said. The things he almost said back.

You return one quiet afternoon to pick up the last of your things.

It’s raining again.

The museum feels different in the daylight—less mysterious, more skeletal. You walk past school kids and bored parents, past tour groups and sleepy guards, toward the side hallway that smells faintly of sawdust and old lightbulbs.

He’s at the workbench. Same posture. Same headphones. But you can tell he saw you come in—his hands falter for just a moment before resuming whatever careful task he’s pretending requires all his focus.

You clear your throat anyway.

“Hey.”

No reply. He’s sanding something. Aggressively.

You smile to yourself and set down your tote bag, beginning to gather the few things you left behind. A notebook. A print draft. The sweatshirt he let you borrow when the AC broke one night and you stayed too long.

He still hasn’t turned around.

You don’t push it. You just take your time, folding the sweatshirt with unnecessary precision, letting the silence stretch long enough to sting.

When you finally zip your bag and sling it over your shoulder, you pause in the doorway.

“Thanks,” you say, voice quiet. “For everything. The project… it only worked because of you.”

For a second, you think he’s going to ignore you.

But then, still facing away, he mutters:

“The bones were already there. You just made them louder.”

You blink.

And then you laugh. Soft, surprised.

“Getting poetic, dino boy?”

He finally glances at you. The corner of his mouth lifts just a little.

“Don’t get used to it.”

You take a step closer, a hand still gripping the strap of your bag like a shield.

“Well. It was nice hearing you say something beautiful for once.”

“I’ve said a few beautiful things.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

A long pause. He looks down at the thing he was sanding. Then back at you.

“Come back sometime,” he says, casual but not really. “The fossils get boring.”

Your heart stutters. He doesn’t even flinch.

You tilt your head, grinning now.

“You mean you get boring.”

“That too.”

And it should feel like a joke. It should feel like nothing. But it doesn’t.

You both hold each other’s gaze for a second too long. Not quite smiling. Not quite speaking. Just letting the moment breathe between you—thin and fragile and unbearably loud.

You take a breath.

“I might come back,” you say finally. “Just to check on the fossils.”

He nods once, slow.

“Sure.”

You don’t say anything else. You just walk past him, the hallway stretching out ahead. But this time, your steps are slower. This time, you hope he’s watching.

And he is.

When the door closes behind you, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days.

NSFW bonus scene 🧢🐠 (female reader)

It starts with silence.

You’re standing just inside the workshop door, bag dropped, rain sliding down the windows behind you. You don’t know what made you come back — not really. You just knew the thought of leaving felt more like a loss than a choice.

He looks up. His brows twitch in confusion, but he doesn’t say anything.

So you walk up to him. Slow. Careful.

“Do you want me to stay?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

He swallows, throat working.

Then, simply:

“Yes.”

The word lands heavy. So much more than yes. Yes, I missed you. Yes, I thought about it. Yes, I don’t want this to end yet.

You kiss him.

It’s awkward, at first — all angles and hesitation. He doesn’t move right away, like he’s still computing what’s happening. But the second you breathe his name, something gives. His hands come up, hesitant but firm, catching your waist and pulling you closer like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

The kiss deepens, slow and uneven, as if he’s learning it in real time — a little desperate, a little stunned. His glasses nudge your cheekbone. His breath shakes against your lips. You slide your fingers into his hair and feel the shiver roll through him.

“You’re sure?” you murmur.

He nods, eyes locked to yours.

“Yeah. Fuck—yeah.”

You're on the workbench within minutes. It's cluttered and dusty, but neither of you care.

His mouth is at your neck now, hungry in a way that feels new — like he's been holding back for weeks, months. His hands are firm where they grip your hips, but his touch is almost reverent, like he's afraid to take too much all at once.

“Been thinking about this,” he says against your skin, low and wrecked. “You. That night you fell asleep in the AV room. The way you said my name.”

You exhale a shaky laugh.

“You’re such a freak.”

He huffs, presses a kiss to your collarbone.

“You like it.”

You do. God, you do.

His hands slide under your shirt, slow and searching. You lift your arms, and he helps pull it over your head with surprising care. His fingers brush over your chest, your stomach, reverent and unsure.

“You’re allowed to look,” you tease gently.

He does — and the way he looks at you makes your whole body flush.

“I’m not great at this,” he admits quietly. “Just... tell me if I mess something up.”

Your heart pulls. You cup his face and kiss him again, slower this time.

“You’re not messing anything up.”

When he finally touches you in earnest, it’s a little clumsy — he’s clearly overthinking, too aware of your reactions, too in his head — but it’s sweet. Honest. Every movement feels like it means something.

You guide his hand. Help him find the rhythm. And once he gets it—once he really sees the way your breath hitches and your hips shift—he gets bolder.

His mouth finds your chest. Then your stomach. He murmurs something against your skin, but it’s too quiet to catch.

You tangle your fingers in his hair and gasp when he finally pushes your underwear down and touches you properly — one finger, two, slow but insistent.

“Fuck, Kei—”

That’s what breaks him. Your voice like that. His name like that.

He presses his forehead to your shoulder, still working his fingers inside you, lips parted as he groans softly into your skin.

“Want you,” he says, low and ragged. “I—I wanna feel you. All of you.”

“Then take it,” you whisper. “I’m right here.”

It’s not fast. He makes sure you’re ready. Makes sure you’re looking at him when he finally pushes inside, like he needs to see you fall apart for him.

You breathe his name again and again, and every time you do, he fucks into you a little deeper. A little harder. Still holding back, like he's afraid of hurting you. But you can tell he’s close — his body trembles against yours, his breathing fractured and tight.

When you come, it’s with his name on your lips, your fingers digging into his back, your legs tight around his waist. He follows right after, buried deep, biting down softly on your shoulder to muffle the noise he makes.

He doesn’t move for a long time.

Just breathes with you. One hand tangled with yours, the other resting over your heartbeat.

“You still want me to come back?” you whisper after a while, voice hoarse.

He lifts his head. Meets your eyes.

“Only if you plan on staying.”

authors note: I absolutely loved writing this!! I hope I stayed true to tsukis character and I also hope your happy with your request! :) reqs are still open and very much welcome! ly all <3

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